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If men were angels, no government would be necessary.
　　If angels were to govern men, neither external nor internal controls on government would be necessary.
　　
　　In framing a government which is to be administered by men over men, the great difficulty lies in this: you must first enable the government to control the governed; and in the next place obliged it to control itself.

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If men were angels, no government would be necessary.
　　If angels were to govern men, neither external nor internal controls on government would be necessary.
　　
　　In framing a government which is to be administered by men over men, the great difficulty lies in this: you must first enable the government to control the governed; and in the next place obliged it to control itself.

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I was interviewed on television recently and, in answering the questions, I found myself expressing my contempt for the various superstitious beliefs that plague humanity.
　　We live in times when overpopulation,pollution,the greenhouse effect,the thinning of the ozone layer;the deterioration of the environment,the destruction of the forests and of wildlife,and the dangers of multiplying nuclear armaments all threaten us with the destruction of civilization and the radical reduction in the very viability of Earth.If our only answer to all this is a superstitions reliance on something outside ourselves as a solution to all those problems,we are making that destruction certain.
　　Countless millions of people all nevertheless feel much better consulting fortune-tellers,palm-readers,and astrologers.
　　
　　Countless millions of people place their faith not in God but in an infinite number or shapes and forms.
　　
　　The vast majority of human beings still take solace and comfort in their various superstitions and still follow any pied piper who fills their ears with notes of nonsense while filling his or her own pockets with money.
　　
　　And we are still in the minority and still struggling to convince people that,if,indeed,there were a god ,he would in the end reject anyone who failed to make use of that one truly godlike gift.
　　 But if that is so,and if we are engaged in a never-ending fight with no victory in sight,why continue?
　　
　　Any one individual we may win for the cause may do more for humanity than a hundred thousand who hug their superstitions to their breast.

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　　Bride-to-be Heidi Withers was chided by her future mother-in-law for her "lack of grace" according to a cutting email that she shared with friends.
　　
　　The email purportedly from Carolyn Bourne warned her stepson’s fiancée about her poor etiquette.
　　
　　But after Miss Withers, a PA, forwarded the email to friends, it quickly spread and became the talk of the Internet because of its high moral tone.
　　
　　In the email, Mrs Bourne, from Dawlish, Devon, apparently tells off Miss Withers, 29, for the way she behaved when visiting the family in Devon in April.
　　
　　It describes the behaviour of Miss Withers as “staggering in its uncouthness and lack of grace.”
　　
　　Mrs Bourne, whose apparent moral attitude is reminiscent of the Countess of Grantham’s in ITV’s Downton Abbey, reportedly warns her prospective daughter-in-law: “If you want to be accepted by the wider Bourne family, I suggest you take some guidance from experts with utmost haste.”
　　
　　The email goes on: “Here are a few examples of your lack of manners: When you are a guest in another’s house, you do not declare what you will and will not eat – unless you are positively allergic to something.
　　
　　“You do not remark that you do not have enough food. You do not start before everyone else.
　　
　　“You do not take additional helpings without being invited to by your host.
　　
　　“When a guest in another’s house, you do not lie in bed until late morning in households that rise early. You fall in line with house norms.
　　
　　“You should never ever insult the family you are about to join at any time and most definitely not in public.
　　
　　“You regularly draw attention to yourself. Perhaps you should ask yourself why. No one gets married in a castle unless they own it. It is brash, celebrity style behaviour.
　　
　　“If your parents are unable to contribute very much towards the cost of your wedding, it would be most ladylike and gracious to lower your sights and have a modest wedding as befits both your incomes.
　　
　　“One could be accused of thinking that Heidi Withers must be patting herself on the back for having caught a most eligible young man. I pity Freddie.”
　　
　　The man in the middle – prospective bridegroom and businessman Freddie Bourne, 29, from Putney – was trying hard not to inflame the situation.
　　
　　“I’m not commenting on the matter,” he said.

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There are many famous lakes in China,such as Qinghai Lake,Poyang Lake and West Lake.West Lake which lies in Hangzhou is one of the most famous lakes in China.It attracts lots of tourists from China and abroad every year.
　　West lake is surrounded on three sides by mountains.Many tourist attractions there,such as Sudi Causeway,Broken Bridge and Leifeng Pagoda,are well worth visiting.
　　West Lake has become famous not only because of its beautiful scenery but also because of some special poems.The poems were mainly written by Bai Juyi and Su Dongpo.What’s more,the surroundingarea of West Lake is the home of the famous Dragon Well Tea.

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1)European education,as mentioned previously,is overly qualitative,;American is liberally quantitative.
　　2)Certainly not in this century if the following authoritative sources are to be believed.

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http://www.nytimes.com/2011/05/11/world/asia/11binladen.html?_r=1&ref=asia
　　
　　WASHINGTON — The adult sons of Osama bin Laden have lashed out at President Obama in their first public reaction to their father’s death, accusing the United States of violating its basic legal principles by killing an unarmed man, shooting his family members and disposing of his body in the sea.
　　
　　Omar bin Laden, a son of Osama bin Laden, and his wife, Zaina Alsabah, in 2008. He has denounced his father’s terrorism.
　　
　　The statement, provided to The New York Times on Tuesday, said the family was asking why Bin Laden, the leader of Al Qaeda, “was not arrested and tried in a court of law so that truth is revealed to the people of the world.”
　　
　　Citing the trials of Saddam Hussein, the former Iraqi leader, and Slobodan Milosevic, the former Serbian leader, the statement questioned “the propriety of such assassination where not only international law has been blatantly violated,” but the principles of presumption of innocence and the right to a fair trial were ignored.
　　
　　“We maintain that arbitrary killing is not a solution to political problems,” the statement said, adding that “justice must be seen to be done.”
　　
　　The statement, prepared at the direction of Omar bin Laden, who had publicly denounced his father’s terrorism, was provided to The Times by Jean Sasson, an American author who helped the younger Mr. Bin Laden write a 2009 memoir, “Growing Up bin Laden.” A shorter, slightly different statement was posted on jihadist Web sites.
　　
　　Omar bin Laden, 30, lived with his father in Afghanistan until 1999, when he left with his mother, Najwa bin Laden, who co-wrote the memoir. In the book and other public statements, the younger Mr. bin Laden had denounced violence of all kinds, a stance he repeated in the sons’ statement.
　　
　　“We want to remind the world that Omar bin Laden, the fourth-born son of our father, always disagreed with our father regarding any violence and always sent messages to our father, that he must change his ways and that no civilians should be attacked under any circumstances,” the statement said. “Despite the difficulty of publicly disagreeing with our father, he never hesitated to condemn any violent attacks made by anyone, and expressed sorrow for the victims of any and all attacks.”
　　
　　Condemning the shooting of one of the Qaeda leader’s wives during the assault on May 2 in Abbottabad, Pakistan, the statement added, “As he condemned our father, we now condemn the president of the United States for ordering the execution of unarmed men and women.”
　　
　　In explaining the killing of Bin Laden, Obama administration officials have cited the principle of national self-defense in international law, noting that Bin Laden had declared war on the United States, killed thousands of Americans and vowed to kill more.
　　
　　The sons’ statement called on the government of Pakistan to hand over to family members the three wives and a number of children now believed to be in Pakistani custody and asked for a United Nations investigation of the circumstances of their father’s death.
　　
　　None of Osama bin Laden’s sons other than Omar, who lives in Saudi Arabia and Qatar, were named in the statement; Ms. Sasson said she believed it was approved by three other adult sons who have not lived with their father for many years. Before Osama bin Laden fled Afghanistan in 2001, he had at least 11 sons, one of whom was killed in the assault last week, and nine daughters, by Ms. Sasson’s count.
　　
　　In addition to the statement, Ms. Sasson shared notes on what Omar bin Laden, who declined to be interviewed directly, had told her by telephone in recent days. The notes describe Mr. Bin Laden’s struggle, as he came of age, to understand and eventually reject his father’s embrace of religious violence.
　　
　　Mr. Bin Laden told Ms. Sasson that the death of his father “has affected this family in much the same way as many other families” that experience such a loss. But he also described a childhood of “upheavals and relocations” that, she said, “caused his mother and siblings great upset and danger.”
　　
　　Mr. Bin Laden said that by the age of 18, after Al Qaeda had plotted the bombings of two American Embassies in East Africa and two years before the Sept. 11, 2001, attacks, he had concluded “that the course of action his father was taking was not for him, irrespective of what his father’s wishes were,” Ms. Sasson said.
　　
　　Eventually he asked his father’s permission to leave Afghanistan with his mother and younger siblings. He told Ms. Sasson that he “thanks Allah that his father granted his permission for this departure, otherwise the grief the family faces could be even greater.”

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My life
　　Bill Clinton
　　PROLOGUE
　　When I was a young man just out of law school and eager to get on with my life, on a whim I briefly put aside my reading preference for fiction and history and bought one of those how-to books: How to Get Control of Your Time and Your Life, by Alan Lakein. The book’s main point was the necessity of listing short-, medium-, and long-term life goals, then categorizing them in order of their importance, with the A group being the mostimportant, the B group next, and the C the last, then listing under each goal specific activities designed to achieve them. I still have that paperback book, now almost thirty years old. And I’m sure I have that old list somewhere buried in my papers, though I can’t find it. However, I do remember the A list. I wanted to be a good man, have a good marriage and children, have good friends, make a successful political life, and write a great book.
　　Whether I’m a good man is, of course, for God to judge. I know that I am not as good as my strongest supporters believe or as I hope to become, nor as bad as my harshest critics assert. I have been graced beyond measure by my family life withHillary and Chelsea. Like all families’ lives, ours is not perfect, but it has been wonderful. Its flaws, as all the world knows, are mostly mine, and its continuing promise is grounded in their love. No person I know ever had more or better friends. Indeed, a strong case can be made that I rose to the presidency on the shoulders of my personal friends, the now legendary FOBs.My life in politics was a joy. I loved campaigns and I loved governing. I always tried to keep things moving in the right direction, to give more people a chance to live their dreams, to lift people’s spirits, and to bring them together. That’s the way I kept score.
　　As for the great book, who knows? It sure is a good story.
　　
　　ONE
　　Early on the morning of August 19, 1946, I was born under a clear sky after a violent summer storm to a widowed mother in the Julia Chester Hospital in Hope, a town of about six thousand in southwest Arkansas, thirty-three miles east of the Texas border at Texarkana. My mother named me William Jefferson Blythe III after my father, William Jefferson Blythe Jr., one of nine children of a poor farmer in Sherman, Texas, who died when myfather was seventeen. According to his sisters, my father always tried to take care of them, and he grew up to be a handsome, hardworking, fun-loving man. He met my mother at Tri-State Hospital in Shreveport, Louisiana, in 1943, when she was training to be a nurse. Many times when I was growing up, I asked Mother to tell me the story of their meeting, courting, and marriage. He brought a date with some kind of medical emergency into the ward where she was working, and they talked and flirted while the other woman was being treated. On his way out of the hospital, he touched the finger on which she was wearing her boyfriend’s ring and asked her if she was married. She stammered “no”—she was single. The next day he sent the other woman flowers and her heart sank. Then he called Mother for a date, explaining that he always sent flowers when he ended a relationship.
　　Two months later, they were married and he was off to war. He served in a motor pool in the invasion of Italy, repairing jeeps and tanks. After the war, he returned to Hope for Mother and they moved to Chicago, where he got back his old job as a salesman for the Manbee Equipment Company. They bought a little house in the suburb of Forest Park but couldn’t move in for a couple of months, and since Mother was pregnant with me, they decided she should go home to Hope until they could get into the newhouse. On May 17, 1946, after moving their furniture into their new home, my father was driving from Chicago to Hope to fetch his wife. Late at night on Highway 60 outside of Sikeston, Missouri, he lost control of his car, a 1942 Buick, when the right front tire blew out on a wet road. He was thrown clear of the car but landed in, or crawled into, a drainage ditch dug to reclaim swampland. The ditch held three feet of water. When he was found, after a two-hour search, his hand was grasping a branch above the waterline. He had tried but failed to pull himself out. He drowned, only twenty-eight years old, married two years and eight months, only seven months of which he had spent with Mother.
　　That brief sketch is about all I ever really knew about my father. All my life I have been hungry to fill in the blanks, clinging eagerly to every photo or story or scrap of paper that would tell me more of the man who gave me life.
　　 When I was about twelve, sitting on my uncle Buddy’s porch in Hope, a man walked up the steps, looked at me, and said, “You’re Bill Blythe’s son. You look just like him.” I beamed for days.
　　 In 1974, I was running for Congress. It was my first race and the local paper did a feature story on my mother. She was at her regular coffee shop early in the morning discussing the article with a lawyer friend when one of the breakfast regulars she knew only casually came up to herand said, “I was there, I was the first one at the wreck that night.” He then told Mother what he had seen, including the fact that my father had retained enough consciousness or survival instinct to try to claw himself up and out of the water before he died. Mother thanked him, went out to her car and cried, then dried her tears and went to work.
　　 In 1993, on Father’s Day, my first as President, the Washington Post ran a long investigative story on my father, which was followed over the next two months by other investigative pieces by the Associated Press and many smaller papers. The stories confirmed the things my mother and I knew. They also turned up a lot we didn’t know, including the factthat my father had probably been married three times before he met Mother, and apparently had at least two more children.
　　 My father’s other son was identified as Leon Ritzenthaler, a retired owner of a janitorial service, from northern California. In the article, he said he had written me during the ’92 campaign but had received no reply. I don’t remember hearing about his letter, and considering all the other bullets we were dodging then, it’s possible that my staff kept it from me. Or maybe the letter was just misplaced in the mountains of mail we were receiving. Anyway, when I read about Leon, I got in touch with him and later met him and his wife, Judy, during one of my stops innorthern California. We had a happy visit and since then we’ve corresponded in holiday seasons. He and I look alike, his birth certificate says his father was mine, and I wish I’d known about him a long time ago.
　　 Somewhere around this time, I also received information confirming news stories about a daughter, Sharon Pettijohn, born Sharon Lee Blythe in Kansas City in 1941, to a woman my father later divorced. She sent copies of her birth certificate, her parents’ marriage license, a photo of my father, and a letter to her mother from my father asking about “our baby” to Betsey Wright, my former chief of staff in the governor’s office. I’m sorryto say that, for whatever reason, I’ve never met her.
　　 This news breaking in 1993 came as a shock to Mother, who by then had been battling cancer for some time, but she took it all in stride. She said young people did a lot of things during the Depression and the war that people in another time might disapprove of. What mattered was that my father was the love of her life and she had no doubt of his love for her. Whatever the facts, that’s all she needed to know as her own life moved toward its end. As for me, I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it all, but given the life I’ve led, I could hardly be surprised that my father was more complicated than theidealized pictures I had lived with for nearly half a century.
　　 In 1994, as we headed for the celebration of the fiftieth anniversary of D-day, several newspapers published a story on my father’s war record, with a snapshot of him in uniform. Shortly afterward, I received a letter from Umberto Baron of Netcong, New Jersey, recounting his own experiences during the war and after. He said that he was a young boy in Italy when the Americans arrived, and that he loved to go to their camp, where one soldier in particular befriended him, giving him candy and showing him how engines worked and how to repair them. He knew him only as Bill. After the war, Baron came to the United States, and, inspired by what he had learned from the soldier who called him “Little GI Joe,” he opened his own garage and started a family. He told me he had lived the American dream, with a thriving business and three children. He said he owed so much of his success in life to that young soldier, but hadn’t had the opportunity to say good-bye then, and had often wondered what had happened to him. Then, he said, “On Memorial Day of this year, I was thumbing through a copy of the New York Daily News with my morning coffee when suddenly I felt as if I was struck by lightning. There in the lower left-hand corner of the paper was a photo of Bill. I felt chills to learn that Bill was none otherthan the father of the President of the United States.”
　　 In 1996, the children of one of my father’s sisters came for the first time to our annual family Christmas party at the White House and brought me a gift: the condolence letter my aunt had received from her congressman, the great Sam Rayburn, after my father died. It’s just a short form letter and appears to have been signed with the autopen of the day, but I hugged that letter with all the glee of a six-year-old boy getting his first train set from Santa Claus. I hung it in my private office on the second floor of the White House, and looked at it every night.
　　Shortly after I left the White House, Iwas boarding the USAir shuttle in Washington for New York when an airline employee stopped me to say that his stepfather had just told him he had served in the war with my father and had liked him very much. I asked for the old vet’s phone number and address, and the man said he didn’t have it but would get it to me. I’m still waiting, hoping there will be one more human connection to my father.
　　 At the end of my presidency, I picked a few special places to say goodbye and thanks to the American people. One of them was Chicago, where Hillary was born; where I all but clinched the Democratic nomination on St. Patrick’s Day 1992; where many of my most ardentsupporters live and many of my most important domestic initiatives in crime, welfare, and education were proved effective; and, of course, where my parents went to live after the war. I used to joke with Hillary that if my father hadn’t lost his life on that rainy Missouri highway, I would have grown up a few miles from her and we probably never would have met. My last event was in the Palmer House Hotel, scene of the only photo I have of my parents together, taken just before Mother came back to Hope in 1946. After the speech and the good-byes, I went into a small room where I met a woman, Mary Etta Rees, and her two daughters. She told me she had grown up and gone to high school with my mother, then had gone north to Indiana to work in a war industry, married, stayed, and raised her children. Then she gave me another precious gift: the letter my twenty-three-year-old mother had written on her birthday to her friend, three weeks after my father’s death, more than fifty-four years earlier. It was vintage Mother. In her beautiful hand, she wrote of her heartbreak and her determination to carry on: “It seemed almost unbelievable at the time but you see I am six months pregnant and the thought of our baby keeps me going and really gives me the whole world before me.”
　　 My mother left me the wedding ring she gave my father, a few moving stories, and the sure knowledge that she was loving me for him too.
　　My father left me with the feeling that I had to live for two people, and that if I did it well enough, somehow I could make up for the life he should have had. And his memory infused me, at a younger age than most, with a sense of my own mortality. The knowledge that I, too, could die young drove me both to try to drain the most out of every moment of life and to get on with the next big challenge. Even when I wasn’t sure where I was going, I was always in a hurry.
　　
　　TWO
　　I was born on my grandfather’s birthday, a couple of weeks early, weighing in at a respectable six pounds eight ounces, on a twenty-one-inch frame. Mother and I came home to her parents’ house on Hervey Street in Hope, where I would spend the next four years. That old house seemed massive and mysterious to me then and still holds deep memories today. The people of Hope raised the funds to restore it and fill it with old pictures, memorabilia, and period furniture. They call it the Clinton Birthplace. It certainly is the place I associate with awakening to life—to the smells of country food; to buttermilk churns, ice-cream makers, washboards, and clotheslines; to my “Dick and Jane” readers, my first toys, including a simple length of chain I prized above them all; to strange voices talking over our “party line” telephone; to my first friends, and the work my grandparents did.
　　After a year or so, my mother decided she needed to go back to New Orleans to Charity Hospital, where she had done part of her nursing training, to learn to be a nurse anesthetist. In the old days, doctors had administered their own anesthetics, so there was a demand for this relatively new work, which would bring more prestige to her and more money for us. But it must have been hard on her, leaving me. On the other hand, New Orleans was an amazing place after the war, full of young people, Dixieland music, and over-the-top haunts like the Club My-Oh-My, where men in drag danced and sang as lovely ladies. I guess it wasn’t a bad place for a beautiful young widow to move beyond her loss.
　　I got to visit Mother twice when my grandmother took me on the train to New Orleans. I was only three, but I remember two things clearly. First, we stayed just across Canal Street from the French Quarter in the Jung Hotel, on oneof the higher floors. It was the first building more than two stories high I had ever been in, in the first real city I had ever seen. I can remember the awe I felt looking out over all the city lights at night. I don’t recall what Mother and I did in New Orleans, but I’ll never forget what happened one of the times I got on the train to leave. As we pulled away from the station, Mother knelt by the side of the railroad tracks and cried as she waved good-bye. I can see her there still, crying on her knees, as if it were yesterday.
　　For more than fifty years, from that first trip, New Orleans has always had a special fascination for me. I love its music, food, people, and spirit. When I was fifteen, my family took a vacation toNew Orleans and the Gulf Coast, and I got to hear Al Hirt, the great trumpeter, in his own club. At first they wouldn’t let me in because I was underage. As Mother and I were about to walk away, the doorman told us that Hirt was sitting in his car reading just around the corner, and that only he could let me in. I found him—in his Bentley no less—tapped on the window, and made my case. He got out, took Mother and me into the club, and put us at a table near the front. He and his group played a great set—it was my first live jazz experience. Al Hirt died while I was President. I wrote his wife and told her the story, expressing my gratitude for a big man’s long-ago kindness to a boy.
　　When I was in high school, I playedthe tenor saxophone solo on a piece about New Orleans called Crescent City Suite. I always thought I did a better job on it because I played it with memories of my first sight of the city. When I was twenty-one, I won a Rhodes scholarship in New Orleans. I think I did well in the interview in part because I felt at home there. When I was a young law professor, Hillary and I had a couple of great trips to New Orleans for conventions, staying at a quaint little hotel in the French Quarter, the Cornstalk. When I was governor of Arkansas, we played in the Sugar Bowl there, losing to Alabama in one of the legendary Bear Bryant’s last great victories. At least he was born and grew up in Arkansas! When I ran for President, thepeople of New Orleans twice gave me overwhelming victory margins, assuring Louisiana’s electoral votes for our side.
　　Now I have seen most of the world’s great cities, but New Orleans will always be special—for coffee and beignets at the Morning Call on the Mississippi; for the music of Aaron and Charmaine Neville, the old guys at Preservation Hall, and the memory of Al Hirt; for jogging through the French Quarter in the early morning; for amazing meals at a host of terrific restaurants with John Breaux, Sheriff Harry Lee, and my other pals; and most of all, for those first memories of my mother. They are the magnets that keep pulling me down the Mississippi to New Orleans. While Mother was in New Orleans, I was in the care of my grandparents. They were incredibly conscientious about me. They loved me very much; sadly, much better than they were able to love each other or, in my grandmother’s case, to love my mother. Of course, I was blissfully unaware of all this at the time. I just knew that I was loved. Later, when I became interested in children growing up in hard circumstances and learned something of child development from Hillary’s work at the Yale Child Study Center, I came to realize how fortunate I had been. For all their own demons, my grandparents and my mother always made me feel I was the most important person in theworld to them. Most children will make it if they have just one person who makes them feel that way. I had three.
　　My grandmother, Edith Grisham Cassidy, stood just over five feet tall and weighed about 180 pounds. Mammaw was bright, intense, and aggressive, and had obviously been pretty once. She had a great laugh, but she also was full of anger and disappointment and obsessions she only dimly understood. She took it all out in raging tirades against my grandfather and my mother, both before and after I was born, though I was shielded from most of them. She had been a good student and ambitious, so after high school she took a correspondence course in nursing from the Chicago School ofNursing. By the time I was a toddler she was a private-duty nurse for a man not far from our house on Hervey Street. I can still remember running down the sidewalk to meet her when she came home from work.
　　Mammaw’s main goals for me were that I would eat a lot, learn a lot, and always be neat and clean. We ate in the kitchen at a table next to the window. My high chair faced the window, and Mammaw tacked playing cards up on the wooden window frame at mealtimes so that I could learn to count. She also stuffed me at every meal, because conventional wisdom at the time was that a fat baby was a healthy one, as long as he bathed every day. At least once a day, sheread to me from “Dick and Jane” books until I could read them myself, and from World Book Encyclopedia volumes, which in those days were sold door-to-door by salesmen and were often the only books besides the Bible in working people’s houses. These early instructions probably explain why I now read a lot, love card games, battle my weight, and never forget to wash my hands and brush my teeth.
　　I adored my grandfather, the first male influence in my life, and felt pride that I was born on his birthday. James Eldridge Cassidy was a slight man, about five eight, but in those years still strong and handsome. I always thought he resembled the actor Randolph Scott.
　　When my grandparents moved fromBodcaw, which had a population of about a hundred, to the metropolis Hope, Papaw worked for an icehouse delivering ice on a horse-drawn wagon. In those days, refrigerators really were iceboxes, cooled by chunks of ice whose size varied according to the size of the appliance. Though he weighed about 150 pounds, my grandfather carried ice blocks that weighed up to a hundred pounds or more, using a pair of hooks to slide them onto his back, which was protected by a large leather flap.
　　My grandfather was an incredibly kind and generous man. During the Depression, when nobody had any money, he would invite boys to ride the ice truck with him just to get them off the street. They earned twenty-five cents a day. In 1976, when I was in Hope running for attorney general, I had a talk with one of those boys, Judge John Wilson. He grew up to be a distinguished, successful lawyer, but he still had vivid memories of those days. He told me that at the end of one day, when my grandfather gave him his quarter, he asked if he could have two dimes and a nickel so that he could feel he had more money. He got them and walked home, jingling the change in his pockets. But he jingled too hard, and one of the dimes fell out. He looked for that dime for hours to no avail. Forty years later, he told me he still never walked by that stretch of sidewalk without trying to spot that dime. It’s hard to convey to young people today the impact the Depression had on my parents’ and grandparents’ generation, but I grew up feeling it. One of the most memorable stories of my childhood was my mother’s tale of a Depression Good Friday when my grandfather came home from work and broke down and cried as he told her he just couldn’t afford the dollar or so it would cost to buy her a new Easter dress. She never forgot it, and every year of my childhood I had a new Easter outfit whether I wanted it or not. I remember one Easter in the 1950s, when I was fat and self-conscious. I went to church in a light-colored short-sleeved shirt, white linen pants, pink and black Hush Puppies, and a matching pink suedebelt. It hurt, but my mother had been faithful to her father’s Easter ritual.
　　When I was living with him, my grandfather had two jobs that I really loved: he ran a little grocery store, and he supplemented his income by working as a night watchman at a sawmill. I loved spending the night with Papaw at the sawmill. We would take a paper bag with sandwiches for supper, and I would sleep in the backseat of the car. And on clear starlit nights, I would climb in the sawdust piles, taking in the magical smells of fresh-cut timber and sawdust. My grandfather loved working there, too. It got him out of the house and reminded him of the mill work he’d done as a young man around the time of my mother’s birth. Except for the timePapaw closed the car door on my fingers in the dark, those nights were perfect adventures.
　　The grocery store was a different sort of adventure. First, there was a huge jar of Jackson’s cookies on the counter, which I raided with gusto. Second, grown-ups I didn’t know came in to buy groceries, for the first time exposing me to adults who weren’t relatives. Third, a lot of my grandfather’s customers were black. Though the South was completely segregated back then, some level of racial interaction was inevitable in small towns, just as it had always been in the rural South. However, it was rare to find an uneducated rural southerner without a racist bone in his body. That’s exactly what my grandfather was. I could see that black people looked different, but because he treated them like he did everybody else, asking after their children and about their work, I thought they were just like me. Occasionally, black kids would come into the store and we would play. It took me years to learn about segregation and prejudice and the meaning of poverty, years to learn that most white people weren’t like my grandfather and grandmother, whose views on race were among the few things she had in common with her husband. In fact, Mother told me one of the worst whippings she ever got was when, at age three or four, she called a black woman “Nigger.” To put it mildly, Mammaw’s whipping her was an unusual reaction fora poor southern white woman in the 1920s.
　　My mother once told me that after Papaw died, she found some of his old account books from the grocery store with lots of unpaid bills from his customers, most of them black. She recalled that he had told her that good people who were doing the best they could deserved to be able to feed their families, and no matter how strapped he was, he never denied them groceries on credit. Maybe that’s why I’ve always believed in food stamps.
　　After I became President, I got another firsthand account of my grandfather’s store. In 1997, an African-American woman, Ernestine Campbell, did an interview for her hometown paper in Toledo, Ohio, about her grandfather buying groceries from Papaw “on account” and bringing her with him to the store. She said that she remembered playing with me, and that I was “the only white boy in that neighborhood who played with black kids.” Thanks to my grandfather, I didn’t know I was the only white kid who did that.
　　Besides my grandfather’s store, my neighborhood provided my only other contact with people outside my family. I experienced a lot in those narrow confines. I saw a house burn down across the street and learned I was not the only person bad things happened to. I made friends with a boy who collected strangecreatures, and once he invited me over to see his snake. He said it was in the closet. Then he opened the closet door, shoved me into the darkness, slammed the door shut, and told me I was in the dark alone with the snake. I wasn’t, thank goodness, but I was sure scared to death. I learned that what seems funny to the strong can be cruel and humiliating to the weak.
　　Our house was just a block away from a railroad underpass, which then was made of rough tar-coated timbers. I liked to climb on the timbers, listen to the trains rattle overhead, and wonder where they were going and whether I would ever go there.
　　And I used to play in the backyard with a boy whose yard adjoined mine. Helived with two beautiful sisters in a bigger, nicer house than ours. We used to sit on the grass for hours, throwing his knife in the ground and learning to make it stick. His name was Vince Foster. He was kind to me and never lorded it over me the way so many older boys did with younger ones. He grew up to be a tall, handsome, wise, good man. He became a great lawyer, a strong supporter early in my career, and Hillary’s best friend at the Rose Law Firm. Our families socialized in Little Rock, mostly at his house, where his wife, Lisa, taught Chelsea to swim. He came to the White House with us, and was a voice of calm and reason in those crazy early months.
　　There was one other person outsidethe family who influenced me in my early childhood. Odessa was a black woman who came to our house to clean, cook, and watch me when my grandparents were at work. She had big buck teeth, which made her smile only brighter and more beautiful to me. I kept up with her for years after I left Hope. In 1966, a friend and I went out to see Odessa after visiting my father’s and grandfather’s graves. Most of the black people in Hope lived near the cemetery, across the road from where my grandfather’s store had been. I remember our visiting on her porch for a good long while. When the time came to go, we got in my car and drove away on dirt streets. The only unpaved streets I saw in Hope, or later inHot Springs when I moved there, were in black neighborhoods, full of people who worked hard, many of them raising kids like me, and who paid taxes. Odessa deserved better.
　　The other large figures in my childhood were relatives: my maternal great-grandparents, my great-aunt Otie and great-uncle Carl Russell, and most of all, my great-uncle Oren—known as Buddy, and one of the lights of my life—and his wife, Aunt Ollie.
　　My Grisham great-grandparents lived out in the country in a little wooden house built up off the ground. Because Arkansas gets more tornadoes than almost any other place in the United States, most people who lived in virtualstick houses like theirs dug a hole in the ground for a storm cellar. Theirs was out in the front yard, and had a little bed and a small table with a coal-oil lantern on it. I still remember peering into that little space and hearing my great-grandfather say, “Yes, sometimes snakes go down there too, but they won’t bite you if the lantern’s lit.” I never found out whether that was true or not. My only other memory of my great-grandfather is that he came to visit me in the hospital when I broke my leg at age five. He held my hand and we posed for a picture. He’s in a simple black jacket and a white shirt buttoned all the way up, looking old as the hills, straight out of American Gothic.
　　My grandmother’s sister Opal—wecalled her Otie—was a fine-looking woman with the great Grisham family laugh, whose quiet husband, Carl, was the first person I knew who grew watermelons. The river-enriched, sandy soil around Hope is ideal for them, and the size of Hope’s melons became the trademark of the town in the early fifties when the community sent the largest melon ever grown up to that time, just under two hundred pounds, to President Truman. The better-tasting melons, however, weigh sixty pounds or less. Those are the ones I saw my great-uncle Carl grow, pouring water from a washtub into the soil around the melons and watching the stalks suck it up like a vacuum cleaner. When I became President, Uncle Carl’scousin Carter Russell still had a watermelon stand in Hope where you could get good red or the sweeter yellow melons.
　　Hillary says the first time she ever saw me, I was in the Yale Law School lounge bragging to skeptical fellow students about the size of Hope watermelons. When I was President, my old friends from Hope put on a watermelon feed on the South Lawn of the White House, and I got to tell my watermelon stories to a new generation of young people who pretended to be interested in a subject I began to learn about so long ago from Aunt Otie and Uncle Carl.
　　My grandmother’s brother Uncle Buddy and his wife, Ollie, were the primary members of my extended family. Buddy and Ollie had four children, three of whom were gone from Hope by the time I came along. Dwayne was an executive with a shoe manufacturer in New Hampshire. Conrad and Falba were living in Dallas, though they both came back to Hope often and live there today. Myra, the youngest, was a rodeo queen. She could ride like a pro, and she later ran off with a cowboy, had two boys, divorced, and moved home, where she ran the local housing authority. Myra and Falba are great women who laugh through their tears and never quit on family and friends. I’m glad they are still part of my life. I spent a lot of time at Buddy and Ollie’s house, not just in my first six years in Hope, but for forty more years until Olliedied and Buddy sold the house and moved in with Falba.
　　Social life in my extended family, like that of most people of modest means who grew up in the country, revolved around meals, conversation, and storytelling. They couldn’t afford vacations, rarely if ever went to the movies, and didn’t have television until the mid- to late 1950s. They went out a few times a year—to the county fair, the watermelon festival, the occasional square dance or gospel singing. The men hunted and fished and raised vegetables and watermelon on small plots out in the country that they’d kept when they moved to town to work.
　　Though they never had extra money, died and Buddy sold the house and moved in with Falba.
　　Social life in my extended family, like that of most people of modest means who grew up in the country, revolved around meals, conversation, and storytelling. They couldn’t afford vacations, rarely if ever went to the movies, and didn’t have television until the mid- to late 1950s. They went out a few times a year—to the county fair, the watermelon festival, the occasional square dance or gospel singing. The men hunted and fished and raised vegetables and watermelon on small plots out in the country that they’d kept when they moved to town to work.
　　Though they never had extra money, they never felt poor as long as they had a neat house, clean clothes, and enough food to feed anyone who came in the front door. They worked to live, not the other way around.
　　My favorite childhood meals were at Buddy and Ollie’s, eating around a big table in their small kitchen. A typical weekend lunch, which we called dinner (the evening meal was supper), included ham or a roast, corn bread, spinach or collard greens, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, peas, green beans or lima beans, fruit pie, and endless quantities of iced tea we drank in large goblet-like glasses. I felt more grown up drinking out of those big glasses. On special days we had homemade ice cream to go with the pie. WhenI was there early enough, I got to help prepare the meal, shelling the beans or turning the crank on the ice-cream maker. Before, during, and after dinner there was constant talk: town gossip, family goings-on, and stories, lots of them. All my kinfolks could tell a story, making simple events, encounters, and mishaps involving ordinary people come alive with drama and laughter.
　　Buddy was the best storyteller. Like both of his sisters, he was very bright. I often wondered what he and they would have made of their lives if they had been born into my generation or my daughter’s. But there were lots of people like them back then. The guy pumping your gas might have had an IQ as high as the guytaking your tonsils out. There are still people like the Grishams in America, many of them new immigrants, which is why I tried as President to open the doors of college to all comers.
　　Though he had a very limited education, Buddy had a fine mind and a Ph.D. in human nature, born of a lifetime of keen observation and dealing with his own demons and those of his family. Early in his marriage he had a drinking problem. One day he came home and told his wife he knew his drinking was hurting her and their family and he was never going to drink again. And he never did, for more than fifty years.
　　Well into his eighties, Buddy could tell amazing stories highlighting the personalities of dogs he’d had five or six decades earlier. He remembered their names, their looks, their peculiar habits, how he came by them, the precise way they retrieved shot birds. Lots of people would come by his house and sit on the porch for a visit. After they left he’d have a story about them or their kids—sometimes funny, sometimes sad, usually sympathetic, always understanding.
　　I learned a lot from the stories my uncle, aunts, and grandparents told me: that no one is perfect but most people are good; that people can’t be judged only by their worst or weakest moments; that harsh judgments can make hypocrites of us all; that a lot of life is just showing up and hanging on; that laughter is often thebest, and sometimes the only, response to pain. Perhaps most important, I learned that everyone has a story—of dreams and nightmares, hope and heartache, love and loss, courage and fear, sacrifice and selfishness. All my life I’ve been interested in other people’s stories. I’ve wanted to know them, understand them, feel them. When I grew up and got into politics, I always felt the main point of my work was to give people a chance to have better stories.
　　Uncle Buddy’s story was good until the end. He got lung cancer in 1974, had a lung removed, and still lived to be ninety-one. He counseled me in my political career, and if I’d followed his advice and repealed an unpopular car-tag increase, Iprobably wouldn’t have lost my first gubernatorial reelection campaign in 1980. He lived to see me elected President and got a big kick out of it. After Ollie died, he kept active by going down to his daughter Falba’s donut shop and regaling a whole new generation of kids with his stories and witty observations on the human condition. He never lost his sense of humor. He was still driving at eighty-seven, when he took two lady friends, aged ninety-one and ninety-three, for drives separately once a week. When he told me about his “dates,” I asked, “So you like these older women now?” He snickered and said, “Yeah, I do. Seems like they’re a little more settled.”
　　In all our years together, I saw myuncle cry only once. Ollie developed Alzheimer’s and had to be moved to a nursing home. For several weeks afterward, she knew who she was for a few minutes a day. During those lucid intervals, she would call Buddy and say, “Oren, how could you leave me in this place after fifty-six years of marriage? Come get me right now.” He would dutifully drive over to see her, but by the time he got there, she would be lost again in the mists of the disease and didn’t know him.
　　It was during this period that I stopped by to see him late one afternoon, our last visit at the old house. I was hoping to cheer him up. Instead, he made me laugh with bawdy jokes and droll comments on current events. When darkness fell, I toldhim I had to go back home to Little Rock. He followed me to the door, and as I was about to walk out, he grabbed my arm. I turned and saw tears in his eyes for the first and only time in almost fifty years of love and friendship. I said, “This is really hard, isn’t it?” I’ll never forget his reply. He smiled and said, “Yeah, it is, but I signed on for the whole load, and most of it was pretty good.” My uncle Buddy taught me that everyone has a story. He told his in that one sentence.
　　

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Sony is sending its cassette tape Walkman into retirement in Japan. Production stopped in April and sales will end once the last batch disappears from store selves.
　　Since the ground-breaking debut in July 1979, Sony have sold 220 million Walkman and forever changed the people’s lifestyle by popularizing music on the go.
　　
　　 http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/39833050/ns/technology_and_science-tech_and_gadgets/
　　

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Part One. Little Miss Mary.
　　Nobody seemed to care about Mary. she was born in India,where her father was a British official.He was spent all her time going to parties.So an India woman,Kamala,was paid to take care of the little girl.Mary was not a pretty child.She had a thin angry face and thin yellow hair. She was always giving orders to Kamala,who had to obey.Mary never thought of other people , but only of herself.In fact,she was a very selfish, disagreeable , bad-tempered little girl.
　　

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1.Her husband Brain is 30,enthusiastic,articulate and much more aware than most husbands of what it means for a career wife to find herself cut off from the challenge of mental stimulus of a responsible job.
　　2.After a stunned moment of sheer inarticulate horror,the people in the room start toward the front door and go out.
　　在一阵令人惊呆的，全然不可名状的恐惧之后，房间里的人们跑向前门，冲了出去。

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　　来源： Culture of Xuemo 作者：Xue Mo Translator：Xiaofei Qiang Reviser：Xuanguang Wei
　　Mercy is now
　　Xuemo
　　I often think: what would I most want to do in this moment if I encounter Wenchuan big earthquake. Write passages which I most want to write, read books which I would feel pity if I didn’t，treat every friend including relatives with kindness, treasure every moment of life, and make it full of refreshment and happiness, live in present, now. Never wait to enjoy happiness until your son grows up. Not everyone has the future, but everyone has the “present”.
　　I had so many friends when I came here and I still have now apparently. You think you are still you, but actually you are not. Your flesh has changed because many cells have changed, and you are older than you one hour ago. You are not the just now. Your heart is not the one just now. Because just now, you didn’t know Liangzhou eminent or the culture of Big hand seal. You didn’t know Xuemo can talk such a kind of strange things. Now you know, and your heart has changed. Every moment of future, you are changing. You are not the forever one, and the forever one is only in present.
　　Therefore, big hand seal culture peruses present, living in present, not adhering to the past or the future. We need to live understandingly, freshly, happily in present. Do not let the world outside present disturb you. Do not confuse you mind for the complication of world. Do not lose your temper to relatives because the world brings you anger. Because many years later, not sure when, so-called relatives are going to be a pile of bones. At that time, you don’t even have the chance to express your love.
　　I’ve written a novel named “The Wolf of Xi Xia”. There is a girl who treasures her flesh very much when she was alive. Then she died. She can’t express when her soul want to say “I love you” to her lover. That’s this simple. Because, there’s no tongue letting her to express her love, no eyes letting her to appreciate the beauty of the world, no ears to listen more about the relatives’ talk, including their pains. Think about it, when you listen relatives’ pains, you bring them a kind of relaxation and happiness. What a good thing. Nevertheless, we are too busy. All of us are tempted by the outside world, and can never find their own hearts. Not knowing treating relatives kindly nor living in present. We’ve been occupied by so many “differences”. How can we get rid of it and grow up like a child? An infant who is not polluted by the world smiles happily to his mother, that’s what we called “the pure heart of a newborn babe”. He smiles not because his mother is rich, not because his father would leave him legacy, also not because this world would give him a title. He is happy then he smiles. Every human being has this kind of heart, but our hearts become more and more complicated, dirty, because of our greed and craving. We don’t have that kind of pure heart like facing to mom.
　　Therefore, is there anything unperfected when everyone has a pure heart to face all people and things in the world, like a baby to his mother?
　　One day, a child asked me, “Xuemo, this world is so unperfected, so messy. What can I do?” I said we do not live for the world, and the world does not care of anyone. No matter whom he is, Stalin, Marx, Mao Zedong, or other great people, the earth is still running when they disappeared. Even after the western philosopher Nietzsche said “god is dead”, Western Christian still runs so well. This world can leave anything and it does not care of you. Everyone lives for himself. When you live for yourself, you have to understand what you would leave after your flesh go away. For example, if you are a villain, are you more and more noble day after day and become a gentleman? You have “profits” if you do it. You were a villain and now you are a gentleman. Of course you have “profits”, because this means you didn’t live in vain. You didn’t leave any trace in the world when you lived like a fly flies away, but now you did. For instance, Lei Feng only lived for about twenty years, but we can still remember him. He didn’t live in vain when he left a famous name and glorious spirit using his deed in this world.
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　　Translated by non-professional culture volunteers, there would be some inaccuracies in the translation. You are welcome to offer us some advice for emendation. Please feel free to contact us.We also look forward to you joining our voluntary translation team.
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　　慈悲是当下的关怀
　　雪漠
　　我常想，下一刻我如果遇到了汶川大地震这样的事件时，此刻最想做的是什么？写出我最想写的文章，读我这辈子不读就会遗憾的书，善待每一个朋友包括亲人，珍惜每一个生命瞬间让它充满清凉、快乐，活在当下，就是现在。永远不要等到将来儿子大的时候再去享受快乐。每一个人不一定有将来，但每个人都有“当下”。
　　刚才进来的时候有这么多朋友，现在表面看来还都是这么多朋友。你依然是你，实际上你已经不是你。你的肉体因为许多的细胞发生了变化，你的肉体变了，你比刚才衰老了一小时。你不是刚才的你。你的心更不是刚才的心。因为刚才你不知道凉州贤孝也不知道大手印文化，不知道雪漠还会说这样一种奇谈怪论。现在你知道了，心也变了。未来的每一个瞬间你都在变化，你不是永远的你，永远的你只有当下。
　　所以，大手印文化追求当下，活在当下，不执著于过去，不执著于将来，要明明白白、清清凉凉、快快乐乐地活在当下。不要叫当下之外的世界干扰你，不要因为这个世界的花花绿绿而眼花心乱，别把外部世界带给你的情绪发泄到你亲人的身上。因为，许多年后说不定什么时候，所谓的亲人就是一堆骨头。那时，你连想表达爱的机会都没有了。
　　我写过一个小说叫《西夏的苍狼》。其中有一个女孩子生前特别珍惜自己的肉体。后来，她死了，她的灵魂想对爱人说一声“我爱你”的时候，她没有办法来表达。就这么简单。因为，没有舌头让她再去表达那个爱，没有眼睛让她再去欣赏这个世界的美丽，没有耳朵去听亲人们的许多倾诉，包括他们的痛苦。想一想，当你倾听亲人们的痛苦，给他们带来一种轻松和快乐时，这是多么好的事啊！但是我们太忙了，大家都被外面的世界所诱惑，再也找不到自己的心。不知道善待亲人，不知道活在当下。我们被这个世界的许多“分别”占据了心灵。我们应该怎样来消除这个东西，像孩子一样长大？一个没有受到人间污染的婴儿，对母亲那种灿烂的笑，被称为“赤子之心”。不是因为妈妈有多少钱他才笑，不是因为爸爸要给他遗产他才笑，也不是因为这个世界要给他职称他才笑。他快乐他就笑。每个人类都有这样一个本来的心，因为我们的贪婪、欲望让我们的心变得越来越复杂，越来越肮脏，越来越污垢。没有了面对母亲一般的赤子之心。
　　所以，当每个人面对这个世界的所有人、事，都有一颗赤子之心，像一个婴儿对母亲的那份真心的时候，这个世界还有什么不完美的？
　　一天，一个孩子问我，他说：“雪漠老师，这个世界那么不完美，那么的乌七八糟，怎么办？”。我说每个人不是活给世界的，这个世界不在乎任何人。无论他是斯大林、马克思、毛泽东，还是其他伟大的人，既使他们在消失的时候，地球依然在转动。甚至西方的哲学家尼采说过“上帝死了”以后，西方的基督教依然运行得那么好。这个世界离开什么都可以，这个世界不在乎你的。每个人是活给自己的。当你活给自己的时候，你就必须明白，当你的肉体离开这个世界之后，你为你自己留下了哪些东西？比如，如果你是一个小人，那么，你是不是在离开世界之前时，一天比一天高尚一点，成为一个君子？做到这一点你就“盈利”了。你本来是一个小人现在成为一个君子，当然是“盈利”了，这就说明你没有白活。当你曾经像苍蝇飞过虚空一样，在这个世界留不下任何痕迹的时候，现在却留下了痕迹。比如，雷锋活了二十多岁，但现在我们仍记得雷锋。他用他的行为在这个世界的时空中，留下了一个响亮的名字和一种伟大的精神，他就没有白活。
　　声明：本文系文化志愿者试译，非专业人才翻译，错误定然不少，如出现疏漏及错误，敬请读者见谅。如有任何翻译上的建议及修正意见，欢迎及时与我们取得联系，我们会加以校对、修改，并希望有专业才能的朋友也能加入我们志愿者群体中来。
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克服恐惧之旅
　　
　　2006年2月23日 星期四
　　
　　
　　克服恐惧之旅
　　
　　
　　A course in conquering your fear
　　
　　当某件事快完成时，我往往会暂停下来，从我的行动中找寻意义。这常常意味着质问我的动机、评估是否达到目标，甚或事后做自我批评。
　　
　　
　　When I reach the end of something, I tend to pause and look for meaning in my actions. Often this means questioning my motivation, evaluating goals reached or even second-guessing myself.
　　
　　随着在澳大利亚管理学院(Australian Graduate School of Management)的第四个学期过去，我不断地给我在悉尼生活的不同篇章划上句号。的确，至少还有一个学期的课要上，但核心课程都已结束，我的许多同窗踏上了交流之旅，现在是时候结束最后一门选修课去找工作了。
　　
　　
　　As term four at the Australian Graduate School of Management passed I kept closing different chapters of my life in Sydney. True, there is still at least one term to look forward to but the core classes are finished, many of my peers are on exchange trips and now it is time to wrap up with the last of our electives and look for jobs.
　　
　　所有这些收尾工作——以及我在澳大利亚的可怕时光不可避免地终结，致使我分析了自己的MBA经历，并给了我最终的答案：我念MBA的真实动机其实是恐惧。不过幸好，课程的主要副产品是克服我的恐惧。
　　
　　
　　All that closure – and the inevitable end to my awesome time in Australia – has led me to analyse my MBA experience and has given me the ultimate answer: it turns out that the true motivator behind my MBA was fear. Better yet, the main by- product of the programme was conquering my fears.
　　
　　大多数学院会问申请人为什么想读MBA。许多人会给出职业改变、个人发展或许多其它常见回答来获得入学许可。
　　
　　
　　Most schools ask their applicants why they wish to do an MBA. Many cite career change, personal development or a number of other stock responses to gain admission.
　　
　　我也不例外。但一年后，我可以承认，虽然上述所有理由都没错，但恐惧才是潜在的动力。我敢说不光是我一个，其他一些人也会有类似体会。
　　
　　
　　I am no exception. But a year later I can admit that while all the above reasons were true, fear was the underlying force. I dare say that I am not alone and there are others who experienced a similar situation.
　　
　　在就读MBA前，我颇自信。但雇主纷至沓来敲我门的景象并没有出现，我变得不那么自信了，并且意识到我需要更多地推销自己。
　　
　　
　　Before my MBA I was confident in my own skin. But when employers did not storm through my door, I became unsure of myself and realised that I needed to market myself more.
　　
　　我当时以为，我只是在专业方面还不够好，必须想办法提高我的学历。许多个人危机造成了我脆弱的心理状态。我周围的世界似乎就要崩溃，我丧失了信心，我在寻找解决办法。
　　
　　
　　I thought I simply was not good enough professionally and had to do something to improve my qualifications. Contributing to my fragile state of mind was a slew of personal crises. My world seemed to be crumbling around me; my confidence lost, I sought a solution.
　　
　　澳大利亚和澳大利亚管理学院符合我受恐惧驱使的标准。优秀的学校、遥远的国度、众多与美国人截然不同的新鲜人物——太好了。此外，获得扶轮国际 (Rotary International)的海外学习奖学金，并被顶级MBA课程录取，马上提高了我的自信心，也是我消除恐惧战斗的有效开端。
　　
　　
　　Australia and AGSM matched my fear-driven criteria. Great school, far-away country, many new people dramatically different from Americans – perfect. More-over, receiving a Rotary International scholarship for oversees(overseas?) studies and being accepted by a top-rated MBA programme was an instant ego boost and an effective kick-start to my fear- banishing campaign.
　　
　　在悉尼的这12个月与我此前的预期大相径庭。我克服的恐惧比我想承认的还要多。澳大利亚管理学院创造了支持学员的舒适环境，让我可以尝试那些我不太适应的事物。
　　
　　
　　The past 12 months in Sydney have been unlike anything I expected. I conquered more fears than I care to admit. AGSM created a comfortable, supportive environment to allow me to try those things I was not comfortable with.
　　
　　过去，“财务(finance)”这个词总让我害怕。一年后，财务报表再也不是一门外语(致我的教授：我没说我熟练！只是能用了……)。
　　
　　
　　The word “finance” used to terrify me. A year later, financial statements are no longer a foreign language (note to my professors: I did not say I was fluent! I’m just conversational . . . ).
　　
　　我学政治学出身，MBA的大部分概念对我都是新的、可怕而让人畏惧的。核心课程是我商业教育的良好开端，而我完成的选修课确实让我对一系列学科应对自如了。战略人力资源揭示了许多问题，比如工作场所的强迫排名或反向歧视，顾客分析则帮助我理解了营销背后的科学与心理学的奥妙之处。谈判与策略或许是我最中意的选修课，因为它让我体会了诸多不同情况，让我尝试了在“真实世界”不会冒险试验的各种谈判策略。它也让我更为自信，对其他人的动机有了更现实的看法。
　　
　　
　　Coming from a political science background, I found most of the concepts in the MBA new, scary and intimidating. The core was a good start to my business education, but the electives I completed really made me comfortable with a range of subjects. Strategic human resources brought to light many issues such as forced ranking or reverse discrimination in the workplace, while customer analysis helped me understand the intricacies of the science and psychology behind marketing. Negotiations and strategy was probably my favourite elective as it let me put myself in many different shoes and try out negotiation tactics I would not risk testing in the “real world”. It also made me more confident and more realistic about others’ motivations.
　　
　　尽管我有与小企业打交道的经验，但独立创业的想法仍然是最让人恐惧的一件事。我在课程中学到的理论知识很有用，但实践经验才是克服这种恐惧的关键。作为创业课程的部分内容，我与一个团队合作，为一种可能具有划时代意义的抗癌药撰写商业计划。在一整年里，我目睹了我的同学对创意的不断发展，也明白了如何依靠策划与强有力的团队实现这些创意。
　　
　　
　　Although I have experience with small business, one of the scariest things is still the notion of starting something on my own. The theoretical knowledge I gained through my courses was helpful, but practical experience was key in conquering this fear. As part of my entrepreneurship class I worked with a team to create a business plan for a potentially revolutionary cancer drug. And, throughout the year I watched my classmates develop ideas and saw how, with planning and a strong team, these things can be accomplished.
　　
　　我恐惧的另一件事情是让别人失望。但作为班里的活动协调员，我策划了几十项活动，包括我们的班级舞会和许多派对。每次结果都非常棒，再也没有比“赢得一个又一个成功”更有价值的事情了。在澳大利亚管理学院创造的环境中克服这些恐惧，导致了个人的转变，而且我感觉自己为日后生活中的挑战做好了准备。
　　
　　
　　Another of my fears was that of letting someone down. But, as my class’s events co-ordinator, I planned dozens of events, including our class ball and many parties. Each time the results were great and there is nothing more rewarding than pulling off one success after another. Conquering these fears through the environment at AGSM has led to a personal transformation and I feel ready for what life throws at me next.
　　
　　由于生活在澳大利亚的缘故，我更悠然自得了，少了点物质唯上，更加珍惜已经拥有的一切。澳大利亚人全身心地投入生活，似乎每个人都知道，什么对他们而言是重要的。我意识到，我应该使用澳大利亚人“别担心” （no worries）这一信条，让每天都过得不留遗憾。
　　
　　
　　As a result of living “Down Under” I am more laid back, less materialistic and I appreciate far more everything I already have. Australians live life to the full and seem conscious of what is important to them individually. I have learnt I should apply the Australian “no worries” mantra and live each day without regret.
　　
　　在澳大利亚管理学院读书是我职业生涯中一笔很好的投资，而在悉尼生活则是我生活中一次不错的投资。
　　
　　
　　Being at AGSM was a good investment in my career; being in Sydney was a good investment in my life.
　　
　　我认为，攻读MBA迫使你走出安逸的环境。你被这么多新的信息狂轰滥炸，迫使自己拓展思维能力。MBA能让你成为自信的领导——不管你喜不喜欢。MBA让你克服恐惧。
　　
　　
　　I think that studying for an MBA forces you outside your comfort zone. You are bombarded by so much new information that you are compelled to expand your thinking capacity. The MBA makes a confident leader out of you – whether you like it or not. The MBA makes you conquer your fears.
　　
　　我还要在澳大利亚管理学院念一个学期。尽管一些学生敲定工作已有几个月了，但我们这些更加以市场营销为导向的学生才刚开始找工作。由于有几个工作面试在等着我，澳大利亚的夏天也让人相当分心，所以我很难把注意力集中在剩下的选修课上。课程还没结束，但我觉得我已经取得了许多成就，我的投资已物有所值了。
　　
　　
　　I have one term remaining at AGSM. Although some students have had their jobs secure for months now, those of us who are more marketing-oriented are just starting the process of seeking employment. With several job interviews lined up and the Australian summer a significant distraction, it is hard to focus on my remaining electives. The course is not over, but I feel I have accomplished so much that my investment has already been worthwhile.
　　
　　入学新生正在涌入教学楼，他们在把澳大利亚管理学院变成自己的学院。许多人已经为课业负荷感到灰心，而且想知道他们是否具备成功的必要条件。这一过程再次重复。
　　
　　
　　The new first year students are now flooding the building and making AGSM their own. Many are already frustrated with the workload and are wondering if they have what it takes. The process repeats itself once more.
　　
　　我希望他们认识到，有机会经历这种转变是多么幸运。
　　
　　
　　I hope they realise just how lucky they are to have the opportunity to go through this transformation.
　　
　　阅读更多MBA日记请访问：www.ft.com/businesseducation
　　
　　
　　More MBA diaries at: www. ft.com/businesseducation
　　
　　译者/张征
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　

http://www.bagu.cc/
About half a year ago, I quitted my job. My last job was an Asian buyer, this was my first job after my graduation, I learned a lot form it, but I want to be an international buyer, when I noticed that I didn’t hesitate to quit my last job.
　　I became a full time student in EF, I knew a lot of students here, and we become good friends now. We enjoyed chatting with each other in English, after that we received a lot of “Thank you” cards, this is an encouragement policy in our center. Sometime I am lost in this period, I was just wondering about myself, I didn’t feel at ease and unconfident about the future. I have no idea about my ideal job sometimes. When I aware of I made a big progress in oral English, I sent a lot of resumes to international companies, I just want to try, just want to prove myself. After that I had a lot of interviews, I didn’t anxious about that anymore, because when I studied in EF, I always booked the career service classes. I think they are very useful.
　　One day a foreign company named Philips Respironics sent an e-mail to me, asked me to have an interview. This company produces sleep analyzers, oxygen machines and some accessories. After had English test, spoken English test and specialty knowledge test of purchasing, finally I got this job.
　　I served as an international buyer in Philips Respironics, I am very busy now, I miss my friends and teachers in EF. But I will have lesson this weekend.
　　After rain comes the sunshine. Thinking back of these several months, I enjoyed studying in EF. Life is full of trials; this is just one of milestones. I can’t imagine how I will get through the rest of my life. But I will keep faith in what I am dreaming about, never give up.
　　
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