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• 作者： 王二 发布时间：2017-06-16 20:14:27

  太泛泛而谈，说的东西都是放之四海皆准的道理，举的那些例子都是老生常淡的事例，没有切中要害的感觉。尤其是到最后几章就像是定了主题之后各处找事例拼凑出的议论文。

• 作者： 达达ZEN 发布时间：2012-08-31 00:35:16

  1、在没有靠谱细致的“步行路线“下，必须得给这本五星。2、龙志安与http://www.shambhalaserai.com原来真是一家！提供该区域的freemapg刚好；3、遗憾的是《西藏是我家》作者退休后的小酒馆儿没找见，想见传奇的扎西先生！4、（仓姑＋孜苏路＋木如）好好玩！

• 作者： 常州秦某 发布时间：2020-05-08 19:28:25

  世上总有一类书，老在眼前，不以为意；有朝一日惦记起来想看，已经绝版了。此书2006版绝版至今，等了十年，终于购入读毕。得亏如此，十年前哪读得懂？

• 作者： 稚只 发布时间：2013-03-12 14:41:33

  我看過的關於人藝的最好的一本書，書中摘錄萬方寫父親曹禺那段，次次讀，次次熱淚盈眶。

• 作者： comcnet 发布时间：2013-06-24 22:18:08

  丐帮所用的短杖，通常叫做打狗棒，这名字据说是昔日一位姓查的帮主起的。

• 作者： 一坨少女 发布时间：2019-01-23 19:55:38

  虽然很喜欢尼尼但是翻译成养真的很奇怪耶？。。

• 一个令自己的国家变得陌生的国家

  作者：王威廉 发布时间：2009-08-08 18:42:14

      黑人作家的东西读的不多。

      尼日利亚的作家阿切比的《崩溃》曾令我无比吃惊，非洲的文学水平之高令中国大部分当代小说与之相比沦为垃圾。

      但詹姆斯。鲍德温这个美国的黑人作家与黑非洲的处境极为不同。这是一个戴着黑色面具的白人，他的苦楚不在于民族的，而就是身体的。他的黑色身体外在于他的理解和认识，身体成了自身的镜像。

      《另一个国家》，就是美国中的美国，一个令自己的国家变得陌生的国家。

      黑白的情侣搭配是为了观念设置好的。体现了那种紧张的关系。而同性恋却成了一种极度美好的理想。或许作者想宣扬一种真正的超越身体的爱。可是在我看来，这正是前面所说的，黑人潜意识中对自身身体镜像化的反抗。希望身体与爱一样，能够变成抽象的透明的但是却普遍的事物。

      相比之下，华人在美国的人数也很众多，但没有自身的有力的文化，所以没有自己的身份，没有自己的精神权力，更没有真正属于自己的话语、自己的艺术。华人在西方社会只是一些没有共同点的个体。

      我根本就不愿意去美国生活，仅仅冲破自己内心的种族主义壁垒就殊为不易。当你抱着崇高的理想成为世界人的时候，民族主义就变成了铁一般坚固存在的东西。

     

  附记：读此书时正好在看电影《撞车》，其中有些意蕴很类似。不过小说的痛苦感更为绵长，更难以消解。

• Thank you, Gillian Flynn, for giving women permission to be bad

  作者：Monroe露露酱 发布时间：2019-01-22 10:33:29

  https://www.washingtonpost.com/entertainment/books/gillian-flynns-sharp-objects-gives-women-permission-to-be-bad/2018/07/05/99d23d86-7e03-11e8-b0ef-fffcabeff946_story.html?noredirect=on&utm_term=.0eaac4589e72

  When “Gone Girl” was published to sensational acclaim — and extraordinary sales — in 2012, some critics hailed the novel as Gillian Flynn’s breakthrough. Yet for all its glories — those startling Act II gearshifts, that merciless vivisection of a marriage in toxic shock — its author had already, in her 2006 debut “Sharp Objects,” commented with verve and nerve on a controversial figure: the female protagonist who is neither simpering virgin nor femme fatale. As viperous as “Gone Girl,” this potent Midwestern Gothic — which on Sunday will debut as an HBO miniseries — showcases how women, both subtly and savagely, treat (and mistreat) one another. Better still, though, it dismantles the notion — reinforced by countless narratives on the page, on screen, in real life — they must be either spice or nice.

  Flynn has long disputed “this idea that women are innately good, innately nurturing” and bemoaned “the spunky heroines, “soul-searching fashionistas” and “dismissably bad” tramps and vamps populating so much contemporary fiction. Her own novels, by contrast, illuminate — indeed they celebrate — a woman’s right to be complicated, flawed, profane, unsympathetic; even, as she put it in a 2013 interview, “pragmatically evil, bad, and selfish.”

  [‘The Woman in the Window’ lives up to the hype]

  Consider the opening lines of her second novel, “Dark Places”: “I have a meanness inside me, real as an organ,” confesses Libby Day. “I was never a good little girl.” There is a Gillian Flynn character in 17 words: irrepressibly and irredeemably herself, for better or (more likely) for worse and wholly unapologetic either way. This is why Amy Dunne of “Gone Girl” walloped the world like an asteroid. And it is why “Sharp Objects” remains so vital, more than a decade after its publication, especially in an age aflame with debates about both women’s experiences and civility.

  Camille Preaker, our protagonist, is more winsome than Libby Day, but only incidentally (and only incrementally). A lackluster reporter at “the fourth-largest paper in Chicago,” she returns to her hometown of Wind Gap, Mo., to investigate the homicides of two young girls — a homecoming that pits her against the town sheriff, a Kansas City detective and a community as poisonous and knotty as a snake pit.

  One of the novel’s wilier tricks is to spotlight Camille’s beauty, which ripened “suddenly, unmistakably” soon after her 13th birthday. (“You could have been a model, you know,” an admirer tells her years later.) Loveliness, in fiction, typically graces a pair of archetypes: the angel and the temptress. Yet Camille is neither, although she allows she might be “a soft touch.” She is also a self-cutter, her body crosshatched with scars; she is fresh from a stint at the psych ward; she is sarcastic and unstable. In other words, she is intriguing. Observant, too, as befits a reporter. That acuity serves her well as she navigates the riptides of Wind Gap.

  Prowling those waters is her ice-queen mother, Adora, who with her long blond hair and pale blue eyes was like “a girl’s very best doll, the kind you don’t play with.” There is also Amma, Adora’s teenage daughter and Camille’s half sister, who admits that when away from home, “I’m other things.” Amma is a changeling, one minute a choir girl, the next a come-hither siren; both kitten and sex kitten. In the latter guise, she heads a squad of fellow mean girls (two of them named Kelsey, naturally), while Adora presides over the women of Wind Gap.

  These are familiar archetypes — the prodigal daughter, the chilly matriarch, the “woman-child with a gorgeous body ... asserting her power over lesser creatures,” the chorus line of neighbors competing in a grief sweepstakes. In “Sharp Objects,” however, Flynn acid-strips them of sentiment. Her women neither revel in nor aspire to what one of them describes, facetiously, as “girl power.” Mothers will not forbear to remind their children that they do not love them. They discard make-believe personalities as snakes shed skin. Above all, no one seeks to be likable.

  Here is where Flynn’s detractors pounce. Doesn’t she undermine her sex by unleashing female characters so variously selfish, psychotic, shape-shifting and — perish the thought — uncivil? Characters who, ruminating on the “Old Testament spitefulness of the phrase got what she deserved,” suggest “Sometimes women do”? Shouldn’t Flynn rose-tint them, soften them, girl-power them?

  [Women, stop apologizing for reading ‘women’s novels.’]

  In a word, no — that is a bum rap, in noir-speak. Flynn’s novels are feminist precisely because they aim a megawatt beam, bright as prison lights, into the dark corners of women’s minds and lives. (Compare her approach with that of novelists who claim to confront misogyny even as they fetishize violence against female characters.) They reject coddling: “To say we need to be looked after, I find offensive,” Camille gripes. Time and again in her fiction — and especially in “Sharp Objects” — Flynn forces us to review (and reject) our biases about women in literature, an entire sex routinely taxonomized, infantilized and reduced to cliche. The female of the species, Flynn shows us, can be deadlier than the male.

  Not that they would care, mind you. Nor would they care if we like them (which, frequently, we do not). But damned if they are not psychologically credible. And damned, too, if “Sharp Objects” does not expose and explode our own prejudices about how women should — or even can — think, behave, dress, live. This is Flynn’s supreme gift to her readers. And soon, to her viewers.