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适读人群 ：文学爱好者，英语学习者，青年读者杰克?伦敦半自传经典作品
世界文学史上精彩的自传体小说之一
名列法国《世界报》二十世纪百部经典榜单
买中文版送英文版
内容简介
《马丁?伊登》讲述了青年水手马丁?伊登偶然结识了上流社会的罗丝小姐，受她的启发，发愤自学，并开始了艰苦的创作生涯。尽管处处碰壁，他仍不愿听从罗丝的安排，进她父亲的事务所，做个“有为青年”。后来他突然时来运转，以前被退回的稿件纷纷得到发表，成为当红作家。以前看不起他的亲友都争先恐后地来请他吃饭，连已和他决裂的罗丝也主动前来投怀送抱。这使他看清了这个世态炎凉的社会，对爱情所抱的美妙幻想也彻底破灭。
作者简介
杰克?伦敦（1876—1916），美国著名的现实主义作家。他的作品大多讲述美国下层人民的生活故事，揭露资本主义社会的罪恶。他的作品大都带有浓厚的社会主义和个人主义色彩。他一生著述颇丰，著名的有《马丁?伊登》《野性的呼唤》《白牙》《热爱生命》等小说。
方华文，苏州大学外国语学院英语教授，文学翻译家。已出版译著有《老人与海》《太阳照常升起》《永别了，武器》《雾都孤儿》《蝴蝶梦》等。
精彩书摘
晚饭后他在甲板上待了很长时间，然而这也无济于事。回到舱里，他还是无法入睡。连这种短暂的休息他也享受不到，这叫他无法忍受。他打开电灯，想看会儿书。有一本诗集是斯温伯恩的著作。他躺在床上翻阅了起来，翻着翻着突然来了兴趣。他把一个章节看完，还想朝下看，可不由又翻了回来。他将书反扣在胸口上，陷入沉思。答案就在这里，这就是答案。奇怪，以前他怎么就没想到过！所有的一切都在此不白自明；他的漫游一直都走的是这个方向，而今斯温伯恩向他指明这就是痛快的出路。他渴望安息，而归宿就在这里。他望了望敞开的舷窗，看到那儿倒是挺宽敞。几个星期以来，他第一次有了喜悦的心情，因为他终于找到了治疗自身病疾的良方。他捧起诗集，慢慢地朗诵那一节：
放弃了对生活的热恋，
摆脱恐惧、告别希望，
我们虔诚地祈祷，
感谢冥冥的上苍，
幸喜生命终有尽期；
死去的不复站起；
纵使疲倦的河流蜿蜒曲回，
总会平安归向海洋。
他又望了望那舷窗。斯温伯恩提供了答案。生活是一场噩梦，或者更确切地说，它变成了一场噩梦，化为叫人无法忍受的东西。“死去的不复站起！”这一诗行深深打动了他，令他感激涕零。这可是天地之间唯一叫人向往的事情。当生活充满了痛苦，令人厌倦的时候，死亡会哄你沉沉入睡、长眠不醒。还有什么可犹豫的呢？该走啦！
他立起身，抱头探出舷窗，低头望着那浑浊的浪花。马利波萨号满载着旅客，吃水很深，用两手抓住窗子，便可以把脚伸进水里。他可以无声无息地钻入水里，谁都听不见，一朵浪花飞溅起，打湿了他的面孔。他的嘴唇发咸，那味道很是不错。他想着是否应该写一篇绝笔，但随即便一笑置之。已经没有时间了，他迫不及待地要赴黄泉之路。
他熄掉舱里的灯，免得暴露行踪，然后把脚先伸出了舷窗，不料肩膀却被卡住了，于是他抽回身，将一条胳膊紧贴在身旁，再次朝外钻。船体的摆动帮了他的忙，他借力钻出，用手抓紧窗子。双脚一触到海水，他就松了手，落入浑浊的泡沫里。马利波萨号的舷体似一堵黑墙从他身边擦过，星星点点的舷窗里亮着灯光。轮船向前疾驶，几乎未待他清醒过来就把他甩到了后边。他慢慢地在泡沫飞溅的海面上游着。
一条鲣鱼在他白皙的身子上咬了一口，惹得他笑出了声。他身上掉了一块肉，疼痛感才使他想起了投海的目的。他刚才过于忙碌，竟忘了自己的目标。马利波萨号上的灯光在远方愈来愈模糊，而他却在这儿满怀信心地游着泳，就好像一门心思要游到千里开外的最近的陆地似的。
这是一种不由自主地求生本能。他停止了游泳，但一觉得海水漫过嘴，便又猛然伸手划水，让身子朝上浮。他心想这是求生的意志，随即便轻蔑地哼了一声。哈，他还有意志——坚强的意志！只消最后一用劲，这意志就会毁于一旦、烟消云散。
他变变姿势，直立起来，抬头望望静悄悄的群星，同时吐净了肺里的空气。他猛然手脚并用，狠劲划水，将肩膀和半个胸脯都露出水面。这样做是为了能在潜水时多一份冲力。接着，他放松身子，一动不动地朝下沉，似一尊白色雕像没入海中。他有意识地深深吸一口海水，就像一个人服麻醉剂一样。他感到窒息，可这时他的胳膊和腿却乱划一气，把他托出水面，使他又清楚地看到了群星。
他竭力不让空气进入他那快要破裂的肺里，但却徒劳一场。他不肩地心想这是求生的意志在作祟。看来，必须重新换一种方法。他把空气吸进肺里，让里边充得满满的，这样便可以潜得深一些。他转过身，头朝下用出全身的力气和全部的意志往底层游去。他愈潜愈深，睁眼望着那磷光闪闪、幽灵般冲来冲去的鲣鱼群。他一边游，一边希望那些鱼不要来咬他，因为那样会摧毁他紧绷的意志。幸好那些鱼没有咬他，于是他充满了感激之情，感谢生活赐给他这最后一点好处。
他不断地往下游，累得四肢发酸，几乎动弹不得。他知道自己已到了深处。他的耳膜被海水挤压得发痛，脑袋嗡嗡作响。他的耐受力正在崩溃，可他拼命划动四肢把自己朝更深处送，直至意志动摇，肺里的空气猛然喷射出来。一串串气泡朝上泛起，似小气球般跳动着，摩擦着他的脸颊和眼睛。旋踵而至的便是疼痛和窒息。他眩晕的大脑里闪过这样一个念头：这不是死亡，因为死亡没有痛苦。他还活着，这是生存的痛苦，是一种可怕的令人窒息的感觉。这是生活所能给予他的最后一击。
他那倔强的手脚开始击打水，间歇地，有气无力地划动。他愚弄了它们，愚弄了驱使它们击打和划动的求生意志。他游得太深了，它们已无法把他送到海面上去了。他似乎懒洋洋地漂浮在梦境的海洋里。五彩光环包裹着他、沐浴着他，浸透了他的身体。那是什么？好像是一座灯塔。其实，那东西仅存在于他的大脑中——是一道耀眼夺目的白光，闪动得愈来愈快。随着长长的一声轰隆巨响，他觉得自己滚下了非常长的一条宽楼梯。到了底层，他跌入黑暗之中。他明白自己坠入黑暗的世界。就在他明白这一点的瞬间，他的感觉停止了。
He stayed late on deck, after dinner, but that did not help him, for when he went below, he could not sleep. This surcease from life had failed him. It was too much. He turned on the electric light and tried to read. One of the volumes was a Swinburne. He lay in bed, glancing through its pages, until suddenly he became aware that he was reading with interest. He finished the stanza, attempted to read on, then came back to it. He rested the book face downward on his breast and fell to thinking. That was it. The very thing. Strange that it had never come to him before. That was the meaning of it all; he had been drifting that way all the time, and now Swinburne showed him that it was the happy way out. He wanted rest, and here was rest awaiting him. He glanced at the open port-hole. Yes, it was large enough. For the first time in weeks he felt happy. At last he had discovered the cure of his ill. He picked up the book and read the stanza slowly aloud:—
?? “‘From too much love of living,
????From hope and fear set free,
???We thank with brief thanksgiving
????Whatever gods may be
???That no life lives forever;
???That dead men rise up never;
????That even the weariest river
???Winds somewhere safe to sea.’”
He looked again at the open port. Swinburne had furnished the key. Life was ill, or, rather, it had become ill—an unbearable thing. “That dead men rise up never!” That line stirred him with a profound feeling of gratitude. It was the one beneficent thing in the universe. When life became an aching weariness, death was ready to soothe away to everlasting sleep. But what was he waiting for? It was time to go.
He arose and thrust his head out the port-hole, looking down into the milky wash. The Mariposa was deeply loaded, and, hanging by his hands, his feet would be in the water. He could slip in noiselessly. No one would hear. A smother of spray dashed up, wetting his face. It tasted salt on his lips, and the taste was good. He wondered if he ought to write a swan-song, but laughed the thought away. There was no time. He was too impatient to be gone.
Turning off the light in his room so that it might not betray him, he went out the port-hole feet first. His shoulders stuck, and he forced himself back so as to try it with one arm down by his side. A roll of the steamer aided him, and he was through, hanging by his hands. When his feet touched the sea, he let go. He was in a milky froth of water. The side of the Mariposa rushed past him like a dark wall, broken here and there by lighted ports. She was certainly making time. Almost before he knew it, he was astern, swimming gently on the foam-crackling surface.
A bonita struck at his white body, and he laughed aloud. It had taken a piece out, and the sting of it reminded him of why he was there. In the work to do he had forgotten the purpose of it. The lights of the Mariposa were growing dim in the distance, and there he was, swimming confidently, as though it were his intention to make for the nearest land a thousand miles or so away.
It was the automatic instinct to live. He ceased swimming, but the moment he felt the water rising above his mouth the hands struck out sharply with a lifting movement. The will to live, was his thought, and the thought was accompanied by a sneer. Well, he had will,—ay, will strong enough that with one last exertion it could destroy itself and cease to be.
He changed his position to a vertical one. He glanced up at the quiet stars, at the same time emptying his lungs of air. With swift, vigorous propulsion of hands and feet, he lifted his shoulders and half his chest out of water. This was to gain impetus for the descent. Then he let himself go and sank without movement, a white statue, into the sea. He breathed in the water deeply, deliberately, after the manner of a man taking an anaesthetic. When he strangled, quite involuntarily his arms and legs clawed the water and drove him up to the surface and into the clear sight of the stars.
The will to live, he thought disdainfully, vainly endeavoring not to breathe the air into his bursting lungs. Well, he would have to try a new way. He filled his lungs with air, filled them full. This supply would take him far down. He turned over and went down head first, swimming with all his strength and all his will. Deeper and deeper he went. His eyes were open, and he watched the ghostly, phosphorescent trails of the darting bonita. As he swam, he hoped that they would not strike at him, for it might snap the tension of his will. But they did not strike, and he found time to be grateful for this last kindness of life.
Down, down, he swam till his arms and leg grew tired and hardly moved. He knew that he was deep. The pressure on his ear-drums was a pain, and there was a buzzing in his head. His endurance was faltering, but he compelled his arms and legs to drive him deeper until his will snapped and the air drove from his lungs in a great explosive rush. The bubbles rubbed and bounded like tiny balloons against his cheeks and eyes as they took their upward flight. Then came pain and strangulation. This hurt was not death, was the thought that oscillated through his reeling consciousness. Death did not hurt. It was life, the pangs of life, this awful, suffocating feeling; it was the last blow life could deal him.
His wilful hands and feet began to beat and churn about, spasmodically and feebly. But he had fooled them and the will to live that made them beat and churn. He was too deep down. They could never bring him to the surface. He seemed floating languidly in a sea of dreamy vision. Colors and radiances surrounded him and bathed him and pervaded him. What was that? It seemed a lighthouse; but it was inside his brain—a flashing, bright white light. It flashed swifter and swifter. There was a long rumble of sound, and it seemed to him that he was falling down a vast and interminable stairway. And somewhere at the bottom he fell into darkness. That much he knew. He had fallen into darkness. And at the instant he knew, he ceased to know.
前言/序言
用户评价
这部小说的语言风格简直是一股清流，它摒弃了时下流行的浮躁和轻佻，用一种近乎古典的沉稳和内敛，构建了一个完整的精神世界。我尤其欣赏作者在环境描写上的功力，那些描绘着海边、码头、以及简陋居室的文字，不仅仅是背景的交代，更像是主人公心境的投射。阴郁的天气衬托着他内心的彷徨，而偶尔穿透云层的阳光，则预示着一线转机。这种意境的营造，使得阅读体验变得极其立体和丰富。它不是那种快餐式的消遣读物，它需要你放慢脚步，去体会那些精心打磨的词藻背后所蕴含的深意。每一次翻页，都像是揭开一层薄雾，发现新的景致。对于那些真正热爱文字韵味和文学质感的人来说，这本书无疑是一场盛宴，让人沉醉其中，不愿醒来。
评分初读这部作品，我立刻被它深邃的叙事笔触所吸引。作者对于人物内心世界的刻画，简直达到了令人惊叹的程度。那种在理想与现实的夹缝中挣扎求生的状态，那种对知识和自我价值的无限渴求，被描摹得淋漓尽致。我仿佛能亲眼目睹主人公在无数个深夜里，依靠着微弱的灯光，与那些浩瀚的书籍进行着无声的对话。每一个细节的铺陈都充满了力量感，不是那种直白的呐喊，而是一种沉淀在骨子里的、对生命本质的追问。读到某些情节时，我甚至会停下来，不是因为情节的跌宕起伏，而是因为作者对某种情绪的精准捕捉，那种复杂交织的、难以名状的失落与欣喜，让人感同身受，甚至会反思自己的人生轨迹。整本书读下来，感觉像经历了一场漫长而深刻的精神洗礼，它迫使你直面自身的局限与潜力，是一部真正能触及灵魂的作品，值得反复咀嚼和品味。
评分从叙事结构的角度来看，这部作品展现了高超的掌控力。故事线索看似平铺直叙，但其中暗藏的伏笔和情感的暗涌却处理得极其细腻巧妙。作者仿佛是一位技艺精湛的音乐家，知道何时该用低沉的大提琴渲染悲凉，何时又该用清脆的小提琴引出希望的旋律。特别是一些转折点，处理得既出乎意料又在情理之中，让人拍案叫绝。我特别喜欢作者对于时间流逝的处理方式，那种淡淡的、无可挽回的感觉，随着主人公的成长和蜕变被巧妙地融入字里行间。它不是那种靠情节反转取胜的小说，它的魅力在于内在逻辑的严密和情感张力的自然积累。每一次重读，都会发现先前忽略的微妙之处，这证明了作品经得起反复推敲的艺术价值。
评分我必须承认，这本书对我个人价值观的冲击是巨大的。它探讨的主题非常尖锐——关于教育的本质、阶级的壁垒以及自我教育的极限。主人公在知识的海洋中遨游，却发现现实世界的规则远比书本上的理论来得冷酷无情。这种理想主义者与世俗规则的碰撞，产生的火花极具戏剧张力。我常常思考，如果我置身于那样一个环境，是否能做出同样的抉择？书中对社会百态的刻画，尤其那些市井小民的麻木与自足，与主人公那颗燃烧着的、不安分的灵魂形成了鲜明的对比。这种对立不是简单的善恶之分，而是更高层次的生存哲学之间的较量。它不提供标准答案，而是把你推到十字路口，让你自己去权衡，去承受选择的重量。读完后，那种久久不能平息的思绪，是对生活更深层次的责任感和敬畏。
评分这本书带给我的最大感受是一种近乎原始的生命力。尽管主题沉重，充斥着奋斗的艰辛和人性的复杂，但通篇却洋溢着一股蓬勃向上的朝气。主人公那种“不服输”的精神，并非盲目的鲁莽，而是源自对美好事物的坚定信念和不懈追求。这种精神内核具有跨越时代的感染力。它教会我，真正的强大并非来自于外界的认可，而是源于内心的觉醒与持续的探索。我能够感受到作者对这个人物的深厚情感，他既是批判者，又是最理解他的人。这种复杂的爱，让故事拥有了温度，让那些看似绝望的时刻，也孕育着新的可能。它是一剂强心针，激励我在面对生活中的重重阻碍时，依然能保持一颗赤诚、饥渴的心，继续前行，去追逐那些看似遥不可及的星光。
评分还可以，书不错，应该是正版的，价格很实惠
评分中英文，喜欢
评分正准备看，改变我男神许子东一生的书
评分买给小表妹的，高中的回忆，好书
评分非常赞！图书满减真的很不错！
评分好”。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。
评分买了很多书，在京东买书感觉不错，书保护的很好，还经常搞活动，很划算，以后慢慢看，先囤起来。
评分很喜欢译林双语的这套丛书，对于学习英语帮助还是很大的
评分其他的不用说，京东物流最棒
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