SAVVY(纽约时报畅销书，2009年纽伯瑞银奖)ISBN9780142414330 下载 pdf 电子版 epub 免费 txt 2025

　　Thirteen is when a Beaumont?s savvy hits?and with one brother who causes hurricanes and another who creates electricity, Mibs Beaumont is eager to see what she gets. But just before the big day, Poppa is in a terrible accident. And now all Mibs wants is a savvy that will save him. In fact, Mibs is so sure she?ll get a powerful savvy that she sneaks a ride to the hospital on a rickety bus with her sibling and the preacher?s kids in tow. After this extraordinary adventure?full of talking tattoos and a kidnapping?not a soul on board will ever be the same.

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　　Savvy - Chapter One

　　wHen my brotHer FisH turned tHirteen, we moved to the deepest part of inland because of the hurricane and, of course, the fact that he’d caused it. I had liked living down southontheedgeofland,nexttothepushing-pullingwaves. I had liked it with a mighty kind of liking, so moving had been hard—hard like the pavement the first time I fell off my pink two-wheeler and my palms burned like fire from all of the hurt just under the skin. But it was plain that fish could live nowhere near or nearby or next to or close to or on or around any largish bodies of water. Water had a way of triggering my brother and making ordinary, everyday weather take a frightening turn for the worse.

　　Unlike any normal hurricane, fish’s birthday storm had started without warning. One minute, my brother was tearing paper from presents in our backyard near the beach; the next minute, both fish and the afternoon sky went a funny and fearsome shade of gray. My brother gripped the edge of the picnic table as the wind kicked up around him, gaining momentum and ripping the wrapping paper out of his hands, sailing it high up into the sky with all of the balloons and streamers roiling together and disintegrating like a birthday party in a blender. Groaning and cracking, trees shuddered and bent over double, uprooting and falling as easily as sticks in wet sand. Rain pelted us like gravel thrown by a playground bully as windows shattered and shingles ripped off the roof. As the storm surged and the ocean wavestossedandchurned,spillingragingwateranddebris farther and farther up the beach, Momma and Poppa grabbed hold of fish and held on tight, while the rest of us ran for cover. Momma and Poppa knew what was happening. They had been expecting something like this and knew that they had to keep my brother calm and help him ride out his storm.

　　That hurricane had been the shortest on record, but to keep the coastal towns safe from our fish, our family had packed up and moved deep inland, plunging into the very heart of the land and stopping as close to the center of the country as we could get. There, without big water to fuel big storms, fish could make it blow and rain without so much heartache and ruin.

　　Settling directly between Nebraska and Kansas in a little place all our own, just off Highway 81, we were well beyond hollering distance from the nearest neighbor, which was the best place to be for a family like ours. The closest town was merely a far-off blur across the highway, and was not even big enough to have its own school or store, or gas station or mayor.

　　Monday through Wednesday, we called our thin stretch of land Kansaska. Thursday through Saturday, we called it Nebransas. On Sundays, since that was the Lord’s Day, we called it nothing at all, out of respect for

　　His creating our world without the lines already drawn on its face like all my grandpa’s wrinkles.

　　If it weren’t for old Grandpa Bomba, Kansaska-Nebransas wouldn’t even have existed for us to live there. When Grandpa wasn’t a grandpa and was just instead a small-fry, hobbledehoy boy blowing out thirteen dripping candles on a lopsided cake, his savvy hit him hard and sudden—just like it did to fish that day of the backyard birthday party and the hurricane—and the entire state of Idaho got made. At least, that’s the way Grandpa Bomba always told the story.

　　“Before I turned thirteen,” he’d say, “Montana bumped dead straight into Washington, and Wyoming and Oregon shared a cozy border.” The tale of Grandpa’s thirteenth birthday had grown over the years just like the land he could move and stretch, and Momma just shook her head and smiled every time he’d start talking tall. But in truth, that young boy who grew up and grew old like wine and dirt, had been making new places whenever and wherever he pleased. That was Grandpa’s savvy.

　　My savvy hadn’t come along yet. But I was only two days away from my very own thirteen dripping candles—though my momma’s cakes never lopped to the side or to the middle. Momma’s cakes were perfect, just like Momma, because that was her savvy. Momma was perfect. Anything she made was perfect. Everything she did was perfect. Even when she messed up, Momma messed up perfectly.

　　I often reckoned what it would be like for me. I pictured myself blowing out the candles on my cake and fires dying in chimneys across four counties. Or I imagined making my secret birthday wish—getting my cheeks full and round with air—then floating up toward the ceiling like my very own happy birthday balloon.

　　“My savvy is going to be a good one,” I told my brother Rocket. “I just know it.”

　　“Girls don’t get the powerful jujubes,” said Rocket, running one hand through his dark shock of unkempt hair with a crackle of static. “Girls only get quiet, polite savvies—sugar and spice and everything humdrum savvies. It’s boys who get the earthshaking kinds of savvy.”

　　I had scowled at my brother and stuck out my tongue. Rocket and I both knew that there were plenty of girls climbing round our family tree that had strong and sturdy savvies, like Great-aunt Jules, who could step back twenty minutes in time every time she sneezed; or our second cousin Olive, who could melt ice with a single red-hot stare.

　　Rocket was seventeen and full of junk that I wasn’t allowed to say until I got much, much older. But he was electric through and through, and that had always gone to his head. for fun, Rocket would make my hair stand on end like he’d rubbed it with a balloon, or hit fish with a wicked zap from the other side of the room. But Rocket could keep the lights on when the power went out, and our family sure liked that, especially the littler Beaumonts.

　　Rocket was the oldest, with fish and me following after. Born only a year apart, fish and I were nearly the same height and looked a lot alike, both with hair like sand and straw—hair like Momma’s. But while I had Poppa’s hazel eyes, fish had Momma’s ocean blue ones. It was as if we’d each taken a little bit of Momma, or a little bit of Poppa, and made the rest our own.

　　I wasn’t the youngest or the smallest in the family; broody Samson was a dark and shadowy seven, and doll-faced Gypsy was three. It was Gypsy who started calling me Mibs, when my full name, Mississippi, became far too much for her toothsome toddler tongue to manage. But that had been a relief. That name had always followed me around like one of fish’s heavy storm clouds.

　　The itch and scritch of birthday buzz was about all I was feeling on the Thursday before the friday before the Saturday I turned thirteen. Sitting at the dinner table, next to Poppa’s empty chair and ready plate, I barely ate a bite. Across from me, Gypsy prattled endlessly, counting the make-believe creatures she imagined seeing in the room, and begging me to help her name them.

　　I pushed the food around my plate, ignoring my sister and daydreaming about what it would be like when I got my very own savvy, when the telephone rang right in the middle of pot roast, mashed potatoes, and mighty unpopular green beans. As Momma rose to answer, us kids, and Grandpa Bomba too, seized the chance to plop our mashers on top of our beans while Momma’s back was turned. Samson tucked some of those beans into his pockets to give to his dead pet turtle, even though Momma always said he shouldn’t be giving it any of our good food, seeing how it was dead and all, and the food would just go to rot. But Samson was sure as sadly sure that his turtle was only hibernating, and Momma hadn’t the heart to toss it from the house.

　　We were all smiling to each other around the kitchen table at the smart way we’d taken care of those beans when Momma dropped the phone with a rattling clatter and a single sob—perfectly devastated. She sank to the floor, looking for all the world as if she were staring right through the checkered brown and blue linoleum to behold the burning hot-lava core at the very center of the Earth.

　　“It’s Poppa,” Momma said in a choked voice, as her perfect features stretched and pinched.

　　A gust of wind burst from fish’s side of the table, blowing everyone’s hair and sending our paper napkins flying pell-mell onto the floor. The air in the room grew warm and humid as though the house itself had broken out into a ripe, nervous sweat, and the many dusty, tightly lidded, empty-looking jars that lined the tops of all the cupboards rattled and clinked like a hundred toasting glasses. Outside it was already raining fish rain—drops hastened from a sprinkle to a downpour in seconds as fish stared, wide-eyed and gaping like his namesake, holding back his fear but unable to scumble his savvy.

　　“Momma?” Rocket ventured. The air around him crackled with static, and his T-shirt clung to him like socks to towels straight from the dryer. The lights in the house pulsed, and blue sparks popped and snapped at the tips of his nervous, twitching fingers.

　　Momma looked at Poppa’s empty chair and waiting plate, then she turned to us, chin trembling, and told us about the accident on the highway. She told us how Poppa’s car had gotten crushed up bad, like a pop can under a cowboy boot, and how he’d gone and forgotten to get out before it happened, landing himself in a room and a bed at Salina Hope Hospital, where now he lay broken and asleep, not able to wake up.

　　“Don’t fret, child,” Grandpa consoled Momma as though they were back in time and Momma was still a young girl sitting on his knee crying over a broken doll. “Those doctors know what’s what. They’ll fix your fellow up in no time. They’ll get his buttons sewn back on.” Grandpa Bomba’s tone was soft and reassuring. But as the strobe-like flashes from Rocket’s nervous sparks lit Grandpa’s face, I could see the worry etched deep into all his wrinkles.

　　For half of a half of a half of a second I hated Poppa. I hated him for working so far away from home and for having to take the highway every day. I hated him for getting in that accident and for ruining our pot roast. Mostly, I realized that my perfect cake with its pink and yellow frosting was probably not going to get made, and I hated Poppa for wrecking my most important birthday before it had even arrived. Then I felt the burning shame of even having those thoughts about my good, sweet poppa and sank low in my chair. To make amends for my selfish feelings, I sat quietly and ate every last unwelcome green bean from beneath my mashed potatoes, as fish’s rain lashed against the windows and Rocket caused every lightbulb in the house to explode with a live-wire zing and a popping shatter, sending shards of glass tinkling to the floor and pitching the house into darkness.

　　……

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书籍介绍

Thirteen is when a Beaumont’s savvy hits—and with one brother who causes hurricanes and another who creates electricity, Mibs Beaumont is eager to see what she gets. But just before the big day, Poppa is in a terrible accident. And now all Mibs wants is a savvy that will save him. In fact, Mibs is so sure she’ll get a powerful savvy that she sneaks a ride to the hospital on a rickety bus with her sibling and the preacher’s kids in tow. After this extraordinary adventure—full of talking tattoos and a kidnapping—not a soul on board will ever be the same.

• 作者：凯恩斯吊打MKS 发布时间：2023-06-30 16:38:54

  不是反对物化而是担心自己卖价不高，不是反对定义而是反对自己的腐烂本质被人看透！

  智力超群学假如不会数理化那就是男人编的书有问题！

  虽然三十岁了但还是个宝宝不能拿成年人那一套要求她！

  事实上司法实施确实也是这样双重标准到了搞笑娱乐的地步！

  体力无敌硬拉一百公斤吊打男人，但是一桶水也换不了还得指望男人！

  坐办公室嫌收入低，凭什么第一线赚的比我多？

  去第一线女孩子怎么能干这个？这不是压迫女性吗？

  男的要结婚＝想找免费保姆压迫女性！

  男的不结婚＝渣男不想负责任（不结婚怎么离婚致富）？

  ……剩下的欢迎补充，上回应为这个禁言了一个星期！

• 作者：dyun 发布时间：2009-02-15 16:30:29

  10年老书重读。

  利润公式；跨界创新；100分百解决方案；卓越策略；独特主张；风险逆转；加码或交叉销售；测试再测试；联营；转介绍；直邮。

  真正以客户的需求为主导帮客户解决问题。客户终身价值思维。100%保证无风险承诺。增加销量的大套餐低价组合。

• 作者：浅浅 发布时间：2022-01-27 20:33:01

  非常有趣的真菌介绍，用等车的时间碎片的看掉了

• 作者：睡不够的Crysta 发布时间：2019-08-20 23:27:38

  大J推荐购买的书，字很少，但想要东西要好好表达，有了东西要和别人分享的道理却传达得很到位。刚买来那会，一天也是读上几十遍，想不到最近又拿出来看了。

• 作者：宅蘑菇Moku 发布时间：2019-01-05 12:36:37

  内容很实用易读，从前期准备开始都有适合上手的指南

• 作者：池鲸鲸 发布时间：2023-04-24 20:16:48

  大学生文笔，没啥好看的。

• 艺术造假的由来

  作者：Kenny 发布时间：2021-04-15 17:27:36

  最开始，造假与赝品的出现并不是为了扰乱美术圈的正常市场交易，而是来源于崇尚稀有艺术品身上独特价值这种私人癖好，即简单的模仿行为。临摹者个人行为中的“求而不可得”的遗憾与无奈给这些赝品增添一丝悲凉的气息。

  有人纯粹是兴趣使然，而有人是陷入艺术泥潭后的形势使然。

  天才艺术创作家享受着世人的顶礼膜拜与交口称赞，而临摹者处于两极的另一端，他们承受着创作失意带来的精神苦恼，生活也贫苦困顿，双重压迫之下他们走上了以此为生的道路，当然，这是理想化的一面。

  毕竟大多数临摹者趋之若鹜其实是看中了艺术品中的商业价值，他们扮演的就是技师的角色，以物易钱，凭手艺吃饭，是实打实的谋生之道。这时，临摹者就成为了造假者。

  可在赝品被卷入商业市场后，眼尖的奸商把艺术崇拜或谋生这之类的动机转化成大有可为的商机，发掘艺术品的“潜在价值”，私底下他们有意识地鼓动造假，在黑市上组织售假，与此同时，造假者们在市场的刺激下，加大技艺的改进力度，更新技术，以便鱼目混珠，技艺的高超程度决定了能否瞒天过海，最终，造假、售假成为扰乱市场秩序的社会问题。

  售假与买假的唯一目的就是为了完成商业市场中“以假乱真”的常见骗局，而购买者的心理逻辑无非是“贪小便宜”与“艺术欣赏”的有机结合。

  售假与买假这两大迷乱行为原本只是个别国家或地区的极端现象，可随着世界贸易一体化，艺术市场急速扩张，艺术输入品大肆涌入各国家，可艺术品本身所附属的艺术文化并没有随之普及开来，经济贸易往来与文化发展交流严重脱节，这也使得赝品问题成为世界级难题。

  随着美术市场的逐步发展，美术界意识到以次充好之风的危害，从研究入手，从源头上解决艺术造假问题，造假、赝品在某种程度上推动了美术学研究的发展，颇有“滑天下之大稽”的意味。

• 真实的世界是什么样？

  作者：向开亮 发布时间：2023-02-27 06:52:31

  > 真实的世界是什么样？

  #帕尔 （D.Pare）曾经提到，人类对真实的世界是什么有三种立场——

  第一种立场是真实是可以认知的——人类对现实的各种构成成分和它的运作可以准确而重复地做出发现、描述和运用；

  第二种立场是人类是自己知觉的囚犯——我们试图描述现实，并且试图对进行这种描述的若干人有若干了解，但是我们却不太可能了解外在的现实；

  第三种立场是现实是通过认知者彼此的沟通和协商确立的——我们身处其中的现实，就是彼此协商产生的社会文化的现实。

  叙事疗法采用的是第三种真实世界的立场，认为个人所知觉的现实是经由建构所组成，更具体地说，这是社会建构的过程。（参见[[社会建构论]]）

  比如，眼前有一座峻峭的高山，能够觉察到山的存在，本身带有个人社会互动的视角，每天在山里不会主动觉察到这座山；同时，觉察这座山的峻峭的角度，也是平原人们所共识沉淀的视角。面对客观事物如此，面对人类所构建的信念和制度，更是人们协商的结果，构成了文化的现实，比如婚姻制度、生活方式等等。

  所以，对所谓的现实的理解，不同文化背景之下也不尽相同。个人构建出来的现实也有多样化的选择，并且可以赋予多元化的意义诠释。

  而叙事疗法就是将人们从困住他们的一致的、通用的对现实的理解中释放出来。重视这些个人所知觉现实的特殊情形、例外事件、个人差异，找到个人生活很多被排除到意识之外的可能出路。

  ## Reference

  李明. 2016. 叙事心理治疗. 商务印书馆.

  ©️向开亮（

  www.kailiang.life

  ）