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Today business cards are distributed with abandon by working people of all social classes, illustrating not only the ubiquity of commercial interests but also the fluidity of the world of trade. Whether one is buttonholing potential clients for a carpentry service, announcing one’s latest academic appointment, or "networking" with fellow executives, it is permissible to advertise one’s talents and availability by an outstretched hand and the statement "Here’s my card." As Robert Louis Stevenson once observed, everybody makes his living by selling something. Business cards facilitate this endeavor. It has not always been this way. The cards that we use today for commercial purposes are a vulgarization of the nineteenth-century social calling cards, an artifact with a quite different purpose. In the Gilded Age, possessing a calling card indicated not that you were interested in forming business relationships, but that your money was so old that you had no need to make a living. For the calling-card class, life was a continual round of social visits, and the protocol (礼 仪) governing these visits was inextricably linked to the proper use of cards. Pick up any etiquette manual predating World War Ⅰ, and you will find whole chapters devoted to such questions as whether a single gentleman may leave a card for a lady; when a lady must, and must not, turn down the edges of a card; and whether an unmarried girl of between fourteen and seventeen may carry more than six or less than thirteen cards in her purse in months beginning with a "J". The calling card system was especially cherished by those who made no distinction between manners and mere form, and its preciousness was well defined by Mrs. John Sherwood. Her 1887 manual called the card "the field mark and device" of civilization. The business version of the calling card came in around the turn of the century, when the formerly well defined borders between the commercial and the personal realms were used widely, society mavens (专家) considered it unforgivable to fuse the two realms. Emily Post’s contemporary (当代) Lilian Eichler called it very poor taste to use business cards for social purposes, and as late as 1967 Amy Vanderbilt counseled that the merchant’s marker "may never double for social purposes.\ According to the passage, business cards are likely to have appeared
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Nathaniel Hawthorne was born in Salem, Massachusetts, in 1804. Hawthorne’s father was a sea captain. He died of fever when Hawthorne was only four. Hawthorne’s childhood was not particularly abnormal, as many famous authors have claimed to have. Hawthorne attended Bowdoin College and graduated after four years. After graduation, he returned to Salem. Contrary to his family’s expectations, Hawthorne did not begin to read law or enter business, rather he moved into his mother’s house to turn himself into a writer. Hawthorne’s first novel, Fanshawe, was published anonymously in 1828 at his own expense. Because of a lack of sales, Hawthorne recalled every copy he could find of the book and destroyed them. When a local printer delayed publishing his Seven Tales of My Native Land, Hawthorne withdrew the manuscript and burned it in a mood half-savage, half-despairing. He had destroyed other stories before publication because he thought they were "morbid." In 1837, at the age of thirty-two, Hawthorne published his first collection, Twice-Told Tales. Longfellow, the most popular poet of the day, gave it a flattering review. New York magazine editors read it and offered him jobs. Two years later, Hawthorne married Sophia. Hawthorne soon realized that supporting a wife was not as easy as he anticipated it to be. He could never manage it by Writing stories, so he decided to leave Salem for a political appointment as measurer of coal and salt in the Boston customhouse. The contrast between his old ways and this new way of life was a shock for Hawthorne. He had hoped to discover what "reality" was like as well as earn a respectable salary, and he gave it a try. After two years, however, he resigned from this "very grievous thralldom." Then Hawthorne moved to Concord, Massachusetts. Hawthorne produced more than twenty tales during three years in Concord, sold them to magazines, and then collected them in Mosses from an Old Manse. His reputation was growing. It took Hawthorne a return to Salem to bring him fame. After three years of dealing with the dullness of the work as a surveyor in the Salem customhouse, he was fired for political reasons. His wife comforted him by saying, "Now you can write your book." In seven months it was finished. In April 1850, The Scarlet Letter was published. Hawthorne called this book "positively a hell-fired story, into which I found it ahnost impossible to throw any cheering light." Some contemporary critics called it "America’s first tragedy". The last fourteen years of Hawthorne’s life were very different from the struggle to be recognized that his entire life had been about. Within a year Hawthorne finished and published another novel named The House of Seven Gables; a story about a Pyncheon family of Salem and Maule’s curse. A year later he published The Blithedale Romance, a satire of Brook Farm. After seven years in Europe, he tried an even more ambitious novel, The Marble Faun. Sadly, none of these novels reached the acclaim that The Scarlet Letter had with critics. We can infer from the passage that The Scarlet Letter is about
Flying across the country the other day, I sat next to a retired Air Force colonel, and we had a pleasant conversation about love of flying, travel and grandchildren--and for him, of retirement itself. "Yeah," he said, "there’s only one thing that would make me give this up." "What’s that" "If Hillary or Jane Fonda runs for president, I’m going to work full time to beat her." I told him I knew Hillary. She doesn’t even need a last name now. And she’s no JaneFonda. "Well," I concluded before we began talking about planes and kids again, "I think you are going to get your chance. I think she’s going to run." I once wrote, with total sincerity, that I thought Hillary Rodham Clinton had the political instincts of a stone. I also wrote that I thought she had marginalized her husband’s chances of being an important president. He blew that by naming his wife to head the task force to work out a national plan, and she decided to work in secret with battalions of "experts" who came up with a plan four times as long as the European constitution. Then, after taking her lumps for that, she decided to run, as a Democrat, for the US Senate from New York, a state she had always thought was a nice place to visit. She is now far and away the Democratic front-runner for president in 2008. Her national numbers are getting better, inch by inch, day by day. Now, a slight majority--52 percent in a couple of polls--say they are likely or very likely to vote for Hillary for president. True, 47 percent, including my friend the colonel, still say "Never." But her national approval-disapproval rate is now about 55 to 39, compared with 46 to 48 for President Bush. The odds are still against her. So are most of the odds-makers, beginning with Joe Klein of Time Magazine, chronicler of the Clintons in fact and fiction. He believes a Hillary candidacy will polarize the country the way the reign of the Clintons polarized us in the 1990s. The title that can best sum up the whole passage is
Flying across the country the other day, I sat next to a retired Air Force colonel, and we had a pleasant conversation about love of flying, travel and grandchildren--and for him, of retirement itself. "Yeah," he said, "there’s only one thing that would make me give this up." "What’s that" "If Hillary or Jane Fonda runs for president, I’m going to work full time to beat her." I told him I knew Hillary. She doesn’t even need a last name now. And she’s no JaneFonda. "Well," I concluded before we began talking about planes and kids again, "I think you are going to get your chance. I think she’s going to run." I once wrote, with total sincerity, that I thought Hillary Rodham Clinton had the political instincts of a stone. I also wrote that I thought she had marginalized her husband’s chances of being an important president. He blew that by naming his wife to head the task force to work out a national plan, and she decided to work in secret with battalions of "experts" who came up with a plan four times as long as the European constitution. Then, after taking her lumps for that, she decided to run, as a Democrat, for the US Senate from New York, a state she had always thought was a nice place to visit. She is now far and away the Democratic front-runner for president in 2008. Her national numbers are getting better, inch by inch, day by day. Now, a slight majority--52 percent in a couple of polls--say they are likely or very likely to vote for Hillary for president. True, 47 percent, including my friend the colonel, still say "Never." But her national approval-disapproval rate is now about 55 to 39, compared with 46 to 48 for President Bush. The odds are still against her. So are most of the odds-makers, beginning with Joe Klein of Time Magazine, chronicler of the Clintons in fact and fiction. He believes a Hillary candidacy will polarize the country the way the reign of the Clintons polarized us in the 1990s. Judging from the passage, the author’s attitude toward Hillary candidacy is
Today business cards are distributed with abandon by working people of all social classes, illustrating not only the ubiquity of commercial interests but also the fluidity of the world of trade. Whether one is buttonholing potential clients for a carpentry service, announcing one’s latest academic appointment, or "networking" with fellow executives, it is permissible to advertise one’s talents and availability by an outstretched hand and the statement "Here’s my card." As Robert Louis Stevenson once observed, everybody makes his living by selling something. Business cards facilitate this endeavor. It has not always been this way. The cards that we use today for commercial purposes are a vulgarization of the nineteenth-century social calling cards, an artifact with a quite different purpose. In the Gilded Age, possessing a calling card indicated not that you were interested in forming business relationships, but that your money was so old that you had no need to make a living. For the calling-card class, life was a continual round of social visits, and the protocol (礼 仪) governing these visits was inextricably linked to the proper use of cards. Pick up any etiquette manual predating World War Ⅰ, and you will find whole chapters devoted to such questions as whether a single gentleman may leave a card for a lady; when a lady must, and must not, turn down the edges of a card; and whether an unmarried girl of between fourteen and seventeen may carry more than six or less than thirteen cards in her purse in months beginning with a "J". The calling card system was especially cherished by those who made no distinction between manners and mere form, and its preciousness was well defined by Mrs. John Sherwood. Her 1887 manual called the card "the field mark and device" of civilization. The business version of the calling card came in around the turn of the century, when the formerly well defined borders between the commercial and the personal realms were used widely, society mavens (专家) considered it unforgivable to fuse the two realms. Emily Post’s contemporary (当代) Lilian Eichler called it very poor taste to use business cards for social purposes, and as late as 1967 Amy Vanderbilt counseled that the merchant’s marker "may never double for social purposes.\ The sentence "your money was so old" in the second paragraph means
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