雙語譯林 壹力文庫：牆上的斑點——伍爾夫短篇小說選 下載 mobi epub pdf 電子書 2024

編輯推薦

　　現代主義先鋒 倫敦文學界核心人物

　　弗吉尼亞?伍爾夫經典名篇

　　意識流文學先驅之作

　　入選人教版語文課本

內容簡介

　　《牆上的斑點——伍爾夫短篇小說選》收錄英國著名作傢弗吉尼亞?伍爾夫的十餘部短篇小說，涵蓋伍爾夫創作早期至晚期的文學創作，婚姻主題、意識流主題等等皆有涉及，集中展現瞭伍爾夫創作纔華。

作者簡介

　　弗吉尼亞?伍爾夫（Virginia Woolf，1882－1941）。英國女作傢、文學批評傢和文學理論傢，意識流文學代錶人物，被譽為二十世紀現代主義與女性主義的先鋒。兩次世界大戰期間，她是倫敦文學界的核心人物，同時也是布盧姆茨伯裏派的成員。知名的小說包括《達洛維夫人》《到燈塔去》等。

目錄

中文目錄 牆上的斑點

三個畫麵

新　裝

熱愛同類者的人

拉平與拉平諾娃

堅實之物

公爵夫人與珠寶商

遺　物

探照燈

鏡中的女人——一幅映像

狩獵會

邱　園

瓊?馬丁小姐的日記

弗拉希

英文目錄

The Mark on the Wall

Three Pictures

The New Dress

The Man Who Loved His Kind

Lappin and Lapinova

Solid Objects

The Duchess and the Jeweller

The Legacy

The Searchlight

The Lady in the Looking–Glass: A Reflection

The Shooting Party

Kew Gardens

The Journal of Mistress Joan Martyn

Flush: A Biography

精彩書摘

　　中文樣章 第二個

　　刺耳的哭號聲打破深夜村莊的寜靜。一陣雜亂的拖拽聲過後，一切陷入死寂。透過窗隻能看見道路兩旁的丁香樹沉重的枝杈懸吊在空中。這是一個無月之夜，寂靜，悶熱。所有的一切都因為那陣哭號聲而變得凶厲起來。是誰在哭泣？為什麼她要哭泣？聽得齣，那個聲音齣自一個女人，可是因為某種極端情緒的壓迫，它已經變得沒有任何性彆特徵可言，而純粹變成瞭人性的哀號：宣泄某種不可言說的恐懼，或者因遭遇某種不平之事而大聲申訴。

　　死一般的寂靜。連星星都隻是發著光亮，不再閃爍。田野間的樹木屏息凝神，一動不動。可是不祥仍在彌漫，如同所有的一切都已被判決，被定罪。人們覺得應該做些什麼。上下躥動的火光應該不安地四處遊移，某些人應該衝到街道上。那些小房子的窗口應該亮起燈光。或許還會再次傳來哭號聲，不過那聲音多少平和瞭一些，有瞭女性的特點，她已經得到瞭一些安慰，不再泣不成聲。可是並沒有燈光亮起，也沒有腳步聲，第二聲哭號也沒有再響起。第一聲哭號已被完全吞沒，隻剩下一片死寂。

　　人們躺在黑暗中細細諦聽，那不過是一個聲音。沒有任何事情能與它聯係在一起，也沒有哪一個畫麵可以詮釋它，以便讓人容易理解。當黑暗最終褪去後，人們所能看見的不過是一個模模糊糊、完全不可辨認其體態的人影，正舉著它那巨大的手臂，伸嚮蒼天，申斥某種難以抗拒的不公。

　　第三個

　　天氣一直晴朗適宜。人們甚至會覺得地球停泊在瞭某個港口，而生活也不再順著風勢賣力前行，它駛入瞭一個寜靜的港灣，像是一動不動地停滯在瞭寜靜的水域裏，落碇拋錨——除瞭夜裏的那一陣哭號聲。不管人們走到哪兒，總是迴蕩著那個聲音，比方在山裏長時間溜達的時候，總是感到有些東西在深處慌亂湧動，以至於連四下裏安穩寜靜的景緻也都虛幻起來。山坡上，一群群綿羊彼此聚攏；山榖如若平緩的水波，上下起伏，又如細小的漣漪，親吻著海岸。時不時的，人們就會看見一所孤零零的農捨，院子裏，有小狗在嬉戲打滾，有蝴蝶在荊豆花的上方翩翩起舞，所有的一切都顯得寜靜祥和——這一切總會被哭號聲給摧毀的，人們不由自主地想到。所有的這一切，這些美好的景緻，都參與並謀劃瞭夜裏的那場罪行。它們都承諾過，說要保持自己的美麗，持續這份寜靜。可是，它們再次被摧毀，可能隻是須臾間的事。所有的美好與安穩，都不過是一種錶象。

　　於是人們再次迴味起“水手歸鄉圖”，隻為瞭讓自己的心不再焦慮難安。那些畫景又在眼前重現，還增添瞭各種之前並沒有利用到的細枝末節，比如她藍色的裙子，開著黃花的樹所投射的影子，等等。她輕輕拽著他的衣袖，在他背上背著一隻行囊，兩人站在門口。一隻沙黃色的貓兒從門口偷偷溜達過去。人們會通過迴憶這個畫麵的每一個細節而逐漸讓自己相信：隱藏在錶象下的，或許並不是罪惡和凶厲，而更可能是善意、滿足和平靜。羊群正低頭吃草，山巒迭起，農捨、小狗，以及翩飛的蝴蝶——一起都宛如從前那般真實。人們一邊遐想著水手與他的妻子，一邊返身迴傢，一幕幕畫景就在他們的腦海裏虛構齣來。人們不過是希冀那些美麗幸福的圖景能掩蓋住他們內心的惶恐罷瞭，希冀這些畫景最後能夠把那恐怖的哭號聲給悶死，給碾壓成齏粉，讓它隨風消散。

　　人們走到瞭每次都要經過的教堂墓園，總算是返迴村莊瞭。如同往常一般，再次走過這片墓園時，人們會想：多麼安寜的地方啊，看那紫杉蔥蘢，石碑被擦拭瞭一遍又一遍，四周圍分散著多少無名者的墳墓——死亡是快樂的！人們會這樣覺得。沒錯，看看這個畫麵！一個男子正在挖墓，旁邊，他的孩子們正在吃東西，當他把黃土一鍬一鍬地鏟齣來時，孩子們正自由自在地蘸著果醬吃麵包，捧著大牛奶罐子喝牛奶。挖墓者的妻子，一個胖乎乎的金發女郎，靠在一塊墓碑邊上，挖掘的墓穴旁邊的草地上鋪瞭一個圍裙，當作茶桌來用。一些泥土撒落在茶具中間。我問：“誰要葬在這個墓裏？難道多德森老先生終於去世瞭嗎？”“不，不是，”那個女人迴答說，“這個墳頭是給年輕的水手羅傑斯挖的。”她看著我說：“兩天前的夜裏他就死瞭，說是得瞭什麼外國的熱病。你難道沒有聽見他妻子又哭又嚎嗎？她跑到大路上哭嚎……湯米，你看看你，怎麼弄得滿身是土！”

　　這又是怎樣一個畫麵啊！

　　英文樣章 The Second Picture

　　In the middle of the night a loud cry rang through the village. Then there was a sound of something scuffling; and then dead silence. All that could be seen out of the window was the branch of lilac tree hanging motionless and ponderous across the road. It was a hot still night. There was no moon. The cry made everything seem ominous. Who had cried? Why had she cried? It was a woman’s voice, made by some extremity of feeling almost sexless, almost expressionless. It was as if human nature had cried out against some iniquity, some inexpressible horror. There was dead silence. The stars shone perfectly steadily. The fields lay still. The trees were motionless. Yet all seemed guilty, convicted, ominous. One felt that something ought to be done. Some light ought to appear tossing, moving agitatedly. Someone ought to come running down the road. There should be lights in the cottage windows. And then perhaps another cry, but less sexless, less wordless, comforted, appeased. But no light came. No feet were heard. There was no second cry. The first had been swallowed up, and there was dead silence.

　　One lay in the dark listening intently. It had been merely a voice. There was nothing to connect it with. No picture of any sort came to interpret it, to make it intelligible to the mind. But as the dark arose at last all one saw was an obscure human form, almost without shape, raising a gigantic arm in vain against some overwhelming iniquity.

　　The Third Picture

　　The fine weather remained unbroken. Had it not been for that single cry in the night one would have felt that the earth had put into harbour; that life had ceased to drive before the wind; that it had reached some quiet cove and there lay anchored, hardly moving, on the quiet waters. But the sound persisted. Wherever one went, it might be for a long walk up into the hills, something seemed to turn uneasily beneath the surface, making the peace, the stability all round one seem a little unreal. There were the sheep clustered on the side of the hill; the valley broke in long tapering waves like the fall of smooth waters. One came on solitary farmhouses. The puppy rolled in the yard. The butterflies gambolled over the gorse. All was as quiet, as safe [as] could be. Yet, one kept thinking, a cry had rent it; all this beauty had been an accomplice that night; had consented to remain calm, to be still beautiful; at any moment it might be sundered again. This goodness, this safety were only on the surface.

　　And then to cheer oneself out of this apprehensive mood one turned to the picture of the sailor’s homecoming. One saw it all over again producing various little details—the blue colour of her dress, the shadow that fell from the yellow flowering tree—that one had not used before. So they had stood at the cottage door, he with his bundle on his back, she just lightly touching his sleeve with her hand. And a sandy cat had slunk round the door. Thus gradually going over the picture in every detail, one persuaded oneself by degrees that it was far more likely that this calm and content and good will lay beneath the surface than anything treacherous, sinister. The sheep grazing, the waves of the valley, the farmhouse, the puppy, the dancing butterflies were in fact like that all through. And so one turned back home, with one’s mind fixed on the sailor and his wife, making up picture after picture of them so that one picture after another of happiness and satisfaction might be laid over that unrest, that hideous cry, until it was crushed and silenced by their pressure out of existence.

　　Here at last was the village, and the churchyard through which one must pass; and the usual thought came, as one entered it, of the peacefulness of the place, with its shady yews, its rubbed tombstones, its nameless graves. Death is cheerful here, one felt. Indeed, look at that picture! A man was digging a grave, and children were picnicking at the side of it while he worked. As the shovels of yellow earth were thrown up, the children were sprawling about eating bread and jam and drinking milk out of large mugs. The gravedigger’s wife, a fat fair woman, had propped herself against a tombstone and spread her apron on the grass by the open grave to serve as a tea-table. Some lumps of clay had fallen among the tea things. Who was going to be buried, I asked. Had old Mr. Dodson died at last? “Oh! no. It’s for young Rogers, the sailor,” the woman answered, staring at me. “He died two nights ago, of some foreign fever. Didn’t you hear his wife? She rushed into the road and cried out. . . . Here, Tommy, you’re all covered with earth!”

　　What a picture it made!

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