【推荐1】It was reported last week that developers could take photos from Apple mobile and Google Android devices without the phone owners knowing that the pictures were being taken. In Apple’s case, developers can also obtain the location information for each photo.

Senator(参议员) Charles Schumer said in a telephone interview that his office had spoken with officials at both Apple and Google on Monday. “We asked them if they could find a way on their own to prevent Apple from having access to private(私人的) information,” Mr. Schumer said. “They were friendly and open to the idea that this ought to be changed.”

On Sunday, Mr. Schumer said that he planned to send a letter to the Federal Trade Commission asking the agency to investigate Apple and Google after the privacy concerns came to light. Claudia Bourne Farrell, an F.T.C. spokeswoman, said the agency had received the letter but she could not comment further.

“It worries people to think that one’s personal photos, address book, and who knows what else can be obtained and even posted online without permission,” Mr. Schumer wrote in his letter to the F.T.C. “If the technology exists to open the door to this kind of privacy invasion（侵犯）, then surely technology exists to close it, and that’s exactly what must happen.”

Mr. Schumer said if Apple and Google could not come to an agreement to fix the problem, then he would be forced to take the issue further.

He said other companies had been willing to work with his office to deal with problems. “I’m optimistic that we can get this changed without any regulation,” he said. “If it’s not changed, then we’ll turn to the F.T.C., and if that doesn’t work then we’ll consider law ways.”

The F.T.C. has warned companies to try to be more vigilant(警醒的) in their efforts to protect consumers when it comes to privacy.

【推荐2】Last summer my daughter’s school was blown up. No students were harmed, but the main building was completely destroyed, as well as the nearby dorms.

Before you start trying to ask when this horrible act took place on U. S. soil, I should mention that this attack didn’t happen in reality, rather in my daughter’s carefully constructed Minecraft world. During an online journey with a few friends, a stranger came to her school and bombed the school she had carefully built. In a minute, her school was ruined. Sure, no actual property(财产)was damaged. But the emotional pain she felt was very much real. She thought this was a form of terrorism.

I shared this act of absurd online violence on my Facebook page, and fellow parents with Minecraft-loving children were just as shocked as I was. I had thought this was a unique experience, and my daughter was just unlucky that this happened to her. But, as it turned out, she was far from alone. The acts were performed by computer bullies(暴徒) known as “griefers”. The platform that my daughter was playing was the Minecraft: Pocket Edition(PE)version, which is popular with younger players. While she once only played in creative mode(模式), she began to play in the multi-player mode so that she and a few friends from school could build and create together. That multi-player choice made it possible for a stranger, one of these “griefers”, to do damage.

It was a painful lesson for my daughter that dangers happened suddenly. She understood we have to protect ourselves from bad people in the real world. Still, there was some goodness that came out of the ruins. Many fellow players of hers took the time to help her rebuild her school, which has been set up again. She is moved. Also, this experience opened her eyes.

【推荐1】Growing Up in the Library

I grew up in libraries, or at least it feels that way. I was raised in the suburbs of Cleveland, just a few blocks from the brick-faced Bertram Woods branch of the Shaker Heights Public Library system. I went there several times a week with my mother. She and I would walk in together, but as soon as we passed through the door, we each headed towards our favorite sections. The library might have been the first place I was ever given autonomy.

Even when I was maybe four or five years old, I was allowed to head off on my own. Then, after a while, my mother and I would reunite at the checkout counter with our finds. Together we'd wait as the librarian pulled out the date card and stamped it with the checkout machine — that giant fist thumping the card with a loud chunk-chunk, printing a crooked due date underneath a score of previous crooked due dates that belonged to other people, other times.

Those visits were dreamy, frictionless (没有摩擦的) periods that held the promise of leaving me richer than I'd arrived. It wasn't like going to a store with my mom, which guaranteed a tug-of-war between what I wanted and what my mother was willing to buy me; in the library, I could have anything I wanted.

After we had finished checking out the books, I loved being in the car and having all the books we'd gotten stacked on my lap, pressing me under their solid, warm weight, their Mylar covers sticking a bit to my thighs. It was such a thrill leaving a place with things you hadn't paid for; such a thrill expecting the new books we would read. On the ride home, my mother and I talked about the order in which we were going to read our books, a serious conversation in which we planned how to pace ourselves through this charmed period of grace until the books were due.

When I was older, I usually walked to the library by myself, lugging back as many books as I could carry. Occasionally, I did go with my mother, and the trip would be as engaging as it had been when I was small. Even when I was in my last year of high school and could drive myself to the library, my mother and I still went together every now and then, and the trip unfolded exactly as it had when I was a child, with all the same beats and pauses and comments and daydreaming, the same perfect rhythm we'd followed so many times before. After my mother passed away two years ago, I plunged into a deep shadow of grief for a long time. When I miss my mother these days, I like to picture us in the car together, going for one more magnificent trip to Bertram Woods, during which we talked, laughed — as if she were still in my company, giving me inexhaustible strength.

【推荐2】According to Guglielmo Cavallo and Roger Chartier, reading aloud was a common practice in the ancient world, the Middle Ages, and as late as the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Readers were “listeners attentive to a reading voice,” and “the text addressed to the ear as much as to the eye.” The significance of reading aloud continued well into the nineteenth century.

Using Charles Dickens' nineteenth century as a point of departure, it would be useful to look at the familial and social uses of reading aloud and reflect on the functional change of the practice. Dickens habitually read his work to a domestic audience or friends. In his later years he also read to a broader public crowd. Chapters of reading aloud also abound in Dickens' own literary works. More importantly, he took into consideration the Victorian practice when composing his prose, so much so that his writing is meant to be heard, not only read on the page.

Performing a literary text orally in a Victorian family is well documented. Apart from promoting a pleasant family relationship, reading aloud was also a means of protecting young people from the danger of solitary (孤独的) reading. Reading aloud was a tool for parental guidance. By means of reading aloud, parents could also introduced literature to their children and as such the practice combined leisure and more serious purposes such as religious cultivation in the youths. Within the family, it was commonplace for the father to read aloud. Dickens read to his children: one of his surviving and often-reprinted photographs features him posing on a chair, reading to his two daughters.

Reading aloud in the nineteenth century was as much a class phenomenon as a family affair, which points to a widespread belief that Victorian readership primarily meant a middle-class readership. Those who fell outside this group tended to be overlooked by Victorian publishers. Despite this, Dickens, with his publishers Chapman and Hall, managed to distribute literary reading materials to people from different social classes by reducing the price of novels. This was also made possible with the technological and mechanical advances in printing and the spread of railway networks at the time.

Since the literacy level of this section of the population was still low before school attendance was made compulsory in 1870 by the Education Act, a considerable number of people from lower classes would listen to recitals of texts. Dickens' readers, who were from such social backgrounds, might have heard Dickens in this manner. Several biographers of Dickens also draw attention to the fact that it was typical for his texts to be read aloud in Victorian England, and thus illiteracy was not an obstacle for reading Dickens. Reading was no longer a chiefly closeted form of entertainment practiced by the middle class at home.

A working-class home was in many ways not convenient for reading: there were too many distractions, the lighting was bad, and the home was also often half a workhouse. As a result, the Victorians from the non-middle classes tended to find relaxation outside the home such as in parks and squares, which were ideal places for the public to go while away their limited leisure time. Reading aloud, in particular public reading, to some extent blurred the distinctions between classes. The Victorian middle class defined its identity through differences with other classes. Dickens's popularity among readers from the non-middle classes contributed to the creation of a new class of readers who read through listening.

Different readers of Dickens were not reading solitarily and “jealously” to use Walter Benjamin's term. Instead, they often enjoyed a more communal experience, an experience that is generally lacking in today's world. Modem audiobooks can be considered a contemporary version of the practice. However, while the twentieth-and twentieth-first-century trend for individuals to listen to audiobooks keeps some characteristics of traditional reading aloud—such as “listeners attentive to a reading voice” and the ear being the focus—it is a far more solitary activity.

【推荐1】"I really wrote it for me, It was what I found funny and what I liked". Those are the words of J K Rowling, author of the enormously popular "Harry Potter" books. The quote refers to the first in a series of novels featuring a young character who has carved out a permanent place for his creator in the world of children's literature.

Joanne Kathleen Rowling was born in England in 1965, and wrote her first story at the age of six. She was in her mid-20s when the idea for the Harry Potter novels came to her, during a long train ride. By the end of that journey, she says, the character of Harry and the school for wizards which he attends were more or less fully formed in her mind.

It would be several years, however, before the novel was completed. By that time, Rowling had been through a failed marriage. Living on welfare as a single parent, she wrote about Harry Potter while sitting in an Edinburgh café with her daughter asleep beside her. She could not have dreamed of the fame and success which Harry would bring her in the years to come.

Harry Potter is not your average superhero. He is 12 years old, skinny, wears glasses, and tends to worry a lot. Yet, he has captured the imagination of children and adults the world over, and has introduced millions to the joys of reading.

Harry's appeal stems from his role as a very ordinary boy who finds himself in extraordinary situations. Orphaned as a baby, Harry spends the next 10 years being mistreated by the awful relatives with whom he lives. On his 11th birthday, he learns that he possesses magical powers and is admitted for training at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

The adventures of Harry and his friends at the school are superbly narrated by J. K. Rowling. She manages to lead her millions of readers deep into the world of the supernatural, while at the same time dealing with the fears and emotions of the ordinary human world. Many feel that this is the real magic of Harry Potter.

【推荐2】“A teacher affects eternity( 永恒); he can never tell where his influence stops.”

---Henry Adams

He was eight years old. A telegram came from the hospital, and since his father, a Russian immigrant, could not read English, Morrie had to break the news, reading his mother's death notice like a student read in front of the class. “We regret to inform you.." he began.

On the morning of the funeral, Morrie's relatives came down the steps of his tenement building on the poor Lower East Side of Manhattan. At the cemetery, Morrie watched as they shoveled dirt into his mother's gave. He tried to retell the tender moments they had shared when she was alive. She had operated a candy store until she got sick, after which she mostly slept or sat by the window, looking frail and weak. Sometimes she would yell out for her son to get her some medicine, and young Morrie, playing stickball in the street, would pretend he did not hear her.

In his mind he believed he could make the illness go away by ignoring it.

How else can a child deal with death?

Morrie's father, whom everyone called Charlie, had come to America to escape the Russian Army. He worked in the fur business, but constantly out of a job. Uneducated and barely able to speak English, he was terribly poor, and the family was on the public assistance much of the time. Sometimes, to make money, Morrie and his younger brother, David, would wash porch steps together for a nickel(镍币).

One morning, David couldn't move. He had polio(小儿麻痹症). For a long time- -as his brother was taken back and forth to a special medial home and was forced to wear braces on his les, which left him limping-- Morrie felt responsible.

So in the mornings, he went to synagogue(犹太教会堂) and he stood among the swaying men in their long black coats and he asked God to take care of his dead mother and his sick brother.

And in the afternoons , he stood at the bottom of the subway steps and sold magazines, turning whatever money he made over to his family to buy food.

In the evenings, he watched his father eat in silence, hoping for- -but never getting --a show of affection, communication, warmth.

At nine years old, he felt as if the weight of a mountain were on his shoulders.

But a saving embrace came into Morrie's life the following year: his new stepmother, Eva. She was a short Romanian immigrant with plain features, curly brown hair, and the energy of two women. She had a glow(光) that warmed the otherwise murky atmosphere his father created. She talked when her new husband was silent, she sang songs to the children at night.

Morrie took comfort in her smoothing voice, her school lessons, her strong character. When his brother returned from the medical home, still wearing braces from the polio, the two of them shared a rollaway bed in the kitchen of their apartment, and Eva would kiss them good-night. Morrie waited on those kisses like a puppy waits on milk, and he felt, deep down, that he had a mother again.

There was no escaping their poverty, however. Because of the Depression, Morrie's father found even less work in the fur business.

Still, despite their circumstances, Morrie was taught to love and to care. And to learn. Eva would accept nothing less than excellence in school, because she saw education as the only antidote to their poverty. She herself went to night school to improve her English. Morrie's love for education was hatched in her arms.

He studied at night, by the lamp at the kitchen table. And in the mornings he would go to synagogue to say Kaddish- the memorial prayer for the dead- for his mother. He did this to keep her memory alive.

“What will you do?" Eva would ask him.

“I don't know," he would say. He ruled out law, because he didn’t like lawyers, and he ruled out medicine, because he couldn't take the sight of blood.

“What will you do?"

It was only through default that the best professor I ever had became a teacher.

【推荐3】Andy rode slowly on his way to school, day-dreaming about the fishing trip that his father had promised him. He was so busy dreaming about all the fish he would catch that he was unaware of everything else around him.

He rode along until a strange sound drew him to the present. He came to a stop and looked curiously up to the heavens. What he saw shocked and terrified him. A huge swarm of bees filled the sky like a black cloud and the noisy mass seemed to be heading angrily towards him.

With no time to waste, Andy sped off in the opposite direction, riding furiously—but without knowing how to escape the group. With a rapidly beating heart and his legs pumping furiously, he sped down the rough road. As the bees came closer, his panic increased. Andy knew that he was sensitive to bee stings(蜇). The last sting had landed him in hospital—and that was only one bee sting! He had been forced to stay in bed for two whole days. Suddenly, his father’s words came to him. “When you are in a tight situation, don’t panic. Use your brain and think your way out of it.”

On a nearby hill, he could see smoke waving slowly skywards from the chimney of the Nelson family home. “Bees don’t like smoke,” he thought. “They couldn’t get into the house.” Andy raced towards the Nelson house, but the bees were gaining ground. Andy knew he could not reach the house in time. He estimated that the bees would catch up with him soon.

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eyes, he spotted a small dam used by Mr. Nelson to water his vegetable garden. Off his bike and into the cool water he lived, disappearing below the surface and away from the savage insects. After holding his breath for as long as he could, Andy came up for air and noticed the bees had gone. Dragging himself out of the dam, he struggled up the hilly slope and rang the doorbell. Mrs. Nelson took him inside and rang his mother.

“You’ll really need that fishing break to help you recover,” laughed his mother with relief. “Thank goodness you didn’t panic!” But Andy did not hear her. He was dreaming once again of the fish he would catch tomorrow.