青铜之礼 在线下载 pdf mobi 2025 epub 电子版

一件青铜器，就是一座文学艺术的博物馆，还可能是一座历史文化的图书馆。青铜礼器的体制是青铜文化的核心内涵。礼乐从青铜器发源，通过制度的形式，推行到各个不同等级的统治阶级中去，其意义不仅扩大了礼乐文化的影响，加强了民族的血亲联系，以及维护了宗法等级秩序的发展，本质上起到了“经国家，定社稷，序民人，利后嗣”的作用。本书重点通过散文体裁，讲述何尊、利簋、铜车马等青铜文物背后的故事，体现礼乐文明对今天我们社会生产生活的重要精神指引作用，让文物活起来，让历史不再遥远。

（有2022年6月2印本）

阳燧：点燃中华文明的火光

利簋：文明战胜暴虐的见证

班簋：隐身在杂铜里的宝贝

小臣赊犀尊：一件铜雕艺术的绝品

蚕桑纹尊：小虫兒乖乖惠斯民

四羊方尊：吉祥如意达永年

貘尊：往事不堪回首中

夔纹铜禁：血雨腥风鬥鸡台

咸阳宫鼎：笑颜融化无尽的心酸

后母戊鼎：翘世独立的殷商重宝

毛公鼎：典誥篆籀绝世稀

宴乐渔猎攻战纹图壶：先民生活的风俗图

莲鹤方壶：风吹雨打华彩在

杜虎符：追忆曾经的烽火狼烟

鎏金铜卧牛：尘封不住的强健与凄凉

青铜鸟：蹈雲浴火唱大风

虢季子白盘：扑朔迷离身后事

吴越剑：天光侠气惊世殊

青铜编钟：耀古烁今的天籁神器

青铜之礼 代跋

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书籍介绍

一件青铜器，就是一座文学艺术的博物馆，还可能是一座历史文化的图书馆。青铜礼器的体制是青铜文化的核心内涵。礼乐从青铜器发源，通过制度的形式，推行到各个不同等级的统治阶级中去，其意义不仅扩大了礼乐文化的影响，加强了民族的血亲联系，以及维护了宗法等级秩序的发展，本质上起到了“经国家，定社稷，序民人，利后嗣”的作用。本书重点通过散文体裁，讲述何尊、利簋、铜车马等青铜文物背后的故事，体现礼乐文明对今天我们社会生产生活的重要精神指引作用，让文物活起来，让历史不再遥远。

• 作者：penkind 发布时间：2012-11-17 10:59:28

  惊险和难度背后是科学、系统的训练。

• 作者：代号273 发布时间：2016-10-29 17:39:11

  非常棒！比《第一年》棒了很多。（在读：诶？终于不是布鲁斯死全家开头了。感觉不错。

• 作者：板蓝根 发布时间：2023-08-19 18:12:56

  不能对通过高校专业书籍培养兴趣抱有期待 临床不配图密密麻麻全是描述就很抽象和枯燥（全书唯一彩页是编者介绍唯一配图是编者照片就很离谱

• 作者：junepig 发布时间：2015-11-24 22:23:43

  在三影堂书店发现后就斥巨资买了一本，尽管印刷精美了很多，也增加了不少有趣的内容，但我还是更喜欢96年的那一册食指肖像照负片做封面的《我们这一代》，朴素直接又有力量。看豆瓣的记录，读完那一版的感受，是热切地向往肖全“这一代”的时代。现在，多了一些怅惘。

• 作者：Marlais 发布时间：2015-10-28 11:55:32

  89年对金观涛夫妇的影响应该是很大的，字里行间能感受到作者走向文化批判反思传统的倾向，作者作为河殇的编导也在片中表现出了强烈的传统文化批判。这本书作为《兴盛与危机》的续篇不如前作，读到后面就有生搬硬套之感了，文化决定论对于今天的中国有何解释力呢？

• 作者：Niqa 发布时间：2020-09-21 22:08:39

  这不就是“神奇海螺”吗…

• 一个行头考究的爱情故事

  作者：31833 发布时间：2019-02-13 05:09:31

• But Now, I Know That Our Time On Earth Is Finite

  作者：Welfare 发布时间：2017-05-17 18:14:20

  This is a deep, touching cartoon memoir! The author went long history of her family and their survival during WWII and the VietNam War. The French fought with the Japanese for the VietName colony in the 1930's. Then after Japan surrendered, a new regime (Ho Chi Minh) that was both Nationalist and Communist declared the independence of the country. But the French didn't want to give it up; they came back to re-colonize it at least the South VietNam, hence had to fight aginst the communists from the North in the 1960's. The French weren't capable of doing this and here came the Americans to deter the Vietnamese communists in the 1970's.

  

  The author's grandfather is a son of a landowner who rebelled his class and became a high official in the North communist area. But his son, the author's father, rebelled too and rushed to the South capitalist city Saigon. The author's parents were public school teachers trained by French schools in the old time. Once after the South VietName government surrendered, their actions were monitored and their safety threatened by the new communist government due to the class of their original families. They had to escape via the sea to Malaysia. There, they lived in refugee camps and finally flew to the USA under the aids of Red Cross, human rights organizations, and their relatives settled in the USA earlier.

  

  Many years later, when the author gave birth to her son, it leads her to reflect, understand, and empathize with her father and mother --- because of her, her mother had the responsibility to fulfill hence never had the chance to become the person she dreamed to be when young. The time she could be with her mother is finite on this earth. Through all those wars and refugee camps, their later generations can enjoy a safe, free life. That is the best they could do.

  

  

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  Cite:

  pp23 Somehow large responsibilities such as having a child lead to more responsibilities like a steady job and mortgage.

  pp31 Proximity and closeness are not the same.

  pp33 In VietName, my parents, would be considered very old in their seventies. In America, where people their age run marathons or at least live independently, my parents are stuck in limbo between two sets of expectations...and I feel guilty.

  pp38 I suppose for my mother, "I love you" sticks in the throat.

  pp39 How di we get to such a lonely place? We live so close to each other and yet feel so far apart. I keep looking toward the past tracing our journey in reverse over the ocean through the war, seeking an origin story that will set everything right.

  pp 185 Revisiting this game of war and strategy, I think about how none of the VietNamese people have a name or a voice. My grandparents, my parents, my sisters, and me --- We weren't any of the pieces on the chessboard. We were more like ants, scrambling out of the way of giants, getting just far enough from danger to survive.

  pp211 There is no single story of that day, April 30, 1975. In VietNam today, among the victors, it is called Liberation Day. Overseas, among expats like my parents, it is remembered as the day we lost our country.

  pp 221 Life in South Saigon occupied by the North communists: It meant constant monitoring, distrust, and the ever-present feeling that our family could, at any moment, be separated, our safety jeopardized.

  pp 224 The daily fight to survive wore her down.

  

  pp296 I am always amazed at the amount of stuff some people collect in their lives. My family kept sparse records of our existence.

  pp 312---329:

  "That first week of parenting my son was the hardest week of my life, and the only time I ever felt called upon to be HEROIC. However much my body wanted to rest, a force pulled me onto my feet with the clear and simple directive --- KEEP HIM ALIVE!

  

  When the hospital finally released our son it still took both of me and my husband holding him down to get him to nurse. In the last moments at the hospital, as I waited for my husband to get the car, alone with my son and feeling COMPETENT, I relaxed and started to speak to him: "Child, it's mother," in Vietnamese. I could hear echoes of my mother's voice speaking to me in my own childhood...but I could feel the voice coming from my own throat.

  As a child, I thought my mother's voice was beautiful. She hated it, but I loved its raspiness. "We are about to go home. We ARE going home." When my mother spoke to me, she spoke softly, the tone of Vietnamese giving it music --- not high and reedy, but scratchy and bluesy. I always wished I had her voice.

  I'm no longer a kid...am I? Having a child taught me, certainly, that I am not the center of the universe. But being a child, even a grown-up one, seems to me to be a lifetime pass for selfishness. We hang resentment onto the things our parents did to us, or the things they DIDN'T do for us ...

  To accidentally call myself Me was to slip myself into her shoes, just for a moment. To let her be not what I ant her to be, but someone independent, self-determining, and free, means letting go of that picture of her in my head. You can't always get what you want. When I was a child to have spending money. There was one year I saved up so many coins that, with my new-year money, I had one hundred dollars --- which I was going to proudly present to my mother for Mother's Day. To help her out. It was going to be amazing. But when Ii counted the coins, I found that my match had been all wrong and that I was quite a bit short. Instead of a triumphant gift, Mama got a wet shoulder from my tears; she said "It's okay. You keep it. It's enough that you thought of me." What if all my mother remembered was that I came up short? How do I let go of all the anger I have put away?

  

  I wasn't ready to lose my mother when I was thirteen. But now, at forty (and she's in her seventies), I know that our time on earth is finite. What becomes of us after we die? Do we live on in what we leave to our children? How much of ME is my own, and how much is stamped into my blood and bone, predestined?

  

  I used to imagine that history had infused my parent's lives with the dust of a cataclysmic explosion. That it had seeped through their skin and become part of their blood.

  

  That being father's child, I, too, was a product of war... and being my mother's child, could never measure up to her. But maybe being their child simply means that I will always feel that weight of their past. Nothing that happened makes me special. But my life is a gift that is too great --- a debt I can never repay.

  

  At least I no longer feel the need to reclaim a HOMELAND. I understand enough of VietNam's history now to know that the ground beneath my parents' feet had always been shifting...so that by the time I was born, VietNnam was not my country at all. I was only a small part of it.

  What has worried me since having my own child was whether I would pass along some gene for sorrow or unintentionally inflict damage I could never undo. But when I look at my son, now ten years old, I don't see war and loss or even my husband and me.

  I see a new life, bound with mine quite by coincidence, and I think maybe he can be free."