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• breequeen (2008-9-10 19:55:08)

  One
  伊恩·麦克尤恩的小说《赎罪》中的Briony幼年时编了一个谎言,毁掉了姐姐和姐姐的心上人罗比的一生.随着Briony的成长,她已经意识到自己的罪行,想要忏悔.但这时,罗比和她的姐姐先后在战争中死去. Briony还能否实现她那赎罪的愿望吗?
  

  说明

  
  好句子好词粗体标记
  有些自己词语理解的就只有一个词义, [如garret阁楼的格式]所以注释不一定正确,希望大家指出错误, ^-^你们指点,我才能及时更正,做好它
  这次解释发现很累, 下次变换频率,减低名词解释,提高句子赏析
  有兰色粗体标记的词查不到,斑竹请帮忙,辛苦下
  
  
  由于是写实小说,本书中的与作者感情有关的句子就显得特别宝贵,我们就重点透X
  在小说结尾,既体现了麦克尤恩叙述历史、再现历史的努力,也反映了他对历史小说虚构本质的清醒认识.
  下面将从弗洛伊德的精神分析的理论入手,去分析Briony的犯罪,赎罪和她的创作心理.[弗洛伊德认为想要理解人的行为,首先要洞悉促成这些行为产生的思想和情感.]
  这就是本贴的写作目的:通过一个人的思想和情感来理解他的行为.
  去试着体会麦克尤恩在小说中所采取的叙述魅力
  试着感受当代英美小说经历后现代主义洗礼后的现实主义回潮.
  
  THE PLAY—for which Briony had designed the posters, programs and tickets, constructed the sales booth 销售摊位[美]公用电话间; 通话室; 暗箱; 小室[房, 亭, 箱]; out of a folding screen屏风 tipped打破on its side, and lined the collection box in red crêpe paper—was written by her in a two-day tempest暴风雨 of composition
  结构； 构图； 布置， 布局,组织，作品， 著作 rare meanings【刷】排版， 排字,情质，素质,调解， 和解,香精配方； 剂制品【数】代数运算 , causing her to miss a breakfast and a lunch. When the preparations were complete, she had nothing to do but contemplate 注视； 凝视； 观摩默想；预期计划； 打算； 设想；估计contemplate visiting Beijing 打算访问北京,点该处韦氏词典解释http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/contemplate her finished draft and wait for the appearance of her cousins from the distant north. There would be time for only one day of rehearsal before her brother arrived. At some moments chilling扫兴, 沮丧at others desperately sad, the play told a tale of the heart whose message, conveyed in a rhyming prologue, was that love [which did not build a foundation on good sense] was doomed.
  她完成了剧本的草案，等待出现她的北方表弟来彩排,故事的核心是说[没建立在好感上发展的]爱是命中注定的。The reckless 盲目的,不顾一切的be reckless of the consequences 毫不顾及后果be reckless of expenditure 乱花钱
  
  
  passion of the heroine, Arabella, for a wicked foreign count is punished by ill fortune when she contracts cholera霍乱 during an impetuous 激烈的, 猛烈的; 急躁的; 鲁莽的;
  
  dash toward a seaside town with her intended. Deserted被遗弃by him and nearly everybody else, bed-bound in a garret阁楼, she discovers in herself a sense of humor. Fortune presents her a second chance in the form of an impoverished贫穷 doctor—in fact, a prince in
  disguise who has elected to work among the needy. Healed by him, Arabella chooses judiciously
  明智的,深思远虑的 this time, and is rewarded by reconciliation with her family and a wedding with the medical prince on “a windy sunlit day in spring.”“风和日煦春天”
  
  Mrs. Tallis read the seven pages of The Trials 审判of Arabella in her bedroom, at her dressing table, with the author’s arm around her shoulder the whole while.很温馨的画面 Briony
  studied her mother’s face for every trace of shifting emotion, 观察仔细!以微量计算的情感and Emily Tallis obliged with looks of alarm, snickers =sniggerof glee and, at the end, grateful smiles and wise, affirming nods.过渡一气呵成! She took her daughter in her arms, onto her lap—ah, that hot smooth little body she remembered from its
  infancy, and still not gone from her, not quite yet同感母性!—and said that the play was “stupendous,”
  惊人的; and agreed instantly, murmuring into the tight 紧张的whorl纹理of the girl’s ear, that this word could be quoted on the poster which was to be on an easel画架in the entrance hall by the ticket booth.
  售票处
  
  Briony was hardly to know it then, but this was the project’s highest point of fulfillment. Nothing came near it for satisfaction, all else was dreams and frustration. There were moments in the summer dusk 黄昏after her light was out, when she burrowed钻来钻去in the delicious gloom可尝到的忧愁可见很深邃of her canopy bed檐篷床, and made her heart thud
  with luminous夜光, yearning fantasies, little playlets in themselves, every one of which featured Leon. In one, his big, good-natured face buckled 屈曲in grief as Arabella sank in loneliness and despair. In another, there he was, cocktail in hand at some fashionable city watering hole, overheard boasting to自夸a group of friends: Yes, my younger sister, Briony Tallis the writer, you must surely have heard of her. In a third, he punched挥拳打 the air in exultation 狂喜, 欢跃(at); 非常得意(over)
  as the final curtain fell, although there was no curtain, there was no possibility of a curtain. Her play was not for her cousins, it was for her brother, to celebrate his return, provoke his admiration and guide him away from his careless succession of girlfriends, toward the right form of wife, the one who would persuade him to return to the countryside, the one who would sweetly request Briony’s services as a bridesmaid.
  Briony写PLAY以庆祝他哥回家,以便说服他返回到农村结婚,自己好做bridesmaid
  
  She was one of those children possessed by a desire to have the world just so.
  拥有世界的欲望,儿童只是如此Whereas her big sister’s room was a stew 大杂烩of unclosed books, unfolded clothes, unmade bed, unemptied ashtrays, Briony’s was a shrine 神to her controlling demon: the model farm spread across a deep window ledge consisted of the usual animals, but all facing one way—toward their owner—as if about to break into song, and even the farmyard hens
  were neatly corralled. vt. 把...关进畜栏In fact, Briony’s was the only tidy upstairs room in the house. Her straight-backed dolls in their many-roomed mansion 大厦appeared to be under strict instructions not to touch the walls; the various thumb-sized figures to be found standing about her dressing table—cowboys, deep-sea divers, humanoid mice—suggested by their even ranks and spacing a citizen’s army awaiting orders.亏他写的出来,未抿童心
  
  A taste for the miniature was one aspect of an orderly spirit. Another was a passion for secrets: in a prized 珍贵的varnished cabinet涂漆内阁, a secret drawer was opened by pushing against the grain of a cleverly turned dovetail吻合的 joint,
  所谓“秘密花园”其实不然and here she kept a diary locked by a clasp, and a notebook written in a code of her own invention. In a toy safe opened by six secret numbers she stored letters and postcards. An old tin petty cash box was hidden under a removable floorboard beneath her bed. In the box were treasures that dated back four years, to her ninth birthday when she began collecting: a mutant变异的;突变的double acorn橡子，橡实, fool’s gold, a rainmaking spell bought at a funfair, a squirrel’s skull颅骨, 脑壳 as light as a leaf.
  在隐藏的床下暗格的盒子里开始收集稀有的秘密小宝贝
  But hidden drawers, lockable diaries and cryptographic systems could not conceal from Briony the simple truth: she had no secrets. Her wish for a harmonious, organized world denied her the reckless鲁莽的 possibilities of wrongdoing. Mayhem 混乱and destruction were too chaotic for her tastes, and she did not have it in her to be cruel. Her effective status as an only child, as well as the relative isolation of the Tallis house, kept her, at least during the long summer holidays, from girlish intrigues 阴谋with friends. Nothing in her life was sufficiently interesting or shameful to merit hiding; no one knew about the squirrel’s skull beneath her bed, but no one wanted to know. 所谓“秘密花园”其实不然, 因为没有人想知道她的秘密None of this was particularly an affliction; 痛苦or rather, it appeared so only in retrospect, once a solution had been found.
  
  
  
  At the age of eleven she wrote her first story—a foolish affair, imitative of half a dozen folktales and lacking, she realized later, that vital knowingness about the ways of the world which compels a reader’s respect. But this first clumsy attempt showed her that the imagination itself was a source of secrets想象本身就是一种秘密的来源: once she had begun a story, no one could be told. Pretending in words was too tentative, 暂定too vulnerable, too embarrassing to let anyone know. 尽管虚构的,还是不让任何人知道Even writing out the she saids, the and thens, made her wince, and she felt foolish, appearing to know about the emotions of an imaginary being. Self-exposure was inevitable the moment she described a character’s weakness她描述了性格的弱点自我暴露;the reader was bound to speculate that she was describing herself. What other authority could she have? Only when a story was finished, all fates resolved and the whole matter sealed off at both ends so it resembled, at least in this one respect, every other finished story in the world, could she feel immune, and ready to punch holes in the margins, bind the chapters with pieces of string, paint or draw the cover, and take the finished work to show to her mother, or her father, when he was home.
  

  
  ATONMENT1.jpg

  
  ATOMENT全书讲解
  全部的解释
  *** Hidden to visitors ***
  
  第一部分第一章
  讲解1
  *** Hidden to visitors ***
  讲解2长一点的
  *** Hidden to visitors ***
  
  
  
  [ 本帖最后由 breequeen 于 2008-9-19 00:13 编辑 ]

  Ao1.1.rar
  (2008-09-11 20:12:01, Size: 15.4 KB, Downloads: 53)

  Atonement PART １CHAPTER１.pdf
  (2008-09-14 08:18:01, Size: 357 KB, Downloads: 25)

  Atonement PART １.CHAPTER１.pdf
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  ATONEMENT.rar
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• breequeen (2008-9-10 19:57:11)

  
  
  
  
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  ATONMENT2.jpg

  
  下面传说中的11M.
  2部分
  ATONEMENT全书讲解*** Hidden to visitors ***
  标签没做好,字比较小,悠着点看 使用-若想看第一部分的第二章即打开后找Part one 查找two可
  Atonement节选19部分讲解*** Hidden to visitors ***
  这个是上面的精简版,我很满意
  标签对应,四号字,舒服   
  很好看的小说,忍不住全看完了,提前了很多杀青耶
  pdf滴
  不懂或头疼的子妹兄弟们
    希望大家有所收获,轻松阅读   希望大家不吝指正
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [ 本帖最后由 breequeen 于 2008-9-19 04:47 编辑 ]

  小说节选阅读.rar
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  ATONEMENT.rar
  (2008-09-19 04:33:51, Size: 6.61 MB, Downloads: 9)

• breequeen (2008-9-10 20:00:28)

  to be continue,the booknote part one -one will be upload soon
  
  Three
  
  ACCORDING TO the poster in the hallway, the date of the first performance of The Trials of Arabella was only one day after the first rehearsal. However, it was not easy for the writer-director to find clear time for concentrated work. As on the preceding afternoon, the trouble lay in assembling the cast. During the night Arabella’s disapproving father, Jackson, had wet the bed, as troubled small boys far from home will, and was obliged by current theory to carry his sheets and pajamas down to the laundry and wash them himself, by hand, under the supervision of Betty who had been instructed to be distant and firm. This was not represented to the boy as a punishment, the idea being to instruct his unconscious that future lapses would entail inconvenience and hard work; but he was bound to feel it as reproof as he stood at the vast stone sink which rose level to his chest, suds creeping up his bare arms to soak his rolled-up shirtsleeves, the wet sheets as heavy as a dead dog and a general sense of calamity numbing his will. Briony came down at intervals to check on his progress. She was forbidden to help, and Jackson, of course, had never laundered a thing in his life; the two washes, countless rinses and the sustained two-handed grappling with the mangle, as well as the fifteen trembling minutes he had afterward at the kitchen table with bread and butter and a glass of water, took up two hours’ rehearsal time.
  
  Betty told Hardman when he came in from the morning heat for his pint of ale that it was enough that she was having to prepare a special roast dinner in such weather, and that she personally thought the treatment too harsh, and would have administered several sharp smacks to the buttocks and washed the sheets herself. This would have suited Briony, for the morning was slipping away. When her mother came down to see for herself that the task was done, it was inevitable that a feeling of release should settle on the participants, and in Mrs. Tallis’s mind a degree of unacknowledged guilt, so that when Jackson asked in a small voice if he might please now be allowed a swim in the pool and could his brother come too, his wish was immediately granted, and Briony’s objections generously brushed aside, as though she were the one who was imposing unpleasant ordeals on a helpless little fellow. So there was swimming, and then there had to be lunch.
  
  Rehearsals had continued without Jackson, but it was undermining not to have the important first scene, Arabella’s leave-
  taking, brought to perfection, and Pierrot was too nervous about the fate of his brother down in the bowels of the house to be much in the way of a dastardly foreign count; whatever happened to Jackson would be Pierrot’s future too. He made frequent trips to the lavatory at the end of the corridor.
  
  When Briony returned from one of her visits to the laundry, he asked her, “Has he had the spanking?”
  
  “Not as yet.”
  
  Like his brother, Pierrot had the knack of depriving his lines of any sense. He intoned a roll call of words: “Do-you-think-you-can-escape-from-my-clutches?” All present and correct.
  
  “It’s a question,” Briony cut in. “Don’t you see? It goes up at the end.”
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  “There. You just did it. You start low and end high. It’s a question.”
  
  He swallowed hard, drew a breath and made another attempt, producing this time a roll call on a rising chromatic scale.
  
  “At the end. It goes up at the end!”
  
  Now came a roll call on the old monotone, with a break of register, a yodel, on the final syllable.
  
  Lola had come to the nursery that morning in the guise of the adult she considered herself at heart to be. She wore pleated flannel trousers that ballooned at the hips and flared at the ankle, and a short-sleeved sweater made of cashmere. Other tokens of maturity included a velvet choker of tiny pearls, the ginger tresses gathered at the nape and secured with an emerald clasp, three loose silver bracelets around a freckled wrist, and the fact that whenever she moved, the air about her tasted of rosewater. Her condescension, being wholly restrained, was all the more potent. She was coolly responsive to Briony’s suggestions, spoke her lines, which she seemed to have learned overnight, with sufficient expression, and was gently encouraging to her little brother, without encroaching at all on the director’s authority. It was as if Cecilia, or even their mother, had agreed to spend some time with the little ones by taking on a role in the play, and was determined not to let a trace of boredom show. What was missing was any demonstration of ragged, childish enthusiasm. When Briony had shown her cousins the sales booth and the collection box the evening before, the twins had fought each other for the best front-of-house roles, but Lola had crossed her arms and paid decorous, grown-up compliments through a half smile that was too opaque for the detection of irony.
  
  “How marvelous. How awfully clever of you, Briony, to think of that. Did you really make it all by yourself?”
  
  Briony suspected that behind her older cousin’s perfect manners was a destructive intent. Perhaps Lola was relying on the twins to wreck the play innocently, and needed only to stand back and observe.
  
  These unprovable suspicions, Jackson’s detainment in the laundry, Pierrot’s wretched delivery and the morning’s colossal heat were oppressive to Briony. It bothered her too when she noticed Danny Hardman watching from the doorway. He had to be asked to leave. She could not penetrate Lola’s detachment or coax from Pierrot the common inflections of everyday speech. What a relief, then, suddenly to find herself alone in the nursery. Lola had said she needed to reconsider her hair, and her brother had wandered off down the corridor, to the lavatory, or beyond.
  
  Briony sat on the floor with her back to one of the tall built-in toy cupboards and fanned her face with the pages of her play. The silence in the house was complete—no voices or footfalls downstairs, no murmurs from the plumbing; in the space between one of the open sash windows a trapped fly had abandoned its struggle, and outside, the liquid birdsong had evaporated in the heat. She pushed her knees out straight before her and let the folds of her white muslin dress and the familiar, endearing, pucker of skin about her knees fill her view. She should have changed her dress this morning. She thought how she should take more care of her appearance, like Lola. It was childish not to. But what an effort it was. The silence hissed in her ears and her vision was faintly distorted—her hands in her lap appeared unusually large and at the same time remote, as though viewed across an immense distance. She raised one hand and flexed its fingers and wondered, as she had sometimes before, how this thing, this machine for gripping, this fleshy spider on the end of her arm, came to be hers, entirely at her command. Or did it have some little life of its own? She bent her finger and straightened it. The mystery was in the instant before it moved, the dividing moment between not moving and moving, when her intention took effect. It was like a wave breaking. If she could only find herself at the crest, she thought, she might find the secret of herself, that part of her that was really in charge. She brought her forefinger closer to her face and stared at it, urging it to move. It remained still because she was pretending, she was not entirely serious, and because willing it to move, or being about to move it, was not the same as actually moving it. And when she did crook it finally, the action seemed to start in the finger itself, not in some part of her mind. When did it know to move, when did she know to move it? There was no catching herself out. It was either-or. There was no stitching, no seam, and yet she knew that behind the smooth continuous fabric was the real self—was it her soul?—which took the decision to cease pretending, and gave the final command.
  
  These thoughts were as familiar to her, and as comforting, as the precise configuration of her knees, their matching but competing, symmetrical and reversible, look. A second thought always followed the first, one mystery bred another: Was everyone else really as alive as she was? For example, did her sister really matter to herself, was she as valuable to herself as Briony was? Was being Cecilia just as vivid an affair as being Briony? Did her sister also have a real self concealed behind a breaking wave, and did she spend time thinking about it, with a finger held up to her face? Did everybody, including her father, Betty, Hardman? If the answer was yes, then the world, the social world, was unbearably complicated, with two billion voices, and everyone’s thoughts striving in equal importance and everyone’s claim on life as intense, and everyone thinking they were unique, when no one was. One could drown in irrelevance. But if the answer was no, then Briony was surrounded by machines, intelligent and pleasant enough on the outside, but lacking the bright and private inside feeling she had. This was sinister and lonely, as well as unlikely. For, though it offended her sense of order, she knew it was overwhelmingly probable that everyone else had thoughts like hers. She knew this, but only in a rather arid way; she didn’t really feel it.
  
  The rehearsals also offended her sense of order. The self-contained world she had drawn with clear and perfect lines had been defaced with the scribble of other minds, other needs; and time itself, so easily sectioned on paper into acts and scenes, was even now dribbling uncontrollably away. Perhaps she wouldn’t get Jackson back until after lunch. Leon and his friend were arriving in the early evening, or even sooner, and the performance was set for seven o’clock. And still there had been no proper rehearsal, and the twins could not act, or even speak, and Lola had stolen Briony’s rightful role, and nothing could be managed, and it was hot, ludicrously hot. The girl squirmed in her oppression and stood. Dust from along the skirting board had dirtied her hands and the back of her dress. Away in her thoughts, she wiped her palms down her front as she went toward the window. The simplest way to have impressed Leon would have been to write him a story and put it in his hands herself, and watch as he read it. The title lettering, the illustrated cover, the pages bound—in that word alone she felt the attraction of the neat, limited and controllable form she had left behind when she decided to write a play. A story was direct and simple, allowing nothing to come between herself and her reader—no intermediaries with their private ambitions or incompetence, no pressures of time, no limits on resources. In a story you only had to wish, you only had to write it down and you could have the world; in a play you had to make do with what was available: no horses, no village streets, no seaside. No curtain. It seemed so obvious now that it was too late: a story was a form of telepathy. By means of inking symbols onto a page, she was able to send thoughts and feelings from her mind to her reader’s. It was a magical process, so commonplace that no one stopped to wonder at it. Reading a sentence and understanding it were the same thing; as with the crooking of a finger, nothing lay between them. There was no gap during which the symbols were unraveled. You saw the word castle, and it was there, seen from some distance, with woods in high summer spread before it, the air bluish and soft with smoke rising from the blacksmith’s forge, and a cobbled road twisting away into the green shade . . .
  
  She had arrived at one of the nursery’s wide-open windows and must have seen what lay before her some seconds before she registered it. It was a scene that could easily have accommodated, in the distance at least, a medieval castle. Some miles beyond the Tallises’ land rose the Surrey Hills and their motionless crowds of thick crested oaks, their greens softened by a milky heat haze. Then, nearer, the estate’s open parkland, which today had a dry and savage look, roasting like a savanna, where isolated trees threw harsh stumpy shadows and the long grass was already stalked by the leonine yellow of high summer. Closer, within the boundaries of the balustrade, were the rose gardens and, nearer still, the Triton fountain, and standing by the basin’s retaining wall was her sister, and right before her was Robbie Turner. There was something rather formal about the way he stood, feet apart, head held back. A proposal of marriage. Briony would not have been surprised. She herself had written a tale in which a humble woodcutter saved a princess from drowning and ended by marrying her. What was presented here fitted well. Robbie Turner, only son of a humble cleaning lady and of no known father, Robbie who had been subsidized by Briony’s father through school and university, had wanted to be a landscape gardener, and now wanted to take up medicine, had the boldness of ambition to ask for Cecilia’s hand. It made perfect sense. Such leaps across boundaries were the stuff of daily romance.
  
  What was less comprehensible, however, was how Robbie imperiously raised his hand now, as though issuing a command which Cecilia dared not disobey. It was extraordinary that she was unable to resist him. At his insistence she was removing her clothes, and at such speed. She was out of her blouse, now she had let her skirt drop to the ground and was stepping out of it, while he looked on impatiently, hands on hips. What strange power did he have over her? Blackmail? Threats? Briony raised two hands to her face and stepped back a little way from the window. She should shut her eyes, she thought, and spare herself the sight of her sister’s shame. But that was impossible, because there were further surprises. Cecilia, mercifully still in her underwear, was climbing into the pond, was standing waist deep in the water, was pinching her nose—and then she was gone. There was only Robbie, and the clothes on the gravel, and beyond, the silent park and the distant, blue hills.
  
  The sequence was illogical—the drowning scene, followed by a rescue, should have preceded the marriage proposal. Such was Briony’s last thought before she accepted that she did not understand, and that she must simply watch. Unseen, from two stories up, with the benefit of unambiguous sunlight, she had privileged access across the years to adult behavior, to rites and conventions she knew nothing about, as yet. Clearly, these were the kinds of things that happened. Even as her sister’s head broke the surface—thank God!—Briony had her first, weak intimation that for her now it could no longer be fairy-tale castles and princesses, but the strangeness of the here and now, of what passed between people, the ordinary people that she knew, and what power one could have over the other, and how easy it was to get everything wrong, completely wrong. Cecilia had climbed out of the pond and was fixing her skirt, and with difficulty pulling her blouse on over her wet skin. She turned abruptly and picked up from the deep shade of the fountain’s wall a vase of flowers Briony had not noticed before, and set off with it toward the house. No words were exchanged with Robbie, not a glance in his direction. He was now staring into the water, and then he too was striding away, no doubt satisfied, round the side of the house. Suddenly the scene was empty; the wet patch on the ground where Cecilia had got out of the pond was the only evidence that anything had happened at all.
  
  Briony leaned back against a wall and stared unseeingly down the nursery’s length. It was a temptation for her to be magical and dramatic, and to regard what she had witnessed as a tableau mounted for her alone, a special moral for her wrapped in a mystery. But she knew very well that if she had not stood when she did, the scene would still have happened, for it was not about her at all. Only chance had brought her to the window. This was not a fairy tale, this was the real, the adult world in which frogs did not address princesses, and the only messages were the ones that people sent. It was also a temptation to run to Cecilia’s room and demand an explanation. Briony resisted because she wanted to chase in solitude the faint thrill of possibility she had felt before, the elusive excitement at a prospect she was coming close to defining, at least emotionally. The definition would refine itself over the years. She was to concede that she may have attributed more deliberation than was feasible to her thirteen-year-old self. At the time there may have been no precise form of words; in fact, she may have experienced nothing more than impatience to begin writing again.
  
  As she stood in the nursery waiting for her cousins’ return she sensed she could write a scene like the one by the fountain and she could include a hidden observer like herself. She could imagine herself hurrying down now to her bedroom, to a clean block of lined paper and her marbled, Bakelite fountain pen. She could see the simple sentences, the accumulating telepathic symbols, unfurling at the nib’s end. She could write the scene three times over, from three points of view; her excitement was in the prospect of freedom, of being delivered from the cumbrous struggle between good and bad, heroes and villains. None of these three was bad, nor were they particularly good. She need not judge. There did not have to be a moral. She need only show separate minds, as alive as her own, struggling with the idea that other minds were equally alive. It wasn’t only wickedness and scheming that made people unhappy, it was confusion and misunderstanding; above all, it was the failure to grasp the simple truth that other people are as real as you. And only in a story could you enter these different minds and show how they had an equal value. That was the only moral a story need have.
  
  Six decades later she would describe how at the age of thirteen she had written her way through a whole history of literature, beginning with stories derived from the European tradition of folktales, through drama with simple moral intent, to arrive at an impartial psychological realism which she had discovered for herself, one special morning during a heat wave in 1935. She would be well aware of the extent of her self-mythologizing, and she gave her account a self-mocking, or mock-heroic tone. Her fiction was known for its amorality, and like all authors pressed by a repeated question, she felt obliged to produce a story line, a plot of her development that contained the moment when she became recognizably herself. She knew that it was not correct to refer to her dramas in the plural, that her mockery distanced her from the earnest, reflective child, and that it was not the long-ago morning she was recalling so much as her subsequent accounts of it. It was possible that the contemplation of a crooked finger, the unbearable idea of other minds and the superiority of stories over plays were thoughts she had had on other days. She also knew that whatever actually happened drew its significance from her published work and would not have been remembered without it.
  
  However, she could not betray herself completely; there could be no doubt that some kind of revelation occurred. When the young girl went back to the window and looked down, the damp patch on the gravel had evaporated. Now there was nothing left of the dumb show by the fountain beyond what survived in memory, in three separate and overlapping memories. The truth had become as ghostly as invention. She could begin now, setting it down as she had seen it, meeting the challenge by refusing to condemn her sister’s shocking near-nakedness, in daylight, right by the house. Then the scene could be recast, through Cecilia’s eyes, and then Robbie’s. But now was not the time to begin. Briony’s sense of obligation, as well as her instinct for order, was powerful; she must complete what she had initiated, there was a rehearsal in progress, Leon was on his way, the household was expecting a performance tonight. She should go down once more to the laundry to see whether the trials of Jackson were at an end. The writing could wait until she was free.
  
  
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  [ 本帖最后由 breequeen 于 2008-9-11 01:40 编辑 ]

• breequeen (2008-9-10 20:19:27)

  英国庄园很漂亮，花园的小径很梦幻，但我总觉得好像乱花丛里潜伏着危险的野兽，这个野兽荷尔蒙汹涌，春心大动。
  Robbie与Ｃee是压抑的，所以喷发了。但是女主角Broiny呢？这个十三岁的小姑娘，在她一无所知却以为自已很懂的时候，写了一个关于私奔少女的话剧剧本，她从看到的生活片段中展开无限联想，联想的方向是性虐待。在这个她扮演的角色里面，青春期的荷尔蒙是否起了一个推波助澜的作用？她用小孩子惹人讨厌的自以为是解释她看到的一切，并坚信着自已的正确与正义，折拗得就像扎伊尔的童子军，或者中国的红卫兵，她指证Robbie是强奸她表妹的罪犯。
  Broiny指证Robbie的动机是否真的那么纯真，或者说，是否如她自已所认为的那样纯真、正义，值得推敲。
  那天夜里，她有没有真的看到那个人？她可能看清了，但是她还是把他当成Robbie
  她的赎罪，是因为她年幼时无意毁掉了她姐姐与姐夫的幸福，还是因为多年后，她意识到了那丝曾经产生于她心间的恶念，当年她在恶念的驱使下，半有意半无意的犯下了罪恶，然后，为了使自已心灵平静，她欺骗自已罪恶是因为正义。
  
  
  我看到她正在洗手，抹了许多肥皂，使劲的搓、用刷子刷，她洗得那么仔细，那是因为她觉得自已很脏。
  但是，洗有用么？救赎是件很艰难的事。Broiny是在为Ｃee被毁掉的幸福偿罪，还是为自已当年的恶念忏悔？她需要的是姐姐原谅，还是自已的原谅？
  
  
  Robbie与Ｃee死于战争，永远的失去了重逢的机会。
  Broiny后来成为一名作家，她写下了这一段往事，虚构了一个圆满的结局：Robbie恢复了名誉，与Ｃee幸福地生活在一起。
  这是她的希望，但也仅是希望而已。错就错了，一辈子都没法挽回。悔，原本就是世界上最慢性、最使人肝肠寸断的毒药。
  Broiny可能一生未婚、禁欲，惩罚着自已。应该如此么？
  
  “虽然我猪狗不如，但我有权力活下去。”
  我觉得这种态度也是可以理解的。

  
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• breequeen (2008-9-10 23:03:32)

  *** Hidden to visitors ***

• breequeen (2008-9-11 01:43:01)

  Four
  
  
  
  IT WAS not until the late afternoon that Cecilia judged the vase repaired. It had baked all afternoon on a table by a south-facing window in the library, and now three fine meandering lines in the glaze, converging like rivers in an atlas, were all that showed. No one would ever know. As she crossed the library with the vase in both hands, she heard what she thought was the sound of bare feet on the hallway tiles outside the library door. Having passed many hours deliberately not thinking about Robbie Turner, she was outraged that he should be back in the house, once again without his socks. She stepped out into the hallway, determined to face down his insolence, or his mockery, and was confronted instead by her sister, clearly in distress. Her eyelids were swollen and pink, and she was pinching on her lower lip with forefinger and thumb, an old sign with Briony that some serious weeping was to be done.
  
  “Darling! What’s up?”
  
  Her eyes in fact were dry, and they lowered fractionally to take in the vase, then she pushed on past, to where the easel stood supporting the poster with the merry, multicolored title, and a Chagall-like montage of highlights from her play in watercolor scattered around the lettering—the tearful parents waving, the moonlit ride to the coast, the heroine on her sickbed, a wedding. She paused before it, and then, with one violent, diagonal stroke, ripped away more than half of it and let it fall to the floor. Cecilia put the vase down and hurried over, and knelt down to retrieve the fragment before her sister began to trample on it. This would not be the first time she had rescued Briony from self-destruction.
  
  “Little Sis. Is it the cousins?”
  
  She wanted to comfort her sister, for Cecilia had always loved to cuddle the baby of the family. When she was small and prone to nightmares—those terrible screams in the night—Cecilia used to go to her room and wake her. Come back, she used to whisper. It’s only a dream. Come back. And then she would carry her into her own bed. She wanted to put her arm round Briony’s shoulder now, but she was no longer tugging on her lip, and had moved away to the front door and was resting one hand on the great brass lion’s-head handle that Mrs. Turner had polished that afternoon.
  
  “The cousins are stupid. But it’s not only that. It’s . . .” She trailed away, doubtful whether she should confide her recent revelation.
  
  Cecilia smoothed the jagged triangle of paper and thought how her little sister was changing. It would have suited her better had Briony wept and allowed herself to be comforted on the silk chaise longue in the drawing room. Such stroking and soothing murmurs would have been a release for Cecilia after a frustrating day whose various crosscurrents of feeling she had preferred not to examine. Addressing Briony’s problems with kind words and caresses would have restored a sense of control. However, there was an element of autonomy in the younger girl’s unhappiness. She had turned her back and was opening the door wide.
  
  “But what is it then?” Cecilia could hear the neediness in her own voice.
  
  Beyond her sister, far beyond the lake, the driveway curved across the park, narrowed and converged over rising ground to a point where a tiny shape, made formless by the warping heat, was growing, and then flickered and seemed to recede. It would be Hardman, who said he was too old to learn to drive a car, bringing the visitors in the trap.
  
  Briony changed her mind and faced her sister. “The whole thing’s a mistake. It’s the wrong . . .” She snatched a breath and glanced away, a signal, Cecilia sensed, of a dictionary word about to have its first outing. “It’s the wrong genre!” She pronounced it, as she thought, in the French way, monosyllabically, but without quite getting her tongue round the r.
  
  “Jean?” Cecilia called after her. “What are you talking about?”
  
  But Briony was hobbling away on soft white soles across the fiery gravel.
  
  Cecilia went to the kitchen to fill the vase, and carried it up to her bedroom to retrieve the flowers from the handbasin. When she dropped them in they once again refused to fall into the artful disorder she preferred, and instead swung round in the water into a willful neatness, with the taller stalks evenly distributed around the rim. She lifted the flowers and let them drop again, and they fell into another orderly pattern. Still, it hardly mattered. It was difficult to imagine this Mr. Marshall complaining that the flowers by his bedside were too symmetrically displayed. She took the arrangement up to the second floor, along the creaking corridor to what was known as Auntie Venus’s room, and set the vase on a chest of drawers by a four-poster bed, thus completing the little commission her mother had set her that morning, eight hours before.
  
  However, she did not immediately leave, for the room was pleasingly uncluttered by personal possessions—in fact, apart from Briony’s, it was the only tidy bedroom. And it was cool here, now that the sun had moved round the house. Every drawer was empty, every bare surface without so much as a fingerprint. Under the chintz counterpane the sheets would be starchily pure. She had an impulse to slip her hand between the covers to feel them, but instead she moved deeper into Mr. Marshall’s room. At the foot of the four-poster, the seat of a Chippendale sofa had been so carefully straightened that sitting down would have seemed a desecration. The air was smooth with the scent of wax, and in the honeyed light, the gleaming surfaces of the furniture seemed to ripple and breathe. As her approach altered her angle of view, the revelers on the lid of an ancient trousseau chest writhed into dance steps. Mrs. Turner must have passed through that morning. Cecilia shrugged away the association with Robbie. Being here was a kind of trespass, with the room’s future occupant just a few hundred yards away from the house.
  
  From where she had arrived by the window she could see that Briony had crossed the bridge to the island, and was walking down the grassy bank, and beginning to disappear among the lakeshore trees that surrounded the island temple. Further off, Cecilia could just make out the two hatted figures sitting up on the bench behind Hardman. Now she saw a third figure whom she had not noticed before, striding along the driveway toward the trap. Surely it was Robbie Turner on his way home. He stopped, and as the visitors approached, his outline seemed to fuse with that of the visitors. She could imagine the scene—the manly punches to the shoulder, the horseplay. She was annoyed that her brother could not know that Robbie was in disgrace, and she turned from the window with a sound of exasperation, and set off for her room in search of a cigarette.
  
  She had one packet remaining, and only after several minutes of irritable raking through her mess did she find it in the pocket of a blue silk dressing gown on her bathroom floor. She lit up as she descended the stairs to the hall, knowing that she would not have dared had her father been at home. He had precise ideas about where and when a woman should be seen smoking: not in the street, or any other public place, not on entering a room, not standing up, and only when offered, never from her own supply—notions as self-evident to him as natural justice. Three years among the sophisticates of Girton had not provided her with the courage to confront him. The lighthearted ironies she might have deployed among her friends deserted her in his presence, and she heard her own voice become thin when she attempted some docile contradiction. In fact, being at odds with her father about anything at all, even an insignificant domestic detail, made her uncomfortable, and nothing that great literature might have done to modify her sensibilities, none of the lessons of practical criticism, could quite deliver her from obedience. Smoking on the stairway when her father was installed in his Whitehall ministry was all the revolt her education would allow, and still it cost her some effort.
  
  As she reached the broad landing that dominated the hallway, Leon was showing Paul Marshall through the wide-open front entrance. Danny Hardman was behind them with their luggage. Old Hardman was just in view outside, gazing mutely at the five-pound note in his hand. The indirect afternoon light, reflected from the gravel and filtered through the fanlight, filled the entrance hall with the yellowish-orange tones of a sepia print. The men had removed their hats and stood waiting for her, smiling. Cecilia wondered, as she sometimes did when she met a man for the first time, if this was the one she was going to marry, and whether it was this particular moment she would remember for the rest of her life—with gratitude, or profound and particular regret.
  
  “Sis-Celia!” Leon called. When they embraced she felt against her collarbone through the fabric of his jacket a thick fountain pen, and smelled pipe smoke in the folds of his clothes, prompting a moment’s nostalgia for afternoon tea visits to rooms in men’s colleges, rather polite and anodyne occasions mostly, but cheery too, especially in winter.
  
  Paul Marshall shook her hand and made a faint bow. There was something comically brooding about his face. His opener was conventionally dull.
  
  “I’ve heard an awful lot about you.”
  
  “And me you.” What she could remember was a telephone conversation with her brother some months before, during which they had discussed whether they had ever eaten, or would ever eat, an Amo bar.
  
  “Emily’s lying down.”
  
  It was hardly necessary to say it. As children they claimed to be able to tell from across the far side of the park whenever their mother had a migraine by a certain darkening at the windows.
  
  “And the Old Man’s staying in town?”
  
  “He might come later.”
  
  Cecilia was aware that Paul Marshall was staring at her, but before she could look at him she needed to prepare something to say.
  
  “The children were putting on a play, but it rather looks like it’s fallen apart.”
  
  Marshall said, “That might have been your sister I saw down by the lake. She was giving the nettles a good thrashing.”
  
  Leon stepped aside to let Hardman’s boy through with the bags. “Where are we putting Paul?”
  
  “On the second floor.” Cecilia had inclined her head to direct these words at the young Hardman. He had reached the foot of the stairs and now stopped and turned, a leather suitcase in each hand, to face them where they were grouped, in the center of the checkered, tiled expanse. His expression was of tranquil incomprehension. She had noticed him hanging around the children lately. Perhaps he was interested in Lola. He was sixteen, and certainly no boy. The roundness she remembered in his cheeks had gone, and the childish bow of his lips had become elongated and innocently cruel. Across his brow a constellation of acne had a new-minted look, its garishness softened by the sepia light. All day long, she realized, she had been feeling strange, and seeing strangely, as though everything was already long in the past, made more vivid by posthumous ironies she could not quite grasp.
  
  She said to him patiently, “The big room past the nursery.”
  
  “Auntie Venus’s room,” Leon said.
  
  Auntie Venus had been for almost half a century a vital nursing presence across a swath of the Northern Territories in Canada. She was no one’s aunt particularly, or rather, she was Mr. Tallis’s dead second cousin’s aunt, but no one questioned her right, after her retirement, to the room on the second floor where, for most of their childhoods, she had been a sweet-natured, bedridden invalid who withered away to an uncomplaining death when Cecilia was ten. A week later Briony was born.
  
  Cecilia led the visitors into the drawing room, through the French windows, past the roses toward the swimming pool, which was behind the stable block and was surrounded on four sides by a high thicket of bamboo, with a tunnel-like gap for an entrance. They walked through, bending their heads under low canes, and emerged onto a terrace of dazzling white stone from which the heat rose in a blast. In deep shadow, set well back from the water’s edge, was a white-painted tin table with a pitcher of iced punch under a square of cheesecloth. Leon unfolded the canvas chairs and they sat with their glasses in a shallow circle facing the pool. From his position between Leon and Cecilia, Marshall took control of the conversation with a ten-minute monologue. He told them how wonderful it was, to be away from town, in tranquillity, in the country air; for nine months, for every waking minute of every day, enslaved to a vision, he had shuttled between headquarters, his boardroom and the factory floor. He had bought a large house on Clapham Common and hardly had time to visit it. The launch of Rainbow Amo had been a triumph, but only after various distribution catastrophes which had now been set right; the advertising campaign had offended some elderly bishops so another was devised; then came the problems of success itself, unbelievable sales, new production quotas, and disputes about overtime rates, and the search for a site for a second factory about which the four unions involved had been generally sullen and had needed to be charmed and coaxed like children; and now, when all had been brought to fruition, there loomed the greater challenge yet of Army Amo, the khaki bar with the Pass the Amo! slogan; the concept rested on an assumption that spending on the Armed Forces must go on increasing if Mr. Hitler did not pipe down; there was even a chance that the bar could become part of the standard-issue ration pack; in that case, if there were to be a general conscription, a further five factories would be needed; there were some on the board who were convinced there should and would be an accommodation with Germany and that Army Amo was a dead duck; one member was even accusing Marshall of being a warmonger; but, exhausted as he was, and maligned, he would not be turned away from his purpose, his vision. He ended by repeating that it was wonderful to find oneself “way out here” where one could, as it were, catch one’s breath.
  
  Watching him during the first several minutes of his delivery, Cecilia felt a pleasant sinking sensation in her stomach as she contemplated how deliciously self-destructive it would be, almost erotic, to be married to a man so nearly handsome, so hugely rich, so unfathomably stupid. He would fill her with his big-faced children, all of them loud, boneheaded boys with a passion for guns and football and aeroplanes. She watched him in profile as he turned his head toward Leon. A long muscle twitched above the line of his jaw as he spoke. A few thick black hairs curled free of his eyebrow, and from his earholes there sprouted the same black growth, comically kinked like pubic hair. He should instruct his barber.
  
  The smallest shift in her gaze brought her Leon’s face, but he was staring politely at his friend and seemed determined not to meet her eye. As children they used to torment each other with “the look” at the Sunday lunches their parents gave for elderly relatives. These were awesome occasions worthy of the ancient silver service; the venerable great-uncles and -aunts and grandparents were Victorians, from their mother’s side of the family, a baffled and severe folk, a lost tribe who arrived at the house in black cloaks having wandered peevishly for two decades in an alien, frivolous century. They terrified the ten-year-old Cecilia and her twelve-year-old brother, and a giggling fit was always just a breath away. The one who caught the look was helpless, the one who bestowed it, immune. Mostly, the power was with Leon, whose look was mock-solemn, and consisted of drawing the corners of his mouth downward while rolling his eyes. He might ask Cecilia in the most innocent voice for the salt to be passed, and though she averted her gaze as she handed it to him, though she turned her head and inhaled deeply, it could be enough simply to know that he was doing his look to consign her to ninety minutes of quaking torture. Meanwhile, Leon would be free, needing only to top her up occasionally if he thought she was beginning to recover. Only rarely had she reduced him with an expression of haughty pouting. Since the children were sometimes seated between adults, giving the look had its dangers—making faces at table could bring down disgrace and an early bedtime. The trick was to make the attempt while passing between, say, licking one’s lips and smiling broadly, and at the same time catch the other’s eye. On one occasion they had looked up and delivered their looks simultaneously, causing Leon to spray soup from his nostrils onto the wrist of a great-aunt. Both children were banished to their rooms for the rest of the day.
  
  Cecilia longed to take her brother aside and tell him that Mr. Marshall had pubic hair growing from his ears. He was describing the boardroom confrontation with the man who called him a warmonger. She half raised her arm as though to smooth her hair. Automatically, Leon’s attention was drawn by the motion, and in that instant she delivered the look he had not seen in more than ten years. He pursed his lips and turned away, and found something of interest to stare at near his shoe. As Marshall turned to Cecilia, Leon raised a cupped hand to shield his face, but could not disguise from his sister the tremor along his shoulders. Fortunately for him, Marshall was reaching his conclusion.
  
  “ . . . where one can, as it were, catch one’s breath.”
  
  Immediately, Leon was on his feet. He walked to the edge of the pool and contemplated a sodden red towel left near the diving board. Then he strolled back to them, hands in pockets, quite recovered.
  
  He said to Cecilia, “Guess who we met on the way in.”
  
  “Robbie.”
  
  “I told him to join us tonight.”
  
  “Leon! You didn’t!”
  
  He was in a teasing mood. Revenge perhaps. He said to his friend, “So the cleaning lady’s son gets a scholarship to the local grammar, gets a scholarship to Cambridge, goes up the same time as Cee—and she hardly speaks to him in three years! She wouldn’t let him near her Roedean chums.”
  
  “You should have asked me first.”
  
  She was genuinely annoyed, and observing this, Marshall said placatingly, “I knew some grammar school types at Oxford and some of them were damned clever. But they could be resentful, which was a bit rich, I thought.”
  
  She said, “Have you got a cigarette?”
  
  He offered her one from a silver case, threw one to Leon and took one for himself. They were all standing now, and as Cecilia leaned toward Marshall’s lighter, Leon said, “He’s got a first-rate mind, so I don’t know what the hell he’s doing, messing about in the flower beds.”
  
  She went to sit on the diving board and tried to give the appearance of relaxing, but her tone was strained. “He’s wondering about a medical degree. Leon, I wish you hadn’t asked him.”
  
  “The Old Man’s said yes?”
  
  She shrugged. “Look, I think you ought to go round to the bungalow now and ask him not to come.”
  
  Leon had walked to the shallow end and stood facing her across the gently rocking sheet of oily blue water.
  
  “How can I possibly do that?”
  
  “I don’t care how you do it. Make an excuse.”
  
  “Something’s happened between you.”
  
  “No it hasn’t.”
  
  “Is he bothering you?”
  
  “For God’s sake!”
  
  She got up irritably and walked away, toward the swimming pool pavilion, an open structure supported by three fluted pillars. She stood, leaning against the central pillar, smoking and watching her brother. Two minutes before, they had been in league and now they were at odds—childhood revisited indeed. Paul Marshall stood halfway between them, turning his head this way and that when they spoke, as though at a tennis match. He had a neutral, vaguely inquisitive air, and seemed untroubled by this sibling squabble. That at least, Cecilia thought, was in his favor.
  
  Her brother said, “You think he can’t hold a knife and fork.”
  
  “Leon, stop it. You had no business inviting him.”
  
  “What rot!”
  
  The silence that followed was partly mitigated by the drone of the filtration pump. There was nothing she could do, nothing she could make Leon do, and she suddenly felt the pointlessness of argument. She lolled against the warm stone, lazily finishing her cigarette and contemplating the scene before her—the foreshortened slab of chlorinated water, the black inner tube of a tractor tire propped against a deck chair, the two men in cream linen suits of infinitesimally different hues, bluish-gray smoke rising against the bamboo green. It looked carved, fixed, and again, she felt it: it had happened a long time ago, and all outcomes, on all scales—from the tiniest to the most colossal—were already in place. Whatever happened in the future, however superficially strange or shocking, would also have an unsurprising, familiar quality, inviting her to say, but only to herself, Oh yes, of course. That. I should have known.
  
  She said lightly, “D’you know what I think?”
  
  “What’s that?”
  
  “We should go indoors, and you should mix us a fancy kind of drink.”
  
  Paul Marshall banged his hands together and the sound ricocheted between the columns and the back wall of the pavilion. “There’s something I do rather well,” he called. “With crushed ice, rum and melted dark chocolate.”
  
  The suggestion prompted an exchange of glances between Cecilia and her brother, and thus their discord was resolved. Leon was already moving away, and as Cecilia and Paul Marshall followed him and converged on the gap in the thicket she said, “I’d rather have something bitter. Or even sour.”
  
  He smiled, and since he had reached the gap first, he paused to hand her through, as though it were a drawing room doorway, and as she passed she felt him touch her lightly on her forearm.
  
  Or it may have been a leaf.
  
  
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• dsz_shn_CHINA (2008-9-11 10:53:24)

  双城记已悬赏。如果你要带读，你可以来认领呀
  
  具体内容看下贴
  http://bbs.en8848.com.cn/thread-15361-1-1.html
  
  [ 本帖最后由 dsz_shn_CHINA 于 2008-9-11 10:54 编辑 ]

• breequeen (2008-9-11 22:29:32)

  由于小说的精妙后现代结构，这是一部很难蜕化为影视的作品。个人看法，电影改编得出乎意料地好，不过，小说里的一个关键词，“谎言”，似乎在影片中有所弱化。
  　　《纽约时报》首席影评人斯科特（A.O. Scott）的一段有趣评论（该报去年１２月７日），就与这弱化有关。女主角布里奥妮的一个“谎言”将姐姐的男朋友罗比送入了监狱。警察带走罗比时，他的母亲站在路中间，挡住警车，用雨伞猛敲车头。斯科特批评这位老演员（Brenda Blethyn）演得太过火，他说这只是制造了些似乎真实却与主题无关的喧闹。
  　　其实，在小说里，这一喧闹是必须的。
  　　小说分三部分，加一个尾声。第一部分是十三岁的布里奥妮犯了大错，罗比倒了大霉；第二部分是罗比在第二次世界大战爆发后，为提前出狱而参军去法国打仗；第三部分是已经十八岁的布里奥妮放弃了读书牛津的机会，在医院当护士，为伤兵服务，这是她的赎罪；尾声是七十七岁的老年布里奥妮对往事的解释和回忆。电影基本上遵循了小说的叙述顺序。在第一部分的结尾，布里奥妮被母亲支使到房间睡觉，但她倚在窗口，要看事件如何结束。她看到了一段距离之外的拦车场面。作者写道：
  　　As the constables half pushed, half carried her to the edge of the drive, she began to shout a single word so loudly that Briony could hear it from her bedroom, 'Liars! Liars! Liars!' Mrs Turner roared.
  　　所以演员必须演得过火，必须狂叫“撒谎”，然后布里奥妮才能远远地听到这一呼喊，而且会对这结束事件的最后呼喊留下深刻印象。演员的表演，为小说底本所规定。但斯科特说得也有道理，单从电影来看，罗比母亲的呼喊确实有点有余，删了也不影响情节发展。但在小说里，这一呼喊却连接着布里奥妮在第三部分的心理震动。
  　　罗比逮捕后，布里奥妮的姐姐塞西莉亚先做了护士，并与家庭脱离关系。接着布里奥妮学着姐姐也做了护士。她想为罗比翻案，去找姐姐商量。两姐妹五年来第一次见面。塞西莉亚抢白妹妹：你以为你改口就行了，没有新的证据，法庭不会重新考虑，既然你已经撒了一次谎，别人为什么要相信你的第二次？
  　　尽管听到过罗比母亲的呼喊，布里奥妮似乎仅是当作一种诅咒。但姐姐所指出的她的改口的无效，迫使布里奥妮面对这一诅咒的真实性。作者写道：
  　　Her sister's confirmation of her crime is terrible to hear, but the perspective was unfamiliar. Weak, stupid, confused, cowardly, evasive -- she had hated herself for everything she had been, but she had never thought of herself as a liar. ... She hadn't intended to mislead, she hadn't acted out of malice.
  　　这段话，很多读者可能会觉得难以理解。为什么布里奥妮会觉得姐姐指责她的视角很陌生？布里奥妮已经知道罗比是冤枉的，为什么她仍然认为自己没说谎？因为她不愿认错？那她不是已经放弃学院前途而在医院赎罪做苦工了吗？
  　　原来，英文 lie 和中文“撒谎”， 意思有点差异的。手头这本《郎文英汉双解词字典》说：“an untrue statement purposely made to deceive 谎话；谎言。”英文说是为了欺骗的目的故意说假话；中文为了省事，不肯译出英文解释，只是简单地代以“谎言”。但中文的“谎言”是什么意思？最新９９年版《辞海·语词分册》对“谣”字的解释是“假话；骗人的话”。为清楚起见，不妨把“谣言”的解释也搬过来，“没有事实根据的传闻；捏造的消息”。你看，中文的解释，用分号分为两部分，第二部分相当于英文的 lie，或有欺骗的目的，或故意说假话；但第一部分仅是所言非真，却未必是故意编造或存心骗人——这一部分的含义，lie 这英文词是没有的。所以英语里用到 lie，就是明知非真而说假话，为基督教十诫所禁，是严重的恶。
  　　布里奥妮虽然害得罗比进了监狱，但她认为自己并不是有意误导，其行动并非出于恶意，因此她并不以为自己是撒谎者，虽然她承认自己软弱、愚蠢、胆小等等。只是别人并不如此认为，别人怀疑她对罗比有着早熟的感情，出于妒忌而陷害。
  　　出了辽宁省西丰县警察以“诽谤”罪名进京抓记者的事件之后，见到又有时评家呼吁修改法律，采纳美国对媒体诽谤罪的判别标准：即使报导错了（“谣”字第一解：没有事实根据的传闻），如果记者并非故意编造（“谣”字第二解：捏造的消息），没有真实的恶意（malice，美国大法官和布里奥妮用了同一个词），记者就无罪。不过，美国的标准，背后有着英语的用词习惯。搬到中国，即使成了法律，因为和我们的用词习惯不同，水平低点的法官，仍然会给你判得莫名其妙。记者揭发镇委书记用公款造了五百平米的新房，纪委调查下来，其实是八百平米，于是将材料转给公安局，把记者抓起来，照样以诽谤党组织、颠覆党领导的罪名判个三、五年的。五百和八百，相差多大啊！记者道听途说，他为什么不去书记家里，量明白了再揭发呢？造谣嘛。
  　　回到《赎罪》，笔者对电影的一点意见就是：既然拍了罗比母亲的呼喊，那就应该拍出布里奥妮在姐姐家的心理震动。当罗比从睡房出来，对着布里奥妮大吼 Liar 时，不妨让布里奥妮惊讶地自问一句：我，撒谎？有了这样一个心理转折，斯科特先生就不能说与主题无关了。
  　　因为接下来的情节，就是布里奥妮决心不再撒谎。她把罗比和塞西莉亚的真实经历，真实地写成一部小说——其实就是麦克尤恩这本《赎罪》，这是后现代手法，在文本里展示文本的生成。但是，布里奥妮十三岁时的无心“谎言”，其实掩盖了一个有意的谎言。如果她说出真话，就会揭露这一谎言。而真正的撒谎者，有权有势，没有出版社敢出版布里奥妮的小说，怕被说谎者诉以“诽谤”。毕竟，正如塞西莉亚所说：布里奥妮除了自己改口之外，并没有新的证据。
  　　从十八岁写完小说第一稿，直到旧世纪最后一年，１９９９年，布里奥妮已经七十七岁，她的小说仍然不能出版。她在二战纪念博物馆门外遇见真正的撒谎者，虽然年龄比她大，却似乎活得非常健康，走起阶梯并不累。而布里奥妮已被诊断为患了轻度老年失忆症——她的记忆正在离她而去。
  　　布里奥妮作了一个反转终身秉信的决定：她将放弃不再撒谎的坚持，在小说里撒一个浪漫大谎。既然她生前不能出版，既然没有可能在接之而来的诽谤官司中迫使真正的撒谎者吐出真相，为罗比平反，那么她给后世留下的只是她自己的记忆，这记忆如小说无可验证。而且后人是否喜欢真实的记忆？或许他们另有品味。布里奥妮不能靠小说中的真实来赎罪，错误犯了就犯了，无可挽回。我们能做的只是试着去赎罪，凭良心去尝试。但世间不但有错误和苦难，更有爱情，坚贞不渝的爱情，塞西莉亚和罗比的爱情。既然同样无可验证，何不试着给后世留下动人的爱情记忆？
  　　于是麦克尤恩和布里奥妮，还有电影的编剧和导演，在布里奥妮和姐姐、姐夫分手时，让她转头回望，见到塞西莉亚和罗比的沉浸于深吻之中。
  
  [ 本帖最后由 breequeen 于 2008-9-12 04:59 编辑 ]

• breequeen (2008-9-11 22:30:47)

  part 3 tobe --

• 路过花开 (2008-9-13 01:32:45)

  读着好困难。不过还是感谢楼主对这本小说这么详尽的介绍，尽力看完

• breequeen (2008-9-14 08:35:03)

  看三楼吧,你们有眼福了,我写了2天的全书解释

• ericli1015 (2008-9-16 18:00:33)

  辛苦lz了,谢谢分享~~~

• ztxsand (2008-9-17 09:24:44)

  英文挺难懂的，看看解释吧

• ztxsand (2008-9-17 09:32:13)

  请问楼主，pdf格式的还有吗？只看到了第一部分第一章的pdf啊，还是我看错了？

• allanclarkeu395 (2008-9-17 17:55:21)

  谢谢分享~~~

• FUCHUANGYING (2008-9-18 10:30:12)

  I SEEN THE MOVIE LAST MONTH!NOW WE ARE STAND A CHANCE TO SEE THE NOVEL!THANK YOU FOR YOUR SHARE!

• dsz_shn_CHINA (2008-9-18 12:49:59)

  向楼主打探一下哈，下一大片打算拍那部？

• 菜包子 (2008-9-19 00:25:53)

  话说我先看的电影....里面让我最难受的就是那句...find you,love you,and live without shame...

• breequeen (2008-9-19 00:49:39)

  this sentence also came on in the novel with passion ,also rocking the deepside of my  heart

• breequeen (2008-9-19 04:49:35)

  很不好意思