请问，咱们布班哪儿能买到燕窝
听说不让自己带，那哪儿有买的吗？ 华人超市或许有，再说这玩艺儿不吃也死不了人吧 国产的东西能不吃就不吃，这边好食材那么多，非要吃那个劳什子干嘛？ 牧马人 发表于 24-6-2013 10:13 static/image/common/back.gif国产的东西能不吃就不吃，这边好食材那么多，非要吃那个劳什子干嘛？
那些东西都是东南亚产的吧。 牧马人 发表于 24-6-2013 10:13 static/image/common/back.gif
国产的东西能不吃就不吃，这边好食材那么多，非要吃那个劳什子干嘛？
这个跟中国产没啥关系。很多东南亚国家都产。
燕窝吃的主要是口水中的蛋白质。引用一下度娘百科
http://baike.baidu.com/view/558.htm#7
从现代营养学观点来看，其价值还不如猪皮和豆腐皮。
从中医角度来看，是好东西。
再往下说，话题就太大了。
cstone 发表于 24-6-2013 10:44 static/image/common/back.gif
那些东西都是东南亚产的吧。
这样可能稍微好点，不过即使是东南亚产的，主要市场还是中国，卖到澳洲都是零头的零头。有时候不光是产地，市场也决定品质。
就算是真的，也就是海鸟叼回去混合了唾液的半消化的小鱼，真不知道有啥好吃的，直接吃鲜鱼多好。 看了一下百科，貌似我对燕窝来源理解有误，学习了:L 绝大部分燕窝都是漂白粉加工的，除非你知道来源，否则真是能不吃就不吃。 这玩艺去年还是前年刚刚曝光过，好像是市场上绝大多数都是非假即劣，还有漂白粉什么的，除非自己去采集，否则搞不到真的。 这种东西在澳洲卖会被绿色组织投诉吧？:lol 本帖最后由 ozbird 于 24-6-2013 13:47 编辑
泰山磐石 发表于 24-6-2013 13:27 static/image/common/back.gif
这玩艺去年还是前年刚刚曝光过，好像是市场上绝大多数都是非假即劣，还有漂白粉什么的，除非自己去采集，否 ...
自己去采？采燕窝的难度可大了。燕窝有洞窝和屋窝两种，洞窝是自然状态下的，一般需要爬上山洞的峭壁才能采到，危险性很大。屋窝是人类为了便于采燕窝人工修建的吸引燕子做窝的，虽然不危险，但是这样燕窝估计都有主人了。燕窝可不是什么燕子的窝都行，比如是金丝燕 。而且金丝燕种类也很多，并不是都能提供燕窝，主要是爪哇金丝燕。
吃这种东西有什么好处先不说，采燕窝的从来不会等到小燕子长大离巢之后的。也就是说每吃一个燕窝就等于一对燕子无法养育小燕子了。没有了小燕子，也就等于将来不再有燕子了，也就不再有燕窝了。
taobao 楼上是鸟类专家。 正楼，有哪位知道哪儿有卖的吗？ 整整歪了一栋楼啊！ market square那转一圈，要是都没有估计也就没啥地方有了 25岁之后开始吃这个东西，买燕片或者燕盏回家自己燉，30岁怀孕那年每天一片一直到喂奶6个月，期间也隔天一个海参，半岁之后一星期吃两次，母乳喂养到13个半月，宝宝身体倍棒，宝宝38个星期出生时53cm,3.48kg,现在21个月除了去不同国家时有水土不服过，在出生国从来没有生过病，来澳洲两个月也只是第一个星期水土不服没看医生自动适应了！我把这些都归为燕窝和海参的功效，燕窝是优质蛋白质，滋补，海参增强身体免疫力，燕窝最好的当然是燕盏，扎实的燕片也可以，海参颜色深刺硬的比较好！再不会选就价钱高的一般没错！要生宝宝的还是吃看看吧，宝宝身体的基础是在胎儿时候打好的！ pig2pig 发表于 24-6-2013 23:25 static/image/common/back.gif
25岁之后开始吃这个东西，买燕片或者燕盏回家自己燉，30岁怀孕那年每天一片一直到喂奶6个月，期间也隔天一个 ...
Hasty generalization - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia ;P;P;P Love is a fallacy by Max Shulman
Cool was I and logical. Keen, calculating, perspicacious, acute and astute—I was all of these. My brain was as powerful as a dynamo, precise as a chemist’s scales, as penetrating as a scalpel. And—think of it!—I only eighteen.
It is not often that one so young has such a giant intellect. Take, for example, Petey Bellows, my roommate at the university. Same age, same background, but dumb as an ox. A nice enough fellow, you understand, but nothing upstairs. Emotional type. Unstable. Impressionable. Worst of all, a faddist. Fads, I submit, are the very negation of reason. To be swept up in every new craze that comes along, to surrender oneself to idiocy just because everybody else is doing it—this, to me, is the acme of mindlessness. Not, however, to Petey.
One afternoon I found Petey lying on his bed with an expression of such distress on his face that I immediately diagnosed appendicitis. “Don’t move,” I said, “Don’t take a laxative. I’ll get a doctor.”
“Raccoon,” he mumbled thickly.
“Raccoon?” I said, pausing in my flight.
“I want a raccoon coat,” he wailed.
I perceived that his trouble was not physical, but mental. “Why do you want a raccoon coat?”
“I should have known it,” he cried, pounding his temples. “I should have known they’d come back when the Charleston came back. Like a fool I spent all my money for textbooks, and now I can’t get a raccoon coat.”
“Can you mean,” I said incredulously, “that people are actually wearing raccoon coats again?”
“All the Big Men on Campus are wearing them. Where’ve you been?”
“In the library,” I said, naming a place not frequented by Big Men on Campus.
He leaped from the bed and paced the room. “I’ve got to have a raccoon coat,” he said passionately. “I’ve got to!”
“Petey, why? Look at it rationally. Raccoon coats are unsanitary. They shed. They smell bad. They weigh too much. They’re unsightly. They—”
“You don’t understand,” he interrupted impatiently. “It’s the thing to do. Don’t you want to be in the swim?”
“No,” I said truthfully.
“Well, I do,” he declared. “I’d give anything for a raccoon coat. Anything!”
My brain, that precision instrument, slipped into high gear. “Anything?” I asked, looking at him narrowly.
“Anything,” he affirmed in ringing tones.
I stroked my chin thoughtfully. It so happened that I knew where to get my hands on a raccoon coat. My father had had one in his undergraduate days; it lay now in a trunk in the attic back home. It also happened that Petey had something I wanted. He didn’t have it exactly, but at least he had first rights on it. I refer to his girl, Polly Espy.
I had long coveted Polly Espy. Let me emphasize that my desire for this young woman was not emotional in nature. She was, to be sure, a girl who excited the emotions, but I was not one to let my heart rule my head. I wanted Polly for a shrewdly calculated, entirely cerebral reason.
I was a freshman in law school. In a few years I would be out in practice. I was well aware of the importance of the right kind of wife in furthering a lawyer’s career. The successful lawyers I had observed were, almost without exception, married to beautiful, gracious, intelligent women. With one omission, Polly fitted these specifications perfectly.
Beautiful she was. She was not yet of pin-up proportions, but I felt that time would supply the lack. She already had the makings.
Gracious she was. By gracious I mean full of graces. She had an erectness of carriage, an ease of bearing, a poise that clearly indicated the best of breeding. At table her manners were exquisite. I had seen her at the Kozy Kampus Korner eating the specialty of the house—a sandwich that contained scraps of pot roast, gravy, chopped nuts, and a dipper of sauerkraut—without even getting her fingers moist.
Intelligent she was not. In fact, she veered in the opposite direction. But I believed that under my guidance she would smarten up. At any rate, it was worth a try. It is, after all, easier to make a beautiful dumb girl smart than to make an ugly smart girl beautiful.
“Petey,” I said, “are you in love with Polly Espy?”
“I think she’s a keen kid,” he replied, “but I don’t know if you’d call it love. Why?”
“Do you,” I asked, “have any kind of formal arrangement with her? I mean are you going steady or anything like that?”
“No. We see each other quite a bit, but we both have other dates. Why?”
“Is there,” I asked, “any other man for whom she has a particular fondness?”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
I nodded with satisfaction. “In other words, if you were out of the picture, the field would be open. Is that right?”
“I guess so. What are you getting at?”
“Nothing , nothing,” I said innocently, and took my suitcase out the closet.
“Where are you going?” asked Petey.
“Home for weekend.” I threw a few things into the bag.
“Listen,” he said, clutching my arm eagerly, “while you’re home, you couldn’t get some money from your old man, could you, and lend it to me so I can buy a raccoon coat?”
“I may do better than that,” I said with a mysterious wink and closed my bag and left.
“Look,” I said to Petey when I got back Monday morning. I threw open the suitcase and revealed the huge, hairy, gamy object that my father had worn in his Stutz Bearcat in 1925.
“Holy Toledo!” said Petey reverently. He plunged his hands into the raccoon coat and then his face. “Holy Toledo!” he repeated fifteen or twenty times.
“Would you like it?” I asked.
“Oh yes!” he cried, clutching the greasy pelt to him. Then a canny look came into his eyes. “What do you want for it?”
“Your girl.” I said, mincing no words.
“Polly?” he said in a horrified whisper. “You want Polly?”
“That’s right.”
He flung the coat from him. “Never,” he said stoutly.
I shrugged. “Okay. If you don’t want to be in the swim, I guess it’s your business.”
I sat down in a chair and pretended to read a book, but out of the corner of my eye I kept watching Petey. He was a torn man. First he looked at the coat with the expression of a waif at a bakery window. Then he turned away and set his jaw resolutely. Then he looked back at the coat, with even more longing in his face. Then he turned away, but with not so much resolution this time. Back and forth his head swiveled, desire waxing, resolution waning. Finally he didn’t turn away at all; he just stood and stared with mad lust at the coat.
“It isn’t as though I was in love with Polly,” he said thickly. “Or going steady or anything like that.”
“That’s right,” I murmured.
“What’s Polly to me, or me to Polly?”
“Not a thing,” said I.
“It’s just been a casual kick—just a few laughs, that’s all.”
“Try on the coat,” said I.
He complied. The coat bunched high over his ears and dropped all the way down to his shoe tops. He looked like a mound of dead raccoons. “Fits fine,” he said happily.
I rose from my chair. “Is it a deal?” I asked, extending my hand.
He swallowed. “It’s a deal,” he said and shook my hand.
I had my first date with Polly the following evening. This was in the nature of a survey; I wanted to find out just how much work I had to do to get her mind up to the standard I required. I took her first to dinner. “Gee, that was a delish dinner,” she said as we left the restaurant. Then I took her to a movie. “Gee, that was a marvy movie,” she said as we left the theatre. And then I took her home. “Gee, I had a sensaysh time,” she said as she bade me good night.
I went back to my room with a heavy heart. I had gravely underestimated the size of my task. This girl’s lack of information was terrifying. Nor would it be enough merely to supply her with information. First she had to be taught to think. This loomed as a project of no small dimensions, and at first I was tempted to give her back to Petey. But then I got to thinking about her abundant physical charms and about the way she entered a room and the way she handled a knife and fork, and I decided to make an effort.
I went about it, as in all things, systematically. I gave her a course in logic. It happened that I, as a law student, was taking a course in logic myself, so I had all the facts at my fingertips. “Poll’,” I said to her when I picked her up on our next date, “tonight we are going over to the Knoll and talk.”
“Oo, terrif,” she replied. One thing I will say for this girl: you would go far to find another so agreeable.
We went to the Knoll, the campus trysting place, and we sat down under an old oak, and she looked at me expectantly. “What are we going to talk about?” she asked.
“Logic.”
She thought this over for a minute and decided she liked it. “Magnif,” she said.
“Logic,” I said, clearing my throat, “is the science of thinking. Before we can think correctly, we must first learn to recognize the common fallacies of logic. These we will take up tonight.”
“Wow-dow!” she cried, clapping her hands delightedly.
I winced, but went bravely on. “First let us examine the fallacy called Dicto Simpliciter.”
“By all means,” she urged, batting her lashes eagerly.
“Dicto Simpliciter means an argument based on an unqualified generalization. For example: Exercise is good. Therefore everybody should exercise.”
“I agree,” said Polly earnestly. “I mean exercise is wonderful. I mean it builds the body and everything.”
“Polly,” I said gently, “the argument is a fallacy. Exercise is good is an unqualified generalization. For instance, if you have heart disease, exercise is bad, not good. Many people are ordered by their doctors not to exercise. You must qualify the generalization. You must say exercise is usually good, or exercise is good for most people. Otherwise you have committed a Dicto Simpliciter. Do you see?”
“No,” she confessed. “But this is marvy. Do more! Do more!”
“It will be better if you stop tugging at my sleeve,” I told her, and when she desisted, I continued. “Next we take up a fallacy called Hasty Generalization. Listen carefully: You can’t speak French. Petey Bellows can’t speak French. I must therefore conclude that nobody at the University of Minnesota can speak French.”
“Really?” said Polly, amazed. “Nobody?”
I hid my exasperation. “Polly, it’s a fallacy. The generalization is reached too hastily. There are too few instances to support such a conclusion.”
“Know any more fallacies?” she asked breathlessly. “This is more fun than dancing even.”
I fought off a wave of despair. I was getting nowhere with this girl, absolutely nowhere. Still, I am nothing if not persistent. I continued. “Next comes Post Hoc. Listen to this: Let’s not take Bill on our picnic. Every time we take him out with us, it rains.”
“I know somebody just like that,” she exclaimed. “A girl back home—Eula Becker, her name is. It never fails. Every single time we take her on a picnic—”
“Polly,” I said sharply, “it’s a fallacy. Eula Becker doesn’t cause the rain. She has no connection with the rain. You are guilty of Post Hoc if you blame Eula Becker.”
“I’ll never do it again,” she promised contritely. “Are you mad at me?”
I sighed. “No, Polly, I’m not mad.”
“Then tell me some more fallacies.”
“All right. Let’s try Contradictory Premises.”
“Yes, let’s,” she chirped, blinking her eyes happily.
I frowned, but plunged ahead. “Here’s an example of Contradictory Premises: If God can do anything, can He make a stone so heavy that He won’t be able to lift it?”
“Of course,” she replied promptly.
“But if He can do anything, He can lift the stone,” I pointed out.
“Yeah,” she said thoughtfully. “Well, then I guess He can’t make the stone.”
“But He can do anything,” I reminded her.
She scratched her pretty, empty head. “I’m all confused,” she admitted.
“Of course you are. Because when the premises of an argument contradict each other, there can be no argument. If there is an irresistible force, there can be no immovable object. If there is an immovable object, there can be no irresistible force. Get it?”
“Tell me more of this keen stuff,” she said eagerly.
I consulted my watch. “I think we’d better call it a night. I’ll take you home now, and you go over all the things you’ve learned. We’ll have another session tomorrow night.”
I deposited her at the girls’ dormitory, where she assured me that she had had a perfectly terrif evening, and I went glumly home to my room. Petey lay snoring in his bed, the raccoon coat huddled like a great hairy beast at his feet. For a moment I considered waking him and telling him that he could have his girl back. It seemed clear that my project was doomed to failure. The girl simply had a logic-proof head.
But then I reconsidered. I had wasted one evening; I might as well waste another. Who knew? Maybe somewhere in the extinct crater of her mind a few members still smoldered. Maybe somehow I could fan them into flame. Admittedly it was not a prospect fraught with hope, but I decided to give it one more try.
Seated under the oak the next evening I said, “Our first fallacy tonight is called Ad Misericordiam.”
She quivered with delight.
“Listen closely,” I said. “A man applies for a job. When the boss asks him what his qualifications are, he replies that he has a wife and six children at home, the wife is a helpless cripple, the children have nothing to eat, no clothes to wear, no shoes on their feet, there are no beds in the house, no coal in the cellar, and winter is coming.”
A tear rolled down each of Polly’s pink cheeks. “Oh, this is awful, awful,” she sobbed.
“Yes, it’s awful,” I agreed, “but it’s no argument. The man never answered the boss’s question about his qualifications. Instead he appealed to the boss’s sympathy. He committed the fallacy of Ad Misericordiam. Do you understand?”
“Have you got a handkerchief?” she blubbered.
I handed her a handkerchief and tried to keep from screaming while she wiped her eyes. “Next,” I said in a carefully controlled tone, “we will discuss False Analogy. Here is an example: Students should be allowed to look at their textbooks during examinations. After all, surgeons have X-rays to guide them during an operation, lawyers have briefs to guide them during a trial, carpenters have blueprints to guide them when they are building a house. Why, then, shouldn’t students be allowed to look at their textbooks during an examination?”
“There now,” she said enthusiastically, “is the most marvy idea I’ve heard in years.”
“Polly,” I said testily, “the argument is all wrong. Doctors, lawyers, and carpenters aren’t taking a test to see how much they have learned, but students are. The situations are altogether different, and you can’t make an analogy between them.”
“I still think it’s a good idea,” said Polly.
“Nuts,” I muttered. Doggedly I pressed on. “Next we’ll try Hypothesis Contrary to Fact.”
“Sounds yummy,” was Polly’s reaction.
“Listen: If Madame Curie had not happened to leave a photographic plate in a drawer with a chunk of pitchblende, the world today would not know about radium.”
“True, true,” said Polly, nodding her head “Did you see the movie? Oh, it just knocked me out. That Walter Pidgeon is so dreamy. I mean he fractures me.”
“If you can forget Mr. Pidgeon for a moment,” I said coldly, “I would like to point out that statement is a fallacy. Maybe Madame Curie would have discovered radium at some later date. Maybe somebody else would have discovered it. Maybe any number of things would have happened. You can’t start with a hypothesis that is not true and then draw any supportable conclusions from it.”
“They ought to put Walter Pidgeon in more pictures,” said Polly, “I hardly ever see him any more.”
One more chance, I decided. But just one more. There is a limit to what flesh and blood can bear. “The next fallacy is called Poisoning the Well.”
“How cute!” she gurgled.
“Two men are having a debate. The first one gets up and says, ‘My opponent is a notorious liar. You can’t believe a word that he is going to say.’ ... Now, Polly, think. Think hard. What’s wrong?”
I watched her closely as she knit her creamy brow in concentration. Suddenly a glimmer of intelligence—the first I had seen—came into her eyes. “It’s not fair,” she said with indignation. “It’s not a bit fair. What chance has the second man got if the first man calls him a liar before he even begins talking?”
“Right!” I cried exultantly. “One hundred per cent right. It’s not fair. The first man has poisoned the well before anybody could drink from it. He has hamstrung his opponent before he could even start ... Polly, I’m proud of you.”
“Pshaws,” she murmured, blushing with pleasure.
“You see, my dear, these things aren’t so hard. All you have to do is concentrate. Think—examine—evaluate. Come now, let’s review everything we have learned.”
“Fire away,” she said with an airy wave of her hand.
Heartened by the knowledge that Polly was not altogether a cretin, I began a long, patient review of all I had told her. Over and over and over again I cited instances, pointed out flaws, kept hammering away without letup. It was like digging a tunnel. At first, everything was work, sweat, and darkness. I had no idea when I would reach the light, or even if I would. But I persisted. I pounded and clawed and scraped, and finally I was rewarded. I saw a chink of light. And then the chink got bigger and the sun came pouring in and all was bright.
Five grueling nights with this took, but it was worth it. I had made a logician out of Polly; I had taught her to think. My job was done. She was worthy of me, at last. She was a fit wife for me, a proper hostess for my many mansions, a suitable mother for my well-heeled children.
It must not be thought that I was without love for this girl. Quite the contrary. Just as Pygmalion loved the perfect woman he had fashioned, so I loved mine. I decided to acquaint her with my feelings at our very next meeting. The time had come to change our relationship from academic to romantic.
“Polly,” I said when next we sat beneath our oak, “tonight we will not discuss fallacies.”
“Aw, gee,” she said, disappointed.
“My dear,” I said, favoring her with a smile, “we have now spent five evenings together. We have gotten along splendidly. It is clear that we are well matched.”
“Hasty Generalization,” said Polly brightly.
“I beg your pardon,” said I.
“Hasty Generalization,” she repeated. “How can you say that we are well matched on the basis of only five dates?”
I chuckled with amusement. The dear child had learned her lessons well. “My dear,” I said, patting her hand in a tolerant manner, “five dates is plenty. After all, you don’t have to eat a whole cake to know that it’s good.”
“False Analogy,” said Polly promptly. “I’m not a cake. I’m a girl.”
I chuckled with somewhat less amusement. The dear child had learned her lessons perhaps too well. I decided to change tactics. Obviously the best approach was a simple, strong, direct declaration of love. I paused for a moment while my massive brain chose the proper word. Then I began:
“Polly, I love you. You are the whole world to me, the moon and the stars and the constellations of outer space. Please, my darling, say that you will go steady with me, for if you will not, life will be meaningless. I will languish. I will refuse my meals. I will wander the face of the earth, a shambling, hollow-eyed hulk.”
There, I thought, folding my arms, that ought to do it.
“Ad Misericordiam,” said Polly.
I ground my teeth. I was not Pygmalion; I was Frankenstein, and my monster had me by the throat. Frantically I fought back the tide of panic surging through me; at all costs I had to keep cool.
“Well, Polly,” I said, forcing a smile, “you certainly have learned your fallacies.”
“You’re darn right,” she said with a vigorous nod.
“And who taught them to you, Polly?”
“You did.”
“That’s right. So you do owe me something, don’t you, my dear? If I hadn’t come along you never would have learned about fallacies.”
“Hypothesis Contrary to Fact,” she said instantly.
I dashed perspiration from my brow. “Polly,” I croaked, “you mustn’t take all these things so literally. I mean this is just classroom stuff. You know that the things you learn in school don’t have anything to do with life.”
“Dicto Simpliciter,” she said, wagging her finger at me playfully.
That did it. I leaped to my feet, bellowing like a bull. “Will you or will you not go steady with me?”
“I will not,” she replied.
“Why not?” I demanded.
“Because this afternoon I promised Petey Bellows that I would go steady with him.”
I reeled back, overcome with the infamy of it. After he promised, after he made a deal, after he shook my hand! “The rat!” I shrieked, kicking up great chunks of turf. “You can’t go with him, Polly. He’s a liar. He’s a cheat. He’s a rat.”
“Poisoning the Well ,” said Polly, “and stop shouting. I think shouting must be a fallacy too.”
With an immense effort of will, I modulated my voice. “All right,” I said. “You’re a logician. Let’s look at this thing logically. How could you choose Petey Bellows over me? Look at me—a brilliant student, a tremendous intellectual, a man with an assured future. Look at Petey—a knothead, a jitterbug, a guy who’ll never know where his next meal is coming from. Can you give me one logical reason why you should go steady with Petey Bellows?”
“I certainly can,” declared Polly. “He’s got a raccoon coat.” Serin 发表于 25-6-2013 08:33 static/image/common/back.gif
Hasty generalization - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
高人甲 andyyang 发表于 27-6-2013 16:00 static/image/common/back.gif
Love is a fallacy by Max Shulman
Cool was I and logical. Keen, calculating, perspicacious, acute...
您能用一句汉语总结一下么？ 第二天晚上，我与波利第一次约会了。这一次实际上是我对她的考察。我想弄清要作多大的努力才能使她的头脑达到我的要求。我首先请她去吃饭。
“哈，这顿饭真够意思，”离开餐馆时她说。然后我请她去看电影。“嘿，这片子真好看，”走出影院时她说。最后我送她回家。和我道别时她说：“嘿，今晚玩得
真痛快。”
我带着不大痛快的心情回到了房间。我对这任务的艰巨性估计得太低了。这姑娘的知识少得叫人吃惊。只是给她增加知识还不够，首先得教她学会思
考。这可不是一件容易的事，当时我真想把她还给皮蒂算了。但我一想到她那充满魅力的身材，她那进屋时的模样，她那拿刀叉的姿式，我还是决定再作一番努力。
就像做其他的事情一样，我开始有计划地干了起来。我开始给她上辑课。幸好我是一个学法律的学生，我自己也正在学逻辑学，所以对要教的内容我都很熟悉。当我接她赴第二次约会时，我对她说：“今晚上咱们去‘小山’谈谈吧”。
“啊，好极了，”她回答道。对这姑娘我要补充一句的是，像她这么好商量的人是不多见的。
我们去了“小山”，这是校园里人们幽会的地方。我们坐在一棵老橡树下，她用期待的眼神看着我。“我们谈些什么呢?”她问。
她想了一会儿，觉得不错，便说：“好极了。”
“逻辑学，”我清了清嗓了，“就是思维的科学。在我们能正确地思维之前，首先必须学会判别逻辑方面的常见谬误。我们今晚就要来谈谈这些。”
“哇!”她叫了起来，高兴地拍着手。
我打了个寒噤，但还是鼓足勇气讲下去：“首先我们来考究一下被称为绝对判断的谬误。” “好呀!”她眨了眨眼，催促着。
“绝对判断指的是根据一种无条件的前提推出的论断。譬如说，运动是有益的，因此人人都要运动。”
“不错，”波利认真地说，“运动是非常有益的，它能增强体质，好处太多了!”
“波利，”我温和地说，“这种论点是谬误。运动有益是一种无条件的前提。比方说，假设你得了心脏病，运动不但无益，反而有害，有不少人医生就
不准他们运动。你必须给这种前提加以限制。你应该说，一般来说运动是有益的。或者说，对大多数人是有益的。否则就是犯了绝对判断的错误，懂吗?”
“不懂，”她坦率地说。“这可太有意思了，讲吧!往下讲吧!”
“你最好别拉我袖子了，”我对她说。等她松了手，我继续讲：“下面我们讲一种被称为草率结论的谬误。你仔细听：你不会讲法语，我不会讲法语，皮蒂也不会讲法语。因此我就会断定在明尼苏达大学谁也不会讲法语。”
“真的?”波利好奇的问道，“谁也不会吗?”
我压住火气。“波利，这是一种谬误，这是一种草率的结论。能使这种结论成立的例证太少了。”
“你还知道其他的谬误吗?”她气喘吁吁地说：“这真比跳舞还有意思啦!”
我极力地使自己不灰心。我真拿这姑娘没办法，的确是毫无办法。可是，如果我不坚持下去，我就太没有用了。因此，我继续讲下去。
“现在听我讲讲‘牵强附会’的谬误。听着：我们不要带比尔出去野餐。每次带他一起去，天就下雨。”
“我就见过这样的人，”她感叹地说。“我们家乡有个女孩，名叫尤拉·蓓克尔。从没有例外，每次我们带她去野餐……”
“波利，”我严厉地说，“这是一种谬误。下雨并不是尤拉蓓克尔造成的，下雨与她没有任何关系。如果你责怪尤拉·蓓克尔，你就是犯了牵强附会的错误。”
“我再也不这样了，”她懊悔地保证说。“你生我的气了吗?”
我深深地叹了一口气：“不，波利，我没生气。”
“那么，给我再讲些谬误吧!”
“好，让我们来看看矛盾前提吧。”
“行，行，”她叽叽喳喳地叫着，两眼闪现出快乐的光芒。
我皱了皱眉头，但还是接着讲下去。“这里有一个矛盾前提的例子：如果上帝是万能的，他能造出一块连他自己也搬不动的大石头吗?”
“当然能，”她毫不犹豫地回答道。
“但是如果他是万能的，他就能搬动那块石头呀，”我提醒她。
“是嘛!”她若有所思地说，“嗯，我想他造不出那样的石头。”
“但他是万能的啊，”我进一步提醒她。
她用手抓了抓她那漂亮而又空虚的脑袋。“我全搞糊涂了，”她承认说。
“你确实糊涂了。因为一种论点的各个前提相互问是矛盾的，这种论点就不能成立。如果有一种不可抗拒的力量．就不可能有一种不可移动的物体；如果有一种不可移动的物体，就不可能有一种不可抗拒的力量。懂吗?”
“再给我讲些这类新奇的玩意儿吧，”她恳切地说。
我看了看表，说：“我想今晚就谈到这里。我现在该送你回去了。你把所学的东西复习一遍，我们明晚上再来上一课吧。”
我把她送到了女生宿舍，在那里她向我保证说这个晚上她过得非常痛快。我闷闷不乐地回到了我的房间，皮蒂正鼾声如雷地睡在床上。那件浣熊皮大衣
像一头多毛的野兽扒在他的脚边。我当时真想把他叫醒，告诉他可以把他的女朋友要回去。看来我的计划会要落空了。这姑娘对逻辑简直是一点儿都不开窍。
但是我回过头一想，既然已经浪费了一个晚上，不妨还是再花一个晚上看看。天晓得，说不定她头脑里的死火山口中的什么地方，还有些火星会喷射出来呢。也许我会有办法能把这些火星扇成熊熊烈焰。当然，成功的希望是不大的，但我还是决定再试一次。
第二天晚上我们又坐在那棵橡树下，我说：“今晚上我们要谈的第一种谬误叫做文不对题。”
她高兴得都发抖了。
“注意听，”我说。“有个人申请工作，当老板问他所具备的条件时，他回答说他家有妻子和六个孩子。妻子完全残废了，孩子们没吃的，没穿的，睡觉没有床，生火没有煤，眼看冬天就要到了。”
两滴眼泪顺着波利那粉红的面颊往下滚。“啊，这太可怕了!太可怕了!”她抽泣着说。 “是的，是太可怕了，”我同意地说。“但这可不成其为申请工作的理由。那人根本没有回答老板提出的关于他的条件的间题，反而祈求老板的同情。他犯了文不对题的错误。你懂吗!”
“多聪明啊!”她咯咯笑了起来。
“你带手帕了没有?”她哭着说
我把手帕递给她。当她擦眼泪时，我极力控制自己的火气。“下面，”我小心地压低声调说，“我们要讨论错误类比。这里有一个例子：应该允许学生 考试时看课本。既然外科医生在做手术时可以看X光片，律师在审案时可以看案由，木匠在造房子时可以看蓝图，为什么学生在考试时不能看课本呢?”
“这个，”她满怀激情地说，“可是我多少年来听到的最好的主意。”
“波利，”我生气地说，“这种论点全错了。医生、律师和木匠并不是以参加考试的方式去测验他们所学的东西。学生们才是这样。情况完全不同，你不能在不同的情况之间进行类比”。
“我还是觉得这是个好主意，”波利说。
“咳!”我嘀咕着，但我还是执意地往下讲，“接下去我们试试与事实相反的假设吧。” 波利的反应是：“倒挺好。”
“你听着：如果居里夫人不是碰巧把一张照相底片放在装有一块沥清铀矿石的抽屉里，那么世人今天就不会知道镭。”
“对，对，”波利点头称是。“你看过那部影片吗?哦，真好看。沃尔特·皮金演得太好了．我是说他让我着迷了。”
“如果你能暂时忘记皮金先生，”我冷冰冰地说，“我会愿意指出这种说法是错误的。也许居里夫人以后会发现镭的，也许由别人去发现，也许还会发生其他的事情。你不能从一个不实际的假设出发，从中得出任何可站得住脚的结论。”
“人们真应该让沃尔特皮金多拍些影片，”波利说，“我几乎再也看不到他了。” 我决定再试一次，但只能一次。一个人的忍耐毕竟是有限度的。我说：“下一个谬误叫做井下放毒。”
“有两个人在进行一场辩论。第一个人站起来说：‘我的论敌是个劣迹昭彰的骗子。他所说的每一句话都不可信。’……波利，现在你想想，好好想一想。这句话错在哪里?”
她紧锁着眉头，我凝神地看着她。突然，一道智慧的光芒——这是我从未看到过的一一闪现在她的眼中。“这不公平，”她气愤地说，“一点都不公平。如果第一个人不等第二个人开口就说他是骗子，那么第二个人还有什么可说的呢?”
“对!”我高兴地叫了起来，“百分之百的对，是不公平。第一个人还不等别人喝到井水，就在井下放毒了。他还不等他的对手开口就已经 伤害了他。……波利，我真为你感到骄傲。”
她轻轻地“哼”了一声，高兴得脸郡发红了。
“你看，亲爱的，这些问题并不深奥，只要精力集中，就能对付。思考——分析—一判断。来，让我们把所学过的东西再复习一遍吧。”
“来吧，”她说着。把手往上一晃。
看到波利并不那么傻，我的劲头上来了。于是，我便开始把对她讲过的一切，长时间地、耐心地复习了一遍。我给她一个一个地举出例子，指出其中的错误，不停地
讲下去。就好比挖掘一条隧道，开始只有劳累、汗水和黑暗，不知道什么时候能见到光亮，甚至还不知道能否见到光亮。但我坚持着，凿啊，挖啊，刮啊，终于得到
了报偿。我见到了一线光亮，这光亮越来越大，终于阳光洒进来了，一切都豁然开朗了。
我辛辛苦苦地花了五个晚上，但总算还是没有白费，我使波利变成一个逻辑学家了，我教她学会了思考。我的任务完成了，她最终还是配得上我的。她会成为我贤慧的妻子，我那些豪华公馆里出色的女主人。我那些有良好教养的孩子们的合格的母亲。
不要以为我不爱这姑娘了，恰恰相反。正如皮格马利翁珍爱他自己塑造的完美的少女像一样，我也非常地爱我的波利。我决定下次会面时把自己的感情向她倾吐。该是把我们师生式的关系转化为爱情的时候了。
“波利，”当我们又坐在我们那棵橡树下时，我说。“今晚我们不再讨论谬误了。”
“怎么啦?”她失望地问道。
“亲爱的，”我友好地对她笑了笑，“我们已经一起度过了五个晚上，我们相处得很好。显然我们俩是很相配的。”
“草率结论，”波利伶俐地说。
“你是说…?”我问道。
“草率结论，”她重复了一遍。“你怎么能凭我们仅有的五次约会就说我们俩很相配呢?”
我咯咯一笑，觉得挺有意思。这可爱的小家伙功课学得可真不错。“亲爱的，”我耐心地拍打着她的手说，“五次约会就不少了，毕竟你不必把整个蛋糕吃下去才知道蛋糕的甜味。”
“错误类比，”波利敏捷地说。“我可不是蛋糕，我是个女孩子。”我微微一笑，但这次不感到那么有意思了。这可爱的孩子功课或许是学得太好了。
我决定改变策略。显然，最好的办法就是态度明朗，直接了当地向她表示爱。我沉默了一会儿，用我特别发达的脑袋挑选着合适的词句。然后我便开始说：
“波利，我爱你。对我来说，你就是整个世界，是月亮，是星星，是整个宇宙。我亲爱的，请说你爱我吧。如果你不这样，我的生活就失去意义了。我将会萎靡不振，茶不饮，饭不思，到处游荡，成为一个步履蹒跚、双眼凹下的躯壳。”
我交叉着双手站在那里，心想这下子可打动了她。
“文不对题，”波利说。
我咬咬牙。我不是皮格马利翁，我是弗兰肯斯坦，我的喉咙似乎一下子让魔鬼卡住了。我极力地控制涌上心头的阵阵痛楚。无论怎样，我电要保持冷静。
“好了，波利，”我强装着笑脸说，“这些谬误你的确已学到家了。”
“这可说得很对，”她使劲地点了点头说道。
“可是波利，这一切是谁教给你的?”
“你教的嘛。”
“是的，那你得感谢我呀。是吗，亲爱的?要是我不和你在一起，你永远也不会学到这些谬误的”。
“与事实相反的假设，”波利不加思索地说着。
我摔掉了额前的汗珠。“波利，”我用嘶哑的声音说道，“你不要死板地接受这些东西。我是说那只是课堂上讲的东西。你知道学校学的东西与现实生活毫不相关。”
“绝对判断，”她说道，嬉戏地向我摇摇指头。
这一下可使我恼火了。我猛地跳了起来，像公牛似地吼叫着，“你到底想不想跟我相爱?”
“我不想，”她答道。
“为什么不想?”我追问着。
“因为今天下午我答应了皮蒂伯奇，我愿意和他相爱。”
我被皮蒂这一无耻的行径气得一阵晕眩，情不自禁地向后退去。皮蒂答应了我，跟我成了交，还跟我握了手呢!“这个可耻的家伙!”我尖着嗓子大叫，把一块块草皮踢了起来。“你不能跟他在一起，波利。他是一个说谎的人，一个骗子，一个可耻的家伙!”
“井下放毒，”波利说。“别叫嚷了，我认为大声叫嚷就是一种谬误。”
我以极大的意志力把语气缓和下来。“好吧，”我说，“你是一个逻辑学家。那就让我们从逻辑上来分析这件事吧。你怎么会看得中皮蒂，而看不起我
呢?你瞧我一个才华横溢的学生，一个了不起的知识分子，一个前途无量的人；而皮蒂——一个笨蛋，一个反复无常的人，一个吃了上顿不知有没有下顿的家伙。你
能给我一个合乎逻辑的理由来说明你为什么要跟皮蒂好吗?”
“当然能，”波利肯定地说。“他有一件浣熊皮大衣。”
牧马人 发表于 24-6-2013 10:13 static/image/common/back.gif
国产的东西能不吃就不吃，这边好食材那么多，非要吃那个劳什子干嘛？
布村去哪买好食材？来这里之后天天吃死鱼死虾，饲料鸡，有地方买新鲜的，活蹦乱跳的海鲜吗？哪里可以买到走地鸡，现场宰杀那种？ kingking 发表于 28-6-2013 12:13 static/image/common/back.gif
布村去哪买好食材？来这里之后天天吃死鱼死虾，饲料鸡，有地方买新鲜的，活蹦乱跳的海鲜吗？哪里可以买到 ...
在我看来活的才是好这种观点本身就是个误区，国内的活鱼活虾多，甚至有的天性出水就死的鱼都能卖活的，买的人开心，却不想想那些鱼贩是用了什么东西让它们活的，甚至还能蹦得欢呢。冰鲜的就不新鲜？冰鲜的就影响口感？不见得，心理作用罢了。如果是我选，澳洲新西兰海域补的冰冻海鲜还是中国农村水塘里养出来的活鱼活虾，我肯定毫不犹豫选前者。
活的这边也不是没有，可以在鸡场买到活鸡，有了house自己养都可以，袁世行有活的螃蟹，活鱼和活龙虾。说这边食材不行中国才好…………算了，不评论了。 牧马人 发表于 28-6-2013 12:37 static/image/common/back.gif
在我看来活的才是好这种观点本身就是个误区，国内的活鱼活虾多，甚至有的天性出水就死的鱼都能卖活的，买 ...
国内没那么不堪，可能大城市食品安全问题比较让人担忧把，像我这种生活在海边农村的，吃新鲜捕捞的海鲜是很自然的事，也没什么不放心的。有些深海鱼需要远洋捕捞的现场就速冻，这个也没有问题，但是适合吃活的品种也很多。另外这里牡蛎，蛏子等很常吃的海鲜也不容易买到，需要改变一点饮食习惯。
农村里土鸡土鸭，现摘的蔬果也很多，尤其怀念各种笋。其实都是农村，我们那的农村吃得真比这好很多，也好于国内城市。 kingking 发表于 28-6-2013 14:40 static/image/common/back.gif
国内没那么不堪，可能大城市食品安全问题比较让人担忧把，像我这种生活在海边农村的，吃新鲜捕捞的海鲜是 ...
你这么比就太不对称了，拿中国的农村和澳洲的城市比，农村肯定有些城市没有的优势。澳洲也有渔村，渔船靠码头的时候有的是新鲜的海鲜，就算自己海边钓鱼比国内容易多了，你要是弄个大宅子再养鸡，不是啥都有了？这边海水和国内的海水比比，中国除了三亚还有一块干净的近海么？别说钓不到鱼，就算钓到了真的干净么？
在国内你出来之前也肯定是住城市吧，还住渔村估计也出不来，那国内城市和这边比怎么样？这边我住城里也可以周末去海边钓鱼，国内哪个城市可以？这边我可以自己后院养鸡，国内哪个城市可以？
水果就更别说了，你说的农村也就一个鲜摘的优势，这边你也可以去农场摘水果，而这边水果的品质比国内水果好太多太多。 牧马人 发表于 28-6-2013 20:13 static/image/common/back.gif
你这么比就太不对称了，拿中国的农村和澳洲的城市比，农村肯定有些城市没有的优势。澳洲也有渔村，渔船靠 ...
我在国内是work from home, 一直住乡下的老家。海边小镇，开车20分钟到厦门市区。所以算是介于农村和城市之间吧。我们那食材就比厦门市区好，但是厦门的鱼市也很大的，活的很多。至于海水污染，这个就无解了。国内要没污染，也没那么多人移民了。 我来的时候带了，不让带吗？ Serin 发表于 25-6-2013 08:33
Hasty generalization - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
你是男人吧！是女生长期吃这个东西你自然知道好处，我当然也没精神写到很详细，但是身边的朋友怀孕都有在吃，所以我们都没有妊娠纹或者肥胖症之类的自然生产后遗症！信不信试过就知道 西边Inala区那里有卖活鱼活虾活海鲜的。
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