发布时间：2022-05-21 09:38 作者：读书人的精神家园 点击： 【 字体：大 中 小 】
all happy families are happy alike, all unhappy families are unhappy in their own way.
it was the best of times, it was the worst of times. it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness. it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity. it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness. it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair. we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way.
it is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possessing of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.
it was a bright cold day in april, and the clocks were striking thirteen.
lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. my sin, my soul. lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate of tap, at three, on the teeth. lo. lee. ta.
in my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that i've been turning over in my mind ever since."whenenver you feel like criticizing anyone," he told me,"just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had."
if you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where i was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that david copperfield kind of crap, but i don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.
it was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the rosenberg, and i didn’t know what i was doing in new york.
you don't know about me without you have read a book by the name of "the adventures of tom sawyer", but that ain't no matter. that book was made by mr. mark twain, and he told the truth, mainly.
the past is a foreign country: they do things differently there.
as gregor samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect.
the sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new.
it was love at first sight. the first time yossarian saw the chaplain she fell madly in love with him.
miss brooke had that kind of beauty which seems to be thrown into relief by poor dress.
all children, except one, grow up.
under certain circumstance there are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea.
i am a camera with its shutter open, quite passive, recording, not thinking.
there was no possibility of taking a walk that day.
elmer gantry was drunk. he was eloquently drunk, lovingly and pugnaciously drunk.
a green hunting cap squeezed the top of a fleshy balloon of a head.
the cold passed reluctantly from the earth, and the retiring fogs revealed an army stretched out on the hills, resting.
it was the day my grandmother exploded.
the schoolmaster was leaving the village, and everybody seemed sorry.
he was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the gulf stream and he had gone 84 days now without taking a fish.
all this happened, more or less.
the light which puts out our eyes is darkness to us. only that day dawns to which we are awake. there is more day to dawn. the sun is but a morning star.
so we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
tomas turned the key and switched on the ceiling light. tereza saw two beds pushed together, one of them flanked by a bedside table and lamp. up out of the lampshade, startled by the overhead light, flew a large nocturnal butterfly that began circling the room. the strains of the piano and violin rose up weakly from below.
you finally fall asleep. and when you wake up, it's true. you are part of a brand-new world.
if a little man appears who laughs, who has golden hair and who refuses to answer questions, you will know who he is. if this should happen, please comfort me. send me word that he has come back.
an intimation of death came to him, and an intimation of deathless love. something welled up within him; and the thought of the dead woman stirred in his mind, bodiless and passionate, like the sound of distant music.
has not the count just told us that all human wisdom is summed up in two words?--'wait and hope.'
but we, when we put the thorns in our breasts, we know. we understand. and still we do it. still we do it.
she was gone,and i lost about half memory of her.if one day i was gone,all the memory of her would gone with me. yes, he think: if i have to choose one from sorrow and nothing, i will choose sorrow.
only, many years ago, a hand wrote upon it in pencil these four lines, which have become gradually illegible beneath the rain and the dust, and which are, to-day, probably effaced: il dort. quoique le sort fut pour lui bien etrange, il vivait. il mourut quand il n'eut plus son ange. la chose simplement d'elle-meme arriva, comme la nuit se fait lorsque le jour s'en va.
it is a far, far better thing that i do, than i have ever done;
it is a far, far better rest that i go to, than i have ever known.
after all, tomorrow is another day.
up the road, in his shack, the old man was sleeping again. he was still sleeping on his face and the boy was sitting by him watching him.
the old man was dreaming about the lions.
about all i know is, i sort of miss everybody i told about. even old stradlater and ackley, for instance. i think i even miss that goddam maurice. it's funny. don't ever tell anybody anything. if you do, you start missing everybody.