具體描述
編輯推薦
適讀人群 ：文學愛好者，英語學習者，青年讀者傑剋?倫敦半自傳經典作品
世界文學史上精彩的自傳體小說之一
名列法國《世界報》二十世紀百部經典榜單
買中文版送英文版
內容簡介
《馬丁?伊登》講述瞭青年水手馬丁?伊登偶然結識瞭上流社會的羅絲小姐，受她的啓發，發憤自學，並開始瞭艱苦的創作生涯。盡管處處碰壁，他仍不願聽從羅絲的安排，進她父親的事務所，做個“有為青年”。後來他突然時來運轉，以前被退迴的稿件紛紛得到發錶，成為當紅作傢。以前看不起他的親友都爭先恐後地來請他吃飯，連已和他決裂的羅絲也主動前來投懷送抱。這使他看清瞭這個世態炎涼的社會，對愛情所抱的美妙幻想也徹底破滅。
作者簡介
傑剋?倫敦（1876—1916），美國著名的現實主義作傢。他的作品大多講述美國下層人民的生活故事，揭露資本主義社會的罪惡。他的作品大都帶有濃厚的社會主義和個人主義色彩。他一生著述頗豐，著名的有《馬丁?伊登》《野性的呼喚》《白牙》《熱愛生命》等小說。
方華文，蘇州大學外國語學院英語教授，文學翻譯傢。已齣版譯著有《老人與海》《太陽照常升起》《永彆瞭，武器》《霧都孤兒》《蝴蝶夢》等。
精彩書摘
晚飯後他在甲闆上待瞭很長時間，然而這也無濟於事。迴到艙裏，他還是無法入睡。連這種短暫的休息他也享受不到，這叫他無法忍受。他打開電燈，想看會兒書。有一本詩集是斯溫伯恩的著作。他躺在床上翻閱瞭起來，翻著翻著突然來瞭興趣。他把一個章節看完，還想朝下看，可不由又翻瞭迴來。他將書反扣在胸口上，陷入沉思。答案就在這裏，這就是答案。奇怪，以前他怎麼就沒想到過！所有的一切都在此不白自明；他的漫遊一直都走的是這個方嚮，而今斯溫伯恩嚮他指明這就是痛快的齣路。他渴望安息，而歸宿就在這裏。他望瞭望敞開的舷窗，看到那兒倒是挺寬敞。幾個星期以來，他第一次有瞭喜悅的心情，因為他終於找到瞭治療自身病疾的良方。他捧起詩集，慢慢地朗誦那一節：
放棄瞭對生活的熱戀，
擺脫恐懼、告彆希望，
我們虔誠地祈禱，
感謝冥冥的上蒼，
幸喜生命終有盡期；
死去的不復站起；
縱使疲倦的河流蜿蜒麯迴，
總會平安歸嚮海洋。
他又望瞭望那舷窗。斯溫伯恩提供瞭答案。生活是一場噩夢，或者更確切地說，它變成瞭一場噩夢，化為叫人無法忍受的東西。“死去的不復站起！”這一詩行深深打動瞭他，令他感激涕零。這可是天地之間唯一叫人嚮往的事情。當生活充滿瞭痛苦，令人厭倦的時候，死亡會哄你沉沉入睡、長眠不醒。還有什麼可猶豫的呢？該走啦！
他立起身，抱頭探齣舷窗，低頭望著那渾濁的浪花。馬利波薩號滿載著旅客，吃水很深，用兩手抓住窗子，便可以把腳伸進水裏。他可以無聲無息地鑽入水裏，誰都聽不見，一朵浪花飛濺起，打濕瞭他的麵孔。他的嘴唇發鹹，那味道很是不錯。他想著是否應該寫一篇絕筆，但隨即便一笑置之。已經沒有時間瞭，他迫不及待地要赴黃泉之路。
他熄掉艙裏的燈，免得暴露行蹤，然後把腳先伸齣瞭舷窗，不料肩膀卻被卡住瞭，於是他抽迴身，將一條胳膊緊貼在身旁，再次朝外鑽。船體的擺動幫瞭他的忙，他藉力鑽齣，用手抓緊窗子。雙腳一觸到海水，他就鬆瞭手，落入渾濁的泡沫裏。馬利波薩號的舷體似一堵黑牆從他身邊擦過，星星點點的舷窗裏亮著燈光。輪船嚮前疾駛，幾乎未待他清醒過來就把他甩到瞭後邊。他慢慢地在泡沫飛濺的海麵上遊著。
一條鰹魚在他白皙的身子上咬瞭一口，惹得他笑齣瞭聲。他身上掉瞭一塊肉，疼痛感纔使他想起瞭投海的目的。他剛纔過於忙碌，竟忘瞭自己的目標。馬利波薩號上的燈光在遠方愈來愈模糊，而他卻在這兒滿懷信心地遊著泳，就好像一門心思要遊到韆裏開外的最近的陸地似的。
這是一種不由自主地求生本能。他停止瞭遊泳，但一覺得海水漫過嘴，便又猛然伸手劃水，讓身子朝上浮。他心想這是求生的意誌，隨即便輕衊地哼瞭一聲。哈，他還有意誌——堅強的意誌！隻消最後一用勁，這意誌就會毀於一旦、煙消雲散。
他變變姿勢，直立起來，抬頭望望靜悄悄的群星，同時吐淨瞭肺裏的空氣。他猛然手腳並用，狠勁劃水，將肩膀和半個胸脯都露齣水麵。這樣做是為瞭能在潛水時多一份衝力。接著，他放鬆身子，一動不動地朝下沉，似一尊白色雕像沒入海中。他有意識地深深吸一口海水，就像一個人服麻醉劑一樣。他感到窒息，可這時他的胳膊和腿卻亂劃一氣，把他托齣水麵，使他又清楚地看到瞭群星。
他竭力不讓空氣進入他那快要破裂的肺裏，但卻徒勞一場。他不肩地心想這是求生的意誌在作祟。看來，必須重新換一種方法。他把空氣吸進肺裏，讓裏邊充得滿滿的，這樣便可以潛得深一些。他轉過身，頭朝下用齣全身的力氣和全部的意誌往底層遊去。他愈潛愈深，睜眼望著那磷光閃閃、幽靈般衝來衝去的鰹魚群。他一邊遊，一邊希望那些魚不要來咬他，因為那樣會摧毀他緊綳的意誌。幸好那些魚沒有咬他，於是他充滿瞭感激之情，感謝生活賜給他這最後一點好處。
他不斷地往下遊，纍得四肢發酸，幾乎動彈不得。他知道自己已到瞭深處。他的耳膜被海水擠壓得發痛，腦袋嗡嗡作響。他的耐受力正在崩潰，可他拼命劃動四肢把自己朝更深處送，直至意誌動搖，肺裏的空氣猛然噴射齣來。一串串氣泡朝上泛起，似小氣球般跳動著，摩擦著他的臉頰和眼睛。鏇踵而至的便是疼痛和窒息。他眩暈的大腦裏閃過這樣一個念頭：這不是死亡，因為死亡沒有痛苦。他還活著，這是生存的痛苦，是一種可怕的令人窒息的感覺。這是生活所能給予他的最後一擊。
他那倔強的手腳開始擊打水，間歇地，有氣無力地劃動。他愚弄瞭它們，愚弄瞭驅使它們擊打和劃動的求生意誌。他遊得太深瞭，它們已無法把他送到海麵上去瞭。他似乎懶洋洋地漂浮在夢境的海洋裏。五彩光環包裹著他、沐浴著他，浸透瞭他的身體。那是什麼？好像是一座燈塔。其實，那東西僅存在於他的大腦中——是一道耀眼奪目的白光，閃動得愈來愈快。隨著長長的一聲轟隆巨響，他覺得自己滾下瞭非常長的一條寬樓梯。到瞭底層，他跌入黑暗之中。他明白自己墜入黑暗的世界。就在他明白這一點的瞬間，他的感覺停止瞭。
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
用戶評價
從敘事結構的角度來看，這部作品展現瞭高超的掌控力。故事綫索看似平鋪直敘，但其中暗藏的伏筆和情感的暗湧卻處理得極其細膩巧妙。作者仿佛是一位技藝精湛的音樂傢，知道何時該用低沉的大提琴渲染悲涼，何時又該用清脆的小提琴引齣希望的鏇律。特彆是一些轉摺點，處理得既齣乎意料又在情理之中，讓人拍案叫絕。我特彆喜歡作者對於時間流逝的處理方式，那種淡淡的、無可挽迴的感覺，隨著主人公的成長和蛻變被巧妙地融入字裏行間。它不是那種靠情節反轉取勝的小說，它的魅力在於內在邏輯的嚴密和情感張力的自然積纍。每一次重讀，都會發現先前忽略的微妙之處，這證明瞭作品經得起反復推敲的藝術價值。
評分這部小說的語言風格簡直是一股清流，它摒棄瞭時下流行的浮躁和輕佻，用一種近乎古典的沉穩和內斂，構建瞭一個完整的精神世界。我尤其欣賞作者在環境描寫上的功力，那些描繪著海邊、碼頭、以及簡陋居室的文字，不僅僅是背景的交代，更像是主人公心境的投射。陰鬱的天氣襯托著他內心的彷徨，而偶爾穿透雲層的陽光，則預示著一綫轉機。這種意境的營造，使得閱讀體驗變得極其立體和豐富。它不是那種快餐式的消遣讀物，它需要你放慢腳步，去體會那些精心打磨的詞藻背後所蘊含的深意。每一次翻頁，都像是揭開一層薄霧，發現新的景緻。對於那些真正熱愛文字韻味和文學質感的人來說，這本書無疑是一場盛宴，讓人沉醉其中，不願醒來。
評分初讀這部作品，我立刻被它深邃的敘事筆觸所吸引。作者對於人物內心世界的刻畫，簡直達到瞭令人驚嘆的程度。那種在理想與現實的夾縫中掙紮求生的狀態，那種對知識和自我價值的無限渴求，被描摹得淋灕盡緻。我仿佛能親眼目睹主人公在無數個深夜裏，依靠著微弱的燈光，與那些浩瀚的書籍進行著無聲的對話。每一個細節的鋪陳都充滿瞭力量感，不是那種直白的呐喊，而是一種沉澱在骨子裏的、對生命本質的追問。讀到某些情節時，我甚至會停下來，不是因為情節的跌宕起伏，而是因為作者對某種情緒的精準捕捉，那種復雜交織的、難以名狀的失落與欣喜，讓人感同身受，甚至會反思自己的人生軌跡。整本書讀下來，感覺像經曆瞭一場漫長而深刻的精神洗禮，它迫使你直麵自身的局限與潛力，是一部真正能觸及靈魂的作品，值得反復咀嚼和品味。
評分我必須承認，這本書對我個人價值觀的衝擊是巨大的。它探討的主題非常尖銳——關於教育的本質、階級的壁壘以及自我教育的極限。主人公在知識的海洋中遨遊，卻發現現實世界的規則遠比書本上的理論來得冷酷無情。這種理想主義者與世俗規則的碰撞，産生的火花極具戲劇張力。我常常思考，如果我置身於那樣一個環境，是否能做齣同樣的抉擇？書中對社會百態的刻畫，尤其那些市井小民的麻木與自足，與主人公那顆燃燒著的、不安分的靈魂形成瞭鮮明的對比。這種對立不是簡單的善惡之分，而是更高層次的生存哲學之間的較量。它不提供標準答案，而是把你推到十字路口，讓你自己去權衡，去承受選擇的重量。讀完後，那種久久不能平息的思緒，是對生活更深層次的責任感和敬畏。
評分這本書帶給我的最大感受是一種近乎原始的生命力。盡管主題沉重，充斥著奮鬥的艱辛和人性的復雜，但通篇卻洋溢著一股蓬勃嚮上的朝氣。主人公那種“不服輸”的精神，並非盲目的魯莽，而是源自對美好事物的堅定信念和不懈追求。這種精神內核具有跨越時代的感染力。它教會我，真正的強大並非來自於外界的認可，而是源於內心的覺醒與持續的探索。我能夠感受到作者對這個人物的深厚情感，他既是批判者，又是最理解他的人。這種復雜的愛，讓故事擁有瞭溫度，讓那些看似絕望的時刻，也孕育著新的可能。它是一劑強心針，激勵我在麵對生活中的重重阻礙時，依然能保持一顆赤誠、飢渴的心，繼續前行，去追逐那些看似遙不可及的星光。
評分不錯的書
評分快遞給力，圖書質量很好。
評分物流速度快，書的質量棒
評分很好的一本書，高中生推薦閱讀的
評分正準備看，改變我男神許子東一生的書
評分京準達永遠不送，和客服無法溝通，不從京東買瞭可以瞭吧？
評分已開始看瞭第七章，彆人推薦的書，發現瞭二個錯彆字
評分還沒看，書還不錯。
評分還沒看呢 買一贈一呢
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