In 1812， the year Charles Dickens was born， there were 66 novels published in Britain． People had been writing novels for a century﹣most experts date the first novel to Robinson Crusoe in 1719﹣ but nobody wanted to do it professionally． The steam﹣powered printing press was still in its early stages； the literacy（识字）rate in England was under 50%． Many works of fiction appeared without the names of the authors， often with something like "By a lady．" Novels， for the most part，were looked upon as silly， immoral or just plain bad．

    In 1870， when Dickens died， the world mourned him as its first professional writer and publisher， famous and beloved， who had led an explosion in both the publication of novels and their readership and whose characters﹣from Oliver Twist to Tiny Tim﹣were held up as moral touchstones． Today Dickens' greatness is unchallenged． Removing him from the pantheon （名人堂）of English literature would make about as much sense as the Louvre selling off the Mona Lisa．

    How did Dickens get to the top？ For all the feelings readers attach to stories， literature is a numbers game， and the test of time is extremely difficult to pass． Some 60，000 novels were published during the Victorian age， from 1837 to 1901； today a casual reader might be able to name a half﹣dozen of them． It's partly true that Dickens' style of writing attracted audiences from all walks of life． It's partly that his writings rode a wave of social， political and scientific progress．But it's also that he rewrote the culture of literature and put himself al the center． No one will ever know what mix of talent， ambition， energy and luck made Dickens such a distinguished writer． But as the 200th anniversary of his birth approaches， it is possible﹣and important for our own culture﹣to understand how he made himself a lasting one．

Adults understand what if feels like to be flooded with objects． Why do we often assume that more is more when it comes to kids and their belongings？ The good news is that I can help my own kids learn earlier than I did how to live more with less．

    I found the pre﹣holidays a good time to encourage young children to donate less﹣used things， and it worked． Because of our efforts， our daughter Georgia did decide to donate a large bag of toys to a little girl whose mother was unable to pay for her holiday due to illness．  She chose to sell a few larger objects that were less often used when we promised to put the money into her school fund （基金）（our kindergarten is serious about becoming a doctor）

    For weeks， I've been thinking of bigger， deeper questions． How do we make it a habit for them？ And how do we train ourselves to help them live with， need， and use less？ Yesterday， I sat with my son， Shepherd， determined to test my own theory on this． I decided to play with him with only one toy for as long as it would keep his interest． I expected that one toy would keep his attention for about five minutes， ten minutes， max． I chose a red rubber ball﹣simple， universally available． We passed it， he tried to put it in his mouth， he tried bouncing it， rolling it， sitting on it， throwing it． It was totally， completely enough for him． Before I knew it an hour had passed and it was time to move on to lunch．

    We both became absorbed in the simplicity of playing together． He had my full attention and I had his． My little experiment to find joy in a single object worked for both of us．

My First Marathon（马拉松）

    A month before my first marathon， one of my ankles was injured and this meant not running for two weeks， leaving me only two weeks to train． Yet， I was determined to go ahead．

    I remember back to my 7th year in school． In my first P．E． class， the teacher required us to run laps and then hit a softball． I didn't do either well． He later informed me that I was" not athletic"．

    The idea that I was "not athletic" stuck with me for years． When I started running in my 30s，I realized running was a battle against myself， not about competition or whether or not I was athletic． It was all about the battle against my own body and mind． A test of wills!

    The night before my marathon， I dreamt that I couldn't even find the finish line． I woke up sweating and nervous， but ready to prove something to myself．

    Shortly after crossing the start line， my shoe laces （鞋带）became untied． So I stopped to readjust． Not the start I wanted！

    At mile 3， I passed a sign：" GO FOR IT， RUNNERS!"

    By mile 17， I became out of breath and the once injured ankle hurt badly． Despite the pain， I stayed the course walking a bit and then running again．

    By mile 21， I was starving！

    As I approached mile 23， I could see my wife waving a sign． She is my biggest fan． She never minded the alarm clock sounding at 4 a．m． or questioned my expenses on running．

    I was one of the final runners to finish． But I finished! And I got a medal． In fact， I got the same medal as the one that the guy who came in first place had．

    Determined to be myself， move forward， free of shame and worldly labels（世俗标签）， I can now call myself a "marathon winner"．

When I was 17， I read a magazine article about a museum called the McNay， once the home of a watercolorist named Marian McNay． She had requested the community to turn it into a museum upon her death． On a sunny Saturday， Sally and I drove over to the museum． She asked， "Do you have the address？ ""No， but I'll recognize it， there was a picture in the magazine．

    "Oh， stop． There it is！"

    The museum was free． We entered， excited． A group of people sitting in the hall stopped talking and stared at us．

    "May I help you？" a man asked． "No， "I said． "we're fine．" Tour guides got on my nerves． What if they talked a long time about a painting you weren't that interested in？ Sally had gone upstairs． The people in the hall seemed very nosy（爱窥探的）， keeping their eyes on me with curiosity． What was their problem？ I saw some nice sculptures in one room． Suddenly I sensed a man standing behind me． "Where do you think you are？" he asked． I turned sharply． "The McNay Art Museum！" He smiled， shaking his head． "Sorry， the McNay is on New Braunfels Street． ""what's this place？" I asked， still confused． "Well， it' s our home．"My heart jolted（震颤），I raced to the staircase and called out，" Sally! Come down immediately!

    "There' s some really good stuff（艺术作品） up there．" She stepped down， looking confused． I pushed her toward the front door， waving at the family， saying， "Sorry， please forgive us， you have a really nice place． "Outside， when I told Sally what happened， she covered her mouth， laughing． She couldn't believe how long they let us look around without saying anything．

    The real McNay was splendid， but we felt nervous the whole time we were there． Van Gogh， Picasso． This time， we stayed together， in case anything else unusual happened．

    Thirty years later， a woman approached me in a public place． "Excuse me， did you ever enter a residence， long ago， thinking it was the McNay Museum？"

    "Yes． But how do you know？ We never told anyone．"

    "That was my home． I was a teenager sitting in the hall． Before you came over， I never realized what a beautiful place I lived in． I never felt lucky before． You thought it was a museum． My feelings about my home changed after that． I've always wanted to thank you．"