婚姻是桎梏，爱情是羁绊
打印(被阅读 4355次)
七月中旬，读完简爱之后，对英国文学产生了兴趣，遂拿起抽屉里Jane Austin的小说Emma，读了几章，不觉得吸引人， 又拿起她的另一本《傲慢与偏见》读了几章，却始终无法进入。不知道是自己的心境不对，还是她的文字太拗口，所以呢，就想起以文字简单明了著称的美国作家海明威的《老人与海》，花了一个周末(7/24)，读了读。读完海明威的作品，又觉得不过瘾，就像吃了一道清淡的沙拉后，又渴望来红烧肉一样，开始在脑子里搜索英国作家的作品，不知为何就想到毛姆的《月亮与六便士》，从网上找来下载到Kindle上，花了不到一个星期读完，算是结束了七月的阅读。
言归正传
英国作家毛姆以法国名画家高更为原型，于1919创作了他知名的小说《月亮和六便士》。小说向读者描述了19世纪英国(法国)画家Charles Strickland的传奇一生。我想有太多的人读过这本小说和相关的书评，而我只想从他一生中有过的三个女人的这个侧面，来叙述主人公的经历，人性和从中得到的一些感想。
主人公Strickland四十岁之前一直生活在英国，有着一份稳定的工作(股票经纪人)、舒适的生活和美满的家庭。太太漂亮，贤惠，总是把家里收拾得干干净净，家事安排得井井有条，还时常邀请一些文艺界的作家艺术家来家里聚会, 是一个知性、高雅、有品位的女人。她和Strickland育有一男一女两个孩子。世人眼里的Strickland不善言辞，不合群，几分木讷，但是谁也没有想到他会在四十岁那年离家出走，不辞而别去了巴黎。临走前，他给太太留下了一封十分简短的信。信中说，他心意已决，要离开她，不会回来了，这个决定是不会更改的(irrevocable)。看到信，Strickland太太犹如晴天霹雳，不能理解查理的突然举动，以为他一定是带着某个女人私奔了。 故央求作者"我"去巴黎寻找丈夫的下落。作者在巴黎十分破旧的贫民区找到了画家，此时的画家身上只有100英镑。画家告诉作者，他抛妻弃子并不是为了某一个女人，而只是为了圆他的梦想--画画。作者在劝说无效时，斥责他不该分文不留，抛弃17年的妻子，让她无法生活。 画家回答道，我养了她17年，她现在应该自己想想办法了。 当作者又进一步问他，难道你不为两个孩子着想时，他的回答是，我曾经爱过孩子，已经给他们提供了超出普通孩子的舒适条件，他们现在已经长大了，自己对他们也已经没有什么特别的感情了。换句话说，他前面的几十年为家庭孩子而活，从四十岁开始他要抛开一切，为自己活着。这时的画家已经对妻子不关心，对儿女没有牵挂了，他甚至对作者指责他的冷血、不人道，也嗤之以鼻，没有任何羞愧之心。为了梦想，他可以放弃一切世间的情感，置若罔闻世人对他的谴责; 为了梦想，他像朝圣者那样匍匐前进，忍受孤独，忍受贫穷，忍受饥饿。也就是说，为了天上的月亮，他可以舍弃脚下的六便士，在他眼里，婚姻家庭是实现他摘取天上月亮的拦路虎，是他创作的桎梏。
流落巴黎街头的画家Strickland，十分穷困潦倒，饥不果腹，没有钱买颜料和画布。饥饿过度的他发烧生病，濒临死亡边缘。一位十分好心的画家Stroeve在恳求妻子Blanche的首肯后，接Strickland到自己家中，悉心照顾，把他从死神手里夺了回来。而画家回报这位朋友的却是拐走了他的妻子，占据了他的窠臼(应该说是Stroeve出于对太太的爱自动让给他们的)。这种恩将仇报，农夫与蛇的故事实在让人不齿。更让人掉眼球的是，三个月以后，在画家Strickland完成了为Blanche裸体画之后， 他爱的激情消失殆尽，又准备离开她。为此，女友Blanche喝草酸自杀身亡，而画家对此却无动于衷，没有半点自责。 在作者问及理由时，他的回答是，他不需要爱，爱是一种羁绊，爱是一种疾病，女人把爱看得太重，以为爱是人生的一切，为爱可以做一切，而唯有做不到Leave him alone。因为女人对他而言只是生理上的需求，抑或只是模特。他不需要爱，他要的是摆脱任何欲望，全身心地创作。从这一个层面上讲，就如作者在书中所说的，画家是冷漠，极端自私，无情无义，令人憎恨的一个人， 他的眼中只有画作，他不为名不为利，不顾世人的眼光和鄙视，专注(single-minded single-hearted)创作。 为了他的理想，他可以摒弃世间一切，不惜以牺牲自我或牺牲他人为代价。
47岁那一年，画家离开了巴黎，去了马塞尔，最后又漂洋过海到了当时法殖民地Tahiti。一样穷困潦倒的他，却因为是白人，白肤色沾了优势。在老妇人的撮合下，他与一位年仅17岁的当地姑娘Ata结了婚。这位姑娘有父辈留给她的简易楼房，位于茂密山林中。就这样，在Tahiti碧水蓝天、风光旖旎的世外桃源里，在遮天蔽日的椰子林里，画家与Ata过起了伊甸园的生活。不幸的是，天才画家后来得了麻风病。在病入膏肓，双眼失明之际，还在墙上创作了他生命里的最后一副巨作。让人动容的是，他的妻子在遭受村民的唾弃时，依然选择生死不离，一直守着画家，直至尸体发臭发烂，将他埋入尘土。
与前面两位女子不同的是，这位妻子Ata不仅照顾他的生活起居，给他提供吃住的方便，更重要的是，在他不需要她的时候, leave him alone，让他随心所欲。这种Leave him alone正是画家所要的。当有人问他，你怀念巴黎街头的灯火吗？你怀念那里的剧院报纸吗？你怀念车轮滚滚碾压过石子路的声音吗？他的回答是，我会在Tahiti终其一生。因为只有在这样远离尘嚣，无拘无束的环境中，天才画家的创造激情得到了迸发， 创作热情如日中天，一幅幅旷世之作最终成就了他破落却又辉煌的一生，奠定了他死后在欧洲艺术绘画史上的地位。
或许我们可以说，这样特立独行的画家是特殊的群体。众所周知，历史上有不少名画家都是穷困潦倒一生的，有些最后还疯疯癫癫的。但是，他们追求灵魂深处的释放，听从自己内心，不为世俗所羁绊捆绑，超凡脱俗地生活着，这一点又是值得我们深思的。如果这个世界没有道德法律的约束，人们会不会都像画家一样选择自由，这种灵魂身躯最大程度的自由，不为情所困，不为利所动，真正做到，生命诚可贵，爱情价更高，若为自由故，二者皆可抛呢?
言归正传
英国作家毛姆以法国名画家高更为原型，于1919创作了他知名的小说《月亮和六便士》。小说向读者描述了19世纪英国(法国)画家Charles Strickland的传奇一生。我想有太多的人读过这本小说和相关的书评，而我只想从他一生中有过的三个女人的这个侧面，来叙述主人公的经历，人性和从中得到的一些感想。
主人公Strickland四十岁之前一直生活在英国，有着一份稳定的工作(股票经纪人)、舒适的生活和美满的家庭。太太漂亮，贤惠，总是把家里收拾得干干净净，家事安排得井井有条，还时常邀请一些文艺界的作家艺术家来家里聚会, 是一个知性、高雅、有品位的女人。她和Strickland育有一男一女两个孩子。世人眼里的Strickland不善言辞，不合群，几分木讷，但是谁也没有想到他会在四十岁那年离家出走，不辞而别去了巴黎。临走前，他给太太留下了一封十分简短的信。信中说，他心意已决，要离开她，不会回来了，这个决定是不会更改的(irrevocable)。看到信，Strickland太太犹如晴天霹雳，不能理解查理的突然举动，以为他一定是带着某个女人私奔了。 故央求作者"我"去巴黎寻找丈夫的下落。作者在巴黎十分破旧的贫民区找到了画家，此时的画家身上只有100英镑。画家告诉作者，他抛妻弃子并不是为了某一个女人，而只是为了圆他的梦想--画画。作者在劝说无效时，斥责他不该分文不留，抛弃17年的妻子，让她无法生活。 画家回答道，我养了她17年，她现在应该自己想想办法了。 当作者又进一步问他，难道你不为两个孩子着想时，他的回答是，我曾经爱过孩子，已经给他们提供了超出普通孩子的舒适条件，他们现在已经长大了，自己对他们也已经没有什么特别的感情了。换句话说，他前面的几十年为家庭孩子而活，从四十岁开始他要抛开一切，为自己活着。这时的画家已经对妻子不关心，对儿女没有牵挂了，他甚至对作者指责他的冷血、不人道，也嗤之以鼻，没有任何羞愧之心。为了梦想，他可以放弃一切世间的情感，置若罔闻世人对他的谴责; 为了梦想，他像朝圣者那样匍匐前进，忍受孤独，忍受贫穷，忍受饥饿。也就是说，为了天上的月亮，他可以舍弃脚下的六便士，在他眼里，婚姻家庭是实现他摘取天上月亮的拦路虎，是他创作的桎梏。
流落巴黎街头的画家Strickland，十分穷困潦倒，饥不果腹，没有钱买颜料和画布。饥饿过度的他发烧生病，濒临死亡边缘。一位十分好心的画家Stroeve在恳求妻子Blanche的首肯后，接Strickland到自己家中，悉心照顾，把他从死神手里夺了回来。而画家回报这位朋友的却是拐走了他的妻子，占据了他的窠臼(应该说是Stroeve出于对太太的爱自动让给他们的)。这种恩将仇报，农夫与蛇的故事实在让人不齿。更让人掉眼球的是，三个月以后，在画家Strickland完成了为Blanche裸体画之后， 他爱的激情消失殆尽，又准备离开她。为此，女友Blanche喝草酸自杀身亡，而画家对此却无动于衷，没有半点自责。 在作者问及理由时，他的回答是，他不需要爱，爱是一种羁绊，爱是一种疾病，女人把爱看得太重，以为爱是人生的一切，为爱可以做一切，而唯有做不到Leave him alone。因为女人对他而言只是生理上的需求，抑或只是模特。他不需要爱，他要的是摆脱任何欲望，全身心地创作。从这一个层面上讲，就如作者在书中所说的，画家是冷漠，极端自私，无情无义，令人憎恨的一个人， 他的眼中只有画作，他不为名不为利，不顾世人的眼光和鄙视，专注(single-minded single-hearted)创作。 为了他的理想，他可以摒弃世间一切，不惜以牺牲自我或牺牲他人为代价。
47岁那一年，画家离开了巴黎，去了马塞尔，最后又漂洋过海到了当时法殖民地Tahiti。一样穷困潦倒的他，却因为是白人，白肤色沾了优势。在老妇人的撮合下，他与一位年仅17岁的当地姑娘Ata结了婚。这位姑娘有父辈留给她的简易楼房，位于茂密山林中。就这样，在Tahiti碧水蓝天、风光旖旎的世外桃源里，在遮天蔽日的椰子林里，画家与Ata过起了伊甸园的生活。不幸的是，天才画家后来得了麻风病。在病入膏肓，双眼失明之际，还在墙上创作了他生命里的最后一副巨作。让人动容的是，他的妻子在遭受村民的唾弃时，依然选择生死不离，一直守着画家，直至尸体发臭发烂，将他埋入尘土。
与前面两位女子不同的是，这位妻子Ata不仅照顾他的生活起居，给他提供吃住的方便，更重要的是，在他不需要她的时候, leave him alone，让他随心所欲。这种Leave him alone正是画家所要的。当有人问他，你怀念巴黎街头的灯火吗？你怀念那里的剧院报纸吗？你怀念车轮滚滚碾压过石子路的声音吗？他的回答是，我会在Tahiti终其一生。因为只有在这样远离尘嚣，无拘无束的环境中，天才画家的创造激情得到了迸发， 创作热情如日中天，一幅幅旷世之作最终成就了他破落却又辉煌的一生，奠定了他死后在欧洲艺术绘画史上的地位。
或许我们可以说，这样特立独行的画家是特殊的群体。众所周知，历史上有不少名画家都是穷困潦倒一生的，有些最后还疯疯癫癫的。但是，他们追求灵魂深处的释放，听从自己内心，不为世俗所羁绊捆绑，超凡脱俗地生活着，这一点又是值得我们深思的。如果这个世界没有道德法律的约束，人们会不会都像画家一样选择自由，这种灵魂身躯最大程度的自由，不为情所困，不为利所动，真正做到，生命诚可贵，爱情价更高，若为自由故，二者皆可抛呢?
淡然 发表评论于
这是与梵高有多年交情的高更吗？不知道他自己的身世也这么独特！谢谢分享！
彩烟游士 发表评论于
这篇博文的标题取得好:) 暖冬的文学功底很深啊，也很有耐心。这样的长篇，我很难静下心来看完。以后我要向暖冬学习，多读书，读好书。周末快乐！
暖冬cool夏 发表评论于
回复 '迪儿' 的评论 : 迪儿啊，如果我写上书名，这文章可能读的人就少了，写博时间久了，也知道当标题党的好处了:)
不过呢，这是我读完这篇小说的感想。你提到了你弟弟，让我理解了，人在这个社会上其实就是矛盾体。普通人因为普通平凡，没有这么多烦恼，而那些天才型的，有时就会与世格格不入。读小说可以解闷，现在有时觉得日子太平淡无奇了:)迪儿周末好！
不过呢，这是我读完这篇小说的感想。你提到了你弟弟，让我理解了，人在这个社会上其实就是矛盾体。普通人因为普通平凡，没有这么多烦恼，而那些天才型的，有时就会与世格格不入。读小说可以解闷，现在有时觉得日子太平淡无奇了:)迪儿周末好！
暖冬cool夏 发表评论于
回复 'Once-always' 的评论 : Oncemm这么早醒来了，还在倒时差呢。谢谢你认真的阅读和用心的点评，你的水平就是高。这一句"有人在爱情的得失中获得创作的灵感，有人在挣脱了感情的羁绊后激情得到升华"说出真谛。我想很多诗人文学家是在爱情激情的燃烧下写出巨作的，因为有时真正的爱就像岩浆喷发，有着巨大的力量，但这种力量是不可持续的，或许冷却了，就僵硬了，会羁绊人向前。你知道，小说里有个很傻乎乎的三流画家(就是把Strickland接回家，后来太太跟人跑了的那个家伙)，爱太太爱到unconditional, 只要她回心转意，恨不能跪在太太脚下求她，这样的男子被人、被太太瞧不起，可是确让人感动。最后他是伤心离开巴黎，回老家去了，走之前感慨，如果当年不出来画画，说不定已经娶邻家妹妹结婚生子，孩子都可以打酱油了。让我想起北漂的那批人，今天的北京上海，不是适合所有的人来投奔发展的。讲偏了。
其实我现在的文章写得不如以前，一直在想这个问题。照理，文字应该越写越顺的。想起你的处女作小说，也是我最喜欢的那篇。有些作家也是如此，后面的作品技术越来越娴熟，为什么反而不如以前的?
一个作家的一部作品，只要有一两处真正打动人心的，真正的经典哲理句子好像就可以流芳百世:)。毛姆这篇小说里的金句很多，这些只是在公司电脑word上highlight的，Kindle上的还没有倒出来。等下了首页，我再来贴。
谢谢mm,周末快乐！
其实我现在的文章写得不如以前，一直在想这个问题。照理，文字应该越写越顺的。想起你的处女作小说，也是我最喜欢的那篇。有些作家也是如此，后面的作品技术越来越娴熟，为什么反而不如以前的?
一个作家的一部作品，只要有一两处真正打动人心的，真正的经典哲理句子好像就可以流芳百世:)。毛姆这篇小说里的金句很多，这些只是在公司电脑word上highlight的，Kindle上的还没有倒出来。等下了首页，我再来贴。
谢谢mm,周末快乐！
迪儿 发表评论于
看了标题吓一跳，是什么让幸福贤惠的冬妹妹，想起了这个题目：-）
谢谢你的精彩书评。我水平不够，兴趣不够，耐心也不够，这些名著和我一辈子无缘了。是你的描述，让我知道了这个惊心动魄的故事，更深刻地认识了许多画家的共性。对于他们，很难用对错衡量。
之所以很理解，因为我有一个画家弟弟，我也是渐渐理解了他的独特和挣扎。好在随着年龄增长阅历增加，我弟弟世俗了许多，也快乐了许多。
谢谢你的精彩书评。我水平不够，兴趣不够，耐心也不够，这些名著和我一辈子无缘了。是你的描述，让我知道了这个惊心动魄的故事，更深刻地认识了许多画家的共性。对于他们，很难用对错衡量。
之所以很理解，因为我有一个画家弟弟，我也是渐渐理解了他的独特和挣扎。好在随着年龄增长阅历增加，我弟弟世俗了许多，也快乐了许多。
Once-always 发表评论于
暖mm，昨晚睡觉前发现了你的新博文，就想着早上醒来后细细读。一直喜欢你书评独特的视角。世界就是这么奇妙，人的情感就是这么扑簌迷离。有人在爱情的得失中获得创作的灵感，有人在挣脱了感情的羁绊后激情得到升华。其实都是爱，只是爱的对象不同而已。从某种意义上来说，画家的选择无可厚非。至少他熬到了孩子长大成人，他的前半生为世俗苟且，后半生为梦想执着。谢谢暖mm摘录这一小段原文，很喜欢。不过，“He lived more poorly than an artisan.” 我敢肯定高更绝不这么认为！
暖冬cool夏 发表评论于
回复 '黑眼睛的苏珊' 的评论 : 苏珊好！ 我早上刚刚读了一点有关画家高更的信息，他和梵高有过11年的合作，但是后来两个人也好像闹僵了。这部小说是partly以高更为原型，并非他的传记，毕竟是小说(高更的介绍我还没有读完)。 我同意你说，里面的画家Strickland很冷漠自私，为艺术可以献身自己也牺牲别人的人，人格上一定是不完美有缺陷的。谢谢你的来访和留言！
黑眼睛的苏珊 发表评论于
也读过《月亮与六便士》，读该书之前对高更有好感，毕竟他是孤独的梵高的唯一朋友，也帮助过梵高，读完此书后觉得他过于冷酷自私。有成就的画家多了，并不见的做艺术家就必须冷酷自私。艺术家应该是有大爱的人，应该有悲天悯人的情怀。
暖冬cool夏 发表评论于
回复 'Sansan2019' 的评论 : Sansan好！ 谢谢你介绍《傲慢与偏见》，也谢谢你的热情，让我考虑是不是要重新捡起已经读了几章的《傲慢》。既然是名著，一定有它的道理的，文学作品会让人激情燃烧，思考，欣赏。谢谢你的分享。周末快乐！
暖冬cool夏 发表评论于
回复 '山韭菜' 的评论 : 谢谢山韭菜的问候，同问候你，周末快乐！
暖冬cool夏 发表评论于
回复 '简体' 的评论 : 新朋友好！谢谢你的input， 我对高更知道的很少，刚刚特意去网上搜了点资料来读，知道他的童年时代是跟随母亲去了秘鲁，父亲在高更他18月大时就去世了。我还没有完全读完(只读到他去了Tahiti)。如你所说，他当过水手，做过11年的股票经纪人，1882年巴黎股市崩盘，画市萎缩，他拖家带口去了丹麦，后来又是离婚， 确实eventful. 再后来去了Tahiti, 扬言要发迹了回来。他离开法国去Tahiti是想逃离欧洲文明和它的artificial and conventional固守成规。这部小说是部分的高更原型，不是纪实or传记。谢谢你的信息，让我去了解画家。周末快乐!
暖冬cool夏 发表评论于
回复 'GraceX' 的评论 : 'Grace好! 所以说，人的独立性很重要，不管是在婚姻内还是婚姻外，给人自由，保持一定的距离。画家只是极端的例子，却又是人性的反映。谢谢'Grace留言，有空来读你的新文。周末快乐！
Sansan2019 发表评论于
最近刚刚在微信读书听完了《傲慢与偏见》，刚刚开始很难接受，越听越吸引人。“两情若是久长时，又岂在朝朝暮暮”，伊丽莎白和达西的情感经历了一个曲折的过程，这是时间对爱情的考验，最终二人从傲慢与偏见中走了出来，互相理解、包容、欣赏，真情实感最终摇撼了看似冥顽不化的旧观念的代表者—母亲，这正是二人修成正果的重要基础。在当代，夫妻的感情、家庭的稳固又何尝不是如此。
山韭菜 发表评论于
问好暖冬！祝周末愉快！
简体 发表评论于
高更的少年时代好像比较漂泊，不同的国家，社会的动荡，水手生涯。中间稳定的中产生活并不长，而且又遇上经济衰退。有这些鋪垫后他抛弃一切跟普通人偶有的自由梦想还有有差异的。
GraceX 发表评论于
暖冬好，谢谢介绍《月亮与六便士》，在这个世界上有极个别的人确实是与众不同的，比如，这个画家，他们是可以为自由抛弃一切的，正因为如此，他们才能在某些领域可以非常的杰出。对于这类人，若想永远地“拥有”他们，就要去欣赏和成全他们，若想占有，那么迟早有一天会永远地失去他们。
暖冬cool夏 发表评论于
回复 '.川晔' 的评论 : 川晔好，是的，一言难尽。毛姆小说里面有刻画人的共性，又有特例，读完了，我也觉得不好写读书笔记，应该没有一个很明确的感受。他这个二流里面的佼佼者有一定道理，他的文字和思想既出色又不是最顶尖。谢谢你的留言，看大家的留言真是有收获的。周末快乐！
暖冬cool夏 发表评论于
回复 'or123' 的评论 : 欢迎新朋友！每次有新朋友留言，我总是很高兴，老朋友之间有时候有捧场的味道，而新朋友的反馈是真正意义上的反馈。我也喜欢毛姆的文字，更多的是他的金句，有些是穿越时代的，里面的人物也是，不同的时代还是能看到同样的影子，大概这就是永恒经典吧。谢谢你的input，我还不知道毛姆是同性恋呢。谢谢留言，周末快乐！
暖冬cool夏 发表评论于
回复 'yy56' 的评论 : 闻香好，这本书不长，值得再读一遍的，里面的很多话是timeless,经典之作。年轻时读的书都在呢，沉淀下来了的，所以才有你们现在的文字功底。谢谢闻香，周末快乐！
.川晔 发表评论于
毛姆我曾经是喜欢的。他自称是“二流作家中的佼佼者”，现在我觉得我同意他的自我评价。
相对来说，毛姆是较少慈悲心的作家，笔触偏于尖刻不留情面的，所以比较接近真实。不过，嗯，总是有不过的。一言难尽。
相对来说，毛姆是较少慈悲心的作家，笔触偏于尖刻不留情面的，所以比较接近真实。不过，嗯，总是有不过的。一言难尽。
or123 发表评论于
也曾读过这篇英文小说，文字很美，读下去几乎欲罢不能。Strickland的无情冷漠似乎是理所当然又是无辜的，而我以为，他所有的行为，不是他选择梦想，而是被梦想选中。后来知道了毛姆是同性恋之后，也就理解Strickland为何如此轻视女性。
yy56 发表评论于
你的介绍让我有了欲望再读一遍此书。很多过去读过的书都给岁月的风刮走了。
谢谢你，带着我们重温经典。
谢谢你，带着我们重温经典。
暖冬cool夏 发表评论于
回复 '喜清静' 的评论 : 是的，喜mm,如果不抛开呢，也就没有他后来的成就，虽然生活可能很舒适。这也是他们不同于一般人的地方。谢谢喜mm的留言！
暖冬cool夏 发表评论于
回复 '疏影浅斜' 的评论 : 疏影好，疏影这段婚姻是容器，爱情是浓浆写得好，形象到位。写博文的意义，一是自己整理总结，二是听取大家的意见，这样才能开拓思维，更上一层。'这位画家，照作者的意思，是不懂爱，也不能爱的人，他某种程度就是一个taker, never a giver,因为自私冷漠，因为专注他的艺术绘画创作。只是读时还是感动感慨的，不过我也写不出新意。谢谢疏影的好评论！
暖冬cool夏 发表评论于
回复 '菲儿天地' 的评论 : 菲儿好，你博闻强记，知识面广。羡慕你还参加读书会。我这里用写博的方式来讨论呢。你也写过，子乔也写过，你们都提到高更的《我们从哪里来》。等我来拜读一下。谢谢菲儿！
暖冬cool夏 发表评论于
回复 '土豆-禾苗' 的评论 : 土豆好，土豆回来了吗？还是还在夏日炎炎的上海啊? 是的，麻烦，所以统统地不要:)) 问候土豆夏安！
暖冬cool夏 发表评论于
回复 'DoraDora2008' 的评论 : 谢谢Dora的意见。我这里说的没有法律，更多的是指婚姻上的法律，当然，一个社会离不开法律道德的，否则是不太平的，人性恶的一面也会无所顾忌地出来横行霸道。画家这样的人是特殊人群，有婚姻也束缚不了他们的，就像书中的主人公。也是自由，身心的自由才有了他后来的才华的最大显现。谢谢你的来访和意见！
喜清静 发表评论于
画家离开家的时候已经抛弃了世俗的一切束缚。
暖冬cool夏 发表评论于
回复 'olive-c' 的评论 : 欢迎新朋友Olive.是的，画家很执着，带有点偏执狂，眼里心里只有画，加上天份，让他四十岁起步照样成功。书中有一些抛下妻子孩子的对话，虽然让人觉得画家很冷漠，但是也很直白，对我们有时只知道付出的人是一种提醒。他的第三个女人Ata从某种意义上来说就是忠诚，有种"你是我丈夫，我不能丢下你不管不顾的意思"，不管是不是出于爱，这种冒着生命危险照顾画家，确实让人动容。谢谢你的来访和意见！
疏影浅斜 发表评论于
当婚姻与爱情统一时，二者会产生叠加效益；当二者走向歧路时，婚姻便成了桎梏。爱情是一捧浓浆，炽烈、香醇、涌动不止，婚姻作为容器则希望把这浓浆盛起来。慢慢地，味散了，停止涌动了，爱情在婚姻这个容器里退化，或者也可以说是进化成为亲情了。
Strickland 在成为艺术的追求者之后，变得忘我，摒弃所有桎梏，只是恣意地任爱流淌。
谢谢暖冬的介绍。
Strickland 在成为艺术的追求者之后，变得忘我，摒弃所有桎梏，只是恣意地任爱流淌。
谢谢暖冬的介绍。
菲儿天地 发表评论于
我原来也写过《月亮和六便士》的书评，Book club当时讨论得特别的激烈，我把Strickland的原型画家高更的画《Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going?》做了书签给大家留念。
暖冬好文！
暖冬好文！
土豆-禾苗 发表评论于
婚姻麻烦，爱情也麻烦，都麻烦，统统di麻烦。呵呵。
DoraDora2008 发表评论于
如果这个世界没有法律的约束， 恐怕善良的人根本就活不久吧， 有被抢被杀的自由了。要是没有婚姻的约束， 倒是自由了。男主是真自由了， 因为他把画画当信仰。一般人没有信仰， 所以没有婚姻虽然没有束缚， 但是也没有稳定的安全感了， 未必划算。
olive-c 发表评论于
谢谢，写得感人。
画家自己成就了自己，而非他人。若每个人都能这样义无反顾的追求自己的梦想，都会得到相应的帮助。但，人们没有这样的勇气。他的妻儿没有了他的照应，也能找到生存的路。过程中必定比一生受人照顾收获大，虽说是被逼。
他的第三任妻子是真爱啊，爱一个人就是给人自由，让他如他所是的样子。
画家自己成就了自己，而非他人。若每个人都能这样义无反顾的追求自己的梦想，都会得到相应的帮助。但，人们没有这样的勇气。他的妻儿没有了他的照应，也能找到生存的路。过程中必定比一生受人照顾收获大，虽说是被逼。
他的第三任妻子是真爱啊，爱一个人就是给人自由，让他如他所是的样子。
暖冬cool夏 发表评论于
回复 '沪上江南' 的评论 : 谢谢新朋友沪上江南的input,很有启发。事实上，书中另一个心地特别善良的画家Stroeve很值得人同情的，他最后伤心之极离开巴黎回老家，让我想起国内当年那些北漂的艺人。你这点说得很对，正是这些善良的人，如Stroeve和Ata成就了画家。没有他们的援助之手，他可能早不在人间了。谢谢你的意见，这也是我写这篇博文的意义所在。
沪上江南 发表评论于
画家追求解脱人性的牵绊，但并未摆脱重多有人性光辉的善良人给予他的无私帮助。正是这些人才真正成就了他。他虽然在物质上是贫穷的，但人性的光辉是无价的。故事的情节和主题让我很难对作者所想表达的思想持肯定的态度。画家很自私很自我，这种人在生活中并不少见，虽然他们不见得是所谓的专家。
暖冬cool夏 发表评论于
回复 'ziqiao123' 的评论 : 子乔好！刚刚特意又去读了一遍你的博文，你的自然写得好，是的，小说全篇没有提到月亮或六便士，我上网搜了，才知道这个源于他《人性的枷锁》里的一句话，so busy yearning for the moon that he never saw the sixpence at his feet.我也更喜欢《简爱》，毛姆的《人性枷锁》我也没有读过。谢谢子乔。
暖冬cool夏 发表评论于
回复 'spot321' 的评论 : 点点好！我个人更喜欢《简爱》，奥斯丁的《傲慢与偏见》我读了几章就不想再接着读下去了，不知道是不是自己不够集中注意力还是别的。推荐《月亮和六便士》，写得好！
ziqiao123 发表评论于
《月亮和六便士》好像是我在文学城开博客后写的第一篇博文。我个人的感觉“简爱”比“傲慢与偏见”的文字更优美，也可能是因为我更偏爱“简爱”。还有毛姆的“人性的枷锁”很多人都说好看，我却读不下去。
spot321 发表评论于
《简爱》和《傲慢与偏见》是在很早的时候读过，对《简爱》的印象比较深刻，另一本则早就不记得了。谢谢介绍《月亮与六便士》。
暖冬cool夏 发表评论于
没想到这么快就上首页。下面只是一小部分摘录。毛姆的作品金句多多。
"Tell him that our home cries out for him. Everything is just the same, and yet everything is different. I can't live without him. I'd sooner kill myself. Talk to him about the past, and all we've gone through together. What am I to say to the children when they ask for him? His room is exactly as it was when he left it. It's waiting for him. We're all waiting for him."
"What poor minds women have got! Love. It's always love. They think a man leaves only because he wants others. Do you think I should be such a fool as to do what I've done for a woman?"
Strickland remained placid. Looking back, I think now that he was blind to everything but to some disturbing vision in his soul.
oblivious of everything in his effort to get what he saw with the mind's eye; and then, having finished, not the picture perhaps, for I had an idea that he seldom brought anything to completion, but the passion that fired him, he lost all care for it. He was never satisfied with what he had done;
"Who makes fame? Critics, writers, stockbrokers, women."
"Wouldn't it give you a rather pleasing sensation to think of people you didn't know and had never seen receiving emotions, subtle and passionate, from the work of your hands? Everyone likes power. I can't imagine a more wonderful exercise of it than to move the souls of men to pity or terror."
"I don't. I only want to paint what I see."
"I wonder if I could write on a desert island, with the certainty that no eyes but mine would ever see what I had written."
Strickland did not speak for a long time, but his eyes shone strangely, as though he saw something that kindled his soul to ecstasy.
"Sometimes I've thought of an island lost in a boundless sea, where I could live in some hidden valley, among strange trees, in silence. There I think I could find what I want."
"I should have thought sometimes you couldn't help thinking of the past. I don't mean the past of seven or eight years ago, but further back still, when you first met your wife, and loved her, and married her. Don't you remember the joy with which you first took her in your arms?"
I do not suppose she had ever really cared for her husband, and what I had taken for love was no more than the feminine response to caresses and comfort which in the minds of most women passes for it. It is a passive feeling capable of being roused for any object, as the vine can grow on any tree; and the wisdom of the world recognises its strength when it urges a girl to marry the man who wants her with the assurance that love will follow. It is an emotion made up of the satisfaction in security, pride of property, the pleasure of being desired, the gratification of a household, and it is only by an amiable vanity that women ascribe to it spiritual value.
But if one could be certain of nothing in dealing with creatures so incalculable as human beings, there were explanations of Blanche Stroeve's behaviour which were at all events plausible. On the other hand, I did not understand Strickland at all. I racked my brain, but could in no way account for an action so contrary to my conception of him. It was not strange that he should so heartlessly have betrayed his friends' confidence, nor that he hesitated not at all to gratify a whim at the cost of another's misery. That was in his character. He was a man without any conception of gratitude. He had no compassion. The emotions common to most of us simply did not exist in him, and it was as absurd to blame him for not feeling them as for blaming the tiger because he is fierce and cruel. But it was the whim I could not understand.
I could not believe that Strickland had fallen in love with Blanche Stroeve. I did not believe him capable of love. That is an emotion in which tenderness is an essential part, but Strickland had no tenderness either for himself or for others; there is in love a sense of weakness, a desire to protect, an eagerness to do good and to give pleasure—if not unselfishness, at all events a selfishness which marvellously conceals itself; it has in it a certain diffidence. These were not traits which I could imagine in Strickland. Love is absorbing; it takes the lover out of himself.
Love is never quite devoid of sentimentality.
But I suppose that everyone's conception of the passion is formed on his own idiosyncrasies, and it is different with every different person. A man like Strickland would love in a manner peculiar to himself. It was vain to seek the analysis of his emotion.
There is no cruelty greater than a woman's to a man who loves her and whom she does not love; she has no kindness then, no tolerance even, she has only an insane irritation.
The summer came, breathless and sultry, and even at night there was no coolness to rest one's jaded nerves. The sun-baked streets seemed to give back the heat that had beat down on them during the day, and the passers-by dragged their feet along them wearily.
I hoped that the grief which now seemed intolerable would be softened by the lapse of time, and a merciful forgetfulness would help him to take up once more the burden of life. He was young still, and in a few years he would look back on all his misery with a sadness in which there would be something not unpleasurable. Sooner or later he would marry some honest soul in Holland, and I felt sure he would be happy
"A woman can forgive a man for the harm he does her," he said, "but she can never forgive him for the sacrifices he makes on her account."
The satyr in him suddenly took possession, and he was powerless in the grip of an instinct which had all the strength of the primitive forces of nature. It was an obsession so complete that there was no room in his soul for prudence or gratitude.
"I don't want love. I haven't time for it. It's weakness. I am a man, and sometimes I want a woman. When I've satisfied my passion I'm ready for other things. I can't overcome my desire, but I hate it; it imprisons my spirit; I look forward to the time when I shall be free from all desire and can give myself without hindrance to my work. Because women can do nothing except love, they've given it a ridiculous importance. They want to persuade us that it's the whole of life. It's an insignificant part. I know lust. That's normal and healthy. Love is a disease. Women are the instruments of my pleasure; I have no patience with their claim to be helpmates, partners, companions."
"When a woman loves you she's not satisfied until she possesses your soul. Because she's weak, she has a rage for domination, and nothing less will satisfy her. She has a small mind, and she resents the abstract which she is unable to grasp. She is occupied with material things, and she is jealous of the ideal. The soul of man wanders through the uttermost regions of the universe, and she seeks to imprison it in the circle of her account-book. Do you remember my wife? I saw Blanche little by little trying all her tricks. With infinite patience she prepared to snare me and bind me. She wanted to bring me down to her level; she cared nothing for me, she only wanted me to be hers. She was willing to do everything in the world for me except the one thing I wanted: to leave me alone."
It's a preposterous attempt to try to live only for yourself and by yourself. Sooner or later you'll be ill and tired and old, and then you'll crawl back into the herd. Won't you be ashamed when you feel in your heart the desire for comfort and sympathy? You're trying an impossible thing. Sooner or later the human being in you will yearn for the common bonds of humanity."
Each one of us is alone in the world. He is shut in a tower of brass, and can communicate with his fellows only by signs, and the signs have no common value, so that their sense is vague and uncertain. We seek pitifully to convey to others the treasures of our heart, but they have not the power to accept them, and so we go lonely, side by side but not together, unable to know our fellows and unknown by them. We are like people living in a country whose language they know so little that, with all manner of beautiful and profound things to say, they are condemned to the banalities of the conversation manual.
I surmise that she realised that to him she was not an individual, but an instrument of pleasure; he was a stranger still, and she tried to bind him to herself with pathetic arts. She strove to ensnare him with comfort and would not see that comfort meant nothing to him. For in men, as a rule, love is but an episode which takes its place among the other affairs of the day, and the emphasis laid on it in novels gives it an importance which is untrue to life. There are few men to whom it is the most important thing in the world, and they are not very interesting ones; even women, with whom the subject is of paramount interest, have a contempt for them. They are flattered and excited by them, but have an uneasy feeling that they are poor creatures. But even during the brief intervals in which they are in love, men do other things which distract their mind; the trades by which they earn their living engage their attention; they are absorbed in sport; they can interest themselves in art. For the most part, they keep their various activities in various compartments, and they can pursue one to the temporary exclusion of the other. They have a faculty of concentration on that which occupies them at the moment, and it irks them if one encroaches on the other. As lovers, the difference between men and women is that women can love all day long, but men only at times.
With Strickland the sexual appetite took a very small place. It was unimportant. It was irksome. His soul aimed elsewhither. He had violent passions, and on occasion desire seized his body so that he was driven to an orgy of lust, but he hated the instincts that robbed him of his self-possession. I think, even, he hated the inevitable partner in his debauchery. When he had regained command over himself, he shuddered at the sight of the woman he had enjoyed. His thoughts floated then serenely in the empyrean, and he felt towards her the horror that perhaps the painted butterfly, hovering about the flowers, feels to the filthy chrysalis from which it has triumphantly emerged. I suppose that art is a manifestation of the sexual instinct. It is the same emotion which is excited in the human heart by the sight of a lovely woman, the Bay of Naples under the yellow moon, and the Entombment of Titian. It is possible that Strickland hated the normal release of sex because it seemed to him brutal by comparison with the satisfaction of artistic creation. It seems strange even to myself, when I have described a man who was cruel, selfish, brutal and sensual, to say that he was a great idealist. The fact remains.
He lived more poorly than an artisan. He worked harder. He cared nothing for those things which with most people make life gracious and beautiful. He was indifferent to money. He cared nothing about fame. You cannot praise him because he resisted the temptation to make any of those compromises with the world which most of us yield to. He had no such temptation. It never entered his head that compromise was possible. He lived in Paris more lonely than an anchorite in the deserts of Thebes. He asked nothing his fellows except that they should leave him alone. He was single-hearted in his aim, and to pursue it he was willing to sacrifice not only himself—many can do that—but others. He had a vision.
"Tell him that our home cries out for him. Everything is just the same, and yet everything is different. I can't live without him. I'd sooner kill myself. Talk to him about the past, and all we've gone through together. What am I to say to the children when they ask for him? His room is exactly as it was when he left it. It's waiting for him. We're all waiting for him."
"What poor minds women have got! Love. It's always love. They think a man leaves only because he wants others. Do you think I should be such a fool as to do what I've done for a woman?"
Strickland remained placid. Looking back, I think now that he was blind to everything but to some disturbing vision in his soul.
oblivious of everything in his effort to get what he saw with the mind's eye; and then, having finished, not the picture perhaps, for I had an idea that he seldom brought anything to completion, but the passion that fired him, he lost all care for it. He was never satisfied with what he had done;
"Who makes fame? Critics, writers, stockbrokers, women."
"Wouldn't it give you a rather pleasing sensation to think of people you didn't know and had never seen receiving emotions, subtle and passionate, from the work of your hands? Everyone likes power. I can't imagine a more wonderful exercise of it than to move the souls of men to pity or terror."
"I don't. I only want to paint what I see."
"I wonder if I could write on a desert island, with the certainty that no eyes but mine would ever see what I had written."
Strickland did not speak for a long time, but his eyes shone strangely, as though he saw something that kindled his soul to ecstasy.
"Sometimes I've thought of an island lost in a boundless sea, where I could live in some hidden valley, among strange trees, in silence. There I think I could find what I want."
"I should have thought sometimes you couldn't help thinking of the past. I don't mean the past of seven or eight years ago, but further back still, when you first met your wife, and loved her, and married her. Don't you remember the joy with which you first took her in your arms?"
I do not suppose she had ever really cared for her husband, and what I had taken for love was no more than the feminine response to caresses and comfort which in the minds of most women passes for it. It is a passive feeling capable of being roused for any object, as the vine can grow on any tree; and the wisdom of the world recognises its strength when it urges a girl to marry the man who wants her with the assurance that love will follow. It is an emotion made up of the satisfaction in security, pride of property, the pleasure of being desired, the gratification of a household, and it is only by an amiable vanity that women ascribe to it spiritual value.
But if one could be certain of nothing in dealing with creatures so incalculable as human beings, there were explanations of Blanche Stroeve's behaviour which were at all events plausible. On the other hand, I did not understand Strickland at all. I racked my brain, but could in no way account for an action so contrary to my conception of him. It was not strange that he should so heartlessly have betrayed his friends' confidence, nor that he hesitated not at all to gratify a whim at the cost of another's misery. That was in his character. He was a man without any conception of gratitude. He had no compassion. The emotions common to most of us simply did not exist in him, and it was as absurd to blame him for not feeling them as for blaming the tiger because he is fierce and cruel. But it was the whim I could not understand.
I could not believe that Strickland had fallen in love with Blanche Stroeve. I did not believe him capable of love. That is an emotion in which tenderness is an essential part, but Strickland had no tenderness either for himself or for others; there is in love a sense of weakness, a desire to protect, an eagerness to do good and to give pleasure—if not unselfishness, at all events a selfishness which marvellously conceals itself; it has in it a certain diffidence. These were not traits which I could imagine in Strickland. Love is absorbing; it takes the lover out of himself.
Love is never quite devoid of sentimentality.
But I suppose that everyone's conception of the passion is formed on his own idiosyncrasies, and it is different with every different person. A man like Strickland would love in a manner peculiar to himself. It was vain to seek the analysis of his emotion.
There is no cruelty greater than a woman's to a man who loves her and whom she does not love; she has no kindness then, no tolerance even, she has only an insane irritation.
The summer came, breathless and sultry, and even at night there was no coolness to rest one's jaded nerves. The sun-baked streets seemed to give back the heat that had beat down on them during the day, and the passers-by dragged their feet along them wearily.
I hoped that the grief which now seemed intolerable would be softened by the lapse of time, and a merciful forgetfulness would help him to take up once more the burden of life. He was young still, and in a few years he would look back on all his misery with a sadness in which there would be something not unpleasurable. Sooner or later he would marry some honest soul in Holland, and I felt sure he would be happy
"A woman can forgive a man for the harm he does her," he said, "but she can never forgive him for the sacrifices he makes on her account."
The satyr in him suddenly took possession, and he was powerless in the grip of an instinct which had all the strength of the primitive forces of nature. It was an obsession so complete that there was no room in his soul for prudence or gratitude.
"I don't want love. I haven't time for it. It's weakness. I am a man, and sometimes I want a woman. When I've satisfied my passion I'm ready for other things. I can't overcome my desire, but I hate it; it imprisons my spirit; I look forward to the time when I shall be free from all desire and can give myself without hindrance to my work. Because women can do nothing except love, they've given it a ridiculous importance. They want to persuade us that it's the whole of life. It's an insignificant part. I know lust. That's normal and healthy. Love is a disease. Women are the instruments of my pleasure; I have no patience with their claim to be helpmates, partners, companions."
"When a woman loves you she's not satisfied until she possesses your soul. Because she's weak, she has a rage for domination, and nothing less will satisfy her. She has a small mind, and she resents the abstract which she is unable to grasp. She is occupied with material things, and she is jealous of the ideal. The soul of man wanders through the uttermost regions of the universe, and she seeks to imprison it in the circle of her account-book. Do you remember my wife? I saw Blanche little by little trying all her tricks. With infinite patience she prepared to snare me and bind me. She wanted to bring me down to her level; she cared nothing for me, she only wanted me to be hers. She was willing to do everything in the world for me except the one thing I wanted: to leave me alone."
It's a preposterous attempt to try to live only for yourself and by yourself. Sooner or later you'll be ill and tired and old, and then you'll crawl back into the herd. Won't you be ashamed when you feel in your heart the desire for comfort and sympathy? You're trying an impossible thing. Sooner or later the human being in you will yearn for the common bonds of humanity."
Each one of us is alone in the world. He is shut in a tower of brass, and can communicate with his fellows only by signs, and the signs have no common value, so that their sense is vague and uncertain. We seek pitifully to convey to others the treasures of our heart, but they have not the power to accept them, and so we go lonely, side by side but not together, unable to know our fellows and unknown by them. We are like people living in a country whose language they know so little that, with all manner of beautiful and profound things to say, they are condemned to the banalities of the conversation manual.
I surmise that she realised that to him she was not an individual, but an instrument of pleasure; he was a stranger still, and she tried to bind him to herself with pathetic arts. She strove to ensnare him with comfort and would not see that comfort meant nothing to him. For in men, as a rule, love is but an episode which takes its place among the other affairs of the day, and the emphasis laid on it in novels gives it an importance which is untrue to life. There are few men to whom it is the most important thing in the world, and they are not very interesting ones; even women, with whom the subject is of paramount interest, have a contempt for them. They are flattered and excited by them, but have an uneasy feeling that they are poor creatures. But even during the brief intervals in which they are in love, men do other things which distract their mind; the trades by which they earn their living engage their attention; they are absorbed in sport; they can interest themselves in art. For the most part, they keep their various activities in various compartments, and they can pursue one to the temporary exclusion of the other. They have a faculty of concentration on that which occupies them at the moment, and it irks them if one encroaches on the other. As lovers, the difference between men and women is that women can love all day long, but men only at times.
With Strickland the sexual appetite took a very small place. It was unimportant. It was irksome. His soul aimed elsewhither. He had violent passions, and on occasion desire seized his body so that he was driven to an orgy of lust, but he hated the instincts that robbed him of his self-possession. I think, even, he hated the inevitable partner in his debauchery. When he had regained command over himself, he shuddered at the sight of the woman he had enjoyed. His thoughts floated then serenely in the empyrean, and he felt towards her the horror that perhaps the painted butterfly, hovering about the flowers, feels to the filthy chrysalis from which it has triumphantly emerged. I suppose that art is a manifestation of the sexual instinct. It is the same emotion which is excited in the human heart by the sight of a lovely woman, the Bay of Naples under the yellow moon, and the Entombment of Titian. It is possible that Strickland hated the normal release of sex because it seemed to him brutal by comparison with the satisfaction of artistic creation. It seems strange even to myself, when I have described a man who was cruel, selfish, brutal and sensual, to say that he was a great idealist. The fact remains.
He lived more poorly than an artisan. He worked harder. He cared nothing for those things which with most people make life gracious and beautiful. He was indifferent to money. He cared nothing about fame. You cannot praise him because he resisted the temptation to make any of those compromises with the world which most of us yield to. He had no such temptation. It never entered his head that compromise was possible. He lived in Paris more lonely than an anchorite in the deserts of Thebes. He asked nothing his fellows except that they should leave him alone. He was single-hearted in his aim, and to pursue it he was willing to sacrifice not only himself—many can do that—but others. He had a vision.
评论
发表评论