书名：Writing to Learn 

作者：William Zinsser 

出版社名称：Harper Perennial 

出版时间：1993 

语种：英文 

ISBN：9780062720405 

商品尺寸：13.5 x 1.5 x 20.3 cm 

包装：平装 

页数：272Writing to Learn是经典英文写作指南On Writing Well作者William Zinsser教授编著的一本关于如何清晰地写作的工具书，全书涵盖多个主题，从数学、物理、化学到艺术和音乐都有涉及。书本语言风趣幽默，Zinsser教授将读者带入许多令人惊讶的知识角落，帮助读者理清思路，并教会读者将写作作为一种学习的方式，在潜移默化中提高自己的写作技能，动笔更加得心应手！ Writing to Learn is a book on how to write clearly about any subject—from mathematics, physics and chemistry to art and music—and how to use writing as a means of learning. It is an engaging personal journey, written with warmth and humor, as Zinsser takes the reader into many surprising corners of knowledge and demonstrates that every field has an accessible literature. Review “An elegant exposition of the thesis that to write is to learn... in the tradition of Strunk and White, a model in its own right.”—Kirkus Reviews William Zinsser（1922-2015）是一位作家、编辑和教师。他的事业开始于《纽约先驱论坛报》，并长期为优秀的杂志投稿。他的17本书包括Writing to Learn、Mitchell & Ruff、Spring Training、American Places、Easy to Remember: The Great American Songwriters and Their Songs和Writing About Your Life。20世纪70年代，他在耶鲁大学教授写作，是布兰福德学院的院长。后来他回到家乡纽约，在新学院和哥伦比亚大学新闻学院教书，是位受人爱戴的教授。 William Zinsser (1922-2015) was a writer, editor and teacher. He began his career with the NewYorkHeraldTribune and has been a longtime contributor to leading magazines. His 17 books include Writing to Learn, Mitchell & Ruff, SpringTraining, AmericanPlaces, Easy to Remember: The Great American Songwriters and Their Songs, and WritingAboutYourLife. During the 1970s he taught writing at Yale, where he was master of Branford College. A beloved professor at the New School and Columbia University School of Journalism, he lived in his hometown, New York. Preface

Part I 1. Hermes and the Periodic Table 2. Writing Across the Curriculum 3. A Liberal Education 4. Writing to Learn 5. Crotchets and Convictions Part II 6. Earth, Sea and Sky 7. Art and Artists 8. The Natural World 9. Writing Mathematics 10. Man, Woman and Child 11. Writing Physics and Chemistry 12. Worlds of MusicAcknowledgments Sources and Notes Searchable Terms Back Ad About the Author Books by William ZinsserCopyright About the Publisher

As a boy I spent four years at a boarding school in Massachusetts called Deerfield Academy that had two legends attached to it. The first was its headmaster, Frank L. Boyden. When he was a young man just out of college, in 1902, he accepted a position that only a teacher desperate for a first job might have taken: running a moribund academy in the tiny village of Deerfield. The school had so few boys that the new headmaster had to play on the football and baseball teams himself. By the time I got there, in the mid-1930s, Frank Boyden had built Deerfield into one of the best secondary schools in the country, and when he retired, in 1968, his place in American education secure, he had been headmaster for sixty-six years. During all those years he also coached the football, basketball and baseball teams, continuing as an octogenarian to rap out sharp grounders for infield practice before every game. His favorite baseball strategy was the squeeze play—a mark, perhaps, of his Yankee practicality. He was an unusually small man with a plain New England face, slicked-down black hair, and metal-rimmed glasses; nobody would have noticed him in a crowd or picked him out as a leader. But three generations of boys were shaped for life by his values, and I was one of them. The second legend was his wife, Helen Childs Boyden. A tall, bony woman with a face even plainer than her husband’s, she wore her black hair tied in a bun and she peered out at the world through thick glasses, triumphing over eyesight so bad that it would have immobilized a person of weaker will. Helen Childs had also come to Deerfield as a young teacher, fresh out of Smith College with a science degree. She married Frank Boyden in 1907 and for more than sixty years was a strengthening presence in his life and in the life of the school. She was best known, however, for her senior course in chemistry. The legend was that she could teach chemistry to anybody. As it turned out, she couldn’t teach it to me. The fault was undoubtedly mine. I’m sure I didn’t want to learn chemistry. Probably I had also persuaded myself that I couldn’t learn chemistry, or any of the hard sciences. Those subjects were for all those people who had an aptitude for them—the ones who carried a slide rule and could take a radio apart. I was a liberal arts snob, illiterate about the physical world I lived in, incurious about how things worked. The courses I felt most comfortable with were English and languages, and in my extracurricular hours I indulged my other two loves—playing baseball and writing for the school newspaper. I did what came easiest and avoided what I might not be able to do well. My favorite language was Latin. It transported me back to the classical world, and vet it was anything but dead—thousands of its roots were alive and well in English; in fact, no subject has been more useful to me as a writer and an editor. I took Latin for three years at Deerfield until there were no more courses left to take, finally getting beyond Caesar’s dreary wars and Cicero’s prim orations to Virgil’s Aeneid and Horace’s odes, finally discovering that the wonderful language also had a wonderful literature. My teacher in that liberating third year was a man so venerable that he seemed to be a schoolmaster from the nineteenth century. Recalling him now, I think of pictures of Darwin as an old man. Charles Huntington Smith had silky white hair, a white mustache and a white goatee, and he wore the black suit and high collar befitting his age and dignity. But his eyes were young, and so were his passions for what he taught. He had turned his classroom into a small corner of ancient Rome. Large framed photographs of the Forum and the Colosseum hung on the walls, and he had also sent away for plaster reproductions of some of the great statues of antiquity.