颛顼日历表（精） 在线下载 pdf mobi 2025 epub 电子版

　　从秦献公十九年到汉武帝元封七年采用的是《颛顼历》，后人一直试图复原这一历法的原貌，但均未获成功。作者经过多年研究，深入发掘古籍资料，并结合*出土的秦汉简牍，制定出全新的《颛顼历日历表》。这一新表与现存文献及迄今发现的考古资料完全吻合，具有很高的学术价值和实用性。

凡例

颛顼日历表

节气时点查对表

历表验证实例

误差资料辨析

古四分历解说——晚秦汉初历法探原

颛顼历表新编

　　朱桂昌，1934年生，河北省抚宁县人，1958年毕业于北京大学历史系，毕业后在北大历史系从事教学工作7年，1965年调云南，先后在云南省历史研究所、云南民族学院、云南师范大学从事教学和科研工作现为云南师范大学历史系教授，已退休。主要研究方向为中国古代史、云南文化史。发表论文、著作、译著百余种代表作品有《秦汉史考订文集》（云南文学出版社出版）、《颛顼日历表》、《钱南园传》（云南人民出版社出版）、《钱南园研究论级》（云南人民出版社出版）。

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书籍介绍

从秦献公十九年到汉武帝元封七年采用的是《颛顼历》，后人一直试图复原这一历法的原貌，但均未获成功。作者经过多年研究，深入发掘古籍资料，并结合最新出土的秦汉简牍，制定出全新的《颛顼历日历表》。这一新表与现存文献及迄今发现的考古资料完全吻合，具有很高的学术价值和实用性。

• 作者：风 发布时间：2022-05-03 11:23:21

  作为作家传记，是非常贴合作家生平发展轨迹和心路历程的，文中半为作品解剖半为作家解密的分析倒也清晰。算是走进作家的入门级读物，但读者要想更近一步了解品特，还需要翻阅专业的解读视角、研读作家的作品、相关的主题性阅读和影响作家的来源性阅读，这些最终大致会汇成几个关键词，诸如时间、记忆、恐怖和战争。关于真理的语言性讨论自古已有，但值得我们注意的是，不同的经验个体，是如何发声和表达的？

• 作者：Madlife 发布时间：2022-02-05 18:17:00

  不得不打个分，实在写得糟糕。。。废话多凑字数，还有很多莫名其妙的章节，太烂了

• 作者：小朙 发布时间：2012-09-11 19:27:11

  工具书

• 作者：Edda 发布时间：2019-09-27 16:47:03

  前人栽树，后人乘凉

• 作者：广告位招租 发布时间：2018-01-08 10:00:25

  查起来特别方便

• 作者：苟日新 发布时间：2016-05-19 22:19:29

  还是很全面的介绍了各个环节，作品也很有操作性，就是裸露的扭扭棒好丑，不能用羊毛遮起来吗

• 关于译本

  作者：伯恕 发布时间：2020-03-17 11:26:28

  杜威的How we think英文版有两个版本，1910年的是第一版，1933年的是修订版，杜威对第一版做了修订和改写，增加了将近四分之一的内容，并加了副标题：重述反思性思维与教育过程的关系。

  国内的译本中，两个版本都有翻译。有伍中友译本《我们如何思维》、姜文闵译本《我们怎样思维》和孟宪承译本《思维与教学》。姜译本和孟译本都是根据1933年的修订版翻译的。孟把书名直接改为了《思维与教学》，想必是想突出1933年版副标题的含义。

  近年来，这本书又有几个译本。万千教育的双语版译本《我们如何思维》，译者是心理学家杨韶刚和其弟子刘建金，翻译的是1910年的版本。天地出版社王文印的译本《我们如何思维》，翻译的也是1910年的版本。现代出版社出版，常春藤国际教育联盟译的《我们如何正确思维》，翻译的也是1910年的版本。华东师范大学出版社出版，中山大学哲学系马明辉的译本《我们如何思维》，翻译的是1933年的版本。华东师范大学出版社组织人翻译了《杜威全集》，这本书是其中一本，参加校订的是江怡和王路。外语教学与研究出版社的《我们怎样思维》，也是译的1910年版本。

  此外，这本书的译名还有《天才儿童的思维训练》、《我们如何思考》、《思维的本质》（孟宪承、俞庆棠）等。

  这本书的很多译本都被读者吐槽。但实际上，这也与作者杜威的表达有关，如果适应了杜威的文风，其实也不难读。我读过姜文闵版的，感觉还好。微信读书中有这本书，对比了一下，华东师范大学出版社的译本不错，毕竟译者是做逻辑研究的。

• 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.