Life And Times Of The Thunderb(ISBN=9780767919371)

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版次：1
页数：270
字数：
印刷时间：2007年09月01日
开本：32开
纸张：胶版纸
包装：平装
是否套装：否
国际标准书号ISBN：9780767919371
作者:Bill Bryson　著出版社:Random House US出版时间:2007年09月

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　　From one of the most beloved and bestselling authors in the English language, a vivid, nostalgic, and utterly hilarious memoir of growing up in the 1950s
　　Bill Bryson was born in the middle of the American century—1951—in the middle of the United States—Des Moines, Iowa—in the middle of the largest generation in American history—the baby boomers. As one of the best and funniest writers alive, he is perfectly positioned to mine his memories of a totally all-American childhood for 24-carat memoir gold. Like millions of his generational peers, Bill Bryson grew up with a rich fantasy life as a superhero. In his case, he ran around his house and neighborhood with an old football jersey with a thunderbolt on it and a towel about his neck that served as his cape, leaping tall buildings in a single bound and vanquishing awful evildoers (and morons)—in his head—as "The Thunderbolt Kid."
　　Using this persona as a springboard, Bill Bryson re-creates the life of his family and his native city in the 1950s in all its transcendent normality—a life at once completely familiar to us all and as far away and unreachable as another galaxy. It was, he reminds us, a happy time, when automobiles and televisions and appliances (not to mention nuclear weapons) grew larger and more numerous with each passing year, and DDT, cigarettes, and the fallout from atmospheric testing were considered harmless or even good for you. He brings us into the life of his loving but eccentric family, including affectionate portraits of his father, a gifted sportswriter for the local paper and dedicated practitioner of isometric exercises, and OF his mother, whose job as the home furnishing editor for the same paper left her little time for practicing the domestic arts at home. The many readers of Bill Bryson’s earlier classic, A Walk in the Woods, will greet the reappearance in these pages of the immortal Stephen Katz, seen hijacking literally boxcar loads of beer. He is joined in the Bryson gallery of immortal characters by the demonically clever Willoughby brothers, who apply their scientific skills and can-do attitude to gleefully destructive ends.
　　Warm and laugh-out-loud funny, and full of his inimitable, pitch-perfect observations, The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid is as wondrous a book as Bill Bryson has ever written. It will enchant anyone who has ever been young.
　　

作者简介

　　Bill Bryson's bestselling books include A Walk in the Woods, I'm a Stranger Here Myself, In a Sunburned Country, Bryson's Dictionary of Troublesome Words, and A Short of History of Nearly Everything, which earned him the 2004 Aventis Prize. Bryson lives in England with his wife and children.

目　　录

FOREWORD AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER 1　Hometown
CHAPTER 2　Welcome to Kid World
CHAPTER 3　Birth of a Superhero
CHAPTER 4　The Age of Excitement
CHAPTER 5　The Pursuit of Pleasure
CHAPTER 6　Sex and Other Distractions
CHAPTER 7　Boom!
CHAPTER 8　School Days
CHAPTER 9　Man at Work
CHAPTER 10　 DoWn on the Farm
CHAPTER 11　What, Me Worry?
CHAPTER 12　Out and About
CHAPTER 13　The Pubic Years

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媒体评论

　　“Bill Bryson’s laugh-out-loud pilgrimage through his Fiftieschildhood in heartland America is a national treasure. It’s full ofinsights, wit, and wicked adolescent fantasies.”
　　—Tom Brokaw
　　“Bryson is unparalleled in his ability to cut a culture off atthe knees in a way that is so humorous and so affectionate thatthose being ridiculed are laughing too hard to take offense.”
　　—The Wall Street Journal
　　“A cross between de Tocqueville and Dave Barry, Bryson writesabout…America in a way that’s both trenchantly observant andpound-on-the-floor, snort-root-beer-out-of-your-nose funny.”
　　—San Franciso Examiner

“Bill Bryson’s laugh-out-loud pilgrimage through his Fifties
childhood in heartland America is a national treasure. It’s full of
insights, wit, and wicked adolescent fantasies.” 
　　—Tom Brokaw 
　　“Bryson is unparalleled in his ability to cut a culture off at
the knees in a way that is so humorous and so affectionate that
those being ridiculed are laughing too hard to take offense.” 
　　—The Wall Street Journal 
　　“A cross between de Tocqueville and Dave Barry, Bryson writes
about…America in a way that’s both trenchantly observant and
pound-on-the-floor, snort-root-beer-out-of-your-nose funny.” 
　　—San Franciso Examiner 
　　“Bill Bryson could write an essay about dryer lint or fever
reducers and still make us laugh out loud.” 
　　—Chicago Sun-Times 　　“Bryson is…great company…a
lumbering, droll, neatnik intellectual who comes off as equal parts
Garrison Keillor, Michael Kinsley, and…Dave Barry.” 
　　—New York Times Book Review

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在线试读部分章节

　　Chapter 1
　　HOMETOWN
　　SPRINGFIELD, ILL. (AP)—The State Senate of Illinois yesterdaydisbanded its Committee on Efficiency and Economy “for reasons ofefficiency and economy.”
　　—Des Moines Tribune, February 6, 1955
　　IN THE LATE 1950s, the Royal Canadian Air Force produced abooklet on isometrics, a form of exercise that enjoyed a short butdevoted vogue with my father. The idea of isometrics was that youused any unyielding object, like a tree or a wall, and pressedagainst it with all your might from various positions to tone andstrengthen different groups of muscles. Since everybody already hasaccess to trees and walls, you didn't need to invest in a lot ofcostly equipment, which I expect was what attracted my dad.
　　What made it unfortunate in my father’s case is that he would dohis isometrics on airplanes. At some point in every flight, hewould stroll back to the galley area or the space by the emergencyexit and, taking up the posture of someone trying to budge a veryheavy piece of machinery, he would begin to push with his back orshoulder against the outer wall of the plane, pausing occasionallyto take deep breaths before returning with quiet grunts to thetask.
　　Since it looked uncannily, if unfathomably, as if he were tryingto force a hole in the side of the plane, this naturally drewattention. Businessmen in nearby seats would stare over the tops oftheir glasses. A stewardess would pop her head out of the galleyand likewise stare, but with a certain hard caution, as ifremembering some aspect of her training that she had not previouslybeen called upon to implement.
　　Seeing that he had observers, my father would straighten up andsmile genially and begin to outline the engaging principles behindisometrics. Then he would give a demonstration to an audience thatswiftly consisted of no one. He seemed curiously incapable offeeling embarrassment in such situations, but that was all rightbecause I felt enough for both of us—indeed, enough for us and allthe other passengers, the airline and its employees, and the wholeof whatever state we were flying over.

Chapter 1 
　　HOMETOWN 
　　SPRINGFIELD, ILL. (AP)—The State Senate of Illinois yesterday
disbanded its Committee on Efficiency and Economy “for reasons of
efficiency and economy.” 
　　—Des Moines Tribune, February 6, 1955 
　　IN THE LATE 1950s, the Royal Canadian Air Force produced a
booklet on isometrics, a form of exercise that enjoyed a short but
devoted vogue with my father. The idea of isometrics was that you
used any unyielding object, like a tree or a wall, and pressed
against it with all your might from various positions to tone and
strengthen different groups of muscles. Since everybody already has
access to trees and walls, you didn't need to invest in a lot of
costly equipment, which I expect was what attracted my dad. 
　　What made it unfortunate in my father’s case is that he would do
his isometrics on airplanes. At some point in every flight, he
would stroll back to the galley area or the space by the emergency
exit and, taking up the posture of someone trying to budge a very
heavy piece of machinery, he would begin to push with his back or
shoulder against the outer wall of the plane, pausing occasionally
to take deep breaths before returning with quiet grunts to the
task. 
　　Since it looked uncannily, if unfathomably, as if he were trying
to force a hole in the side of the plane, this naturally drew
attention. Businessmen in nearby seats would stare over the tops of
their glasses. A stewardess would pop her head out of the galley
and likewise stare, but with a certain hard caution, as if
remembering some aspect of her training that she had not previously
been called upon to implement. 
　　Seeing that he had observers, my father would straighten up and
smile genially and begin to outline the engaging principles behind
isometrics. Then he would give a demonstration to an audience that
swiftly consisted of no one. He seemed curiously incapable of
feeling embarrassment in such situations, but that was all right
because I felt enough for both of us—indeed, enough for us and all
the other passengers, the airline and its employees, and the whole
of whatever state we were flying over. 
　　Two things made these undertakings tolerable. The first was that
back on solid ground my dad wasn’t half as foolish most of the
time. The second was that the purpose of these trips was always to
go to a Major League city, stay in a big downtown hotel, and attend
ball games, and that excused a great deal—well, everything, in
fact. My dad was a sportswriter for The Des Moines Register, which
in those days was one of the country’s best papers, and often took
me along on trips through the Midwest. Sometimes these were car
trips to places like Sioux City or Burlington, but at least once a
summer we boarded a big silver plane—a huge event in those days—and
lumbered through the summery skies, up among the fleecy clouds, to
St. Louis or Chicago or Detroit to take in a home stand. It was a
kind of working holiday for my dad. 
　　Baseball, like everything else, was part of a simpler world in
those days, and I was allowed to go with him into the clubhouse and
dugout and onto the field before games. I have had my hair tousled
by Stan Musial. I have handed Willie Mays a ball that had skittered
past him as he played catch. I have lent my binoculars to Harvey
Kuenn (or possibly it was Billy Hoeft) so that he could scope some
busty blonde in the upper deck. Once on a hot July afternoon I sat
in a nearly airless clubhouse under the left–field grandstand at
Wrigley Field beside Ernie Banks, the Cubs’ great shortstop, as he
autographed boxes of new white baseballs (which are, incidentally,
one of the most pleasurably aromatic things on earth, and worth
spending time around anyway). Unbidden, I took it upon myself to
sit beside him and pass him each new ball. This slowed the process
considerably, but he gave a little smile each time and said thank
you as if I had done him quite a favor. He was the nicest human
being I have ever met. It was like being friends with God. 
　　I CAN'T IMAGINE there has ever been a more gratifying time or
place to be alive than America in the 1950s. No country had ever
known such prosperity. When the war ended the United States had $26
billion worth of factories that hadn't existed before the war, $140
billion in savings and war bonds just waiting to be spent, no bomb
damage, and practically no competition. All that American companies
had to do was stop making tanks and battleships and start making
Buicks and Frigidaires—and boy did they. 
　　By 1951, when I came sliding down the chute, almost 90 percent of
American families had refrigerators, and nearly three-quarters had
washing machines, telephones, vacuum cleaners, and gas or electric
stoves—things that most of the rest of the world could still only
fantasize about. Americans owned 80 percent of the world's
electrical goods, controlled two–thirds of the world’s productive
capacity, produced more than 40 percent of its electricity, 60
percent of its oil, and 66 percent of its steel. The 5 percent of
people on Earth who were Americans had more wealth than the other
95 percent combined. 
　　Remarkably, almost all this wealth was American made. Of the 7.5
million new cars sold in America in 1954, for instance, 99.93
percent were made in America by Americans. We became the richest
country in the world without needing the rest of the world. 
　　I don’t know of anything that better conveys the happy bounty of
the age than a photograph (reproduced in this volume in the
frontmatter of the book) that ran in Life magazine two weeks before
my birth. It shows the Czekalinski family of Cleveland, Ohio—Steve,
Stephanie, and two sons, Stephen and Henry—surrounded by the two
and a half tons of food that a typical blue–collar family ate in a
year. Among the items they were shown with were 450 pounds of
flour, 72 pounds of shortening, 56 pounds of butter, 31 chickens,
300 pounds of beef, 25 pounds of carp, 144 pounds of ham, 39 pounds
of coffee, 690 pounds of potatoes, 698 quarts of milk, 131 dozen
eggs, 180 loaves of bread, and 8 1/2 gallons of ice cream, all
purchased on a budget of $25 a week. (Mr. Czekalinski made $1.96 an
hour as a shipping clerk in a DuPont factory.) In 1951, the average
American ate 50 percent more than the average European. 
　　No wonder people were happy. Suddenly they were able to have
things they had never dreamed of having, and they couldn't believe
their luck. There was, too, a wonderful simplicity of desire. It
was the last time that people would be thrilled to own a toaster or
waffle iron. If you bought a major appliance, you invited the
neighbors around to have a look at it. When I was about four my
parents bought an Amana Stor–Mor refrigerator and for at least six
months it was like an honored guest in our kitchen. I’m sure they’d
have drawn it up to the table at dinner if it hadn’t been so heavy.
When visitors dropped by unexpectedly, my father would say: “Oh,
Mary, is there any iced tea in the Amana?” Then to the guests he’d
add significantly: “There usually is. It’s a Stor–Mor.” 
　　“Oh, a Stor–Mor,” the male visitor would say and elevate his
eyebrows in the manner of someone who appreciates quality cooling.
“We thought about getting a Stor–Mor ourselves, but in the end we
went for a Philco Shur–Kool. Alice loved the EZ-Glide vegetable
drawer and you can get a full quart of ice cream in the freezer
box. That was a big selling point for Wendell Junior, as you can
imagine!” 
　　They’d all have a good laugh at that and then sit around drinking
iced tea and talking appliances for an hour or so. No human beings
had ever been quite this happy before. 
　　People looked forward to the future, too, in ways they never
would again. Soon, according to every magazine, we were going to
have underwater cities off every coast, space colonies inside giant
spheres of glass, atomic trains and airliners, personal jet packs,
a gyrocopter in every driveway, cars that turned into boats or even
submarines, moving sidewalks to whisk us effortlessly to schools
and offices, dome–roofed automobiles that drove themselves along
sleek superhighways allowing Mom, Dad, and the two boys (Chip and
Bud or Skip and Scooter) to play a board game or wave to a neighbor
in a passing gyrocopter or just sit back and enjoy saying some of
those splendid words that existed in the fifties and are no longer
heard: mimeograph, rotisserie, stenographer, icebox, dime store,
rutabaga, Studebaker, panty raid, bobby socks, Sputnik, beatnik,
canasta, Cinerama, Moose Lodge, pinochle, daddy–o. 
　　For those who couldn’t wait for underwater cities and
self–driving cars, thousands of smaller enrichments were available
right now. If you were to avail yourself of all that was on offer
from advertisers in a single issue of, let's say, Popular Science
from, let's say, December 1956, you could, among much else, teach
yourself ventriloquism, learn to cut meat (by correspondence or in
person at the National School of Meat Cutting in Toledo, Ohio),
embark on a lucrative career sharpening skates door to door,
arrange to sell fire extinguishers from home, end rupture troubles
once and for all, build radios, repair radios, perform on radio,
talk on radio to people in different countries and possibly on
different planets, improve your personality, get a personality,
acquire a manly physique, learn to dance, create personalized
stationery for profit, or “make big $$$$” in your spare time at
home building lawn figures and other novelty ornaments. 
　　My brother, who was normally quite an intelligent human being,
once invested in a booklet that promised to teach him how to throw
his voice. He would say something unintelligible through rigid
lips, then quickly step aside and say, “That sounded like it came
from over there, didn’t it?” He also saw an...

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