作者：高健
出版社：上海译文出版社
格式: AZW3, DOCX, EPUB, MOBI, PDF, TXT
枕边书与床头灯试读：
书前语
最近一个时期，我又为青年朋友们编了一本英语读物——英美随笔作品译粹，现由译文出版社以英汉对照本的形式刊出，目的在对有志于进一步提高英语修养的学习者有所帮助。读物采取对照本的理由很简单，读书界尤其是外语界对出版机构有此要求。不少读者是非常重视双语对照本的；他们衷心希望能更多地见到一些这类读物；他们认为这种编排方法——一种类似双语比较式的编排方法，对一个人学习外国语特别有益。原因就在于，这种读本可以为其学习者提供一个在最近距离内对某一语言就其彼此各个方面的现象进行实地比较和有效观察的最理想的条件与场所，因而这种读本的利用必将对其外语的提高起到极大的促进作用。译者本人是同意这一看法的，因而遂有上书的编选。
译者以前也出过几种这类读物，但因过去印数不多，且时间过久，市面上早已购求不到，致令一些索书者徒劳往返。但愿这部小书的出版能稍稍弥补这方面的不足吧。译者识于国庆60周年前夕①1 DreamthorpAlexander Smith②
It matters not to relate how or when I became a denizen of Dreamthorp；it will be sufficient to say I am not a native born，but that I came to reside in it a good while ago now. The several towns and villages in which，in my time，I have pitched a tent did not please for one obscure reason or another；this one was too large，t'other too small：but when on a summer evening，about the hour of eight，I first beheld Dreamthorp，with its westward-looking windows painted by sunset，its children playing in the single straggling street，the mothers knitting at the open doors，the fathers standing about in long white blouses，chatting or smoking；the great tower of the ruined castle rising high into the rosy air，with a whole troop of swallows — by distance made as small as gnats — skimming about its rents and fissures：— when I beheld all this，I felt instinctively that my knapsack might be taken off my shoulders，that my tired feet might roam no more，that at last，on the planet，I had found a home. From that evening I have dwelt here，and the only journey I am like now to make is a very inconsiderable one，so far at least as distance is concerned，from the house in which I live to the graveyard beside the ruined castle. There，with the former inhabitants of the place，I trust to sleep quietly enough，and nature will draw over our heads her coverlet of green sod，and tenderly tuck us in，as a mother her sleeping ones，so that no sound from the world shall ever reach us，and no sorrow trouble us any more.
The village stands far inland；and the streams that trot through the soft green valleys all about have as little knowledge of the sea，as the three-years'-old child of the storms and passions of manhood. The surrounding country is smooth and green，full of undulations；and pleasant country roads strike through it in every direction，bound for ③distant towns and villages，yet in no hurry to reach them. On these roads the lark in summer is continually heard；nests are plentiful in the hedges and dry ditches；and on the grassy banks，and at the foot ④of the bowed dikes，the blue-eyed speed-well smiles its benison on the passing wayfarer. On these roads you may walk for a year and encounter nothing more remarkable than the country cart，troops of tawny children from the woods，laden with primroses，and，at long intervals — for people in this district live to a ripe old age — a black funeral creeping in from some remote hamlet；and to this last the ⑤people reverently doff their hats and stand aside. Death does not walk about here often，but when he does he receives as much respect as the squire himself. Everything round one is unhurried，quiet，moss-grown，and orderly. Season follows in the track of season，and one year can hardly be distinguished from another. Time should be measured here by the silent dial rather than by the ticking clock，or by the chimes of the church.
Dreamthorp can boast of a respectable antiquity，and in it the trade of the builder is unknown. Ever since I remember not a single stone has been laid on the top of another. The castle，inhabited now by jackdaws and starlings，is old；the chapel，which adjoins it，is older still；and the lake，behind both，and in which their shadows sleep，is，I suppose，as old as Adam. A fountain in the market-place，⑥all mouths and faces and curious arabesques — as dry，however，as the castle moat — has a tradition connected with it；and a great noble riding through the street one day，several hundred years ago，was shot from a window by a man whom he had injured. The death of this noble is the chief link which connects the place with authentic history. The houses are old，and remote dates may yet be deciphered on the stones above the doors；the apple-trees are mossed and ancient；countless generations of sparrows have bred in the thatched roofs，and thereon have chirped out their lives. In every room of the place men have been born — men have died. On Dreamthorp centuries have fallen and have left no more trace than have last winter's snowflakes.
This commonplace sequence and flowing on of life is immeasurably affecting. That winter morning when Charles lost his ⑦head in front of the banqueting-hall of his own palace，the icicles hung from the eaves of the houses here，and the clown kicked the ⑧snowballs from his clouted shoon，and thought but of his supper when，at three o'clock，the red sun set in his purple mist. On that ⑨Sunday in June when Waterloo was going on，the gossips，after morning service，stood on the country roads discussing agricultural prospects，without the slightest suspicion that the day passing over their heads would be a famous one in the calendar. Battles have been ⑩fought，kings have died，history has transacted itself，— but，all unheeding，Dreamthorp has watched apple-trees redden and wheat ripen，and smoked its pipe and quaffed its mug of beer and rejoiced over its new-born children，and with proper solemnity carried its dead ⑪to the churchyard. As I gaze on the village of my adoption，I think of many things very far removed and seem to get closer to them. The last setting sun that Shakespeare saw reddened the windows here，and ⑫struck warmly on the faces of the hinds coming home from the fields. ⑬The mighty storm that raged while Cromwell lay a-dying made all the oak-woods groan round about here and tore the thatch from the very roofs I gaze upon. When I think on this，I can almost，so to speak，lay my hand on Shakespeare and on Cromwell. These poor walls were contemporaries of both，and I find something affecting in the thought. The mere soil is，of course，far older than either，but it does not touch one in the same way. A wall is the creation of a human hand，the soil is not.【注释】
① 此篇出自作者1863年出版的一部同名散文集。Dreamthorp中的thorp为village一词的古旧用语。
② denizen：naturalized foreigner，foreigner这里作外地人解。
③ in no hurry to reach them：对道路的拟人化，很妙。
④ smiles its benison：benison，古语，意同benediction。
⑤ doff their hats：doff，古语，=take off。
⑥ arabesques：decorations with intertwined leaves in the style of the Arabs。
⑦ Charles lost his hat：指Charles Ⅰ（1600—1649），英国国王，与国会作战失败后，被国会判处绞刑，行刑处即在王宫宴会厅窗外。
⑧ clouted shoon：patched shoes，shoon为古语。
⑨ when Waterloo was going on：滑铁卢战役发生于1815年6月18日。英普联军在惠灵顿公爵指挥下，仅半天时间即将拿破仑军队击溃（此次决战开始时间为午前11时半）。
⑩ Battles have fought ... transacted itself：简练的典范。
⑪ carried its dead to the churchyard：文章至此已至少七八次提到了“死”字，洵为不吉之兆。
⑫ the faces of the hinds：hinds，farm workmen。
⑬ Cromwell：即Oliver Cromwell （1599—1658），曾捕杀查理第一之议会派领袖、清教铁骑军统帅、新政府首脑与护国公（Lord Protector）。
这个梦屯并非实有其地，而只不过是作者想象中的一种寄托，一个imaginary land，有类我们的《桃花源记》。但一个人放着我们周围五光十色的繁华世界与热闹人生不去描写而把观察的目标完全集注到一个想象中的幻境上去，而且是在那么年轻的时候（按作者刊出此书时才不过三十二三岁），更何况仅仅在其中的这第一篇的这么不太长的一段中，便已经成了“死”字常不离口，便已经是在那里去寻觅其最终的归宿，并企盼从此而远离尘嚣，诀别人生！这实在未免有些不太好理解；也或许这背后自有其一番隐秘的伤心事情与一切不够顺遂的苦衷苦况。文中他仿佛已隐约预感到他的来日恐怕不太多了，而果不其然，三四年后他便死了。另外文中的那股凄恻的情调或许还另有来源，未尝不可追踪到从17世纪起便早已有之，而迨到18世纪末叶更屡见于文坛的那种以对生死宿命等问题为冥思默想题材的伤感派文艺潮流，而墓地诗的泛滥即是其一。这种流风遗绪，再结合其个人身世，是不可能不对他起些作用的。话拉回来。细按其文，某种悲剧式的美之外，一点纯朴慰人的气息还是能感得到的，再有不乏一定的清新淡雅的格调与诗意，只是属于那较素净的，因为他自己就是一名诗人，虽说成就不伟。有趣的是，Smith的这本书竟在上个世纪20年代时得到过郁达夫的注意，并在他的一篇谈散文的文章中提出说，这岂非即是我们的公安、竟陵派的东西吗？只是英国当日的这类作者远不会有我们那时的人数那么众多。试问郁达夫的这话是什么意思呢？显然郁认为Smith也具有当日（明万历年间）三袁式的“清新隽逸”与钟、谭式的“幽深孤峭”，再有前者的重视感悟性灵和后者的强调语须自出，等等。这些，只要我们能静下心来慢慢细读，或许也都能品尝到一些。但是如果粗粗一看便断言它太简单幼稚，那就不是真能欣赏文学了。译者写这段话的用意也正在此。梦屯亚历山大·史密斯
关于我是如何和何时成为梦屯的一名居民的，这事说来其实并不重要；或许一两句交代也就够了，这即是，一则我原非此地出生，二则我之来此卜居已是若干年前的事。过去我曾一度在其地搭篷支帐匆匆暂住过的一些乡镇村屯，往往会因为某种说不清的原因，比如不是彼地过大就是此处过小等等，而全都不合我意。但是当某个夏日的黄昏，时间已是八点，我生平第一次见到这个梦屯时——当我见到那些西晒的窗户全给落照的余晖染成金黄，村里的儿童正在当地仅有的一条弯曲的街道上嬉戏玩耍，孩儿们的妈妈全都在敞着门的台阶前忙着编织，他们的爹爹正个个一身雪白宽松的长罩衫，三五成群地在吸烟聚谈；那废旧城堡里的巨大塔楼仍高高耸入那蔷薇色的云天，而周围成群成群的燕子，这些从我这里望去，已细如蚊蚋，此刻正从那裂缝罅隙之间穿来穿去，上下翻飞——当我欣然目睹到这一切时，我不待人言而天然感到，我肩上的背包可以取了下来，疲惫的双脚可以歇了下来，这样息肩歇脚之后，我终于，在这个星球之上，寻到了我的归宿之地。于是自那天夜晚起，我便留了下来，以此为家。而今后如若再有什么新的行程，那只会是下述这一段微不足道的路途，至少纯以距离言，确系如此，也即是从我的寓居直至那废旧城堡旁的墓地。在那里，我深信我定会与此地的先人们一道安谧睡去，而大自然也必将以她的翠绿草泥为床罩而把我们的头颅覆盖起来，正像一位母亲那样给她入睡的孩子盖好被单，这样世上的喧嚣就会在耳边停止絮聒，外界的苦恼也就不再前来扰民。
此村地居岛国深处，因而那里淙淙于其美丽翠谷间的众多溪流根本不解大海为何物，正如一个三岁孩子不懂得成年人的狂热与盛怒。这里周遭地势虽然起伏不一，颇形崎岖，但却芳草遍地，温蒨怡人，其间可爱的村路小径，辐辏四射，伸向远近不少乡镇，但又似乎并不急于抵达。在这里入夏以后你常能一路听到云雀的鸣唱；鸟巢也极多，树篱周围与干涸沟边到处都是；在那青青的河畔，弯弯的渠底，一种长着蓝眼睛、俗名吉祥草的小花会向着那些往来过客微笑着祝福。在这些道路上，你尽可以走上一年也见不到什么太壮观的，所能见到的无非是一些乡下货车，从树林里跑出来的成群儿童，晒得黑黄黄的，手持樱草而归，或者，每隔比较长的一段时间——因此地居民都能活到相当高的寿数——从远处某个小村悄悄冒出来一支出殡行列，见到这个，路人都会毕恭毕敬地取下帽来，让出道路。死亡在此地并不经常露面，但何时他真的到来时，所受到的尊重也绝不亚于当地乡绅。在这里，一个人周围的一切都不慌不忙，安安静静，都长满着苔藓，但却又都有条不紊。在这里，寒温之代谢，岁时之更迭，都格外分明，因而一年与另一年也就区别有限。时光在此地的计算，默不作声的日晷或许比那滴答的座钟挂钟或教堂里轰鸣的排钟来得更为可靠。
梦屯最能以之自诩的便是它的年久而位尊。在这地方，建筑这一行业便从来没人说起过。自我住进该村以来，我就不记得有人在此动过一砖一瓦。那城堡，如今早已成了寒鸦与欧椋鸟之家，自然相当古老；那村中的教堂，地与城堡相毗邻，就更其古老；而那一泓湖水，位于两者的后面，也是其倒影的憩息之所，就可能更古老堙远到生民之初的亚当年代。村中集市里的一处喷泉（那上面满是嘴脸，怪不可言，而且全属阿拉伯的缀满花叶式样，也早像城堡周围的壕沟那样干涸无水），其背后倒还有个传说——数百年前的某月某日，当某位显赫贵族正骑马街头之际，突被来自某窗口的一箭射毙，而射箭者则系曾蒙受其害的人。这个事件可能即是此村与正史相连接的唯一一环。这里的屋舍全都有些年代，其门框上楣石的年代则可追溯到更远；园中的苹果树上也都因年久而滋满苔藓；檐下的麻雀也是一代一代，吱喳出巢。此地家家户户里的人全都是生于斯——死于斯；生死不离这里。在梦屯，千龄兮万代过去了，但从未留下过比去冬残雪更多的痕迹。
生命的这种不绝的往下延续与向前流淌的平庸情景其实至为感人。正当查理王在他自己的王宫宴会厅前亡其首级的那个隆冬清晨，这里家家的屋檐下正是悬满着冰柱树挂，村夫们正用那钉着铁掌的粗笨厚鞋踢打着雪球，心里想的只是下一顿饭，而就在这午后三时，天上的红日已化为暝濛的紫霭一片。正当六月的一个星期天滑铁卢大战即将展开之际，一些村民早礼拜归来，还在路边谈论庄稼的年成，这些人哪里会晓得，他们头顶上过去的那一天原来竟是人们日历上非同小可的重大的一天。多少战役烟消火灭了，多少国王陨落下世了，历史上盈满着事件——但对这一切，梦屯这里却全然不闻不知，其所关心者，只是果红麦熟，有烟有酒，如何为他们新生之儿道喜祝贺和一切端肃如仪地将死者的灵柩舁往墓地。当我此刻凝神谛视着眼前这个我认作自己的第二故乡的村庄时，入我胸臆的万千思绪竟是与此地那么的迂远而渺不相涉，却又似乎是与它近在咫尺，息息相关。莎士比亚所看到的最后一个落日，也曾把这里的窗户映得通红，也曾把正从地里回来的村民的面庞照得暖洋洋的。而当克伦威尔弥留之际，恰值天上狂飙大作，这场特大的风暴也曾把这里的橡木林刮得悲啼哀号，惨不忍闻，并把我眼前的许多屋顶给粗暴掀翻。当我想到这些时，我简直仿佛能够，我真的不妨这么说，把我的一双手安抚在莎士比亚与克伦威尔的头颅之上。这些可怜的墙壁实则即是它们的同代之物，而且觉得我的这种想法也自有它的几分动人之处。仅仅我脚下的这些泥土便当然会比他们两位都更古老，但它在一个人心中的感受却会不全相同。一道墙壁只不过是人手的产物，可泥土却不然。①2 Æs TriplexRobert Louis Stevenson
The changes wrought by death are in themselves so sharp and final，and so terrible and melancholy in their consequences，that the thing stands alone in man's experience，and has no parallel upon earth. It outdoes all other accidents because it is the last of them.Sometimes it leaps suddenly upon its victims，like a thug；sometimes it lays a regular siege and creeps upon their citadel during a score of years.And when the business is done，there is sore havoc made in other people's lives，and a pin knocked out by which many subsidiary friendships hung together.There are empty chairs，solitary walks，and single beds at night. Again，in taking away our friends，death does not take them away utterly，but leaves behind a mocking，tragical，and soon intolerable residue，which must be hurriedly concealed.Hence a whole chapter of sights and customs striking to the ②mind，from the pyramids of Egypt to the gibbets and dule trees of mediæval Europe.The poorest persons have a bit of pageant going towards the tomb；memorial stones are set up over the least memorable；and，in order to preserve some show of respect for what remains of our old loves and friendships，we must accompany it with much grimly ludicrous ceremonial，and the hired undertaker parades before the door. All this，and much more of the same sort，accompanied by the eloquence of poets，has gone a great way to put humanity in error；nay，in many philosophies the error has been embodied and laid down with every circumstance of logic；although in real life the bustle and swiftness，in leaving people little time to think，have not left them time enough to go dangerously wrong in practice.
As a matter of fact，although few things are spoken of with more fearful whisperings than this prospect of death，few have less influence on conduct under healthy circumstances. We have all heard of cities in South America built upon the side of fiery mountains，and how，even in this tremendous neighborhood，the inhabitants are not a jot more impressed by the solemnity of mortal conditions than if they were delving gardens in the greenest corner of England. There are serenades and suppers and much gallantry among the myrtles overhead；and meanwhile the foundation shudders underfoot，the bowels of the mountain growl，and at any moment living ruin may leap sky-high into the moonlight，and tumble man and his merry-making in ③the dust. In the eyes of very young people，and very dull old ones， there is something indescribably reckless and desperate in such a picture. It seems not credible that respectable married people，with umbrellas，should find appetite for a bit of supper within quite a long distance of a fiery mountain；ordinary life begins to smell of high-handed debauch when it is carried on so close to a catastrophe；and even cheese and salad，it seems，could hardly be relished in such circumstances without something like a defiance of the Creator. It should be a place for nobody but hermits dwelling in prayer and maceration，or mere born-devils drowning care in a perpetual carouse.
And yet，when one comes to think upon it calmly，the situation of these South American citizens forms only a very pale figure for the state of ordinary mankind. This world itself，travelling blindly and swiftly in over-crowded space，among a million other worlds travelling blindly and swiftly in contrary directions，may very well come by a knock that would set it into explosion like a penny squib. And what，pathologically looked at，is the human body with all its organs，but a mere bagful of petards？The least of these is as dangerous to the ④whole economy as the ship's powder-magazine to the ship；and with every breath we breathe，and every meal we eat，we are putting one or more of them in peril. If we clung as devotedly as some philosophers pretend we do to the abstract idea of life，or were half as frightened as they make out we are，for the subversive accident that ends it all，the trumpets might sound by the hour and no one would ⑤follow them into battle — the blue-peter might fly at the truck，but ⑥who would climb into a sea-going ship？ Think （if these philosophers were right）with what a preparation of spirit we should affront the daily peril of the dinner-table；a deadlier spot than any battle-field in history，where the far greater proportion of our ancestors have miserably left their bones！What woman would ever be lured into marriage，so much more dangerous than the wildest sea？And what would it be to grow old？For，after a certain distance，every step we take in life we find the ice growing thinner below our feet，and all around us and behind us we see our contemporaries going through. By the time a man gets well into the seventies，his continued existence is a mere miracle；and when he lays his old bones in bed for the night，there is an overwhelming probability that he will never see the day. Do the old men mind it，as a matter of fact？Why，no. They were never merrier；they have their grog at night，and tell the raciest stories；they hear of the death of people about their own age，or even younger，not as if it was a grisly warning，but with a simple childlike pleasure at having outlived some one else；and when a draught might puff them out like a guttering candle，or a bit of a stumble shatter them like so much glass，their old hearts keep sound and unaffrighted，and they go on，bubbling with laughter，through years of man's age compared to which the ⑦valley at Balaclava was as safe and peaceful as a village cricket-green on Sunday. It may fairly be questioned （if we look to the peril ⑧only）whether it was a much more daring feat for Curtius to plunge into the gulf，than for any old gentleman of ninety to doff his clothes and clamber into bed.
Indeed，it is a memorable subject for consideration，with what unconcern and gaiety mankind pricks on along the Valley of the ⑨Shadow of Death. The whole way is one wilderness of snares，and the end of it，for those who fear the last pinch，is irrevocable ruin. ⑩And yet we go spinning through it all，like a party for the Derby. Perhaps the reader remembers one of the humorous devices of the ⑪deified Caligula：how he encouraged a vast concourse of holiday-⑫makers on to his bridge over Baiæ bay；and when they were in the height of their enjoyment，turned loose the Prætorian guards among the company，and had them tossed into the sea. This is no bad miniature of the dealings of nature with the transitory race of man. Only，what a chequered picnic we have of it，even while it lasts！and into what great waters，not to be crossed by any swimmer，God's pale Prætorian throws us over in the end！
We live the time that a match flickers；we pop the cork of a ginger-beer bottle，and the earthquake swallows us on the instant. Is it not odd，is it not incon-gruous，is it not，in the highest sense of human speech，incredible，that we should think so highly of the ginger-beer，and regard so little the devouring earth-quake？The love of Life and the fear of Death are two famous phrases that grow harder to understand the more we think about them. It is a well-known fact that an immense proportion of boat accidents would never happen if ⑬people held the sheet in their hands instead of making it fast；and ⑭yet，unless it be some martinet of a professional mariner or some ⑮landsman with shattered nerves，every one of God's creatures makes it fast. A strange instance of man's unconcern and brazen boldness in the face of death！
We confound ourselves with metaphysical phrases，which we import into daily talk with noble inappropriateness. We have no idea of what death is，apart from its circumstances and some of its consequences to others；and although we have some experience of living there is not a man on earth who has flown so high into abstraction as to have any practical guess at the meaning of the word life . All literature，from Job and Omar Khayyám to Thomas Carlyle or ⑯Walt Whitman，is but an attempt to look upon the human state with such largeness of view as shall enable us to rise from the consideration of living to the Definition of Life. And our sages give us about the best satisfaction in their power when they say that it is a ⑰vapor，or a show，or made out of the same stuff with dreams. Philosophy，in its more rigid sense，has been at the same work for ages；and after a myriad bald heads have wagged over the problem，and piles of words have been heaped one upon another into dry and cloudy volumes without end，philosophy has the honor of laying before us，with modest pride，her contribution towards the subject：that life is a Permanent Possibility of Sensation. Truly a fine result！A man may very well love beef，or hunting，or a woman；but surely，surely，not a Permanent Possibility of Sensation！He may be afraid of a precipice，or a dentist，or a large enemy with a club，or even an undertaker's man；but not certainly of abstract death. We may trick with the word life in its dozen senses until we are weary of tricking；we may argue in terms of all the philosophies on earth，but one fact remains true throughout — that we do not love life，in the sense that we are greatly preoccupied about its conservation；that we do not，properly speaking，love life at all，but living. Into the views of the least careful there will enter some degree of providence；no man's eyes are fixed entirely on the passing hour；but although we have some anticipation of good health，good weather，wine，active employment，love，and self-approval，the sum of these anticipations does not amount to anything like a general view of life's possibilities and issues；nor are those who cherish them most vividly at all the most scrupulous of their personal safety. To be deeply interested in the accidents of our existence，to enjoy keenly the mixed texture of human experience，rather leads a man to disregard precautions，and risk his neck against a straw. For surely the love of living is stronger in an Alpine climber roping over a peril，or a hunter riding merrily at a stiff fence，than in a creature who lives upon a diet and walks a measured distance in the interest of his constitution.
There is a great deal of very vile nonsense talked upon both sides of the matter：tearing divines reducing life to the dimensions of a mere funeral procession，so short as to be hardly decent，and melancholy unbelievers yearning for the tomb as if it were a world too far away. Both sides must feel a little ashamed of their performances now and again when they draw in their chairs to dinner. Indeed，a good meal and a bottle of wine is an answer to most standard works upon the question. When a man's heart warms to his viands，he forgets a great deal of sophistry，and soars into a rosy zone of contemplation. Death ⑱may be knocking at the door，like the Commander's statue；we ⑲have something else in hand，thank God，and let him knock. Passing bells are ringing all the world over. All the world over，and every hour，some one is parting company with all his aches and ecstasies. For us also the trap is laid. But we are so fond of life that we have no leisure to entertain the terror of death. It is a honeymoon with us all through，and none of the longest. Small blame to us if we give our whole hearts to this glowing bride of curs，to the appetites，to honor，to the hungry curiosity of the mind，to the pleasure of the eyes in nature，and the pride of our own nimble bodies.
We all of us appreciate the sensations；but as for caring about the Permanence of the Possibility，a man's head is generally very bald，and his senses very dull，before he comes to that. Whether we regard life as a lane leading to a dead wall — a mere bag's end，as the French say — or whether we think of it as a vestibule or gymnasium，where we wait our turn and prepare our faculties for some more noble destiny；whether we thunder in a pulpit，or pule in little atheistic poetry-books，about its vanity and brevity；whether we look justly for years of health and vigor，or are about to mount into a ⑳Bath-chair，as a step towards the hearse；in each and all of these
试读结束[说明：试读内容隐藏了图片]