描述
开 本: 32开纸 张: 轻型纸包 装: 精装是否套装: 否国际标准书号ISBN: 9787222176249
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《月亮和六便士》
难道做自己想做的事，生活在让你感到舒服的环境里，让你的内心得到安宁是糟践自己吗？难道成为年入上万英镑的外科医生、娶得如花美眷就算是成功吗？
我想这取决于你如何看待生活的意义，取决于你认为你应该对社会做出什么贡献，应该对自己有什么要求。
–《月亮和六便士》
精神优于物质、个体大于社会–书中诠释的这种反世俗、反传统的立场，让几代读者为之潸然泪下。
月亮和六便士，月亮象征着崇高的理想追求和美妙的精神境界，也象征着离开伦敦的斯特里克兰和远赴埃及的亚伯拉罕所甘之如饴的清贫；六便士这种小面额的硬币代表着世俗的鸡虫得失与蝇头小利，也代表着卡迈克尔所引以为傲的豪奢。
世界经典英文名著文库（GUOMAIENGLISHLIBRARY）包含全世界范围内超受欢迎的原版经典图书：《小王子》《老人与海》《了不起的盖茨比》《月亮和六便士》《喧嚣与骚动》《瓦尔登湖》《欧o亨利短篇小说精选》《双城记》……
TheMoonandSixpence，中文译名为《月亮和六便士》，书中的主人公””我””是伦敦怀才不遇的作家，偶然间认识了一位证券经纪人，对方在人届中年后突然响应内心的呼唤，离经叛道舍弃一切，先是奔赴巴黎，后又到南太平洋的塔希提岛与土著人一起生活，全身心投入绘画，并在死后声名大噪。””我””在他成名后开始追溯与艺术家曾经的来往与对方之后的人生经历。
艺术家的故事以生极落魄、死备哀荣的法国后印象派画家高更的生平为基础。
◆毛姆是下述一切的总和：一个孤僻的孩子，一个医学院的学生，一个富有创造力的小说家，一个巴黎的放荡不羁的浪子，一个成功的伦敦西区戏剧家，一个英国社会名流，一个一战时在弗兰德斯前线的救护车驾驶员，一个潜入俄国工作的英国间谍，一个同性恋者，一个跟别人的妻子私通的丈夫，一个当代名人沙龙的殷勤主人，一个二战时的宣传家，一个靠细胞组织疗法保持活力的传奇人物，和一个企图不让女儿继承财产而收养他的情人秘书的固执老头子。——传记作家特德·摩根
◆我为什么要从头看他呢？因为他很会讲故事，我就看他的故事，我看他写的人，就像我在英国接触到的所有的英国人，有一种特别的味道。——董桥
◆这段时间我又重读了一遍《毛姆全集》。——村上春树
◆毛姆的风格非常坦荡。——王安忆
I confess that when first I made acquaintance with Charles Strickland I never for a moment discerned that there was in him anything out of the ordinary. Yet now few will be found to deny his greatness. I do not speak of that greatness which is achieved by the fortunate politician or the successful soldier; that is a quality which belongs to the place he occupies rather than to the man; and a change of circumstance reduces it to very discreet proportions. The Prime Minister out of office is seen, too often, to have been but a pompous rhetorician, and the General without an army is but the tame hero of a market town. The greatness of Charles Strickland was authentic. It may be that you do not like his art, but at all events you can hardly refuse it the tribute of your interest. He disturbs and arrests. The time has passed when he was an object of ridicule, and it is no longer a mark of eccentricity to defend or of perversity to extol him. His faults are accepted as the necessary complement to his merits. It is still possible to discuss his place in art, and the adulation of his admirers is perhaps no less capricious than the disparagement of his detractors; but one thing can never be doubtful, and that is that he had genius. To my mind the most interesting thing in art is the personality of the artist; and if that is singular, I am willing to excuse a thousand faults. I suppose Velasquez was a better painter than El Greco, but custom stales one’s admiration for him: the Cretan, sensual and tragic, proffers the mystery of his soul like a standing sacrifice. The artist, painter, poet, or musician, by his decoration, sublime or beautiful, satisfies the aesthetic sense; but that is akin to the sexual instinct, and shares its barbarity: he lays before you also the greater gift of himself. To pursue his secret has something of the fascination of a detective story. It is a riddle which shares with the universe the merit of having no answer. The most insignificant of Strickland’s works suggests a personality which is strange, tormented, and complex; and it is this surely which prevents even those who do not like his pictures from being indifferent to them; it is this which has excited so curious an interest in his life and character.
It was not till four years after Strickland’s death that Maurice Huret wrote that article in the Mercure de France which rescued the unknown painter from oblivion and blazed the trail which succeeding writers, with more or less docility, have followed. For a long time no critic has enjoyed in France a more incontestable authority, and it was impossible not to be impressed by the claims he made; they seemed extravagant; but later judgments have confirmed his estimate, and the reputation of Charles Strickland is now firmly established on the lines which he laid down. The rise of this reputation is one of the most romantic incidents in the history of art. But I do not propose to deal with Charles Strickland’s work except in so far as it touches upon his character. I cannot agree with the painters who claim superciliously that the layman can understand nothing of painting, and that he can best show his appreciation of their works by silence and a cheque-book. It is a grotesque misapprehension which sees in art no more than a craft comprehensible perfectly only to the craftsman: art is a manifestation of emotion, and emotion speaks a language that all may understand. But I will allow that the critic who has not a practical knowledge of technique is seldom able to say anything on the subject of real value, and my ignorance of painting is extreme. Fortunately, there is no need for me to risk the adventure, since my friend, Mr. Edward Leggatt, an able writer as well as an admirable painter, has exhaustively discussed Charles Strickland’s work in a little book which is a charming example of a style, for the most part, less happily cultivated in England than in France.
Maurice Huret in his famous article gave an outline of Charles Strickland’s life which was well calculated to whet the appetites of the inquiring. With his disinterested passion for art, he had a real desire to call the attention of the wise to a talent which was in the highest degree original; but he was too good a journalist to be unaware that the “human interest” would enable him more easily to effect his purpose. And when such as had come in contact with Strickland in the past, writers who had known him in London, painters who had met him in the cafés of Montmartre, discovered to their amazement that where they had seen but an unsuccessful artist, like another, authentic genius had rubbed shoulders with them there began to appear in the magazines of France and America a succession of articles, the reminiscences of one, the appreciation of another, which added to Strickland’s notoriety, and fed without satisfying the curiosity of the public. The subject was grateful, and the industrious Weitbrecht-Rotholz in his imposing monograph has been able to give a remarkable list of authorities.
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