The Great Gatsby读书笔记(二)

作者: 阮一峰

日期: 2004年10月20日




He was balancing himself on the dashboard of his car with that resourcefulness of movement that is so peculiarly American - that comes, I suppose, with the absence of lifting work or rigid sitting in youth and, even more, with the formless grace of our nervous, sporadic games. This quality was continually breaking through his punctilious manner in the shape of



It was a rich cream color, bright with nickel, swollen here and there in its monstrous
length with triumphant hat-boxes and supper-boxes and tool-boxes, and terraced with a labyrinth of wind-shields that mirrored a dozen suns.

这是描写20年代的一辆豪华汽车的。我觉得,用在描写暴发户身上也很合适。不过,令人不解的是挡风玻璃为什么会是"terraced with a labyrinth"呢?今天的汽车似乎都只有一块挡风玻璃的呀。


A little overwhelmed, I began the generalized evasions which that question deserves.



I saw him opening a chest of rubies to ease, with their crimson-lighted depths, the gnawings of his broken heart.



Over the great bridge, with the sunlight through the girders making a constant flicker upon the moving cars, with the city rising up across the river in white heaps and sugar lumps all built with a wish out of non-olfactory money. The city seen from the Queensboro Bridge is always the city seen for the first time, in its first wild promise of all the mystery and the beauty in the world.



She began to cry - she cried and cried. I rushed out and found her mother's maid, and we locked the
door and got her into a cold bath. She wouldn't let go of the letter. She took it into the tub with her and squeezed it up into a wet ball, and only let me leave it in the soap-dish when she saw that it was coming to pieces like snow. But she didn't say another word. We gave her spirits of ammonia and put ice on her forehead and hooked her back into her dress, and half an hour later, when we walked out of the room, the pearls were around her neck and the incident was over.



They moved with a fast crowd, all of them young and rich and wild, but she came out with an absolutely perfect reputation.



The clear voices of girls, already gathered like crickets on the grass, rose through the hot twilight.



A phrase began to beat in my ears with a sort of heady excitement: "There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy and the tired.."



Unlike Gatsby and Tom Buchanan, I had no girl whose disembodied face floated along the dark cornices and blinding signs, and so I drew up the girl beside me, tightening my arms. Her wan, scornful mouth smiled, and so I drew her up again closer, this time to my face.