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开 本: 32开纸 张: 纯质纸包 装: 平装-胶订是否套装: 否国际标准书号ISBN: 9787201100326丛书名: Holybird New Classics
《简·爱》（Jane Eyre）十九世纪英国著名女作家的代表作，人们普遍认为《简·爱》是夏洛蒂·勃朗特“诗意的生平写照”，是一部具有自传色彩的作品。讲述了一位从小变成孤儿的英国女子在各种磨难中不断追求自由与尊严，坚持自我，获得幸福的故事。《简·爱》为英文原版，同时附赠配套英文朗读音频免费下载（下载地址见图书封底），让读者在阅读精彩故事的同时，亦能提升英文阅读水平。
《简·爱》（Jane Eyre）十九世纪英国著名女作家夏洛蒂·勃朗特的代表作，人们普遍认为《简·爱》是夏洛蒂·勃朗特“诗意的生平写照”，是一部具有自传色彩的作品。讲述了一位从小变成孤儿的英国女子在各种磨难中不断追求自由与尊严，坚持自我，*终获得幸福的故事。小说引人入胜地展示了男女主人公曲折起伏的爱情经历，歌颂了摆脱一切旧习俗和偏见，成功塑造了一个敢于反抗，敢于争取自由和平等地位的妇女形象。
《简·爱》这本小说的主题通过对孤女坎坷不平的人生经历，成功地塑造了一个不安于现状、不甘受辱、敢于抗争的女性形象，反映了一个平凡心灵的坦诚倾诉的呼号和责难，由一个小写的人成为一个大写的人的渴望。小说通过罗切斯特两次截然不同的爱情经历，批判了以金钱为基础的婚姻和爱情观，并始终把简·爱和罗切斯特之间的爱情描写为思想、才能、品质与精神上的完全默契。
《简·爱》为英文原版，同时附赠配套朗读音频免费下载（下载地址见图书封底），让读者在阅读精彩故事的同时，亦能提升英文阅读水平。
Jane Eyre (originally published as Jane Eyre: An Autobiography) is a novel
by English writer Charlotte Bront. It was published in 1847, under the pen
name “Currer Bell”.
Primarily of the bildungsroman genre, Jane Eyre follows the emotions and
experiences of its title character, including her growth to adulthood and her
love for Mr. Rochester, the Byronic master of fictitious Thornfield Hall. In
its internalisation of the action—the focus is on the gradual unfolding of
Jane’s moral and spiritual sensibility, and all the events are coloured by a
heightened intensity that was previously the domain of poetry—Jane Eyre revolutionised
the art of fiction. Charlotte Bront has been called the “first historian of
the private consciousness” and the literary ancestor of writers, like Joyce and
Proust. The novel contains elements of social criticism, with a strong sense of
morality at its core, but is nonetheless a novel many consider ahead of its
time given the individualistic character of Jane and the novel’s exploration of
classism, sexuality, religion, and proto-feminism.
Jane Eyre may not be the first feminist novel, but it is certainly one of
the most enduring. There have been at least 20 movie and television versions of
Charlotte Bront’s gothic love story, even more than of Emma or Pride and
Prejudice.
A preface to the first edition of “Jane Eyre” being unnecessary, I gave
none: this second edition demands a few words both of acknowledgment and
miscellaneous remark.
My thanks are due in three quarters.
To the Public, for the indulgent ear it has inclined to a plain tale with
few pretensions.
To the Press, for the fair field its honest suffrage has opened to an obscure
aspirant.
To my Publishers, for the aid their tact, their energy, their practical
sense and frank liberality have afforded an unknown and unrecommended Author.
The Press and the Public are but vague personifications for me, and I must
thank them in vague terms; but my Publishers are definite: so are certain
generous critics who have encouraged me as only largehearted and high-minded
men know how to encourage a struggling stranger; to them, i.e., to my
Publishers and the select Reviewers, I say cordially, Gentlemen, I thank you
from my heart.
Having thus acknowledged what I owe those who have aided and approved me,
I turn to another class; a small one, so far as I know, but not, therefore, to
be overlooked. I mean the timorous or carping few who doubt the tendency of
such books as “Jane Eyre:” in whose eyes whatever is unusual is wrong; whose
ears detect in each protest against bigotry—that parent of crime—an insult to
piety, that regent of God on earth. I would suggest to such doubters certain
obvious distinctions; I would remind them of certain simple truths.
Conventionality is not morality. Self-righteousness is not religion. To
attack the first is not to assail the last. To pluck the mask from the face of
the Pharisee, is not to lift an impious hand to the Crown of Thorns.
These things and deeds are diametrically opposed: they are as distinct as
is vice from virtue. Men too often confound them: they should not be
confounded: appearance should not be mistaken for truth; narrow human
doctrines, that only tend to elate and magnify a few, should not be substituted
for the world-redeeming creed of Christ. There is—I repeat it—a difference; and
it is a good, and not a bad action to mark broadly and clearly the line of
separation between them.
The world may not like to see these ideas dissevered, for it has been
accustomed to blend them; finding it convenient to make external show pass for
sterling worth—to let white-washed walls vouch for clean shrines. It may hate
him who dares to scrutinize and expose—to rase the gilding, and show base metal
under it—to penetrate the sepulchre, and reveal charnel relics: but hate as it
will, it is indebted to him.
Ahab did not like Micaiah, because he never prophesied good concerning
him, but evil; probably he liked the sycophant son of Chenaannah better; yet
might Ahab have escaped a bloody death, had he but stopped his ears to
flattery, and opened them to faithful counsel.
There is a man in our own days whose words are not framed to tickle
delicate ears: who, to my thinking, comes before the great ones of society,
much as the son of Imlah came before the throned Kings of Judah and Israel; and
who speaks truth as deep, with a power as prophet-like and as vital—a mien as
dauntless and as daring. Is the satirist of “Vanity Fair” admired in high
places? I cannot tell; but I think if some of those amongst whom he hurls the
Greek fire of his sarcasm, and over whom he flashes the levin-brand of his
denunciation, were to take his warnings in time—they or their seed might yet
escape a fatal Rimoth-Gilead.
Why have I alluded to this man? I have alluded to him, Reader, because I
think I see in him an intellect profounder and more unique than his
contemporaries have yet recognised; because I regard him as the first social
regenerator of the day—as the very master of that working corps who would
restore to rectitude the warped system of things; because I think no
commentator on his writings has yet found the comparison that suits him, the
terms which rightly characterize his talent. They say he is like Fielding: they
talk of his wit, humour, comic powers. He resembles Fielding as an eagle does a
vulture: Fielding could stoop on carrion, but Thackeray never does. His wit is
bright, his humour attractive, but both bear the same relation to his serious
genius that the mere lambent sheet-lightning playing under the edge of the
summer-cloud does to the electric death-spark hid in its womb. Finally, I have
alluded to Mr. Thackeray, because to him— if he will accept the tribute of a
total stranger—I have dedicated this second edition of “Jane Eyre.”
CURRER BELL.
December 21st, 1847.
NOTE TO THE THIRD EDITION
I avail myself of the opportunity which a third edition of “Jane Eyre”
affords me, of again addressing a word to the Public, to explain that my claim
to the title of novelist rests on this one work alone. If, therefore, the
authorship of other works of fiction has been attributed to me, an honour is
awarded where it is not merited; and consequently, denied where it is justly
due.
This explanation will serve to rectify mistakes which may already have
been made, and to prevent future errors.
CURRER BELL.
April 13th, 1848.
There was no possibility of
taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless
shrubbery an hour in the morning; but since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when there was
no company, dined early) the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so sombre,
and a rain so penetrating, that further out-door exercise was now out of the
question.
I was glad of it: I never
liked long walks, especially on chilly afternoons: dreadful to me was the
coming home in the raw twilight, with nipped fingers and toes, and a heart
saddened by the chidings of Bessie, the nurse, and humbled by the consciousness
of my physical inferiority to Eliza, John, and Georgiana Reed.
The said Eliza, John, and
Georgiana were now clustered round their mama in the drawing-room: she lay reclined
on a sofa by the fireside, and with her darlings about her (for the time
neither quarrelling nor crying) looked perfectly happy. Me, she had dispensed
from joining the group; saying, “She regretted to be under the necessity of
keeping me at a distance; but that until she heard from Bessie, and could
discover by her own observation, that I was endeavouring in good earnest to
acquire a more sociable and childlike disposition, a more attractive and
sprightly manner—something lighter, franker, more natural, as it were—she
really must exclude me from privileges intended only for contented, happy,
little children.”
“What does Bessie say I have
done?” I asked.
“Jane, I don’t like cavillers
or questioners; besides, there is something truly forbidding in a child taking
up her elders in that manner. Be seated somewhere; and until you can speak
pleasantly, remain silent.”
A breakfast-room adjoined the
drawing-room, I slipped in there. It contained a bookcase: I soon possessed
myself of a volume, taking care that it should be one stored with pictures. I
mounted into the window-seat: gathering up my feet, I sat crosslegged, like a
Turk; and, having drawn the red moreen curtain nearly close, I was shrined in
double retirement.
Folds of scarlet drapery shut
in my view to the right hand; to the left were the clear panes of glass,
protecting, but not separating me from the drear November day. At intervals,
while turning over the leaves of my book, I studied the aspect of that winter
afternoon. Afar, it offered a pale blank of mist and cloud; near a scene of wet
lawn and storm-beat shrub, with ceaseless rain sweeping away wildly before a
long and lamentable blast. I returned to my book—Bewick’s History of British
Birds: the letterpress thereof I cared little for, generally speaking; and
yet there were certain introductory pages that, child as I was, I could not
pass quite as a blank. They were those which treat of the haunts of sea-fowl;
of “the solitary rocks and promontories” by them only inhabited; of the coast
of Norway, studded with isles from its southern extremity, the Lindeness, or
Naze, to the North Cape—
“Where
the Northern Ocean, in vast whirls,
Boils
round the naked, melancholy isles
Of
farthest Thule; and the Atlantic surge
Pours
in among the stormy Hebrides.”
Nor could I pass unnoticed the
suggestion of the bleak shores of Lapland, Siberia, Spitzbergen, Nova Zembla,
Iceland, Greenland, with “the vast sweep of the Arctic Zone, and those forlorn
regions of dreary space, —that reservoir of frost and snow, where firm fields
of ice, the accumulation of centuries of winters, glazed in Alpine heights
above heights, surround the pole, and concentre the multiplied rigours of
extreme cold.” Of these death-white realms I formed an idea of my own: shadowy,
like all the half-comprehended notions that float dim through children’s
brains, but strangely impressive. The words in these introductory pages
connected themselves with the succeeding vignettes, and gave significance to
the rock standing up alone in a sea of billow and spray; to the broken boat
stranded on a desolate coast; to the cold and ghastly moon glancing through
bars of cloud at a wreck just sinking.
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