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357·Ó¢Óï·­Òë»ù´¡Ó¢ºº1 | 35·Ö£¬´óÒâÓÐÐí¶àÃÀ¹ú¹¤×÷Õßµ£ÐÄ»úÆ÷ÈË»áÈ¡´úËûÃǽøÐÐÖظ´ÐÔ¹¤×÷£¬ËûÃÇÒ²²»ÔÙ¿¿¹¤×÷ÖÐʵÏÖ¸öÈËÀíÏ룬¶øתÏòÈçÖ¾Ô¸ÕߵȷÇÓ¯ÀûÀ´Ñ°ÕÒ×ÔÎÒ¼ÛÖµÓ¢ºº2 | 40·Ö£¬As a young adult I read a lot of Virginia Woolf\'s diaries and again thought that I really should keep a diary. I knew enough about myself by then to know that the retelling of personal feelings in a diary was completely intolerable to me, I was too self-conscious, and too lazy for the daily workload. So I tried to copy the form and style of Woolf\'s single-volume Writer\'s Diary and make entries only on days when something literary had happened to me, either something I wrote or something I read, or encounters with other writers. That diary lasted exactly one day. It covered an afternoon spent with Jeff Eugenides and took up twelve pages and half the night. Forget it! At that rate the writing of the life will take longer than the living of it. I think part of the problem was the necessity to write in the first person, a form I have, until recently, found laborious and stressful. I was not able to use it with any confidence except in short, essayistic bursts. When I was younger even the appearance of ‘I’ on the page made me feel a bit ill – that self-consciousness again – and I would always try to obscure it with ‘we ’. I notice that once I got to America this began to change, and then snowball; looking up the page right now I see more cases of ‘I’ than a stretch of Walt Whitman. But still I have some mental block when it comes to diaries and journals. The same childish questions get to me. Who is it for? What is this voice? Who am I trying to kid – myself?ººÓ¢1 | 35·Ö£¬´óÒâÊÇÓ¦ÓÿÆѧÊǸù¾ÝÈËÃÇÐèÇó½øÐÐÑо¿µÄ¿Æѧ¡£¼ÒÍ¥Ö÷¸¾ÃǵÄÐèÒª»úÆ÷ÈË´úÌæËûÃÇ×ö¼ÒÎñ¡£Î¨Ò»µÄÎÊÌâÊÇÓ¦ÓÿÆѧ¿Æѧ¼ÒÃÇÊÇ·ñÈÏʶµ½ÁËÕâÑùµÄÐèÇ󣬲¢ÓÐ×ã¹»µÄ¾­·ÑÀ´Ñо¿¡£ÏÖÔÚÐèÒªÑо¿³öÒ»ÖÖ»úÆ÷ÈË¿ÉÒÔ´Ó»ð³¡ÖоÈÈË...ººÓ¢2 | 40·Ö£¬Joseph Nye¶ÔÈíʵÁ¦Ï¹ý...¶¨Ò壬µ«ÊÇÖйúÓв»Ò»ÑùµÄ½â¶Á£¬ÖйúáÈÆðblah blah...£¬Ö»ÒªÖйúµÄ¼ÓÈë²»±»¿´×öÊÇÁãºÍ²©ÞÄ£¬¾Í¿ÉÒÔÈÚÈëÉÔ΢À©ÕŵľÖÊÆÖС£
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