本文目录
- katherine mansfield的婚姻状况
- 精读|The Fly - Katherine Mansfield
- 跪求 《Bliss》 katherine mansfield的翻译啊！
- Katherine Mansfield 的写作特点～～
- 求the garden party 的翻译作者是katherine mansfield 凯瑟琳 曼斯菲尔德
- 求短篇小说“The Garden Party”的内容总结（小说的作者：Katherine Mansfield）
- 求：英国女作家 曼斯菲尔德英文简介
- Miss Brill 赏析
katherine mansfield的婚姻状况
不知道，您不要指责我，我只是在答题，迫不得已答到您的题，不知道怎么回答，只好这样答了。谢谢！
精读|The Fly - Katherine Mansfield
Katherine Mansfield
’Y’are very snug in here,’ piped old Mr. Woodifield, and peered out of the great, green-leather armchair by his friend the boss’s desk as a baby peers out of its pram. His talk was over; it was time for him to be off. But he did not want to go. Since he had retired, since his ... stroke, the wife and the girls kept him boxed up in the house every day of the week except Tuesday. On Tuesday he was dressed and brushed and allowed to cut back to the City for the day. Though what he did there the wife and girls couldn’t imagine. Made a nuisance of himself to his friends, they supposed....Well, perhaps so. All the same, we cling to our last pleasures as the tree clings to its last leaves. So there sat old Woodifield, smoking a cigar and staring almost greedily at the boss, who rolled in his office chair, stout, rosy, five years older than he, and still going strong, still at the helm. It did one good to see him.
Wistfully, admiringly, the old voice added, ’It’s snug in here, upon my word!’
’Yes, it’s comfortable enough,’ agreed the boss, and he flipped the Financial Times with a paper-knife. As a matter of fact he was proud of his room; he liked to have it admired, especially by old Woodifield. It gave him a feeling of deep, solid satisfaction to be planted there in the midst of it in full view of that frail old figure in the muffler.
’I’ve had it done up lately,’ he explained, as he had explained for the past how many weeks.
’New carpet,’ and he pointed to the bright red carpet with a pattern of large white rings. ’New furniture,’ and he nodded towards the massive bookcase and the table with legs like twisted treacle. ’Electric heating!’ He waved almost exultantly towards the five transparent, pearly sausages glowing so softly in the tilted copper pan.
But he did not draw old Woodifield’s attention to the photograph over the table of a grave-looking boy in uniform standing in one of those spectral photographers’ parks with photographers’ storm-clouds behind him. It was not new. It had been there for over six years.
’There was something I wanted to tell you,’ said old Woodifield, and his eyes grew dim remembering. ’Now what was it? I had it in my mind when I started out this morning.’ His hands began to tremble, and patches of red showed above his beard.
Poor old chap, he’s on his last pins, thought the boss. And, feeling kindly, he winked at the old man, and said jokingly, ’I tell you what. I’ve got a little drop of something here that’ll do you good before you go out into the cold again. It’s beautiful stuff. It wouldn’t hurt a child.’ He took a key off his watch-chain, unlocked a cupboard below his desk, and drew forth a dark, squat bottle. ’That’s the medicine,’ said he. ’And the man from whom I got it told me on the strict Q.T. it came from the cellars at Windsor Castle.’
Old Woodifield’s mouth fell open at the sight. He couldn’t have looked more surprised if the boss had produced a rabbit.
’It’s whisky, ain’t it?’ he piped feebly.
The boss turned the bottle and lovingly showed him the label. Whisky it was.
’D’you know,’ said he, peering up at the boss wonderingly, ’they won’t let me touch it at home.’ And he looked as though he was going to cry.
’Ah, that’s where we know a bit more than the ladies,’ cried the boss, swooping across for two tumblers that stood on the table with the water-bottle, and pouring a generous finger into each. ’Drink it down. It’ll do you good. And don’t put any water with it. It’s sacrilege to tamper with stuff like this. Ah!’ He tossed off his, pulled out his handkerchief, hastily wiped his moustaches, and cocked an eye at old Woodifield, who was rolling his in his chaps.
The old man swallowed, was silent a moment, and then said faintly, ’It’s nutty!’
But it warmed him; it crept into his chill old brain he remembered.
’That was it,’ he said, heaving himself out of his chair.
’I thought you’d like to know. The girls were in Belgium last week having a look at poor Reggie’s grave, and they happened to come across your boy’s. They’re quite near each other, it seems.’
Old Woodifield paused, but the boss made no reply. Only a quiver in his eyelids showed that he heard.
’The girls were delighted with the way the place is kept,’ piped the old voice. ’Beautifully looked after. Couldn’t be better if they were at home. You’ve not been across, have yer?’
’No, no!’ For various reasons the boss had not been across.
’There’s miles of it,’ quavered old Woodifield, ’and it’s all as neat as a garden. Flowers growing on all the graves. Nice broad paths.’ It was plain from his voice how much he liked a nice broad path.
The pause came again. Then the old man brightened wonderfully.
’D’you know what the hotel made the girls pay for a pot of jam?’ he piped. ’Ten francs! Robbery, I call it. It was a little pot, so Gertrude says, no bigger than a half-crown. And she hadn’t taken more than a spoonful when they charged her ten francs. Gertrude brought the pot away with her to teach ’em a lesson. Quite right, too; it’s trading on our feelings. They think because we’re over there having a look round we’re ready to pay anything. That’s what it is.’ And he turned towards the door.
’Quite right, quite right!’ cried the boss, though what was quite right he hadn’t the least idea. He came round by his desk, followed the shuffling footsteps to the door, and saw the old fellow out. Woodifield was gone.
For a long moment the boss stayed, staring at nothing, while the grey-haired office messenger, watching him, dodged in and out of his cubby-hole like a dog that expects to be taken for a run. Then: ’I’ll see nobody for half an hour, Macey,’ said the boss. ’Understand! Nobody at all.’
’Very good, sir.’
The door shut, the firm heavy steps recrossed the bright carpet, the fat body plumped down in the spring chair, and leaning forward, the boss covered his face with his hands. He wanted, he intended, he had arranged to weep....
It had been a terrible shock to him when old Woodifield sprang that remark upon him about the boy’s grave. It was exactly as though the earth had opened and he had seen the boy lying there with Woodifield’s girls staring down at him. For it was strange. Although over six years had passed away, the boss never thought of the boy except as lying unchanged, unblemished in his uniform, asleep for ever. “My son!“ groaned the boss. But no tears came yet. In the past, in the first months and even years after the boy’s death, he had only to say those words to be overcome by such grief that nothing short of a violent fit of weeping could relieve him. Time, he had declared then, he had told everybody, could make no difference. Other men perhaps might recover, might live their loss down, but not he. How was it possible! His boy was an only son. Ever since his birth the boss had worked at building up this business for him; it had no other meaning if it was not for the boy. Life itself had come to have no other meaning. How on earth could he have slaved, denied himself, kept going all those years without the promise for ever before him of the boy’s stepping into his shoes and carrying on where he left off?
And that promise had been so near being fulfilled. The boy had been in the office learning the ropes for a year before the war. Every morning they had started off together; they had come back by the same train. And what congratulations he had received as the boy’s father! No wonder; he had taken to it marvellously. As to his popularity with the staff, every man jack of them down to old Macey couldn’t make enough of the boy. And he wasn’t in the least spoilt. No, he was just his bright natural self, with the right word for everybody, with that boyish look and his habit of saying, ’Simply splendid!’
But all that was over and done with as though it never had been. The day had come when Macey had handed him the telegram that brought the whole place crashing about his head. ’Deeply regret to inform you ...’ And he had left the office a broken man, with his life in ruins.
Six years ago, six years.... How quickly time passed! It might have happened yesterday. The boss took his hands from his face; he was puzzled. Something seemed to be wrong with him. He wasn’t feeling as he wanted to feel. He decided to get up and have a look at the boy’s photograph. But it wasn’t a favourite photograph of his; the expression was unnatural. It was cold, even stern-looking. The boy had never looked like that.
At that moment the boss noticed that a fly had fallen into his broad inkpot, and was trying feebly but desperately to clamber out again. Help! Help! said those struggling legs. But the sides of the inkpot were wet and slippery; it fell back again and began to swim. The boss took up a pen, picked the fly out of the ink, and shook it on to a piece of blotting-paper. For a fraction of a second it lay still on the dark patch that oozed round it. Then the front legs waved, took hold, and, pulling its small, sodden body up, it began the immense task of cleaning the ink from its wings. Over and under, over and under, went a leg along a wing as the stone goes over and under the scythe. Then there was a pause, while the fly, seeming to stand on the tips of its toes, tried to expand first one wing and then the other. It succeeded at last, and, sitting down, it began, like a minute cat, to clean its face. Now one could imagine that the little front legs rubbed against each other lightly, joyfully. The horrible danger was over; it had escaped; it was ready for life again.
But just then the boss had an idea. He plunged his pen back into the ink, leaned his thick wrist on the blotting-paper, and as the fly tried its wings down came a great heavy blot. What would it make of that! What indeed! The little beggar seemed absolutely cowed, stunned, and afraid to move because of what would happen next. But then, as if painfully, it dragged itself forward. The front legs waved, caught hold, and, more slowly this time, the task began from the beginning.
He’s a plucky little devil, thought the boss, and he felt a real admiration for the fly’s courage. That was the way to tackle things; that was the right spirit. Never say die; it was only a question of... But the fly had again finished its laborious task, and the boss had just time to refill his pen, to shake fair and square on the new-cleaned body yet another dark drop. What about it this time? A painful moment of suspense followed. But behold, the front legs were again waving; the boss felt a rush of relief. He leaned over the fly and said to it tenderly, “You artful little b...“ And he actually had the brilliant notion of breathing on it to help the drying process. All the same, there was something timid and weak about its efforts now, and the boss decided that this time should be the last, as he dipped the pen deep into the inkpot.
It was. The last blot fell on the soaked blotting-paper, and the draggled fly lay in it and did not stir. The back legs were stuck to the body; the front legs were not to be seen.
’Come on,’ said the boss. ’Look sharp!’ And he stirred it with his pen in vain. Nothing happened or was likely to happen. The fly was dead.
The boss lifted the corpse on the end of the paper-knife and flung it into the waste-paper basket. But such a grinding feeling of wretchedness seized him that he felt positively frightened. He started forward and pressed the bell for Macey.
’Bring me some fresh blotting-paper,’ he said sternly, ’and look sharp about it.’ And while the old dog padded away he fell to wondering what it was he had been thinking about before. What was it? It was... He took out his handkerchief and passed it inside his collar. For the life of him he could not remember.
扩展阅读：
1. The British and Irish Short Story Handbook, Wiley-Blackwell, 2012
2. Katherine Mansfield, Short Stories, Managing Publishing, 1999
3. 100 years of the best American Short Stories, Harcourt, 2015
跪求 《Bliss》 katherine mansfield的翻译啊！
你好！
更怕俄日哦【阿尔【公司【那个【跟他说【那天告诉【this那好吧同意【电影
u【的容颜打击偶也是【
天津市的【同意是单人图会对人体他菊花的人员很谨慎的乳液或太容易人家黄金海滩
打字不易，采纳哦！
Katherine Mansfield 的写作特点～～
凯瑟琳.曼斯菲尔德是世界近代文学史上享有“短篇小说大师”称号的一位女性作家。她于1888年10月出生于新西兰一个中产阶级家庭，父亲是一家进出口公司的股东，母亲受过良好的教育。她15岁时进入伦敦皇家学院读书，20岁时已写了不少精彩的短篇小说，成为引人注目的人物。曼斯菲尔德才华横溢，一生交游广泛，D.H.劳伦斯、伯特兰.罗素、维吉尼亚.吴尔夫都是她的朋友，劳伦斯曾把她作为自己的小说《恋爱中的妇女》中女主角戈珍的原型。一九二三年一月九日，曼斯菲尔德在法国枫丹白露病逝，年仅34岁。
曼斯菲尔德曾先后出过五个短篇小说集，分别是《在一个德国公寓里》、《幸福》、《园会》，以及在其身后出版的《鸽巢》和《孩子气的事情》。此外，她还写有许多文学评论，收入在《小说和小说家》中。
求the garden party 的翻译作者是katherine mansfield 凯瑟琳 曼斯菲尔德
凯瑟琳1888年10月14日生于新西兰威灵顿，本名卡瑟琳·包姗普，家族与俄罗斯全无瓜葛。她的父亲是一位成功的银行家，在威灵顿社交界享有威望。凯瑟琳的童年在维多利亚式的文化习俗和新西兰美丽的自然环境中度过。15岁时，她离家来到英国伦敦，进入皇后学院就学，研习法语、德语和音乐课程，并开始写一些短篇的散文和诗歌。3年后她不情愿地回到了新西兰。1908年7月，她说服父亲同意她前往英国生活，从此离开故乡，一去不返。她用凯瑟琳·曼斯菲尔德这个名字作为笔名，以一个作家的身份定居伦敦，开始写作生涯。波西米亚式的生活使她时常感到孤寂无助，现实生活远非她的想像。一些随机的个人交往和无所顾忌的性生活并没有带给她太多快乐。同乔治·布朗不幸的婚姻使她在结婚后的第二天就离开了他。随后她出游巴伐利亚，1911年出版的《在德国公寓》里寄托了作者幻想破灭的无奈心境。
1914年，她的小说集《节奏》和《忧郁评论》在她的第一个房客，后来做了她丈夫的社会学家和前文学评论家米多尔顿·莫里的协助下出版。第二次婚姻给她带来了幸福。一战开始后她不断在英法两国间往返游历，见到了自己惟一的弟弟，这次见面促使她转而倾情于新西兰故乡和童年生活回忆。然而，她的弟弟死于战场，这不仅使她病弱之躯再添痛创，也让她负疚于对家人感情上的疏远。郁郁之中，凯瑟琳·曼斯菲尔德寄情笔墨，著名小说《序曲》透露了她对新西兰家乡的美好回忆。
也就是在这时，她无的放矢的感情生活似乎突然间找到了寄托。这应该归功于著名的芭蕾舞经纪人谢尔盖·加吉列夫。当时，他领导的俄罗斯芭蕾舞团正在欧洲各大都市巡回演出，在欧陆舞台掀起巨大轰动，一场俄罗斯文化热潮随之而来。凯瑟琳满心欢喜地观看着所有的演出，不放过每一场音乐会，将整个身心投入到全新的文化气氛之中。
对俄罗斯文化的喜爱使她认为从性格上说自己就是一个俄罗斯人。她作品中的人物都是“俄罗斯式的”，他们的内心世界充满纠结与挣扎，她的笔法也自然而然地酷似俄罗斯名家。“我无法表达托尔斯泰对我的重大影响和启发，几句感激的话是远远不够的。”在读过陀斯妥耶夫斯基的《鬼》后，她深受作家“微暗的街灯下的人们”所感动，陀式的心理描写在她自己的创作上烙下了深深的印迹。
应该说，对凯瑟琳·曼斯菲尔德影响最大的人还要数契诃夫。契诃夫不仅是令她心仪的短篇小说大师，还是能暗中与她分享忧虑和恐惧的伙伴。她时时在自己的日记中同契诃夫谈话：“唉，你何以会如此早年夭折？我何以从此无缘再跟你倾谈！”在给她的丈夫米多尔顿·莫里的信中说：“我是如此地感伤于身心的孤寂和身体的病痛，就像我再也无法恢复完整的自我……契诃夫会明白这种痛苦的。”
评论家历来认为，凯瑟琳·曼斯菲尔德从契可夫那里“借来”素材来写自己的作品，不少人无情地抨击她的创作有时就是剽窃。平心而论，凯瑟琳的作品是在大师提供的养分中进行的再度酿制和精心构造。就连俄罗斯文学界也认为，凯瑟琳·曼斯菲尔德的作品是对俄罗斯文学巨匠们的最诚意的恭维。凯瑟琳第一部被译成俄语的作品在她逝世前3个月出现在1922年9月的苏联报纸上。她的最后时光在法国枫丹白露乔治·古德杰夫主办的“人类和谐发展机构”度过。在这个有40多位俄罗斯文化人居住的，到处弥漫着奇妙的俄罗斯文化气息的环境里，凯瑟琳·曼斯菲尔德饲养动物，侍弄花圃，写作和生活得平静恬淡。西方报界也开始将她的艺术成就同契诃夫相比。1923年，苏联官方表示出对她的兴趣，苏联国家出版社出版发行了她的两部小说集的俄文本。稍后，她以自己作品中对下层民众的同情赢得了西方文化界的官方认可。60年代两种最权威的的英语教科书选取了她的小说《一杯茶》用做语法练习文本。
没有谁像凯瑟琳·曼斯菲尔德那样，用自己的创作惊扰过那么多的作家。人们说她像D.H.劳伦斯，又跟V.伍尔芙有所类似。她创作的年代伴随着孤寂无着和病痛的折磨，她的作品因而较多涉及家庭事件和婚姻的不幸。她刻划人物细腻入微，时常在细节上精雕细刻。在她辞世多年之后，她对短篇小说这一文体的影响才渐次被人们所认识和承认。她的一生恰似她在1921年写下的那篇著名的《园会》，而她就像小说中的劳拉。我们看到一个单纯而执拗的富家女子从园会的喧闹中挣脱出来，勇敢地接近外面的世界，接近死亡的面孔。那是一副宁静的，与世上的一切都不相侵扰的面孔，这死亡的面孔看来甚至比她身边的活人更真实、更具活力、更漂亮。
1923年1月9日，常年罹患肺结核的凯瑟琳·曼斯菲尔德逝世，年仅45岁。在凯瑟琳的世界里，死亡是静穆和安逸，甚至是美丽的。看，她临终前的最后的一句话是：“我喜爱雨，我想要感到它们落到脸上的感觉。”
求短篇小说“The Garden Party”的内容总结（小说的作者：Katherine Mansfield）
小说主要内容是个富人家开游园会，下人家死人了，富人对此事件的态度。
小说想要表现的是不同阶级人的隔阂。
详细：
劳拉是个善良的女孩，她们家要办一个Party，一开始劳拉装作她妈妈的样子指挥工人，后来发现他们都很好相处。然后她们家的一个贫困邻居家死人了，她不想办下去了，然而她的妈妈姐姐都觉得她很好笑。但是当劳拉有了一定漂亮的帽子之后，她也马上高兴起来了，忘了这件事。后来她们一家良心发现，就给死人的那家送去饭菜，然而那也是剩下的。
这个故事说明她们之间的隔阂是不会消除的，怜悯之心也并不是真心的，上下阶级矛盾不可调和。
小说中文名：《园会》
百度百科有详细介绍：http://baike.baidu.com/view/1694846.htm
求：英国女作家 曼斯菲尔德英文简介
1.曼斯菲尔德(1888～1923)
Mansfield，Katherine
英国作家。1888 年10月14日生于新西兰惠灵顿 ，1923年1月9日卒于法国枫丹白露镇。19岁到伦敦，从事文学创作。她的创作有短篇小说、诗和文学评论，并与人合译过契诃夫和高尔基的作品。
她最早的短篇小说集《在德国公寓里》是1909年旅居巴伐利亚时的试笔，批评了当地对婢仆的非人待遇、妇女所受的屈辱和压抑，嘲笑了没落贵族和民族偏见。以后出版的有《幸福》、《园会》。她死后出版了《鸽巢》、《幼稚》等4部短篇小说集。《玩具房子》写洗衣妇的两个幼女在小学极受歧视，偶然被富家小姑娘邀去家中看玩具房子，遭人斥逐。《园会》中，谢太太穷苦的近邻不幸身亡，遗族正在伤心，她却在园中奏乐宴客。两篇都从侧面表现了阶级对立。
曼斯菲尔德的小说大多揭露社会的黑暗，但也有少数作品表现了生的欣悦。如《幼稚可也很自然》表现少年初恋时的天真。《前奏》、《在海湾》两部中篇小说则以优美的散文描绘惠灵顿郊野的风物和家庭的情趣。
她在艺术上深受契诃夫的启发，不设奇局，不求曲折的情节，注重从看似平凡的小处发掘人物情绪的变化。作品色彩鲜明，文笔简洁而流畅，自有诗意。
2.美国俄亥俄州中北部城市。在阿克伦西南88公里处。人口约5.4万，大市区13.1万（1980）。建于1808年， 1857年成为市。铁路、公路交通枢纽。主要工业有电气器具、钢铁制品、黄铜制品、橡胶、塑料、汽车零件、机械等。附近开采煤和天然气。
Miss Brill 赏析
“Miss Brill,“ Katherine Mansfield’s short story about a woman’s Sunday outing to a park, was published in her 1922 collection of stories entitled The Garden Party. The story’s enduring popularity is due in part to its use of a stream-of-consciousness narrative in which Miss Brill’s character is revealed through her thoughts about others as she watches a crowd from a park bench. Mansfield’s talent as a writer is illustrated by the fact that she at no point tells what Miss Brill is thinking about her own life, yet the story draws one of the most succinct, complete character portraits in twentieth-century short fiction. “Miss Brill“ has become one of Mansfield’s most popular stories, and has been reprinted in numerous anthologies and collections. The story is typical of Mansfield’s style; she often employed stream-of-consciousness narration in order to show the psychological complexity of everyday experience in her characters’ lives.
