Oliver Twist is a desperate orphan. A gang of thieves takes him in and teaches him to steal, but then he is caught. What will become of poor Oliver Twist? Kids can find out in this easy-to-read chapter book adaptation of the Dickens classic.

一个不知来历的年轻孕妇昏倒在街上，人们把她送进了贫民收容院。第二天，她生下一个男孩后死去。这个孤儿被取名奥立弗·退斯特。十年后奥立弗成了棺材店的学徒。他不堪虐待，逃到了雾都伦敦，不幸落入贼帮手中。小小的孤儿在逆境中挣扎，幸而他由于本性善良而得到了善良人的帮助。他一次次化险为夷，终于能和爱他的亲人团聚，他神秘的出身也真相大白。

作者简介

Charles Dickens was born in 1812 near Portsmouth where his father was a clerk in the navy pay office. The family moved to London in 1823, but their fortunes were severely impaired. Dickens was sent to work in a blacking-warehouse when his father was imprisoned for debt. Both experiences deeply affected the future novelist. In 1833 he began contributing stories to newspapers and magazines, and in 1836 started the serial publication of Pickwick Papers. Thereafter, Dickens published his major novels over the course of the next twenty years, from Nicholas Nickleby to Little Dorrit. He also edited the journals Household Words and All the Year Round. Dickens died in June 1870.

　　查尔斯·狄更斯（Charles Dickens，1812～1870），1812年生于英国的朴次茅斯。父亲过着没有节制的生活，负债累累。年幼的狄更斯被迫被送进一家皮鞋油店当学徒，饱尝了艰辛。狄更斯16岁时，父亲因债务被关进监狱。从此，他们的生活更为悲惨。工业革命一方面带来了19世纪前期英国大都市的繁荣，另一方面又带来了庶民社会的极端贫困和对童工的残酷剥削。尖锐的社会矛盾和不公正的社会制度使狄更斯决心改变自己的生活。15岁时，狄更斯在一家律师事务所当抄写员并学习速记，此后，又在报社任新闻记者。在《记事晨报》任记者时，狄更斯开始发表一些具有讽刺和幽默内容的短剧，主要反映伦敦的生活，逐渐有了名气。他了解城市底层人民的生活和风土人情，这些都体现在他热情洋溢的笔端。此后，他在不同的杂志社任编辑、主编和发行人，其间发表了几十部长篇和短篇小说，主要作品有《雾都孤儿》、《圣诞颂歌》、《大卫·科波菲尔》和《远大前程》等。
　　狄更斯的作品大多取材于与自己的亲身经历或所见所闻相关联的事件。他在书中揭露了济贫院骇人听闻的生活制度，揭开了英国社会底层的可怕秘密，淋漓尽致地描写了社会的黑暗和罪恶。本书起笔便描写了主人公奥利弗生下来便成为孤儿，以及在济贫院度过的悲惨生活。后来，他被迫到殡仪馆做学徒，又因不堪忍受虐待而离家出走。孤身一人来到伦敦后，又落入了窃贼的手中。狄更斯在其作品中大量描写了黑暗的社会现实，对平民阶层寄予了深切的向情，并无情地批判了当时的社会制度。他在小说描写的现实性和人物的个性化方面成绩是突出的。他成为继莎士比亚之后，塑造作品人物数量最多的一个作家。

精彩书评

"The power of [Dickens] is so amazing, that the reader at once becomes his captive, and must follow him whithersoever he leads."
--William Makepeace Thackeray

精彩书摘

Chapter I
Treats of the place where Oliver Twist was Born; and of the Circumstances attending his Birth.
Among other public buildings in a certain town, which for many reasons it will be prudent to refrain from mentioning, and to which I will assign no fictitious name, there is one anciently common to most towns, great or small: to wit, a workhouse; and in this workhouse was born: on a day and date which I need not trouble myself to repeat, inasmuch as it can be of no possible consequence to the reader, in this stage of the business at all events: the item of mortality whose name is prefixed to the head of this chapter.
For a long time after it was ushered into this world of sorrow and trouble, by the parish surgeon, it remained a matter of considerable doubt whether the child would survive to bear any name at all; in which case it is somewhat more than probable that these memoirs would never have appeared; or, if they had, that being comprised within a couple of pages, they would have possessed the inestimable merit of being the most concise and faithful specimen of biography, extant in the literature of any age or country.
Although I am not disposed to maintain that the being born in a workhouse, is in itself the most fortunate and enviable circumstance that can possibly befal a human being, I do mean to say that in this particular instance, it was the best thing for Oliver Twist that could by possibility have occurred. The fact is, that there was considerable difficulty in inducing Oliver to take upon himself the office of respiration,-a troublesome practice, but one which custom has rendered necessary to our easy existence; and for some time he lay gasping on a little flock mattress, rather unequally poised between this world and the next: the balance being decidedly in favour of the latter. Now, if, during this brief period, Oliver had been surrounded by careful grandmothers, anxious aunts, experienced nurses, and doctors of profound wisdom, he would most inevitably and indubitably have been killed in no time. There being nobody by, however, but a pauper old woman, who was rendered rather misty by an unwonted allowance of beer; and a parish surgeon who did such matters by contract; Oliver and Nature fought out the point between them. The result was, that, after a few struggles, Oliver breathed, sneezed, and proceeded to advertise to the inmates of the workhouse the fact of a new burden having been imposed upon the parish, by setting up as loud a cry as could reasonably have been expected from a male infant who had not been possessed of that very useful appendage, a voice, for a much longer space of time than three minutes and a quarter.
As Oliver gave this first proof of the free and proper action of his lungs, the patchwork coverlet which was carelessly flung over the iron bedstead, rustled; the pale face of a young woman was raised feebly from the pillow; and a faint voice imperfectly articulated the words, "Let me see the child, and die."
The surgeon had been sitting with his face turned towards the fire: giving the palms of his hands, a warm and a rub alternately. As the young woman spoke, he rose, and advancing to the bed's head, said, with more kindness than might have been expected of him:
"Oh, you must not talk about dying yet."
"Lor bless her dear heart, no!" interposed the nurse, hastily depositing in her pocket a green glass bottle, the contents of which she had been tasting in a corner with evident satisfaction. "Lor bless her dear heart, when she has lived as long as I have, sir, and had thirteen children of her own, and all on 'em dead except two, and them in the wurkus with me, she'll know better than to take on in that way, bless her dear heart! Think what it is to be a mother, there's a dear young lamb, do."
Apparently this consolatory perspective of a mother's prospects, failed in producing its due effect. The patient shook her head, and stretched out her hand towards the child.
The surgeon deposited it in her arms. She imprinted her cold white lips passionately on its forehead; passed her hands over her face; gazed wildly round; shuddered; fell back-and died. They chafed her breast, hands, and temples; but the blood had stopped for ever. They talked of hope and comfort. They had been strangers too long.
"It's all over, Mrs. Thingummy!" said the surgeon at last.
"Ah, poor dear, so it is!" said the nurse, picking up the cork of the green bottle which had fallen out on the pillow as she stooped to take up the child. "Poor dear!"
"You needn't mind sending up to me, if the child cries, nurse," said the surgeon, putting on his gloves with great deliberation. "It's very likely it will be troublesome. Give it a little gruel7 if it is." He put on his hat, and, pausing by the bed-side on his way to the door, added "She was a good-looking girl, too; where did she come from?"
"She was brought here last night," replied the old woman, "by the overseer's order. She was found lying in the street. She had walked some distance, for her shoes were worn to pieces; but where she came from, or where she was going to, nobody knows."
Oliver Twist 雾都孤儿 [平装] [6-9岁] 下载 mobi epub pdf txt 电子书格式