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• 作者：totoro forever 发布时间：2023-12-24 23:23:00

  对不同的公司进行尽职调查所需要的深入程度和研究内容也有所差异。对矿业公司，他会看矿石贫化率；对石油和天然气公司，他会看现金流；而对零售行业的公司，他会看人口分布状况。

• 作者：羊啦羊啦羊啦啦 发布时间：2023-10-14 14:10:38

  读了半本，真的读的太累了…

• 作者：青衣快刀 发布时间：2020-07-11 18:04:03

  没什么用。

• 作者：不知 发布时间：2017-05-08 11:09:24

  一般。就是一些漫谈编在一起，没有太大启发，还是该去读一点理论研究。儿童教育还尚可一读吧。

• 作者：莫里安 发布时间：2023-05-03 15:59:21

  对我来说感觉没啥新东西，或者没看到我想看的

• 作者：果然 发布时间：2010-09-27 16:57:17

  书不错，纸张、版式、印刷都好，就是简单了点，像一本普及级别的读物。刚刚还发现了一点编辑错误，莫奈的夫人怎么可能在1991年去世？

  另：睡莲，被译成“水百合”，真是典型的意译啊，看着很别扭！

• 在生活化的场景中，自然而然输出知识

  作者：单衫杏子红 发布时间：2023-11-28 09:08:42

  　　《洛克数学启蒙》是一套非常棒的数学启蒙书。

  

  　　启的意思是开启门户。

  　　蒙的意思是被遮盖。

  　　启蒙的意思就是把被遮盖住的东西展现出来。

  

  　　洛克数学就是这样先进的一种观念。不是把知识硬塞给学生，而是把党在知识和学生之间的一层布拉开，让学生能够看到知识的本来面目。

  　　为了达到这个目标，洛克数学会把知识放入到孩子们熟悉的日常生活中，在游戏般的轻松氛围中，笑着乐着玩儿着，就把知识学到手里了。

  

  　　我们以洛克数学启蒙的第yi辑为例，这一集共分10本，分别讲了比较长短大小、比较轻重、配对、认识形状、方位的了解、立体图形的掌握、奇数和偶数的认知、按群来计数、简单的加法和减法，内容不可谓不丰富，如果放到传统的数学教学中，这个可是好几个年级的内容，但是在巧妙的故事设计里，这些知识出现得顺理成章。

  

  　　比如输出长短的概念时，作者用来比较的，不仅有长短差异比较大的瓢虫和毛毛虫两种不同个体之间的比较，作者还让两条毛毛虫之间比较，即使是同为毛毛虫，也有长短的差异。

  　　这样长短的概念不仅明了而且系统。

  

  　　再比如在输出配对的概念时，用一只袜子去寻找另外一只袜子，在这个寻找的路途中，让我们看到了配对的要素：颜色、配色、质地、图案……要完全相符才可以。

  　　这就让孩子们以后在面对着这个概念的时候，可以从不同的角度去观察，去认定。

  

  　　整套绘本数理清晰，造型可爱，颜色鲜亮。

  　　可以考虑继续入手。这可是一个系列哦。

• 中译本删掉了第二篇小说《小汽车》第五节

  作者：阿布 发布时间：2021-05-30 23:34:47

  该节英译本如下：

  The black-and-gray tabby, Renda, went missing. I patrolled the tree-lined roads, walked beside the brook and along the highway, searched the ditches, but I never found him. I fervently hoped the hunters had got him, or that he’d ended up under the tires of a car. But Renda had left, like his mother, Máca, the tabby who had whelped Renda and the others in my bed, and who loved me so much that when her kittens had grown up, she would come to check on me, to see if I were finally alone in the cottage. When her kittens appeared, with Renda leading the pack, she’d hiss at them and then give me a look of such hatred it kept me awake nights. Then she’d disappear, only to show up, twice more and then never again. She’d hiss at me, then run off, leaving me crushed, with a guilty conscience that would not go away, whether I was in the woods or in Prague. No matter where I slept, I’d wake up toward morning and a cloud would appear, a form of misty remorse that would gradually resolve itself into the shape of that cat, Máca, whose offspring I had treated in such bad faith that she couldn’t bear it and perished somewhere in the woods, over by the Míčeks’ place.

  Her son Renda, the charmer, made my life even more of a misery. It’s true I’d given him to a family whose black-and-gray tabby had just died, but they’d promised to bring him out to their cottage and that he’d be better off than ever before. Then they brought Renda back three months later and handed him over. The woman didn’t bother coming this time, just her son. But the moment I took Renda in my arms I knew he would become part of my destiny. He didn’t snuggle up to me as he used to, he wouldn’t let me cradle him or flip him over on his back, and he didn’t go limp with delight when I blew into the fur under his chin. When I finally set him down in the kitchen, his siblings greeted him like a complete stranger, as though he hadn’t been born here, as though he had never been the smartest and the handsomest tomcat in the house, Tomcat Renda, who would lick all his brothers and sisters clean, who refereed the meshugge Stunde, the crazy hour, who would lead his blood brothers and sisters across the bridge spanning the brook into the meadow, and who, when their spats and shenanigans got out of hand, would intervene and punish the guilty party who would then meekly submit because Renda was bigger than the others by a head.

  When they brought him back after three months, they told me he had howled for a whole month, and in the final week, he’d fallen silent and, as the young man who brought him back told me, he seemed determined to starve himself to death. Now that he’d been returned, he did eat, but he’d wait until the other cats had finished, and only then would he eat his food, and I watched to see if he would, as before, drink his milk in stages, pausing now and then to raise his head and look at me as if to thank me. But Renda knew I was watching him, he knew that he used to look at me and thank me every so often as he ate, but now he never once raised his head, and when he’d finished eating, he’d go outside for a while and then sit on the pump and gaze up at our window.

  Ever since they’d brought him back to us, listless and bedraggled, the other cats would sigh sweetly on the couch and the chairs while Renda, alone among them, would sit in the corner like an orphaned child and stare at me blankly. Sometimes he seemed to be trying to say something or to smile the way he used to, but the smile froze on his face and he’d sit there the whole evening, just staring at me. Whenever I’d try to pet him he’d close his eyes and recoil. It was unpleasant for him, as it had been for his mother when she’d come in to see if I were alone in the house, without those little terrors of hers.

  For the rest of the month Renda would sit in the corner every day and just look at me, and I could neither write anything nor do anything and all that time I would try to catch Renda looking at me the way he used to, back when each time our eyes would meet, he’d almost swoon, and even begin to drool, so moved was he when I noticed him, looked at him, talked to him, stroked him.

  But for a whole month after they returned him, limp as a bathroom towel, as a dishrag, I was unable to rekindle our affection. He could not forgive me, perhaps because in his eyes what I had done was too awful to forgive. As the days wore on my feeling of guilt intensified. I would pick Renda up and put him in bed with me, but not even that helped, because he’d just get up again, jump off the bed, and go back to sitting where he’d been and continue to stare at me accusingly, torturing me for condemning him to those three months in a Prague apartment.

  One day, when I arrived in Kersko, Renda didn’t show up with the other cats, and for several days, I felt an illusory sense of relief that his accusing eyes weren’t glaring at me from the corner of the kitchen. But I was still not sure Renda was no longer with us, so I went round the meadows and woodlots and walked along the main road, looking for his body. But as far as I could tell, he hadn’t been shot by hunters or run over by a car. I asked the neighbors, even those who lived some distance from me, whether they’d found a dead tabby cat. I went to the nearby villages, because hunters like to go there during the deer hunting season and I’d ask whether anyone had shot a tabby somewhere in Loskoty, by the stream in Olšiny, on the Deacon’s Road, or in Cihelná. I questioned the hunters about it in the pub as if I were interrogating crown witnesses, and watched them closely as they responded, but I was convinced they were telling the truth when they said they hadn’t shot a tomcat and that if they had, they’d have told me.

  So Renda vanished and I was relieved. But in a week, that cat began to haunt me, as his mother had, in the early morning hours. I’m not a sound sleeper, I get tangled up in the sheets and daybreak can’t come soon enough. I can hardly wait until five o’clock and it’s light enough for me to drive.

  That’s when Renda would appear to me, not as a puff of cloud or a thunderhead from which a cat’s head would emerge. Renda would appear toward morning like a bolt of lightning. Suddenly he’d be inside my head, and my head would swell to the size of the kitchen, then encompass my entire plot of land with the pines and the birch trees and the river. And there sat the tomcat, Renda, looking at me, just looking at me, and I would arraign myself, indict myself, and plead guilty to charges from which Renda had not absolved me and, as I finally realized, charges from which I could not absolve myself either.

  “Mr. Hrabal, three months –– an eternity –– I sat there behind the curtain in that apartment in Prague and I swear I never touched a piece of liver or a morsel of spleen or boiled beef, not even that saltwater fish I loved to eat at your house. I sat behind the curtain and I could not believe you could have given me away to those people. Why, Mr. Hrabal, did you not give them my sister, the little one. She would probably have been happy there behind the curtain, but I was thinking only of you because you know I was fond of you, I loved you, and you were fond of me too, you loved me, and I’d have happily cooperated if you’d put me in that mail sack and killed me, as you killed that cat during those bitter winter days. I’d have crawled into the sack on my own, and you’d have beaten me to death as you beat those newborn kittens to death, and I’d have accepted that from you, Mr. Hrabal, because I loved you. You could have beaten me to death against the trunk of the birch tree I used to sharpen my claws on. I know that’s what that sack was for, the mail sack that’s still lying in the woodshed, folded and caked with blood, waiting in the shed for you to use, to kill more kittens and cats, whose numbers are overwhelming your household.

  But then why did you turn me out into the world when I was your favorite, when, of all the cats, you loved me as deeply as I loved you? Mr. Hrabal, hand on your heart, you could have afforded to keep one extra cat. I didn’t want something for nothing, after all that food and milk you gave me. You know very well I put every mouse I caught, every single mouse, on your windowsill so you’d know I wasn’t freeloading, and I even brought you every bird, even grouse and baby pheasants, and once I brought you a wild rabbit that was still alive, and in the end, I dragged in a large rabbit I had wrestled into submission only to show that you were not supporting me for nothing, because I was born in your bed, and I’ve slept there with you and when you went for a walk, I walked with you in the night, when the snow fell I walked through the deep drifts with you, all the way to the pub in the woods, and I waited till you were ready to go home again, I jumped up to join you and we returned home to the warm stove so that I could lie down beside you, and I was the only one who slept with you, and you, Mr. Hrabal, preferred me –– though I see now I was mistaken –– to all the others, and I took pride in that, just as I took pride in your birch trees and pine trees, and your brook, and I even knew when you’d return to the woods in your car, and sometimes you’d be away from home for a long time, but I’d sit on the balcony with my ears pricked up and I knew when it was your car that was approaching, and I ran down the stairs and came out to meet you and when you stopped the car, I was already waiting there, beaming, because you were here. I know that when you drove too fast, you knew I’d send you a message through the air ordering you to slow down, so you wouldn’t kill yourself, so you wouldn’t badly injure yourself, Mr. Hrabal, because what would I be without you, if you were lying in the hospital or in your coffin? That, Mr. Hrabal, is how much I loved you, and how much I loved all of your trees and the grass and all those little pathways you walked along to get to the brook. When you were away I walked the paths you walked on, the paths I’d walked with you, and when you’d stop and lean down I’d jump up and you’d take me in your arms and hold me under your chin and close your eyes, and I’d close my eyes too, and so, Mr. Hrabal, we were happy, and that was everything to me, not when you gave me milk and saltwater fish, but when you picked me up and nuzzled your face into the fur under my chin and I was yours and you were mine.

  “Why, Mr. Hrabal, did you not open that mail bag and why, if you didn’t want me, did you not let me crawl into it and why did you not beat me to death against the birch tree and why did you not take the axe and crush my skull to make sure I was dead? Why, for the love of God, did you consign me instead to a fate so awful that I sat behind the curtains in that apartment for three months, pining for you and you alone? And in the end, when I could no longer hope or believe, when I was already a wreck, why did you take me back, a body without a soul, without love, because, Mr. Hrabal, after all of that I was no longer able to like you, I could no longer love you, because all that was left of me was reproach, nothing but accusations, homesickness, because you gave me away and I went willingly because I didn’t think that you’d give me away to strangers, I didn’t expect that of you. How was I to know that you, Mr. Hrabal, could live without me?”

  That was how Renda, the tomcat, reproached me in the early morning hours when I lay twisted in my sheets, unable to sleep, the ideal time to entertain reproaches and accusations from Renda, a crown witness. Back then, and for almost a year after that, I would stagger out of bed before daybreak drenched in sweat, quickly pull on the most basic items of clothing and go out for an early morning walk. I was so close to fulfilling what the fortune-teller Mařenka, who left me that handbag with two big green handles before she died, had predicted: that I would hang myself on the willow tree by the brook.

  But I didn’t want to hang myself. I wanted to be in the world. There were still things I wanted to write, even if it were only this indictment about how I betrayed my tomcat, Renda, just as I had his mother, and how I was now suffering terrible pangs of guilt for what I had done to those cats. On such mornings, when I was racked with self-loathing, I imagined that all those who had taken part in wars and had killed millions of innocent people must have suffered from just such self-loathing, and a similar sense of reproach must have plagued all those who had expelled millions of people from their homes and their lands, and I wondered: if I was having a breakdown because I’d killed those cats, or because my cats had run away from me, what kind of breakdown might I have suffered had I killed a human being?

  These questions and images came to my mind during those sweat-soaked mornings, and even before the sun came up and the sky grew clear, my feelings of guilt were intensified when I wondered at my audacity in comparing the life and death of cats to the life and death of people. Where had that come from? Yet having realized that, my feelings of guilt for the death of those kittens and cats did not go away, because in the end I came to the conclusion that one cannot even kill a cat, let alone a person, with impunity, nor can one with impunity expel a person, let alone drive away a cat, without consequences.

  摘录来自2019年New Directions出版社英译本《All My Cats》，译者paul wilson