《万能的想象王国探索之旅》

[*小周]

读书会结束后，同学们把心中想对虎娃说的话写下来。




大家在集体创作的板书上签上大名，作为纪念。

[*小周]

《马提与祖父》和《人间有晴天》皆选自【新蕾版】国际大奖小说（59册）：





《国际大奖小说系列》书目：

1. 企鹅的故事
2. 天使雕像
3. 帅狗杜明尼克
4. 女水手日记
5. 金龟虫在黄昏飞起
6. 呐喊红宝石
7. 山居岁月
8. 亲爱的汉修先生
9. 电话里的童话
10. 小河男孩
11. 塔克的郊外
12. 蒂莉阿姨的魔法箱
13. 傻狗温迪克
14. 海蒂的天空
15. 神秘的公寓
16. 雷梦拉与爸爸
17. 贝丝丫头
18. 小巫婆求仙记
19. 绿拇指男孩
20. 苹果树上的外婆
21. 桥下一家人
22. 一百条裙子
23. 波普先生的企鹅
24. 黑珍珠
25. 偷莎士比亚的贼
26. 浪漫鼠德佩罗
27. 思黛拉街的鲜事
28. 兔子坡
29. 最后一块拼图　　　　　　　
30. 爱德华的奇妙之旅
31. 苦涩巧克力
32. 外公是棵樱桃树
33. 夏日历险
34. 橡树上的逃亡（第一部、第二部）
35. 爱丽莎的眼睛
36. 屋顶上的小孩
37. 爱的故事
38. 菲斯的秘密
39. 梦幻飞翔岛
40. 马提与祖父
41. 魔法灰姑娘
42. 风之王
43. 时代广场的蟋蟀
44. 幸福来临时
45. 银顶针的夏天
46. 尼瑙克山探险
47. 威斯汀游戏
48. 狗来了
49. 动物大逃亡
50. 雷梦拉八岁
51. 蓝色的海豚岛
52. 洋葱头历队记
53. 喜乐与我
54. 五毛钱的愿望
55. 真正的贼老鼠阿贝漂流记
56. 人间有晴天


好书推介：【新蕾版】国际大奖小说（59册）
http://faqing.org/forum/viewtopic.php?t=5959

跳蚤便利店：【新蕾版】国际大奖小说（59册）
http://faqing.org/forum/viewtopic.php?t=6638&start=0

[容淑维]

今天临时在语文系召开读书会的会议：

出席者：周讲师、黄书恩、俞云惠、容淑维以及PISMP PL(BC)的大部分学员

讨论结果：
读书会的时间暂定在每个星期二下午三点钟，地点是在图书馆楼的小课室上。

[*小周]

《万能的想象王国探索之旅》第五站：《夏洛的网》




书名： 《夏洛的网》Charlotte’s Web
作者：[美] E.B.怀特Elwyn Brooks White
译者：任溶溶
出版社：上海译文出版社


日期：2010年7月12日 （星期一）
时间：5.00 – 6.30pm
地点：T105 课室


53岁才开始写童话的E•B•怀特，一生仅创作了三本童话就在儿童文学史上留名。
《夏洛的网》、《吹小号的天鹅》及《精灵鼠小弟》被誉为二十世纪读者最多、最受爱戴的童话之一。

诚邀您加入《万能的想象王国探索之旅》第五站的行列和我们一起走近E.B 怀特的心灵，一起探索《夏洛的网》的奇妙与美……


按：由于上课时间表一再更换，再加上不同学期的课外活动时间皆落在不同天，实在没办法安排完美的读书会时间，总要“牺牲”某学期的同学，这很让我苦恼。

原本我已经订了图书馆内舒适的多元用途室，可惜日期改了又改，最终没办法只好暂时妥协。除了星期一，大家下午不是有课就是忙课外活动。囿于下周一我要出席语文系主办的Smartboard课程，所以只好把读书会的时间定在下午五时至六时半，要委屈大家暂用小小没有冷气的课室。希望第六站的聚会能在图书馆进行。

[*小周]

《夏洛的网》作者简介：


埃尔文.布鲁克斯.怀特 (Elwyn Brooks White) ，1899 -- 1985，美国当代著名散文家、评论家，以散文名世， “其文风冷峻清丽，辛辣幽默，自成一格。” 他的散文中，最为世人称道的一篇是《林湖重游》（Once more to the lake）。

E.B.怀特 (E.B.White) 1899年生于纽约。1918 年，从美军退役，入康奈尔大学就读，1921 年毕业。这期间他曾担任过《西雅图时报》等多家出版机构的记者。1924 年，他回到纽约，当了一位广告撰稿人。1926 或 1927 年，他来到《纽约客》杂志社作编辑工作。在《纽约客》工作的这11年来，他为这本杂志写下了大量的散文和诗歌，还有些别的体裁的文章。1929 年他和凯瑟琳（Katherine）结婚。（1941，他们一起撰写了《美国幽默文库》一书。）不久，怀特开始为《新纽约周刊》工作。但是，直到他和他的同事兼朋友James Thurber合写的《性是必需的吗？》一书在同年出版后，怀特才真正引起了文坛的注意。

从 1938 -- 1943 年，他作为《哈珀斯》杂志的专栏作家，为该杂志的"个人观点"专栏撰写了大量的散文。这些"怀特式"的散文在1942年被结集出版后，被评论家认为是怀特最优秀的一本散文集。

1939 年，他搬到缅因州的北 Brooklin 的一个农场，作为一名自由作家继续从事写作。1959年，怀特出版了一本文体学专著《文体的要素》，这本书后来被广泛地用作美国中学与大学的教材。

除了大量的散文、杂文等，怀特还写了三部童话，分别是《小老鼠斯图尔特》（1945），《夏洛的网》（1952），《天鹅的喇叭》（1970）。其中最受欢迎的就是《夏洛的网》，至今已经发行 500 万册以上，拥有20 多种文字的译本。在美国1976年《出版周刊》搞的一次读者调查中，这本童话位居“美国十佳儿童文学名著”中的首位，可见它受欢迎的程度。曾有一个小读者写信问他，你的童话故事是真的吗？怀特去信回答：“不，他们是想象出来的故事 -- 但是真的生活也不过是生活的一种罢了 -- 想象里的生活也算一种生活。”

1985 年 10 月 1 日，怀特因 Alzheimer（老年痴呆症）在缅因州的北 Brooklin 去世，由他的儿子和三个孙子埋葬。

由于怀特在散文创作等方面取得的突出成绩，他在生前曾获得多项殊荣：1971 年，他获得美国“国家文学奖章”；1973年，他被选为美国文学艺术学院50名永久院士之一；1978 年，他获得普利策特别文艺奖；他还获得了美国七家大学及学院的名誉学位。

E.B.怀特主要作品：

《女士是冷酷的》（1928），《性是必需的吗？》（1929），《美国幽默文库》（1941），《个人观点》（1942），《小老鼠斯图尔特》（1945），《野菖蒲》（1946），《这里是纽约》（1949），《夏洛的网》（1952），《角落里的第二棵树》（1954），《文体的要素》（1959），《我罗盘的方位》（1962），《天鹅的喇叭》（1970），《怀特散文》（1977），《诗与小品》（1981），《纽约客文选1925-1976》（1990）。

[*小周]

《夏洛的网》中文译本：

E•B•怀特于1952年创作的《夏洛的网》，中文译本除了2004年的任溶溶版，根据网上搜寻的资料原来还有1979年人民出版社的康馨版以及2000年的肖毛版。
我手上的是任溶溶版，不过仅找到肖毛版的在线阅读。


《夏洛的网》在线阅读 （英文版）
http://www.woyouxian.com/b06/b061201/ch ... index.html

《夏洛的网》在线阅读 （肖毛译）
http://www.dreamkidland.cn/cpth/hter/xldw/index.html

[*小周]

埃尔文.布鲁克斯.怀特 (Elwyn Brooks White)，1899 -- 1985，美国当代著名散文家、评论家，以散文名世， “其文风冷峻清丽，辛辣幽默，自成一格。” 他的散文中，最为世人称道的一篇是《林湖重游》（Once more to the lake） 。

Once More to the Lake (1941) By E.B. White


One summer, along about 1904, my father rented a camp on a lake in Maine and took us all there for the month of August. We all got ringworm from some kittens and had to rub Pond's Extract on our arms and legs night and morning, and my father rolled over in a canoe with all his clothes on; but outside of that the vacation was a success and from then on none of us ever thought there was any place in the world like that lake in Maine. We returned summer after summer--always on August 1st for one month. I have since become a salt-water man, but sometimes in summer there are days when the restlessness of the tides and the fearful cold of the sea water and the incessant wind which blows across the afternoon and into the evening make me wish for the placidity of a lake in the woods. A few weeks ago this feeling got so strong I bought myself a couple of bass hooks and a spinner and returned to the lake where we used to go, for a week's fishing and to revisit old haunts.


I took along my son, who had never had any fresh water up his nose and who had seen lily pads only from train windows. On the journey over to the lake I began to wonder what it would be like. I wondered how time would have marred this unique, this holy spot--the coves and streams, the hills that the sun set behind, the camps and the paths behind the camps. I was sure that the tarred road would have found it out and I wondered in what other ways it would be desolated. It is strange how much you can remember about places like that once you allow your mind to return into the grooves which lead back. You remember one thing, and that suddenly reminds you of another thing. I guess I remembered clearest of all the early mornings, when the lake was cool and motionless, remembered how the bedroom smelled of the lumber it was made of and of the wet woods whose scent entered through the screen. The partitions in the camp were thin and did not extend clear to the top of the rooms, and as I was always the first up I would dress softly so as not to wake the others, and sneak out into the sweet outdoors and start out in the canoe, keeping close along the shore in the long shadows of the pines. I remembered being very careful never to rub my paddle against the gunwale for fear of disturbing the stillness of the cathedral.


The lake had never been what you would call a wild lake. There were cottages sprinkled around the shores, and it was in farming although the shores of the lake were quite heavily wooded. Some of the cottages were owned by nearby farmers, and you would live at the shore and eat your meals at the farmhouse. That's what our family did. But although it wasn't wild, it was a fairly large and undisturbed lake and there were places in it which, to a child at least, seemed infinitely remote and primeval.


I was right about the tar: it led to within half a mile of the shore. But when I got back there, with my boy, and we settled into a camp near a farmhouse and into the kind of summertime I had known, I could tell that it was going to be pretty much the same as it had been before--I knew it, lying in bed the first morning, smelling the bedroom, and hearing the boy sneak quietly out and go off along the shore in a boat. I began to sustain the illusion that he was I, and therefore, by simple transposition, that I was my father. This sensation persisted, kept cropping up all the time we were there. It was not an entirely new feeling, but in this setting it grew much stronger. I seemed to be living a dual existence. I would be in the middle of some simple act, I would be picking up a bait box or laying down a table fork, or I would be saying something, and suddenly it would be not I but my father who was saying the words or making the gesture. It gave me a creepy sensation.

[*小周]

We went fishing the first morning. I felt the same damp moss covering the worms in the bait can, and saw the dragonfly alight on the tip of my rod as it hovered a few inches from the surface of the water. It was the arrival of this fly that convinced me beyond any doubt that everything was as it always had been, that the years were a mirage and there had been no years. The small waves were the same, chucking the rowboat under the chin as we fished at anchor, and the boat was the same boat, the same color green and the ribs broken in the same places, and under the floor-boards the same freshwater leavings and debris--the dead helgramite, the wisps of moss, the rusty discarded fishhook, the dried blood from yesterday's catch. We stared silently at the tips of our rods, at the dragonflies that came and wells. I lowered the tip of mine into the water, tentatively, pensively dislodging the fly, which darted two feet away, poised, darted two feet back, and came to rest again a little farther up the rod. There had been no years between the ducking of this dragonfly and the other one--the one that was part of memory. I looked at the boy, who was silently watching his fly, and it was my hands that held his rod, my eyes watching. I felt dizzy and didn't know which rod I was at the end of.


We caught two bass, hauling them in briskly as though they were mackerel, pulling them over the side of the boat in a businesslike manner without any landing net, and stunning them with a blow on the back of the head. When we got back for a swim before lunch, the lake was exactly where we had left it, the same number of inches from the dock, and there was only the merest suggestion of a breeze. This seemed an utterly enchanted sea, this lake you could leave to its own devices for a few hours and come back to, and find that it had not stirred, this constant and trustworthy body of water. In the shallows, the dark, water-soaked sticks and twigs, smooth and old, were undulating in clusters on the bottom against the clean ribbed sand, and the track of the mussel was plain. A school of minnows swam by, each minnow with its small, individual shadow, doubling the attendance, so clear and sharp in the sunlight. Some of the other campers were in swimming, along the shore, one of them with a cake of soap, and the water felt thin and clear and insubstantial. Over the years there had been this person with the cake of soap, this cultist, and here he was. There had been no years.


Up to the farmhouse to dinner through the teeming, dusty field, the road under our sneakers was only a two-track road. The middle track was missing, the one with the marks of the hooves and the splotches of dried, flaky manure. There had always been three tracks to choose from in choosing which track to walk in; now the choice was narrowed down to two. For a moment I missed terribly the middle alternative. But the way led past the tennis court, and something about the way it lay there in the sun reassured me; the tape had loosened along the backline, the alleys were green with plantains and other weeds, and the net (installed in June and removed in September) sagged in the dry noon, and the whole place steamed with midday heat and hunger and emptiness. There was a choice of pie for dessert, and one was blueberry and one was apple, and the waitresses were the same country girls, there having been no passage of time, only the illusion of it as in a dropped curtain--the waitresses were still fifteen; their hair had been washed, that was the only difference--they had been to the movies and seen the pretty girls with the clean hair.


Summertime, oh summertime, pattern of life indelible, the fade proof lake, the woods unshatterable, the pasture with the sweet fern and the juniper forever and ever, summer without end; this was the background, and the life along the shore was the design, the cottages with their innocent and tranquil design, their tiny docks with the flagpole and the American flag floating against the white clouds in the blue sky, the little paths over the roots of the trees leading from camp to camp and the paths leading back to the outhouses and the can of lime for sprinkling, and at the souvenir counters at the store the miniature birch-bark canoes and the post cards that showed things looking a little better than they looked. This was the American family at play, escaping the city heat, wondering whether the newcomers at the camp at the head of the cove were "common" or "nice," wondering whether it was true that the people who drove up for Sunday dinner at the farmhouse were turned away because there wasn't enough chicken.

[*小周]

It seemed to me, as I kept remembering all this, that those times and those summers had been infinitely precious and worth saving. There had been jollity and peace and goodness. The arriving (at the beginning of August) had been so big a business in itself, at the railway station the farm wagon drawn up, the first smell of the pine-laden air, the first glimpse of the smiling farmer, and the great importance of the trunks and your father's enormous authority in such matters, and the feel of the wagon under you for the long ten-mile haul, and at the top of the last long hill catching the first view of the lake after eleven months of not seeing this cherished body of water. The shouts and cries of the other campers when they saw you, and the trunks to be unpacked, to give up their rich burden. (Arriving was less exciting nowadays, when you sneaked up in your car and parked it under a tree near the camp and took out the bags and in five minutes it was all over, no fuss, no loud wonderful fuss about trunks.)


Peace and goodness and jollity. The only thing that was wrong now, really, was the sound of the place, an unfamiliar nervous sound of the outboard motors. This was the note that jarred, the one thing that would sometimes break the illusion and set the years moving. In those other summertimes, all motors were inboard; and when they were at a little distance, the noise they made was a sedative, an ingredient of summer sleep. They were one-cylinder and two-cylinder engines, and some were make-and-break and some were jump-spark, but they all made a sleepy sound across the lake. The one-lungers throbbed and fluttered, and the twin-cylinder ones purred and purred, and that was a quiet sound too. But now the campers all had outboards. In the daytime, in the hot mornings, these motors made a petulant, irritable sound; at night, in the still evening when the afterglow lit the water, they whined about one's ears like mosquitoes. My boy loved our rented outboard, and his great desire was to achieve single-handed mastery over it, and authority, and he soon learned the trick of choking it a little (but not too much), and the adjustment of the needle valve. Watching him I would remember the things you could do with the old one-cylinder engine with the heavy flywheel, how you could have it eating out of your hand if you got really close to it spiritually. Motor boats in those days didn't have clutches, and you would make a landing by shutting off the motor at the proper time and coasting in with a dead rudder. But there was a way of reversing them, if you learned the trick, by cutting the switch and putting it on again exactly on the final dying revolution of the flywheel, so that it would kick back against compression and begin reversing. Approaching a dock in a strong following breeze, it was difficult to slow up sufficiently by the ordinary coasting method, and if a boy felt he had complete mastery over his motor, he was tempted to keep it running beyond its time and then reverse it a few feet from the dock. It took a cool nerve, because if you threw the switch a twentieth of a second too soon you would catch the flywheel when it still had speed enough to go up past center, and the boat would leap ahead, charging bull-fashion at the dock.


We had a good week at the camp. The bass were biting well and the sun shone endlessly, day after day. We would be tired at night and lie down in the accumulated heat of the little bedrooms after the long hot day and the breeze would stir almost imperceptibly outside and the smell of the swamp drift in through the rusty screens. Sleep would come easily and in the morning the red squirrel would be on the roof, tapping out his gay routine. I kept remembering everything, lying in bed in the mornings--the small steamboat that had a long rounded stern like the lip of a Ubangi, and how quietly she ran on the moonlight sails, when the older boys played their mandolins and the girls sang and we ate doughnuts dipped in sugar, and how sweet the music was on the water in the shining night, and what it had felt like to think about girls then. After breakfast we would go up to the store and the things were in the same place--the minnows in a bottle, the plugs and spinners disarranged and pawed over by the youngsters from the boys' camp, the fig newtons and the Beeman's gum. Outside, the road was tarred and cars stood in front of the store. Inside, all was just as it had always been, except there was more Coca Cola and not so much Moxie and root beer and birch beer and sarsaparilla. We would walk out with a bottle of pop apiece and sometimes the pop would backfire up our noses and hurt. We explored the streams, quietly, where the turtles slid off the sunny logs and dug their way into the soft bottom; and we lay on the town wharf and fed worms to the tame bass. Everywhere we went I had trouble making out which was I, the one walking at my side, the one walking in my pants.


One afternoon while we were there at that lake a thunderstorm came up. It was like the revival of an old melodrama that I had seen long ago with childish awe. The second-act climax of the drama of the electrical disturbance over a lake in America had not changed in any important respect. This was the big scene, still the big scene. The whole thing was so familiar, the first feeling of oppression and heat and a general air around camp of not wanting to go very far away. In mid-afternoon (it was all the same) a curious darkening of the sky, and a lull in everything that had made life tick; and then the way the boats suddenly swung the other way at their moorings with the coming of a breeze out of the new quarter, and the premonitory rumble. Then the kettle drum, then the snare, then the bass drum and cymbals, then crackling light against the dark, and the gods grinning and licking their chops in the hills. Afterward the calm, the rain steadily rustling in the calm lake, the return of light and hope and spirits, and the campers running out in joy and relief to go swimming in the rain, their bright cries perpetuating the deathless joke about how they were getting simply drenched, and the children screaming with delight at the new sensation of bathing in the rain, and the joke about getting drenched linking the generations in a strong indestructible chain. And the comedian who waded in carrying an umbrella.


When the others went swimming my son said he was going in too. He pulled his dripping trunks from the line where they had hung all through the shower, and wrung them out. Languidly, and with no thought of going in, I watched him, his hard little body, skinny and bare, saw him wince slightly as he pulled up around his vitals the small, soggy, icy garment. As he buckled the swollen belt suddenly my groin felt the chill of death.


http://www.moonstar.com/~acpjr/Blackboa ... eLake.html

[*小周]

《林湖重游》

E．B．怀特 著 / 晓风、晓燕 译 /肖毛 扫校

　　
那年夏天，大约是1904年吧，父亲在缅因州的一个湖边租了一间木屋。他带着我们到那儿去过八月。我们个个都患了小猫传染的金钱癣，【不得不在臂腿间日日夜夜涂上庞氏①浸膏；父亲则和衣睡在小划子里；但是除了这一些，假期过得很愉快。自此之后，我们中无人不认为世上再没有比缅因州这个湖更好的去处了。】我们在那儿度过了一个又一个夏天——总是八月一日去，接着待上一整月。【我这样一来，竟成了个水手了。夏季里有时候湖里也会兴风作浪，湖水冰凉，阵阵寒风从下午刮到黄昏，使我宁愿在林间能另有一处宁静的小湖。】几周前，这渴望搅得我不能自已。我于是买了两根锻木钓竿，一个旋转诱鱼器，打算故地重游，再访往日梦牵魂系的湖。


去时，我带着儿子。他不曾见过齐颌深的淡水；睡莲的大叶盖儿，他也只是隔着火车窗子望过。在去林湖的途中，我开始估摸着那湖如今的样儿，估摸着时间把这块无与伦比的地方糟蹋成了什么情形——那一个个小海湾，那一条条溪河，还有那一座座落日依偎的山峰，林中那一间间木屋以及屋后的一条条小道。【我缅想那条容易辨认的柏油路，我又缅想那些已显荒凉的其他景色。】也真怪，当你任思绪顺着一条条车迹回到往昔的那些地方，你对它们的记忆竟是如此真切。你想起了一桩事，那事儿马上又让你想起另一桩事。我想，最清晰地刻在我的记忆里的，是那一个个清晨；彼时，湖水清凉，凝滞不动。我记得【木屋的卧室可以嗅到圆木的香味，这味道和从纱门透进来的树木的潮味混为一气。】隔板很薄，没有伸到屋顶。我总是最早起床，悄悄穿好衣服，蹑手蹑脚地溜到芬芳馥郁的野外。我登上小木船，挨着岸边，轻轻地向前划着。松树长长的影子挤在湖岸上。我不曾让桨擦着船沿，【唯恐打搅了湖上大教堂似的宁静】——那小心翼翼的情状，至今历历在目。


那湖绝不是你想象的那种旷芜的湖。它坐落在一个耕种了的乡野上，虽然周围有蓊蓊郁郁的树林环抱着。一间间木屋点缀在它的四周。有的屋子是邻近庄户人家的。人们住在湖边，到上边的农庄就餐。我们家就是这样。然而，这湖虽不算旷芜，倒也相当大，无车马之喧，亦无人声之闹。【而且至少对一个孩子来说，有些去处看来是无穷遥远和原始的。】


我记忆中的柏油路，如今已经伸到了岸边，足有半英里呢。但是，当我带儿子回到那儿，在农庄附近的一间木屋里住了下来，沐浴着我熟悉的温馨的夏潮时，【我还能说它与旧日了无差异】——第一个清晨，躺在床上，闻着卧室特有的木头味儿，听到儿子蹑手蹑脚溜出屋子，沿岸划着小舟渐渐远去后，我开始产生了一种幻觉：儿子就是我，而我，自然也就成了我的父亲。我们在那儿逗留的那些天里，这种感觉时时袭上心头，怎么也挥拂不去。