全真面试教程(2020版浙江省公务员录用考试专用教材) 下载 pdf 电子版 epub 免费 txt 2025

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• 作者：野马渡江 发布时间：2021-02-09 15:14:21

  小学时看还是很搞笑的，现在这些笑点都不能逗笑我了。

• 作者：黄油sa糖 发布时间：2020-10-03 22:32:37

  “真正成熟的爱情，是扎根于现实的基，然后对对方真诚好奇，对自我挑起责任，把投向他人的依赖转变为投向自我的肯定！”当一个女人足够爱自己，接纳自我的时候，没有什么人能牵走她的灵魂！

  爱是一生的课题，爱自己是终身浪漫的开始，学会爱自己才能更好的去爱对方！希望每个女孩都能活成自己期待的样子❤！

• 作者：songtong2010 发布时间：2023-05-31 23:56:08

  装帧质量非常好，文字一看就是系列性，不是同一时期写就，但属于长期关注了一个主题，看作者自述还是跨行写作，功力的确深厚。其实个人对图像研究从来都觉得难以切入，这本看的很过瘾，推荐

• 作者：蓝山槟榔 发布时间：2023-01-18 10:33:17

  （补标）

• 作者：旧金山旅客 发布时间：2017-10-29 00:40:28

  作为马桶纸似乎太厚了一点。

• 作者：春 发布时间：2019-12-28 16:37:33

  全是局面

• 走出霍格沃兹的罗琳

  作者：严杰夫 发布时间：2012-11-30 13:47:17

  文/严杰夫

  年初，《哈利•波特》的大戏才刚落幕，所有人都还没来得及揣测罗琳未来的创作计划，但她新作的消息已经不胫而走：据说是一部没有了魔法和鬼怪的作品，据说是一个完全发生在现实中的故事……。当这些四处传播的小道消息还未完全散去，罗琳新作的中文版已摆到了我的面前。十分幸运地在第一时间拿到了这本名叫《偶发空缺》（The Casual Vacancy）的小说，我花了五个晚上将其读完。不仅此前的传闻得到了证实，而且我感叹于，那个魔法光环尚未褪尽的罗琳，竟然回转身来写下了这样一个琐碎却不乏精细、舒缓却不失激情的故事。

  “偶发空缺”——这个小说的名字应该是源于英国地方议会管理条例中的规定。“当地方议员未在规定时间内声明接受职位；或者，议会收到其辞职报告；或者，其死亡当天，若发生这三种情况之一，即认为偶发空缺出现”，罗琳笔下的新故事就以此为开端。帕格镇议会委员巴里突然病发身亡，小镇的议会中随即空出了一个职位，于是小镇本就存在的两派——实质就是巴里的支持者及其反对者，便开始处心积虑地想要争夺那个“空缺”，故事的情节便在这场争夺中徐徐展开。

  拥有过魔法史诗的写作经历，罗琳讲故事的能力毋庸置疑。在这个新故事中，她再次展现了出色的叙事。故事从巴里议员的去世作为开头，以巴里最关怀的女孩克里斯塔尔的死亡为结束，从而串起了一条完整的叙事主线。在这条主线延伸的过程中，罗琳抽丝剥茧地呈现了帕格镇这个社区的历史、人物关系，以及潜藏其中的各种暗流。正如在第一章中，罗琳不疾不徐地让主要人物以家庭为单位慢慢登场：镇子里保守派领袖、巴里的“政敌”莫里森家庭，巴里的支持沃尔、贾瓦德两家，还有被卷入事件的普莱斯家、凯•鲍勃和女儿盖亚、克里斯塔尔和她的母亲与弟弟、巴里的律师加文•休斯（同时凯的男友）、霍华德•莫里森的生意伙伴莫琳等等。这些人物间的人际纠结缠绕，在罗琳的笔下却显示纹丝不乱。

  在情节的铺排上，罗琳更是展现出极佳的掌控能力。事实上，《偶发空缺》的故事并不复杂，但作者却注入了诸多内涵和元素：不同阶层、族裔混居的社区生活，青少年面对成人世界的逆反和抗争，成人世界对青少年的戕害和虐残。对此，我们或者会担心，这么多的内容装在一个简单的故事中，会不会使整部作品显得冗杂繁复而破坏阅读的乐趣。但罗琳却凭借张弛有度的叙述，让这些元素巧妙呈现。回过头来看，我们可以清晰地解剖出故事的各个关键节点：巴里的死亡、两派人物在议会的投票对抗、安德鲁•普莱斯等三个孩子实施的网络报复、克里斯塔尔决定借助肥仔•沃尔怀孕、弟弟罗比和克里斯塔尔的死亡。在为这些节点的到来 “准备”时，作者的叙述不断在不同的场景和人物间穿插，就像是数条曲线正在缓慢延伸向一个终点；然而，当这些曲线汇聚到节点时，我们会感觉到叙事节奏猛然加快，人物冲突就如暴风骤雨般急速到来，毫不犹豫。就这样，舒缓的曲线和猛然的节点丝丝入扣，最终构成一张绵密的网兜，兜起了这个酣畅淋漓而又充满乐感的故事。

  在阅读的过程中，罗琳在这部新作中表现出的现实主义风格，让我真切地触摸到了当代英国的社区生态，正如当年借助通过简•奥斯丁的那些作品，我得以完整地“脑补”出斯蒂文顿的乡村生活。从奥斯丁笔下的斯蒂文顿到罗琳笔下的帕格镇，英伦的乡镇始终散发着令人心旷神怡的神采。抛开故事中的勾心斗角和黑暗人心，帕格镇怎么看都是一个美丽精致的社区：“顺着急陡的教堂街开下去，两遍立着镇上最好的住宅，散发着维多利亚时代的奢华与坚固。转过街角，这里伫立着仿哥特式教堂……穿过广场，从那儿能清清楚楚地王建修道院的黑色轮廓，虽已废弃，但仍是小镇的制高点，它站在山顶，悄悄融入紫罗兰色的天空。”在如此细腻的描写中，我们能够读到丝毫不亚于奥斯丁对斯蒂文顿的那种熟悉和情感。或者正是由于这种情感，而非部分评论家提出的意识形态理由，罗琳才会如此痛斥暗藏在美丽中的那些肮脏。

  或者是出身于儿童文学，罗琳在这部成人作品中依旧把更多的目光关注在了少年的身上。罗琳笔下的这个帕格镇，事实上只存在两个世界——成人的和少年的。在作者看来，帕格镇的成人多少都带有懦弱、虚伪、自私自利的特征（也因此，那个在人们心中近乎于神的巴里一出场就死了）；而所有的少年尽管结局不尽相同，却无一不受到同情。作者的态度分野得如此明显，正式基于她对这两个世界有着不同的情感。这种情感从《哈利•波特》到《偶发空缺》实在都是共通的。不同的只是，在帕格镇里的这些少年们，在面对成人世界的残害时，没有了霍格沃兹的庇护，于是只能最终崩溃或死。所以，从这个角度来说，我对苏克文达成为英雄的结局并不太接受，但能理解罗琳设置这样结局的情感原因。因为，在这个故事里，这些孩子已经承受太多，实在需要一个英雄式的结局来作为平衡和安慰，苏克文达只是孩子中那个最合适的角色。

  无论是《哈利•波特》中宏大的霍格沃兹，还是《偶发空缺》中这座精致的帕格镇，在合上书页的那刻就已消失在文字当中。然而，走出了霍格沃兹的罗琳，在为我们带来帕格镇的独特经历后，仍然令人期待以后又会带来哪些文字中的魅力世界。

  2012年11月30日 刊于《东方壹周》

• 后来人们翻译出了多少间烟草店

  作者：诗 发布时间：2019-09-04 02:43:14

  之前看英文的the tobacco shop，很震撼，但这次到手这本的《烟草店》感觉少了点什么。于是又找了下英译版来对比。同时也搜集了网上的几个不同中译，只选我觉得比较有问题的一个小段落来比较一下。完全不懂葡语，所有讨论在默认英语译文准确无误且诗意流畅的前提下进行。

  英文版：

  Today I'm defeated, as if I'd learned the truth.

  Today I'm lucid, as if I were about to die

  And had no greater kinship with things

  Than to say farewell

  , this building and this side of the street becoming

  A row of train cars, with the whistle for departure

  Blowing in my head

  And my nerves jolting and bones creaking as we pull out.

  （Portuguese; trans. Richard Zenith

  今天，我，被击败，仿佛我曾经认识真理。

  今天，我，变得澄澈，好像我曾经打算去死

  我和事物再也没有干系

  除了一份告别辞，

  这间屋，街道的这一侧变成了

  长长的一列火车车厢，一声分别的汽笛拉响

  使我大脑的深处

  震惊不已，当列车开动，我的神经和骨骸被震碎。

  （扬子 译

  今天我被打败了，仿佛我洞悉了真理。

  今天我头脑清醒，仿佛我准备死去，

  不再钟情于万物，

  只留下一声道别，

  这栋房子与这一侧的街道

  将变成一长列火车，汽笛长鸣，

  它从我头脑里启程，

  一路上，我神经震荡，骨架咣当咣当作响。

  （姚风 译

  今天我被打败了，就像刚获知了真理。

  今天我是清醒的，就像我即将死去

  除了道别，不再与事物有亲缘的

  关联

  ，这座建筑和这条街道的这一边成了

  一排火车的车厢，出发的汽笛

  在我的脑子里吹响

  我们开出去时，我的神经震动着，我的骨头咯吱响。

  （杨铁军 译

  想说的是字体加粗部分，至少我产生了和上文三种翻译不太一样的理解，已经不是觉得翻译的好或不好的问题了，关乎题解。默认英译版没有错误的前提下，先看第一句，被打败和真理的那句：

  Today I'm defeated, as if I'd learned the truth.

  →今天，我，被击败，仿佛我曾经认识真理。

  →今天我被打败了，仿佛我洞悉了真理。

  →今天我被打败了，就像刚获知了真理。

  词句都没什么错误，但这句的意思却让人觉得有点迷惑，认识了真理怎么反而会被击败？不过英语也是同样的意思，很简单的表达，但效果不尽相同。Defeated是被动时态，没有直接说我输了，我失败了，而是我被挫败，其中隐含着一个他者，由于那个他者的存在，被挫败者意识到且不得不承认自己是失败的。在什么前提下承认自己的失败？诗人在诗中常常既是国王又是俘虏，很多时候这种普遍的受制于世界的挫败感的确没必要解释，读诗的人自然明白是谁折断诗人的翅膀。但这里很快诗人就给出了解释，为什么必须认输了？因为，“就像我真的学会了真理似的”。学会真理，却并没产生什么成就感，反而感到挫败，为何？也许是因为

  面对真理无人不败，不战自败，真理面前人永远是一无所知的

  。这与佩索阿对世界和人关系的一管认识是统一的。

  那么defeated的用法在这里就很有意思了。因为在英语中，它还有个引申含义是“被搞糊涂了”，困惑，不解，懵逼之意。不知道葡语原文如何，不排除英译利用这个引申含义，一语双关：

  任何想要掌握真理的人最终只会更加茫然——“今日的我如同每个妄图掌握真理的人一样困惑。”

  后面其实是一整句：

  Today I'm lucid, as if I were about to die and had no greater kinship with things than to say farewell。

  其他几个人的翻译不粘了，每个译者都做了一些改动，可能是考虑意蕴，或者是加上了自己的理解，而且这段前后黏连很厉害，本来就不太好翻。先看意思，我的理解是，结合上文语境分两个部分理解：1虽然我被真理所征服，但我神志清醒，就好像我就要死了一样；2为什么明知要死了居然还很镇定清醒？因为我意识到，彻底告别人间能在最大程度上使我和其他事物之间紧密相连，这是我活着的时候力不能及的。也就是说，

  死亡使我成了世界上的things的一部分，我是个死物，我不再是一个being，我的自我终结了

  。我再也不必像那些活着的、拥有自我和意志的人那样，妄图去捕获真理，最终一无所得。

  那些执着于捕捉真理和征服世界的人，一再被证明是不堪一击的，一再陷入困惑，他们的自我与世界隔绝，那样的状态下无法正确地理解这个世界

  。而我想要避免这种命运，只有

  向真理臣服，不执著于“此在”，让世界把我当做更加普遍的存在来拥有，我才能置身其中，消弭隔阂，最终成为世界

  。这个价值观也与佩索阿一贯的宇宙观相契合，没毛病。

  整理一下：

  虽然我一再受挫于对真理的追问，但今天的我终于清醒地认识到，只有彻底告别尘世才能让我与世间万物融合，因而我随时准备直面死亡。

  再整理成诗句：

  今天，我受困于真理，正如每个试图掌握真理的人那样

  今天，我终于清醒地意识到：与万物的诀别

  将使我真正成为这个世界……

  启程哨催促着：不必择日而亡

  楼宇和街道化作排排车厢

  载着我颠簸的神经脱轨而去

  伴着骨骼间嘎吱的异响

  我不是个合适的翻译者，会过度解读和再创作。但确实觉得这两句话的理解可以更加多样和深刻一些。本来想都试着再解读一下的，太长了实在不耐烦。最后贴出英文版，不知道要不要版权也不知道联系方式，不管了。纯文学讨论，要是有人版权我的话那就……有本事来抓我呀~~~

  The Tobacco Shop

  I'm nothing.

  I'll always be nothing.

  I can't want to be something.

  But I have in me all the dreams of the world.

  Windows of my room,

  The room of one of the world's millions nobody knows

  (And if they knew me, what would they know?),

  You open onto the mystery of a street continually crossed by people,

  A street inaccessible to any and every thought,

  Real, impossibly real, certain, unknowingly certain,

  With the mystery of things beneath the stones and beings,

  With death making the walls damp and the hair of men white,

  With Destiny driving the wagon of everything down the road of nothing.

  Today I'm defeated, as if I'd learned the truth.

  Today I'm lucid, as if I were about to die

  And had no greater kinship with things

  Than to say farewell, this building and this side of the street becoming

  A row of train cars, with the whistle for departure

  Blowing in my head

  And my nerves jolting and bones creaking as we pull out.

  Today I'm bewildered, like a man who wondered and discovered and forgot.

  Today I'm torn between the loyalty I owe

  To the outward reality of the Tobacco Shop across the street

  And to the inward reality of my feeling that everything's a dream.

  I failed in everything.

  Since I had no ambition, perhaps I failed in nothing.

  I left the education I was given,

  Climbing down from the window at the back of the house.

  I went to the country with big plans.

  But all I found was grass and trees,

  And when there were people they were just like the others.

  I step back from the window and sit in a chair. What should I think about?

  How should I know what I'll be, I who don't know what I am?

  Be what I think? But I think of being so many things!

  And there are so many who think of being the same thing that we can't all be it!

  Genius? At this moment

  A hundred thousand brains are dreaming they're geniuses like me,

  And it may be that history won't remember even one,

  All of their imagined conquests amounting to so much dung.

  No, I don't believe in me.

  Insane asylums are full of lunatics with certainties!

  Am I, who have no certainties, more right or less right?

  No, not even me . . .

  In how many garrets and non-garrets of the world

  Are self-convinced geniuses at this moment dreaming?

  How many lofty and noble and lucid aspirations

  –Yes, truly lofty and noble and lucid

  And perhaps even attainable–

  Will never see the light of day or find a sympathetic ear?

  The world is for those born to conquer it,

  Not for those who dream they can conquer it, even if they're right.

  I've done more in dreams than Napoleon.

  I've held more humanities against my hypothetical breast than Christ.

  I've secretly invented philosophies such as Kant never wrote.

  But I am, and perhaps will always be, the man in the garret,

  Even though I don't live in one.

  I'll always be the one who wasn't born for that;

  I'll always be merely the one who had qualities;

  I'll always be the one who waited for a door to open in a wall without doors

  And sang the song of the Infinite in a chicken coop

  And heard the voice of God in a covered well.

  Believe in me? No, not in anything.

  Let Nature pour over my seething head

  Its sun, its rain, and the wind that finds my hair,

  And let the rest come if it will or must, or let it not come.

  Cardiac slaves of the stars,

  We conquered the whole world before getting out of bed,

  But we woke up and it's hazy,

  We got up and it's alien,

  We went outside and it's the entire earth

  Plus the solar system and the Milky Way and the Indefinite.

  (Eat your chocolates, little girl,

  Eat your chocolates!

  Believe me, there's no metaphysics on earth like chocolates,

  And all religions put together teach no more than the candy shop.

  Eat, dirty little girl, eat!

  If only I could eat chocolates with the same truth as you!

  But I think and, removing the silver paper that's tinfoil,

  I throw it on the ground, as I've thrown out life.)

  But at least, from my bitterness over what I'll never be,

  There remains the hasty writing of these verses,

  A broken gateway to the Impossible.

  But at least I confer on myself a contempt without tears,

  Noble at least in the sweeping gesture by which I fling

  The dirty laundry that's me–with no list–into the stream of things,

  And I stay at home, shirtless.

  (O my consoler, who doesn't exist and therefore consoles,

  Be you a Greek goddess, conceived as a living statue,

  Or a patrician woman of Rome, impossibly noble and dire,

  Or a princess of the troubadours, all charm and grace,

  Or an eighteenth-century marchioness, decollete and aloof,

  Or a famous courtesan from our parent's generation,

  Or something modern, I can't quite imagine what–

  Whatever all of this is, whatever you are, if you can inspire, then inspire me!

  My heart is a poured-out bucket.

  In the same way invokers of spirits invoke spirits, I invoke

  My own self and find nothing.

  I go to the window and see the street with absolute clarity.

  I see the shops, I see the sidewalks, I see the passing cars,

  I see the clothed living beings who pass each other.

  I see the dogs that also exist,

  And all of this weighs on me like a sentence of exile,

  And all of this is foreign, like everything else.)

  I've lived, studied, loved, and even believed,

  And today there's not a beggar I don't envy just because he isn't me.

  I look at the tatters and sores and falsehood of each one,

  And I think: perhaps you never lived or studied or loved or believed

  (For it's possible to do all of this without having done any of it);

  Perhaps you've merely existed, as when a lizard has its tail cut off

  And the tail keeps on twitching, without the lizard.

  I made of myself what I was no good at making,

  And what I could have made of myself I didn't.

  I put on the wrong costume

  And was immediately taken for someone I wasn't, and I said nothing and was lost.

  When I went to take off the mask,

  It was stuck to my face.

  When I got it off and saw myself in the mirror,

  I had already grown old.

  I was drunk and no longer knew how to wear the costume hat I hadn't taken off.

  I threw out the mask and slept in the closet

  Like a dog tolerated by the management

  Because it's harmless,

  And I'll write down this story to prove I'm sublime.

  Musical essence of my useless verses,

  If only I could look at you as something I had made

  Instead of always looking at the Tobacco Shop across the street,

  Trampling on my consciousness of existing,

  Like a rug a drunkard stumbles on

  Or a doormat stolen by gypsies and it's not worth a thing.

  But the Tobacco Shop Owner has come to the door and is standing there.

  I look at him with the discomfort of a half-twisted neck

  Compounded by the discomfort of a half-grasping soul.

  He will die and I will die.

  He'll leave his signboard, I'll leave my poems.

  His sign will also eventually die, and so will my poems.

  Eventually the street where the sign was will die,

  And so will the language in which my poems were written.

  Then the whirling planet where all of this happened will die.

  On other planets of other solar systems something like people

  Will continue to make things like poems and to live under things like signs,

  Always one thing facing the other,

  Always one thing as useless as the other,

  Always the impossible as stupid as reality,

  Always the inner mystery as true as the mystery sleeping on the surface.

  Always this thing or always that, or neither one thing nor the other.

  But a man has entered the Tobacco Shop (to buy tobacco?),

  And plausible reality suddenly hits me.

  I half rise from my chair–energetic, convinced, human–

  And will try to write these verses in which I say the opposite.

  I light up a cigarette as I think about writing them,

  And in that cigarette I savor a freedom from all thought.

  My eyes follow the smoke as if it were my own trail

  And I enjoy, for a sensitive and fitting moment,

  A liberation from all speculation

  And an awareness that metaphysics is a consequence of not feeling very well.

  Then I lean back in the chair

  And keep smoking.

  As long as Destiny permits, I'll keep smoking.

  (If I married my washwoman's daughter

  Perhaps I would be happy.)

  I get up from the chair. I go to the window.

  The man has come out of the Tobacco Shop (putting change into his pocket?).

  Ah, I know him: it's unmetaphysical Esteves.

  (The Tobacco Shop Owner has come to the door.)

  As if by divine instinct, Esteves turns around and sees me.

  He waves hello, I shout back "Hello, Esteves!" and the universe

  Falls back into place without ideals or hopes, and the Owner of the Tobacco Shop

  smiles.

  Fernando Pessoa,Portuguese, trans. Richard Zenith,Fernando Pessoa and Co.,Grove/Atlantic,1998.

  ©️Fernando Pessoa & Richard Zenith