医护英语 在线下载 pdf mobi 2025 epub 电子版

《医护英语》是为初涉医护专业的中职学生提供的一本学习职场英语的初级教材，是为科学、合理平衡英语和医护专业的教学，满足教师课堂教学而设计的。本教材依托护理基本岗位和职责，以简单的职场英语话题为主线，以任务为导向，辅以功能和结构项目，按照“任务—话题—功能—结构—任务”的格式编排，力求通过反复训练，强化功能表达。同时，学生可学习简单的医护应用文，掌握实用英语写作技巧。本教材旨在对医护专业学生进行听、说、读、写的基础训练，提高医护生对职场英语的运用和理解能力。本教材英语单词约1900个，专业词汇约200个；共计10个教学单元，每个单元由SectionA，SectionB，SectionC三个主要部分构成。总学时为72，每个单元5～7学时。

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• 作者：了凡 发布时间：2023-04-11 11:22:30

  结合大量案例分析，一本不错的入门级财务报表的书。

• 作者：YWF 发布时间：2021-09-30 16:49:44

  基于对传统中国和西方社会性质的差异判断：大共同体本位和小共同体本位社会，秦晖谈论第三部门在中西社会的现代化进程中各自的演变历史和责任使命。西方的第三部门在已成现实的公民社会（市场经济+民主政治）内部发展起来，是理想主义的实验者，而中国的第三部门与政府和市场同命运，承担着建立公民社会的历史责任，前途不定。90年代的判断：目前具有公民意识的组织（不一定非官方）和未必有公民意识的非政府组织并存，体制约束或者文化缺陷。如今：亲市场和附庸政府的发展趋势并存。

• 作者：LosVascos☂️ 发布时间：2019-10-04 00:14:09

  胡敏你还能再傻逼点吗

• 作者：幸运币 发布时间：2023-02-26 22:01:42

  出发救援！

• 作者：读书的历程 发布时间：2024-01-31 21:07:17

  和《企业家爸爸给儿子的30封信》内容一样，作者不一样，是谁抄了谁？

• 作者：not狐 发布时间：2016-05-07 00:21:54

  原书出版于1995年。原作的题目直译为“天堂的炼金术：在银河中探寻意义”

  很不错的关于星系以及恒星探索史的读物，间或夹杂一些八卦，语言简洁生动，脉络清晰，含有不少干货，翻译也不错。

  有一定的天文学基础读来更有所触动，能感受到，人类在宇宙的认识之路上，不过是令上帝发笑的蝼蚁。同时，前期的天文学家更像博物学家，而后期的，更像经过训练的科幻作家。

• 有违历史的浪漫主义作品

  作者：黄振宇 发布时间：2022-10-28 00:53:30

  历史向儿童文学里的作者向来有很大的自主发挥空间，尤其是作品还加上玛丽女王自撰的前提，在保证基本情节和结局不变的情况下，里面的人物关系可谓是纯纯乱编。

  玛丽女王眼中的自己：纯情女主，出身高贵，身世可怜，可爱善良，人见人喜，爱国爱民，信仰忠贞。历史上的玛丽女王：除了第一任丈夫可能是真爱外，法王死后完全是黑化状态，权力欲极度膨胀，为了夺取英国王位，可谓不择手段到疯狂的地步，即使被伊丽莎白软禁扔暗中策划了多次暗杀计划，对自己的情况是完全不管不顾了。

  但客观来看，玛丽女王几乎在出生起就掌握了最高权柄，从未有一天不身陷政治斗争的旋涡，这也导致了她的内心极度不安全感。除了对于第一任丈夫法王是出自少女青春期发自内心的喜欢外，丈夫年少去世后婆婆的冷酷无情无疑是给玛丽的女王的黑化给了重重一记推手。可以发现，重新回到苏格兰的玛丽女王已经完全失去了对于感情的希望，纯粹沦为了政治动物。她的一生只余对于权力的追求以填补内心的空洞，英国内部支持天主教的贵族乐见这种局面，对于玛丽给予了很大支持，这就像黑夜里迷路者前方的灯火，麻木绝望的人只有向前，已经无法顾忌灯火前有怎样的暗渊在等待着她。

• 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