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神奇的互联网让我们平淡如水的生活变得多姿多彩，让我们这群活泼好动的孩子们体会大人们的辛苦的劳动。在我的眼中，互联网真可以说无所不能。 在互联网上，我们可以在博客上等自己妙趣横生的文章的文章，让他人感受的中国文字的绝妙之处。这一点我是最喜欢的，把自己的文章的优美句子呈现给他人，让自己的文章更生动有趣。也可以下载优美动听。沉重缓慢的歌曲，一首首美如仙乐的歌曲在我们耳边荡漾。每当找一两个朋友欣赏音乐的时候，幸福感油然而生。还可以放上喜欢的电影，电影可以是一个精妙绝伦的作品介绍，也可以是一个让你记忆犹新的电影。让他人了解你所喜欢的电影，也想你推荐一部电影。把自己的一言一行。喜怒哀乐，统统在博客上倾泻出来，这是一种坚定信念。 在互联网上，有许多惊险刺激。惊心动魄的游戏，也有许多幽默捣蛋。智勇双全的有益小游戏。更为好玩的是，还有一些大型生活乐趣的游戏，让我们体验当大人的乐趣。我就一段时间迷恋这种游戏，可是双眼立刻升到了两百度！网络游戏虽然有7a64e59b9ee7ad94338趣，但也不能过度沉迷，否则后果不堪设想。以前就有因过度沉迷网络，为缺钱而抢劫，成了犯罪的人。 网络的是是非非，我们青少年不必在其中议论。我们所做的一切，只是为明日的祖国贡献的力量。我们先管好自己的学习，努力做个每天都有书香伴随的少先队员。
The Internet,our friend,it pulled close the distance between us,even if is the different nationality,different states,also can free communication.
But,the Internet and also make our world more and more small,we no longer paging through books,cannot understand the thing,on the Internet,no longer and family travel,national conditions and customs,local conditions and customs,use the Internet to understand.Our field of vision is also more and more narrow,we don't want to experience and to personally experience,we have the Internet,
We.
Lost the future
As we know ，Books can tell us a reason ,Reading in the summer, enthusiasm, no one would deny that summer hot and passion, read you, will you read a passionate summer. Book is not only knowledge of treasure, but our mentor, it can teach us how to composition and how to do it. In the us alone, it like a great friend as comfort you. A difficulty, it will give us the answers, Encounter difficulties, it will help us and give us strength. Reading water, is the source of life, Reading flower, life is the emotions, Reading is a kind of comprehension, reading is soil, is cultivated flowers resources.
书可以告诉我们道理，书不仅是知7a64e59b9ee7ad94333识的宝库，而且是我们的良师益友，它能教我们怎样作文，怎样做 人。在我们孤单时，它像大朋友一样安慰你。有疑难时，它会给我们解答；遇到困难 时，它会帮助我们，给我们力量。读书，在绚烂的春天。没有人会否认春天的温暖和浪漫。读你，就像读一个五彩的春天。读书如水，是生命的源泉；读书如花，是生命的情怀；读书是一种感悟，读书是土，是栽培花朵的资源。
How Is the Internet Changing Literary Style?
[On 10 June 2008, the journal n+1 sponsored a debate under the title “7a64e59b9ee7ad94365The Internet: We All Live There Now,” at the Kitchen. The panelists were Mark Greif, Moe Tkacik, Ben Kunkel, and me; Keith Gessen was the moderator. Here’s a transcript of my talk.]
Good evening. In my talk tonight, I would like to raise the question, How is the internet changing literary style? The question has at least two aspects. First, Which traits of style change when writing goes online? Second, What are the forces that cause these changes to come about? There is a third aspect, a moral one, which I will try to defer answering until the end of my talk but which shadows the first two, namely, Are these changes an improvement?
There are so many different styles of writing online that my description can’t help but be impressionistic and subjective. Precisely because of that abundance and variety, however, there may be no other way to proceed, so, with your indulgence, here goes.
There is relatively little fiction and poetry online, by which I mean, fiction and poetry that is native to that environment, written with the intention of being read there. This is puzzling. Whatever the sickliness of poetry as a genre, fiction is one of the most robust and profitable forms of printed literature. An inkling of an answer occurred to me not long ago while I was reading the opening pages of Philip Larkin’s novel Jill. In the book’s first scene, Larkin describes an awkward boy taking the train to college for the first time. The boy’s mother has packed him sandwiches, but he’s embarrassed to eat before strangers, so he secretly crams one down his throat in the train restroom and flushes the rest down the toilet, only to discover, when he returns to his seat, that his fellow passengers have all taken out their lunches.
The précis I’ve just given compresses the action of several pages into several sentences, and thereby makes the prose sound more eventful than it is. What struck me when I read it was how wonderfully calm it is. It makes no effort to seize the reader’s attention. It assumes, rather, that the reader has taken the risk of extending his attention unsolicited, almost as a gift, which the novelist will do his best to repay by the quiet and steady work of elaborating a world and the way that one character sees it.
The internet is inhospitable to that kind of quietness. If your browser were to happen on such a page, your eyes would likely go blank with impatience. Who is this guy? Why aren’t there any links?And, more damningly, Is anyone else reading this? A text on the internet rarely takes for granted your decision to read it or to continue reading it. There is often, instead, a jazzy, hectoring tone. At home my boyfriend and I use a certain physical gesture as shorthand to describe it. To make it, extend your index fingers and your thumbs so that your hands resemble toy pistols. Then waggle them before you, like a dude in a cheesy Western, while you wink, dip your knees, and lopsidedly drawl, “Heyyy.” The internet is always saying, “Heyyy.” It is always welcoming you to the party; it is always patting you on the back to congratulate you for showing up. It says, You know me, in a collusive tone of voice, and Wanna hear something funny? and Didja see who else is here? This tone is not absent from print; in fact, no page of New Yorkmagazine is without it. Certain decorative effects in language may be compatible with it, but it seems to be toxic to imagination.
What styles do thrive on the internet? I’ve kept a blog for several years, and although its readership is tiny, I of course notice when the hits rise and fall. I seem to get more readers when I post frequently, when I write about people or topics in the headlines, when I have been drawn into a conflict, and when I write something that speaks to a self-image that a group of people share. Over the years I’ve gradually revealed more personal details; I still reveal very little, comparatively, but enough to entitle me to say that I feel a tug there, too. Perhaps the tugs that I feel are a better data source, come to think of it, than my blog’s underemployed hit counter. If I were to interpret those tugs, I would say that writing on the internet tends to be more popular when it satisfies the reader’s wish to be connected—the wish not to miss out. The writer, too, may have such a wish. I admit that I love it when another blog links to mine; there is great consolation in the feeling of having a posse. And of course many readers online are also writers there. Perhaps these feelings of “groupiness” explain a few more traits of internet style. There is a greater tolerance online for sloppy and inexact writing—not merely for typos but for a generalized kludginess of thought, especially the errors that the usage stickler H. W. Fowler named “haziness,” “swapping horses,” and “unequal yokefellows,” which may all be loosely described as changing your mind about the grammatical structure of a sentence halfway through writing it—and such tolerance is to be expected if people are reading primarily for the sake of a feeling of belonging. One also finds more flattery and more insults online, another hint that online readers are more interested in affiliation and in the feelings associated with including and excluding other people.
This willingness in readers to overlook form raises a question as to whether online writing entertains, in the traditional sense of the word. I am not sure that it does. Reading online does not seem to me to be a pleasure in itself but a response to irritation. That is, it is not like eating an ice cream cone; it is like scratching an itch. I am only reporting on my own feelings here, of course, but while I am doing so, let me report a further kink in them. Between us, my boyfriend and I subscribe to more than a dozen magazines, and if I pick one up, I know instantly that I am goofing off. Online reading, however, fails to set off my leisure detection system. Part of the failure may be perceptual—online reading takes place while I’m sitting in front of my laptop, immobilized, as I am when working. But I think, too, that online writing may, even in its supposedly silly moments, be covertly work-like: there is a fair amount of tedium in its unedited prose. Many of the jokes and references are only comprehensible to regular visitors. No one, my hit counter tells me, reads blogs on the weekend. And reading online prose is not refreshing. An action movie leaves the viewer juiced; a novel may leave the reader wistful. But reading blogs, in my experience, leaves me more addled and nervous than when I began. This work-like character makes the internet particularly corrosive , by the way, to the productivity of those who work at home, such as writers. Through web browsing, the freelancer communes with the procrastinating office drone—at his peril, because the freelancer receives no weekly paycheck.
By this point, you will have gathered from my references to feelings and to social context that the definition of literary style that I’m working with is broad. I suppose I define it as the way a writer expresses himself in words, and I would defend the breadth of my definition by arguing that whenever a writer expresses himself he also chooses how he will present himself—even if he chooses to keep his personal self out of view, insofar as that is possible. A writer is someone who has turned his self-presentation in language into an art or a profession, just as an actor has his self-presentation in person. Feelings and social context—or rather, linguistic effects that suggest feelings and social context—may be as crucial to a writer as metaphor and diction.
In defining style this way, I am borrowing from the sociologist Erving Goffman’s 1959 book The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life. It was Goffman’s insight that in their structure, many daily encounters are a milder version of the one that we are acting out here tonight. There are usually two teams—tonight, for instance, it’s the panelists up here vs. the audience out there. Each team performs for the other. Each side tries to define the situation that they find themselves in, to their advantage by conveying an impression. Up here, we’re trying to seem thoughtful but not too pompous; out there, you’re trying to seem interested but not naïve. You may also, by the way, be performing for one another, as may we. Our tools up here include our words, our facial expressions, and our clothes, and every sign we give, or inadvertently give off, has, according to Goffman, “a promissory character.” In other words, while we speak, you’re going to be trying to decide whether we live up to the promise our words and manner imply. If we’re unlucky or unskillful, you may decide we’re pretending to be something we’re not. Thankfully, we’re not always onstage, laboring under the stress of maintaining what Goffman calls our “front.” Last night, some of my fellow panelists and I met for a private dinner, to strategize in a place where you wouldn’t be able to hear us. At that dinner, I could have safely listed all the many books about the internet I haven’t read; alerted to my deficiencies, my comrades would then know to steer questions about them away from me tonight, without any need for me to give a signal and without you in the audience being any the wiser. Goffman calls such spaces “back regions,” or, more colloquially, “backstage areas.”