描述
开 本: 32开纸 张: 纯质纸包 装: 平装-胶订是否套装: 是国际标准书号ISBN: 9787201137698
威廉·福克纳，长篇小说巨匠，也是优秀的短篇小说家。《福克纳短篇小说精选》收录的43篇短篇小说均为福克纳短篇小说中的杰出之作，代表了福克纳短篇小说的文学风格和主要成就。无论在题材内容或手法技巧方面，福克纳的短篇小说跟其长篇小说基本上是一脉相承，大部分还是以约克纳帕塔法县为背景，描述的还是那个王国的沧海桑田和世态人情，探讨其中的家族、妇女、种族、阶级等问题，表现“人类的内心冲突”。本版《福克纳短篇小说精选》为精校英文版，32开本口袋装，便于随身阅读。
01 Ad Astra 001
02 All the Dead Pilots 021
03 Artist at Home 040
04 Barn Burning 057
05 A Bear Hunt 077
06 Beyond 092
07 Black Music 107
08 The Brooch 128
09 Carcassonne 144
10 Centaur in Brass 149
11 A Courtship 167
12 Crevasse 185
13 Death Drag 194
14 Divorce in Naples 213
15 Dr. Martino 227
16 Dry September 246
17 Elly 259
18 Fox Hunt 275
19 Golden Land 293
20 Hair 315
21 Honor 330
22 A Justice 342
23 The Leg 358
24 Lo! 375
25 Mistral 395
26 Most Baffling in All His Experience 426
27 Mountain Victory 428
28 Mule in the Yard 458
29 My Grandmother Millard and General Bedford
Forrest and The Battle of Harrykin Creek 473
30 Pennsylvania Station 503
31 Red Leaves 518
32 A Rose for Emily 545
33 Shall Not Perish 556
34 Shingles for the Lord 570
35 The Tall Men 586
36 That Evening Sun 601
37 That Will Be Fine 620
38 There Was a Queen 642
39 Turnabout 659
40 Two Soldiers 691
41 Uncle Willy 709
42 Victory 730
43 Wash 761
Ad Astra
I DON’T KNOW what we were. With the exception of Comyn, we had started out Americans, but after three years, in our British tunics and British wings and here and there a ribbon, I don’t suppose we had even bothered in three years to wonder what we were, to think or to remember.
And on that day, that evening, we were even less than that, or more than that: either beneath or beyond the knowledge that we had not even wondered in three years. The subadar, after a while he was there, in his turban and his trick major’s pips — said that we were like men trying to move in water. “But soon it will clear away,” he said. “The effluvium of hatred and of words. We are like men trying to move in water, with held breath watching our terrific and infinitesimal limbs, watching one another’s terrific stasis without touch, without contact, robbed of all save the impotence and the need.”
We were in the car then, going to Amiens, Sartoris driving and Comyn sitting half a head above him in the front seat like a tackling dummy, the subadar, Bland and I in back, each with a bottle or two in his pockets. Except the subadar, that is. He was squat, small and thick, yet his sobriety was colossal. In that maelstrom of alcohol where the rest of us had fled our inescapable selves he was like a rock, talking quietly in a grave bass four sizes too big for him: “In my country I was prince. But all men are brothers.”
But after twelve years I think of us as bugs in the surface of the water, isolant and aimless and unflagging. Not on the surface; in it, within that line of demarcation not air and not water, sometimes submerged, sometimes not. You have watched an unbreaking groundswell in a cove, the water shallow, the cove quiet, a little sinister with satiate familiarity, while beyond the darkling
horizon the dying storm has raged on. That was the water, we the flotsam. Even after twelve years it is no clearer than that. It had no beginning and no ending. Out of nothing we howled, unwitting the storm which we had escaped and the foreign strand which we could not escape; that in the interval between two surges of the swell we died who had been too young to have ever lived.
We stopped in the middle of the road to drink again. The land was dark and empty. And quiet: that was what you noticed, remarked. You could hear the earth breathe, like coming out of ether, like it did not yet know, believe, that it was awake. “But now it is peace,” the subadar said. “All men are brothers.”
“You spoke before the Union once,” Bland said. He was blond and tall. When he passed through a room where women were he left a sighing wake like a ferry boat entering the slip. He was a Southerner, too, like Sartoris; but unlike Sartoris, in the five months he had been out, no one had ever found a bullet hole in his machine. But he had transferred out of an Oxford battalion — he was a Rhodes scholar — with a barnacle and a wound-stripe. When he was tight he would talk about his wife, though we all knew that he was not married.
He took the bottle from Sartoris and drank. “I’ve got the sweetest little wife,” he said. “Let me tell you about her.”
“Don’t tell us,” Sartoris said. “Give her to Comyn. He wants a girl.”
“All right,” Bland said. “You can have her, Comyn.”
“Is she blonde?” Comyn said.
“I don’t know,” Bland said. He turned back to the subadar, “You spoke before the Union once. I remember you.”
“Ah,” the subadar said. “Oxford. Yes.”
“He can attend their schools among the gentleborn, the bleach-skinned,” Bland said. “But he cannot hold their commission, because gentility is a matter of color and not lineage or behavior.”
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