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• 作者：夏草 发布时间：2022-07-03 16:38:53

  好多内容一直重复 有用的知识太少了 一星都不想给。

• 作者：Trote_w 发布时间：2017-03-14 23:39:30

  还是有很多看了之后值得深思的地方，让我对整个世界开始乐观了起来，坚信自己总是美好的，要努力上进。

• 作者：司愚安 发布时间：2018-09-04 16:19:30

  金斯伯格一生淡泊名利，她只是试着让这个世界变得更好一点，更自由一点。她经历颇丰，且为了心中目标，意志坚定矢志不渝，是英雄式的人物。

• 作者：泡影 发布时间：2021-02-27 19:11:23

  7岁小朋友说给五颗小星星。小朋友独立阅读，很有趣。

• 作者：小高同学 发布时间：2023-07-24 07:42:51

  故事都很不错，民宿果然是需要贩卖故事和情怀。可惜书里的图片不多，如果配上地址和联系方式更好。

• 作者：叶动惊风 发布时间：2022-05-26 19:47:13

  读完对职场有新的认识。反观过往的经历，存在一些观念及问题限制了自己的职业发展。这本书不错，推荐职场进阶人士。

• 提高自己的能力

  作者：蓝精灵 发布时间：2013-04-18 17:44:30

• 不完美的旅行也许才是真正属于自我的旅行

  作者：෴ 发布时间：2021-06-14 13:16:04

  1956年，一个妇女时装业从业者决心抛弃旧业，成为职业旅行作家。为了写一本书而进行一次“未知地区”的旅行，关于目的地选择，受到好友几年前攀爬兴都库什山失败而归的启发，选择了阿富汗，一个近70年没有英国人去过的地方，一座无人征服的米尔萨米尔峰，一个完美适合出版商想象的旅行文学主题。（推荐序VIII-IX）

  尽管作者最终并未登顶，但这本《走过兴都库什山》记录的这一月之旅的一段行走显然功德无量，让无数不能至的人可以通过阅读来感受半世纪以前的阿富汗与旅游经历。

  文笔风格显然是这本游记的一大特色。作者以第一人称又隔岸观火似的嘲讽一切人和事，举重若轻，对异域文化的隔膜也仿佛是一种色散解读，作者放弃了故作高明的客观叙述或掉书袋，而是用一种非常接地气的，真诚或是掉地下大实话的主观来记录这一次不同寻常的游记。

  我们热爱旅行到底热爱的是什么？

  对未知的探索？一种不经意间流露优越感的谈资？一种异域风情的感受？一种不同生活的浅尝辄止？

  在推荐序中，“远方译丛”主编，北京大学中国古代史研究中心暨历史学系教授罗欣这样评价作者：“很难有比纽比更好的旅行同伴了：他嘲笑一切，但他主要嘲笑自己；他对一切都有兴趣，这些兴趣总是转向对他自己的审查。他诚恳、谦卑地邀请读者和他一起冒险，那种冒险想起来很吓人，读起来确实轻松愉快的。”（推荐序X）

  授之以鱼不如授之以渔。从纽比的个人经历中，我们也许更能共鸣他的文字风格。这位出身衰落中产家庭，16岁就辍学做航海学徒，后来做服装批发，最后转型成为冒险旅行作家，一生写作了25本旅行文学，《兴都库什山中的一段旅行》是作者最喜欢的一本，在沮丧时读一读，会感觉好多了。（见作者的朋友，也是启发作者选择阿富汗旅行的休·卡莱斯在此书2008年50周年纪念版后记）这大概就是旅行与阅读带给人们的精神给养和精神力量。

  2006年，《经济学人》对纽比的讣告中，提到了纽比热爱旅行的原因：一种身处自由的感觉。这种自由于纽比而言是矛盾的：因为二战，他的一生两次陷身于战俘营（转运过一次），在栅栏之内的冥想，某种意义上他感应到了一种另类的真正自由，无需工作、无需挣钱、无需思考吃什么、穿什么——这种自由看起来很廉价，但是在消费主义时代和充斥着资讯、变化和人与人之间交流与比较的讯息洪流中，又很奢侈。纽比在阿富汗山地上顶着职业冒险家塞西格“娘娘腔”的嘲讽，执着的和同伴吹着自己的充气床垫，也是一种自带闪光的自由。

  阿富汗这个旅游保险不保国家列表排名第一的国家，在20世纪中叶并不是今天的样子，个中原因纷繁复杂，也许此生我并没有机会去阿富汗旅游，但读过此书，最大的感受是，人的一生，虽不能至的地方有很多，但总有某些方式可以在一定程度实现自己的心向往之。

  属于自我的旅行，永不设限。

  附

  2006年《经济学人》纽比讣告全文及链接：

  Eric

  Newby

  Eric

  Newby

  , travel writer and fashion buyer, died on October 20th, aged 86

  BY THE standards of many British explorers,

  Eric

  Newby

  was not particularly intrepid. He could not bear the thought of pain, and would faint away in any film that featured an operating theatre. Horses terrified him, especially when, in Italy, a reluctant mare he was riding was persuaded to clear a ditch by having a lighted cigarette inserted up its backside. Forced to sleep on rocks—to Wilfred Thesiger's huge disdain—he would blow up an air-bed to cushion the ordeal.

  But then Mr

  Newby

  did not see himself as an explorer in the Thesiger mould. He was a traveller to whom things happened, and he would set off in that inquiring, ill-prepared, innocent way that has characterised Englishmen abroad from Chaucer to Evelyn Waugh. He was an amateur whose 25 travel books—most famously “A Short Walk in the Hindu Kush” (1958) and “Love and War in the Apennines” (1971)—were full of serendipity and surprise. A sudden view of a ravine with a grey heron winging across it; the moon rising “like a huge rusty coin”; Parmesan cheese, eaten after days of hunger, with “hard, salty nodules” of curd in it; the shock of blue and green phosphorescence dripping from his oar. Possibly only Mr

  Newby

  could notice, while treading water off the east coast of Sicily in 1942 and trying to avoid being shot at by Germans, that the plume of smoke over Etna looked like the quill of a pen stuck in a pewter ink-pot.

  Well-equipped he may seldom have been, but he was usually well-dressed. For Mr

  Newby

  had another life. For 20 years, to finance his travelling and writing, he worked in the garment trade. After helping run the family firm of Lane and

  Newby

  Ltd, Wholesale Costumiers and Mantle Manufacturers, he joined the John Lewis Partnership in the Intelligence Department, meaning that he checked whether trousers fitted or not. After this, he was promoted to “Model Gown Buyer”. If this life of pins and patterns seemed a come-down to a man dreaming of the Ganges or the Sahara, he certainly did not admit to it. To make “The Journey” as a sales rep through industrial Britain, rattling north overnight unsleeping in a third-class seat and then staggering up the back stairs of department stores with wicker baskets full of suits, was every bit as exciting.

  Besides, he loved clothes. He had been drawn to travel in the first place, as a restless child growing up in suburban south-west London, by the pictures of foreign boys in petticoats in Arthur Mee's “Children's Colour Book of Lands and Peoples”. His first unaccompanied journey, following a Devon stream down to the sea through nettles and cowpats at the age of five, was made in brown lace-up shoes and “a hideous red and green striped blazer with brass buttons”. Apprenticed at 18 on a four-masted barque that ran the last great Grain Race from South Australia to Ireland, he first ran up the oily rigging, teetering 160 feet above Belfast, in grey flannel trousers and a Harris tweed jacket.

  Melons and Sancerre

  All this sounded rather upper class. And Mr

  Newby

  cut such a figure, handsome in immaculate safari suits and, in London, a trilby hat. He had a gentleman's cavalier attitude to expenses when, from 1964-73, he was the travel editor on the

  Observer

  , and a gourmet's approach to his later journeys. (“Had a delicious mini-picnic under a tree,” he noted during a bicycle ride through France in 1971; “small, ripe, melons and a bottle of cold Sancerre.”)

  Yet he himself was “middle-middle class”. He had been to St Paul's, not Eton, and had left school at 16 because his family could no longer afford it. His time as a prisoner-of-war, from 1942 onwards, was diverting to him not only because it led him to his future wife (a tall, blonde, determined Slovenian girl who came to visit him when he was transferred to an outside hospital) but also because he could observe those strange creatures, the English upper classes, up close. Before that he had mostly met them in Harrods, small boys like him braving the “unending, snowy-white wastes” of the Linen Hall and the “savannahs” of Model Gowns, “endless expanses of carpet with here and there a solitary creation on a stand rising above it, like lone trees in a wilderness.”

  In his travelling life he had many a narrow escape. On the great Grain Race, he was almost washed away in a hurricane. Hunting with princes in Andhra Pradesh he was charged by a bear, but failed to shoot it because he dared not use a rifle (a .465 Holland & Holland India Royal) that had cost £800. In Italy during the war, a fugitive prisoner, he woke from a sleep on a mountainside to find a German officer standing over him. But the officer wanted merely to chat and catch butterflies. “The last I saw of him”, he wrote, “was running across the open downs with his net unfurled...making curious little sweeps and lunges as he pursued his prey.”

  Mr

  Newby

  was often asked why he loved to travel. It was, he said, to do with being free. But his attitude to freedom could be ambivalent. Twice, when he had got out of prisoner-of-war camps, he found himself musing that “real freedom” lay back inside the fence. There was no need, he wrote, to worry about anything there: no need to work, to earn money, or to think about what to eat. Or, indeed, what to wear.

  https://www.economist.com/obituary/2006/10/26/eric-newby