G.J. Âó¶û
ÃæÊÔÎÞÍû¡£
ÎÒÒ»¸ö¾¢¶ùµØ´òµç»°,ÕÒÃÅ·¡£µ±ÕÒµ½Ò»¸ö,°Ñ¼òÀú¼ÄÈ¥µÄʱºò,ȴûÓлØÒô¡£ÎҼ̶ø´òµç»°È¥ÎÊ¡£¿ÉÃØÊéС½ãÃÇ,¾ÓÈ»ÄܰÑÎÒ˦µôÁ˶øÎÒ»¹Åª²»Çå³þÊÇÔõô»ØÊÂ,»¹Ò»¸ö¾¢¶ùµØ¶Ô×Å»°Í²¿ÕÈÂÈ¡£
ÈçÊÇÕßÊýÖÜ,ÎÒ¿ªÊ¼ÅÂÁË¡£
Ò»ÌìÏÂÎç,µç»°ÁåÏì¡£´òµç»°µÄÄÐÈËÕýÊÇÎÒÒ»Ö±ÏëÁªÏµµÄÄÇλ,ÊÇÀËØ¡¤À×ŵ×ÈפÑÇÌØÀ¼´ó°ìÊ´¦µÄÈË,Ãû½Ð·½Ü¡¤²¼ÀµÂ,רÊÂÖ°Òµ½éÉÜ¡£ËûÕýΪ¼ÙÈվƵêÎïɫһλ¹Ü¹«¹ØµÄ¸±×ܲá£Ëû¿´¹ýÎҵļòÀú,»¹Îª´Ë×¼±¸ÁËЩÃÀ´Ê¶ù¡£
ÎÒ¸ÃÔÚŦԼ,»¹ÊÇÑÇÌØÀ¼´ó¼ûËûÄØ£¿ËûÁ½±ß¶¼ÓаìÊ´¦¡£
¡°ÌýÄúµÄ,¡±ÎÒ˵¡£¡°ÎÒµ¹ÇãÏòÓÚŦԼ¡£¡±
²¼ÀµÂ²é¿´Èճ̱í,ÎÒ±ãµÈ×Å¡£¡°ÄÇô,¾ÍÐÇÆÚÒ»ÔÚŦԼ¡£¾Åµã¡£ÄúÏÈÈ¥¶©·¿,Ã÷Ìì´òµç»°ÏòÎÒÃØÊéÂäʵ¡£¡±
Ò,ÎÒµÚÒ»¼þʾÍÊǰѺ½°àºÅÂë¸ø²¼ÀµÂµÄÃØÊé˵ÁË,²¢¸æËßËýÎÒ½«ÔÚÐÇÆÚÌì°øÍíµÖ´ï¾Æµê¡£Ëý¸øÁËÎÒÀËØ¡¤À×ŵ×ȵĵØÖ·,»¹ÌáÐÑÎҾŵ㵽ÄǶù¡£
µÖ²½Ê±,µ«¼ûËùÓеİ칫ÊÒ,¾ùÈçÓ¡¶È´ó¾ýÔÚÂ׶صĺÀÕ¬°ã¸»ÀöÌûʡ£Ç½±ÚÏâÊÎÉÝ»ª¡£Ï²À´µÇ¼Ò¾ß,ºñµØÌº,ľÌõÏ⻨µØ°åïÁÁ¡£ÎÒÒ²ïÁÁ:Ь×Ó¡¢ÒÂÁì¡¢Ðä¿Ú,ÎÞ²»¹âïï¡£¿ã¹ÜµÄÌÌѹºÛ,±ÊÖ±µÃ¼òÖ±¿ÉÒÔ³éѪÉÏÀ´¡£ÁîÎҸе½ÐÀοµÄÊÇ,¾¡¹ÜÓеã½ôÕÅ,ȴ˯×ãÁËÆß¸öСʱµÄ¾õ,»¹ÔÚÖÐÑ빫԰³¿ÅÜÁËÒ»»á¶ù¡£
µçÌÝÅÔÓÐÒ»Ãæ¾µ×Ó,ÕÕ¼ûÒ»¸ö²»ËÆÎÒµÄÎÒ:Ò»¸öʧҵµÄ¼Ò»ï,ÈýÄêÄÚ¾¹¸øÁ½¼Ò¹«Ë¾Öð³öÃÅÍâ,Èç½ñµÄÐÄÇé,ÓëÆä˵ÆÈ²»¼°´ý,ÎãÄþ˵¿à²»¿°ÑÔ¡£
ÎÒÏò½Ó´ýС½ã˵ÎÒÊÇÀ´¼û²¼ÀµÂÏÈÉúµÄ¡£ËýÄôø¼¸·ÖÞÞÞíµÄÑ۹⿴ÁË¿´ÎÒ,È»ºó»Ø»°Ëµ²¼ÀµÂ»¹Ã»À´¡£ÎÒ±ã˵×Ô¼ºÒ²ÖªµÀÀ´ÔçÁË¡£ÎªÁ˲»ÅªÖåÉíÉÏ´ÓǧÀïÌöÌöÖ®ÍâСÐÄÒíÒí´©À´µÄÎ÷×°,ÎÒÇáÇáµØ¡¢ÂýÂýµØ¹ªÉí,×øÔÚÕæÆ¤É³·¢ÉÏ¡£Îҳϻ̳Ͽֵء¢Ö¸²»Õ´ÓÍÄ«µØ°Ñ¸éÔÚÃæÇ°¿§·Ę̀Éϵġ¶»ª¶û½ÖÈÕ±¨¡·´ò¿ª,¾²ÐĵȺò¡£
¾ÅµãÖÓµÄʱºò,½Ó´ýС½ãÉ쳤²±×Ó¿´ÁË¿´ÎÒ,È»ºó²¦µç»°¡£ËýÉùÈôÈáË¿µØËµÁËÒ»»á¶ù,¹ÒÏß,ÖØÐÂÍû×ÅÎÒ¡£
¡°Äúµ±ÕæÔ¼Á˲¼ÀµÂÏÈÉú£¿¡±
¡°ÊǵÄ,µ±Õæ¡£¾Åµã¡£¡±
¡°¶Ô²»Æð¡¡²»¹ý°´²¼ÀµÂÏÈÉúµÄÈճ̱í,Ëû½ñÌì²»ÔÚŦԼѽ¡£¡±
µ±ÎÒ¸øÑÇÌØÀ¼´ó´òµç»°Ê±,²¼ÀµÂµÄÃØÊé¼òÖ±ºÍÎÒÒ»ÑùµÄãµÈ»,ÕâÎҸоõµ½¡£Ëý²»Ã÷°×ÕâÊÇÔõô¸ãµÄ¡£ËûÃÇÔ¶¨ÏÂÐÇÆÚÒ»ÔÚŦԼºÍÎÒ¼ûÃæ¡£Ëý»¹ÒÔΪÕâÒÑÃ÷°×ÎÞÒìÄØ¡£
ÔÚ°®µÂ»ª¡¤ÃϿ˵ġ¶Äź°¡·Àï,»ÓÐÒ»ÈË,Ä¿ÎÞ±íÇé,æÝÈ»Á¢ÓÚ·ÖÐ,Ë«ÊÖ±§Í·,ÕÅ×Å´ó¿Ú¡£ÎÒÏ£Íû½ÓÏÂÀ´¼¸¸öСʱ×ßÔÚÂü¹þ¶Ù´ó½ÖÉϵÄÎÒ££¿´²»¼û,Ìý²»µ½,Ö»µÈ×Å»ØÀ¡¤¹ÏµØÑÇ££²»ÊÇÕâ°ãÄ£Ñù¡£µ«¸Ð¾õÈ·ÊÇÕâÑù¡£»ØÍþ˹¿µÐÇÖÝʱ,ÎÒ¾¡¹Üû³öÉù,È´Ò»Ö±Ìý¼ûÄÚÐÄÔÚÄź°¡£
½ñÌìÊǾÅÔÂÊ®ÈýºÅÐÇÆÚÎå,ÎÒʧҵµÄµÚ¾ÅÊ®°ËÈÕ¡£¾ÅÊ®¾ÅÈÕÒÔǰ,ÎÒÊÇÄêÏúÊÛ¶îÓâ50ÒÚÃÀÔªµÄ¿ç¹úÖÆÔ칫˾¿Ë¼¹«Ë¾µÄͨѶ¸±×ܲá£ÈýÄêǰµÄÎÒ,ÊÇÂó¿ËµÀ¶û¡¤µÀ¸ñÀ˹¹«Ë¾(´Ë¹«Ë¾ÎÞÐë½éÉÜ)µÄ¸±×ܲá£
ʱÖÁ½ñÈÕÒÑÈý¸ö¶àÔÂÁË,ÎÒÎÞÐëרÃÅÒªÒ»¸öÄÖÖÓ,ÔçÉÏҲûÓзÇÈ¥²»¿ÉµÄµØ·½¡£
½ñÌìÏÂÎç,ΪÁËÏûÄ¥¼¸¸öÖÓÍ·,ҲΪÁËɢɢÐÄ,ÒÔÃâÀÏÏë×ÅÄÇÏì²»ÆðÀ´µÄµç»°,ÎÒ´òÁ˾Ÿö¶´µÄ¸ß¶û·òÇò¡£½ñÄê²ÅÍ·Ò»Ôâ,¾ÓÈ»ÕÒÇòÒ²ÕâôÄÑ¡£²Ò°×µÄÊ÷Ò¶·×·×É¢ÂäÔÚÇòµÀÉÏ,Ö±½ÐÈËÄÑÒÔ¿´¼û°×É«µÄСÎïÌå¡£ÔÚÎÒ±»Ç²É¢µÄÄÇÌì,Ò²¾ÍÊÇÁùÔÂÁùÈÕ,Íþ˹¿µÐÇÖݵÄÏÄÌì²Å¿ªÊ¼¡£ÎÒµ±Ê±Ô¤ÁÏÕÒ¹¤×÷ÒªºÃ¼¸¸öÔÂʱ¼ä,ÔÚÄǶÎʱ¼äÀï,ÎÒ¿ÉÒÔ×ÔÓÉ˯ÀÁ¾õ,²»½áÁì´ø,͵µÃ¸¡Éú,Ï¸Ï¸ÍæÎ¶ÕâåüÃÄÖ®¼«µÄ±±¹ú´óµØ¡£
Èç½ñ,ÇïÌìÒÁʼ,ÎÒÈ´ÒÀÈ»ÕÒ²»µ½»î¶ù¸É,»¹ÔÚÒ»¸ö¼¾¶È֮ǰÄÇÀïÔµØÌ¤²½,ºÁÎÞ½øÕ¹¡£¾¡¹ÜÅö¹ýºÜ¶à´Î»ú»á,µ«´Î´ÎÂä¿Õ¡£ÎÒÔÙÒ²ÎÞÔµ¼û·½Ü¡¤²¼ÀµÂÒ»Ãæ¡£Ëû¸æËßÎÒ,¼ÙÈվƵêÒÑ°ÑÆäÕÐÀ¿¼Æ»®Ñ¹ºó¡£
×ÜÌýµ½Õþ¿ÍÃÇ˵ÏôÌõÆÚÒѹý¡£ÏëµÃÃÀ¡£È´¼ûÔ½À´Ô½¶àµÂ²Å¼æ±¸µÄÈË,ƽÉúµÚÒ»´Î¸øÈ˼Ҵò·¢×ߺó,±ãÔÙÒ²ÕÒ²»µ½¹¤×÷¡£ÎÒÈÏʶµÄÈ˶಻ʤÊý,¸ÉÁ·ÕßÓÐÖ®,ÀÏÁ·ÕßÓÐÖ®,´óѧ±ÏÒµÕßÓÐÖ®££Í³Í³Ê§Òµ¡£Ò»±²×ÓҲδ¼û¹ýÈç´Ë¶àÈËʧҵ¡£ÎÒ¾¹Ëµ²»³öÒ»¸öÖØÐÂÕÒµ½¹¤×÷µÄ¡£Ò»¸öҲûÓС£
¾ÅÊ®°ËÌìÁË¡£Èý¸öÔÂÁãÒ»ÐÇÆÚ¡£Õâ²»Ëã¾Ã££°´ÄÇÌõ·½³ÌʽµÄ˵·¨,ÿÄã±ÍòÃÀÔªµÄÄêн¾ÍµÃÕÒÒ»¸öÔ¡£ÕÕ´ËËãÀ´,ÎÒ»¹Ôç×ÅÄÅ¡£ÐÐÕþÈËÔ±¡°Ç²É¢Ìײ͡±µÄͨÔòÊÇ:ÉÙÐèÕß¶àµÃ¡£Èç¹ûÐǪ̈µÄÄêÙº¶àÄêÀ´ÐÛ¾áÁùλÊý,ÇÒµÚһλÊý²»ÔÙÊÇ£±µÄ»°,Ôò¿ÉÍû»ñµÃÒ»Äê°ë(˵²»¶¨¸ü³¤)È«ÊýµÄн½ð¼°¾È¼Ã½ð;ÁùλÊýÇÒµÚһλΪ£±Õß,Ôò¿ÉÄÃÔ¼Ò»ÄêµÄ,×îµÍΪÁù¸öÔ¡£ÌÈÈôÐǪ̈µÄ¹¤×ÊԶԶûÓÐÁùλÊý,ÇÒÓа´½ÒºÍѧ·ÑÖ®ÂÇ,ÔòÐëСÐÄ:ÄúÒÑÉíÏÝÄÚ²¿ÇãÔþµÄ±ßÔµ,È˼ÒÕýÍÚ¿ÕÐÄ˼,ÒÔ×îʡǮµÄ°ì·¨°ÑÄúÄì³öÃÅÍâ¡£
ÔÚÕâ·½Ãæ,ÎÒÊôÍòÐÒÒÓ¡£Ôڿ˼Àï,ÎÒÖ»×öÁËÁ½Äê°ë,ÕÒй¤×÷ʱ±ã»ñÔʸøÓèÒ»ÄêµÄȫнºÍ¾È¼Ã½ð¡£µÈµ½ÆÞ×ÓÅËĽÈöÊÖ²»¸ÉËýÄǷݶñÐĵŤ×÷ºó,ÎÒÁ©·½²ÅÖªÎÒ×Ô¼ºÄÇ·ÝÒѾΣΣºõ¡£Èç½ñËýÕýÔÚ±£ÏÕÏúÊÛ·½Ãæ·ÜÁ¦Çó´æ¡£ÎÒÏ£ÍûËý³É¹¦¡£¾¡¹ÜÎÒµÄDzɢÌײͲ»Ê§Îª¶¨¾ªÁé,¿ÉÕâÒ²ÊÇÔÝʱµÄ¡£½ÌÎÒ¾ªÆæ²»ÒѵÄÊÇ,ÎÒÃǾÓÈ»ÒѶÔÿÔµÄÊÕ֧ϰÒÔΪ³£¡£Ç®À´Ç®Íù,ÈçÁ÷Ë®°ã,À´µÃ¿ìÈ¥µÃ¿ì:Сº¢×ÓÉÏѧҪǮ,¹©·¿ºÍÑø³µÒªÇ®,±£ÏÕҪǮ,Èùú¼Ò˰Îñ¾Ö³ÆÐÄÂúÒâҲҪǮ¡£ÎÒ²»Ïë×ÁÄ¥ÕâÍæÒâ¶ùÒªÍöÎÒÉÐÐè¶àÉÙʱÈÕ¡£
³õ³¢³´öÏÓãµÄ×ÌζÊÇãµÈ»££ÏŵÃÁ¬¹ÇÍ·¶¼ÔÚɪɪ²ü¶¶,·½Öª×Ô¼ºÔÚ´ò¹¤Ò»×åÖо¹È»Á¬Ò»Ï¯Ö®µØ¶¼Ã»ÓÐ;ÕâÖָоõ»¹ÊÇ×ÔСѧ±ÏÒµºóµ½ÏÖÔÚµÄÍ·Ò»Ôâ¡£ºèÔ˵±Í·Á˶àÉÙ¸ö´ºÇï,Ö±½ÌÎÒѧ»áÁ˰ÑÔËÆøµ±³ÉÊÇ×Ô¼ºµÄÊÕ»ñºÍÕ®Îñ¡£Ôø¼¸ºÎʱ,»öÆðÎÞ¶¨Ò»ËµÓÚÎÒÉÐÊô·ËÒÄËù˼¡£×ßÔÚ½ÖÉÏ,È˷·ð°ëÃΰëÐÑ,ÈçÖÃÉíº£µ×,ÓÎÀë³öÊÀ,ÒìÓÚ³£ÈË¡£ÎÒ¿ªÊ¼×ö°×ÈÕÃÎ,Ãμû×Ô¼ºÎç¼ä´©¹ýǰÃÅʱÓö¼ûÊýÊ®ÈË££¾ÉÀϰåÃǺ;ÉͬÊÂÃÇ¡£ÕýÊÇÕâЩÈ˰ÑÎÒŪÖÁÕâ°ãÌïµØ¡£ËûÃǴӼҾߺóÌø½«³öÀ´,´óÈ¡°ÆæÃî£¡ÆæÃ¡±¡£ÔÚÎҵİ×ÈÕÃÎÀï,ËûÃÇÒ»¸ö¸ö¶¼´÷×ÅÕþµ³Ã±×Ó¡£ËûÃÇËß˵,Õâ´¿ÊôÊÔÑé,Íò·Ö±§Ç¸,ÄÃÎÒÀ´×öÊÔÑéÒ಻µÃÒÑ¡£ÎÒÅâЦÁ³µÀ:Ŷ,ÉÆÊ¼ÉÆÖÕß¡£
µ«Ã¿ÖÁ¼ÒÃÅ,ËûÃÇÈ´²»¼û×ÙÓ°¡£
Ê®ÈýËêÄÇÄê,ÎÒ¿ªÊ¼¸ÉµÚÒ»·Ý¹¤×÷,ÔÚÒ»¼äÆÆ¾ÉµÄÒ©·¿ÀïÍϵذå,ÎåëǮһСʱ¡£¶þÊ®Äêºó,ÎÒÆµÆµ»»¹¤,Ö±½ÐË«Ç×ÄÑÒÔÖÃÐÅ,È´ÄÃÒ»·Ý³¬ºõ×Ô¼ºÏëÏóµÄÊÕÈë¡£ÎÒ»·ÓÎÊÀ½ç¡£ÎÒÓ®µÃÁËÒ»¶¨µÄÔÞÃÀ¡£ÎÒµÄÕÕÆ¬¼ûÖîÓÚ±¨Õ¡£ÎÒ³Ë×øÈÈÆøÇòƯ¸¡ÔÚŵÂüµ×µÄÌïÒ°ÉϿա£
µ½Èç½ñ,ÎÒȴͻȻ¾õµÃ,ÒªÊÇÄÄÌìÓÐËÔ¸Òâ½ÓÎҵĵ绰»ò¸øÎÒ»ØÐÅ,ÄÇÌì¾ÍËã×ßÔËÁË¡£
ÎÒÖªµÀ,¿ÖÅÂÔÚµ±½ñÃÀÀû¼áºÏÖÚ¹úµÄܿܿÖÚÉúÖÐûÓаٷÖÖ®Ò»,ÔÚµ±½ñµØÇòÇòÃñÖÐûÓÐǧ·ÖÖ®Ò»,ÄÜÕÒµ½Ò»¸ö¿°ÓëÎÒͬ²¡ÏàÁ¯µÄ¶ÔÏó¡£ÎÒÒ²ÖªµÀÊÂʵ±¾Ó¦Èç´Ë:ÊÔÏë,ÌæÒ»¸ö¾³¿öÆàÁ¹µ½·êÐÇÆÚÎåҪȥ´ò¸ß¶û·òÇòµÄÈËÄѹý,»áÊǺÎÖÖ¸ÐÊÜ£¿ÊÔÏë,ÌæÒ»¸ö¸øÈ˳´öÏÓãºó¾ÅÊ®°ËÌ컹ÄÜÌáȡȫн,ÇÒÉÐÓÐÊýÔÂȫн¹§ºò×ÅËû(²»¹ÜËûÊÇ·ñ̰Áµ¸ßÕí)µÄÈËÄѹý,»áÊǺÎÖÖ¸ÐÊÜ£¿
È»¶øÎÒÈ´²»¶Ï¹ËÓ°×ÔÁ¯¡£»¹ÏëÖÚÏàʶ¶¼À´¿ÉÁ¯ÎÒ¡£
ÎÒ×Ô²ÑÐλà,¸Ð¿®Á¼¶à:ÎÒŲ»¿É¶ô,¼Ì¶øÐ×Ïà±Ï¶;ÎÒ¼µ¶Ê,ÎÒº¦Å££×î´óÕßιýÓÚ×ÔÎÒÐßÀ¢¡£¼òÑÔÖ®,ÎÒÐßÀ¢×Ô¼ºÊ§Òµ,ÐßÀ¢°Ñ¼ÒŪ³ÉÕâ°ãº®í×,ÐßÀ¢ÈÃ×Ô¼º¡°ÐÐÕþ¡±ÁËÒ»·¬ºóÈ´Õó½Å´óÂÒ¡£ÎÒÐßÀ¢×Ô¼ºÊ§°Ü¡£Ìýµ½¸ô±ÚÄǼһïÔçÉÏ¿ªÐ¡Æû³µ¶øÈ¥µÄÉùÒô,ÎÒ±ãÐßÀ¢×Ô¼º»¹ÌÉÔÚ´²ÉÏ¡£ÎÒÐßÀ¢ÖÜÒ»ÖÁÖÜÎåµÄÏÂÎç¶¼°ÒÊ÷Ò¶,ÒòΪ×óÁÚÓÒÀï¶¼»áÖªµÀ(ºÃÏóËûÃÇ»¹²»ÖªËƵÄ)ÎÒÒÑÎÞ°à¿ÉÉÏ¡£¸ü²ÑÀ¢µÄÊÇ,Ãæ¶ÔÕâ¿´ËÆÓÐÉúÒÔÀ´×îÍ´¿àµÄΣ»ú,ÎÒÈ´ÈíÈõÎÞÄÜ;¶øÊµ¼ÊÉÏÓëÊýÒÔ°ÙÍò¼ÆÈËÌìÌìÃæ¶ÔµÄÎÊÌâÏà±È,ÕâÖ»ÊÇÇøÇø²»±ã¶øÒÑ¡£
È»¶ø,ÎҶʼÉËùÓÐÈÔÖ´ÎÒ¹ÊÒµµÄÈË,¶Ê¼É¼¸ºõËùÓÐÓй¤×öµÄÈË,ÎÒ¾ÍÊǶʼɡ£°ÑÎÒŪµ½Õâ°ãÌïµØµÄÈË,ËûÃÇ»¹ÔÚÖ§È¡¾Þ¶î¹¤×Ê,»¹ÔÚÀÛ»ý¾Þ¶îÍËÐݽð,ʹÎÒÑÛºì,ʹÎҷߺÞ,ʹÎÒÐ×Ïà±Ï¶¡£
ÎÒÑÛºìËùÓв»ÈçÎÒ¶à°ÑÎÕ»ú»á,¶øÈç½ñÈ´ÒÑÊ»½øÁËÎÞÓǸÛ(¾¡¹Ü²»ÓÕÈË)µÄÈË¡£ÕâÊÇÎÒ¶àÄêǰ±ãÒÑÑï·«µÄ¸Û:Óʾ֡¢º£¾ü¡¢ÈÕ±¨¼ÇÕß¡£ÎÒÒ²ÑÛºìÄÇЩ±ÈÎÒ¸ü°ÑÎÕ»ú»áµÄÈË¡£ËûÃDz»³î¹¤×Ê,²»³î¹«Ë¾,Äñʲ»³î¡£ÎҷѾ¡Ë¼Á¿ÏëÖªµÀ,ÒªÊÇÎÒ°ÑÎÕ¸ü¶àµÄ»ú»á,½ñʱ½ñÈÕ½«ÊÇʲôÑù¡£
Èç¹ûÑÛºì»áÖ°©µÄ»°,ÄÇôÎһ¹ýÐÇÆÚÌì¡£
³Á×Å,ÎÒ¶Ô×Ô¼ºËµ¡£±ðõâ·½²½¡£ÕÒЩÕý¾ÊÂ×ö¡£
µ«ÎÒ·¢ÏÖÎÒ×ö²»ÁËÕâÖÖÊÂÇé¡£
µ½Ê¥µ®½ÚÎÒ»áÊÇʲôÑùµÄ£¿
Ö¥¼Ó¸çһλÀÏÐÖ¸æËßÎÒ,¹ÜÀí×Éѯ¹«Ë¾µÄ¾ÞÍ·¡°¸¦Ë¹¡¤ÑÅÂס¤º²çѶع«Ë¾¡±ÕýÎïɫһλ¸ß¼¶¹«¹ØÐÐÕþÈËÔ±¡£Ëû²»ÖªµÀÕâÊÂÇé˹ܡ£ÎÒ×êµ½¸¦Ë¹¡¤ÑÅÂ×¹«Ë¾ÔÚÖ¥¼Ó¸ç°ìÊ´¦µÄ¾Óª»ï°éÃû×Ö,±ã°Ñ¼òÀúÁ¬ËæÒ»·ÝÏêϸµÄ˵Ã÷¼ÄÈ¥¡£ÎÒ¸øËûÃÇ·¢Íê´«ÕæÓÖ¼ÄÐÅ¡£ËûûÓлØÒô¡£
¾ÉîÈë´ò̽,·¢ÏÖ¹ÜÎïÉ«¹¤×÷µÄ¸ù±¾²»ÊÇÄǾӪ»ï°é,¶øÊǸ¦Ë¹¡¤ÑÅÂ×¹«Ë¾µÄ¸±Ö÷ϯ,Ãû˼ÀÖÊ¿¡¤·ÑÀ׵¼¡£ËûµÄ°ìÊ´¦Ò²ÔÚÖ¥¼Ó¸ç¡£ÎÒ²»´ÇÀÍ¿àÓÖÐÞÊéÒ»·â,Á¦Ê¹·ÑÀ׵¼ÏÈÉúÊÓÎÒΪ²Å»ªºáÒç¡¢¾Ã¾¿¼Ñé¶ø·Çĩ·Çî;֮ÈË¡£Í¬ÑùµØ·¢Íê´«ÕæÓÖ·¢ÐÅ,ͬÑùµØÃ»ÓлØÒô¡£
ÎÒÖµç·ÑÀ׵¼µÄ°ì¹«ÊÒ¡£Ëû²»ÔÚ³ÇÀï¡£ÎÒÏȱíÃ÷Éí·Ý,ºó°Ñ¼Ä³öµÄ¶«Î÷ÃèÊöÁËÒ»±é,µç»°ÁíһͷµÄÅ®ÈËÔò³ÐÈ϶«Î÷ÒÑÊÕµ½¡£ÎÒÕýÏëŪÇå³þÓзñ´¦Àíʱ,ËýÈ´ÏòÎÒÃ÷˵ËýûÐËȤºÍÎÒ̸ÏÂÈ¥¡£
Ä©ÁË,ÎÒ¸ø·ÑÀ׵¼·¢ÁËÒ»·â¶ÌÐÅ,˵ÎÒijÌì»áÔÚÖ¥¼Ó¸ç,Èç¹ûËûÓпռûÎҵϰ,ÎÒ¿ÉÒÔµ½Ëû°ì¹«ÊÒÈ¥×øÒ»×ø¡£ÎÒ˵Ðŵ½ËûÊÖÉÏÐ뼸Ììʱ¼ä,ÆäºóÎÒ»áÔÙ´òµç»°¸øËû¡£Ò»ÏëÆðÒªÔÙ¸úÄÇÀä±ù±ùµÄÅ®ÈËͨ»°,ÎÒ±ãÈç¹øÉÏÂìÒϰ㷳Ôê²»°²ÆðÀ´¡£
ËûÃÇÊǺη½ÉñÊ¥£¿ËûÃÇËãÀϼ¸£¿Ôø¼¸ºÎʱ££¾¡¹ÜÈç½ñÓÐʱÄÑÒÔÖÃÐÅ££ÎÒ×Ô¼º±ãÊǸö´óæÈË¡£ÏòÎһ㱨µÄÈ˱ãÓм¸Ê®¸ö,ÊÖÍ·Óи´ÔÓ¡¢ÅÓ´óµÄ¼Æ»®Òª¹Ü,²»ÕÛ²»¿ÛµÄΣ»úÕûÌìÔÚ½ÐÈÂ,½ÐÎÒÎÞ·¨µôÒÔÇáÐÄ¡£ÎÒҪȥµÄµØ·½´ó°Ñ,µç»°Ò»ÌìÏì¶þÈýÊ®±é££³¹Í·³¹Î²µÄ¡°ÆóÒµÐÐÕþÈËÔ±ç²ÃΡ±¡£µ«´ÓδÓÐÈË´òµç»°¸øÎÒ¶øµÃ²»µ½´ð¸´µÄ,ͨ³£»¹ÊÇÂùѸËٵġ£´ÓδÓÐÈ˸øÎÒдÐŶøµÃ²»µ½»Ø¸´µÄ¡£Ò»¸öҲûÓС£´ÓδÊÔ¹ý¡£Á¬³ôÆ¢ÆøµÄÈËÒàÈ»¡£ÉõÖÁÄÇЩ¸ù±¾ÁÁ²»³ö×ʸñÖ¤Ã÷È´¼á³ÖÒª¸úÎÒ̸Õâ·½Ãæ¹¤×÷µÄÈËÒàÈ»¡£ÎÒÄÇʱÊDz»ÊÇ·èÁË£¿
ÎÒ¸ú×Ô¼º½²:·èʤÓÚ¿ñ¡£·èʤÓÚÓ²Ðij¦¡£·èÓë³ÕʤÓÚ˼ÀÖÊ¿¡¤·ÑÀ׵¼֮Á÷¡¡
Õâʱµç»°ÁåÏìÁË¡£µç»°ÀïµÄÄÐ×Ó×Ô³ÆÊÇŦԼµÄµÏ¿Ë¡¤½ðɪ¡£Ëû˵ËûÊÇ˼ÀÖÊ¿¡¤·ÑÀ׵¼µÄÐÐÕþ¹ÍÔ±££Ë¼ÀÖÊ¿Õæ¹»ÅóÓÑ£¡ÎÒÔõôÕâô²»½üÈËÇ鵨¿´ËûÄØ£¿££Ïë¸úÎÒ̸̸¸¦Ë¹¡¤ÑÅÂ×¹«Ë¾µÄ¹¤×÷¡£ËûÃ÷ÌìÒªµ½µ×ÌØÂÉ¡£ÎÒÄÜÔÚ»ú³¡¼ûËûô£¿
µ«´ÓÎÒÃÇÔÚ»ú³¡¼ûÃæÄÇÒ»¿ÌÆð, ½ðɪµÄ̬¶È±ã½ÐÈËÐÄÁ¹¡£ÎÒÃÇ×øÔÚ¿§·ÈͤÀïÂþÎޱ߼ʵØÙ©´óɽʱ,ËûÒ²²»¼ûµÃÓÐË¿ºÁµÄÈÈÇé¡£ÎÒ¿ªÊ¼µ£ÐÄËû×Ô¼ºÃ»ÓÐÏàÖÐÎÒ,ÕâÒâζ×ÅÎÒÓÀÔ¶Ò²×ö²»³ÉËûÏ׸øË¼ÀÖÊ¿¡¤·ÑÀ׵¼µÄÕ½ÀûÆ·ºÍÀñÎï.
Õâ»á²»»áÔì³ÉËû°ÑÆäËûÈË,Ëû×Ô¼ºÏàÖеÄÈËÑ¡,·ÅÔÚÎÒǰͷ£¿ÎÒÊÇ·ñÓ¦ÏÈÁªÏµËû,¶ø²»ÊÇ·ÑÀ׵¼£¿µ±È»Ó¦¸Ã¡£Ôõô¸öÁªÏµ·¨£¿Á¬·ÑÀ׵¼ÔÚÓÃÖ°Òµ¡°ºìÄÎÒ¶¼²»ÖªµÀÁ¨¡£·ÑÀ׵¼ҲºÃ,ËûµÄÃØÊéÒ²ºÃ££ÔÙ²»È»,µÚÒ»¸öÎÒÏëÁªÏµµÄÈËÒ²ºÃ££ËûÃÇÀÏÔç¾Í¸Ã¸æËßÎÒÁËѽ¡£ËûÃÇû˵,Õâ¿É²»ÊÇÎÒµÄ´í¡£
½ðɪҪÎÒ¼ÄÒ»Á¬´®½éÉÜПøËûÔÚŦԼµÄ°ìÊ´¦¡£ÍêÁËËûÓָıäÖ÷Òâ,˵ÎÒÓ¦¸Ã´«Õæ²ÅÊÇ¡£Î´¾µ±ÊÂÈËÃæÊÔ¾ÍÔçÔçÒª¿´½éÉÜÐŵÄ,ÔÚÎÒ¹ýÍùµÄ¾ÀúÀï,ʵÊôº±¼û¡£½ðɪ½ÐÎÒ·¢´«Õæ¸øËûÒ»ÊÂÒ²½ÐÎÒãµÈ»¡£²»¹ý,ûʶù¡£Ëµ²»¶¨ËµÃ÷ÁËËûÐÄÀïÃæ¸ü¸ÐÐËÈ¤ÄØ,¼´Ê¹Ëû¾ö²»»áÏòÎÒË÷È¡ÐÅÓÃÖ¤Ã÷¡£ËûËÆºõ¼±ÓÚÒª¶ÔÎÒ²é¸öË®Âäʯ³ö,Õâµ¹²»»áÊǸö»µÏûÏ¢¡£
µ×ÌØÂÉÖ®ÐкóÊýÐÇÆÚ,ÒôѶȫÎÞ¡£ÎÒÏò½éÉÜÐÅÀïÌá¼°µÄÈË´òÌý¡£¶¼ËµÃ»½Ó¹ýµç»°¡£ÄÄÀïÌý¹ýÓÐÖ°ÒµºìÄïÈÃÈ˼ÒǰÀ´Ó¦Õ÷¶ø²»¸ø±¨Ïú··ÑµÄ¡£ÓÉÓÚ½Ó֪ͨʱ¼ä¶Ì´Ù,ÎÒÂòµÄ»úƱ»¹¹óµÃÀëÆ×¡£¿ÉÊÇÒª°ÑÕâǮҪ»ØÀ´²»ÈÝÒס£ÎÒÈý·¬ËĴδòµç»°È¥ÎÊ,¿É¾ÍÊǹý²»Á˽ðÉªÃØÊéÄÇÒ»¹Ø,ÓÀÔ¶µÃ²»µ½Ò»¸öÈ·ÇеĴ𸴡£
µ½µ×»¹ÊǼÄÀ´ÁËÒ»¸öÐÅ·â,ÀïÃæÃ»ÐÅ,È´ÓÐÒ»ÕÅ֧Ʊ¡£ÎÒ°µ×ÔÇìÐÒûÅâÁËËİٿ顣Õâ±ãÊÇÎÒÊÕµ½Àí²éµÂ¡¤½ðɪºÍ˼ÀÖÊ¿¡¤·ÑÀ׵¼Á½È˵Ä×îºóÒôѶ¡£
ÄúÒªÊÇÅöµ½ÕâÖÖÊÂÇéµÄ»°,ÎÒÏëÎÒ¶¼¿ÉÒÔ˵³öÊÇʲô»ØÊ¡£µ±Ò»ÇÐ×¼±¸¾ÍÐ÷ºó,ËûÃÇ»áÊ×ÏȰÑÄúŪ³ö°ì¹«ÊÒ,È»ºó´øÄúµ½Ò»¼ä·¿Àï,ÈÃÄúºÍÈËÁ¦×ÊÔ´²¿Äĸö¹ÖÌ¥ÔÚÒ»¿é¶ù¡£
ÄúÒªÊǸ±×ܲÃ,ÄÇôÄúµÄÐÐÐ̹ٱãÒ²»áÊǸ±×ܲã£Ëµ²»¶¨»¹ÊǸö¸ß¼¶¸±×ܲá£Ö÷ÈζÔÖ÷ÈÎ,¾Àí¶Ô¾Àí,Èç´ËÀàÍÆ,¼¸ÖÁ½ñʱ½ñÈÕ»¹ÔÚÕâÃÀÀû¼áºÏÖÚ¹úʵʵÔÚÔÚµØÎª¿Ú±¼ÃüµÄÀ¶ÁìÒ»×å¡£
´òÄú½øÃÅÄÇÒ»¿ÌÆð,±ã¼ûÈË×ʲ¿ÄǹÖÌ¥¿àÐÎÓÚÉ«¡£ËûÒª½ÐÄúÃ÷°×,ËûͬÑùÊÇÈËÒ»¸ö,ÊÇÁ¼Ãñ,ËûÄïÇ×Ñø´óËû¿É²»ÊdzåןÉÕâµÈʶùÀ´µÄ¡£
(ÎÒ°ÑÕâЩÈË»½×÷¡°¹ÖÌ¥¡±ÊÇ·ñºúÄÖ£¿Õâ´Ê¶ùÔÖ¸ÔÚ¼ÎÄ껪»áºÍÂôÎï»áÉÏΪͼ¼¸¸öÇ®¶ø×ö¶ñÐÄʵÄÈË¡£ÎÒµ¹Ò»µã¶¼²»¾õµÃºúÄÖ¡£)
¡°ÌìÄÄ,¡± Âó¿ËµÀ¶û¡¤µÀ¸ñÀ˹¹«Ë¾ÈËÁ¦×ÊÔ´²¿µÄ¸ß¼¶¸±×ܲÃÔÚ³´ÎÒ֮ǰµÄÊ®³®ÖÓ˵µÀ¡£¡°ÎÒµÄÌì,ÕâÊÂÇéÕæ²»ºÃ°ìÄÄ¡£¡±ËûÀ³¤££Ó¦¸Ã˵ÊÇŤÇú×ÅÁ³,×øÔÚÒÎ×ÓÉÏ¡£½Ó×ÅËûÓֻλØÎÒÕâ±ßÀ´,´ÒæÂñÍ·×öËûµÄ¹¤×÷¡£
Ò»µ©Õâ¹ÖÌ¥·¢ÍêÐÅÏ¢,±íÑݹý´ó´È´ó±¯,±ã»áÕ¾ÆðÀ´,ÈÆ°ì¹«×À¶µÒ»È¦Åܵ½Äú¸úǰÀ´¡£Äú±ã»á¸øËûÓÃijÖÖÀàËÆ´Å³¡µÄÉñÃØÁ¦Á¿ÎüÒýס,ÒಽÒàÇ÷¡£È»ºóÄãÃÇÁ©½Å¼â´ÌÁï´ÌÁïµØ³öÁËÃÅ,´©¹ý´óÌü,µ½ÁËÒ»¼äÄúºÜ¿ÉÄÜ´ÓÀ´Ã»ÓÐÁôÒâ¹ýµÄС°ì¹«ÊÒ¡£°ì¹«ÊÒÀïÓÐÒ»¸öÓëÄúËØÎ´Ä±ÃæµÄÈËÕýµÈ×ÅÏòÄú˵:²»Òªµ£ÐÄ,Ã÷Ìì»á¸üºÃ¡£
ÓÐʱºò,¹§ºòÕßÁíÓÐÆäÈË,ËûÃǾÍÔÚÓëÄúÒ»³ßÖ®Ò£µÄÁíÍâһЩС·¿¼äÀï;²»¹ýÄúÒªÊÇ¹æ¹æ¾Ø¾ØµÄ»°,±ãºÍËûÃÇÓÀ²»Ïàʶ¡£±È·½Ëµ,˵²»¶¨Óй«Ë¾µÄÂÉʦÔÚ³¡¡£ÄúÊǼû²»µ½ËûµÄ,³ý·ÇÄúÓï´ø²»¾¡Éƾ¡ÃÀ¡¢ÐÄÓв»¸ÊÖ®Ò⡣˵²»¶¨»¹Óб£°²¶ãÓÚÁ½ÅÔÄØ¡£
ÔÚС°ì¹«ÊÒÀï¹§ºòÄúµÄİÉúÈË,Ò²¾ÍÊǸæËßÄúÃ÷Ìì»á¸üºÃÄǸö,ÊÇÀ´×ÔÔÙ¾ÍÒµ×Éѯ²¿µÄ¹ÖÌ¥¡£ËûÊÇÀ´¡°Ö¸ÒýÄú˳Àû¹ý¶É¡±µÄ,н³ê²»±¡¡£
ÕâÔÙ¾ÍÒµ×Éѯ²¿¹ÖÌ¥×¼ÊÇÉÆÀàÖ®´ó³Ë¡£´ËÄËËûÈÎÖ°µÄÊ×ÒªÔÒòÖ®Ò»¡£Ëû»á²»ÎÞÍïϧµØ³¯Äúݸ¶ûһЦ¡£Ëû»á˵ËûÃ÷°×ÊÂÇéÀ´µÃͻȻ,µ«ËûÒ²ÖªµÀÆäÖØÒªÐÔ:ºÜ¿ÉÄÜÕâ¾ÍÊǸüÃÀºÃÈËÉúµÄ¿ªÊ¼,ÓÚÄúÈç´Ë,ÓÚÄúÈ«¼ÒÓÈÉõ¡£Ëû×Ô¼ºÒªÊÇÕæ¸øÈ˼ҳ´¹ýöÏÓãµÄ»°,Ëû±ã»á½²¸øÄúÌý,¹Ä¶¯ÄúΪÕâÖÖ¾øÃîµÄ½á¾Ö½ÐºÃ¡£Òª²»¾Í°ÑËûÒÔǰһÁ½¸öµ±ÊÂÈ˵ÄÊÂÇé˵¸øÄúÌý££ÆäÖÐÒ»¸öÈçºÎÈçºÎ³ÉÁËÈøÄ¦ÑÇÏÖ½ñµÄ¹úÍõ,ÁíÒ»¸öÓÖÈçºÎÈçºÎÔÚÏÂÖÜÓÐÍû»ñŵ±´¶û½±ÌáÃû¡£Ëû»áÎÊÄú¼ÒÀïÒ»ÇÐÊÇ·ñ°²ºÃ,ÊÇ·ñ¾õµÃÄÑÒÔÏò×ð·òÈËÆô³Ý¡£Äúһ˵²»,Ëû¾Í¸øÄúÒ»ÕÅÃûƬ,¶Ø´ÙÄúÉÔ°²ÎãÔï,²»¹ýÒªµ½Ëû°ì¹«ÊÒÈ¥¼ûËû¡£
¡°ÎÒÖªµÀÊÂÇéµ½ÁËÕâÖֵز½Ò»Ê±½ÐÈËÄÑÒÔÖÃÐÅ,¡±µÚÒ»¸öÔÙ¾ÍÒµ×Éѯ²¿À´µÄ¹ÖÌ¥¶ÔÎÒ˵µÀ,¡°²»¹ýÕâÇ§ÕæÍòÈ·,×îÖÕ»á³ÉΪÄúƽÉúµÚÒ»¿ìÊ¡£¡±
ÄǹÖÌ¥×ÔÊÓΪ·ÇµÈÏÐÖ®±²,ÊÇÎÕÉúɱ´óȨµÄ½ÓÉúÆÅ,¶ø·ÇÉÆºóµÄ´Ó·¸¡£Õ⵱Ȼ¿ÉÒÔÀí½â¡£°ÑÎÒÃÇ´øµ½ÈËÊÀµÄĸÇ×ÃÇ,ÓÖÓжàÉÙ¸öÌæÎÒÃÇ×÷¹ýÈç´Ë´òËãµÄÄØ¡£ÎªÇ®¶øÎªÖ®,ÎÒÃÇÖÐÓÖÓжàÉÙ¸öÄØ¡£
¿µÄùµÒ¸ñÖÝÓиö¸çÃǶù,ÊÇÎÒÅóÓѵÄÅóÓÑ,¸æËßÎÒ¡°¿É°ôÖÆÆ·¡±ÕýÒªÈË¡£ÎÒÒ»Ö±µÈµ½Áùµã¸Õ¹ý,²Å¸øÄǹ«Ë¾¹ÜÈËÁ¦×ÊÔ´µÄ¸±×ܲÿƵÚÊ¿¡¤ÂíÑÅÊ¿´òÁ˸öµç»°¡£´ó°×ÌìÀïÀÏÔç»òÀÏÍí´òµç»°,²»Ê§ÎªÉϲß:ÄǸöʱºòµÄÃØÊéͨ³£¶¼²»Éϰࡣ½ñÌì¾Í×àЧ: ÂíÑÅÊ¿×Ô¸ö¶ù½Óµç»°,¶øÇÒûÔÚÎÒ´Òæ½éÉÜ×Ô¼ºµÄʱºò¹Ò»ú¡£ÎÒ˵Ìý˵ËûÕýÒªÒ»¸öÐÐÕþ¹«¹Ø¡£ÎªÃâÔÙÖý³ÉÉÏ´ÎÓ븦˹¡¤ÑÅÂ×¹«Ë¾´ò½»µÀµÄ´ó´í,ÎÒÎÊÄÜ·ñÖªµÀ¸ºÔðÎïÉ«ÈËÑ¡µÄ¹ÍÔ±Ãû×Ö¡£
¡°ÄúÕÒ˹µÛ·Ò¡¤Î÷¶ÙÊÔÊÔ¿´,¡±Ëû˵µÀ¡£¡°ËûÔÚŦԼ,¡±Ëæ¼´¹Ò»ú¡£ÔÚÎÒÄDZ¾¡¶ÐÐÕþÈËÔ±ÕÐļָÄÏ¡·Å¦Ô¼À¸Àï,ÓÐÒ»½Ð¡°Î÷¶ÙÁªÓª¹«Ë¾¡±µÄ¡£Àϰå¹ûÈ»ÊǽÐ˹µÛ·Ò¡¤Î÷¶Ù¡£µ±Íí,ÎÒ»¨ÁË´ó°ëҹȥдÐÅ,дÁËÓÖ¸Ä,¸ÄÁËÓÖд¡£
Ò,ÎÒÊ×ÏÈ´òµç»°¸øÎ÷¶ÙµÄ°ì¹«ÊÒÒª´«ÕæºÅÂ롣ȻºóÇý³µÍù¡°ÁªÓ¡¡±É̵ê°ÑÐźͼòÀúÒ»Æð´«Õæ¹ýÈ¥¡£½Ó×ÅÎÒ°ÑËüÃÇÒ»Æð·Å½øÒ»¸öţƤÐÅ·âÀï,Çý³µµ½Óʵç¾ÖÈ¥¼ÄÁË¡°¼±¼þ¡±¡£
´ÎÍíÎ÷¶ÙÀ´µç»°¡£ÎÒÃÇ̸Á˺ó¤Ê±¼ä¡£ËûÄÃÎҵļòÀúÒ»ÐÐÒ»Ðк˶Ô,Îʳ¤ÎʶÌ,ÎÞËù²»ÎÊ¡£
¡°Õâ¸ö,¡±Ä©ÁËËû˵µÀ,¡°×ܵĿ´À´Ó¡Ïó»¹ÊÇÂùÉî¿ÌµÄ¡£±íÃæÀ´Ëµ¡£Ä¿Ç°¿´À´ÊÇ¡£¡±
±íÃæÀ´Ëµ£¿ÄѵÀËûÒÔΪÎÒÊǼÙðµÄ²»³É£¿
ËûÒªÎÒÐÎÈÝÒ»ÏÂ×Ô¼ºµÄ³¤Ïà¡£ÎÒÚ«Ú«¶øÑÔʱ,Ëû±ãÎÊÎÒÓжà¸ß¡£ÎÒÓжàÖØ¡£Ð¡ºú×Ó»¹ÊÇ´óºúÐë¡£²¢½ÐÎÒ°ÑÕÕÆ¬¼Ä¸øËû¡£
ʲô£¿
ÎÒºÍËû˵ºÃ,½«ÎÒ×÷Æ·µÄÑùÆ·Ò²¼ÄЩ¸øËû¿´¡£
Ϊ´ïÖÁÈÃËû¾õµÃÎҲŻªºáÒç¡¢»îÆÃ»úÖǶø·Ç×ßͶÎÞ·µÄÄ¿µÄ,ÎÒÔٴηü°¸ÐÞÊéÖÁÉîÒ¹¡£Ö±ÖÁÐÄÂúÒâ×ã,ÎҲŰÑÐÅ×°ÈëÐÅ·â,Á¬´øÒ»ÞûºñºñµÄ×ôÖ¤: ¹«Ë¾Ä걨¡¢ÎÄÕ¼°ÑÝ´Ç¡¢Ö®Ç°Á½·Ý¹¤×÷µÄÕýʽ²ÄÁÏ¡¢Áìµ¼¹ýµÄ²¿ÃÅͼ±í,ÒÔ¼°Ò»·ÝÖ¤Ã÷Ò»¸ö±à¼²¿ÓÉÎÒ¹ÜÁËÆßÄêºó±»ÆÀΪ¹ú¼ÒÒ»Á÷ÉÌÒµ±à¼²¿Ãŵĵ÷Ñб¨¸æ¡£ÎÒ´§×ŹÄÄÒÄҵĻÆÉ«ÐÅ·â,ÔçÉÏÓʾֿªÃŵÄʱºò¾Íµ½ÁËÀïÃæ¡£
ÔÚ½ÓÏÂÀ´ÄÇÐÇÆÚ³õ,Î÷¶Ù´òµç»°À´ËµËûÒÑÊÕµ½ÎÒµÄÐÅ·â,ÀïÃæµÄ¶«Î÷´ó¶¼¿¼²é¹ý,¾õµÃ¡°Ó¡Ïó·Ç³£Éî¿Ì££¼Ù¶¨¾È«²¿ºËʵÎÞÎ󡣡±
ËûÒÔΪÕâ¶«Î÷ÊÇÎÒÄóÔì³öÀ´µÄ?
ÊýÈÕºó,ÎÒµÖ¼Òʱ·¢ÏÖÒ»¿ÚÐÅ,˵Î÷¶ÙÒªÎÒ´òµç»°¸øËû¡£
¡°ÄúÌýÎÒ½²,¡±ÎÒÕÒµ½ËûºóËû˵µÀ,¡°ÎÒÏÖÔÚÔÚ¿ª»á,²»Äܽ²»°¡£²»¹ýÄú¿ÉÒªÖªµÀ,ÄúÈ¥¡°¿É°ô¡±ÄÇÊÂÎÒÕæµÄºÜ¸ÐÐËȤ¡£ÎҺܿì»áÔÙÁªÂçÄúµÄ¡£Õâ´ÎÕÐļ¾ø¶Ô(Õâ¡°¾ø¶Ô¡±ËµµÃÌØÖØ)ûÄã²»³É¡£ÎÒ»áºÜ¿ìÔÙÁªÂçÄúµÄ££¶¥¶à¼¸¸öСʱ,²»»áÊǼ¸Ìì¡£Äú½«»áÔÙÌýµ½ÎÒµÄÉùÒô,¶¥¶à¼¸¸öСʱ,²»»áÊǼ¸Ìì¡£¡±
³å×ÅÎ÷¶ÙÕâ»°,ÎÒ¿ªÊ¼¿´ÖÓ¡£ÊÇÈÕ,ÒÔûµÚ¶þ¸öµç»°À´¸æÖÕ¡£´ÎÈÕÈç´Ë,Ò»ÖÜÒàÈ»¡£½ÓÏÂÀ´ÊýÖܶø·ÇÊýÈÕ,ÒàÈ»¡£¹ýÁ˺þÃ,ÎÒÏë´òµç»°¸øËû,ûÕÒµ½ÈË,±ãÁôÏÂÃû×ֺ͵绰ºÅÂë¡£
Ò»ÐÇÆÚºóµÄÒ»¸öÐÇÆÚÌìÍíÉÏ,ÅËĽºÍÎÒµÖ¼Òʱ·¢Ïֵ绰¼Òô»úÉÏÓиö¿ÚÐÅ¡£Ë¹µÛ·Ò¡¤Î÷¶ÙÔÚ¼ÒôÀïÓÐÆøÃ»Á¦µØËµ,ËûÏÖÔÚ¸øÎһػ°À´¡£ËûÁôÁËËû¼ÒµÄµç»°ºÅÂë,µ«·Ô¸ÀÎÒ²»ÒªÔÚŦԼʱ¼äÊ®µã°ë(ÕýºÃ¾ÍÊÇÎÒÌýµ½¿ÚÐŵÄʱ¼ä)ºó´òÈÅËû¡£ÎÒ¿à¿à˼Ë÷Ò»·¬ºó,¾ö¶¨:µÈ¡£
ÒÎÒ´òµç»°È¥,Ö»ÁôÁ˸ö¿ÚÐÅ,Ò»ÎÞËù»ñ¡£°øÍíʱÎÒ¸øËû¼ÒÀï´òÁ˸öµç»°¡£ËûÆÞ×ÓÐ˸߲ÉÁÒµØËµËû³öÈ¥Ò»»á¶ù¾Í»Ø,²»¹ýºÜ¿ì»á¸øÎһص硣
ËûûÓлص硣ÔÙҲûÓС£ÖÕÓÚ,¹ýÁ˺öà¸öÐÇÆÚÖ®ºó,Ëû´Ó°ì¹«ÊÒ¼ÄÀ´Ò»·âÐÅ¡£ÐÅÀïÊÇÒ»ÔòÏûÏ¢µÄ¸´Ó¡¼þ,³Æ¡°¿É°ôÖÆÆ·¹«Ë¾¡±ÒÑίÈÎÁËÒ»ÃûеÄͨѶ²¿¸±×ܲá£
¶á¿ýÕßÊÇÖ¥¼Ó¸çÈË¡£ÎÒÈϵÃËûµÄÃû×Ö¡£´ËÈËÕýÊÇÊ×ÏȸæËßÎÒ¡°¿É°ô¡±ÕÒÈËÄǼһ
ÊÀ½çÕæÏ¸¡£
½á¾ÖÓò»×ųɯäΪÎÒÉúƽ֮µÚÒ»¿ìÊ¡£Ö»Òª²»ÊÇ´óÄÑÁÙÍ·,ÎÒ±ãÐÄÂúÒâ×ã,¸Ð¼¤ÌéÁã¡£Ö»Òª¸øÎÒÒ»·Ýй¤×÷ÁÄ¿ÉÇü¾Í,ÈÕ×Ó²»ÖÁÓÚ¹ýµÃµßÈýµ¹ËÄ,ÆÞ¶ù²»ÖÁÓÚÉËÐIJ»¾ø¡£¹ûÕæÈç´Ë££ÎÒ¸Ò·¢ÊÄ££ÎÒµ±¹òµØÐ»¶÷ÒÓ¡£
²»¹ý,ÎÒÔÙÈý¿¼ÂǵÄ,²»ÊÇÄǼ¤¶¯ÈËÐĵÄлúÓö»òÈÔδµ½À´Ö®¿ìÊ¡£
ÎÒ¿¼ÂǵÄÊDz©±È¡¤ÇÇ˹* ¡£
²©±È¡¤ÇÇ˹סÎÒ¸ô±ÚʱÎÒ»¹Ð¡¡£ËûÔÚÖÐѧÀï±ÈÎÒ¸ßÒ»Äê¼¶¡£ËûÊǵäÐ͵İ®¶ûÀ¼ÄÐ×Ó:¸ß´óÓ¢¿¡,·¢ºÚ,·ô°×ÈçÑ©££ÌåÐν¡ÃÀ,ΪÈËÅ£Æø,˵»°ÓÀÔ¶¼âËá¿Ì±¡¡£ÎÒһ˵ÆðËû,×ÜÃâ²»ÁËÔÚÄÔÀ︡ÏÖËûÄÇ×ì½À¿ÚÏãÌÇ,Ò»¸±¹·Å«²ÅËÆµÄЦÈÝ¡£Ëû¸øÎÒÃÇʾ·¶ÈçºÎÔÚÄÄÅ´©×źÚÅÛ·¨ÒºͰ×ÅÛ·¨Òµij¡ºÏ,¶¼ÄÜÕÕÑùÀäÈô±ù˪¡£ÎÒÏàÐÅËû×öÃÖÈöÖú¼ÀʱÊDz»½À¿ÚÏãÌǵÄ,Ö»ÊǺÜÈÝÒ×±ãÕâÑùÏëËû¡£
ÖÐѧ±ÏÒµÈýÊ®Äêºó,ÓÐÒ»´ÎÔÚÉÌ񵂿³ÔÎç·¹,²Å·¢ÏÖºÍÎÒÁÚ×ÀÕßÔÀ´ÓÖÊÇÒ»¸öÀÏÁÚ¾Ó££Õ¼ÃÀ¡¤ÄªÄɺ±¡£Õ¼ÃÀ±È²©±È¡¤ÇÇ˹´ó¼¸Äê¼¶,´Ó¶øÒ²±ÈÎÒ´ó¼¸Äê¼¶¡£²»¹ýËûÏòÀ´ÓÑÉÆ,ÄÄŶÔÎÒÃÇÕâЩС¹íÒ²Ò»Ñù¡£ÎÒ¼ûËûʱÊÇÒ»¼Ò±£ÏÕ¹«Ë¾µÄ¹ã¸æ²¿¾Àí¡£Ö»¼ûËûÐÎÈÝ¿ÝéÂ,Ò»¸±²»Éƹ۲ìÊÀÇéµÄÑÛ¾¦ÏÔ¶×ÅÆ£Ì¬,»îÍÑÍÑÒ»¸öÈÕ×Ó¹ýµÃ²¢²»ÇáËɵÄÕý¾ÈË¡£ÎçÑç±Ï,ÎÒÃÇÕý³¯´óÃÅ×ßÈ¥µÄʱºò,Ëû²»ÖªÔõµÄÌáÆðÁ˲©±È¡¤ÇÇ˹,˵ËûÈçºÎÈçºÎÁʵ¹,ÊÂÇéÈçºÎÈçºÎ·¢ÉúµÈµÈ¡£
ÕâÎÒÄÄÄܷŹý,·ÇÎʲ»¿É¡£²©±È×öÁË»á¼Æ,Õ¼ÃÀ˵,ÔÚͬһ¼ä¹«Ë¾¸ÉÁ˼¸Ê®Äêºó²Åʧҵ¡£ÕÒÁËÒ»Ä깤×÷²»»ñ,²©±È±ã×ÔɱÁË¡£ËûÊÇ´ÓÁªºÏ´óµÀ¸ß¼ÜÇÅÉÏÌøµ½¾ÉÌú·¹ìÉÏˤËÀµÄ¡£ÄÇÀï´¦ÓÚÎÒÃÇÇøµÄ±±±ß,ÊÇÎÒÃÇ×öѧͯʱÔÚÒ»¿é¶ùµÄµØ·½¡£
ÎÒ²»ÖªµÀÊÂÇé·¢ÉúÔÚʲô¼¾½Ú¡£µ«ÐÄÀï¾õµÃÊÇÔÚÒ»¸öÒõÀäµÄ¶¬ÈÕ,¾ÍÈç¡¶ÂëÍ·¹¤ÈË¡·ÉϼûµÄ¾µÍ·ÄÇÑù:Ò·þÁì×Ó²»¹ÜºÚµÄ°×µÄÈ«´©³ÉÍùÉÏ·Æð¡£ÑÛǰ¸¡ÏÖ³öÒ»¸öÔªÆøºÄ¾¡µÄºº×Ó,·¹ý¸ß¼ÜÇÅÉϼá¹ÌµÄÀ¸¸ËÌøÏµÄÇé¾°,µ«ÎÞ·¨°ÑËûºÍ¼ÇÒäÖеÄÃÀÉÙÄê³¶ÔÚÒ»¿é¶ù¡£
²©±È¡¤ÇÇ˹,º¢×ÓÃǵÄÎÞÃáÖ®Íõ,¾¹ÒòÒ»Äêû»î¸É¶øËÀÈ¥¡£
ÒªÊÇ˵ÔÙ¾ÍÒµ×Éѯ²¿Ïñʲô¶«Î÷µÄ»°,ÄǺܿÉÄܾÍÊÇÁ¶ÓüÁË¡£Äú²»ÏëÈ¥¡£ÄúҲȥ²»ÁË,Ö»ÒªÄúÉÆÁ¼Ò»µã¶ù»ò´ÏÃ÷Ò»µã¶ù»òÐÒÔËÒ»µãµÄ»°¡£È¥ÄǶùΨһ¿Éȡ֮´¦ÊǾ¡Ò»Çа취³öÀ´¡£¶ø²Ð¿áµÄÊÂʵȴ½ÐÄúîªÄ¿½áÉà,²»¸ÒÏàÐÅ¡£ÄDZãÊÇ,ÄúÆäʵÒѾËÀÈ¥¡£
ÄúÖ®ËùÒÔÀ´µ½ÔÙ¾ÍÒµ×Éѯ²¿,ÊÇÒòΪÄúµÄÉÏÈÎÀϰ廨ÁËǮҪÄúÀ´¡£½øÀ´ÕâÀïµÄ´ú¼Û²»±¡,±ê×¼ÊǸóÏÂÒ»¸ö°ëԵŤ×Ê¡£¸óϵõ½ÁËÒ»¿é¹¤×÷¿Õ¼ä,Óа칫̨Óе绰»¹ÓÐÒ»ºø¿§·È,ÓÐÎÄÃØºÍ¸÷Öְ칫É豸¹©Äú²îDz,»¹ÓÐÉٵÿÉÁ¯ÍдÇ˵ͼÊé¹ÝµÄ¶«Î÷¹©ÄúʹÓá£ÄúºÍ±ðÈ˹²Ïí½Ó´ýÔ±µÄ·þÎñ¡£½Ó´ýÔ±½Óµç»°Ê±»á˵¡°ÐÐÕþ°ì¡±,ÒªÊǸóÏÂÔËÆøºÃÀ´ÁË¿ÚÐÅ,»¹»á°ïÄú°ÑËü¼ÇÏÂÀ´¡£²»¹ÜÖÐÓÃÓë·ñ,¸óÏÂ×Ô¼ºÎ¯ÈεĹËÎÊ»áÏòÄúÖÒ¸æµãʲô,¹Ä¹ÄÆø,׳׳µ¨¡£
Äú¿ÉÒÔÿÌì,ÿÁ½Ìì,ÿÖÜ»òÿÔÂÈ¥Ò»ÌËÔÙ¾ÍÒµ×Éѯ²¿¡£ÕâÈ¡¾öÓÚÄúµÄ¾öÐÄÓжà´ó,»òÊÂÇéÓжàÎÞÄΡ£Èç¹ûû±ðµÄ»°,ÔÙ¾ÍÒµ×Éѯ²¿»á¸øÄúÕÒ¸ö½è¿Ú,´ò·¢ÄúÒ»´óÔç´©Éϰ׳ÄÒÂ,½áºÃÁì´ø,¿ª³µ³öÃŶøÈ¥,Ê¡µÃÄú³ÉÌì´©×Å˯ÒÂ,Ê¡µÃÄúÂýÂýµØÂÙΪֲÎïÈË¡£
ÒªÊÇÄú¶¯ÆðÕæ¸ñ¶ùÒª³öÕâÁ¶ÓüµÄ»°,¹ËÎÊÃÇ»á¸æËßÄú˵,ÄãµÃ´òµç»°¸øËùÓÐÈÏʶµÄÈË££ÍêÁË»¹ÓÐÒ»´óÞû²»ÈÏʶµÄ¡£
¡°Ô¼º²Ñ·ÏÈÉúÂð£¿Ô¼º²Ñ·ÏÈÉú,ÎҽнÜÀÂóÑÅ,ÊÇÍþ˹¿µÐǿ˼¹«Ë¾¹ÜͨѶµÄ¸±×ܲá£ÄúµÄÃû×ÖÊǺϲ¢²¢ºÏ¹«Ë¾µÄ׿¡¤Ê·ÃÜ·ò¸æËßÎҵġ£´óÔ¼Ò»ÐÇÆÚǰÎÒ¸øÄúд¹ýÒ»·âÐÅ,ÎÒÏëÏÖÔÚÒѾµ½ÄúÊÖÉÏÁ˰ɡ£ÕýÈçÎÒÔÚÐÅÖÐËù˵,Îҵķ¹ÍëÓеã¶ùÄǸö,ÎÒºÜÏë´ÓÖÐ̽³ö¸öеÀµÀ¶ùÀ´¡£²»ÖªµÀÄúÓÐûÓÐÌý˵¹ýÄĶùÓÐÃŵÀ¶ù,¹©ÎÒŪ¸öÃ÷°×¡£¡±
´ÓǰÊǿ˼µÄ±£°²²¿Ö÷ÈÎ,Èç½ñ³ÉÁËÎÒÔÚÔÙ¾ÍÒµ×Éѯ²¿Àï×îÒªºÃµÄµÂ¸£,²»Öª´ÓÄĶùŪµ½Ò»·ÝÈ«ÃÀËùÓй«Ë¾±£°²Ö÷ÈεÄÃûµ¥¸´Ó¡¼þ¡£ËûÌìÌì·,ʱʱ·,Ò³Ò³¿´,ÌõÌõÕÒ,²¦ºÅ½²»°,²¦ºÅ½²»°,½¥½¥µØ¾¹Ïó¿±Ì½ÕßÌͽðËÆµØ»ýÀÛÁËÒ»´ó¶ÑÏßË÷¡£ÕâЩÏßË÷Æù½ñδ¸øËûÇ£³ÉÄÄÅÂÒ»´ÎµÄÃæÊÔ»ú»á¡£ÎÊÌâÄØ,ÎÒÏëÊÇËûÎåÊ®Ôç³öÍ·Á˰ɡ£²»¹ýËû´Ó²»ÆøÄÙ¡£¾¡¹Ü¼âËá¿Ì±¡µÄЦ»°ËûҲ˵Á˲»ÉÙ,¿É¾ÍÊDz»·¢ÀÎɧ,ÉõÖÁ´Ó²»µ¡¹¤¡£
ÔÚÔÙ¾ÍÒµ×Éѯ²¿Àï,ÄúÒªÊÇÖªµÀʲôºÏÊÊ×Ô¼ºµÄ»°,¾¡¹Ü±Æ×Ô¼º¼«Á¦Ð§·¨µÂ¸£ºÃÁË¡£¾¡¹ÜÏ´¶ú¹§Ìý¹ËÎÊÃǽ²Êö·¢ÉúÔÚÏñÄúÕâÑùÈËÉíÉÏµÄÆæ¼£¡£ËûÃǵÄÐÅдÍêÒ»·â½ÓÒ»·â,µç»°´òÍêÒ»¸ö½ÓÒ»¸ö,È´È«¶¼°×´î¡£Ö±µ½ÓÐÒ»Ì죣¾øÃîÖ®Ææ¼£³öÏÖÁË££ËûÃÇÃÎÃÂÒÔÇóµÄ¹¤×÷¾¹×Ô¸ö¶ùÏòËûÃÇͶ»³Ëͱ§À´ÁË¡£×îÖØÒªµÄÊÇ,Òª±Æ×Ô¼º°ÑÃûµ¥×êͨ×ê͸,È»ºó¿Ù¶àһЩÃû×Ö³öÀ´¡£Èç½ñÃÀ¹úÓÐÊý°Ù¼ÒÖ°Òµ½éÉÜËù,³ÉǧÉÏÍò¸öÖ°ÒµºìÄï¸÷×ÔΪÕþ¡£ÔÙ¾ÍÒµ×Éѯ²¿ÀïÓÐÒ»Ìõ¹æ¾Ø:ÒªÊÇÄú°ëÄêÄÚûרßøÄĸö¡°ºìÄר¼Ò¼Ä¹ý¼òÀúµÄ»°,ÊÇʱºòÔÙ¼ÄÁË;ÒªÊÇÄúÁùÔ·ݼÄÁËһǧ·Ý,µ½Ê®¶þÔ·ݻ¹Ã»Óй¤×÷µÄ»°,ÔټĿÉÒ²¡£Õâ×ã¹»Öîλæһ±²×Ó¡£ÖÁÓÚÒâÒå²»ÒâÒåÂï,²»¾ÍÊÇÒª»¹Õ®¸ø¡¡à¡,Äú»¹ÓбðµÄʶù×öÂð£¿
ÓÚÊǺõÄúÓ²×ÅͷƤÄÃÆðµç»°À´´ò¡£µ«³ý·ÇºèÔ˵±Í·»òÕßÖ°ÒµÊг¡´óÓÐÆðÉ«,·ñÔòÄú»á·¢ÏÖ,¿ÉÄܼÄÁËÎå°Ù·Ý¼òÀúÁ¬´øÎå°Ù·â¶¨ÖÆÓʼò,È´µÃ²»µ½Ò»¸öʵÖʵĴ𸴣£²»ÍâºõÊÇÔ¤ÏÈÓ¡ÔÚÃ÷ÐÅÆ¬ÉÏǧƪһÂɵÄл´Ç¡£
²»ÏûÒ»»á¶ù,Äú¾Í¾õµÃÔÙÏëЩÈ˵ĺÅÂëÀ´´ò±äµÃºÜÀ§ÄÑ,´òµÚÈýµÚËıé¸üÊÇÄÑÉϼÓÄÑ¡£Äú»á·¢ÏÖ½¥½¥µØÍöÓÑÖÐÓÐЩ²»ÔÙ¾³£³öÏÖÔÚÄÔº£Àï¡£ÓÐЩÔòÏûʧµÃÎÞÓ°ÎÞ×Ù,Áô´æÔÚÄÔº£ÀïµÄÊÇËûÃǽ²¹ýµÄ¿àɬЦ»°:Ҫô×öÁ˱£°²Ô±,Ҫô±±Ç¨µ½ÄĸöµØ·½,˵ÄÅ®ÐöÔÚÄǶù´òÌýµ½ÓÐÒ»·Ý¹¤ÊÇ¿ª³µËÍ»õʲôµÄ¡£ÄúÏëÖªµÀËûÃǵ½µ×³öÁËʲôʶù,µ«¹Ç×ÓÀïÈ´²»Ïëȥ̽¹ý¾¿¾¹¡£
ÄúÿÖܶ¼»á·¢ÏÖ,ÐÅÐÄÕý´Ó»ØÁ÷µÄÈËȺÑÛÖÐÒ»µãÒ»µÎµØÁï×ß;²»Ïû¶à¾Ã,ËûÃDZãÁ÷¶³öºÃÏñ¾åÅÂÉú»îµÄÉñÉ«À´¡£Äú×ÔââÕâÖֱ仯¶¨»áÔÔ±¾±¾µØÔÙÏÖÔÚ×Ô¼ºµÄÑÛÀȻºó¾ÍÏë½Å²»³öÃÅ˯ÒÂÒ²²»ÍÑ¡£¿ÉÄú¾ÍÊDz»¸Ò¡£
»ª¿ÉÀÖ·ò¡¤¹þά¶ûÔ»:ÏÖ´úÉç»áÊÇ¿¿¿Ö¾å££¶à°ëÊǿ־åʧ°Ü££À´Î¬ÏµµÄ,ÎÒÃÇÖ®ËùÒÔ°ÑÊÂÇé¶Ñ»ýÆðÀ´,ÊÇΪÁ˸ø×Ô¼º×³µ¨:µ£ÐÄ´ó¿É²»±Ø,ÕÛÖÔÒà·ÇÍ÷È»¡£¹þά¶ûÏàÐÅ,ÕýÊǿ־åÇýʹÎÒÃǽÓÊܸ¯°ÜºÍÐé¼Ù,Ñð×°Ò»¸ö·ÇÎÒ¡£
×äÖ®,ÎÒÃÇÅׯúÁ˼¸ºõÒ»ÇÐÖØÒªµÄ¶«Î÷ºó,µ½Í·À´È´ÄÃ×Ô¼ºÓµÓеĶ«Î÷À´ÂÛ×ÊÅű²¡£¾Ã¶ø¾ÃÖ®,ÎÒÃǵĻÃÏëÁ¦·¢ÉúÍɱä,ÄËÖÁÓÚö¦ÎÝö¦³µ¾¹³ÉÁËÖÁ¸ßÎÞÉÏ¡¢Øü¹Ø½ôÒªµÄÄ¿±ê¡£ÎÒÃÇÞðÆúÏ£Íû,Êâ²»Öª,´Ë¾ÙÎÒÃÇÔçÒÑΪ֮¡£
ÓÑÈËÖÐ,Óд÷ÀÍÁ¦Ê¿½ð±í,´©¿ËʲÃ×¶ûÑòëÐÝÏÐÍâÌ׵ġ£¿Éµ±ÄúºÍËûÃÇ»ìÊìÁËÒÔºó,·½ÖªµÀÔÀ´ËûÃÇ×ÔÊÓÉúÃüΪ¿Ö¾å¡¢Ì°À·ºÍʧÍûµÄÄõÖÖ¡£ÎÞ¹Öºõ,ËûÃÇÕâЩס±ÜÊîɽׯ,¿ª±¦Âí³µµÄÈ˵±ÖÐ,ÔÀ´ÓÐÕâô¶à°µµØÀïÍûÑÛÓû´©¶¼ÏëÍËÐÝ¡£ÎÒ¿´,ËûÃÇÊÓÍËÐÝΪ·µ»ØÆð²½µã,»Ø¹é¹ÊÎÒµÄ×îºóÒ»´Î»ú»á¡£È»¶ø,ÍùÍùµ½ÁËÍËÐÝʱ,ËûÃÇÈ´¿ÕÐéµÃÔÙÒ²¼Ç²»Æð×Ô¼ºµÄÎôÈÕ¡£ËûÃÇÐÄÄ¿Öеijɾ͸ÐÔçÒÑÂÙΪһÐÇÆÚ´òÁùÌì¸ß¶û·òÇòÁË¡£
¶¬
ÓÐÅóÓѽñÌì¶ÔÎÒ˵,ËûµÄ¹¤×÷Òѳ¹µ×ûϷ,ÕýÒª°Ñ·¿×Ó³öÊÛ¡£´Ë¹«Îåʮδµ½,ÊÖÉÏÓÐÒ»ÕŽðÆáµÄ¼òÀú,ÔøÔÚÁ½¼ÒÒÚÔªÆóÒµÀï×ö¹ýÐÐÕþ¸±×ܲá£ËûÓÐÒ»¸ö¹¤³ÌʦѧλºÍÒ»¸öÉÌÒµ¹ÜÀí˶ʿѧλ,Êǹþ·ðÉÌ¿ÆÑ§Ð£¡°¸ß¼¶¹ÜÀí¿Î³Ì¡±µÄ±ÏÒµÉú¡£ÎÒÓëËû½ôÃܹ²Ê¹ýÁ½Äê,Ë¿ºÁ²»²ìËûÓаëµãƽӹ»òȱÏÝ¡£Èç½ñËûÒÑʧҵһÄê¶à,ÏòÎÒËß¿à˵ËûµÄÏ£ÍûËÆºõÒ»Ô±ÈÒ»ÔÂÃìã¡£ÔÚ¼ÈÎÞ¹¤×÷»ú»á,ÓÖÎÞËùÊÂʵÄÇé¿öÏÂ,ËûÕýѰ»ú»áÔÚʲôµØ·½Âò¼äС¹«Ë¾Ê²Ã´µÄ¡£Ëû˵,×ÜÊǶ«¼Ò¿´Íê¿´Î÷¼Ò,Î÷¼Ò²»±È¶«¼Ò´ó¡£
¡°µ½µ×ÒªÕÛÌÚµ½Ê²Ã´Ê±ºòѽ£¿¡±ËûÒ»ÃæÐ¦×ÅÎÊ¡£¡°ÈÃÎÒ¿ª¼äÂóµ±ÀͲ»³É£¿¡±
ß×,˵²»¶¨ÄØ¡£
ÎÒ°ÑÿÐÇÆÚ¡¶»ª¶û½ÖÈÕ±¨¡·ÉÏ¡¶ÌØÐíרӪ¾ø¶¥ºÃ»ú»á¡·¹ã¸æÀ¸µÄÕ¶»ñÄÃÀ´¿´,È´ÔõôҲÕÒ²»µ½Ò»µã¶ù¶«Î÷,´òµÃ¶¯ÎÒµÄÐÄÈ¥²©ËüÒ»»Ø¡£¶à°ë²»ÊÇÓë¿ì²ÍÒµºÍ´òһǹ»»Ò»¸öµãµÄ¼ÓÓÍÕ¾ÓйØ,±ãÊÇÓëÓ¡Ë¢ÒµºÍ¸´Ó¡ÐÐÒµÓйء£´ó¶àÊý¹ã¸æ¸É´àÖ±½ØÁ˵±µØÏò±»½âÖ°µÄÐÐÕþÈËÔ±ºô½Ð:¡°¿àÄÕ£¿¡±¡¢¡°Éíϵ½ðÉ«½µÂäÉ¡ÕýÔñµØ¶ø½µ£¿¡±
ºÍºÃ¶àÃÀ¹úÈËÒ»Ñù,ÎÒÒ²ÖªµÀÓÐÈËÀÏÔçÂòÏÂÁËÂóµ±À͵ÄÌØÐíרӪȨ,È»ºó·¢ÁË´ó²Æ¡£µ«ÎÒͬÑùÖªµÀ,ÓÐÊýÒ԰ټƵÄÈ˸ÉÕâÐиɵ½Ñª±¾Î޹顣ÔÚÈ«ÃÀһƬñø¶úµÄÌØÐíרӪÉùÖÐ,ÎÒÈ·ÐÅ»áÓÐÄÇôһÁ½ÖÖ,ÄÜΪÄÇô¼¸¸ö¾«Ã÷»òÕßÐÒÔ˵Ääͷ²ÔӬ׬һ´ó±Ê¡£ÎÒͬÑùÏàÐÅ,ÎÒµÄÃüÖÐÂʲ»»á±ÈÔÚÈËÐеÀÉÏÍæ±ÖÐѰ¶¹µÄ°ÑÏ·¶ù,ËùÄÜÕÒµ½¶¹¶¹µÄ»ú»á¸ß¡£
µ«ºôÉùÒÀÈ»,ÝëµØ¾¹Éú³öµÀÀíÀ´:ÒªÊÇûÈ˸øÄú»î¶ù¸É,¾Í×Ô¸ö¶ùÂòÒ»¸öß¡£
ÎÒ¿ªÊ¼Ïò¡°ÓÊÏä·þÎñ¹«Ë¾¡±´òÌý¡£ÔÀ´»¨Ëü¸öÊ®Íò°ËÍò,Äú¾Í¿ÉÒÔ¿ª¸öµê,ÈÃÈ˼ҰѶ«Î÷ÄÃÀ´´ò°ü,È»ºóÔË×ß¡£Ò»µ©ÓÐÁËÕâЩ¿ÍÈË,¾Í¿ÉÒÔÏòËûÃÇÊÛÂôÔ²Öé±Ê¡¢ºØ¿¨¡¢ÓÊÕþ»ãƱµÈ,»¹¸øËûÃÇÓÃÄúµÄ¸´Ó¡»ú,ÊÕËûÃǵÄÇ®¡£Õâ¿ÉÊÇÈ«¹ú·¢Õ¹ÊÆÍ·×î´óµÄÌØÐíרӪ»î¶¯Ö®Ò»Ñ½¡£
ÅËĽ¶Ô´ËºÞÖ®Èë¹Ç¡£ÎÒÎÊËýÊÇ·ñÓÐʲô¸üºÃµÄÖ÷Òâ¡£»°ÌâÒ»À¿ª,Á½È˾ÍÕùµÃÃæºì¶ú³à¡£±¾µØ¡°ÓÊÏä·þÎñ¹«Ë¾¡±ÓªÒµ´ú±í¸øÁËÎÒÒ»·Ý¸½½üÌØÐíרӪҵÖ÷µÄÃûµ¥¡£ÎÒ¿ªÊ¼ÀûÓÃÐÇÆÚÁù¿ª×ųµ°¤µê°¤»§µØºÍÒµÖ÷ÃÇǢ̸¡£
ÔÚÀëÎ÷±±´óѧһ¸ö½Ö¿ÚÔ¶µÄÉÌ񵂿ÒÁ·±Ë³,ÎÒ¼ûµ½Ò»¸öÉúÒâÃ÷ÏÔ×öµÃÕýºì»ðµÄÅ®µêÖ÷¡£ÄǵêµÄλÖÃÌØºÃ:¼ÈΪÅÓ´óµÄ´óÑ§×¡Õ¬Çø,ÓÖÊÇÊÕÈë²»·ÆµÄ½¼Çø,ÊÇ×öÉúÒâµÄÍúµØ¡£Õâ°ãºÃµØ·½,ÔçÔÚ¼¸Äêǰ¾Í¸øÈËÇÀµÃÒ»¸ö²»Â©¡£
ÔڻݶÙ,Ò»¸öÓÑÉÆµÄÅÖÄÐ×Ó¶ÔÎÒ˵,ÊǵÄ,¿ªÒ»¼ä?ÓÊÏä·þÎñ?µê±£Ö¤ÄÜÈÃÄú¹ýÉϺÃÈÕ×Ó¡£×ÜÓÐÄÇôһÌì¡£ÒªÊÇÄú¸ÊÔ¸¿à¸ÉºÍ¸ºÕ®Ò»¶ÎÈÕ×ӵϰ¡£¡°µ±È»ÂÞ,ÒªÊÇÄúÏë׬¸öÈýËÄÍòÒ»ÄêµÄ»°,¡±ËûЦ¿ÚÒ÷Ò÷µÀ¡£¡°ÄÇ¿ÖÅÂÊÇÁíÒ»»ØÊÂà¶¡£¡±
ÔÚÒ»¸öÐÂÊн¼,ÓÐÒ»ÅÅÉÌÆÌ,ÎÒÓöµ½ÁËÒ»¸ö¿ª?ÓÊÏä·þÎñ?µÄÒµÖ÷¡£Ëû¸ö×ÓÊÝÊÝ,Í·¹â¹â,¶À¸ö¶ùÊØ×ſյê,ÓÇÐÄâçâç¡£ÎÒ°ÑÒâͼ¸øËû˵Á˺ó,Ëû¾Í´øÎÒµ½¹ñ̨ºóÃæ,ÄÃÒ»ÕÅÒÎ×Ó¸øÎÒ×ø,×Ô¼º×øÔڰ칫×Àǰ¡£Ëû¸æËßÎÒÈçºÎ¸øÔøÔÚÄǶùµ±¹ý»á¼ÆµÄ¹«Ë¾½âÖ°,ÈçºÎÁíıְҵʧ°Ü,ÓÖÈçºÎ·ÑÁ˶à´óµÄ¾¢,²Å˵·þÆÞ×Ó°Ñ»ýÔÜÏÂÀ´µÄÍËÐݽð¸øËûÂòÁËÒ»·Ý¹¤×÷¡£
ÎÒÎÊËû,ÎÒÒªÊǸÉÕâ¸öµÈÁ½Äê¾Í¿ÉÒÔ×ÔÎÒά³Ö,ÕâÑù¹À¼Æ¿Í²»¿Í¹Û,Ëû¾¹ÆËóùÆËóùµØÂäÀᣣȷÇеØ,ÒÑ¿ªÊ¼Æü²»³ÉÉù¡£Ëû´Ó¿Ú´üÀïÍϳöÒ»ÕÅÊÖÅÁÀ´²ÁÑÛ¡£
¡°¶Ô²»Æð,¡±Ëû˵µÀ,¡°¶Ô²»Æð¡£ÂíÉϾͺÃÁË¡£¡±
̤×ãÉ̽ç֮ǰ,ÎÒÔø×ö¹ýÐí¶à·½ÃæµÄ¹¤×÷:º£¾ü¹ÙÔ±¡¢±¨Ö½¼ÇÕß¡¢¹«¹Ø¹ËÎʵȡ£Ïë»ØÍ·,ÕâЩ¶¼²»ÈçÔÚ°¢À˹¼ÓÒ»ÊÞÆ¤¹«Ë¾¹Îº£±ªÆ¤¡°ÀÌÓÍË®¡±ÄǷݺá£Æ½ÐĶøÂÛ,ÄÇÊÇÎÒËù×ö¹ýµÄ×îÐÁ¿àµÄ»î¶ù,ѪÁÜÁÜ,Óͺõºõ,³ôºæºæ¡£Îå¸öСʱÏÂÀ´,Ö±½ÐÎÒÃǵ±ÖÐ×îÓ²µÄÒ²¸øÀÛ¿å¡£Äǹ¤×÷»¹ÒªÇóÎÒÃÇÔÚÒ»¸ö²»Ã«Ö®µº×¡ÉÏÊýÔ¡£ÄÇÀïµÄÌ«Ñô¼òÖ±ÓÀÔ¶²¦²»¿ªÔƲã,¶øÇÒ,ûÉ̵ê,ûµçÓ°,ûµçÊÓ,ûơ¾Æ,û椶ù,ÉõÖÁÁ¬Ò»Ì¨Â¼Ïó»úҲûÓС£
âä½ñ×·Îô,ÎÒ¿´°¢À˹¼ÓÄǷݹ¤µÄÃî´¦ÔÚÓÚ:ûÓÐÆ¨»°¡£Ã»ÕþÖÎ,ûÐÊÐÊ×÷̬¡£ÎÒÃǵÄÈÎÎñÊǾ¡¿ì´¦ÀíÍêÊÖÍ·Éϵĺ£±ªÆ¤,µ«²»ÄÜËðÆäÇïºÁ¡£º£±ªÆ¤Ò»µ½,ÎÒÃDZãÏñÐ×Í½ËÆµØ¸ÉÆðÀ´,Äö۵¶³¯ÍçÇ¿×é֯ͱȥ,ֱͱÖÁË«ÊÖÁ÷Ѫ·½ÐÝ¡£µ«¸ÉÍêÒÔºó,ûÈË»áËã¼ÆÎÒÃÇ»áÍÅÍÅתÀ´×°Ã¦,»òװןÜÏëÔÙÒª¶àЩÀ´¸É¡£
ÔÚ³ÉÄêºóµÄÍ·Ê®Äê¹â¾°Àï,ÎÒÀú¾Ñо¿ÉúÔº¡¢º£¾üºÍÔ½Õ½,ÒÔ¼°µÚÒ»·Ý³ÉÄêÎÄÖ°¹¤×÷,½¥´Î¹ßÓÚ´òÁì´øºÍ¸Éµã¶ù²»¹âÊÇΪÁ½¸öÇ®µÄʶù¡£µ«Ê¼ÖÕÁ¬°×ÈÕ×öÃζ¼Ïë×ŵÄÊÇ,×ÔÓÉ¡£Ö±ÖÁÄêÓâÈýÊ®,ÎÒ»¹ÄîÄî²»Íü׏¤×÷ÊǶԱ¾Ó¦ÖÁÕæÖÁ´¿µÄÎҵĸÉÔ¤ºÍ·Ç·¨½øÈë¡£
¾Ã¶ø¾ÃÖ®,ÈçÃëÕëÎÞÒâÒ嵨²ü¶¯°ã,Ò»²½Ò»²½ÄËÖÁǧ²½Íò²½µØ,ÎÒÃÇÇü·þÁË¡£Ò»µãÒ»µÎµØ,ÎÒÃÇ´ÓÍçÁÓ²»î¿µÄСÐÛ¾Ô±ä³ÉÁ˾«ÓÚÊÀ¹Ê¡¢ÎÂѱÌý»°µÄÔ¯Âí¡£Éñ²î¹íʹµØ,ÎÒÃǾ¹²»µ«½ÓÊÜÕâÍì¾ß¶øÇÒûÓÐÁËËü²»ÐС£Ò»µ©Ê§È¥ÁË,±ã´óΪ²»°²,´óΪº¦Å¡£
Ò»Ïëµ½×Ô¼º×ö¹ýµÄÐí¶à¹¤×÷,ÉÙÓÐÓä¿ì¸ÐºÍÂú×ã¸Ð,ÎÒ±ãÔ½·¢¾õµÃÆæ¹Ö:ÿ³¿ÐÑÀ´,ÎòÖª×Ô¼ºÎÞ°à¿ÉÉÏ,ÎÞÈ˹§ºò,¾¹Í´¿à²»¿°¡£Ïëµ½ÕâÀïÎÒ±ãÕöÑÛ,ÿÿ½ÌÎÒÐÄÈçµ¶¸î¡£µ±Ä껹ÊÇСÐÛ¾ÔµÄÎÒ,¾ªÁýÍ·,ÌßçÖÉþ,ÍòÍòûÓÐÏëµ½´ËµÈ×ÔÓɽñÌì¾¹ÊǺεÈÍ´¿à¡£
ÓëÅóÓÑÏÐ̸ʱ,ÎÒ¼ä»ò»á˵ҲÐíÓÀÔ¶¶¼²»»áÁíѰ¹«Ë¾»î¶ù¸É¡£½ÓÏÂÀ´ÎÒ×Ü»á˵(Ï£ÍûÊÇÍýÑÔ)¼ÙÈç¹ûÈ»Èç´Ë,Ò²ÕæµÄûʲô´ó²»ÁË¡£Õâ»°Ö±ÖÁ×î½ü»¹Ö»ÊÇ¿ñÑÔ¶øÒÑ¡£ÕâÊÇÎÒÎÞÐÄ֮˵,µ¹²»ÊÇÕæµÄÏàÐÅÕâÖÖÊÂÇé»á·¢Éú¡£Èç½ñÎÒÐÅÁË¡£Èç½ñ²»µ«¿´ËÆ¿ÉÄÜ,¶øÇÒ´óÓпÉÄÜ¡£¶øÇÒÎÒ»¹¾õµÃÕâ·ÇͬС¿É¡£
ÎÒÓм¸¸ö×î¾´ÖØµÄÅóÓÑÒѾÏòÎÒ˵ÁË,Ï£ÍûÎÒÓÀÔ¶²»ÒªÖØ·µÉ̽硣ËûÃǵĽ¨ÒéÊÇ:д×÷¡¢½ÌÊé¡£ÎÒ×ÜÃâ²»Á˻ظ´Ëµ,ºÜ¿ÉÄܵ½Í·À´»áÕÕËûÃÇ˵µÄ°ì¡£¿ÉÔÚ×ö×îºó¾ö¶¨Ö®Ç°,ÎÒÓÖ˵,ÎÒµÃÈÃ×Ô¼ºÏ¸¿´Ò»ÏÂÒ»ÇпÉÈ¡µÄ°ì·¨¡£ÎÒ˵,ÎÒÒ²µÃ×Ðϸ¿´¿´´ÓÉ̵ĿÉÐÐÐÔ,ÒòΪÔðÈÎʹȻ¡£
ÌôÀ´ÌôÈ¥,×îºó»¹ÊÇÌôÁË¡°ÔðÈΡ±Ò»´Ê,¾õµÃËüÔÚÕâÀïÌØºÃ¡£ËüËÆºõ°µÊ¾Á˾¡¹ÜÎÒÓÐÐí¶àÑ¡Ôñ,¾¡¹ÜÎÒÖªµÀÔÚѧÊõ½ç»òд×÷½ç(ÄÇÀï²»½ö¿ÉÒÔÈÎÓÉÎÒÓëÈËÀà·ÖÏíÎÒµÄÖÇ»Û,¶øÇÒµ½Ê±»¹¿ÉÒÔ´©×ÅÇá±ãЬºÍ³¤Ð亹ÉÀ)ÀïÕ¼¸ö·Ý¶ù²»Ê§ÎªÕýÈ·Ö®¾Ù,µ«ÎÒÒ²µÃ¼Çס¶ÔÆÞ¶ùµÈÓ¦¾¡µÄÒåÎñ¡£
¼ÙÈô²»×öÕâµã°µÊ¾,ÎÞÒìÓÚ³ÐÈÏÁËĿǰ¸ù±¾Ã»ÓÐÑ¡ÔñÓàµØ,³ÐÈÏÁËÊÂʵÉÏÎÒ»áץסµÚÒ»¸öÀο¿µÄÖ°Òµ»ú»á²»·Å,¶ø²»¹ÜÆäÊÇÖØË¾·ÀÎÀÖ®Ö°,ÒÖ»òÖØ²Ù´úÀíÖ®ÊÂ,ÒÖ»òÖØ·µ¶«Ò®öÕ»áѧԺ¡£¿ÉÎÒËÆºõ²»ÚÏÕâÖÖÕæ³Ï¡£ÎÒÎÞ·¨³ÐÈϸе½¶àô³àÂã,¶àôÎÞÖú,ÎÞ·¨³ÐÈÏÒªÊÇ˸øÔÙÎÒÒ»´Î»ú»áͶÉíÕâΪ¾ºÑ¡Ò»ÖÀǧ½ðµÄ´ó¿îÍõ¹ú,ÎÒ±ã»áÏ󼡳¦ê¤ê¤µÄÆòؤÆËÏòÒ»ÕÅÒ»Ôª³®Æ±ÄÇÑù,ÆË½«¹ýÈ¥¡£
ÎÒ¸ø¸÷ÖÖÓÐÃŶùµÄÐŽ¨Á¢Ò»Ì×µµ°¸¡£Ã¿ÖÖËùÕ¼µÄÒ³Êý¶¼²»ÉÙ:´Ó±¨Ö½¼ôÏÂÀ´µÄ¹ã¸æ¡¢ÕýʽµÄ¹¤×÷²ÄÁÏ(ÕÒµ½µÄ»°)¡¢µç»°»á̸µÄÊéÃæÊöÒª¡¢¼Ä¸ø¡°ºìÄÃǵÄÐżþ¸±±¾ºÍËûÃǵĻظ´(ÒªÊÇÓеϰ)¡£ÔÚ×î³õ¼¸¸öÐÇÆÚÀï,µµ°¸Ô½»ýÔ½¶à,ÎÒ°ÑËüÃǰÚÔÚ˯·¿µÄ¿§·Ę̀ÉÏ,ÅųÉÒ»ÁÐ,Ò»¸öµþÒ»¸öµØÈÃÃû×ÖÅųÉÒ»À¸¡£
Æð³õ»¹Í¦ÆøÅɵÄ:·ÆÀûÆÖ¡¤ÄªÀû˾¡¢DEC¡¢¼ÙÈվƵꡢÀɸ¦À¼¿Ë¡¢ÑÇÃÀÀû¼Ó¼¼Êõ¡¢¿É°ô¡¢ÒÁÄ·ÈøÀÕ¼¯ÍÅ¡¢ÁªºÏ̼»¯¸Æ¡£¼ä¼ä¶¼ÊÇÓÐÇ®µÄ´ó¹«Ë¾¡£Ëƺõ½ÌÈËÄÑÒÔÏàÐÅ,û¿ÉÄÜÁ¬Ò»¼ÒÒâ˼Òâ˼¶¼Ã»ÓС£
´ÓÄÇÒÔºó, ±ãÈçÏÄÒ¶°ãµòлµÃÆßÁã°ËÂä,ÆøÅɲ»ÆðÀ´ÁË¡£½¥½¥µØ££ÒªÃ´ÊÇÓÐÈ˸æËßÎÒ,ҪôÊÇ×Ô¼º×Áĥ͸Á˲»È¥ºÍÈ˼ҽÇÖðÕâ·Ý»òÕßÄǷݹ¤££ÎҰѵµ°¸°áÖÁµØ½Ñµ×ÏÂÒ»¸öÖ½ÏäÀï¡£ÎÒ°ÑÕâÏä×Ó»½×÷¡°ËÀÐŲ¿¡±¡£
´ÓÄÇÒÔºó,ÎÒ¼ûµ½ÕÐÆ¸¹ã¸æÉϵÄÓкÏÎÒ×ʸñµÄ££Êµ»°ÊµËµ,³¬×ʸñµ½ÁîÎÒÌäЦ½Ô·Ç££¾ÍдÐÅÓ¦Õ÷¡£Èç½ñ,»îÏßË÷µÄµµ°¸¹ûÈ»ÏÔ³öǰËùδÓеĹÄÄÒÄÒÑùÀ´ÁË¡£Ëµµ½Äǹ¤ÖÖ,ºß,ÒªÊÇÔÚÁù¡¢Æß¡¢°ËÔÂѽ,ÎÒ²ÅÇÆ²»ÉÏÑÛÄØ¡£
ÎÒÔÚ¡¶Ê¥Â·Ò×Ëٵݡ·ÉÏ¿´µ½Ò»Ìõ¹ã¸æÕÐÆ¸Í¨Ñ¶²¿¾Àí,¹«Ë¾Ãû½Ð¡°È«¹ú»¯·ÊÈÜҺлᡱʲôÀ´µÄ¡£ÎÒÕæÈ¥ÃæÊÔÁË¡£ÕýºÃ³Ã»úȥʥ·Ò׿´Íû¸¸Ä¸Ç×,·´ÕýÒ²ÕÒ²»µ½±ðµÄ½è¿Ú¡£×óÅÎÓÒÅÎ,²»¾ÍÊÇÏëÕÒÒ»·Ý»î¶ù¸É,ÃâµÃµ½Ê±Ó²×ÅͷƤÏòËûÃÇ˵×Ô¼ºÊ§ÒµÂï¡£
ÎÒ»¹ÓÐÒ»Ì×µµ°¸¡£ÀïÃæÓиø¡°È«ÃÀÂÉʦлᡱ×öÔÓÖ¾±à¼µÄ;ÓÐÎÞÃû¹«Ë¾µÇ¹ã¸æÕÐÆ¸¹«¹ØÖ÷ÈεÄ(ÎÒ¸øÕâ±êÉÏ¡°ÎÞÍ·µµ°¸¡±,ÒòΪÎÞ´ÓÖªÏþÊÇʲô¹«Ë¾);ÓÐÈý¼ä¹«¹Ø·þÎñ¹«Ë¾ÐèÒªÕÒÈËÌְλ¿Õȱ,µ«¸ÃְλºÍÎÒÊ®ÁùÄêǰÀ뿪ÄǸöÏà±ÈÍû³¾Äª¼°µÄ;ÓеصãÔÚ¡°¶íº¥¶í¶¼°ØÁÖ¡±,¿´À´ÊÇͨ¹ýijÖÖÇþµÀ×öÌìÈ»ÆøÉúÒâÈ´ÓÖ²»ÔÚ¹ã¸æÉÏÃ÷˵µÄ;ÓÐÔú¸ù»ªÊ¢¶Ù¡¢ÃûΪN.R.E.C.A.лáµÄ(ÎÒû·ÑÉñȥ̽¾¿ÕâÊ××ÖĸËõдÊÇʲôÒâ˼±ãдÐÅÈ¥,×ãÖ¤ÎÒÐËȤ֮°»È»);Óв¨Ê¿¶Ù´óѧµÇ¹ã¸æÕÐÆ¸¹«¹ØÖ÷ÈεÄ;ÓиçÂ×±ÈÑÇ´óѧ³ö°æÉçÆ¸ÇëÓªÒµ´ú±í,Ö÷¹ÜÓÉÒÁÀûŵ˹ÖÝÖÁµÃ¿ËÈøË¹ÖݵÄÒ»´óÆ¬ÇøÓò,Óгµ,Äêн²»ÉÙÓÚÈýÍòÃÀ½ðµÄ¡£
ÎÒдÐÅÓ¦Õ÷ÕâÖÖ¹ã¸æ,ÆäÖÐÒ»¸ö¶¯»úÊÇͼ¸öÁ¼ºÃµÄ¸Ð¾õ,¿´¿´ºÎÖÖ·´Ó¦ÄÜ´Ù³ÉÃæÊÔ,ºÎÖÖ²»ÄÜ¡£´ð°¸Âï,µ½Ä¿Ç°ÎªÖ¹,ËÆºõ¾¹ý°Ù°ãŬÁ¦¶¼Ã»ÄÜÈÃÎÒÈ¥ÃæÊÔ¹ýÒ»´Î¡£
µ±ÎÒΪдÁËӦƸÐÅÈ´µÃ²»µ½»ØÒô¶ø·¢ÆðÀÎɧÀ´µÄʱºò,ÅËĽ±ã˵ÎÒ»ÄÌÆ¡£Ëý˵,ÏñÄúÕâÑùÍ»³öµÄÈË,È˼Ҹù±¾¾Íû´òËãÈÏÕæ¿´ÉÏÒ»»Ø¡£ÎÒÏàÐÅËýû˵´í¡£ÄǺÃ,ÎÒ¸ÃÔõô°ì£¿×øµÈÈ˼ÒÀ´µç˵Óзݹ¤ÈÃÎÒ×ö¡°ÖµµÃ¡±²»³É£¿ÄÇ¿ÖÅÂÒªµÈÒ»±²×Ó,˵ʵÔڵġ£µ½Æäʱ,ÎÒ¿ÖŶ¼³ÉÁË¡¶Î°´óǰ³Ì¡·ÀïÏÄ»ÝɣС½ãµÄµ±´ú°æ££Ä긴һÄêµØ×ø¹ÛÖ©ÖëÔÚÎҵĵ绰ÉÏ´ó½áÆäÍøà¶¡£
µ½ÁËʥ·Ò×,ÎÒµÚÒ»¼þʾÍÊÇÈÆÁËÒ»´óȦȥÁ˿ͿÍÎî,ÎÒºÍÅËĽסÁ˶þÊ®ÄêµÄÊн¼¡£ÓÐÎÞÃûÊ¿ÌæÎÒ°ÑǰÃźʹ°°åÆáÉÏÁËÐÂÑÕÉ«¡£¾¡¹ÜͦºÃ¿´,È´½ÐÎÒ¶ñÐÄ¡£
µ½Ë«Ç×¼Òʱ,ÂèÂèÒ»ÈçÍù³£µØÓ³öÃÅÀ´¡£°Ö°ÖÔòÏñƽʱÄÇÑù,×øÔÚµçÊÓ»úǰµÄÒÎ×ÓÉϲ»¶¯¡£Ëû¸Õ×öÍêÒ»¸öÁƳ̵ķøÉäÖÎÁÆ¡£Á½ÀÏÒѽìñóë£Ö®Äê,²ÐÈõÖ®Çû¿´ÉÏÈ¥¸úÑòƤֽÔìµÄÎÞÒì¡£
ÎÒÏÂÁ˾öÐÄ,·Ç¸æËßËûÃDz»¿É¡£·ñÔò,ÎÒÅÂËûÃÇ»á´Ó¡°¼Òͥ·͸É硱Ìýµ½µãʲô¡£²»¹ÜÏûÏ¢´ÓÄĶùÀ´,¶¼»á°ÑËûÃÇÏÅ»µµÄ¡£Õâ¿ÉÊÇÁ½¸öÔçÄê±¥³¢¡°´óÏôÌõ¡±ÕÛÄ¥Ö®¿àµÄÈËÄÄ¡£ËûÃÇסµÄСÎÝ,¼¸Ê®Äêǰ¾Í»¹ÇåÁËÕ®Ïî,ÏÖ¿¿ÁìÈ¡Éç»á¾È¼Ã½ðºÍÓÊÕþâäÐô½ð,Íâ¼ÓÿÔ´ӡ°»õ³µÁª»á¡±ÄÃÒ»µãº®ËáµÄ²¹Öú££¿´À´,Óþ¡Ò»Çа취ºó,×ÜËãÆ½°²ÎÞʵذ¾Á˹ýÀ´¡£µ«ÎÒÐÄÀïÃ÷°×,·¢ÉúÔÚÎÒÉíÉϵÄÊÂÇé,´«µ½ËûÃǶú¶äÀïµÄ»°,¶¨»á¸øÄÇ´ÓδȬÓúµÄ¡¢Ç±·üÔÚÐÄÁéÉî´¦µÄ¾É»¼ÒÔÖØ´´¡£´ÓÎÒÕâÀïÌýµ½££¹ÃĪÂÛÎÒÒÔºÎÖÖ·½·¨°²¸§ËûÃÇ££×ܱÈÔÚÓëÄÄλ±íÇ×ÏÐÁÄÖеÃÖªºÃ¡£
ÎÒ´ÓÁùÔ·ݿªÊ¼Ò»Ö±Îóµ¼×ÅËûÃÇ,³Ï»Ì³Ï¿ÖµØ,Ïñƽ³£ÄÇÑùÿһÁ½¸öÐÇÆÚ¸øËûÃÇ´òÒ»´Îµç»°,È´Ñð×°ÊǴӰ칫ÊÒÀï´òµÄ¡£¸¸Ç׿´±¨ÊǺÜÈÏÕæµÄ,ÊÖÉϵÄÈÕ±¨Ã¿Ò³¶¼¿´,¾ÞϸÎÞÒÅ,ѧ¾¿µÃºÜ¡£Ëû¶Ô¾¼ÃÇé¿öµÄÁ˽â±ÈÎÒÏ£ÍûËûÖªµÀµÄ¶àµÃ¶à,żȻ»áÎÊÎÊÎÒÇé¿öÔõôÑù¡£Ç°²»¾Ã,ÎÒÒ»´òµç»°¸øËûËû¾ÍÎÊ,×î½ü»¹¸øÎÒ¼ÄÀ´Ò»ÕŹØÓڿ˼(ËûÒÔΪÎÒ»¹ÔÚÄÇÀ﹤×÷)²ÆÕþÎÊÌâÈÕÒæÑÏÖØµÄ¼ô±¨¡£ÎÄÕÂ˵¸Ã¹«Ë¾Ëðʧ²ÒÖØ²¢´óÁ¿²ÃÔ±¡£¡°Õâʶù½ÐÈËÉËÐÄÄÄ,¡±ËûÓÃì²ã¤µÄÊÖÔÚÐÅÖÐÅüÍ·¾ÍдµÀ¡£ÕâÊÖ¾¹ºÍÎÒ¼ÇÒäÖÐÄÇÖ»ÃÀÀöµÄÊÖÈç´Ë²»Í¬¡£
³ÔÍêÍí·¹ºó¹ýÁ˰ë¸öСʱ,ÎÒ×ß½øÄÇÔøÒ»¶ÈÊÇÎÒ˯·¿µÄ¡¢Ð¡Ö®ÓÖСµÄ·¿¼ä££Èç½ñ²îµã¶ù·Å²»ÏÂÔÓеÄÈýÕÅÒÎ×Ó¡¢Ò»Ì¨·ìÈÒ»úºÍ±»ËûÃǰáÀ´¿¿Ç½·Å×ŵÄË÷Äá´óµçÊÓ¡£Á½ÈËÕýÔÚ¿´Ò»³öϵÁе¥ÔªÏ²¾ç¡£ÎÒ±ã×øÏÂÀ´·±¨Ö½¡£
ÎÝ×ÓʵÔÚÊÇС,ÓÉÓÚ½þÒù×ÅÁ½È˵ÄϰÐÔ,¿´ÉÏÈ¥¾¹ËÆÒ»¸öºÍËûÃÇÒ»Æð³¤´óµÄ±´¿Ç¡£ÎҼDz»Æðµ±³õÎÒÃÇËÄÈËÊÇÔõôסµÃ½øÈ¥µÄ¡£ÎÒ×øµÈ»ú»á·¢ËÍÒ»Ôò¸ú´Óǰ²»Ò»ÑùµÄÏûÏ¢¡£ÎÝ×ÓËıھ¡ÊÇÕÕÆ¬¡£ÓÐË«Ç×½á»éÄÇÌìÔÚÄÚ׿¸¸Ä¸µÄǰԺÀïÅĵÄ:Á½ÈËÉíÉÏ´©µÄ²»Êǰ×É«³¤È¹ºÍ³¿Àñ·þ,µ¹ÏñÊÇҪȥʲô¸ß¼¶Ð´×ÖÂ¥ÉϰàËÆµÄ¡£ÓÐÎҺͽã½ãµÄ:ÎÒµ±Ê±Õý¶Á´óѧËÄÄê¼¶,½ôÊøÒ»Ìõϸ³¤µÄÁì´ø,¶Ì·¢,ÓÍÁÁÓûµÎ;½ã½ã´÷×Ű×ñ×Ó,Í··¢ÄÃÅç·¢½ºÊáµÃ¸ßËÊֱͦ,Ò»¸±»¤Ê¿Ñ§Ð£¸Õ±ÏÒµµÄ´ò°ç¡£»¹ÓÐ׿ďÃǺÍ׿¸¸ÃǵÄ,Óи¸Ä¸Ç×µÄËï×ÓËïÅ®µÄ¡£Ïà¿òÀïÐåÁËЩ¿ÚºÅ¡£
ϵÁе¥ÔªÏ²¾ç½áÊø,¸¸Ç×ÞôÁËÒ»ÏÂÊÖÉϵÄÒ£¿ØÆ÷,¹ØµôÉùÒô¡£
¡°ÎÒ¿´±¨Ö½Ëµ,¡±ÎÒ˵µÀ,¡°¡®Î÷Äϱ´¶û¡¯ÒªÁÙʱ½â¹Í1500ÈËÄÄ¡£¡±
¡°ÊÇѽ,¡±¸¸Ç×˵µÀ,¡°¡®ºìÝíÀÙ¡¯»¹Òª¹ØµôÄǸöÓÐ650¸ö¹¤È˵ij§ÄØ¡£ÕâÖÖÊÂÇéÏñÊÇÌìÌì¶¼ÓÐËÆµÄ¡£ÄúÄǶùÔõôÑù£¿¡±
¡°²»ÔõôºÃ,ËµÕæµÄ¡£ÀÏʵ˵,ÉúÒ⵹ùµÃ¼û¹í¡£¡±ÓÐÒ»Õó×Ó,´ó¼Ò¶¼²»Ö¨Éù¡£Ë«Ç×Ö±ÁïÁïµØ¿´×ÅÄÇÎÞÉùµÄÆû³µ¹ã¸æ¡£¡°ÕâÊÂÇéÎҺþþÍÏë¸úÄãÃǽ²ÁË¡£¡±
Á½ÈËתÏòÎÒ,ÑÛ¾¦µÉµÃÀÏ´ó,Ò»¶¯²»¶¯µØ,ÏñÒ»¶Ô¹«Â¹ºÍĸ¹ͻȻÐáµ½ÃÀÖÞ±ªµÄζ¶ùËÆµÄ¡£
¡°ÎÒÊÇ˵,ÎÒʧҵÁË¡£¡±Á½È˵ÄÑÛ¾¦µÉµÃËÆºõ¸ü´ó¡£ÎÒ´òסÁË,¸Ð¾õºÃÏñ¸Õ²ÅÕÐÈÏ×Ô¼ºÄø«Í·¿³ÁËÈËËÆµÄ¡£ÓÉÓÚûÈ˵¹µØ,ÎÒ±ã¼ÌÐø½²ÏÂÈ¥¡£ÎÒÌÏÌϲ»¾øµØ½²¡£ÎҰѵ¼ÖÂJ.I. ¿Ë¼¹«Ë¾±ôÁÙµ¹±ÕµÄÎÊÌâÒ»Ò»¶ËÁ˳öÀ´:´ÓÏúÊÛϽµºóÈÔÅİåÈÃ×°ÅäÏß»úÆ÷¡¡,µ½Ëðʧ²ÒÖØ,µ½×ܲò»Ã÷ËùÒÔµØÀëÈ¥,µ½Á½Î»ÐÐÕþ¸±×ܲÃͻȻ±»½â¹Í,¼Ì¶øÔ½À´Ô½¶àְλÄËÖÁÕû¸ö²¿Ãű»½â³ý¡£Ä©ÁË,ÔÙ½²µ½ÎÒµÄְλҲ±»ÁÐÈë³ýÃûÃûµ¥Ö®ÉÏ¡£
¡°ÎÒµ±Ê±¾ÍÖªµÀ²»¶Ô¾¢,¡±¸¸Ç×˵µÀ¡£¡°²Å¸øÄú¼ÄÄÇÆªÎÄÕ¡£¡±
ÎÒ˵ÎÒ»¹Óй¤×ÊÁì,»¹¿ÉÁìÏÂÈ¥Ï൱³¤Ò»¶Îʱ¼ä,ÄÄŵ½ÁìнˮµÄ֧Ʊ²»À´Ê±ÎÒ»¹Ê§Òµ,Ò²¾ö²»»áÇîÀ§Áʵ¹¡£ÎÒ˵Æð´Óδ˵¹ýµÄ¡¢ÓйØÇ®µÄÊÂÇé¡£²»Ì«¶à,µ«±ÈÍù³£±Õ¿Ú²»Ì¸¶àµÃ¶à¡£Îҵİ취Ö÷ÒªÊÇÖØÃ÷Çá°µ¡£ÎÒÖ»×Ö²»Ìá½ð¶î¡£ÄÇÿÔ¶¼´ÓÎÒÃÇ֧Ʊ»§¿ÚÁ÷×ß,Ä긴һÄêµÄ½ð¶î,ÓÐʱºòÎÒÒ²¾õµÃ½üºõ·ËÒÄËù˼¡£ÒªÊÇ˵¾ßÌåÁË,ËûÃÇ»á¾õµÃÎÒÒ»¶¨ÊÇÔÚ¿ªÍæÐ¦¡£Òª²»,×¼½ÐËûÃÇÄñù´ü·óÍ·,ÎÔ´²²»Æð¡£
ËûÃÇËÆºõÂúÒâÎÒËù˵µÄ¡£×¢ÒâÁ¦ÓÖÓλص½µçÊÓÉÏÈ¥¡£ÍòÊ´󼪣£¾Í³ýÁËÎÒËÆºõ»¹Èç̸»°µ±³õÄÇÑù¹Â¶ÀÍâ¡£Èç½ñË«Ç×ÖªµÀ,ÕâÉñÆæÐ¡×Ó¾¡¹Üʧҵȴ²»³îÓ¦¸¶²»À´¡£ËûÃÇÄÄÀïÏþµÃÕâÉñÆæÐ¡×ÓÊǺÎÖÖ¸ÐÊÜ¡£ÎÒÒ²²»ÉõÁËÁËËûÃÇÓкε£ÐÄ¡£
Ô¶¨Òª¸ø»¯·ÊÈÜҺлáÄǸçÃǶùÃæÊÔµÄ,½á¹û³ÉÁËÁ½ÈÕÓΡ£µ±Í·µÄ½Ð¼ªÃÀ¡¤±´ÂåµÂ,´ÓǰÊǸöÅ©·ò,ΪÈË´ÏÃ÷ÁæÀþ,ÐÄÖ±¿Ú¿ì,Ò»¿ªÊ¼±ã´òȤµØ¸úÎÒ˵ËûÈçºÎÈçºÎÔÚ°ËÊ®Äê´ú³õũҵ±ÀÀ£ÖÐÔÒÁ˹ø,ÓÖÈçºÎÈçºÎ»ñίÈÎ×öÁËÒ»Õó×Óũҵ²¿µÄ¹Ù¶ù,ÓÖÈçºÎÈçºÎ×îÖÕÑ¡ÔñÁËÏÖ½ñÕâ·ÝÖ°Òµ,»Øµ½ÁËÃÜËÕÀï¡£²»¹ý,ÏÔÈ»Ëû¸ÉµÃ¿ªÐÄ,¶øÇÒÔÚºõÕâ·Ý¹¤¡£ËûËÆºõÀÖÓÚ¸úÎÒÁÄ¡£¿´À´,ËûÕæÄÃÎÒµ±ÄÇôһ»ØÊÂÄØ¡£
²»ÐÒµÄÊÇ,ÓÐÎÒºò²¹·Ý¶ùÄÇְλ,´óµÖÊǸøÒ»·ÝרΪҺÌ廯·Ê·þÎñµÄÔÓÖ¾×öЩ±àдµÄ¹¤×÷¡£ÕâÖ÷Ì⵱ȻûÓÐʲô²»¹â²ÊµÄµØ·½;ÔÙ˵,ÎÒ֮ǰ¼¸¸öÔµľÀú,ÎÞÒÉÔö¼ÓÁËÎÒ¶ÔÀ໯·ÊÎïµÄÈÏÖª¡£²»¹ý,ȷʵÓеã»ÄÌÆµÄζµÀ¡£
µÚÒ»Ìì,±´ÂåµÂ°²ÅÅÁËÈýÈË´øÎÒ³öÈ¥³ÔÎç·¹¡£ÆäÖÐÒ»¸öÖ÷Ö°×ö¹ã¸æÍÆÏúµÄ,ÏòÎÒ̸ÆðÁËËû×î½üÇóְʱÈçºÎÀú¾¡¼èÐÁ¡£
ÎÒÈ¥¼ûÁ˸ÃлáÖ÷¹ÜÕÐļж¡µÄ¸ºÔðÈ˺ó,·½ÖªËûÒ²ÊÇÄÇÄêÄêÍ·¸øÒ»¼Ò±ôÁÙµ¹±ÕµÄ»Æ¶¹Ð»á½â¹ÍµÄ¡£½Ó×Å,ÎÒ¼ûÁËÒ»¸öÒ²Êdzõµ½µÄÔ±¹¤ÂÉʦ¡£ËûÎåÊ®¿ªÍâ,°ì¹«Ì¨ºóÃæµÄ´°Ì¨ÉÏ·Å×ÅÒ»¼ÒÀÏÉÙµÄÕÕÆ¬¡£Ëû¾¹ÏòÎÒ½²ÊöÁË×Ô¼ºÍ¶×ʾӪһÁ¬´®Æ½¼ÛÆûÓÍվʧ°ÜµÄ¾¹ý££ÕâÖÖÓëÈË˵½ü»öµÄÈË,Æä̹ÂÊÖ®Çé½ÌÎÒ²»ÓɵؾªÑÈÆðÀ´¡£ÎÒÎÊ(²»ÖªÊÇ·ñÓÐȨ)ËûÊÇ·ñ´òËãÓ뻯·Êл᳤ÏàØËÊØÏÂÈ¥¡£´ó¸Å²»»á,Ëû˵µÀ¡£¡°±ð¸ã´í¡£Õâ¿ÉÊÇ¿éºÃµØ·½ÄÄ¡£È˺ÃÍÛ¡£¿É¾ÍÊǸøµÄÇ®²»¹»ÎÒ³¤ÆÚÓá£ÎÒÖ®ËùÒÔûÓоܾø,ÊÇÒòΪÎÒµ±Ê±ÕýÐèÒª»î¶ù¸É¡£ÐèÒªµÃ²»ÐС±¡£Ëû˵µÄʱºòЦÁËЦ¡£
ÎÒûÏòËû˵ÎÒÃ÷°×ÕâÖÖ¸ÐÊÜ¡£Ã÷°Ú×Å,ÕâµØ·½Õû¸ö¶ù¾ÍÊÇÄÑÃñ´óÜöÝÍÖ®µØÂï¡£ËÆºõ,ÎÒÃÇÕý³¯Ò»¸öÍÁÉúÄÑÃñ¹ú½ø»¯¡£
µÚ¶þÌìÁÙ½áÊøÊ±,±´ÂåµÂ°ÑÎÒ´ø·µ°ì¹«ÊÒ,̸×îºóÒ»´ÎµÄ»°¡£Ëû²ûÊöÁËÔÓÖ¾¶ÔÆä²Ù×÷µÄÖØÒªÐÔ¡£ÍòÒ»¶©Êý»ò¹ã¸æÊÕÈëÑÏÖØÏ½µ,лá±ã»áÕû¸ö¶ù̱»¾¡£Ê×ÒªÎÊÌâÊÇÔÓÖ¾ÒªÓÐȤζÐÔ,ÒªÏò¿¿ÒºÌ廯·ÊıÉúµÄÈË´«µÝÐ©ÕæÕýÓмÛÖµµÄ¶«Î÷¡£ÕâÓ빫˾ÄÚ²¿µÄ¿¯ÎïÓкܴóµÄ²»Í¬¡£ÕâÊÇÕæµÄ¡£ ±´ÂåµÂ˵,ËûÏàÐÅÎÒ¿ÉÒÔ¸øÔÓÖ¾ÒÔ²ÅÆøºÍ¸ÉÁ·¡£²»¹ýËûÒ²ÓйËÂÇ:ÎÒ´Óδ°ì¹ýÕâÀàÐ͵Ŀ¯Îï,ÄÜ·ñ°ìµÃºÃ,ÓÖÄÜ·ñ´Ó±¨µ½ÄÇÌì×öÆð£¿Ñ§Ï°ÆÚÄØ,Ëû¿ÉµÈ²»Æð¡£
ÎÒ¸æËßËûÎÒÈÏΪ´ÓµÚÒ»Ìì×öÆðûÎÊÌâ,²»¹ýûÓÐÁ¦Õù¡£ÎÒ¾¡¹Üϲ»¶ÕâÈË,µ«ÐÄÀïÃ÷°×,ÄÄÅÂËû¸øÎÒ¸É,¿ÖÅÂÒ²²»»á½ÓÊÜ¡£¿ÖŲ»Ó¦½ÓÊÜ,ÒòΪÎÒ¼¸ºõ¿ÉÒԿ϶¨,ÎÒµ½Ê±»áÓÐÐIJ»ÔÚÑɵĸоõ,´Ó¶ø»áÒò¼õн¶øÐÄÉúÔ¹ºÞ¡£
¼¸ÌìºóµÄÒ»¸öÔçÉÏ,Ëû´òµç»°À´,˵ÒѾÕÒµ½ÁËÒ»¸öÓжàÄê°ìÔÓÖ¾¾Ñé¶øÇÒ°ìµÄÔÓÖ¾Ó뻯·ÊлáµÄ¼¸ºõһģһÑùµÄÓ¦Õ÷Õß¡£¡°ÎÒ¾õµÃûÀíÓɲ»ÇëËû,¡±Ëû˵µÀ¡£ÎÒ¾Ù½ÅÔÞ³É,Á¬Ã¦ÔٴεÀл¡£ËûÒªÎÒÏÂÒ»´Î²»¹Üµ½ÄĶù¸É¶¼¸úËû˵һÉù,ÎÒÒ²µ±³¡´ðÔÊ¡£ÎÒÒ»¹ÒÏß,¾Í¾õµÃÈçÊÍÖØ¸º¡£¼û¹¤²»³É,Òâζ×ÅÎÒÎÞÐëÃæ¶ÔÒ»·ÝÏÔÈ»¸øË¸É¶¼²»ºÏÊʵŤ×÷¶ø²»ÖªÈ¡Éá,´óÉËÄÔ½î,ÎÞÐëÕ¼ÓÃÁËÕâλºÃÈËÁ½Ììʱ¼äºó,È´ÒªÓ²×ÅͷƤ¾Ü¾øËûµÄºÃÒâ¡£
»¬»üµÄÊÇ,³ÔÁËÈ˱ÕßþÐÄÀﻹÃÀ×Ì×̵ġ£»¬»üµÄÊÇ,Óë±´ÂåµÂËûÃǹ²¶ÈÁËÁ½Ìì,È´·Â·ð¾õµÃûÓÐÐé¶È¹âÒõ¡£
ÓÐÒ»»Ø,ÎÒ²îµã¶ùÈ¥Á˶Á·¨ÂÉ¡£µ±Ê±,ÎҲμÓÁË·¨ÂÉѧУÈëѧ¿¼ÊÔ,×Ô¼º×¼±¸Á˼¸ÃÅÕþÖÎѧ¿Î³Ì¡£ÎÒ¾¡¹Ü¾õµÃ¿Î³ÌûÒâ˼,È´»¹ÊǸø¶à¼Ò·¨ÂÉѧУдÐÅË÷È¡ÉêÇë±í¡£²»¹ý,ÎÒȷʵ²»Ïë×öÒ»ÐÐ,¼¸ÄêºóÓлú»áÇ×ÑÛÄ¿¶ÃÂÉʦ¹¤×÷ʱ,ҲûÓÐÄѹýûÓÐ×öËûÃÇÕâÒ»ÐС£
È»¶ø,ÒªÊÇÎÒµ±³õ¼á³Öµ½µ×µÄ»°,Èç½ñÒ²Ðí¾Í¿ÉÒÔ°²ÐÄÖ´Òµ,²»Å¸øÈ˶á×ß·¹Íë¡£
ÎÒÖ®ËùÒÔûȥ³É¶Á·¨ÂÉ,ÊÇÒòΪµ±Ê±»ñµÃÁËÒ»·Ý×öÓ¢ÓïÑо¿¹¤×÷µÄ½±Ñ§½ð¡£½á¹ûÎÒ°ë;¶ø·Ï,È´»¨ÁËÒ»ÄêµÄʱ¼ä,ÄÃÁËÒ»¸öÎÄ¿ÆË¶Ê¿Ñ§Î»¡£ÒòΪÕâËÆºõ±È¹¤×÷»ò¶Á·¨ÂɸüÓÐÒâ˼;ÔÙÕß,Óлú»á¿´¿´Ñ§ÊõÖ®µØÊÇ·ñÊÇÎÒ´ôµÄµØ·½(ºÜ¿ì¾Í¶Ï¶¨²»ÊÇ)¡£´ÓÑо¿ÉúѧУ³öÀ´Ö®ºó,ΪÁËÌӱܼ´Ê±µÄ±øÒÛ,ÎÒÈ¥Á˵±º£¾ü,´Ó¶ø½øÁËÔ¤±¸¾ü¹ÙѧУ,ËæÒ»ËÒÇýÖð½¢ÑØÔ½ÄϺ£°¶ÓÎß®ÁËÒ»Äê°ë,×îºóÒ»Äê,ÔòÔÚ¼ÓÀû¸£ÄáÑÇÖÝÄϲ¿Ò»¸öº£¾ü²¹¸øÕ¾Àï°ÙÎÞÁÄÀµµØ¶È¹ý¡£
º£¾ü³öÀ´ºóµÄµÚÒ»·Ý¹¤×÷ͦº¬ºý££ÃûÔ»¡°ÐÐÕþ±à¼¡±,ÊÂʵÉϼȲ»ÄÇôÐÐÕþÒ²²»ÄÇô±à¼££ÈÎÖ°ÓÚµÃ÷ÒòµÄ¡°ÃÀÀöµÂ¸£³ö°æÉ硱¡£ÃÀÀöµÂ¸£ÊǸöÅÓ´óµÄ±øÍÅ,ÿÔ·¢Ðеġ¶ö¦ÎÝö¦»¨Ô°¡·¶àÈçţë,¡¶´óÊÕ»ñ¡·Ò಻ʤÆäÊý,»¹ÓÐһϵÁÐ׬ǮµÄÅëâ¿ÊéºÍ²»ÇóÈËÊé¼®,ÒÔ¼°ÆäËüÐÎʽµÄÁãÊÛӡˢƷ¡£
ÎÒÓڲоɵÄש¼Ü½á¹¹×ܲ¿´óÂ¥Éî´¦ÓÐÒ»¶·ÊÒ,µ«ÎÞÉõ¿ÉΪ¡£ÕâÌØ±ð½ÐÈËÆøÕ¨,ÒòΪÎÒ×ÔÊÓÖÕÓÚ×ß³öУ԰,ÍÑÏÂÈÖ×°,Âõ½øÁËÖ°ÒµÉúÑĵÄÃż÷¡£ÎÒÏëÂíÉ϶¯Êָɡ£ÎÒÏë×öµã¶ùÊÂÇé¡£ÊÜÈËÇ®²Æ¶øÎÞËùÊÂÊÂ,¸Ð¾õºÃÏñ³öÂôÁËÈ˼ҡ£
ÃÀÀöµÂ¸£ÀïµÄÈËͨͨ¶¼ÃƵ÷¢·è¡£½¥½¥µØ,ÎÒѧ»áÁ˰ÑͬÁÅ·Ö³ÉÁ½×é¡£ÆäÖÐÒ»×é,Ò²ÊÇ×î´óµÄÒ»×é,×îÈÈÐÄ¡£Ò»¸ö¸öËÀÐÄ̤µØµØÒª¸ú×ÅÎÒÕâλ²»¹¶ÑÔЦµÄÐÐÕþÈËÔ±,²»¹ÜÒõÇç,²»·Ö´ºÏÄ¡£ËûÃǺʹó¼ÒÒ»ÑùÎÞËùÊÂÊÂ,ȴƫװ³öÒ»¸±²»¶ÏÊܵ½ÌôÕ½µÄÑù×Ó¡£ÒªÈϳöÕâЩÈËÀ´²»ÄÑ:¾ÍÆä¹¤×÷¸Úλ֮µ¥µ÷·ºÎ¶,¼ÓÒÔÅÔÇòà»÷,µ÷Ù©ÞÞÞí,Ôò±íÇé´ôÖÍÇÒÂÔ´ø¼¸·Ö°ÃÄÕÕß±ãÊÇ¡£
½¥½¥µØ,ÎÒÔÚ¹«Ë¾Àïµ½´¦½áʶÁËһС´éÈË¡£ËûÃǶÔÃÀÀöµÂ¸£µÄ¿´·¨ºÍÎÒÒ»Ñù,ÄÄÅÂÅâÁË·¹ÍëÒ²¸Ò˵¡£ÖÕÓÚ,ÎÒÃǼ¸¸öÐγÉÁËÒ»¸öÃØÃܵÄСȦ×Ó,ÔçÎçÏà¾ÛÓÚ´óÏÃ×îµ×²ãÒ£²»¿ÉÍûµÄÒ»¿é¿Õ¿õµØ¡£ÄÇÀï¿Õµ´µ´,ºÚ÷ñ÷ñ,¶Ñ·Å×ÅÒ»´ó¾íÒ»´ó¾íÎÝ×Ó°ã´óСµÄÖ½,ÈçÒ»ÁÐÁо޴óµÄºÖÉ«¶ÏÑ¡£Ææ¹ÖµÄÊÇ,ÔÚÉî´¦Ò»¸öûµÆÕֵĵÆÅݵ×ÏÂ,ÎÒÃǾ¹·¢ÏÖÁËÒ»¸öÆûË®»úºÍÒ»ÕÅÒ°²ÍÓõÄ×À×ÓÒÔ¼°¼¸ÕÅÒÎ×Ó¡£Ëƺõ³ýÁËÎÒÃÇÖ®ÍâËҲûÓÐÓùýÕâЩ¶«Î÷¡£ÓÐʱºòÎÒÃÇÒ»´ô±ãÊǼ¸¸öСʱ,µ÷Ù©ÉÏÃæ°ì¹«Íõ¹úÕý·¢Éú»ò²»Õý·¢ÉúµÄÊÂÇé,³¶³¶µçÓ°¡¢Ê鼮ʲôµÄ¡£Ëƺõ´ÓÀ´Ã»ÈËÇ£¹Ò×ÅÎÒÃÇ¡£
²»µ½Ò»Äê,ÎÒÃÇÈ«¶¼ÈöÊÖ²»¸ÉÁË¡£ÎÒÊǵÚÒ»¸ö×ßµÄ,´Ç¹¤¸ÇÒò×ÔÈϳÉÄêºóµÄµÚÒ»·Ý»î¶ùÒì³£µ¹Ã¹¡£×Ô´§ÃÀÀöµÂ¸£·Ç×ß»ðÈëħ²»¿É,ÄĶù¶¼ÄÜÕÒµ½¸ü¶à¡¢¸üÓÐȤµÄÊÂ×öºÍÎÞÐëÌìÌìÂé×í×Ô¼ºÉϰàµÄÈË¡£×ܵÄ˵À´,ÎÒȷʵÔÚ±ð´¦ÕÒµ½Á˸üºÃµÄ¡£×ܵÄ˵À´,ÎÒ·¢ÏÖÁËÀͶ¯ÈËÃñѰÕÒÁËÒ»¸ö¶àÊÀ¼ÍµÄ¶«Î÷:´ó¹ÙÁÅ»ú¹¹, ²»¹ÜÄÄÀï,²»¹ÜÊǹ«Ë¾ÒÖ»òÕþ¸®²¿ÃÅ,²»ÍâºõÊÇÉúÃüµÄÒ»ÖÖËÀÍöÐÎʽ°ÕÁË¡£
ÎÒ,ÒÀÈ»ÊÇÎÒ¡£°ÍÍûÉÏ·¨ÂÉѧУ¶ÁÊé,°ÍÍû´ôÔÚÃÀÀöµÂ¸£µÄ,ÊÇÎÒ;¶àÄêÀ´ÑóÑó×ÔµÃÒª·¨ÂÉѧУ¼û¹íÈ¥,ÒªÃÀÀöµÂ¸£¼û¹íÈ¥µÄ,»¹ÊÇÎÒ££Èç½ñÈ´Ë«ÊÖ±§Í·,ɪËõÓÚÒ»½Ç,¶À×Ô²ü¶¶¡£
´º
Ê×ÅúÂÌͷҰѼºÍ¼ÓÄôó¶ìµÄÉíÓ°,¾ÒѳöÏÖÔÚÍþ˹¿µÐÇÖÝ¡£¹¤×÷È´±ÈÈ¥ÄêÏÄÌì¸ü¼ÓûÓÐ×ÅÂä¡£ÉúÈÕÒѹý,ÓÚÊǺõ,ÓÖÀÏÁËÒ»Äê,Õâ¿éÈâÔÚÐÐÕþÊг¡ÉÏÓÖµô¼ÛÁË¡£ÊÖÉϵÄרҵ×ʸñÖ¤Êé,ÿ¹ýÒ»Ô±ãÉÙÒ»µã¶ùÐÂÏÊζ¶ù¡£
ÎÒ¿ÉÒÔµ½»õ³µË¾»úÅàѵѧУȥѧ¿ª¾ÞÐÍÍÏÀ´ó»õ³µÑ½¡£¿ÉÒÔÀ×ÅÒ»´ó³µ»õ,°¤×꣰¶ÏßÀ´»Ø´©Ëóѽ¡£Ëµ²»¶¨×îºó×Ô¼º»¹ÂòËûÒ»Á¾²ñÓͳµ¿ªÄØ¡£
ÓÖ˵²»¶¨ÁÚ¾Óղķ»á¸øÎÒÒ»·Ý¹¤×÷,ÈÃÎÒÔÚËû¿ªµÄС¿ÕÆø¹ýÂËÍø³§Àï¸ÉÄØ¡£Ëû²»ÊdzÉÌì˵ÕÒ²»µ½Ò»¸öÁĿɳÆÖ°È´ÓÖÐŵùýµÄÈËÂï¡£ÎÒ¾ÍÊÇÁĿɳÆÖ°µÄѽ¡£Ò»ÄêÏÂÀ´,˰ºó¹¤×Ê´ó¸ÅµÖ²»ÁËÎҵķ¿ÎÝ˰¶àÉÙ°É,µ«×ܱÈû»î¸ÉºÃÍÛ¡£»¹»áʹÎÒ³ÉΪ±¾µØ´«ÆæÈËÎïÁ¨:ÎôÈÕЯ¹«ÎİüµÄ,ÔÚÆäÈËÉúÖ®ÂõÄ×îºó¶þÊ®ÄêÀï,°Ñ¹ýÂËÆ¬A²å½øB²Û,Ò»·ÖÖÓÄܲåÊ®Æß´Î,Ò»ÖܸÉËÄÊ®¸öСʱ¡£
ÕÕÕâô˵,ÎÒ»¹¿ÉÒÔµ½Âóµ±À͵½ºº±¤Íõµ½¿ÏµÂ»ùÈ¥Õ¾¹ñ̨ѽ¡£µ½Æäʱ,ÎҾʹ÷¶¥Ð¡Ö½Ã±»Ì»ÌÈ»ËæÊ±×öºÃÊ̺òÈ˵Ä×¼±¸¡£
»¹ÓÐÒ»¸ö°×ÈÕÃξÍÊÇ,¸É´à¹¤Ò²²»ÕÒ,Í·Ò²²»¼ô,²»È¥»ò²»×öÈκοÉÄÜÕÐÀ´¶à»¨ÎåëǮµÄµØ·½»òÊÂÇé¡£¾ö²»ÂòÐÂÒÂ,²»ÔÙ×ö³µÖ÷,±äÔº×ÓΪ²ËÔ°³ø·¿Îª¹ÞÍ·³§¡£ÂýÂýµØ,ÎÒ¾ÍÑܱä³ÉÍþ˹¿µÐÇÖÝÀöÐÂÊеķèÀÏÍ·,¾ÍÕâµ±¶ù,ÎÝ×ÓÕðÌì¼ÛÏìµØÍùÀïÌ®ËúÏÂÈ¥¡£µÈµ½ÕæµÄÀÏÁË,ǮҲÓùâÁË,¾ÍÄÃÒ»Ö§ÕæËÆµÄÍæ¾ßǹ,Ö´Æä³ÖеÐнÙÖ®Òµ¡£ÒªÊǸøÈË×¥µ½ÁË,Ò²Ò»µã²»±¯°§:È˼һá°ÑÎÒ°²ÖÃÓÚÒ»´¦ÓÐů´²Ë¬ÆÌ¡¢Ã¿ÌìÓÐÃâ·Ñ²Í¹©Ó¦µÄµØ·½¡£
Ò°¢»ªÓмä½Ð¡°ÏÈ·æ¸ß²ú¹ú¼Ê¡±µÄ¹«Ë¾,ÄËÈ«ÊÀ½çÉú²úÖÖ×ÓÖ®Àà¶«Î÷µÄÒ»Á÷¹«Ë¾,ÕýÎïɫһλºÍÎҲ¶àµÄÈË¡£Ôڸù«Ë¾¡°ºìÄ¸ñÁиñ¡¤¸ðÀÓµÂÓÚÖ¥¼Ó¸çµÄ°ìÊ´¦,ÎÒ°ÑÀýÅÆÊ®¶þ·ÖÉÍÐÄÔÃÄ¿¡¢Íò·ÖâùÇéÑøÐÔµÄÉúƽΰ¼¨³ÊÉÏ¡£ÄÚÊöÒ»ÓëÎÒͬÃûµÄÈ˲»¶Ï½øÈ¡,ÆìÖÄÏÊÃ÷µØÓ½ÓÁËÒ»¸öÓÖÒ»¸öµÄÌôÕ½,Ó®µÃÁËÒ»¸öÓÖÒ»¸öµÄʤÀû¡£¸ðÀÓµÂÔò¶ÔÎÒ˵,Æäµ±ÊÂÈËÕýÏëÎïɫһ¸öÇòÔ±ºÍÒ»¸ö²»ÕÛ²»¿ÛµÄÕ½ÂÔ¼Ò,ÖîÈç´ËÀà,¾¡Êǹ«Ë¾ËµµÄÀý»°,¾ÍÏñ°´´«Í³ÒÇʽ±íÑݵÄÍÁ·çÎ裣һÖÖ±àÍêºó¾ÍÔçÔç¸øÈËÍüµôÊÇ˱àµÄ¶«Î÷¡£
ÐÒ¿÷Ôڿ˼ÄǶÎÈÕ×ÓʹÎÒ³ÉÁËÒ»ÃûºÏ¸ñµÄÅ©»îÀÏÊÖ¡£¾¡¹Ü¿Ë¼²»ÊÇÖÖ×Ó¹«Ë¾,µ«ËüÉú²úÅ©»ú²úÆ·¡£Õâ±ã×ãÒÔÈÃÎÒºÍÒ¹ڳþ³þµÄ¶¼ÊÐÀÏÓÍÌõ»®Çå½çÏßÁË¡£´ËÍâ,ÎÒÔø¾ÔÚµÃ÷ÒòÒ²¾ÍÊÇÏÈ·æ×ܲ¿µÄËùÔڵشô¹ý,ÕâËÆºõÒ²Óеã°ïÖú¡£ÁÙ×ßǰ,¸ðÀÓµÂËæ¿Ú˵ÁËÒ»¾ä,˵ÎҶԿڶԵá°¼òÖ±ÀëÁËÆ×¶ù¡±¡£ÕâÓÌÈçдÔÚ¿ÕÖеĺÀÑÔ׳Óï,ʹÎÒÐÄÍ·µÄÏ£ÍûÖ®»ð,Óɰµ±ä³È»Æ¡£
²»¾Ã,ÎÒµÃÖªÏȷ湫˾ҪÅÉDzһ¸öÈýÈË´ú±íÍÅÀ´Ö¥¼Ó¸çÓëÎÒ¼ûÃæ¡£¸ðÀÓµÂ˵,ÎÒÊÇÓ¦Õ÷ÕßÖÐÂÛ×ÊÀúÂÛÔÄÀú×îÉî¡¢×î¹ã¡¢×î½ÌÈËÄÑÍüµÄ¡£ËûµÄ»°¶ùÓÖÒ»´ÎÈ÷ÂúÁË¿ÕÖС£ÐÇÐÇÖ®»ðÔ½ÉÕÔ½ºì,¿ªÊ¼ôæôæÆðÎè¡£
ÏÔ¶øÒ×¼û,¾ÍËãÎÒÒªÁËÕâ·Ý¹¤,ËüÒ²²»Õæ¼ûµÃ¸øÎҵļòÀúÔö¹â¡£ÕâÖ÷ÈÎÏÎÍ·,ÊÇÎÒ¹ýÈ¥¿àÐľӪÁËÊ®ÄêµÄƽԸߵØÉÏÒ»¸öµÍÎÞ¿ÉµÍµÄÆð²½µã¡£ÕâÎÒµ¹ÎÞËùν,¿ÉÕâÎÞÒìÓÚÊǸøÒѾ÷öÈ»µÄ¹¤×÷ÂÄÀúĨºÚѽ¡£¸üÔâµÄÊÇ,ÎÒÒ»µ©¿¼ÂÇÆðÀ´,Ò²ÄÑÃâ»á¸øÏȷ湫˾±¾ÉíÌíÂé·³¡£¹«Ë¾¼°Æä¡°ºìÄÏòÀ´¶¯éü»³ÒÉÀÖÒâÇü¾ÍÖ®ÈË¡£ÄÄÅÂÔÚ½ñʱ½ñÈÕ,ÓÚ±»½âÉ¢Õß¡¢±»²ÃµôÕßÒÔ¼°¿ÕǰµÄÐÐÕþÈËԱʧҵ´ó¾üÖÐ,ÈËÃÇ»¹ÊÇһζÄÉÃÆ: ÄÇÈËÏĄ̂½×À²,³öÁËʲôÊÂѽ?¾¡¹Ü¹¤×ÊÎÊÌâûÔõô˵,¿ÖÅÂÎÒÒ²µÃÔÙÏÂÒ»¼¶¡£ºÃ,ÎÒÓÖÐĸÊÇéÔ¸¡£²»¹ý,¿´Ñù×ÓÈ˼һ¹ÊÇÒªÎÊÄÄ¡£
ÎÒÕýæÓÚËѼ¯ÓйØÏȷ湫˾µÄ×ÊÁÏʱ,ÆäËü¹¤×÷È´¾¶×ÔÕÒÉÏÃÅÀ´¡£¼¸¸öÔÂǰ¼Ä³öµÄ¼òÀú,Ò»ÏÂ×Ó¿ªÁË»¨,½áÁ˹û¡£Ò»Î»¡°ºìÄ´ÓŦԼ´òÀ´µç»°,ÎÊÎÒÓÐÎÞÐËȤÑо¿Ñо¿Ò»¼ÒÃûΪ¡°µÚÒ»½ðÈÚ¼¯ÍÅ¡±µÄ±£ÏÕ¹«Ë¾¸±×ܲÃһλµÄ¿Õȱ¡£
ÎÒÔÚÒ»ÔòͨѶÉÏ¿´µ½,×óÓÒÃÀ¹úÌìÖ÷½ÌÕþ²ß²¢ÒÔ»ªÊ¢¶ÙΪ»ùµØµÄ¡°ÃÀ¹úÌìÖ÷½ÌÁª»á¡±,ÕýÎïɫһλ´«Ã½¹ØÏµ²¿Ö÷ÈΡ£ÅöÇÉ,ÎÒ¾ÍÊǶÔ×Ú½ÌÎÊÌâ¸ÐÐËȤµÄÌìÖ÷½Ìͽ¡£¸øÃÀ¹úÌìÖ÷½ÌÁª»á´¦Àí´«Ã½¹ØÏµ,¶ÔÓÚÎÒÕâÖÖÈËÀ´ËµÊÇͦÓÐÒâ˼µÄ¡£ÎÒÏëÏñ×Ô¼ºÏñÍÉÉ߯¤ËƵذѡ°ÐÐÕþÈËÔ±¡±µÄÅÆºÅÕªÏÂ,ȥС¶·ÊÒ¶ø²»ÊÇ´ó°ì¹«ÊÒÉϰà,Éí´©¸ñ×Ó³ÄÒÂ,½ÅÖøHush PuppiesÐÝÏÐЬ¡£ÎÒ±ã°Ñ¼òÀú¼ÄÈ¥¡£
Ò»¡°ºìÄ´Ó¿µÄùµÒ¸ñÖÝ´òÀ´µç»°,˵ËûÕý¸øÅ¦Ô¼Êй«ÓõçÒµ¹«Ë¾¡°ÁªºÏ°®µÏÉú¡±ÎïɫһλͨѶ²¿Ö÷ÈΡ£²»¾Ã,Ëû³ö²îµ½Ö¥¼Ó¸ç,ÎÒÃDZã³ÔÔç²Í¼ûÁËÃæ¡£È»ºóËûµÄºÏ»ïÈË˳µÀ¾¹ýÖ¥¼Ó¸çʱ,ÎÒÓÖ¸úËû¹²½øÔç²Í¡£Á½È˸øÎÒµÄÓ¡Ïó¾ùÊÇ,ÎÒÐý¼´ÓÐÍû±»ÑûÓëÂüºÕ¶ÙµÄ¡°Áª°®¡±ÀÏ´ó»áÃæ¡£
Ò»ÏÂ×Óð³öÕâô¶àÊÂÇé,¶øÇÒ¼þ¼þ¿´À´¶¼ÊÇʵ´òʵµÄ,ÓÌÈçÒ»ÕÅÖ©ÖëÍø,ÎÊÌâ´í×Û¸´ÔÓ¡£
ºÍÏÈ·æÒ»Ñù,ÒÔµÃ÷ÒòΪ»ùµØµÄµÚÒ»½ðÈÚ¼¯ÍÅ,Ò²ÊÇС´òСÄֵĹ«Ë¾,ÔÚÊÀÉÏÒ»µãÒ²²»ÆðÑÛ¡£»¹ÊÇÒ»¼Ò±£ÏÕ¹«Ë¾ÄØ¡£Ò»¸ö¸ú±£ÏÕ¹«Ë¾´ò¹ýºÃ¶à½»µÀµÄÅóÓÑ˵,±£ÏÕ¹«Ë¾ÕâÐÐ,Ò»ÑÔÒÔ±ÎÖ®:¡°ËÀÄÔ¡±ÊÇÒ²¡£
µ«µÚÒ»(ÎҸϿìµã»¯×Ô¼º,ÓÃÁ˸ù«Ë¾³ö°æÎïÉÏǧƪһÂɵġ¢±Ï¹§±Ï¾´µÄ×ö·¨:°Ñ¡°µÚÒ»¡±¶þ×Ö¼Ó´ó¼Ó´Ö¡£)ǿ׳¡¢½¡¿µ¡¢ÀÏÁ·¡£¾Ý˵,Ò»µ©ÊܹÍ,³ÉÁËÄÇÀïµÄÈË,±ãÖÕÉúÃâ³´¡£ÕâÊÇûµÃ˵µÄ¡£ÓÐÀíÓÉÏ£¼½,È«¼ÒÈËÕâôÀDZ·¡¢ÕÛÌÚÁ˼¸Äêºó,Ò²ÐíÕâ½ÐÈË»è»èÓû˯µÄµÃ÷ÒòÕýÖÐÏ»³¡£
ºÁÎÞÒÉÎÊ¡£ÏÈ·æºÍµÚÒ»ÕýÊÇÎÒÃÎÃÂÒÔÇóµÄ¶«Î÷¡£
¹ûÕæÈç´Ë,ÓÖºÎÒÔ¼ûµÃÎÒÕæ¶Ô?Áª°®?ÓÐÒâË¼ÄØ£¿ËüµÄ×ܲ¿²»µ¥ÔÚŦԼ,¶øÇÒ»¹ÔÚÂüºÕ¶Ù££ÃÍÊÞÐÄÔàÖ®ÖÐÐĵشøÑ½¡£ËüÊǹ«ÓÃÊÂÒµ¹«Ë¾,»á°ÑÎÒ¾íÈëÎÞÐÝÖ¹µÄ³åÍ»ºÍ³¶Æ¤Ö®ÖÐ:ʲôÓõçÂÊÀ²,ÎÛȾÀ²,×ãµÖһ̨ÆÌÕÅÑïÀ÷µÄÓéÀÖÊ¢µä¡£Õâͨͨ´¦ÓÚÆÕÌìÖ®ÏÂ×î·è¿ñµÄý½éÂíÏ·ÍŵÄÖÐÐĵشøÑ½¡£
Ò°¢»ªÓë?Áª°®?,Ñɿɼ氮£¿
²»·Ñ´µ»ÒÖ®Á¦,˵ʵÔÚµÄ,?Áª°®?¿ÉÒÔÈÃÎһظ´ÎôÈյĴóºì´ó×Ï££Æ±×Ó´ó,Ô±¹¤´ó,Ô¤Ëã´ó,ÎÞËù²»´ó¡£
ÎÒ¹ýÈ¥Ò»Ïòϲ»¶¹ý´óºì´ó×ϵÄÈÕ×Ó¡£ÒªËµ·þ×Ô¼º?Áª°®?ÕýÊÇÎÒÃÎÃÂÒÔÇóµÄ¶«Î÷,²»³ÉÎÊÌâ¡£
µ«Èç¹û?Áª°®?ÕýÊÇÃÎÃÂÒÔÇóµÄ¶«Î÷,ÓÖ¿ÉÒÔ¼ûµÃÎÒ¶ÔÃÀ¹úÌìÖ÷½ÌÁª»áÓÐÒâË¼ÄØ£¿
»¹ÊDz»³ÉÎÊÌâ¡£ÃÀ¹úÌìÖ÷½ÌÁª»áÒ²Ðí,ÎÒÏë,»á¸øÎÒ¸ÉÐ©ÕæÖµµÃ¸ÉµÄ»î¶ùÄØ¡£ÒªÆóÒµ¶¯Õæ¸ñ,Õâ¿ÉÊǾøÎÞ½öÓеÄѽ¡£µ±È»,»Ø¹ýͷ˵,ÎÒ×¼»áµÃµ½Ò»±Ê´Ó´Ë²»Öª¸ÃÔõÑù»îµÄÊÕÈë¡£
ÄǾÍѧߣ¡²»ÔÙ¶ÈÉí¶©×öÎ÷×°,»òÕß˵²»ÔÙÂòÈκÎÎ÷×°,ÕâÎÒ¶¼¿É½ÓÊÜ¡£ÎÒ¿ÉÒÔÏëÏñ,×Ô¼ºÆïͨÇÚ×ÔÐгµÉϰà,¶È¼Ù¾ö²»¸ãʲôÒì¹úÇéµ÷,³äÆäÁ¿µ½´óÎíɽµöÓãÀµ¹¡£
ÕâÎÒ°ìµÃµ½£¡Èç¹ûÄÜ»»À´¶ú¸ùÇå¾»,²»ÎÅÆ¨»°µÄ»°,ÎÒÀíÓ¦¸ÉµÃ¿ª¿ªÐÄÐÄ¡£
ÎÒÔÚÒ»¿éСֽƬÉÏдµÀ:
ÏÈ·æ
ÃÀ¹úÌìÖ÷½ÌÁª»á
µÚÒ»½ðÈÚ¼¯ÍÅ
Áª°®¡£
»¹ÓУ£ÎÒµÄл¶££¶Ø°ÙÀíµÂ½Ö¡£
ÎÒ°ÑÃûµ¥¶¤ÔÚÊé×ÀÉÏ·½µÄ²¼¸æ°åÉÏ¡£ÎÞÂÛºÎʱ,һ̧ͷ±ãÍûµ½¡£
ÎÒ¶Ô×ÅСÃûµ¥¿à˼ڤÏëÆðÀ´¡£ÎÒ¸æ½ë×Ô¼º:²»ÄÜÈ«Åâ¡£ÍòÍò²»ÄÜ¡£¾ø²»Äܶ¼ÅâÉÏѽ¡£
Õâ¾ÍÒªºÍÏȷ湫˾´ú±íÍżûÃæÁË¡£ÎÒ»ëÉíºÚ÷î÷׳ºõºõ££ÎÞ´¦²»Ð´×ÅÓйØÓñÃ×µÄÊÂʵ¡£
ÔÚ×ùÂäÓÚÖ¥¼Ó¸çÉÌ񵂿,Ò»´±´óÏõĶþÊ®ÎåÂ¥Ò»¼äʱ÷ֵġ¢°×»Î»ÎµÄ·¿¼äÀï,ÎÒ±»°²ÅÅ×øÔÚÒ»Õų¤ÕµÄ×À×ÓÅԱߡ£·¿¼ä¿¿ÎݽÇ,Á½¶Âǽ¾ùÏâ×Ų£Á§,´ÓÌ컨һֱÂäµ½µØÏ¡£Ä¿¹â´©¹ý×øÓÚ¶ÔÃæ×À×ÓµÄÈË,ÎҵüûһƬεΪ´ó¹ÛµÄĦÌìÂ¥ÊÀ½ç¡£ÔÙÍùÁíÒ»´°¿ÚÍû³öÈ¥,ÃÜÖ´¸ùºþºáÎÔÓÚÑô¹â²ÓÀÃµÄµØÆ½ÏßÉÏ¡£
ÕâÀïµÄÒ»ÇУ£´ÓÀ«ÆøµÄÉèÊ©µ½ìÚìÚÉú»ÔµÄ°ÚÉè,´Ó¸ß´óµÄľÃŵ½Ã²ËÆÑ̴ѵĺñ×ù²£Á§±,µ½Òø×öµÄ¾Æ¾ß££ÎÞ²»¼ÛÖµ²»·Æ,¸ß¹óµäÑÅ¡£ÎÞ²»ÔÚ˵:³®Æ±£¡´óȨ£¡
ͬ×ÀµÄÓиñÁиñ¡¤¸ðÀӵºÍÏȷ湫˾µÄÈýÃû´ú±í¡£ÂúÍ·Òø·¢¿´ËƺͰª¿ÉÇ×µÄÄÇλÊǸö½ðÈÚר¼Ò,¸ß¼¶¸±×ܲÃ,Ò»µ©Í¨Ñ¶²¿µÄÐÂÖ÷ÈÎ×ßÂíÉÏÈÎ,ÐëÏòÆä±¨µ½µÄÏÔ¹ó¡£ËûÅÔ±ß×øÁËһλ¸Õ¸Õ²½ÈëÖÐÄê,Ƥ·ôºÚºÚµÄÇθ¾ÈË,¿´ÉÏÈ¥Ò²ºÍÉÆ¡£ÎÒ²»ÉõÇå³þËýµÄ½ÇÉ«ÊÇʲô,¹Ò¸öÐÐÕþÏÎͷʲôµÄ,ͦêÓÃÁ,½ÌÎÒÔÚ´ó¼Ò×ÔÎÒ½éÉÜÍêºóÎÞ·¨ÔÚÊ®ÃëÖÓºó°ÑËüÖØ¸´Ò»±é¡£µÚÈý¸ö×øÎÒÕâ±ß,²»¹ýÔÚÀëÎÒÔ¶Ô¶µÄһͷ,Ò²ÊÇÒ»¸öÅ®ÈË,¿´À´ºÜ²»ÈëÎé,±³ÍÕ,¹ÖÆø,¹ÑÑÔ¡£
¿ªÍ·Á½¸öÏÈ·æÈË·¢µÄÇòÄѶȶ¼²»¸ß¡£ÎÒËÆºõ¶¼Ò»Ò»µ²ÁË»ØÈ¥¡£ËûÃÇÎʼ°Îҵı³¾°¡¢´ÓÉ̾Ñé,ºÍ¶Ô¹ÜÀí¡¢Í¨Ñ¶µÄ¿´·¨µÈ,¾¡ÊÇЩÀý»°¡£ËûÃÇÓÃÎÂÁ¼µÄ¡¢Ò°¢»ªÊ½µÄÇ«¹§·½·¨,´Ì̽ÎÒÊÇ·ñ¶®Å©Ê¡£ËûÃÇÎÊÎÒ¼ÙÈçÓöµ½ÕâÑù»òÄÇÑùµÄСÎÊÌâ»áÔõÑù×ö¡£ÎÒÊÇ·ñºÏȺ£¿¶ÔÆóÒµÎÄ»¯µÄת±äÓкο´·¨£¿
ÔÚ½«½üÒ»¸öÖÓÍ·Àï,×À×ÓÁíһͷÄÇÅ®È˶¼²»Ö¨Ò»Éù¡£ËýÓе㸻̬,·ÊÈâÖ±ÍùϰÍ×¹×Å,¸ì²²È糤ÌõÃæ°üËÆµÄ;´©Ò»Ï®Èô»ÒÈô°×µÄÁ¬ÒÂȹ,»¨ÀïºúÉÚµØÊÎÒÔ»¨±ß¡¢Ë¿´ø¡¢ñޱߵÈ,ÓëÔ²ºõºõ¡¢Èíºõºõ¡¢ÈâºõºõµÄËý,´îÅä³öÒ»ÖÖĸÐÔÄËÖÁÀÑÀÑζµÀÀ´¡£Ö»ÓÐËýµÄƽͷװÀýÍâ¡£»¨°×µÄÍ··¢¼ôÖÁ¼¸½üÄԹ϶ùÁ½±ß,¶¥¶à»¹²îÒ»´ç±ãµ½¶¥µÄµØ·½¡£ÕâÊÇÒ»¸öÁ㲿¼þ²»ÅäÌ×µÄÅ®ÈË¡£
ÈÕǰ¸ðÀӵ¸úÎÒ˵¹ý,ÎÒÒª¼ûµÄÈËÖÐÓÐÒ»¸ö´ÓǰÊÇÁÙ´²ÐÄÀíÒ½Éú,Èç½ñÊÇÏȷ湫˾ÈËÁ¦×ÊÔ´²¿µÄÈË¡£Ëû»¹Ëµ,Ò²ÐíÎÒ»á¾õµÃËýÎʵÄÎÊÌâ¡°ºÜµó¡±¡£
ÎÒÒ»±ß»Ø´ðÆäËûÈ˵ÄÎÊÌâ,Ò»±ß²»Ê±µØî©Ò»ÑÛËý,ÆóͼÈÃËý¼ÓÈë¡£µ«Ã¿µ±ÎÒÕâÑù×öµÄʱºò,ËýµÄÑü¾ÍÍäµÃ¸üµÍ,ͬʱµÉµÃÎÒ¸ü½ô¡£Ä©ÁË,ËýµÄÑüÍäÖÁ½ÌÎÒÒªÊǽøÎÝʱû¼ûËýÕ¾×űãÒÔΪËýÊÇ»ûÐεij̶ȡ£Ë«Ï°ͲîÒ»µã¶ù¾ÍÅöµ½×ÀÃæ¡£Ëý¶ñºÝºÝµØ°ÑÔ²Öé±Ê߬µÃ½ô½ô,±ÊµÄÒ»¶Ë¼¸ºõ²å½øÁ˱ǿס£Ë«ÑÛÓɵɶø*_¡£
ʵÔÚ½ÌÈËÄÑÒÔÏàÐÅ,ÏñËýÕâ°ã¹ÖÄ£¹ÖÑùµÄÈ˾ÓÈ»ÊǸöÐÄÀíÒ½Éú,¸ü²»ÓÃ˵»¹Åɵ½Õâ°ãÁϱطÇͬС¿ÉµÄÃæÊÔ³¡ºÏÀ´¡£Ò²Ðí,ÎÒÕý·ê¿¼ÊÔÖ®½Ù°É¡£
µ«¼´±ãÊÇ¿¼ÊÔÒ²ºÃ,ÎÒÓ¦·ñÒÀÈ»¹ÊÎÒ££Ïñѹ¸ù¶ùû·¢Éúʲô¹ÖÊÂÇéËÆµÄ,¼ÌÐøÃæÊÔÏÂÈ¥£¿»òÕß˵,ËûÃÇ»á·ñ¶Ï¶¨ÎÒÓÐʲô²»Í×,ÒªÊÇÎÒ¶Ô×À×ÓÁíһͷÄÇÅ®È˵ÄÒ»¾ÙÒ»¶¯ÊÓÈôÎ޶õϰ£¿
ÎÒÍÆ¿ªË¼Ð÷,¾¡Á¦°Ñ×¢ÒâÁ¦¼¯ÖÐÔÚ±»ÎʵÄÎÊÌâÉÏÀ´¡£²»¹ý,»¹ÊÇ×ßÉñ¡£
ÎÒÃǵÄÃæÊÔ½øÈëµÚ¶þ¸öСʱµÄµ±¶ù,¼ôƽͷÄÇÅ®ÈËÖ±ÁËÒ»ÏÂÑü,ÖÕÓÚÎÊÁËÒ»¸öÎÊÌâ¡£ÐÂÎÊÌâÂíÉϾÍÀ´ÁË:ÎÒÌý²»¶®ËýÎÊʲô¡£Ëý˵µÄ»°¶ùÎÒ¾¡¹ÜÄÜÌýµ½,È´·Ñ½âµ½ÎÒ¼òÖ±Ò»Çϲ»Í¨¡£ÎÒÏȵÀǸ,È»ºóÍÌÍÌÍÂ͵ذÑËýµÄ»°¶ùÕûÀí³ÉÎÒÄܹ»Àí½âµÄ˳Ðò,·´À¡¸øËý,ÔٱϹ§±Ï¾´µØÎÊ,ÊÇ·ñÕâ¾ÍÊÇËýµÄÒâ˼¡£¸´ÊöÖÁ¶þÈý±é,µÃµ½ËýµÄÐíÔÊ,ÎҾͱàЩ¿´ËÆÓëËýÏëÖªµÀµÄ¶«Î÷Ïà¹ØµÄ»°¶ù˵¡£
¡°Õâ¶ÔÌâÂ𣿡±ÎÒÎʵÀ¡£ËýºÜÃãÇ¿µØµãÁËÒ»ÏÂÍ·¡£½Ó×ÅÓÖÍäÏÂÑüÈ¥×öÁËЩ±Ê¼Ç,È»ºóÖØÐ¶ÔÎÒ*_ÑÛ,ÆäËûÈËÔò¼ÌÐø·¢ÎÊ¡£
´ËÊÂÒ»¶øÔÙ,ÔÙ¶øÈý¡£
ÄÇÅ®ÈËһ˵»°±ã°ÑÎÒÄѵ¹¡£ÎÒ±ãÔÙΪӦÊÔ¶øÄÉÃÆ¡£ÎÒÄÉÃÆÊÇ·ñÒ²Ðí¿¼µÃÒ»ËúºýÍ¿,ÊÇÒòΪû¶ÔËý´òÀÃɳÅèè·µ½µ×,ûÓÐÔÙÈýÖØÉ꣣ÒÔÍêÃÀÎÞè¦Ö®¼¼×Ô²»´ý˵££Ëý×Ô¼ºÒÑÃ÷°×ÎÞÎ󡣿ÉÎÒµ±ÕæÊÇÏë·½Éè·¨ÈÃËýÃ÷°×µÄѽ¡£ÕÕ´ËÏÂÈ¥,²»Ô½´Ö³֮½ç,ÎÒ¿´²»³ö»¹ÓÐʲô·¿É×ß¡£
ÃæÊÔÒѽøÐÐÁËԼĪһ¸öСʱ¶þÊ®·ÖÖÓ,×À×Ó¶ÔÃæµÄÄÐÈ˺ÍÅ®ÈË¿ªÊ¼ÊÕʰËûÃǵÄÎļþ¡£ÌýÆäÀϵ÷¶ù,ÆÄÓеã¶ù¡°¶µ×Å×ß¡±µÄζµÀ¡£Ôڴ˵±ÖÐ,¼ôƽͷµÄÅ®È˰ÑÅ̾íµÄÉíÌåÂýÂýÕ¹¿ª,×øÖ±,Ë«ÊÖ½»²æ·ÅÓŲ́ÉÏ,¿ªÊ¼·¢ºÅÊ©Áî¡£
¡°ÎÒÀ´ÎÊÎÊÄú,¡±Ëý˵µÀ¡£¡°ÌÈÈô¸óϸ¦µ½Ïȷ湤×÷,ÓÖÌÈÈôÎÒÃÇÊǸóϵÄÔ±¹¤,´ËÄËÎÒÃǵÄÊ×´ÎÔ±¹¤»áÒé,»ùÓÚ¸Õ²ÅÖ®Ëù¼û,¸óϽ«ÈçºÎÞñ¶ÈÎÒÃÇ£¿¡±
ÎÒµÄÉϵ۴óÀÏүѽ¡£
¡°ßí,¡±ÎÒ´ðµÀ¡£¡°ÏÈÈÃÎÒÂäʵûÀí½â´íÄúµÄÒâ˼¡£ÄúÊÇÒªÎÒ˵˵ÎÒ¶ÔÄãÃǵĿ´·¨°É¡£»ùÓÚ´Ë´ÎÃæÊÔ¡¡¡±
¡°Ã»´í¡£ÒÔÄú¸Õ²ÅÖ®Ëù¼ûÀ´ÅжÏ,Äú¾õµÃÄú½«»áÈçºÎ¹ÜÖÎÎÒÃÇ£¿¡±
¡°Õâ¸ö,¡±ÎÒÖÕÓÚ˵µÀ¡£¡°»ùÓÚÕâôһ´Î¶ÌÔݵĻá̸,ÎÒ¾õµÃ¸ù±¾ÎÞ·¨ÏÂʲô½áÂÛ¡£±íÃæ¿´À´,ÄãÃDz»ÍâºõÊÇ´ÏÃ÷ÈË,´ýÈ˺ÍÉÆµÄÄÜÈË¡£µ±È»ÎÒ»¹¿´²»³öÓÐʲôµØ·½ÒªÒýÆðÌØ±ð¹Ø×¢µÄ¡£×Ô²»´ý˵,ûÓÐÑÏÖØÎÊÌâµÄ¼£Ï󡣡±
¡°ÄÇô,¡±Ëý˵µÀ,¡°¾Í¶ÀÎʹØÓÚÎÒµÄÎÊÌâ°É¡£Äú»á££»ùÓÚÄú½ñÌìÔÚÕâÀïµÄËù¼ûËùÎÅ££ÔõÑù˵ÎÒ£¿¶Ô¹ÜÖÎÎÒÓÖ½«ÒâÓûºÎÈ磿¡±
¡°ÏÈÈÃÎÒÈ·¶¨Ã»°ÑÒâ˼¸ãÍá°É,¡±ÎÒ˵µÀ,ʩչ»º±øÖ®¼Æ¡£¡°ÄúÊÇÒªÎÒ¸æËßÄú,´Ó½ñÌìÏÂÎçµÄ»áÃæÀ´¿´,ÎÒ¶ÔÄúÓÐÊ²Ã´ÌØ±ðµÄ¿´·¨°É£¿¡±
¡°Ã»´í¡£¡±ËýÂúÒâµØµãÍ·¡£ÎÒÕâ²ÅÖØÐÂ¼ÇÆð,ËýÊÇһλÐÄÀíÒ½Éú¡£ÎÒ¶Ô´ËûÓа취,˵ʵÔڵġ£ÕâËÆºõÔ½À´Ô½ÏñÊÇÔÚÍæÒ»ÖÖÓÎÏ·,µ¹²»Ò»¶¨ÊÇʲô¸ßÃ÷µÄÓÎÏ·,µ«¸´ÔÓÊÇÎÞÒɵġ£
¡°ÕâÕâÕâ¡¡ÎÒÏëÎÒ»á˵££»ùÓÚ¸Õ²ÅËù¼û££Äú¸øÎÒµÄÓ¡ÏóÊÇÒ»¸öÃ÷²ìÇïºÁµÄÈË¡£¡±
Ã÷²ìÇïºÁ£¡ºÃ´Ê¶ù£¡ÎÒÕâÊÇÔõôÏë³öÀ´µÄ£¿²Å˵³ö¿ÚÐÄÀï±ãÃÀ×Ì×̵ġ£ÎÒ×Ô¼º¶¼²»ÖªµÀËüÔÚÕâÀïÊÇʲôÒâ˼££¼¸ºõÒ»Çϲ»Í¨££µ«ÎÒ¿´²»³öÓÐ˻Ό¾ÜÕâÃ÷²ìÇïºÁµÄ³ÆºÅ¡£
¡°¸óÏÂÈçºÎ²Ã¶ÈÎÒºÍÆäËûÁ½Î»µÄ¹ØÏµ£¿¡±ËýÎʵÀ,Ò»±ßÏò×ø¶Ǫ̂µÄÒ»ÄÐһŮ´òÊÖÊÆ¡£Á½ÈËã¶ã¶µØ³¯ÎÒÃǻؿ´ÁËÒ»ÑÛ¡£¡°¸óϲöÈ×Ô¼º½«ÈçºÎ´¦ÀíÎÒºÍËûÃǼäµÄ¹ØÏµ£¿¡±
¹»À²¡£¹»À²¡£ÄãÕâ·èÅ®ÈË¡£
¡°ÎҾʹËÎÞ·¨´§¶Èʲô¶«Î÷,¡±ÎÒ˵µÀ¡£¡°ÎÒËù¿´µ½µÄ»¹²»×ãÒÔÈÃÎÒ¶ÔÈçºÎ´¦ÀíÄãÃǵĹØÏµÓÐʲô¿´·¨,ÄÄżٶ¨ÎҵĽáÂÛÊÇÕýÈ·µÄ,¶øÊÂʵȴ²»Ò»¶¨Ò²ºÃ¡£¶Ô²»Æð,ÎÒ¿´ÈËûÄÇô¿ì¡£¡±
һСʱºó,ÎÒÄÔº£ÀﻹÔÚһĻϵØÖز¥×ŸղŵÄÃæÊÔ¾µÍ·,ÐÄÀïÖ±¾õµÃÃÆµÃ»Å¡£ÎÒµÃÕÒ¸öÒõ°µ´¦,ÌÉÏÂÀ´,˱˱Ĵָ¡£ÓÖ¹ýÁ˼¸¸öСʱ,¾ÚÉ¥µÐ²»¹ýÔ¹ºÞ,Ô¹ºÞµÐ²»¹ý·ßÅ:ÕâÊÇÊ²Ã´ÃæÊÔ£¿ÄÄÓÐÈËÄÃÕâÖÖÍæÒâ¶ùÀ´ÕÛÌÚÈ˼ҵģ¿Äĸö¹í¹«Ë¾»áÅÉÕâÖÖÈËÀ´µ£´Ë´óÈΣ¿Ë»á¸øÕâÖÖ¹«Ë¾´ò¹¤£¿
²»¾Ã,¸ñÁиñ¡¤¸ðÀÓµÂÀ´µç,˵ËĸöÃæÊÔÕßÖеÄÈý¸ö°üÀ¨ÎÒ¶¼±íÏֵò»´í££ÊÂʵÉÏ,°´Òø·¢µÄ¸ß¼¶¸±×ܲÃ˵·¨ÊÇ:¡°Ò»¸öÊDZ¼³Û,Ò»¸öÊDZ¦Âí,Ò»¸öÊÇ¿¨ÌØÀ¡£¡±ÎÒ²»¸ÒÎÊ×Ô¼ºÊÇʲô¡£²»¹ý,ÎÒÈ·Ïë¿´¿´ÄÜ·ñ´òÌýµ½Ò»µã¹ØÓÚÄǼôƽͷװÅÖÅ®È˵Äʲô¡£ÎÒÏëÖªµÀÊÇ·ñÓбØÒª²»¶ÏµØÎªËý²ÙÐÄ¡£
¡°ÄÇ¿ÉÊÇÒ»´Î·Ç±ÈѰ³£µÄÃæÊÔѽ,¡±ÎÒ˵µÀ¡£¡°ÄǸöÅ®ÈË,¾ÍÊÇÄǸö×Ô¸ö¶ù×øÒ»±ßµÄ¡¡ÊDz»ÊÇËýÏëÌßÎÒ³ö¾Ö£¿ËýÊDz»ÊÇÔÚ¡¡Íæ°ÑÏ·£¿ÊÔÎҵķ´Ó¦,˵²»¶¨£¿¡±
¸ðÀÓµÂÒ»Ãæ×ÁÄ¥×ÅÓôÊ,Ò»ÃæÂýÍÌÍ̻ػ°¡£¡°²»¡£Õâµ¹²»ÊÇ¡£ÎÒ¿´ÎÒʵÔÚ²»ÖªµÀÔõô˵ËýºÃ¡£ÎÒȷʵ¾õµÃËýµÄÒâ˼ÊÇ¡¡¡±
Ŷ,ÔÀ´Èç´Ë¡£»¹ÓÐʲô¸´ÔӵùýÔÚ´ËÍò·ÖÑÏËࣣ·´Õý¶ÔÓÚÎÒÀ´ËµÊÇ££µÄÃæÊÔÖÐ,½ÐÒ»¸ö¹ÖÈËÀ´´ÓÖÐ×÷¹£,´ÓÖÐÆÆ»µµÄÄØ¡£
ÓзÖÏþÁË¡£Ê±¼äÖ®Éñ³ýЮ×Å´ó´È´ó±¯æ©æ©À´³ÙÍâ,²¢ÎÞ´øÀ´ÒâÍâµÄ¾ªÏ²¡£¡°Ïȷ桱ûÓйÍÓÃÎÒ»òÄÇÌìÔÚÃÜÖ´¸ùºþÉϿսÓÊÜÃæÊÔµÄÈκÎÒ»¸ö¡£ËûÃÇҲûÓаÑËü¸øÄÚ²¿µÄÈË¡£ËûÃDz»Öª´ÓÄĶùºÜ¿ì¾ÍÕÒµ½ÁËÒ»¸öÉîæÚËûÃÇËùÍû££¹ÜËüÍûʲô££µÄÈË,ÓÚÊǹÍÓÃÁËËý¡£
ºÃ¼«ÁË¡£×îÒź¶¾ÍÊÇÎÒÄÇÌìÏÂÎçÃæÊÔʱûÓÐÖÐ;Í˳ö¡£
ÔÚµÈÏÈ·æ·½ÃæÏûÏ¢µÄ¼¸ÌìÀï,ÎÒÊÕµ½ÁËÃÀ¹úÌìÖ÷½ÌÁª»áµÄÒ»·âÐÅ¡£ËûÃÇåàÑ¡ÁËÁùλѡÊֲμӾöÈü,ûÎҵķݶù¡£¿´À´ÓкöàÌìÖ÷½Ìͽ,ÊÖ³ÖÓ²°ð°ðµÄ´«Ã½¹ØÏµÕÐÅÆ,Õý¿ÊÍûµÃµ½Ò»·ÝµÍнµÄ¹¤×÷,ÇÒËûÃÇÔÚ´¦Àí×Ú½ÌÎÊÌâÉÏ,¸ÉÆðÀ´±ÈÎÒ¸ü¼Ó³öÉ«¡£ºÃ¼«ÁË¡£
¡°ÁªºÏ°®µÏÉú¡±Ò»¡°ºìÄÀ´µç,˵ÎÒµÄÉêÇëÒѲ»ÈÝÉÌȶ,?Áª°®?µÄ¡°ÀÏ´ó¡±Ö¸Ê¾ËûΩºÚÈËÊÇÓ᣹ûÕæÈç´Ë,¶ø·ÇÐÂÔìЩʲôÓÐÓõĽè¿ÚµÄ»°,ÔòÌ«ºÃÁË¡£¼ÙÈçÔÚ½ñʱ½ñÈÕµÄÖ°ÒµÊг¡ÉÏ,ºÚÈËÄܶîÍâ»ñµÃ¼¸¸ö»ú»áµÄ»°,ÎÒÎÞÔ¹ÒÓ¡£
¶Ø°ÙÀíµÂ½ÖÎÒÒ²ÎÞÔµ½ÇÖð¡£ÕâÀïµÄÔÒòÓÖÊÇÒ»¸ö¡°ÃØÃÜ¡±: ¡°ÀÏ´ó¡±ÒѰäÁî¸Ãְλ±ØÐë¹éÅ®ÐÔËùÓС£¹ûÕæÈç´Ë,ÎÒÐݲÁË¡£¼ÙÈçÅ®ÐÔ´¦´¦µÃµ½¸ñÍâºñ´ýµÄ»°,ÕâËÆºõδ³¢²»ÊÇÒ»ÖÖ¹«Õý,±Ï¾¹ËýÃÇÊÀÊÀ´ú´úδ³¢ÊܹýË¿ºÁ¶÷»Ý¡£
ÎҰ칫̨ÉϹÒ×ŵÄÄÇÒ»´®¹«Ë¾Ãûµ¥,ÄÇ´®²»¿ÉÄÜÀÏÌ¥ËÀ¸¹ÖеÄÃûµ¥,Èç½ñ½öÊ£Ò»¸ö»ú»á: µÚÒ»½ðÈÚ¼¯ÍÅ¡£
¡°µÚÒ»¡±µÄ¡°ºìÄ,Ãû¼ªÄ·¡¤Î¤¶ûÊ¿,ŦԼÈË,È¡µÀÖ¥¼Ó¸çʱ,ºÍÎÒÔÚÍí²ÍÉϼû¹ýÃæ¡£Ëû˵ËûÕý¹ãÂÞÓ¦Õ÷Õß,Ï£ÍûÄÜÄóöÒ»·ÝÓаë´ò×óÓÒ,·Ö±ð´ú±í²»Í¬±³¾°ºÍ¼¼ÄܵÄÈËÔ±Ãûµ¥¸ø¹«Ë¾¡£µÚ¶þ¸öÔÂËûÀ´µç˵,ÎÒ¾ÒÑ´ÓËûÄÇÀï½úÉý,½øÈ빫˾µÄ¾öÈüÃûµ¥Àï¡£
´ÎÔÂ,¸Ã¹«Ë¾Á½ÃûÐÐÕþÈËÔ±´ÓµÃ÷Òò·Éµ½,ÎÊÁËÎÒËĸöСʱµÄÎÊÌâ¡£¿´À´,ËûÃÇÊÇÕýÈ˾ý×Ó££ÓÖÊÇÒ°¢»ª½¡¿µÐÍ,ºÍÒ°¢»ª¾Ð½ôÐÍ¡£Ì¸»°ÖÐ,ÎÒ¼Èûѧµ½Ò²Ã»ÈÏʶµ½¶àÉÙ¹ØÓÚËûÃǵĶ«Î÷,ÎÒÒ²¿´²»³öËûÃÇÄÜÈÏʶÎÒ¶àÉÙ¡£²»¹ý,ÎҸм¤ËûÃÇû´øÐÄÀíÒ½ÉúÀ´¡£
Ò»¸öÔºó,ÎÒ±»°²ÅÅÈ¥µÃ÷Òò,ÐгÌÁ½Ìì,°üÀ¨ºÍ¡°ÀÏ´ó¡±¼ûÃæ¡£¹«Ë¾¸øÎÒËÍÀ´µÄ»úƱ,ÊǴӰºڶû¿ª³öµÄÔç°à¡£Æð³ÌǰһÌì,ÎÒÅÜÁËÒ»¶ÎÌØ³¤µÄ»º²½ÅÜ,ºÃÔÚ˯¾õʱµÃµ½ÌرðµÄËɳڡ£µ±ÍíÊ®µãǰ,ÎÒºÈÁ˱ÈÈÄÌ,È»ºóÉÏ´²,·¿ªÄÇ¿´Á˼¸¸öÐÇÆÚµÄ˯ǰ¶ÁÎζͬ½ÀÀ¯µÄÎéµÂ¦¡¤ÎÀÒàѷд«,µÈ×ÅÕÕ³£¿´Á˼¸Ò³±ãÀ´µÄî§Ë¯¡£
²»¹ý,»¹Ã»´òíï,ÅËĽ±ãÅÜÉÏÂ¥À´¡£¾ÝµçÊǪ́˵, Ò»³¡º±¼ûµÄ´º¼¾±©·çÑ©ºáɨÁËÎÒÃÇÄϲ¿µÄÒÁÀûŵ˹ÖÝ¡£°ÂºÚ¶ûÒÑÏÝÓÚһƬ»ìÂÒ££º½°à±»È¡Ïû,Ò»³ïĪչµÄÈËÊýÒ԰ټơ£ÎÒÃ͵ØÌøÏ´²¡£×ã×ãµÈÁËÒ»¸öСʱµç»°,²Å¸ãÇå³þÎÒÄǰà»úµÄÆð·Éʱ¼äÒÑÎÞÏÞÆÚÑÓ³¤,˵²»¶¨»¹»áÈ¡Ïû¡£ÎÒÓÖÕÛÌÚÁ˰ë¸öСʱ,²ÅÖØÐ¶©ÁËÒ»ÕÅ´ÓÃܶûÎÖ»ùÆð·ÉµÄ»úƱ,²¢ºÍÖ¸¶¨µÄ¡°µÚÒ»¡±ÁªÏµÈËÈ¡µÃÁËÁªÏµ,°Ñ±ä»¯¸æËßÁËËû¡£»Øµ½´²ÉÏʱ,Éñ¾ÏµÍ³ÒÑ´¦´¦ÁÁÆðÓÚºìÉ«¾¯¸æÐźš£ÎÒ¼«Á¦°ÑÐÄ˼ÂñÔÚÎéµÂ¦¡¤ÎÀÒàÑ·ÉÏ,ÄÔ×ÓÈ´²»Ìýʹ»½,Ò»¸ö¾¢¶ùÏë×ÅÄDZ©·çÑ©ºÍÃ÷ÌìÒ»ÔçÄÜ·ñÀ뿪ÃܶûÎÖ»ù,ÒÔ¼°ÓÐʲô¹í°ì·¨Ó¦¸¶Ã÷¶ùÒ»ÕûÌìµÄÃæÊÔ,ÒªÊÇ»¹²»¿ìµãÈë˯µÄ»°¶ù¡£
ÎҰѵÆÃðÁË,±ãȥ˯,²»ÏûÒ»»á¶ù,È´·¢ÏÖ²»ÊÇÄÇô»ØÊ¶ù¡£Ä©ÁË,ÎÒõæÊÖõæ½ÅµØÅÜÖÁÏ´ÊÖ¼ä,ÄÑΪÇ鵨¡¢ÍµÍµµØÍÌÁËÒ»¿Åºì°×É«µÄ¡¢Ð¡Ð¡µÄ(Ò²·ÅÁ˺þõÄ)°²ÃßÒ©¡£ÄÇÊÇÓÐÒ»´ÎÒ½Éú¸øÎÒ¿ªÀ´Ó¦¸¶Ê±²îÎÉÂҵġ£Õâ¿ÉÊÇÎÒÆ½ÉúµÚÒ»´Î³Ô°²ÃßÒ©ÍÛ;ÎÒ²»ÖªµÀÒ²²»ÏëÎÊÒ©ÐÔÈçºÎ,ÒòΪÎÒ²»ÏëÕù±ç¡£Ò»Ð¡Ê±ºó,»¹Êǰ²Ãß²»ÁË,ÎÒÔ½·¢Ðļ±Èç·Ù,±ãÓÖÍÌÁËÒ»¿Å¡£²»¾Ã,ÎÒ±ã½øÈëÃÎÏç¡£µ½Ò»´óÔçÄÖÖÓÏìʱ,Íþ˹¿µÐǵÄÌìÒÑÁÁÁËÆðÀ´¡£ÎҸϵ½ÃܶûÎÖ»ù»ú³¡Ê±»¹ÓÐʱ¼äÊ£,º½°à°´Ê±Æð·É,ÓÚÊÇ˳Àûµ½´ïÁ˵Ã÷Òò¡£
²»¹ý,ÎÊÌâÀ´ÁË:µ½´ïµÃ÷ÒòÄÇÈ˲»ÏñÎÒ¡£ÎÒµÄ˼Ïë,ÎÒµÄÎòÁ¦,»ëÉíÉÏϺÃÏñ££ÎÒ¼òÖ±²»ÏþµÃÔõô˵ºÃ££Ò²Ðí¸øÕÛÉäÁ˰ɡ£È«¶¼ÂÔÂÔÆ«ÀëÁËÖÐÐÄ,·Ö²»Çå¶«ÄÏÎ÷±±¡£µ¹²»ÊÇÕâ¸ö½ÐÎÒÄÑÊÜ¡£Ö»ÊDz»ÖªÔõµÄ,¸Ð¾õ²»µ½×Ô¼ºÔÚÕâ¶ù¡£´Ë¿ÌµÄÌåÑé,ºÍÍù³£µÄ´óÏྶͥ¡£ÌåÑé³öÀ´µÄ¶«Î÷ºÃÏñ²»ÊÇÎҵġ£
ÄÇÌì,ÎÒÎÞʱÎ޿̲»¸øÈËÁì×Å,°ì¹«ÊÒÈ¥ÍêÒ»¸ö½ÓÒ»¸ö,»áÃæÍêÒ»¸öÓÖÒ»¸ö,È´¸Ð¾õ²»³öÄÄÑùÊÇÍêÈ«ÕæµÄ¡£ÎÒºÃÏñ»¹¶®µÃÀÏÀÏʵʵµØ×ß¡¢Ð¦¡¢´ð¡¢ÎÊ,¿Éÿµ±»áÃæÍêÁË,¶Ô˵¹ýµÄ¶«Î÷,ÄÜ¼ÇÆðÀ´µÄÈ´ÉٵýÌÎÒÐÄÀïÖ±»Å¡£ÍíÉÏÒàÈ»¡£µ±Ê±ÐÐÕþ¸±×ܲôøÎÒÈ¥³Ô·¹,ÏëÁ˽â°×Ìì»áÃæµÄÒ»ÇкÍÎÒ¶ÔËù¼ûµ½µÄ¶«Î÷Óкο´·¨¡£¿àÁËÎÒÒªÕÒЩÊÂÇéÈ¥¸æËßËû¡£
ÄÇÌìÍíÉÏ,ÎÒ˯ºÃÁË(ûÓÐÔÙ½èÖúÒ©Îï,×Ô²»´ý˵)¡£µ«¾¡¹Ü×Ô¼º¸ü¾õµÃÊÇÔÚÐÇÆÚ¶þÔçÉÏ,²¿·ÖµÄÎÒ,È´»¹´¦ÓÚʲôµÚËÄ»òµÚÎå¶È¿Õ¼äÀï,´¦ÓÚÄĸöÒ£Ô¶µÄÓîÖæÀï,ÄÇÀï¶þ¼Ó¶þµÈÓÚÈýµã°Ë»òËĵãÒ»¡£
´ÎÈÕ,Ò»¿ªÊ¼±ãºÍ¡°ÀÏ´ó¡±»áÃæÁ˺ó¤Ê±¼ä¡£ËûÒ²¶Ô×òÌìµÄ»áÃæºÃÉúºÃÆæ¡£ÎÒÄØ,ÓÖÒ»´ÎÉè·¨ÑÚÊÎ×Ô¼ºÁ¬¼û¹ýµÄÈËÃû×Ö¶¼²»¼ÇµÃµÄ¿à¿ö¡£¡°Àϴ󡱿´À´ÊǸö´óºÃÈË¡£ËƺõÒ²ÊǸɡ¢Ï¸¡¢¿ÝÐÍ¡£Äª·ÇÊÇÒ©Îï½ÌÎÒÕâÑùÏëµÄ£¿
ÎÒ¸ø°²ÅÅÉÏÁËÒ»²¿Ð¡Æû³µ,ÓÎÀÀµÃ÷Òò¡£Ò»Ö±ÓÐÈË×ÔºÀµØ¶ÔÎÒ˵,Õâ³ÇÊз¢Õ¹µÃÈçºÎÈçºÎ¿ì,ÈçºÎÈçºÎÈÈÄÖ¡£½ñÌì,ÓÚÎÒÀ´Ëµ,¼´Èô¶ÔÕâµØ·½Õæ´æÓÐÃÀºÃµÄ»ØÒä,µ«ËüËÆºõÊÇÎÒ¼û¹ýµÄ¡¢Õâ°ã´óСµÄ³ÇÕòÖÐ×îËÀÆø³Á³ÁµÄ¡£ÄÇÉÌ񵂿,Ò²¾ÍÊÇÈ˳Ʒ±»ªÁ˽«½ü¶þÊ®ÄêµÄµØ·½,»è»èÓûË¯ËÆµÄ¡£Äǽ¼Çø,ÕýÊÇæ¼³þµÂ¡¤Ê·Ì©ÒòÔÚÉú½«»áÃè»æµÄµÃ÷Òò½¼Çø:һƬ²»Ã«µÄ̲ͿºÍ»¤Ç½°å,»¤Ç½°åºÍ̲Ϳ¡£±ðÎÞËüÎï¡£
ÎҺ͸÷È˵ĻáÃæ½áÊø¡£Õâʱ,ÀëÆð·Éʱ¼äÉÐÔç,»¹Óм¸¸öСʱ¿É¹©ÏûÄ¥¡£ÌìÆø±äµÃ³±Êª¡¢Å¯ºÍ,ÎÒ±ãȥɢɢ²½¡£ÎÒÈÆ×ÅÉÌ񵂿ÖÜÓÎÁËһȦ¡£Õ¾ÔÚÈËÐеÀÉÏ¿´,ºÍÏÈÇ°×øÔÚ³µÉÏ¿´,ͬÑùÊǿյ´µ´££Ã»¾¢¶ù,ûÉúÆø,ÏëÕÒÒ»ãÝÈÃÎÒϲ»¶ÁïÒ»ÑÛµÄÉ̵êҲûÓС£
ÓÉÓÚÕâÉÌ񵂿¿´À´ÔÙûʲô¿´Í·,È¥»ú³¡ÓÖÌ«Ôç,Îұ㳯¼¸ÄêǰÈËÈ˶¼Ëµ³ÇÖÐ×îºÃµÄ½ÖÇø½ø·¢¡£Äǵط½½Ð¡°ÄϹðÀÈ¡±,ÊÇÅËĽºÍÎÒÒÔ¼°ÎÒÃÇ´ó¶àÊýÅóÓÑÐÄÄ¿Öдï¹Ù¹óÈËסµÄµØ·½¡£¼ÙÈçÎÒÃÇÏÖÔÚÕæÒª°áÈ¥µÃ÷ÒòסµÄ»°,Õâ±ãÊÇÎÒÃÇÕÒ·¿×ÓµÚÒ»¸öҪȥµÄµØ·½¡£¿ì²½×ß¶þÊ®·ÖÖÓ·±ãµ½ÁË¡£µ½ÁËÄÇÀï,ÎҲŷ¢ÏÖËüË¿ºÁû±ä¡£ÕýÊÇÎÒ¼ÇÒäÖеÄÄǸöÄ£Ñù¡£µ«²»ÖªÔõµÄ,¾¡¹Ü¾ÉòÒÀÈ»ÎÞËð,ȴήËõÁË¡£Ëü¾¡¹Ü²»³öÎÒËùÁÏ,ȴҲͬʱ½ÌÎÒʧÍû¡£ÔÚÕâ¸öÎÂů¶ø³±ÊªµÄÏÂÎç,¸÷ÖÖÖ²Îï¶¼ÒÑ¿ªÊ¼Ã°³öµØÃæ¡£ÎÒ×ßÔÚÕâ´ó½ÖÉÏ,Ëù×ßÖ®´¦ÎÞ²»½ÐÈËÏëÆð,Ò²½ÐÎÒÄîÄî²»ÍüµÄÊÇÒ»¸ö×Ö:ù¡£
ù£¿Ò»¶¨ÊÇÄÇÒ©»¹ÔÚÎÒÄÔ×ÓÀïϹºúÄÖ¡£
ÎÒ·¢¾õ×Ô¼º¶àô¿ÊÍûÒ»ÇÐ˳Àû££ºÞ²»µÃÕâЩÈ˶¼Ï²»¶ÎÒ,±»ÎÒ´ò¶¯¡£ÔÚÏàͬ³¡ºÏ¡¢²»Í¬ÎÄ»¯µÄ±³¾°ÏÂ,ÎÒ´ó¸Å»áÔÚ¡°µÚÒ»¡±×ܲ¿µÄÌݼ¶ÉϼÀÉÏÒ»Ìõ¹«Ñò°É¡£ÎÒ´ó¸Å»áÔÚËĽ¦µÄѪ²´ÖÐ,ÔÚÕâ¾Ý³ÆÊÇÖ¥¼Ó¸çºÍ̫ƽÑóÑØ°¶¸÷ÖÝÖ®¼ä×î¸ßµÄ½¨ÖþÎï½ÅÏÂ,´óÐÐÆäĤ°ÝÖ®¶¥Àñ,ÆíÇóÉñÃ÷ÆÕ¶É¡£ È»Ôò,ÓÚ´ËÐÛÐÄ׳־ÖÐ,ÓÖÅÜÁËÒ»¸ö¼òµ¥µÄÎÊÌâ³öÀ´:
Ϊɶ?
ÎÒ¸ÉÂïΪÕâÊÂÇéÇ㾡´ËÉú?
ÒòΪÎÒÐèÒªÒ»·Ý¹¤×÷,ÕâÏÔ¶øÒ×¼û¡£ÒòΪ¼ÙÈç¡°µÚÒ»¡±²»¸øÎÒ¹¤×÷,ÎҵüÌÐøÖØ¸´Õâ³ÌÐò,Ö±ÖÁÓÐÈ˸øÎªÖ¹¡£»òÕß˵,Ö±ÖÁÎÒ²»ÔÙ»ñ×¼ÖØ¸´Õâ³ÌÐòΪֹ,ÓÖ»òÕßÖ±ÖÁÎÞÄÜΪÁ¦ÎªÖ¹¡£ÒòΪÎÒÒѾÉí²»Óɼº,·µ»êÎÞÊõ££³ýÁ˹´ÒýÈ˼ҹÍÎÒÍâ¡£
×ßÔÚÕâ½ÖÉÏ,ÎÒÐÄÀïÈ´Çå³þ:ÎÒ²»ÏëסÕâ¶ù;ÎÒ²¢·ÇÕæµÄ¶Ô¡°µÚÒ»½ðÈÚ¼¯ÍÅ¡±ÓÐÒâ˼;ºá¿´Êú¿´,¶¼¿´²»³öÔÚÄǶù¹¤×÷ÓÐÄĶùÌáµÃÆð¾¢¶ùµÄµØ·½,»ò½ÐÈËͶÈë,½ÐÈË¿ªÐĵĵط½¡£Õâ»Ø,˵»°µÄ¾Í²»ÊÇÄÇÒ©ÁË¡£
ÔڻؼҵķɻúÉÏ,ÎÒÐÞÊéÒ»·â,¸æËß¼ªÄ·¡¤Î¤¶ûÊ¿,˵ÎÒ²»ÏëÔÙ¿¼ÂÇÕâְλ¡£ÎÒ½âÊ͵À,ÄÄŲιÛÁËÁ½Ìì,ÎÒ»¹²»Ã÷°×¹«Ë¾ÒªÕÒµÄÊÇʲô¡£¼Ì¶ø,ÎÒ˵ÎÒÎÞ·¨Åжϻ᲻»áϲ»¶Äǹ¤×÷,»òÕ߻᲻»á×öºÃËü,ÓÖ»òÕß,¾Ã¶ø¾ÃÖ®,¹ÜÀí²ãϲ²»Ï²»¶ÎÒ,ÄÄÅÂ×ÔÈϹ¤×÷×öµÃ²»´íÒ²ºÃ¡£
ÍíÉÏ,ÎÒ°ÑÐÅ´ÓÎÄ×Ö´¦Àí»úÀï´ò³öÀ´,ÓÃÐÅ·â×°ºÃ¡£µÚ¶þÌìÔçÉÏ,ÎÒÈ´ÎÞ·¨°ÑÐżijö¡£¼ÙÈçÎÒÊÖÉÏÎÈÄÃ×ÅÒ»·Ý¹¤,¶ø·ÇÍûÑÛÓû´©µØÏëÇóµÃÒ»·ÝµÄ»°,Õâ¿ÉÊÇÒª¼ÄµÄѽ¡£µ«ÎÒÔõôÏòÅËĽ,Ïòº¢×ÓÃÇ,Ïò¸¸Ä¸,ÏòÊÀÈ˽»´úѽ£¿Ëµ¾¡¹ÜµÃ÷ÒòÒ»ÊÔµ½Ä¿Ç°ÎªÖ¹Ë³ÀûµÃºÜ,¶øÎÒÈ´ÒªÁÙÕóÍËËõ£¿Ëµ¾¡¹Ü¸Ã¹«Ë¾Àο¿ÓÐǮ׬,¶øÇÒÁìµ¼ÃÇ·ÖÃ÷¶à¶àÉÙÉÙµØÕýÉ÷ÖØ¿¼ÂǸøÎҸɵĿÉÄÜÐÔ,˵¾¡¹ÜÎÒ×ßͶÎÞ·,µ«È´¶ÏÈ»½ÐÈ˾ʹ˰ÕÐÝ£¿Õâ´ÎµÚ,½ÌÎÒÈçºÎÕмܵÃÁË£¿
ΩÆäÕâô¶àÔÂÀ´½ß¾¡ËùÄܵØÕÒ¹¤×öÈ´Ò»ÎÞËù»ñ,ΩÆä¿´µ½Ô½À´Ô½¶àÈËʧҵºóÔËÆøÈ´ºÍÎÒÏà²îÎÞ¼¸,ΩÆäÿµ½Ò»³ÇÊÐ,¼û½ÖÉÏÓÐÆòؤÐÐÆò,Ô½·¢¾õµÃϰÒÔΪ³£,ËùÒÔÎҲŲ»Äܰװ׵ØÀË·ÏÕâ´Î»ú»á¡£ÄÄÅÂÕâ·Ý¹¤µÄÎüÒýÈËÖ®´¦,Ö÷ÒªÔÚÓÚÓèÈËijÖÖÌÓ±ÜÖ®±ã££Ìӱܿ־å,Ìӱܲ»°²,ÌÓ±ÜÐßÀ¢££µ«Èç¹û¾ÜÈËÓÚǧÀïÖ®Íâ,ʵÄËÆ¥·òÖ®Ó¡£Æ¥·òÖ®ÓÂ,ÔÚÕâЩÈÕ×ÓÊÇÒª¸¶³ö¸ß°º´ú¼ÛµÄ,ÕâÎҿɳÐÊܲ»ÁË¡£
ÎÒ¶Ô×Ô¼ºËµ:±ðº¢×ÓÆø,¿ÛÈËÐÄÏÒµÄÏ·ÊÇÑݸøº¢×ÓÃÇ¿´µÄ¡£ËûÃǸø²»¸øÕâ·Ý¹¤ÎÒ,ÏÖÔÚ»¹ÊǸöδ֪֮Êý¡£ËûÃÇÒ»Ììû¾ö¶¨ÎÒ¶¼¿ÉÒÔÔÙÕÒ¡£ºÃÏ·ÂíÉϾÍÔÚºóÍ·Òà·Ç²»¿ÉÄܵÄÊ¡£Ö»²»¹ý¿ÉÄÜÐÔ¼«ÉÙ¶øÒÑ¡£
Èç¹ûÈ˼ҸøÎÒÕâ·Ý¹¤¶øÎÒÓÖ½ÓÊÜÁË,½á¹ûËüÈ·ÈçÎÒËùÁϰã³ÁÃÆ,ÄÇô¾ÍÕæ¼û¹í,ÎÒÒÔǰ¾Í×ö¹ýÃÆ»î¶ùѽ¡£¾ÍÊÇÒòΪÕâÑùÈ˼ҲŽÐËü¡°¸É»î¡±Ñ½¡£ÎÒÒ»¾õµÃÃÆ,±ãºÜÈÝÒ×ÏëÆð:×Ô¼ºÓлî¸É,Õæ×ßÔË¡£¾¡¹ÜÎÒ²»ÉÆÓÚÌìÌìËÀ°åµØ¿à¸É¡¢Ã͸ɡ¢ºÝ¸É,²»ÉÆÓÚװ׏ØÐÄ×Ô¼º²»¸ÐÐËȤµÄ¶«Î÷,µ«È´Ö¤Ã÷ÎÒ×öµÃÀ´¡£
ÖÕÓÚ,Τ¶ûÊ¿À´µçÁË,˵ÔÚÖÚ¶àÊÜ¿¼ºËµÄÓ¦Õ÷ÕßÖÐ,ÎÒÊÇΨһµÄÐÒ´æÕß¡£È»¶ø,Èç½ñÓÐÒ»¸öÄÚ²¿µÄ,µÃ¼ÓÒÔ¿¼ÂÇ,¶øÕâÓÖÒª·Ñʱ¡£Ò»ÐÇÆÚºó,Τ¶ûÊ¿ÓÖ´òµç»°À´¡£¾¡¹ÜÓïÆøÓеã¶ùº¬ºý,µ«°µÊ¾ÁËÎÒÒÀÈ»ÁìÏÈ,²âÊÔ±íÃ÷ÄÇÄÚ²¿Ó¦Õ÷ÕßÉÐδ¹»»ðºò¡£²»¹ý,ÓÖÅÜÁËÒ»¸öÍⲿµÄ½øÀ´¡£Ò»ÈÕδ¼û¹ýºÍ¿¼ºË¹ýÕâÐÂÐã,¶¼²»¿É¼û·ÖÏþ¡£ÎÒÐÄÓÐǧǧ½á¡£×î´óÕßιýÓÚ:ÕâµÈÈËÊDz»ÊǷǵÃÇîÍÚнÇ,Ö±ÖÁ×îºóÕÒµ½Ò»¸ö²»ÏñÎÒÄÇÑùÃ÷ÈÃËûÃDzÙÐĵÄÈË·½¿É°ÕÐÝ£¿
³Á¼ÅÁËÁ½Èý¸öÐÇÆÚºó,ÔÚÒ»¸öÐÇÆÚÎåµÄÏÂÎç,Τ¶ûÊ¿ÓÖ´òµç»°À´¡£¡°µÚÒ»¡±µÄ¾ö²ßÕßÃǸæËßËû,˵ËûÃÇÈç½ñÒÑÍòʾ㱸,ÄâÓÚÏÂÁ½¸öÐÇÆÚ×÷¾ö¶¨¡£
¶¥¶à²»³¬¹ýÊ®¸ö¹¤×÷ÈÕ°É¡£ÄÄÅÂ¹æ¹æ¾Ø¾ØµØ°´ÊÖÐø°ì,È»ºóÔÙ±ÈÔ¤²â¶àÁ½±¶Ê±¼ä,ÎÒÏëÒ²²»¹ýÊǶþÊ®¸ö¹¤×÷ÈÕÂʵÔÚ²»ÄܺÍÎÒ¹ýÍùµÄÈÕ×ÓÏàÌá²¢ÂÛ¡£¿´À´,ÀëºÍΤ¶ûÊ¿³õ´ÎÍíÑçÓÐËĸöÔÂÁ˰ɡ£ÕÒ¹¤×÷¶¼ÕÒÁËÊ®¸öÔÂÁË¡£ÄÄÅÂÔÙÓÌÔ¥ËüÎÞ¹ØÍ´Ñ÷µÄ¶þÊ®ÌìÓÖËãµÃÁËʲô,¾ø¶Ô²»³ÉÎÊÌâ¡£ÔõôÄܺÍÄÇÏà±ÈÄØ¡£
ÔÚÒ»¸öÐÇÆÚÒ»µÄÎçÒ¹,Ò²¾ÍÊDZ¾ÐÇÆÚµÚÒ»ÌìµÄÖÕ½áʱ·Ö,ûϷÁË,ÎÒ±ã´ÓÒ»ÕÅ»ÆÉ«µÄ·¨ÂÉÎļþÖ½±ßÔµ,˺ÏÂÒ»ÏÁ³¤µÄÖ½Ìõ,°ÑһͷÌùÔڰ칫̨¶ÔÃæÒ»¸öÏà¿òµÄµ×±ßÉÏ¡£Ö½Ìõ¹Ò×ÅÄǶù,Ïñ²Ê´øËƵÄ,ÏñÊǸø×Ô¼º¼á³ÖÊØÍêÕâÂþ³¤µÄÒ»ÕûÌìµÄ½±Æ·¡£ÐÇÆÚ¶þÎçÒ¹,ÎÒÓÖÈçÊÇ×öÁËÒ»±é¡£ÐÇÆÚÈýÒàÈ»¡£Ò»ÖÜÖÕÓÚ½áÊø,¹ÒÔÚÏà¿òÉϵÄÎåÌõÖ½Ìõ,¾¹ËÆÒ»ÅÅÈÙÓþÑ«ÕÂÉϵIJʴø,ÿÌõ´ú±í×ŶþÊ®ËÄСʱµÄ¿à¿àÊØºò¡£Íû×ÅËüÃÇÎÒ±ã¸ßÐË¡£¿´À´,ÎÒÔÚÕâЩÈÕ×ÓÀïµÄΨһ³É¾Í,¾ÍÓÉËüÃÇ´ú±í×Å¡£
ÍùÏÂÄÇÎåÌõ²Ê´ø,À´µÃ¸ü²»ÈÝÒס£
×ã×ãÊ®¸öÔÂû»î¸ÉÁË¡£ÔÚÎÒ¸ø³´öÏÓãÄÇÌìÊܾ«µÄÈËÂÑ,Èç½ñÒ²³ÉÁ˿޿ÞÌäÌäµÄÓ¤¶ùÁË¡£ÎÒÄÇDzɢ·ÑÌײÍ,Ò²¿ì³Ôµ½¼ûµ×¡£ÎÒ±ðÎÞËûÍû,Ö»µÈµÚÒ»½ðÈÚ¼¯ÍŵÄÏûÏ¢¡£
ÏÄ
ÎÝÍâ,ÍòÎïÅûÂÌ,¼ªÄ·¡¤Î¤¶ûʿȴ´òÀ´µç»°,˵¡°µÚÒ»¡±ÒѾÓÐÁ˾ö¶¨¡£¾¹ýÁù¸ö¶àÔÂÀ´µÄËÑÂÞ,°üÀ¨ÎÒ±»¾í½øÈ¥µÄËĸöÔÂ,¾ö¶¨ËÒ²²»¸ø¡£
ÒþÊ¿Òë×ÔThe Harper¡¯s Magazine, July 1995
1996Äê3ÔÂ11ÈÕÁ賿12:50µÚ¶þ¸å
1996Äê3ÔÂ19ÈÕÍí9:35µÚÈý¸å
1996Äê3ÔÂ28ÈÕÁ賿1:40,¶¨¸åÓÚÇóË÷¾Ó
By G. J. MEYER
I'm not getting any interviews.
I call and call and call, looking for leads. But when I turn one up and send in my resume, nothing comes back. When I follow up the resumes with phone calls, secretaries get rid of me so smoothly that before I know what's happened I'm talking into a dead line.
This has been going on for weeks, and it's starting to scare me.
Then one afternoon the phone rings and it's a man I've been trying to reach, a headhunter named Roger Bullard in the Atlanta office of Russell Reynolds. He's looking for a P.R. vice president for Holiday Inns; he's seen my resume and he has nice things to say about it.
Would I rather meet him in New York or Atlanta? He has offices in both places.
"Your choice," I say. "I'd vote for New York."
I wait while Bullard checks his calendar. "Monday in New York, then. Nine o'clock. Go ahead and make your reservations, and tomorrow call my secretary to confirm."
First thing the next morning I give Bullard's secretary my flight number, tell her I'll be arriving at my hotel on Sunday evening. She gives me the Russell Reynolds address and reminds me to be there at nine.
The offices, when I arrive, are like something out of the London home of a maharaja. All the walls are paneled the expensive way. Sheraton furniture, thick rugs, gleaming parquet floors. I'm gleaming, too: shoes, collar, cuffs. The crease in my trousers could draw blood, and I'm feeling good about the fact that despite my nervousness I managed seven good hours of sleep and an early jog in Central Park.
A mirror near the elevator indicates that I don't look like what I am: a guy out of work, thrown out of two corporations in the past three years, a little bitter, more than a little overeager.
I tell the receptionist that I'm there to see Mr. Bullard. With a slightly quizzical look she answers that he's not in yet, and I say I know I'm early. Moving delicately, not wanting to wrinkle the suit I've carried so carefully a thousand miles, I lower myself onto a leather sofa. Gingerly, keeping my fingertips clear of the ink, I open the Wall Street Journal on the coffee table in front of me and settle in to wait.
At nine the receptionist looks over at me, dials her phone, has a brief, inaudible conversation, hangs up, and looks at me again.
"You did say you have an appointment with Mr. Bullard?"
"Yes, I did. Nine o'clock."
"I'm sorry ... but Mr. Bullard isn't scheduled to be in New York today."
When I call Atlanta, Bullard's secretary sounds almost as shocked as I feel. She can't understand how this could have happened. They were expecting me in New York next Monday. She thought that was understood.
In Edvard Munch's painting "The Scream," a solitary, empty-eyed figure stands in a roadway clutching its head, mouth open wide. I hope that's not what I look like as I walk the streets of Manhattan during the next several hours, seeing and hearing nothing, waiting for it to be time to return to La Guardia. But that's how I feel. Without making a sound, I scream all the way back to Wisconsin.
Today is Friday, the thirteenth of September, the ninety-eighth day of my unemployment. Ninety-nine days ago I was vice president for communications of the J. I. Case Company, a multinational manufacturing corporation with sales of more than $5 billion a year. Three years before that I was a vice president at McDonnell Douglas Corporation, a firm that needs no introduction.
And for more than three months now I have been a man with no particular need for an alarm clock, no place where I really need to go in the morning.
This afternoon, to kill a few hours and take my mind off a telephone that will not ring, I play nine holes of golf. For the first time this year it is difficult to find the ball. Pale leaves are beginning to clutter the fairways, making small white objects hard to see. On the day I was let go, the sixth of June, the Wisconsin summer was just beginning. I had expected that finding work would take a few months, during which I would be free to sleep late, to stay away from neckties for a while, to savor the sweetest part of the northern year.
Now it's fall that is just beginning, and I'm no closer to finding work than I was a season ago. I've had shots at jobs, but every shot has missed. I never got a second chance to meet with Roger Bullard. Holiday Inns, he told me, has put its search on hold.
I keep hearing politicians say that the recession is over. A nice thought. But what I see, wherever I look, is more and more good people with good credentials being let go for the first time in their lives and not being able to find work. I know an amazing number of capable, experienced, college-educated, unemployed people. Never in my life have I seen so many people lose their jobs. And I can't name one who has found a new job. Not one.
Ninety-eight days. Three months and a week. Not a long time according to the formula that says a job search is likely to last one month for every $10,000 of annual salary. By this formula, my wait has quite a way to go. The general rule for executive "separation packages" is this: the less you need, the more you get. If your annual compensation has been in six digits for years and the first digit isn't a one anymore, you can expect full pay and benefits for a year and a half, possibly even longer. Six-figure salaries starting with one are good for about a year, six months at a minimum. if your salary is well short of six figures and you have worries about the mortgage and tuition bills, watch out: you're down in dog-eat-dog territory, where they try to get you out the door with as little money as possible.
I have been among the immensely fortunate in this regard. At J. I. Case, after only two and a half years of work, I was promised up to a year with full pay and benefits while I looked for a new job. My wife, Pam, quit her own odious job before we knew mine was in danger and is now trying to get herself established in insurance sales. I hope she succeeds. Though my separation package is a wonderful cushion, it's also temporary, and I'm amazed at how much we've grown used to making and spending every month. Rivers of money flow in and just as quickly flow out: money to keep the kids in school, to keep the house and cars going, to keep all of it insured and the IRS satisfied. I don't like to think about how quickly all this could sink us.
The first thing I felt the first time I was fired was surprise-bone-rattling shock at finding myself, for the first time since the week I graduated from grade school, without a place in the world of work. My luck had been so good for so many years that I'd learned to think of it as something I had earned, something I was owed. The idea that it could turn bad so abruptly was, for a while, impossible to absorb. I walked the streets in an almost trancelike state, as if I were on the bottom of the sea, cut off from everything, not like other people anymore. I started to daydream about walking through my front door one afternoon and seeing dozens of people--old bosses, old colleagues, the very people who had done this to me--leap out from behind the furniture and yell "Surprise! Surprise!" In my daydream they're wearing party hats. They explain how the whole thing had been part of some experiment, and how sorry they were to have had to put me through it. Ah well, I say with a smile, all's well that ends well.
But each time I come home, they are not there.
My first job, at age thirteen, was mopping floors in a decrepit drugstore for fifty cents an hour. Twenty years later, I was moving between jobs of a kind my parents could hardly believe, with an income that passed the furthest limits of my imaginings; I've traveled the world, won semi-high honors, had my picture in the papers, floated above the fields of Normandy in a hot-air balloon.
And now, suddenly, I call it a good day if someone will take my phone call or answer my letter.
I know that not one percent of the human beings now alive in the United States of America, not one tenth of one percent of the current inhabitants of Earth, could possibly find me an object worthy of pity. I know too that this is as it should be: imagine feeling sorry for a man whose situation is so tragic that it causes him to play golf on Fridays. Imagine feeling sorry for somebody who is still drawing full pay ninety-eight days after being fired and still has months of full pay ahead of him whether he gets out of bed or not.
And yet I feel sorry for myself constantly. And I want everybody I know to feel sorry for me.
I am ashamed of myself, of all my feelings: murderous rage, envy, fear, and, mostly, shame itself. On a simple level I'm ashamed of myself for being out of work, for getting my family into such a fix, for allowing myself to become an "executive" in the first place and then letting the whole thing go so wrong. I'm ashamed of myself for losing. When I hear the guy next door start his car in the morning and drive away, I'm ashamed to be in bed. I'm ashamed to rake leaves on weekday afternoons, because everybody in the neighborhood will know--as if they didn't already--that I don't have an office to go to anymore. The deeper shame has to do with my weakness in the face of what feels like the most painful crisis of my life but which is, in fact, a mere inconvenience compared with what millions of people face every day. Yet I'm jealous of anybody who still has the kind of job I used to have, of almost anybody who has a job, period. My envy of the people who put me here and are still drawing their giant salaries and piling up their gigantic pension points is as murderous as my resentment.
I envy people who took fewer chances than I did and are now in the safe if charmless harbors that I set sail from years ago: the post office, the Navy, reporting jobs at daily papers. I also envy people who took more chances than I did and broke free of salaries and corporations and bullshit. I spend a lot of time wondering where I might be today if I had taken more chances.
If envy caused cancer, I'd be dead by Sunday. Calm down, I tell myself. Stop pacing. Find something sensible to do.
But I find that I can't do any such thing. What will I be like by Christmas?
A guy in Chicago tells me that Booz, Allen & Hamilton, the giant management-consulting firm, has a search on for a senior P.R. exec. He doesn't know who's handling it. I unearth the name of the managing partner in Booz, Allen's Chicago office and send him my resume and a long cover letter. I send them by fax and by mail. He doesn't answer.
Further digging leads to the discovery that the search isn't being handled by the managing partner after all but by Booz:, Allen's vice chairman, one Cyrus Freidheim. His office is also in Chicago. Again I laboriously compose a letter, trying to make Mr. Freidheim see me as wonderfully talented and experienced, not desperate. This, too, goes off both by fax and by mail, and it, too, receives no answer. I call Freidheim's office. He's out of town. When I identify myself and describe the things I've been sending, the woman at the other end of the line acknowledges that they've been received. I'd like to find out if anything is being done with them, but she makes it very clear that she has no interest in further conversation.
Eventually I send Freidheim a short note saying that I'll be in Chicago on a given day and can arrange to stop in at his office if he will be free to see me. I say I'll give my note a few days to reach him and then follow up by phone. Soon I'm in a nervous lather about the prospect of having to talk once again with the icy-voiced woman.
Who are these people? What kind of people are they? There was a time, though now it sometimes seems hard to believe, when I myself was a busy man. I had dozens of people reporting to me, big and complicated projects to manage, bona fide crises screaming for attention. I had trips to take, a phone that rang twenty or thirty times a day--the whole corporate-executive fantasy. But nobody ever telephoned me without getting a reply of some kind, usually fairly promptly. Nobody ever sent me a letter without getting an answer. Nobody. Not ever. Not even the cranks. Not even the people demanding to talk with me about jobs for which they had no visible qualifications. Was I crazy?
Better crazy than arrogant, I'm telling myself. Better crazy than hard-hearted. Better crazy and a big fool than a Cyrus Freidheim…
But then the phone rings, and on the line is man who identifies himself as Dick Kinser in New York. He says he's Cyrus Freidheim's executive recruiter--Good old Cyrus! How could I have judged him so harshly?--and that he wants to talk with me about the Booz, Allen job. He has to be in Detroit tomorrow. Can I meet him at the airport there?
But from the moment we find each other at the airport, Kinser is coolly distant. He grows no warmer during a long, meandering conversation in a coffee-shop booth. I start worrying about the fact that he didn't discover me himself, meaning I can never be his trophy, his gift to Cyrus Freidheim.
Will this make him want to put other candidates, ones he himself discovered, ahead of me? Should I have contacted him instead of Freidheim? Of course I should have. But how could I? I didn't even know Freidheim was using a headhunter. Freidheim or his secretary--or the first guy I tried to contact, for that matter--could have told me so. It wasn't my fault that they didn't.
Kinser asks me to mail a list of references to his office in New York. Then he changes his mind, says I should fax the list. It's unusual, in my experience, to be asked for references this early, before being interviewed by the client. It also surprises me that Kinser wants me to fax them. But that's okay. Maybe it means he's more interested than he seems, even if he'll never be able to claim credit for me. The fact that he seems to be in a hurry to check me out can't be bad news.
In the weeks after Detroit I hear nothing. I check with the people I've used as references. They haven't been called. I've never heard of a candidate not being repaid the costs of a trip made at a headhunter's request, and the cost of my ticket was outrageous because I was traveling on such short notice. But I'm having trouble getting my money back. I make repeated inquiries by phone, but I never get past Kinser's secretary, never get a straight answer.
When an envelope finally arrives with a check but no note inside, I count myself lucky not to be out four hundred bucks. And that's the last I ever hear of or from Richard Kinser and Cyrus Freidheim.
I think I can tell you how it will happen, if it's going to happen to you. The first thing they'll do, when they've made their preparations, is to get you out of your office and into a room with some geek from Human Resources.
If you're a vice president, your executioner will be a V.P. also--possibly a senior V.P. Directors are done by directors, managers by managers, et cetera, on down almost to the ranks of the blue-collar folks who even today do actual work for a living even in these United States of America.
From the moment you pass through his door, the H.R. geek will appear to be in visible pain. He wants you to understand that he, too, is a human being, a nice guy, and that his mother didn't raise him for this kind of thing.
(Is it flippant of me to call these people "geeks"? Originally the word referred to individuals who did revolting things for money at carnivals and fairs. I don't think I'm being flippant at all.)
"God," said McDonnell Douglas Corporation's senior vice president for Human Resources ten seconds before he fired me. "God, this is going to be hard." He twisted, literally writhed, in his chair. Then he swung back toward me and quickly got down to his work.
Once the geek has delivered his message and demonstrated the depths of his humanity, he'll get up out of his chair and come around, from behind his desk. You'll be drawn up after him by some mysterious force resembling magnetism, and together the two of you will glide out the door and down the hall to some smaller office that you probably never noticed before, where somebody you've never seen is waiting to tell you not to worry, everything is going to be fine.
Sometimes other people are waiting in other little rooms nearby, but if you behave yourself you'll never know about them. There might be a company lawyer, for example. You won't see him unless you say something that indicates a less than perfect willingness to be agreeable. Somebody from security might be hidden in the wings, too.
The stranger awaiting you in the little office, the one telling you that everything is going to be all right, is the outplacement geek. He's been brought in, and will be paid handsomely, to "guide you through your transition."
The assigned outplacement geek will be the nicest of nice guys--one of the main reasons he was called to his profession in the first place. He'll give you a small, slightly rueful smile. He'll say that he understands what a shock this is but that he also knows something important: that it's very likely the start of a better life not just for you but for your whole family. If he was ever fired himself, he'll tell you about it, encouraging you to appreciate how beautifully that worked out in the end. Or he'll tell you about one or two of his past clients--how one of them is now King of Samoa and the other is expected to be nominated for the Nobel Prize next week. He'll ask whether everything will be okay at home, whether you expect to have trouble telling your spouse. When you say no, he'll give you his card and urge you to take things easy for a while, but then to come see him at his office.
"I know it can be hard to believe at a time like this," my first outplacement geek told me, "but it really is true that this could turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to you."
The outplacement geek wants to think of himself as a useful citizen, a kind of midwife, not as an accessory after the fact. Understandable, of course. Not many of our mothers had anything like this in mind for us when they brought us into the world. Not many of us want to do these things we do for pay.
A guy in Connecticut, a friend of a friend, tells me that Gerber Products has a search on. I wait until just after six and try to call the company's vice president for Human Resources, Curtis Mairs: Calling very early or very late in the day is a good tactic: the secretaries are usually off duty then. Today it works: Mairs picks up his own phone, and he doesn't hang up as I hurriedly introduce myself. I say I've heard he's looking for a P.R. exec. Not wanting to repeat what may have been my big mistake with Booz, Allen, I say I'd like the name of the recruiter handling the search.
"You might try Steven Seiden," he says. "In New York," and hangs up. There's a New York listing for Seiden Associates, Inc., in my Directory of Executive Recruiters. And it is indeed headed by a Steven Seiden. I spend much of the evening writing and rewriting a letter.
First thing the next morning I call Seiden's office and get his fax number. Then I drive to the EconoPrint shop and have my letter and resume transmitted. Next I put both into a manila envelope, drive to the post office, and send them off by Priority Mail.
The next night Seiden calls. We talk for a long time. He goes through my resume line by line, asking for details about everything.
"Well," he says finally, "all of it sounds pretty impressive. On the face of it. As far as it goes." On the face of it? Does he think I'm pretending to be somebody I'm not'?
He asks me to describe my appearance. When I do so, fumblingly, he asks how tall I am. How much I weigh. Whether I have a beard. A mustache. He asks me to send a photo of myself.
What?
We agree that I will also send him samples of my work.
Once again I sit up late composing a letter intended to make me seem brilliant and clever, motivated but not desperate. When I'm satisfied, I put it into an envelope with a fat stack of supporting evidence: corporate annual reports, articles and speeches, official descriptions of my last two jobs, charts of departments I've headed, a survey showing that business editors rated one of those departments among the best in the country after I'd been running it for seven years. Fat yellow envelope in hand, I'm at the post office when it opens in the morning.
Early the following week, Seiden calls to say he's received my envelope, has examined most of the contents, and finds it "very impressive--assuming it all checks out."
Does he think I've forged this stuff'
Days later I arrive home to find a message saying that Seiden wants me to call him.
"Listen," he says when I reach him, "I'm in a meeting and can't talk now. But I want you to know that I really am interested in you for the Gerber thing. I'll be back to you soon. This search is not"--the italics are in his voice-"going to go ahead without you. I'll be back to you soon--in hours, not days. You'll hear from me again in hours, not days."
Taking Seiden at his word, I begin to watch the clock. The day ends without another call. The next day ends the same way, and so does the week. Then it's weeks, not days. After a very long time I try to call him, don't get through, leave my name and number.
More than a week after that Pam and I arrive home one Sunday night and find a message on the machine. The voice of Steven Seiden says, in a bored way, that he's returning my call. He has left his home number but cautions me not to disturb him after ten-thirty New York time--precisely the time I hear the message. After a moment of agonizing I decide to wait.
The next morning I call, leave a message, get nothing back. In the evening I call him at home. His wife says, in a cheery voice that he's gone out briefly but will call me back soon.
He doesn't. He never calls again. Eventually, many weeks later, an envelope arrives from his office. In it is a copy of the news release announcing that a new vice president of communications has been appointed at the Gerber Products Company.
The winner is from Chicago. I recognize his name. He's the guy who told me about the Gerber search in the first place.
Small world.
This doesn't need to turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to me. I'll be satisfied, I'll be grateful, if it turns out to be something less than a disaster. If it ends with me in a new job that's more than barely tolerable, with my life not totally deranged and Pam and the kids not permanently hurt. If it ends that way I will, so help me, get down on my knees in gratitude.
What I keep thinking about, though, is not exciting new opportunities or the delights that are still to come.
What I think about is Bobby Joyce. Bobby Joyce lived in my neighborhood when I was a kid and was a year ahead of me in high school. He was a big, good-looking Irishman of the black-haired, white-skinned, Snow White type--cocky, arrogant, unfailingly sarcastic, athletically brilliant. When I picture him I always see him chewing gum, smiling a kiss-my-ass smile. He showed us how it was possible to be cool even in a cassock and surplice. I'm sure he didn't chew gum while serving Mass, but it isn't hard to picture him that way.
Thirty years out of high school, I found myself seated next to another old-timer from the neighborhood, Jimmy Monahan, at some sort of downtown business lunch. Jimmy had been a few years ahead of Bobby Joyce in school, which put him several years ahead of me. He'd always been the friendly sort, though, even to us little guys. When I ran into him he was the advertising manager for an insurance company. He had the creased face and tired, unjudging eyes of a decent man for whom life has not been a picnic. As the luncheon broke up and we were moving toward the door he somehow mentioned Bobby Joyce-how miserable it was, what had happened to him.
I couldn't let it go; I had to ask. Bobby had become an accountant, Jimmy said, and spent decades with the same company before losing his job. After a year of failing to find a new one, Bobby killed himself. He did it by jumping off the Union Avenue viaduct onto some old railroad tracks at the northern edge of the neighborhood where we'd all been schoolboys together.
I don't know what season it happened in. But in my mind's eye I see it as a raw winter's day, a black-and-white turned-up-collar day like some scene from On the Waterfront. It's hard to draw a connection between the spent man I see pulling himself up onto the viaduct's concrete railing and the beautiful boy I remember.
Bobby Joyce, uncrowned king of the kids, dead of a year without work.
If outplacement resembles anything, it's probably Purgatory. You don't want to be there, you wouldn't be there if you'd been better or smarter or luckier, and the only point in being there is doing what you can to get out. And there's the sheer brutal shock of it, the difficulty of believing that you really are dead.
When you find yourself in outplacement it's because your former employers have paid to get you in. The price of admission is not trivial: a month and a half of your salary is the standard. What you get for this is working space with desk and phone, access to a pot of coffee, the use of a clerical staff and various office equipment and a pitiful excuse for a library. You share in the services of a receptionist who answers the phone by saying "executive offices" and takes any messages you're lucky enough to get. For what it's worth, you get the advice and the pep talks of your assigned counselor.
You can go to outplacement every day or every other day, once a week or once a month. It depends on how determined you are, or how futile the whole thing has started to seem. If nothing else, outplacement can give you a reason to put on a white shirt and tie and get into your car in the morning. You are saved from never getting out of your pajamas, from slowly descending into a vegetative state. The counselors will tell you that if you're serious about getting out of Purgatory, you're going to have to telephone everybody you know--and a great many people you don't.
"Mr. Johnson? Mr. Johnson, my name is Jerry Meyer. I'm the vice president of communications at the J. I. Case Company here in Wisconsin. Joe Smith at Consolidated Amalgamated gave me your name. About a week ago I sent you a letter that I hope has reached you by now. As my letter indicated, I've reached a point in my career where I'm interested in exploring some new options, and I'm wondering if you've heard of any searches it might be worthwhile for me to check out."
Dave, who used to be the head of security at J.I. Case and has become my best friend in outplacement, somehow got a copy of a directory of all the corporate security chiefs in America. Every day, hour after hour, he goes through it page by page, entry by entry, dialing and talking, dialing and talking, gradually accumulating leads like a prospector panning for gold. So far, his leads have not led to a single interview. The problem, I guess, is that he's well past fifty. But he never gives up, and although he makes a lot of sour jokes, he never complains. He never even slows down.
In outplacement, if you know what's good for you, you force yourself to be as much like Dave as you can. You listen attentively to the counselors as they tell miracle stories about people just like you who wrote and wrote and called and called and got absolutely nowhere until one day--wonder of wonders--the job of their dreams fell swooning into their arms. Above all, you force yourself to dig deeper and deeper into the directories and dredge up more and more names. There are hundreds of headhunter firms in the U.S. today, many thousands of individual headhunters. And one of the rules of outplacement is that if you haven't sent your resume to some particular headhunter within the past six months, it's time to do so again. If you send out a thousand resumes in June and are still out of work in December, do it again. There's enough work in this to keep anybody busy for a lifetime. As for whether it actually makes sense, is actually going to pay off ... well, what else are you going to do?
So you pick up that phone and you force yourself to make those calls. But unless you're luckier than most or the job market gets a lot better, you'll discover that it's possible to send off five hundred resumes with five hundred customized cover letters and not get a single reply more substantial than a preprinted postcard saving thanks.
You'll learn that after a while it can become very hard to think of new people to call, harder still to call for the third or the fourth time. You'll find that gradually some of your fellow deceased aren't showing up very often anymore. Some will drift away completely, and you'll remember their dark jokes about becoming a security guard or moving north to where somebody's son-in-law knows about a job driving a delivery truck. You'll wonder what happened to them but won't really want to find out. You'll see how every week a little more confidence has been drained from the eyes of the people who keep coming back, so that after a while they look as if they're afraid of life. You'll reflect that exactly the same change must be taking place in your own eyes. You'll want to stay home and never get out of your pajamas. But you won't dare.
V*clav Havel writes that modern society is held together by fear--fear of loss, mostly; so we accumulate more and more things with which to assure ourselves that it isn't necessary to be afraid and that our compromises haven't been for nothing. It is fear, Havel believes, that drives us to accept corruption and dishonesty, to pretend we are what we aren't.
Ultimately, having given away almost everything that matters, we end up defining ourselves by our possessions. Gradually we become incapable of imagining goals higher or more meaningful than a fine house or a fine car. We abandon hope without even realizing we've done so.
I have friends who wear gold Rolexes and cashmere sports coats, but when you get to know them it turns out that they regard their own lives as misbegotten messes of fear and greed and disappointment. It's no wonder that so many of them--people with summer houses and BMWs--turn out to be quietly desperate for retirement. I think they see retirement as their last chance to go back to being the people they were when they were starting out, back to being themselves. Too often, though, by the time they reach retirement they're so hollowed out they no longer remember who they once were. Their idea of fulfillment has come down to six days of golf a week.
WINTER
A friend told me today that he's without any job prospects at all and is putting his house on the market. This is a man whose resume is cast in gold. He's been executive vice president at two multibillion-dollar corporations, and he's still under fifty. He has an engineering degree and an M.B.A., is a graduate of the Advanced Management Program at Harvard Business School, and has no disabilities or flaws that I could detect in two years of working closely with him. He's been out of work for more than a year now, and he reports that his prospects seem to be narrowing with every passing month. In the absence of any job opportunities, in the absence of anything to do at all, he's been looking at the possibility of buying some small company somewhere. Each new company he looks at, he says, is smaller than the last.
"Where's it going to end?" he asks, laughing. "With me running a McDonald's?"
Well, maybe.
I look at every week's fresh crop of Wonderful Franchising Opportunity ads in the Wall Street Journal, but I never see anything that makes me want to bet the farm. Most of them involve fast-food places, quickie oil-change joints, and printing and duplicating services. Many of them appeal explicitly to displaced executives: "Frustrated?" "Looking for a good place to land with your golden parachute?"
Like a lot of Americans, I know people who, bought McDonald's franchises early and got very rich. But I know also that hundreds of people have lost their shirts on such things. Among all the new franchise ideas now being pitched across America, I'm certain that one or two are going to make a lot of money for a few shrewd or lucky plungers. I'm equally sure that I have less chance of picking the winner than I'd have of finding the pea in a sidewalk shell game.
But the idea persists, makes sense suddenly: if nobody will give you a job, buy yourself one.
I've started checking out Mail Boxes Etc. For an investment of about a hundred grand you can open a shop where people bring things to be packed and shipped. While you've got them there you can sell them ballpoint pens, greeting cards, money orders, the use of your copying machine. It's one of the fastest-growing franchise operations in the country.
Pam hates the idea. I ask if she has a better one. Whenever the subject comes up, both of us get hot. The local Mail Boxes rep gives me a list of nearby franchisees, and I start using my Saturdays to drive from shop to shop and talk with the owners.
In downtown Evanston, a block from Northwestern University, I meet a woman whose shop is obviously doing well. But the location is exceptional: a big residential university, a high-income suburb, a booming business district. All the locations this good were grabbed up years ago.
In Wheaton, a friendly, big-bellied man tells me that, yes, it definitely is possible to make a good living out of a Mail Boxes store. Eventually. If you're willing to work hard and operate in the red for quite a while. "Of course, if you're expecting to make thirty or forty thousand a year," he says with a smile, "that may be a very different matter."
In a strip mall in a raw new suburb I come upon a Mail Boxes owned and operated by a thin, bald man who looks harried despite the emptiness of his establishment. When I tell him what I want, he takes me behind the counter, offers me a chair, seats himself at his desk. He tells me how he was outplaced by the corporation where he'd been employed as an accountant, failed to find another job, and with great difficulty persuaded his wife that they should take their accumulated retirement money and buy him a job.
I ask him if two years sounds like a realistic estimate of how long I'd have to wait to be able to support myself in this, and the man bursts into tears, actually begins to sob. He pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and starts mopping at his eyes.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry. I'll be all right in a minute."
Before entering the corporate world, I had many jobs in many fields: naval officer, newspaper reporter, public relations consultant. Looking back, none of these was better than the one in which I was a "blubberer," scraping sealskins for a fur company in Alaska. Physically, this was the hardest work I've ever done, bloody and greasy and foul. Five hours of it would exhaust the best of us. And it required living for months on a barren island where the sun literally never broke through the clouds, a place without stores, movies, television, beer, girls, or even a record player.
What was wonderful about the Alaska job I can see only in retrospect: it had no bullshit. No politics, no pretense of any kind. Our job was to finish all the skins on hand as quickly as we could without damaging them in the process. When skins came in we worked like brutes, pushing dull knives through resistant tissue until our hands bled. But when we were finished nobody expected us to hang around pretending to be working or pretending to be eager for more.
In my first ten or so years of adulthood, through graduate school and the Navy and Vietnam and my first adult, civilian jobs, I got accustomed to wearing a necktie and to being something rather than simply doing something for pay. But through it all I daydreamed about getting free. Until I was well into my thirties I almost always thought of my jobs as interruptions, intrusions into the parts of life in which I could come closest to being me.
But gradually, by thousands of steps each as insignificant as the twitch of a second hand, we get broken in. By infinitesimal stages we change from rebellious colts to seasoned, stolid wheel-horses. Somehow we come not merely to accept the harness but to need it. To be deeply uneasy, even deeply afraid, without it.
Considering how little I've enjoyed or been satisfied by many of the jobs I've had, it is increasingly strange to me that I now find it so painful to awaken every morning to the realization that I have no work to go to; that no one is expecting me anywhere. I think of this before I open my eyes, and the thought always comes as a sharp stab. Back when I was a colt, shying at the halter and kicking at the traces, I couldn't have imagined all this freedom hurting as much as it does.
At times I've said, in talking with friends, that maybe I'm never going to find another corporate job. I always say next, in what I hope is a cavalier tone, that if that's how things work out it won't really matter much. But until recently this was just bluster. I didn't mean it, didn't really believe that anything of the kind could happen. Now I believe. Now it looks not only possible but likely. And I do think it matters.
Several of the friends I value most have told me that they hope I never go back into a corporation. Write, they advise, teach. I invariably reply that I'll probably end up doing something like what they suggest. But before making a final decision, I add, I owe it to myself to look carefully at all the options. I need to look into the corporate possibilities too, I say, because that's the responsible thing to do.
After some experimentation I settle on the word "responsible" as particularly good in this context. It seems to suggest that although I am, of course, rich in options, and although, of course, I know the right thing for me would be a spot in academia or in the world of authors (someplace where I would be free not only to share my wisdom with the human race but to do so in sneakers and a sweatshirt), I also need to remember my obligations to wife and children and all that.
Declining to suggest these things would involve an admission that I have at present no options at all, that as a matter of hard fact I would grab the first really solid job opportunity that came along, regardless of whether it was back in the defense business or back in the agency business or at East Jesus Community College. But I don't seem to be capable of that kind of truthfulness. I can't admit how naked I feel and how helpless, can't admit that if anyone gave me one more shot at the fat-cat world I'd snatch at it like a hungry beggar snatching at a dollar bill.
I make a file for every job lead that comes my way. Each contains a thin stack of pages: ads clipped from newspapers, formal job descriptions when I can get them, brief handwritten records of phone conversations, copies of letters sent to headhunters, and their replies, if any. In the early weeks of my search, as the files accumulated, I lined them up in a row on a coffee table in the bedroom, overlapping them, so that the names formed a column.
Early on it was a pretty impressive display: Philip Morris, Digital Equipment Corp., Holiday Inn, Rhone Poulenc, Ameritech, Gerber, Imcera Group, Union Carbide. Big, rich corporations. It seemed hard to believe then that at least one of these wouldn't lead to an offer of some kind.
Since then my little display has withered as completely as the leaves of summer. Gradually, as I've been told or have figured out for myself that I'm not in contention for this or that job, I've moved my files to a cardboard box in the basement. I call the box my department of dead letters.
Since then I've been answering ads that describe jobs for which I am--or so I honestly believe--ridiculously overqualified. My active-leads file now is, consequently, as fat as it's ever been. But with jobs I would, have sneered at in June, July, or August.
In the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, I found an ad for a communications manager of something called the National Fertilizer Solutions Association. I actually have an interview for this one. If nothing else, it's a good excuse to run down to St. Louis and see my parents. I've been hoping all along that I could land a job before I would be forced to tell them that I'm unemployable.
I also have a file on a magazine-editing job with the American Bar Association; on an unnamed corporation that ran an ad for a public relations director ("Blind," I've labeled this one, since I haven't even been able to find out what company it is); on three public relations agencies trying to fill jobs conspicuously less exalted than the agency job I left sixteen years ago; on a job with a company that appears to be in the natural gas business in some way that its ad doesn't quite make clear in a place called Dublin, Ohio; on a Washington-based association called the N.R.E.C.A. (I answered the ad without taking the trouble to find out what the acronym means--solid proof of the intensity of my interest); on Boston College, which ran an ad for a director of public relations; on the Columbia University Press, which is looking for a sales representative to cover, by automobile, at an annual salary of less than $30,000, a region extending from Illinois to Texas.
One of my motives in answering such ads is to get a better sense of what kind of response will get me an offer of an interview and what won't. The answer, so far, seems to be that almost nothing I do leads to an interview.
When I complain about not getting answers when I respond to ads of this kind, Pam says I'm being ridiculous. People are simply not going to look seriously at someone so obviously overqualified, she says. She's right, I'm sure. But then again, what am I supposed to do? Sit here waiting for someone to call about a job that is "worthy" of me? I could wait forever. Literally. I could become the modem equivalent of Miss Havisham in Great Expectations, sitting here year after year watching a canopy of cobwebs form over my telephone.
The first thing I do when I get to St. Louis is take a big sweeping detour out to Kirkwood, the suburb where Pam and I lived for twenty years. Somebody whose name I don't know has painted my front door and shutters a new color. It looks good. I hate it.
When I get to my parents' house, it is my mother, as always, who comes to the door. My father, as usual, stays in his chair in front of the television. He's just finished a course of radiation therapy. Now in their eighties, the two of them are so frail they seem to have been constructed from rolls of parchment.
I've decided that I have to tell them. Otherwise, I'm afraid, they'll hear about it through the family grapevine. However they hear it, the news is going to frighten them. These are two people whose early lives were badly twisted by the Depression. Their little house was paid off decades ago, they're collecting Social Security and a post office pension plus a monthly pittance from the Teamsters, and by any measure they appear to have come through safely after all. But I feel certain that news of what's happened to me is going to be a blow to an inner place where old wounds have never healed. Better that they hear it from me, with whatever reassurances I can offer, than in the course of idle conversation with a cousin.
Since June I've been carefully misleading them, calling every week or two as usual but pretending that I'm calling from my office. Occasionally my father, who reads every page of his daily paper with scholarly care and knows much more about the economy than I wish he did, asks how business is. Lately he's been asking every time I call, and recently he sent me a newspaper clipping about the growing financial problems of J. I. Case, the company he thinks I still work for. The article made reference to huge losses and staff cuts. "This is distressing," he wrote across the top in a tremulous hand; so different from the beautiful one I remember.
Half an hour after supper I join my parents in the minuscule room that was once my bedroom, barely big enough now for the three chairs, the sewing machine, and the big Sony television they've arranged against the walls. They're watching a sitcom. I sit down and start leafing through the newspaper.
This house is so small, so dominated by the habits of these two people, that it's like a shell they've grown together. I have trouble remembering how four of us ever lived in it. I sit watching for my chance to deliver a piece of news unlike any I've ever brought here before. On the walls around us are photos. My parents in my father's parents' front yard on their wedding day, the two of them dressed not in white gown and morning coat but as though they were setting off for work in some upscale office. My sister and me, I in my senior year of college with a tight-knotted narrow tie and oiled-down short hair, she in the white cap and high, sprayed-stiff hair of a new nursing-school graduate. My grandmothers and grandfathers, my parents' grandsons and grand daughters. Embroidered slogans in picture frames.
The sitcom ends and my father jabs at his remote control, killing the sound.
"I see in the paper," I say, "that they're laying off fifteen hundred people at Southwestern Bell."
"Yeah," says my father, "and over in Red Bud they're closing some plant where six hundred and fifty people work. Seems like there's something like that happening every day. How are things at your place?"
"Not so good, really. Actually, business is damned bad." We're all silent for a moment, my parents keeping one eye on a silent automobile commercial. "That's something I've been wanting to talk to you about."
They turn toward me big-eyed, frozen, like a couple of deer that have suddenly smelled mountain lion. "Listen, I've lost my job." Their eyes seem to get bigger. I pause. feeling as if I've just confessed to an axe murder. When nobody falls down dead I go on. I talk for a long time. I go through the problems that brought the J. I. Case Company to the verge of ruin--the decision to keep the assembly lines humming even after sales began to drop, the huge losses rising out of this decision, the unexplained departure of the president, the sudden dismissal of two executive vice presidents, the progressive elimination of more and more jobs and then of whole departments. The addition of my job, finally, to the list of those being eliminated.
"I knew something was wrong," says my father. "I sent you that article."
I tell them I'm still drawing my salary, will continue to do so for a good while longer, and won't be financially desperate even if I'm still out of work when the checks stop coming. I tell them things I've never told them before about money. Not a lot but much more than my usual silence on the subject. What I do, mainly, is color in the bright parts of the picture and ignore the dark parts. I say nothing about the sums--sums that even I still find almost unimaginable at times--that flow through our checking account every month, year after year. If I got specific they'd think I must be joking. Or they'd have to lie down with ice bags on their heads.
They appear to be satisfied with what I've said. Their attention drifts back to the television. Everything is fine--except that I seem to just as alone as I was at the beginning of the conversation. My parents know, now, that the wonder boy is unemployed but coping. They've no idea how the wonder boy is feeling, and it's not clear to me that they care.
What was supposed to be an interview with the guy at Fertilizer Solutions Association turns into a two-day visit. The head man, a bright and bluff ex-farmer named Jim Boillot, starts by entertainingly telling me the story of how he went bust in the agricultural crash of the early Eighties, got a political appointment in the U.S. Department of Agriculture for a while, and finally took the job he has now as a way of getting back to Missouri. It's clear, though, that he enjoys his work and cares about it. He seems to enjoy talking with me. He also seems to be taking me seriously.
The job I'm a candidate for, unfortunately, is mostly a matter of writing and managing a magazine entirely devoted to the subject of liquid fertilizers. This isn't a dishonorable subject, certainly, and the last few months have definitely deepened my experience of thing closely akin to fertilizer. But it does sound faintly ridiculous.
On the first day, Boillot arranges for three of his people to take me out to lunch. One, a man whose main job is selling ads, talks about how he himself recently went through a long and painful search for work.
When I meet with a man whose main responsibility is recruiting new members for association, I learn that he, too, was laid off earlier in the year by a collapsing soybean association. After this I meet the staff lawyer, an other recent arrival, a fiftyish man with photos of his large family on the sill behind his desk. He tells me--I'm amazed by how frank all these people are about their recent catastrophes--how he was an investor in and manager of a string of discount gas stations that went under. I ask, wondering if I have the right to ask, whether he plans to stay with the fertilizer association permanently. Probably not, he says. "Don't get me wrong. It's a good place. Nice people. But it just doesn't pay what I'm going to need in the long term. I took it because at the time I need a job. Needed a job bad." He smiles when he says this.
I don't tell him I know the feeling. This whole place is a collection of refugees, apparently. We seem to be evolving into a nation of native-born refugees.
At the end of the second day, Boillot takes me back into his office for a final talk. He explains how important the magazine is to his operation. If subscriptions or ad revenues fell off severely the entire association would be crippled. It's essential that the magazine be interesting, that it deliver something of real value to people who make their living in the world of liquid fertilizers. This is very different from some corporate house organ. This is real.
He's sure I could bring talent and good experience to the magazine, Boillot says. He has a concern, though: I've never run a publication of this kind. Could I do it well, and do so from the day I reported for work? He can't afford much of a leaning period.
I tell him I think I can do it from the first day, but I don't argue hard. Though I like this man, I know already that if he offers me the job I probably won't accept. Probably shouldn't accept, because almost certainly I'd feel out of place in it and therefore would probably start resenting the cut in pay.
A few mornings later he calls and tells me that he's found a candidate who has spent years running a magazine almost exactly like the fertilizer association's. "I just don't think I can justify not hiring him," he says. I agree effusively and thank him again. He asks me to let him know wherever I go in my next job, and I promise to do so. When I hang up it's with a feeling of relief; not getting an offer means I won't have to agonize over whether to take a job that obviously would be wrong for everyone involved, won't have to turn this good man down after taking up two days of his time.
Funny to be turned down and feel so good about it. Funny how the two days I spent with Boillot and his people feel like time well spent.
I nearly went to law school once. I took the LSAT, took a couple of political science courses to get myself ready, found the courses uninteresting but still wrote to law schools for application forms. I didn't really want to do it, though, and in later years when I had the opportunity to witness lawyers at work I wasn't sorry not to be doing what they were.
Yet if I had gone through with it, I might have a secure practice no one could take from me now.
I didn't go to law school because I won a fellowship for graduate work in English. I went off to spend a year getting an M.A. because it sounded like more fun than going to work or to law school and because it was a chance to find out whether academia was the place for me (I quickly decided it wasn't). Then, coming out of grad school, I joined the Navy to avoid the draft. That led to Officer Candidate School, a year and a half on a destroyer patrolling the coast of Vietnam, and a final, screamingly pointless year at a Navy supply depot in southern California.
My first job after the Navy was a vague one--my title was "administrative editor," reflecting the fact that I wasn't quite an administrator and wasn't quite an editor--with Meredith Publishing Company in Des Moines. Meredith was a gigantic outfit, producing a zillion copies a month of Better Homes and Gardens, nearly that many copies of Successful Farming, and profitable lines of cookbooks and do-it-yourself books and other forms of printed retail merchandise.
I had a cubicle deep inside the company's massive old brickwork headquarters and very little to do. This was especially maddening because I regarded myself, out of school and out of uniform at last, to be on the threshold of a career. I wanted to get started. I wanted to do things. Being hired and then left so idle felt like a betrayal.
Everybody at Meredith was bored half insane, and gradually I learned to separate my associates into two groups. One, by far the largest, was made up of earnest sorts determined to stay in the role of the serious executive under all circumstances; they had as little to do as any of us but insistently pretended to be constantly challenged. It was easy to identify these people: I'd make a glancing, joking reference to the tedium of the place, and they were the ones who gave back a blank stare lightly flecked with annoyance.
Gradually, here and there, I made the acquaintance of a small number of people who saw the place the way I did and were willing, whenever it was minimally safe, to say so. Eventually a few of us formed a kind of secret cell that would meet every morning and afternoon in a remote and cavernous area far down in the lowest level of the building, a dark void where enormous room-size rolls of paper were stacked in great brown palisades. Deep within it, strangely, under a naked lightbulb, we found a soda machine and a picnic table with chairs. Nobody ever seemed to use them but us. Sometimes we'd stay there for hours, joking about what was happening or not happening above ground in Officeland, talking about movies and books and whatnot. Nobody ever seemed to miss us.
We all quit within a year. I was the first to go, and I departed on the assumption that I'd simply been extraordinarily unlucky in my first grownup job. I assumed that Meredith had to be an aberration, that wherever I went I was bound to find more to do and more inter-esting things to do and people who didn't have to stu-pefy themselves to keep coming back every day. And on the whole I did find things better elsewhere. Not as much better as I had hoped but better. On the whole I found what working men and women have been finding for more than a century now: that big bureaucracies are a form of death in life wherever you find them, whether they belong to some corporation or to some branch of the government.
The same part of me that wishes it had gone to law school wishes it had stayed at Meredith. The part that was for so many years proud of having said to hell with law school, to hell with Meredith, is now trembling in a corner, curled up with its hands over its head.
SPRING
The first of the mallards and Canada geese have made their appearance in Wisconsin. I have fewer job prospects than I had last summer. A birthday has passed, so that I'm now one year older and have that much less value on the executive meat market. My professional credentials grow just a little staler with every passing month.
I could go to truck-driver school and learn to operate one of those huge tractor-trailer rigs. I could pull vast loads from coast to coast and back again. Maybe buy my own diesel eventually.
Or maybe my neighbor Jim would give me a job in the little air-filter factory he runs. He's constantly complaining about how impossible it is to find minimally competent and dependable people. I'm minimally competent. A year's take-home pay probably wouldn't cover a lot more than the taxes on my house, but it would be better than no job at all. And it could make me a local legend: the former briefcase carrier who spent the last twenty years of his life inserting tab A into slot B seventeen times a minute, forty hours a week.
For that matter, I could try standing behind the counter at McDonald's or Burger King or Kentucky Fried Chicken. I would wear a little paper hat and dread the thought of having to wait on somebody who knew me when.
In another daydream I simply stop looking for work, stop having my hair cut, stop going anywhere or doing anything that could possibly involve the unnecessary expenditure of fifty cents. I never buy a new piece of clothing, never again own a car, turn my yard into a vegetable garden and my kitchen into a canning factory. Slowly I evolve into the crazy old man of Racine, Wisconsin, as my house falls in around my ears. And when I'm truly old and the last of my money is gone, I use a real-looking toy pistol and enter upon a career of armed robbery. If I'm caught, no tragedy: I'll be put in a place where there's a warm, dry bed and free food every day.
An Iowa company called Pioneer Hi-Bred International, the world's leading producer of seed corn and such, is looking for someone more or less like me. In the Chicago office of the company's headhunter, Greg Carrott, I present the usual highly sanitized and vastly edifying version of my life story, a story in which someone with my name is constantly and purposefully pressing forward from challenge to challenge and triumph to triumph. Carrott in turn tells me the usual things about how his clients are looking for a team player and a real strategist and all the things that all the companies say. It's like performing a ritual folk dance--something choreographed by somebody whose name everybody forgot long, long ago.
My time at J. I. Case has made me, luckily, a certified veteran of the agriculture business. Case isn't a seed company, but it builds farm machinery. That's close enough to separate me from the city slickers, evidently. It also seems to help that I once lived in Des Moines, where Pioneer has its headquarters. As I'm leaving his office Carrott says casually that the fit between me and this job seems "almost too good to be true." The words seem momentous, written on the sky. Inside me the gray coals of hope turn orange.
Soon I get word that Pioneer is sending a delegation of three people to Chicago to meet with me. Carrott says that I'm the candidate with the broadest background and the most impressive experience. Again his words spread out against the sky. Little flames begin to dance on the glowing coals of hope. It's been obvious from the start that if I get this job it won't exactly enhance my resume. It carries the title of director, no small step down from the high plains where I've been feeding these past ten years. I don't much care about this, but there's no denying that it would be a further blotch on my already tarnished job history. What's far worse is that my willingness to consider it could easily prove a problem for Pioneer itself. Corporations and their headhunters are inclined to be suspicious of anyone willing to descend. Even today, amidst the layoffs and the downsizing and unprecedented executive unemployment, they persist in wondering what's wrong with somebody willing to take a downward step. Though little has been said about salary, I'd probably have to move lower on that ladder too. Again I'm perfectly willing, but they're likely to wonder why.
While I collect information about Pioneer, other jobs start popping to the surface. Resumes mailed out months ago suddenly bear fruit. A headhunter calls from New York and asks if I might be interested in looking into the vacant vice presidency of an insurance company called The Principal Financial Group. I read in a newsletter that the U.S. Catholic Conference, the Washington-based policy arm of the Catholic Church in America, is looking for a director of media relations. As it happens, I am the kind of Catholic who takes an interest in religious issues. Handling media relations for the U.S. Catholic Conference could, for someone like me, be interesting. I imagine myself working in a cubicle instead of an office, wearing a checked shirt and hush puppies to work, shedding my "executive" identity like a snakeskin. I put a resume in the mail.
A headhunter calls from Connecticut to say he's looking for a head of communications for Consolidated Edison, New York City's electric utility. Not long afterward, when his travels bring him to Chicago, we have a breakfast meeting. Then his partner passes through Chicago, and I have breakfast with him too. Both men convey the impression that before long I'm likely to be invited to meet with Con Ed's CEO in Manhattan.
So many things popping up suddenly, and every one of them apparently a real possibility. All of them together creating a tangled web of questions.
The Des Moines-based Principal Financial Group is, like Pioneer, a relatively obscure operation, attracting little if any attention in the world at large. And it's an insurance company. A friend who has done a good deal of work with insurance companies says that the operative term for virtually all of them is "brain-dead."
But The Principal (I quickly school myself to capitalize the article in the reverential style used in all the company's publications) is strong and healthy and old-fashioned. Once hired, I'm told, people there are never fired. That's nothing to sneer at. And it's reasonable to hope that the soporific qualities of Des Moines might be exactly what my family needs after the turmoil of these past several years. No doubt about it. Pioneer and The Principal are exactly what I've been looking for. But if that's so, how can I be genuinely interested in Con Ed? Its headquarters aren't merely in New York but in Manhattan--the heart of the heart of the beast. And Con Ed, as a utility, would embroil me in an endless round of conflicts and controversies: electricity rates, pollution, the whole extravaganza. All in the center of the wildest media circus on earth.
How could someone who hungers for Iowa also hunger for that?
Without a trace of difficulty, actually. Con Ed could put me back in the big time--big salary, big staff, big budgets, big everything.
I always liked being in the big time. I have no problem persuading myself that Con Ed is exactly what I've been looking for.
But if Con Ed is exactly what I've been looking for, how could I possibly be interested in the U.S. Catholic Conference?
Again, no problem. The U.S. Catholic Conference could, I think, offer me work that I really would find worth doing. No corporation has ever really done that. In return, of course, I would receive an income that I no longer know how to live on.
But I can learn! I can accept the idea of never again ordering a custom-made suit, of maybe never again buying a suit of any kind. I can imagine myself commuting to work by bicycle, never taking a vacation more exotic than fishing in the Smokies.
I can do that! If what I get in return is liberation from bullshit, I ought to be able to do it quite happily. On a small piece of paper I make a list:
Pioneer.
U.S. Catholic Conference.
Principal Financial Group.
Con Ed.
And--my newest nibble--Dun & Bradstreet.
I pin the list to the bulletin board above my desk. My eyes come to rest on it whenever I look up.
I meditate on my little list. I tell myself that I couldn't possibly lose out on all of these. Couldn't possibly. Not on all of them.
When the time comes for my meeting with the delegation from Pioneer I am tan and fit and brimming with facts about corn.
They've seated me on one side of a long, narrow table in a brilliantly white modern room twenty-five stories above the Chicago Loop. It's a corner room, two of the walls glass from ceiling to floor. Across the table, past the people sitting opposite, I see one of the world's great displays of skyscrapers. Out another window, Lake Michigan extends to the horizon in the sunshine.
Everything here--the plush furnishings and gleaming appointments, the tall wooden doors, the chimney-like thick-bottomed water glasses, the silver decanter--everything is expensive, elegant. Everything says Money. Power.
At the table with me are Greg Carrott and three delegates from Pioneer. One is a silver-haired, seemingly mild and friendly man--a specialist in finance, a senior vice president, the eminence to whom the new director of communications will, once hired, report. At his side is a dark, attractive woman, also seemingly pleasant, of early middle age. I'm not sure what her role is; she has some vague administrative title that I couldn't have repeated ten seconds after we were introduced. The third, on my side of the table, but far down at its end, is another woman who seems not part of the team, hunched, odd, silent.
The first two Pioneer people lob easy questions at me. I seem to hit them back cleanly, one by one. They ask about my background, my business experience, my thinking on management and communications and all the usual stuff. They probe in a gentle, Iowa-polite ways to see if I know anything about agriculture. They ask what I would do if confronted with this or that kind of little problem. Am I a team player? What are my thoughts on corporate cultural change?
For nearly an hour the woman at the end of the table has said nothing. She's plump, with dumpling chins and the arms of the Pillsbury Doughboy. Her dress, a gray-and-white affair extravagantly adorned with laces and ribbons and frills, combines with her spherical, soft flesh to create a maternal, almost grandmotherly, effect. Except for her crew cut. Her graying hair is cut down nearly to the scalp on the sides of her head and is, at most, an inch long at the top. This is a woman whose parts don't fit together.
Carrot had told me days before that one of the people I'd be meeting would be a former clinical psychologist now on Pioneer's human resources staff. He'd gone on to say that I might find her questions "unusual."
While answering the other's, I glance at the woman from time to time, trying to include her. But every time I do so she's a little more hunched over in her chair, staring at me a little more intently. Eventually she's bent over so far that if I hadn't seen her standing when I enter the room I'd suppose her to be deformed. Her chins are nearly touching the table. The end of the ballpoint pen she grips so ferociously is nearly in her nostril. Her stare has become a glare.
It's difficult to believe that someone as peculiar as she appears to be could be a psychologist, let alone be sent out on presumably important interviews. Perhaps I'm being subjected to some sort of test. But even if this is a test, should I do exactly what I am doing-continue with the interview as if nothing odd were going on at all? Or will they decide that there's something wrong with me if I don't seem aware of the behavior of the woman at the end of the table?
I shove all such thoughts aside and try to fix my attention on the questions I'm being asked. It won't stay there, though.
As we get into the second hour of the interview the crew-cut woman straightens a bit and asks a question at last. And immediately a new problem arises: I don't understand what she's asking. I can hear her words, but they're so convoluted that I literally have almost no idea what they mean. I apologize, tentatively feed her words back to her in a new sequence that makes some sense to me, and ask as politely as I can if this is what she means. When she assents to my second or third rephrasing, I spin off some words that seem to be relevant in some way to whatever it is she wants to know.
"Is that responsive to your question?" I ask. She gives a grudging little nod. Then she hunches down again, makes some notes, puts her glare back on me, and the others resume.
This happens again and then again.
Each time the woman speaks, she stumps me. I go back to wondering about a test. I wonder if perhaps I'm flunking badly by not pinning her down, by not being more insistent-with impeccable delicacy, of course-that she make herself clear. But I honestly am trying to get her to be clear. I can see no way to go further in that direction without crossing the borders of rudeness.
Perhaps an hour and twenty minutes after the start of the interview, the man and woman across the table start gathering their papers together. Their words take on the old wrapping-things-up tone. In the midst of this, the crew-cut woman uncoils herself, sits erect with her hands folded on the table in front of her, and takes command.
"Let me ask you something," she says. "Suppose you have just come to work for Pioneer. And suppose we're the members of your staff and this meeting was our first staff meeting. What exactly would you have concluded about us on the basis of what you've seen?"
Jesus H. Christ.
"Um," I reply. "Let me be certain that I understand you here. You want me to tell you what I think of you. On the basis of this interview…"
"That's right. judging from what you've seen, what do you think you'd have to do to manage us?"
"Well," I say finally, "on the basis of one short talk I don't think I can draw many conclusions about you at all. Nothing beyond the fact that you appear to be intelligent, well-intentioned, capable people. I certainly haven't seen anything that would give rise to particular concerns. Nothing, certainly, that would point to serious problems."
"Well then," she says, "let me ask you about me specifically, then. What would you say, on the basis of what you've seen here today, about me? And about what would be involved in managing me?"
"Let me be sure I'm clear on this," I say, stalling. "You want me to tell you what I think of you specifically as a result of this afternoon's meeting."
"That's right." She nods with satisfaction. Again I remember that she's a psychologist of some kind. I don't know what to do with that fact, exactly. But it seems to increase the likelihood that some sort of game--not necessarily a deep game but a complicated one for sure--is being played here.
"Wellll...I guess I would say, on the basis of what I've seen, that you strike me as a very analytical kind of person."
Analytical! Good word! How did I come up with it? As soon as it's out of my mouth I'm delighted. I don't know myself what it means in this context--nearly anything, potentially--but I don't see how anyone could possibly object to being called analytical.
"What does your conclusion suggest to you about me in relation to the others?" she asks and gestures at the man and woman on the other side of the table. They gaze back at us blankly. "What does it suggest about how you might manage my relationship with them?"
Enough. Enough of this crazy woman.
"My conclusion doesn't suggest anything about that," I say. "I haven't seen nearly enough, to get any ideas about how to manage your relationships, even assuming that my conclusion is correct, which it isn't, necessarily. I'm sorry. I just don't judge people that quickly."
An hour later, replaying the interview in my head, I feet myself going glum. What I need is to find a dark place where I can lie down and suck my thumb for a while. After a few more hours depression gives way to resentment, resentment to anger: What kind of interview was that? What kind of people would put me through such a thing? What the hell kind of company would send out such people on such a mission? Who could possibly want to work for such a company?
Before long Greg Carrott calls to tell me that of the four people interviewed, three, including me, had done well--had in fact been described by the silver-haired senior vice president as "a Mercedes, a BMW, and a Cadillac." I don't have the nerve to ask which of these is me. I do, however, want to see if I can learn something about the fat wom