亚当之前的个人资料

THE GOD OF HIS FATHERS On every hand stretched the forest primeval, -- the home of noisy comedy and silent tragedy. Here the struggle for survival continued to wage with all its ancient brutality. Briton and Russian were still to overlap in the Land of the Rainbow's End -- and this was the very heart of it -- nor had Yankee gold yet purchased its vast domain. The wolf-pack still clung to the flank of the cariboo-herd, singling out the weak and the big with calf, and pulling them down as remorselessly as were it a thousand, thousand generations into the past. The sparse aborigines still acknowledged the rule of their chiefs and medicine men, drove out bad spirits, burned their witches, fought their neighbors, and ate their enemies with a relish which spoke well of their bellies. But it was at the moment when the stone age was drawing to a close. Already, over unknown trails and chartless wildernesses, were the harbingers of the steel arriving, -- fair-faced, blue-eyed, indomitable men, incarnations of the unrest of their race. By accident or design, single-handed and in twos and threes, they came from no one knew whither, and fought, or died, or passed on, no one knew whence. The priests raged against them, the chiefs called forth their fighting men, and stone clashed with steel; but to little purpose. Like water seeping from some mighty reservoir, they trickled through the dark forests and mountain passes, threading the highways in bark canoes, or with their moccasined feet breaking trail for the wolf-dogs. They came of a great breed, and their mothers were many; but the fur-clad denizens of the Northland had this yet to learn. So many an unsung wanderer fought his last and died under the cold fire of the aurora, as did his brothers in burning sands and reeking jungles, and as they shall continue to do till in the fulness of time the destiny of their race be achieved. It was near twelve. Along the northern horizon a rosy glow, fading to the west and deepening to the east, marked the unseen dip of the midnight sun. The gloaming and the dawn were so commingled that there was no night, -- simply a wedding of day with day, a scarcely perceptible blending of two circles of the sun. A kildee timidly chirped good-night; the full, rich throat of a robin proclaimed good-morrow. From an island on the breast of the Yukon a colony of wild fowl voiced its interminable wrongs, while a loon laughed mockingly back across a still stretch of river. In the foreground, against the bank of a lazy eddy, birch-bark canoes were lined two and three deep. Ivory-bladed spears, bone-barbed arrows, buckskin-thonged bows, and simple basket-woven traps bespoke the fact that in the muddy current of the river the salmon-run was on. In the background, from the tangle of skin tents and drying frames, rose the voices of the fisher folk. Bucks skylarked with bucks or flirted with the maidens, while the older squaws, shut out from this by virtue of having fulfilled the end of their existence in reproduction, gossiped as they braided rope from the green roots of trailing vines. At their feet their naked progeny played and squabbled, or rolled in the muck with the tawny wolf-dogs. To one side of the encampment, and conspicuously apart from it, stood a second camp of two tents. But it was a white man's camp. If nothing else, the choice of position at least bore convincing evidence of this. In case of offence, it commanded the Indian quarters a hundred yards away; of defence, a rise to the ground and the cleared intervening space; and last, of defeat, the swift slope of a score of yards to the canoes below. From one of the tents came the petulant cry of a sick child and the crooning song of a mother. In the open, over the smouldering embers of a fire, two men held talk. "Eh? I love the church like a good son. Bien! So great a love that my days have been spent in fleeing away from her, and my nights in dreaming dreams of reckoning. Look you!" The half-breed's voice rose to an angry snarl. "I am Red River born. My father was white -- as white as you. But you are Yankee, and he was British bred, and a gentleman's son. And my mother was the daughter of a chief, and was a man. Ay, and one had to look the second time to see what manner of blood ran in my veins; for I lived with the whites, and was one of them, and my father's heart beat in me. It happened there was a maiden -- white -- who looked on me with kind eyes. Her father had much land and many horses; also he was a big man among his people, and his blood was the blood of the French. He said the girl knew not her own mind, and talked overmuch

圆脸男人约翰·克莱沃豪斯长着一张跟十五的月亮一样的圆脸，你肯定见过这种长相的男人，宽宽的颧骨，基本看不出有下巴和前额，因为它们已经和脸不分界线地融合在一起了，这些构成了完美的圆形轮廓。鼻子又短又粗，与圆脸边缘线保持同样的距离，可以说，恰好长在脸盘的中心部位。在圆脸的衬托下，它看上去就像是粘在天花板上的一个面团。也许，正是因为约翰·克莱沃豪斯的这种长相，我才这么讨厌他。他是我的眼中钉，而且我相信，他的存在也是地球的累赘。就像社会上的人们通常认为的，我这么讨厌约翰·克莱沃豪斯，不是因为他对我做过什么错事或者无礼的举止。不过，如果他真的做了错事，我现在对他的厌恶远远超过这个，更深刻、更微妙，是那样的不可理解，难以捉摸，以至于我都无法用清晰、准确的语言表达出来。我们每个人都会在人生中的某个阶段经历这样的事情：平生第一次见到某个陌生人，就是那么擦肩而过，即使在梦中也不会留下一丝印象，然而就是这么一个人，在第一眼见到他时，我们往往会说“我不喜欢那个人”。我们凭什么不喜欢人家呢？哎，其实我们也不知道。我们仅知道不喜欢他。不喜欢就是不喜欢，仅此而已。我对约翰·克莱沃豪斯的印象就是这样。有着这么一副长相的男人有什么资格享受快乐和幸福呢？然而事实恰恰相反，他是一个地地道道的乐观派。他总是笑容满面，笑声不断，仿佛在这个世界上没有不顺心的事一样，真是个该诅咒的家伙！哎，看着他总是这么高兴，这简直是对我灵魂的莫大刺激！别人可以大笑，可以快乐，这很正常，也不会令我烦恼。就连我自己过去也常常开怀大笑当然是在我遇上约翰·克莱沃豪斯之前。可是他的笑使我非常恼火，简直要把我逼疯了，好像除了他的笑之外，世界上其他任何事物都无法激怒我，不会使我疯狂。它总是挥之不去，围绕在我的周围，使我的心为之疯狂，让我得不到片刻的放松。那是一种洪亮的、疯狂的笑声，不论在清醒时还是在睡眠中，我都能感觉到它的存在。它就像一把巨大的锉刀，发出尖利的声音穿刺着我的心灵。在蒙蒙亮的清晨，它呐喊着，穿过时空搅乱我的美梦；在中午眩目的烈日下，当那些繁茂的枝叶都耷拉下脑袋，当鸟雀们都躲到森林深处去时，当自然万物都在昏昏欲睡的时候，他那巨大如雷的“哈！哈”和“嘎！嘎”的笑声响彻云霄，挑战着头顶的炎炎烈日。还有，在漆黑的深夜，在寂静的十字路口那是他从城里回家的必经之路，总会传来那令人讨厌的狂笑，将我从睡梦中惊醒，接着我辗转难眠，苦恼不已，我狠狠地攥紧了拳头。

征集:《海狼》(上海译文)《马背上的水手》(中国人民大学出版社) rt

应试教育不等于学习！我觉得应试教育不等于学习。我个人喜欢学习，但不喜欢应试教育。应试教育将学习功利化了。不接受应试教育的人不一定就不能成才。而应试教育教给我们的仅仅是书本知识，并不能教给我们如何去生活。应试教育把学习当成手段，其实，它应该是目的

我的观点我看过GJM的小说，还不错，偶尔觉得有炫耀的成分~韩寒的没看过~浏览了许多战贴，觉得喜欢就喜欢，不喜欢就不喜欢呗，不用这样吧？算了，我还是回杰克·伦敦吧去，那儿清净~

欢迎大家申请大吧主、小吧主！一个人干着累，欢迎有时间的童鞋帮忙分担~~

记得杰克伦敦写过歌剧。谁知道写的什么？如果是我记错了，当我放屁 RT

有道题，没看懂是什么意思。求解。有个三角形，求面积１、三条边分别是１、２、根号３，顺便说出他们的角２、三条边分别是１、１、根号２，顺便说出他们的角３、三条边分别是１２、９、２１呢，顺便说出三角成立条件４、三条边分别是６、７、８呢

『应许之徒』吧里估计没比我小的了~~报到~~ 本人，出生于1999年，爹妈都是根正苗红的工人·阶级。O(∩_∩)O~

互粉~·~ RT

墨西哥人谁也不了解他的历史——最不了解他的，是**委员会里那些人。他是他们的“小神秘”，他们的“大爱国志士”，他按照自己的方式，为了即将来到的墨西哥**，跟他们一样起劲地工作。他们过了很久才知道这回事，因为委员会里没有一个人喜欢他。他头一次到他们那些拥挤忙碌的房间里那天，他们都疑心他是一个暗探——一个被狄亚士的特务机关收买下来的爪牙，他们的同志，有很多人都给关进了美国各地的普通监狱和军事监狱，另外一部分人，上了脚镣手铐，甚至被押解到边境之外，面对着土墙排成队，被枪毙掉了。这个小伙子给他们的头一个印象就不顺眼。他的确是个小伙子，还不满十八岁，从年龄来看，个子也不太大。他说他叫菲力普•利威拉，他的志愿是为**工作。就是这些——完全没有废话，也没有进一步的解释，他站在那儿等着。他的嘴上不带一丝笑容，他的眼光也不和善。大个儿，急性子的保林诺•维拉，心里一阵哆嗦。这个小伙子真是又可恶，又可怕，又难以捉摸。他的黑眼睛里含有一阵毒蛇似的光芒。它们象冷酷的火眼一样燃烧着，仿佛含有无限的，凝聚的仇恨。他的眼光从那些**者的脸上，扫到了矮小的塞斯贝太太忙碌使用着的那架打字机。他只瞧了她一下，碰巧她正抬起头来，连她也感觉出那种说不出的眼光，逼得她把工作停了一下。她只得把打好的字重新看一遍，再继续打那封她正在草拟的信。保林诺•维拉探问似地瞧着阿列拉诺和拉摩斯，他们也探问似地瞧着他，然后彼此瞧着。他们眼睛里都流露着迟疑不决的神色。这个瘦长的小伙子是个来历不明的人，而且具有来历不明的人的一切叫人不安的气味。在这些正直的普通**者的眼里，他好象一个不可理解的谜，当然，他们都对狄亚士和他的暴政，抱有深切的仇恨，不过，这只是处于正直的普通爱国者的仇恨。现在在他身上，却带有另外一种性质，他们都说不出所以然。可是，一向最容易冲动、喜欢说干就干的维拉，终于出来对付这个难题。 “很好，”他冷冷地说，“你说你愿意为**工作。把上衣脱下来，挂在那儿。让我来告诉你——来——告诉你水桶和抹布在哪儿。地板很脏。你先把它擦一擦，再去擦别的房间里的地板。痰盂也得倒干净。还有窗户也得擦擦。” “这是为**么？”那个小伙子问道。 “这就是为**。”维拉回答道。利威拉用冷冷的怀疑眼光瞧了他们一眼，开始脱掉上衣。

儿童文学下六月号关于杰克·伦敦的一段话出错了杰克·伦敦是美国作家，不是英国作家！！杰克·伦敦(Jack London，1876年1月12日～1916年11月22日),原名为约翰·格利菲斯·伦敦(John Griffith London)，美国著名的现实主义作家。他一生共创作了约50卷作品，其中最为著名的有《野性的呼唤》《海狼》《白牙》《马丁·伊登》和一系列优秀短篇小说《热爱生命》《老头子同盟》《北方的奥德赛》《马普希的房子》《沉寂的雪原》等。杰克·伦敦的姓氏虽然是英国首都的名字，但他在美国出生和逝世，并且是美国籍。

一周在吧待不到十五小时有啥后果? rt

杰克伦敦小说看过多少？（长中短篇）

谁看过《扎拉特斯彻如是说》？尼采的，看过的讨论一下

新吧主致各位会员大家好，我是新吧主亚当之前，希望各位多支持我的生意（。。。）积极发言，让贴吧更加热闹，现在这儿太冷清了。一.关于治理贴吧。由于我还是学生，要顾及学业，所以不可能有太多时间来管理。因此我决定继续奉行前任吧主灵兰拂尘的方式。万望大家配合。二.关于删帖。若发现含人身攻击的贴，一律删除。三.关于吧务。欢迎大家积极申请职务。亚当之前敬上

请问《铁蹄》什么译本好？我的是上海译文的

这里怎么比杰克伦敦吧还冷清？米有人了么

马丁伊登和杰克伦敦有什么相同和不同？初看都一样，再看都不一样（别54我，人小见识浅）另外，汕头市哪里买得到《铁蹄》？

刚刚升中完，294.3，应该能进吧? ??

神马时候领录取通知书？！？！

有人看过《高龙巴》和《马丁·伊登》吗？讨论一下吧