推薦序 我們為何挑戰晶片？／邱花妹 推薦序 會寫字真好／胡慕情 推薦序 夢醒時分：起身邁向友善科技／林名哲 推薦序 科技來自人性，人性會帶來災難／詹順貴 導讀 綠色矽島夢︰晶片製造的全球挑戰／杜文苓 中文版序 / Ted Smith 前言：科技大代誌 / Jim Hightower 致謝
1. 高科技世界中永續發展和環境正義的探索 Ted Smith, David A. Sonnenfeld, and David N. Pellow
第一部 全球電子業 第一部導言 David A. Sonnenfeld 2.全球電子業的變動圖像：新經濟中的大量生產網絡 Boy Lüthje 3.半導體產業的職業健康 Joseph LaDou 4. 雙重危境：電子製造業中的性別與遷移 Anibel Ferus-Comelo 5. 「中國製造」：全球最快速成長經濟體的電子業勞工 梁寶霖、Sanjiv Pandita 6. 泰國電子業的企業社會責任 Tira Foran and David A. Sonnenfeld 7. 印度的電子業勞工 Sanjiv Pandita 8. 走出幽谷，又蒙上陰霾？ ――中、東歐半導體工廠下的勞工與社區健康 Andrew Watterson
第二部 環境正義與勞動權 第二部導言 Andrew Watterson、張聖琳 9. 從草根到全球 ――矽谷毒物聯盟的劃時代成就︰推動高科技產業的企業可課責性及永續經營之 社會運動 Leslie A. Byster and Ted Smith 10. 為職業健康的奮戰：矽谷經驗 ――與阿曼達．霍爾斯的對談 Amanda Hawes with David N. Pellow 11. 兩個時代的移民工︰在矽谷的奮鬥與成功 David N. Pellow and Glenna Matthews 12. 蘇格蘭格林諾克國家半導體分公司的員工健康：殺人的自由？ James McCourt 13. 社區組織爭取勞動權、健康與環境品質︰美墨邊境的電視製造業 Connie García and Amelia Simpson 14. 墨西哥哈利斯科州：電子業的勞動權與職業健康 Raquel E. Partida Rocha 15. 打破矽的沉默：訴說台灣新竹科學園區內的健康與環境影響 張聖琳、邱花妹、杜文苓 16. 人不如土︰受污染所害的前RCA工人全球抗爭追尋正義（台灣） 顧玉玲 17. 電子業工會化：尋找新策略 Robert Steiert
第三部 電子廢棄物與生產者延伸責任 第三部導言 Leslie A. Byster、杜文苓 18. 電子產品的生命周期 ――從毒物氾濫到生態永續：擺脫毒性的輪迴 Leslie A. Byster and Ted Smith 19. 日本的高科技污染︰日益明顯的問題與替代方案 吉田文和 20. 高科技的骯髒小秘密︰電子廢棄物貿易的經濟與倫理 Jim Puckett 21. 高科技廢棄物堆積如山，被遺棄的生命：印度德里的電子廢棄物 Ravi Agarwal and Kishore Wankhade 22. 電子產品的生產者延伸責任引進美國 Chad Raphael and Ted Smith 23.國際環境協定與資訊科技產業 Ken Geiser and Joel Tickner 24. 電器與電子類產品設計的改變︰瑞典與日本生產者延伸責任立法的效應 東條なお子 25.有毒的老兄（ToxicDude.com）︰戴爾電腦回收運動 David Wood and Robin Schneider
Anton Pavlovich Chekhov was a Russian playwright and short-story writer who is considered to be one of the greatest writers of all time. His career as a playwright produced four classics, and his best short stories are held in high esteem by writers and critics. Wikipedia
Drama in the Modern World: Plays and Essays (pirate edition, 1990, p.87) "...... To judge between good and bad, between successful and unsuccessful, would need eye of God." Anton Chekhov , 1860-1904
Anton Pavlovich Chekhov died in Badenweiler, German Empire on this day in 1904 (aged 44).
"Perhaps the feelings that we experience when we are in love represent a normal state. Being in love shows a person who he should be."
-- from "Seeing Chekhov: Life And Art" by Anton Chekhov
In 1890, Chekhov undertook an arduous journey by train, horse-drawn carriage, and river steamer to the far east of Russia and thekatorga, or penal colony, on Sakhalin Island, north of Japan, where he spent three months interviewing thousands of convicts and settlers for a census. The letters Chekhov wrote during the two-and-a-half-month journey to Sakhalin are considered to be among his best.[56] His remarks to his sister about Tomsk were to become notorious.[57][58]
"Tomsk is a very dull town. To judge from the drunkards whose acquaintance I have made, and from the intellectual people who have come to the hotel to pay their respects to me, the inhabitants are very dull, too."[59]
The inhabitants of Tomsk later retaliated by erecting a mocking statue of Chekhov.
Chekhov witnessed much on Sakhalin that shocked and angered him, including floggings, embezzlement of supplies, and forced prostitution of women. He wrote, "There were times I felt that I saw before me the extreme limits of man's degradation."[60][61] He was particularly moved by the plight of the children living in the penal colony with their parents. For example:
"On the Amur steamer going to Sakhalin, there was a convict who had murdered his wife and wore fetters on his legs. His daughter, a little girl of six, was with him. I noticed wherever the convict moved the little girl scrambled after him, holding on to his fetters. At night the child slept with the convicts and soldiers all in a heap together."[62]
Chekhov later concluded that charity and subscription were not the answer, but that the government had a duty to finance humane treatment of the convicts. His findings were published in 1893 and 1894 as Ostrov Sakhalin (The Island of Sakhalin), a work of social science – not literature – worthy and informative rather than brilliant.[63][64] Chekhov found literary expression for the "Hell of Sakhalin" in his long short story The Murder,[65] the last section of which is set on Sakhalin, where the murderer Yakov loads coal in the night, longing for home. Chekhov's writing on Sakhalin is the subject of brief comment and analysis in Japanese writer Haruki Murakami'snovel 1Q84.[66] It is also the subject of a poem by the Nobel prize winner Seamus Heaney entitled Chekhov on Sakhalin collected in the volume Station Island.[67]
A generalisation of this kind will, of course, even if it has some degree of truth when applied to the body of literature, be changed profoundly when a writer of genius sets to work on it. At once other questions arise. It is seen that an “attitude” is not simple; it is highly complex. Men reft of their coats and their manners, stunned by a railway accident, say hard things, harsh things, unpleasant things, difficult things, even if they say them with the abandonment and simplicity which catastrophe has bred in them. Our first impressions of Tchekov are not of simplicity but of bewilderment. What is the point of it, and why does he make a story out of this? we ask as we read story after story. A man falls in love with a married woman, and they part and meet, and in the end are left talking about their position and by what means they can be free from “this intolerable bondage”.
“'How? How?' he asked, clutching his head. . . . And it seemed as though in a little while the solution would be found and then a new and splendid life would begin.” That is the end. A postman drives a student to the station and all the way the student tries to make the postman talk, but he remains silent. Suddenly the postman says unexpectedly, “It's against the regulations to take any one with the post”. And he walks up and down the platform with a look of anger on his face. “With whom was he angry? Was it with people, with poverty, with the autumn nights?” Again, that story ends.
But is it the end, we ask? We have rather the feeling that we have overrun our signals; or it is as if a tune had stopped short without the expected chords to close it. These stories are inconclusive, we say, and proceed to frame a criticism based upon the assumption that stories ought to conclude in a way that we recognise. In so doing, we raise the question of our own fitness as readers. Where the tune is familiar and the end emphatic — lovers united, villains discomfited, intrigues exposed — as it is in most Victorian fiction, we can scarcely go wrong, but where the tune is unfamiliar and the end a note of interrogation or merely the information that they went on talking, as it is in Tchekov, we need a very daring and alert sense of literature to make us hear the tune, and in particular those last notes which complete the harmony. Probably we have to read a great many stories before we feel, and the feeling is essential to our satisfaction, that we hold the parts together, and that Tchekov was not merely rambling disconnectedly, but struck now this note, now that with intention, in order to complete his meaning.
We have to cast about in order to discover where the emphasis in these strange stories rightly comes. Tchekov's own words give us a lead in the right direction. “. . . such a conversation as this between us”, he says, “would have been unthinkable for our parents. At night they did not talk, but slept sound; we, our generation, sleep badly, are restless, but talk a great deal, and are always trying to settle whether we are right or not.” Our literature of social satire and psychological finesse both sprang from that restless sleep, that incessant talking; but after all, there is an enormous difference between Tchekov and Henry James, between Tchekov and Bernard Shaw. Obviously — but where does it arise? Tchekov, too, is aware of the evils and injustices of the social state; the condition of the peasants appals him, but the reformer's zeal is not his — that is not the signal for us to stop. The mind interests him enormously; he is a most subtle and delicate analyst of human relations. But again, no; the end is not there. Is it that he is primarily interested not in the soul's relation with other souls, but with the soul's relation to health — with the soul's relation to goodness? These stories are always showing us some affectation, pose, insincerity. Some woman has got into a false relation; some man has been perverted by the inhumanity of his circumstances. The soul is ill; the soul is cured; the soul is not cured. Those are the emphatic points in his stories.
Once the eye is used to these shades, half the “conclusions” of fiction fade into thin air; they show like transparences with a light behind them — gaudy, glaring, superficial. The general tidying up of the last chapter, the marriage, the death, the statement of values so sonorously trumpeted forth, so heavily underlined, become of the most rudimentary kind. Nothing is solved, we feel; nothing is rightly held together. On the other hand, the method which at first seemed so casual, inconclusive , and occupied with trifles, now appears the result of an exquisitely original and fastidious taste, choosing boldly, arranging infallibly, and controlled by an honesty for which we can find no match save among the Russians themselves. There may be no answer to these questions , but at the same time let us never manipulate the evidence so as to produce something fitting, decorous, agreeable to our vanity. This may not be the way to catch the ear of the public; after all, they are used to louder music, fiercer measures; but as the tune sounded so he has written it. In consequence, as we read these little stories about nothing at all, the horizon widens; the soul gains an astonishing sense of freedom.
In reading Tchekov we find ourselves repeating the word “ soul” again and again. It sprinkles his pages. Old drunkards use it freely; “. . . you are high up in the service, beyond all reach, but haven't real soul, my dear boy . . . there's no strength in it”. Indeed, it is the soul that is the chief character in Russian fiction. Delicate and subtle in Tchekov, subject to an infinite number of humours and distempers, it is of greater depth and volume in Dostoevsky; it is liable to violent diseases and raging fevers, but still the predominant concern. Perhaps that is why it needs so great an effort on the part of an English reader to read The Brothers Karamazov or The Possessed a second time. The “soul” is alien to him. It is even antipathetic. It has little sense of humour and no sense of comedy. It is formless. It has slight connection with the intellect. It is confused, diffuse, tumultuous, incapable, it seems, of submitting to the control of logic or the discipline of poetry. The novels of Dostoevsky are seething whirlpools, gyrating sandstorms, waterspouts which hiss and boil and suck us in. They are composed purely and wholly of the stuff of the soul. Against our wills we are drawn in, whirled round, blinded, suffocated, and at the same time filled with a giddy rapture. Out of Shakespeare there is no more exciting reading. We open the door and find ourselves in a room full of Russian generals, the tutors of Russian generals, their step-daughters and cousins, and crowds of miscellaneous people who are all talking at the tops of their voices about their most private affairs. But where are we? Surely it is the part of a novelist to inform us whether we are in an hotel, a flat, or hired lodging. Nobody thinks of explaining. We are souls, tortured, unhappy souls, whose only business it is to talk, to reveal, to confess, to draw up at whatever rending of flesh and nerve those crabbed sins which crawl on the sand at the bottom of us. But, as we listen, our confusion slowly settles. A rope is flung to us; we catch hold of a soliloquy; holding on by the skin of our teeth, we are rushed through the water; feverishly, wildly, we rush on and on, now submerged, now in a moment of vision understanding more than we have ever understood before, and receiving such revelations as we are wont to get only from the press of life at its fullest. As we fly we pick it all up — the names of the people, their relationships, that they are staying in an hotel at Roulettenburg, that Polina is involved in an intrigue with the Marquis de Grieux — but what unimportant matters these are compared with the soul! It is the soul that matters, its passion, its tumult, its astonishing medley of beauty and vileness. And if our voices suddenly rise into shrieks of laughter, or if we are shaken by the most violent sobbing, what more natural?— it hardly calls for remark. The pace at which we are living is so tremendous that sparks must rush off our wheels as we fly. Moreover, when the speed is thus increased and the elements of the soul are seen, not separately in scenes of humour or scenes of passion as our slower English minds conceive them, but streaked, involved, inextricably confused, a new panorama of the human mind is revealed. The old divisions melt into each other. Men are at the same time villains and saints ; their acts are at once beautiful and despicable. We love and we hate at the same time. There is none of that precise division between good and bad to which we are used. Often those for whom we feel most affection are the greatest criminals, and the most abject sinners move us to the strongest admiration as well as love.
^ "This use of stream-of-consciousness would, in later years, become the basis of Chekhov's innovation in stagecraft; it is also his innovation in fiction." Wood, 81; "The artist must not be the judge of his characters and of their conversations, but merely an impartial witness." Letter to Suvorin, 30 May 1888; In reply to an objection that he wrote about horse-thieves ( The Horse-Stealers , retrieved 16 February 2007) without condemning them, Chekhov said readers should add for themselves the subjective elements lacking in the story. Letter to Suvorin, 1 April 1890. Letters of Anton Chekhov .
^ "You are right in demanding that an artist should take an intelligent attitude to his work, but you confuse two things: solving a problem and stating a problem correctly. It is only the second that is obligatory for the artist." Letter to Suvorin , 27 October 1888. Letters of Anton Chekhov .
《契訶夫傳》還是讓我找到些Suvorin的資料
In many ways, the right-wing Suvorin, whom Lenin later called "The running dog of the Tzar " (Payne, XXXV), was Chekhov's opposite; "Chekhov had to function like Suvorin's kidney, extracting the businessman's poisons." Wood, 79 .
