【中商原版】高速服务器应用开发——Linux上使用C/C 港台原版 朱文伟 深智 免费 夸克云 mobi azw3 pdf 下载 chm snb

暂无相关简介，正在全力查找中！

暂无相关目录，正在全力查找中！

暂无相关内容，正在全力查找中

暂无出版社相关信息，正在全力查找中！

暂无相关书籍摘录，正在全力查找中！

在线阅读地址：【中商原版】高速服务器应用开发——Linux上使用C/C 港台原版 朱文伟 深智在线阅读

在线听书地址：【中商原版】高速服务器应用开发——Linux上使用C/C 港台原版 朱文伟 深智在线收听

在线购买地址：【中商原版】高速服务器应用开发——Linux上使用C/C 港台原版 朱文伟 深智在线购买

一个人孤身独处，远离他人，就很可能出现心理问题。在某种意义上，欺骗是人的本能，绝大多数人无须练习就能实施高深莫测的欺骗行为。高明的骗子、戏子和赌徒还能贏得同类人的敬仰，而同样进行欺骗的秘密特工，则没有那么简单。特工实施欺骗是为了自我保护，他们不但要提防外部世界，还要伪装自己的真实情感。所以他们即使能赚到一些钱，在生活中也不敢做任何出格的事情；即使很博学，平常所说的也是一些陈词滥调；即使他们内心是很柔情的丈夫或父亲，在任何情况下也都要克制感情的自然流露。

如果在欺骗行动中碰到不断的难以抵御的诱惑，利玛斯就会诉诸他的法宝：就算实际上是孤身一人，他也强迫自己认为身边就有战友。据说巴尔扎克临终前还热切地询问他书中人物的情况，利玛斯同样充分发挥自己的想象力，在他想象的世界里获得认同。因此他表现给费德勒看的那些特征：躁动的不安、掩饰羞愧的孤傲，都几乎成了他的本性流露，包括很多细节：走路拖沓、不注意个人形象、对食物好坏无所谓，以及不断增加的烟瘾酒瘾。即使在他一人独处的时候，他也保持这些习惯。有时候他还会演点戏，自言自语地抱怨以前工作中所受到的不公平待遇。

I wrote The Spy Who Came in from the Cold at the age of thirty under intense, unshared, personal stress, and in extreme privacy. As an intelligence officer in the guise of a junior diplomat at the British Embassy in Bonn, I was a secret to my colleagues and much of the time to myself. I had written a couple of earlier novels, necessarily under a pseudonym, and my employing service had approved them before publication. After lengthy soul-searching, they had also approved The Spy Who Came in from the Cold. To this day, I don’t know what I would have done if they hadn’t.

As it was, they seem to have concluded, rightly if reluctantly, that the book was sheer fiction from start to finish, uninformed by personal experience, and that accordingly it constituted no breach of security. This was not,...

The Spy Who Came in from the Cold was the work of a wayward imagination brought to the end of its tether by political disgust and personal confusion. Fifty years on, I don’t associate the book with anything that ever happened to me, save for one wordless encounter at London airport when a worn-out middle-aged military kind of man in a stained raincoat slammed a handful of mixed foreign change onto the bar and in gritty Irish accents ordered himself as much Scotch as it would buy. In that moment, Alec Leamas was born. Or so my memory, not always a reliable informant, tells me.

Today I think of the novel as a not-very-well-disguised internal explosion after which my life would never be the same. It was not the first such explosion or the last. And yes, yes, by the time I wrote it, I had been...

And the deep background of the novel? The sights, smells, and voices that, fifteen years after the end of the war, continued to infest every corner of divided Germany? The Berlin in which Leamas had his being was a paradigm of human folly and historical paradox. In the early Sixties, I had observed it mostly from the confines of the British Embassy in Bonn, and only occasionally in the raw. But I watched the Wall’s progress from barbed wire to breeze block; I watched the ramparts of the Cold War going up on the still-warm ashes of the hot one. And I had absolutely no sense of transition from the one war to the other, because in the secret world there barely was one. To the hard-liners of East and West the Second World War was a distraction. Now it was over, they could get on with the real ...

The novel's merit, then — or its offense, depending where you stood — was not that it was authentic but that it was credible. The bad dream turned out to be one that a lot of people in the world were sharing since it asked the same old question that we are asking ourselves fifty years later: How far can we go in the rightful defense of our Western values without abandoning them along the way? My fictional chief of the British service — I called him Control — had no doubt of the answer:

I mean, you can’t be less ruthless than the opposition simply because your government’s policy is benevolent, can you now?

Today, the same man, with better teeth and hair and a much smarter suit, can be heard explaining away the catastrophic illegal war in Iraq, or justifying medieval torture techniques as...

There was a girl standing on the beach throwing bread to the sea gulls. Her back was turned to him. The sea wind played with her long black hair and pulled at her coat, making an arc of her body, like a bow strung toward the sea. He knew then what it was that Liz had given him; the thing that he would have to go back and find if ever he got home to England: it was the caring about little things--the faith in ordinary life; that simplicity that made you break up a bit of bread into a paper bag, walk down to the beach and throw it to the gulls.

暂无其它内容！