- 商家货号:T001277263
- ISBN:9787544778657
- 出版日期:1900-01-01
- 页码:0
- 字数:0
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人生而自由,却无往不在枷锁之中 最会讲故事的作家毛姆的重要代表作 《月亮与六便士》出版100年来,被翻译成62种语言,风靡110个国家,累计销量过6000万册!无数文艺爱好者的人生之书! 经典文学名著 纯英文珍藏版
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《月亮与六便士》属于“百灵鸟英文经典”系列丛书,是英国作家威廉·萨默塞特·毛姆的小说。本书讲述了一位生活安定的英国证券交易所的经纪人突然抛妻弃子,到巴黎去追求绘画理想的故事。主人公最后离开文明世界,远遁到与世隔绝的塔希提岛上,找到灵魂的宁静和适合自己艺术气质的氛围,并创作出许多惊世之作。这本书引发了人们对摆脱世俗社会、寻找心灵家园的思考。
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CONTENTS Chapter I…………………………………………………………… 1 Chapter II… ……………………………………………………… 8 Chapter III… ……………………………………………………… 12 Chapter IV… ……………………………………………………… 15 Chapter V… ……………………………………………………… 20 Chapter VI… ……………………………………………………… 23 Chapter VII………………………………………………………… 27 Chapter VIII… …………………………………………………… 29 Chapter IX… ……………………………………………………… 37 Chapter X… ……………………………………………………… 40 Chapter XI… ……………………………………………………… 47 Chapter XII………………………………………………………… 52 Chapter XIII… …………………………………………………… 61 Chapter XIV… …………………………………………………… 64 Chapter XV………………………………………………………… 68 Chapter XVI… …………………………………………………… 75 Chapter XVII……………………………………………………… 77 Chapter XVIII……………………………………………………… 80 Chapter XIX… …………………………………………………… 84 Chapter XX………………………………………………………… 91 Chapter XXI… …………………………………………………… 95 Chapter XXII…………………………………………………… 102 Chapter XXIII…………………………………………………… 105 Chapter XXIV…………………………………………………… 110 Chapter XXV…………………………………………………… 115 Chapter XXVI…………………………………………………… 121 Chapter XXVII… ……………………………………………… 126 Chapter XXVIII………………………………………………… 129 Chapter XXIX…………………………………………………… 136 Chapter XXX…………………………………………………… 140 Chapter XXXI…………………………………………………… 144 Chapter XXXII… ……………………………………………… 148 Chapter XXXIII………………………………………………… 151 Chapter XXXIV………………………………………………… 154 Chapter XXXV… ……………………………………………… 159 Chapter XXXVI………………………………………………… 162 Chapter XXXVII………………………………………………… 164 Chapter XXXVIII… …………………………………………… 166 Chapter XXXIX………………………………………………… 170 Chapter XL……………………………………………………… 177 Chapter XLI… ………………………………………………… 180 Chapter XLII… ………………………………………………… 189 Chapter XLIII…………………………………………………… 195 Chapter XLIV…………………………………………………… 202 Chapter XLV… ………………………………………………… 204 Chapter XLVI…………………………………………………… 207 Chapter XLVII… ……………………………………………… 212 Chapter XLVIII… ……………………………………………… 223 Chapter XLIX…………………………………………………… 227 Chapter L………………………………………………………… 231 Chapter LI… …………………………………………………… 236 Chapter LII……………………………………………………… 242 Chapter LIII… ………………………………………………… 244 Chapter LIV… ………………………………………………… 250 Chapter LV……………………………………………………… 254 Chapter LVI……………………………………………………… 264 Chapter LVII… ………………………………………………… 267 Chapter LVIII…………………………………………………… 273
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书摘 |
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Chapter I I confess that when first I made acquaintance with Charles Strickland I never for a moment discerned that there was in him anything out of the ordinary. Yet now few will be found to deny his greatness. I do not speak of that greatness which is achieved by the fortunate politician or the successful soldier; that is a quality which belongs to the place he occupies rather than to the man; and a change of circumstances reduces it to very discreet proportions. The Prime Minister out of office is seen, too often, to have been but a pompous rhetorician, and the General without an army is but the tame hero of a market town. The greatness of Charles Strickland was authentic. It may be that you do not like his art, but at all events you can hardly refuse it the tribute of your interest. He disturbs and arrests. The time has passed when he was an object of ridicule, and it is no longer a mark of eccentricity to defend or of perversity to extol him. His faults are accepted as the necessary complement to his merits. It is still possible to discuss his place in art, and the adulation of his admirers is perhaps no less capricious than the disparagement of his detractors; but one thing can never be doubtful, and that is that he had genius. To my mind the most interesting thing in art is the personality of the artist; and if that is singular, I am willing to excuse a thousand faults. I suppose Velasquez was a better painter than El Greco, but custom stales one’s admiration for him: the Cretan, sensual and tragic, proffers the mystery of his soul like a standing sacrifice. The artist, painter, poet, or musician, by his decoration, sublime or beautiful, satisfies the aesthetic sense; but that is akin to the sexual instinct, and shares its barbarity: he lays before you also the greater gift of himself. To pursue his secret has something of the fascination of a detective story. It is a riddle which shares with the universe the merit of having no answer. The most insignificant of Strickland’s works suggests a personality which is strange, tormented, and complex; and it is this surely which prevents even those who do not like his pictures from being indifferent to them; it is this which has excited so curious an interest in his life and character. It was not till four years after Strickland’s death that Maurice Huret wrote that article in the Mercure de France which rescued the unknown painter from oblivion and blazed the trail which succeeding writers, with more or less docility, have followed. For a long time no critic has enjoyed in France a more incontestable authority, and it was impossible not to be impressed by the claims he made; they seemed extravagant; but later judgments have confirmed his estimate, and the reputation of Charles Strickland is now firmly established on the lines which he laid down. The rise of this reputation is one of the most romantic incidents in the history of art. But I do not propose to deal with Charles Strickland’s work except in so far as it touches upon his character. I cannot agree with the painters who claim superciliously that the layman can understand nothing of painting, and that he can best show his appreciation of their works by silence and a cheque-book. It is a grotesque misapprehension which sees in art no more than a craft comprehensible perfectly only to the craftsman: art is a manifestation of emotion, and emotion speaks a language that all may understand. But I will allow that the critic who has not a practical knowledge of technique is seldom able to say anything on the subject of real value, and my ignorance of painting is extreme. Fortunately, there is no need for me to risk the adventure, since my friend, Mr. Edward Leggatt, an able writer as well as an admirable painter, has exhaustively discussed Charles Strickland’s work in a little book1 which is a charming example of a style, for the most part, less happily cultivated in England than in France.
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