2021春少年班九年级数学—北师版（下） 下载 pdf 电子版 epub 免费 txt 2025

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• 作者：M 发布时间：2019-12-13 18:29:50

  他的书真的买一本随便看看够了，看了几本同作者的书，内容高度重叠，东拼西凑，复制粘贴，当然也可能流行歌就这样吧。纯小白确实能学到一点理论，但不值这个票价，不推荐了

• 作者：蓝色的鲸 发布时间：2022-08-31 22:52:05

  幸福家庭，就是夫妇能够透过孩子的问题，成功地解除夫妻之间的芥蒂，建立一个健康的家庭网络。不幸的家庭，就是父母的眼睛只看到孩子，却看不到对方，他们的孩子无法在父母身上体会什么是温馨家庭，只接收到人际关系的苦涩，无限焦急。

• 作者：League 发布时间：2011-07-09 23:48:41

  弗兰克•劳埃德•赖特，“流水别墅”设计者

• 作者：薯风风 发布时间：2016-04-13 08:55:48

  空拥一腔爱国热血，多少遗憾流于幽禁中。

• 作者：Puppy 发布时间：2015-05-19 01:04:11

  1941年的翻译毫无套路防不胜防！！！！！居然有好几处笑出来了！！！！潘光旦不愧大家，第一次知道译注可以如此智慧，“毫不客气”地抒发己见！！！（ps: 附录中的《中国文献中同性恋举例》足足32页！附带图表！！！哭疯了！！！！

• 作者：villim 发布时间：2023-11-01 23:25:55

  虽然厚厚一本，但还是只有八个小片段而已。远远不足以浓缩精髓，但优点是删减得非常适合小朋友入坑。

• 拉风的主题

  作者：Ymir 发布时间：2011-09-10 10:50:59

  这么带感的话题，其中更是有对某些尽人皆知的词语的解读，初读起来着实令人眼前一亮。

  不过其中出现了很多“伦敦方言中的押韵俚语”和澳大利亚用语，实在是令人怀疑作者是不是 a cockney in Australia（实际上不是）。此外，A-G的部分已占了全书篇幅的近一半，也令人怀疑作者是不是一开始兴致高涨，但越编到后面就越干劲不足了（当然词条质量并没有降低）。

  抛去对成书的疑问，单看内容，就会发现，有众多表示男人或女人身体“某一部位”的名词和表示某些“特定行为”的动词。对于这种情况，个人觉得，采用字母顺序排列词条倒不如根据含义分类排列，这也省去了读者自行汇总的麻烦（如果真有人试着分类的话）。此外，本书成书于八十年代，在这之后的几十年时间里，这些语言想必也有了一些改变，个人觉得这一点也是在阅读的时候需要注意的方面。

  脏词和禁忌语内力过于强大，此种内容略作知晓即可。相对来说，还是另一类词语，即委婉语，使用更广泛。接下来就准备读一本委婉语词典了。

• 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