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許淵沖譯唐詩三百首:漢文·英語
飄(英文版)GONE WITH THE WIND 版權信息
- ISBN：9787559421630
- 條形碼：9787559421630 ; 978-7-5594-2163-0
- 裝幀：一般純質紙
- 冊數：暫無
- 重量：暫無
- 所屬分類：>>
飄(英文版)GONE WITH THE WIND 本書特色
編輯推薦 米切爾一生只寫了一部名作，卻轟動了世界 獲得普利策獎和紐約南方協會金質獎章 Tomorrow is another day. 人們無法避開生活帶來的痛苦，卻可拍一拍身上的土，起身緊一緊拳頭，笑著說一句：“明天將是新的一天。” 她從未真正理解過她所愛的那兩個男人中的任何一個，所以她把兩個人都失去了。 以史詩般的宏闊，凝住了南北戰爭那段風雨飄搖的歷史 描繪了一個女子的心路歷程 將那段迷霧中綻放的愛情描繪得如斯動人 賣點 ◎世界十大名著之一 美國出版行業的暢銷傳奇 《飄》初問世，打破了當時的所有出版紀錄。前六個月它的發行量便高達1000萬冊，日銷售量zuigao達到5萬冊。它標價3美元，卻被炒到了60美元，而當時美國一處不錯的旅館，月租金也不過30美元。當時，人們爭相一睹瑪格麗特·米切爾的芳容，她所到之處，迎接她的人群甚至比迎接羅斯福總統的還要多。 ◎“一個女性的成長史，以史詩般的宏闊，凝住了南北戰爭那段風雨飄搖的歷史” 作品中處處流露出的溫厚的女性主義光輝，也是瑪格麗特所獨有的。她的外祖母曾是亞特蘭大zui為激進的婦女組織的主席，常常站在公眾場合的凳子上，用傳教士布道式的口吻高聲譴責著社會對女性的不公。瑪格麗特受其影響頗深，卻未如此激進。她用一種緩緩的，卻堅定的方式訴說著女性的獨特力量。 瑪格麗特不曾大肆批駁老舊的陳詞濫調，只用一個個堅韌獨立的女性剪影，描畫出一個個戰爭中還能挺起胸膛的南方淑女。當讀到郝思嘉站在十二橡樹莊園的廢墟中，對著殘陽發狠念出的誓言時，不禁令人心生感動。 ◎《世界文學史》&《紐約時報》鼎力推薦的傳奇作品 作品榮獲普利策獎、國出版商協會獎和紐約南方協會金盾獎牌；被《紐約時報》和美國《讀者文摘》組織的橫跨歐、亞、美、澳、非五大洲百城十萬讀者的投票調查，精選為十部經典長篇名著之一!同時被譽為21世紀現代女性必讀的人生四書之一。 ◎隨書附贈“英英中”單詞小冊子，精美裝幀，值得收藏 精裝雙封面設計，三個封面顏色與斯嘉麗的性格成長息息相關，讓人體會到從一個天真單純甚至有些自私的女孩子，成長為一肩力挑塔拉種植園和整個家庭重擔的頂梁柱。且隨書附贈“英英中”單詞小冊子，英文直譯更便于讀者提高自己的閱讀能力。 ◎同名電影至今仍經久不衰，深受廣大影迷喜愛 據此書拍成的電影于1939年12月15日在亞特蘭大舉行首映，引起轟動，并迅速風靡全球。而扮演男女主角的演員克拉克·蓋博和費雯·麗更是因此而留在了許多影迷的心中。
飄(英文版)GONE WITH THE WIND 內容簡介
美國南北戰爭前夕，南方農場塔拉種植園的千金斯嘉麗在得知自己一直愛慕的另一個農場主的兒子阿什利將要娶妻，于是勇敢向他示愛，遭到拒絕，為了報復，她嫁給了自己不愛的男人——阿什利妻子梅蘭妮的弟弟查爾斯。？ 戰爭期間，斯嘉麗成為寡婦，生下幼子，在經歷亞特蘭大的城破被焚之日后，她帶著剛生產完畢、身體虛弱的梅蘭妮回到了塔拉，本以為是回到溫馨的家，不想面前景象一派殘破——母親去世，父親深受打擊失智，兩個妹妹也在死亡的邊緣徘徊，棉花被毀——她挑起生活的重擔，不再是當初的千金小姐。戰爭結束后，她為了種植園不落入他人之手，四處覓錢，甚至不惜搶了自己妹妹的未婚夫。同時，她為了撐死亞特蘭大的小家，更為了塔拉的大家，她不得不在懷孕期間仍撐著辦理鋸木廠，卻遭受他人口實。而在第二任丈夫被槍殺之后，她又再度為人妻，嫁給了愛她多年的投機商人瑞德。？ 然而，縱使經歷了生活的艱苦，斯嘉麗對阿什利的感情仍然沒有改變。阿什利妻子梅蘭妮的去世，給了斯嘉麗一個機會，一邊是深愛自己的丈夫瑞德，一邊是心心念念多年的阿什利？斯嘉麗會給自己怎樣一個不一樣的明天？
飄(英文版)GONE WITH THE WIND 目錄
001 / Part One
136 / Part Two
284 / Part Three
519 / Part Four
861 / Part Five
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飄(英文版)GONE WITH THE WIND 節選
【試讀】 Gone With The Wind Part One Chapter 1 Scarlett O’Hara was not beautiful, but men seldom realized it when caught by her charm as the Tarleton twins were. In her face were too sharply blended the delicate features of her mother, a Coast aristocrat of French descent, and the heavy ones of her florid Irish father. But it was an arresting face, pointed of chin, square of jaw. Her eyes were pale green without a touch of hazel, starred with bristly black lashes and slightly tilted at the ends. Above them, her thick black brows slanted upward, cutting a startling oblique line in her magnolia-white skin—that skin so prized by Southern women and so carefully guarded with bonnets, veils and mittens against hot Georgia suns. Seated with Stuart and Brent Tarleton in the cool shade of the porch of Tara, her father’s plantation, that bright April afternoon of 1861, she made a pretty picture. Her new green flowered-muslin dress spread its twelve yards of billowing material over her hoops and exactly matched the flat-heeled green morocco slippers her father had recently brought her from Atlanta. The dress set off to perfection the seventeen-inch waist, the smallest in three counties, and the tightly fitting basque showed breasts well matured for her sixteen years. But for all the modesty of her spreading skirts, the demureness of hair netted smoothly into a chignon and the quietness of small white hands folded in her lap, her true self was poorly concealed. The green eyes in the carefully sweet face were turbulent, willful, lusty with life, distinctly at variance with her decorous demeanor. Her manners had been imposed upon her by her mother’s gentle admonitions and the sterner discipline of her mammy; her eyes were her own. On either side of her, the twins lounged easily in their chairs, squinting at the sunlight through tall mint-garnished glasses as they laughed and talked, their long legs, booted to the knee and thick with saddle muscles, crossed negligently. Nineteen years old, six feet two inches tall, long of bone and hard of muscle, with sunburned faces and deep auburn hair, their eyes merry and arrogant, their bodies clothed in identical blue coats and mustard-colored breeches, they were as much alike as two bolls of cotton. Outside, the late afternoon sun slanted down in the yard, throwing into gleaming brightness the dogwood trees that were solid masses of white blossoms against the background of new green. The twins’ horses were hitched in the driveway, big animals, red as their masters’ hair; and around the horses’ legs quarreled the pack of lean, nervous possum hounds that accompanied Stuart and Brent wherever they went. A little aloof, as became an aristocrat, lay a black-spotted carriage dog, muzzle on paws, patiently waiting for the boys to go home to supper. Between the hounds and the horses and the twins there was a kinship deeper than that of their constant companionship. They were all healthy, thoughtless young animals, sleek, graceful, high-spirited, the boys as mettlesome as the horses they rode, mettlesome and dangerous but, withal, sweet-tempered to those who knew how to handle them. Although born to the ease of plantation life, waited on hand and foot since infancy, the faces of the three on the porch were neither slack nor soft. They had the vigor and alertness of country people who have spent all their lives in the open and troubled their heads very little with dull things in books. Life in the north Georgia county of Clayton was still new and, according to the standards of Augusta, Savannah and Charleston, a little crude. The more sedate and older sections of the South looked down their noses at the up-country Georgians, but here in north Georgia, a lack of the niceties of classical education carried no shame, provided a man was smart in the things that mattered. And raising good cotton, riding well, shooting straight, dancing lightly, squiring the ladies with elegance and carrying one’s liquor like a gentleman were the things that mattered. In these accomplishments the twins excelled, and they were equally outstanding in their notorious inability to learn anything contained between the covers of books. Their family had more money, more horses, more slaves than any one else in the County, but the boys had less grammar than most of their poor Cracker neighbors. It was for this precise reason that Stuart and Brent were idling on the porch of Tara this April afternoon. They had just been expelled from the University of Georgia, the fourth university that had thrown them out in two years; and their older brothers, Tom and Boyd, had come home with them, because they refused to remain at an institution where the twins were not welcome. Stuart and Brent considered their latest expulsion a fine joke, and Scarlett, who had not willingly opened a book since leaving the Fayetteville Female Academy the year before, thought it just as amusing as they did. “I know you two don’t care about being expelled, or Tom either,” she said. “But what about Boyd? He’s kind of set on getting an education, and you two have pulled him out of the University of Virginia and Alabama and South Carolina and now Georgia. He’ll never get finished at this rate.” “Oh, he can read law in Judge Parmalee’s office over in Fayetteville,” answered Brent carelessly. “Besides, it don’t matter much. We’d have had to come home before the term was out anyway.” “Why?” “The war, goose! The war’s going to start any day, and you don’t suppose any of us would stay in college with a war going on, do you?” “You know there isn’t going to be any war,” said Scarlett, bored. “It’s all just talk. Why, Ashley Wilkes and his father told Pa just last week that our commissioners in Washington would come to—to—an—amicable agreement with Mr. Lincoln about the Confederacy. And anyway, the Yankees are too scared of us to fight. There won’t be any war, and I’m tired of hearing about it.” “Not going to be any war!” cried the twins indignantly, as though they had been defrauded. “Why, honey, of course there’s going to be a war,” said Stuart. The Yankees may be scared of us, but after the way General Beauregard shelled them out of Fort Sumter day before yesterday, they’ll have to fight or stand branded as cowards before the whole world. Why, the Confederacy—” Scarlett made a mouth of bored impatience. “If you say ‘war’ just once more, I’ll go in the house and shut the door. I’ve never gotten so tired of any one word in my life as ‘war’, unless it’s ‘secession’. Pa talks war morning, noon and night, and all the gentlemen who come to see him shout about Fort Sumter and States’ Rights and Abe Lincoln till I get so bored I could scream! And that’s all the boys talk about, too, that and their old Troop. There hasn’t been any fun at any party this spring because the boys can’t talk about anything else. I’m mighty glad Georgia waited till after Christmas before it seceded or it would have ruined the Christmas parties, too. If you say ‘war’ again, I’ll go in the house.” She meant what she said, for she could never long endure any conversation of which she was not the chief subject. But she smiled when she spoke, consciously deepening her dimple and fluttering her bristly black lashes as swiftly as butterflies’ wings. The boys were enchanted, as she had intended them to be, and they hastened to apologize for boring her. They thought none the less of her for her lack of interest. Indeed, they thought more. War was men’s business, not ladies’, and they took her attitude as evidence of her femininity. Having maneuvered them away from the boring subject of war, she went back with interest to their immediate situation. “What did your mother say about you two being expelled again?” The boys looked uncomfortable, recalling their mother’s conduct three months ago when they had come home, by request, from the University of Virginia. “Well,” said Stuart, “she hasn’t had a chance to say anything yet. Tom and us left home early this morning before she got up, and Tom’s laying out over at the Fontaines’ while we came over here.” “Didn’t she say anything when you got home last night?” “We were in luck last night. Just before we got home that new stallion Ma got in Kentucky last month was brought in, and the place was in a stew. The big brute—he’s a grand horse, Scarlett; you must tell your pa to come over and see him right away—he’d already bitten a hunk out of his groom on the way down here and he’d trampled two of Ma’s darkies who met the train at Jonesboro. And just before we got home, he’d about kicked the stable down and half-killed Strawberry, Ma’s old stallion. When we got home, Ma was out in the stable with a sackful of sugar smoothing him down and doing it mighty well, too. The darkies were hanging from the rafters, popeyed, they were so scared, but Ma was talking to the horse like he was folks and he was eating out of her hand. There ain’t nobody like Ma with a horse. And when she saw us she said: ‘In Heaven’s name, what are you four doing home again? You’re worse than the plagues of Egypt!’ And then the horse began snorting and rearing and she said: ‘Get out of here! Can’t you see he’s nervous, the big darling? I’ll tend to you four in the morning!’ So we went to bed, and this morning we got away before she could catch us. and left Boyd to handle her.” ……
飄(英文版)GONE WITH THE WIND 作者簡介
瑪格麗特·米切爾Margaret Mitchell（1900—1949） 美國現代女作家。1900年11月8日出生于佐治亞州的亞特蘭大。1925年與佐治亞熱力公司的廣告部主任約翰·馬什結婚。曾獲文學博士學位，擔任過《亞特蘭大新聞報》的記者。1937年她因本書獲得普利策獎，1939年獲紐約南方協會金質獎章。 1949年8月11日，米切爾去世，享年49歲。死后葬于亞特蘭大市的奧克蘭公墓。 Margaret Mitchell was an American novelist and journalist who wrote under the name Peggy Mitchell.Mitchell wrote only one novel, published during her lifetime, the American Civil War-era novel, Gone with the Wind, for which she won the National Book Awardfor Most Distinguished Novel of 1936 and the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 1937. In more recent years, a collection of Mitchell's girlhood writings and a novella she wrote as a teenager, Lost Laysen, have been published. A collection of articles written by Mitchell for The Atlanta Journal was republished in book form.
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