作者：[美]杰克·伦敦
出版社：辽宁人民出版社
格式: AZW3, DOCX, EPUB, MOBI, PDF, TXT
马丁·伊登试读：
Jack London
Jack London (12 January 1876-22 November 22, 1916) was an American author, journalist, and social activist. He was a pioneer in the then-burgeoning world of commercial magazine fiction and was one of the first fiction writers to obtain worldwide celebrity and a large fortune from his fiction alone. He is best remembered as the author of The Call of the Wild and White Fang, both set in the Klondike Gold Rush, as well as the short stories"To Build a Fire","An Odyssey of the North", and"Love of Life". He also wrote of the South Pacific in such stories as "The Pearls of Parlay" and "The Heathen", and of the San Francisco Bay area in The Sea Wolf.
Martin Eden is a 1909 novel about a young proletarian autodidact struggling to become a writer. It was first serialized in the Pacific Monthly magazine from September 1908 to September 1909 and published in book form by Macmillan in September 1909.
Eden represents writers' frustration with publishers by speculating that when he mails off a manuscript, a "cunning arrangement of cogs" immediately puts it in a new envelope and returns it automatically with a rejection slip. The central theme of Eden's developing artistic sensibilities places the novel in the tradition of the Künstlerroman, in which is narrated the formation and development of an artist.
The Bedside Classics of World Literature, Philosophy and Psychology
Designed to make all English classic works available to all readers, The Bedside Classics bring you the world's greatest literature, philosophy, psychology books that have stood the test of time - at specially low prices. These beautifully designed books will be proud addictions to your bookshelf. You' ll want all these time-tested classics for your own reading pleasure. The titles of the fifth set of The Bedside Classics are:
Emily Dickinson's Poems - Three Series
by Emily Dickinson ¥27.00
The Complete Poetical Works of Edgar Allan Poe
by Edgar Allan Poe ¥19.00
Notre-Dame De Paris by Victor Hugo ¥35.00
Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka ¥17.00
The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton ¥20.00
Frankenstein by Mary Shelley ¥14.00
Faust by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe ¥23.00
The Confessions of Jean-Jacques Rousseau
by Jean-Jacques Rousseau ¥40.00
Martin Eden by Jack London ¥25.00
The Divine Comedy Paradise by Dante Alighieri ¥10.00
The Confessions of St. Augustine
by Saint Augustine Bishop of Hippo ¥18.00
Twelve Years a Slave by Solomon Northup ¥15.00
Jean-Christophe by Romain Rolland(Volume II) ¥29.00
Swann' s Way - Remembrance of Things Past
by Marcel Proust ¥31.00
The World as Will and Idea
by Arthur Schopenhauer (Volume I) ¥32.00
For the online order, please use the 2-dimentional bar code on the back cover. If you have any suggestions, please go to the publisher's weibo: http://weibo.com/lrs 2009. Or visit the publisher's web-side. Or call 024-23284321.
General Preface
Millions of Chinese are learning English to acquire knowledge and skills for communication in a world where English has become the primary language for international discourse. Yet not many learners have come to realize that the command of the English language also enables them to have an easy access to the world literary classics such as Shakespeare's plays, Shelley's poems, mark Twain's novels and Nietzsche's works which are an important part of liberal-arts education. The most important goals of universities are not vocational, that is, not merely the giving of knowledge and the training of skills.
In a broad sense, education aims at broadening young people's mental horizon, cultivating virtues and shaping their character. Lincoln, Mao Zedong and many other great leaders and personages of distinction declared how they drew immense inspiration and strength from literary works. As a matter of fact, many of them had aspired to become writers in their young age. Alexander the Great (356-323 B. C.) is said to take along with him two things, waking or sleeping: a book and a dagger, and the book is Iliad, a literary classic, by Homer. He would put these two much treasured things under his pillow when he went to bed.
Today, we face an unprecedented complex and changing world. To cope with this rapid changing world requires not only communication skills, but also adequate knowledge of cultures other than our own home culture. Among the most important developments in present-day global culture is the ever increasing cultural exchanges and understanding between different nations and peoples. And one of the best ways to know foreign cultures is to read their literary works, particularly their literary classics, the soul of a country's culture. They also give you the best language and the feeling of sublimity.
Liaoning People's Publishing House is to be congratulated for its foresight and courage in making a new series of world literary classics available to the reading public. It is hoped that people with an adequate command of the English language will read them, like them and keep them as their lifetime companions.
I am convinced that the series will make an important contribution to the literary education of the young people in china. At a time when the whole country is emphasizing “spiritual civilization”, it is certainly a very timely venture to put out the series of literary classics for literary and cultural education.Zhang ZhongzaiProfessorBeijing Foreign Studies UniversityJuly, 2013 Beijing
总序
经典名著的语言无疑是最凝练、最优美、最有审美价值的。雪莱的那句“如冬已来临，春天还会远吗？”让多少陷于绝望的人重新燃起希望之火，鼓起勇气，迎接严冬过后的春天。徐志摩一句“悄悄的我走了，正如我悄悄的来；我挥一挥衣袖，不带走一片云彩”又让多少人陶醉。尼采的那句“上帝死了”，又给多少人以振聋发聩的启迪作用。
读经典名著，尤其阅读原汁原味作品，可以怡情养性，增长知识，加添才干，丰富情感，开阔视野。所谓“经典”，其实就是作者所属的那个民族的文化积淀，是那个民族的灵魂缩影。英国戏剧泰斗莎士比亚的《哈姆雷特》和《麦克白》等、“意大利语言之父”的但丁的《神曲》之《地狱篇》《炼狱篇》及《天堂篇》、爱尔兰世界一流作家詹姆斯·乔伊斯的《尤利西斯》及《一个艺术家的肖像》等、美国风趣而笔法超一流的著名小说家马克·吐温的《哈克历险记》以及《汤姆索亚历险记》等，德国著名哲学家尼采的《查拉图斯特拉如是说》及《快乐的科学》等等，都为塑造自己民族的文化积淀，做出了永恒的贡献，也同时向世界展示了他们所属的民族的优美剪影。
很多著名领袖如林肯、毛泽东等伟大人物，也都曾从经典名著中汲取力量，甚至获得治国理念。耶鲁大学教授查尔斯·希尔曾在题为《经典与治国理念》的文章，阐述了读书与治国之间的绝妙关系。他这样写道：“在几乎所有经典名著中，都可以找到让人叹为观止、深藏其中的治国艺术原则。”
经典名著，不仅仅有治国理念，更具提升读者审美情趣的功能。世界上不同时代、不同地域的优秀经典作品，都存在一个共同属性：歌颂赞美人间的真善美，揭露抨击世间的假恶丑。
读欧美自但丁以来的经典名著，你会看到，西方无论是在漫长的黑暗时期，抑或进入现代进程时期，总有经典作品问世，对世间的负面，进行冷峻的批判。与此同时，也有更多的大家作品问世，热情讴歌人间的真诚与善良，使读者不由自主地沉浸于经典作品的审美情感之中。
英语经典名著，显然是除了汉语经典名著以外，人类整个进程中至关重要的文化遗产的一部分。从历史上看，英语是全世界经典阅读作品中，使用得最广泛的国际性语言。这一事实，没有产生根本性变化。本世纪相当长一段时间，这一事实也似乎不会发生任何变化。而要更深入地了解并切身感受英语经典名著的风采，阅读原汁原味的英语经典作品的过程，显然是必不可少的。
辽宁人民出版社及时并隆重推出“最经典英语文库”系列丛书，是具有远见与卓识的出版行为。我相信，这套既可供阅读，同时也具收藏价值的英语原版经典作品系列丛书，在帮助人们了解什么才是经典作品的同时，也一定会成为广大英语爱好者、大中学生以及学生家长们挚爱的“最经典英语文库”。北京外国语大学英语学院北外公共外交研究中心欧美文学研究中心主任全国英国文学学会名誉会长张中载 教授2013年7月于北京Is This Book for You?学会在阅读中辩证地思考——“最经典英语文库”第五辑之《马丁·伊登》导读王维强
早在2000多年以前，孔子就说过如果只学习、不善于思考就会迷惘。孟子也曾经说过，“尽信书，则不如无书。”意思是说，读书不能完全相信书里面说的内容，如果完全相信，还不如没有书。这句话里蕴含着朴素的辩证法思想。
书，其实也是一种理念。阅读杰克·伦敦的《马丁·伊登》，应该在阅读之余，更多地思考。
杰克·伦敦（1876—1916）出身于一个极为贫困的家庭。为了谋生，8岁就开始在街上卖报纸，十几岁就做了童工。后来，为了改变命运，他一边拼命干活，一边以惊人的毅力看书、写作。经历了无数次的退稿，他仍然顽强地坚持。终于在1899年，他的第一部小说集《狼的儿子》出版，奠定了他在美国文坛的地位。随后陆续出版了《荒野的呼唤》《海狼》《白牙》等作品。他的文学创作开始进入了黄金时期。可是到了1910年，他开始走下坡路，追求物质享受，挥金如土，甚至为了金钱去赶制质量粗糙的作品。后来在精神忧郁和疾病、债务的缠绕中，服用了过量的吗啡死亡，终年仅40岁。
作为杰克·伦敦最重要的作品，《马丁·伊登》一直以来被认为是作者的半自传体小说。小说描写了年轻的水手马丁通过写作成功摆脱了贫穷，变得富有之后精神找不到归宿，最终投海自尽的故事。
按照本文开头的观点，笔者认为，在阅读本篇作品时，要在以下三个方面着力思辨小说的故事和隐含的思想。
第一，是要充分肯定积极努力、自强不息的奋斗精神。
人的出生由不得自己。当出生在贫困家庭里，为了生活和理想，就应当以自强不息作为人生的第一法则。马丁的境遇和作者本人极为相似，都是以惊人的毅力突破生活困境。这也是强调适者生存的自然主义思想和马丁超人哲学的体现，是值得赞许和褒扬的。因为每个人的进步，其间会创造巨大的社会价值，也是推动社会前进的动力。否则，如果走向另一个极端，不思进取、懒惰懈怠，则极可能是另一种卑微平淡的生活，继而造成精神的萎靡和麻木。
第二，是正确认识关于梦想和现实冲突时的思辨哲学，正确地认识“美国梦”，进而合理地调整自己的价值观。“美国梦”是美国现实主义文学的重要主题之一。从广义上说，“美国梦”的实质，是指向一个自由、平等、民主的理想的国度。狭义上说，“美国梦”指的是个人通过主观努力获得成功，过体面舒适的日子。这实质上是一种自信的信念和进步的愿望。要实现这个梦想，曾经是无数美国青年不屈不挠、勤奋努力的动力源泉，这是有着巨大的积极意义的。但是对于梦想的认识，不能是狭隘和偏激的。美国建国之初通过志向和梦想获取名利和财富直至成功的“美国梦”，和工业革命之后极端物质主义的出现，与不顾公平正义畸形地攫取物质财富的“美国梦”是大相径庭的。就像作者和马丁的感受一样，生活缺乏信心，梦想便枯萎了。但是，社会的进步和人的思想进步一样，是螺旋式上升和前进的，单一地局限于资产阶级虚伪性、欺骗性和人与人之间存在的庸俗关系里，那么，社会对人的精神的毒害和腐蚀的结果，就是不可避免地产生精神毁灭的悲剧。这对我们清醒地认识当今社会极具现实意义。
第三，是充分认识到悲剧的成因并尽力避免的思维方式，如何学会在逆境和顺境都能健康快乐地生活。
哀莫大于心死。作者和马丁的悲剧，都是来源于精神追求的毁灭和死亡。社会阶级的分化是其中的一个重要原因。马丁和露丝的爱情其实是门不当、户不对的阶级鸿沟。即使后来马丁功成名就，中产阶层接纳的，只是他的金钱和名誉，而不是他本人。对于马丁本人而言，由于缺乏全面、客观、本质、动态的思辨问题能力，从而形成了悲剧的结局。他对社会发展和进步过程中形成的阶层现状，缺乏全面客观的认识，对当时美国社会的虚伪欺诈本性，缺乏本质的认识，对后来的美国社会可以通过体制和制度的健全逐渐进步，缺乏动态的认识。逆境的时候能够不屈不挠奋斗，顺境的时候则更应清醒地看待物欲横流和唯利是图的现状，对社会的阴暗和进步辩证地看待，学会认知和包容，才是正确的认识观。写过《热爱生命》的伟大作家，不应该对上流社会和出身于下阶层的兄弟们，都只看到其弱点，最后弄到自己连归属的地方都没有了，更不应该不热爱自己的生命，年仅40岁就被物质世界吞噬。尊重生命，承担人生责任，保持积极的、乐观向上的心态和态度，才是生活的真谛。CHAPTER 1 he one opened the door with a latch-key and went in, followed by a young fellow who awkwardly removed his cap. He wore rough Tclothes that smacked of the sea, and he was manifestly out of place in the spacious hall in which he found himself. He did not know what to do with his cap, and was stuffing it into his coat pocket when the other took it from him. The act was done quietly and naturally, and the awkward young fellow appreciated it. "He understands, " was his thought. "He' ll see me through all right."
He walked at the other's heels with a swing to his shoulders, and his legs spread unwittingly, as if the level floors were tilting up and sinking down to the heave and lunge of the sea. The wide rooms seemed too narrow for his rolling gait, and to himself he was in terror lest his broad shoulders should collide with the doorways or sweep the bric-a-brac from the low mantel. He recoiled from side to side between the various objects and multiplied the hazards that in reality lodged only in his mind. Between a grand piano and a centre-table piled high with books was space for a half a dozen to walk abreast, yet he essayed it with trepidation. His heavy arms hung loosely at his sides. He did not know what to do with those arms and hands, and when, to his excited vision, one arm seemed liable to brush against the books on the table, he lurched away like a frightened horse, barely missing the piano stool. He watched the easy walk of the other in front of him, and for the first time realized that his walk was different from that of other men. He experienced a momentary pang of shame that he should walk so uncouthly. The sweat burst through the skin of his forehead in tiny beads, and he paused and mopped his bronzed face with his handkerchief.
"Hold on, Arthur, my boy, " he said, attempting to mask his anxiety with facetious utterance. "This is too much all at once for yours truly. Give me a chance to get my nerve. You know I didn' t want to come, an' I guess your fam' ly ain' t hankerin' to see me neither."
"That's all right, " was the reassuring answer."You mustn' t be frightened at us. We' re just homely people—Hello, there's a letter for me."
He stepped back to the table, tore open the envelope, and began to read, giving the stranger an opportunity to recover himself. And the stranger understood and appreciated. His was the gift of sympathy, understanding; and beneath his alarmed exterior that sympathetic process went on. He mopped his forehead dry and glanced about him with a controlled face, though in the eyes there was an expression such as wild animals betray when they fear the trap. He was surrounded by the unknown, apprehensive of what might happen, ignorant of what he should do, aware that he walked and bore himself awkwardly, fearful that every attribute and power of him was similarly afflicted. He was keenly sensitive, hopelessly self-conscious, and the amused glance that the other stole privily at him over the top of the letter burned into him like a dagger-thrust. He saw the glance, but he gave no sign, for among the things he had learned was discipline. Also, that dagger-thrust went to his pride. He cursed himself for having come, and at the same time resolved that, happen what would, having come, he would carry it through. The lines of his face hardened, and into his eyes came a fighting light. He looked about more unconcernedly, sharply observant, every detail of the pretty interior registering itself on his brain. His eyes were wide apart; nothing in their field of vision escaped; and as they drank in the beauty before them the fighting light died out and a warm glow took its place. He was responsive to beauty, and here was cause to respond.
An oil painting caught and held him. A heavy surf thundered and burst over an outjutting rock; lowering storm-clouds covered the sky; and, outside the line of surf, a pilot-schooner, close-hauled, heeled over till every detail of her deck was visible, was surging along against a stormy sunset sky. There was beauty, and it drew him irresistibly. He forgot his awkward walk and came closer to the painting, very close. The beauty faded out of the canvas. His face expressed his bepuzzlement. He stared at what seemed a careless daub of paint, then stepped away. Immediately all the beauty flashed back into the canvas. "A trick picture, "was his thought, as he dismissed it, though in the midst of the multitudinous impressions he was receiving he found time to feel a prod of indignation that so much beauty should be sacrificed to make a trick. He did not know painting. He had been brought up on chromos and lithographs that were always definite and sharp, near or far. He had seen oil paintings, it was true, in the show windows of shops, but the glass of the windows had prevented his eager eyes from approaching too near.
He glanced around at his friend reading the letter and saw the books on the table. Into his eyes leaped a wistfulness and a yearning as promptly as the yearning leaps into the eyes of a starving man at sight of food. An impulsive stride, with one lurch to right and left of the shoulders, brought him to the table, where he began affectionately handling the books. He glanced at the titles and the authors' names, read fragments of text, caressing the volumes with his eyes and hands, and, once, recognized a book he had read. For the rest, they were strange books and strange authors. He chanced upon a volume of Swinburne and began reading steadily, forgetful of where he was, his face glowing. Twice he closed the book on his forefinger to look at the name of the author. Swinburne! He would remember that name. That fellow had eyes, and he had certainly seen color and flashing light. But who was Swinburne? Was he dead a hundred years or so, like most of the poets? Or was he alive still, and writing? He turned to the title-page ... yes, he had written other books; well, he would go to the free library the first thing in the morning and try to get hold of some of Swinburne's stuff. He went back to the text and lost himself. He did not notice that a young woman had entered the room. The first he knew was when he heard Arthur's voice saying:-
"Ruth, this is Mr. Eden."
The book was closed on his forefinger, and before he turned he was thrilling to the first new impression, which was not of the girl, but of her brother's words. Under that muscled body of his he was a mass of quivering sensibilities. At the slightest impact of the outside world upon his consciousness, his thoughts, sympathies, and emotions leapt and played like lambent flame. He was extraordinarily receptive and responsive, while his imagination, pitched high, was ever at work establishing relations of likeness and difference. "Mr. Eden, " was what he had thrilled to—he who had been called "Eden, " or "Martin Eden, "or just "Martin, " all his life. And "Mister! " It was certainly going some, was his internal comment. His mind seemed to turn, on the instant, into a vast camera obscura, and he saw arrayed around his consciousness endless pictures from his life, of stoke-holes and forecastles, camps and beaches, jails and boozing-kens, fever-hospitals and slum streets, wherein the thread of association was the fashion in which he had been addressed in those various situations.
And then he turned and saw the girl. The phantasmagoria of his brain vanished at sight of her. She was a pale, ethereal creature, with wide, spiritual blue eyes and a wealth of golden hair. He did not know how she was dressed, except that the dress was as wonderful as she. He likened her to a pale gold flower upon a slender stem. No, she was a spirit, a divinity, a goddess; such sublimated beauty was not of the earth. Or perhaps the books were right, and there were many such as she in the upper walks of life. She might well be sung by that chap, Swinburne. Perhaps he had had somebody like her in mind when he painted that girl, Iseult, in the book there on the table. All this plethora of sight, and feeling, and thought occurred on the instant. There was no pause of the realities wherein he moved. He saw her hand coming out to his, and she looked him straight in the eyes as she shook hands, frankly, like a man. The women he had known did not shake hands that way. For that matter, most of them did not shake hands at all. A flood of associations, visions of various ways he had made the acquaintance of women, rushed into his mind and threatened to swamp it. But he shook them aside and looked at her. Never had he seen such a woman. The women he had known! Immediately, beside her, on either hand, ranged the women he had known. For an eternal second he stood in the midst of a portrait gallery, wherein she occupied the central place, while about her were limned many women, all to be weighed and measured by a fleeting glance, herself the unit of weight and measure. He saw the weak and sickly faces of the girls of the factories, and the simpering, boisterous girls from the south of Market. There were women of the cattle camps, and swarthy cigarette-smoking women of Old Mexico. These, in turn, were crowded out by Japanese women, doll-like, stepping mincingly on wooden clogs; by Eurasians, delicate featured, stamped with degeneracy; by full-bodied South-Sea-Island women, flower-crowned and brown-skinned. All these were blotted out by a grotesque and terrible nightmare brood—frowsy, shuffling creatures from the pavements of Whitechapel, gin-bloated hags of the stews, and all the vast hell's following of harpies, vile-mouthed and filthy, that under the guise of monstrous female form prey upon sailors, the scrapings of the ports, the scum and slime of the human pit.
"Won' t you sit down, Mr. Eden? " the girl was saying. "I have been looking forward to meeting you ever since Arthur told us. It was brave of you—"
He waved his hand deprecatingly and muttered that it was nothing at all, what he had done, and that any fellow would have done it. She noticed that the hand he waved was covered with fresh abrasions, in the process of healing, and a glance at the other loose-hanging hand showed it to be in the same condition. Also, with quick, critical eye, she noted a scar on his cheek, another that peeped out from under the hair of the forehead, and a third that ran down and disappeared under the starched collar. She repressed a smile at sight of the red line that marked the chafe of the collar against the bronzed neck. He was evidently unused to stiff collars. Likewise her feminine eye took in the clothes he wore, the cheap and unaesthetic cut, the wrinkling of the coat across the shoulders, and the series of wrinkles in the sleeves that advertised bulging biceps muscles.
While he waved his hand and muttered that he had done nothing at all, he was obeying her behest by trying to get into a chair. He found time to admire the ease with which she sat down, then lurched toward a chair facing her, overwhelmed with consciousness of the awkward figure he was cutting. This was a new experience for him. All his life, up to then, he had been unaware of being either graceful or awkward. Such thoughts of self had never entered his mind. He sat down gingerly on the edge of the chair, greatly worried by his hands. They were in the way wherever he put them. Arthur was leaving the room, and Martin Eden followed his exit with longing eyes. He felt lost, alone there in the room with that pale spirit of a woman. There was no bar-keeper upon whom to call for drinks, no small boy to send around the corner for a can of beer and by means of that social fluid start the amenities of friendship flowing.
"You have such a scar on your neck, Mr. Eden, " the girl was
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