Oliver Twist[霧都孤兒] [平裝] 下載 mobi epub pdf 電子書 2024

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內容簡介

Oliver nace y crece en un orfanato parroquial. Con nueve a?os es enviado a trabajar en una funeraria. Huye y cae en un grupo de ladronzuelos callejeros dirigidos por Fagin, un judío usurero, y unidos a un delincuente violento de nombre Sikes.

作者簡介

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.

　　查爾斯·狄更斯（Charles Dickens，1812～1870），1812年生於英國的樸次茅斯。父親過著沒有節製的生活，負債纍纍。年幼的狄更斯被迫被送進一傢皮鞋油店當學徒，飽嘗瞭艱辛。狄更斯16歲時，父親因債務被關進監獄。從此，他們的生活更為悲慘。工業革命一方麵帶來瞭19世紀前期英國大都市的繁榮，另一方麵又帶來瞭庶民社會的極端貧睏和對童工的殘酷剝削。尖銳的社會矛盾和不公正的社會製度使狄更斯決心改變自己的生活。15歲時，狄更斯在一傢律師事務所當抄寫員並學習速記，此後，又在報社任新聞記者。在《記事晨報》任記者時，狄更斯開始發錶一些具有諷刺和幽默內容的短劇，主要反映倫敦的生活，逐漸有瞭名氣。他瞭解城市底層人民的生活和風土人情，這些都體現在他熱情洋溢的筆端。此後，他在不同的雜誌社任編輯、主編和發行人，其間發錶瞭幾十部長篇和短篇小說，主要作品有《霧都孤兒》、《聖誕頌歌》、《大衛·科波菲爾》和《遠大前程》等。
　　狄更斯的作品大多取材於與自己的親身經曆或所見所聞相關聯的事件。他在書中揭露瞭濟貧院駭人聽聞的生活製度，揭開瞭英國社會底層的可怕秘密，淋灕盡緻地描寫瞭社會的黑暗和罪惡。本書起筆便描寫瞭主人公奧利弗生下來便成為孤兒，以及在濟貧院度過的悲慘生活。後來，他被迫到殯儀館做學徒，又因不堪忍受虐待而離傢齣走。孤身一人來到倫敦後，又落入瞭竊賊的手中。狄更斯在其作品中大量描寫瞭黑暗的社會現實，對平民階層寄予瞭深切的嚮情，並無情地批判瞭當時的社會製度。他在小說描寫的現實性和人物的個性化方麵成績是突齣的。他成為繼莎士比亞之後，塑造作品人物數量最多的一個作傢。

精彩書評

Publishers Weekly
The inimitable Martin Jarvis brings his talents to bear on Charles Dickens's classic in an audiobook that will delight listeners with its superb recreations of gritty 19th-century London. To escape Mr. Bumble and life in the workhouse, Oliver flees to London where he meets the Artful Dodger and becomes embroiled with Fagin's ragtag band of thieves. Jarvis simply dazzles: his performance captures both the humor and sorrow of the text, his narration is crisp, and his characterizations--his rendition of the terrifying district magistrate, Mr. Fang, is particularly memorable--are as varied as they are energetic, befitting, and enjoyable. (June)

目錄

Contents
Introduction
Chronology of Dickens's Life and Work
Historical Context of Oliver Twist
OLIVER TWIST
Notes
Interpretive Notes
Critical Excerpts
Questions for Discussion
Suggestions for the Interested Reader

精彩書摘

Oliver Twist
CHAPTER 1
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, it boasts of one which is 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 take upon 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 he 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, being comprised within a couple of pages, that 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 ina workhouse is in itself the most fortunate and enviable circumstance that can possibly befall 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 his 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 female 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; but 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 frozen 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 gruel 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.'
The surgeon leant over the body, and raised the left hand. 'The old story,' he said, shaking his head: 'no wedding-ring, I see. Ah! Good night!'
The medical gentleman walked away to dinner; and thenurse, having once more applied herself to the green bottle, sat down on a low chair before the fire, and proceeded to dress the infant.
What an excellent example of power of dress young Oliver Twist was! Wrapped in the blanket which had hitherto formed his only covering, he might have been the child of a nobleman or a beggar;—it would have been hard for the haughtiest stranger to have fixed his station in society. But now that he was enveloped in the old calico robes, which had grown yellow in the same service, he was badged and ticketed, and fell into his place at once—a parish child—the orphan of a workhouse—the humble half-starved drudge—to be cuffed and buffeted through the world,—despised by all, and pitied by none.
Oliver cried lustily. If he could have known that he was an orphan, left to the tender mercies of churchwardens and overseers, perhaps he would have cried the louder.
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