Virginia Woolf-怎样读书
英国文学 伍尔芙 及 “意识流” ——牛钒冰 2
弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙与《达罗卫夫人》（Mrs. Dalloway）
life and death is an ever-lasting theme in literature; virginia woolf unfolds a peculiar life pattern before readers. living in a turbulent society, she cares more about society and human existence, devoting all her life seeking what people are living for in modern world. all her unique perceptions on life and death have caused serious public concern about the existential predicament of modern people. different from the traditional manner of novel-writing, woolf calls for a new kind of novel, like unlyssess, and asks writers to explore and portray the inner life. through her creation, she presents her characters'' inner-mind activities, traces the succession of their impression, thought and mood, and reveals the basic structure of human personality with its capacity for joy and pain. among all her works, mrs. dalloway is considered as her masterpiece on exploration on life and death. for so many decades, mrs. dalloway has been interpreted from various angles, and some theories of literary criticism have helped readers know better about this novel and the author''s view of life.
Virginia-Woolf教学内容
Literary Term: stream of consciousness
Version 1: The term “stream of consciousness” which was a coined by William James in
Principles of Psychology (1890) is used to indicate a literary approach to the presentation of psychological aspects of characters in fiction. Generally speaking, there are two levels of consciousness: “the speech level” and “the prespeech level”. The prespeech levels of consciousness are not censored, not rationally controlled or logically ordered. And the “stream of consciousness” novel can be defined as a type of novel in which the basic emphasis is placed on exploration of the prespeech level of consciousness for the purpose of revealing the psychic being of the characters and of studying human nature. The realm of life with which the “stream of consciousness” novel is concerned is mental and spiritual experience, such as sensation, memories, imaginations, conceptions, intuitions, feelings and the process of association. Dorothy Richardson, Marcel Proust, Tames Joyce, Virginia Woolf and William Faulkner are usually regarded as the most prominent the “stream of consciousness” novelists. What these writers have contributed to novel is broadly one thing; they have opened up a new area of life for novel by adding mental functioning and psychic existence to fiction and by creating a novel centered on the core of human experience.
Virginia-Woolf讲课教案
弗吉尼亚. 沃尔芙
Virginia Woolf (1882 – 1941) was an English author, essayist, publisher, and writer of short stories, regarded as one of the foremost modernist literary figures of the twentieth century. During the interwar period, Woolf was a significant figure in London literary society and a member of the Bloomsbury Group.
(1929), with its famous dictum, "A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction."
Contents
1. Term：stream of consciousness 2. Her Life 3.Her works
Her most famous works
include the novels Mrs Dalloway (1925), To the Lighthouse (1927) and Orlando (1928), and the book-length essay A Room of One's Own
Literary Term:s
Version 1: The term “stream of consciousness” which was a coined by William James in
多角度解析现代主义的意识流文学先驱——弗吉尼亚-伍尔芙(Virginia-Woolf)
More acutely conscious of the
objectivity of their surroundings
An eApkisnteomwolleodggicea-l (认 b识a论se的d )aaeesstthheetic
AnA论obn、aateeeoi存ssnlottghgh在-eiecbt论atiacilcs.的(e本d)体
Delve into the minds of its characters in a stream of consciousness approach. ➢ The characters’ thoughts and feelings blend into one another,
and the outward actions and dialogue come second to the inward emotions and ruminations (沉思、反刍). ➢ Changes the point of view frequently, with transitions often marked by the sparse (稀少的) dialogue. ➢ While shifting the point of view from person to person, Woolf develops her characters through their thoughts, memories, and reactions to each other. The dynamics between the characters are expressed more fully by their flow of conscious in their mind (thoughts) than by their words. The light dialogue serves to break up the transitions in perspective. By all these techniques, Woolf develops her many-dimensioned characters in a unique and memorable way.
伍尔夫读书随笔
伍尔夫读书随笔引导语：《伍尔夫读书随笔》主要选自弗吉尼亚·伍尔夫的三部重要散文集，即《普通读者》、《普通读者二集》和《自己的房间》，多为伍尔夫的读书心得和感想，而且写得比较随意，不拘一格，故称为“读书随笔”。
接下来是小编为你带来收集整理的文章，欢迎阅读！《伍尔夫读书随笔》这本书我读了两遍，不是因为我好学，实在是因为这本书的严肃性让我时常走神，而且中间还有其他书来插队，断断续续地看完根本没有感觉。
于是定下心来，重新再看一遍。
真正沉下心来看，发现伍尔夫的文笔很生动，时而幻想，时而发怒，时而挖苦，并不生涩，伍尔夫的真性情逐渐展开在我的眼前。
当看到她的日记节选中有这么一段，令我会心一笑，“可能是拜伦头脑里的奇思异想太多，他的诗读起来还是有点吃力的，常常读着读着就走了神，想到外面去看看风景，或者到隔壁房间里去。
”我也有如伍尔夫的感受，“书不管好坏，读完后总会让人觉得好像松了口气……”当然，《伍尔夫读书随笔》是一本好书，它的好在于启发我怎么去读书，明白地告诉我阅读带给我一些什么。
伍尔夫一生只做两件事情，读书和写作，但她并没有把读书当做高深莫测的事情，她主动降低门槛，谦虚地对我们说“你只要凭自己的天性、凭自己的头脑得出自己的结论就可以了。
”她让我们抛开成见，敞开心扉，“成为作者的合伙人和同谋。
”这样便“会从那隐晦曲折的字里行间，从那些难以觉察的细微迹象和暗示中，看到一个与众不同的人。
”伍尔夫博览群书，所以在这本书的书评部分，她能横向纵向进行各种比较，有肯定，有批判，字里行间闪烁着无数智慧与诙谐的火花。
伍尔夫与我们相距有八九十年的距离，她所评价的著作更是离我们久远，我们读这些几百年之前的著作有什么意义呢？伍尔夫并没有讲深刻的大道理，她认为书中的描述只不过是那个时代生活中的短暂记录而已，旧书随着时代的步伐变得过时，但读一读这些“日见腐朽”的旧书，“有时也会使你感到震惊，甚至为之折服。
也许只是一封信—但它描绘出怎样的一幅图景啊！也许只是片言只语—但其中隐含着怎样的一种期待啊！”其实，我爱读这些时代久远的旧书，毕竟它们是经过了几代人，各个种族的筛选过滤，才会落到我们当代，这是多么沉重和有价值的沉淀，不去读一读，可惜了。
弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙：论现代小说
弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙：论现代小说弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙(1882-1941)，英国小说家、评论家、散文家。
其父莱斯利·斯蒂芬爵士是英国著名学者和作家，藏书宏富，且与同代大家哈代、亨利·詹姆斯等过从甚密，伍尔鞭从中获益匪浅，卓成大家。
伍尔芙的创作以小说为主，此外当属散文。
她曾为《泰晤士文学副刊》、《耶鲁评论》等英美报特约撰稿，发表的随笔、书评、人物特写、游记百余万字。
相较来说，散文似乎更适合于她的思想、秉性、风格，写来优雅高贵而又汪洋恣肆，因而有“传统散文大师、新散文首创者”之称，被誉为“英国散文大家中的最后一人”。
对于现代小说所作的任何考察，即便是最为自由和最为随便的，也难免不让人认为：这门艺术的现代实践，不知怎地只是基于旧时小说的一种改进。
可以这样说，以他们那简陋的工具和原始的材料，菲尔丁就干得不坏，而简·奥斯丁则更为出色，但是他们的机会哪堪与我们的相比较呵！他们的杰作确实具有一种奇特的简洁格调。
然而，在文学和某种过程——比如说，汽车制造的过程——之间的类比，除了初次目睹之时，几乎不可能是适用的。
在以往的数世纪中，虽然我们在机器制造方面长进了不少，但在文学创造上是否也有所收获，则是大可怀疑之事了。
我们并没有逐渐写得更好，据说我们所能做的一切就是保持时而在这个方向上，时而在那个方向上稍有进展，而且，如果从足够的高处观察，这整个的轨迹还具有一种循环的倾向。
毋庸赘述，我们并没要求立于——即使是短暂的——那有利的地位上。
站在平地上、立于人群中、尘封双眼的我们怀着妒嫉回顾那些快乐幸福的战士。
他们的战斗已经获胜，他们的战果是如此的清晰可睹，令人难忘，以致我们禁不住要窃窃私语：他们的战斗并没有我们的那样激烈。
当然这些得由文学史家来决定，由他来判说我们现在是处于一个伟大的散文小说时期的开端或结尾呢，还是处于它的中间。
因为置身于平地，所视毕竟有限。
我们只知道某种谢忱和敌意会赋予我们以灵感；某些道路似乎通向肥土沃原，而另一些则通向垃圾堆和沙漠。
6How should one read a book By Virginia Woolf
How should one read a book? By Virginia Woolf作者Virginia Woolf很多人并不熟悉，可是如果是影迷的话，应该不会陌生。
前汤嫂NICHOLE KIDMAN获得奥斯卡最佳女主角的电影《时时刻刻》（the hours）中就有NICHOLE饰演的Virginia Woolf撰写《Mrs.Dalloway》的情节。
另外，如同电影中的描述一样，Virginia Woolf在现实中也是一个lesbian。
by Virginia Woolf (1882-1941) from The Second Common ReaderIn the first place, I want to emphasize the note of interrogation at the end of my title. Even if I could answer the question for myself, the answer would apply only to me and not to you. The only advice, indeed, that one person can give another about reading is to take no advice, to follow your own instincts, to use your own reason, to come to your own conclusions. If this is agreed between us, then I feel at liberty to put forward a few ideas and suggestions because you will not allow them to fetter that independence which is the most important quality that a reader can possess. After all, what laws can be laid down about books? The battle of Waterloo[1] was certainly fought on a certain day; but is Hamlet a better play than Lear? Nobody can say. Each must decide that question for himself. To admit authorities, however heavily furred and gowned, into our libraries and let them tell us how to read, what to read, what value to place on what we read, is to destroy the spirit of freedom which is the breath of those sanctuaries. Everywhere else we may be bound by laws and conventions—there we have none.But to enjoy freedom, if the platitude is pardonable, we have of course to control ourselves. We must not squander our powers, helplessly and ignorantly, squirting half the house in order to water a single rose-bush; we must train them, exactly and powerfully, here on the very spot. This, it may be, is one of the first difficulties that faces us in a library. What is “the very spot”? There may well seem to be nothing but a conglomeration and huddleof confusion. Poems and novels, histories and memoirs, dictionaries and blue-books; books written in all languages by men and women of all tempers, races, and ages jostle each other on the shelf. And outside the donkey brays, the women gossip at the pump, the colts gallop across the fields. Where are we to begin? How are we to bring order into this multitudinous chaos and get the deepest and widest pleasure from what we read?It is simple enough to say that since books have classes--fiction, biography, poetry--we should separate them and take from each what it is right that each should give us. Yet few people ask from books what books can give us. Most commonly we come to books with blurred and divided minds, asking of fiction that it shall be true, of poetry that it shall be false, of biography that it shall be flattering, of history that it shall enforce our own prejudices. If we could banish all such preconceptions when we read, that would be an admirable beginning. Do not dictate to your author; try to become him. Be his fellow-worker and accomplice. If you hang back, and reserve and criticize at first, you are preventing yourself from getting the fullest possible value from what you read. But if you open your mind as widely as possible, the signs and hints of almost imperceptible fineness, from the twist and turn of the first sentences, will bring you into the presence of a human being unlike any other. Steep yourself in this, acquaint yourself with this, and soon you will find that your author is giving you, or attempting to give you, something far more definite. The thirty-two chapters of a novel—if we consider how to read a novel first--are an attempt to make something as formed and controlled as a building: but words are more impalpable than bricks; reading is a longer and more complicated process than seeing. Perhaps the quickest way to understand the elements of what a novelist is doing is not to read, but to write; to make your own experiment with the dangers and difficulties of words. Recall, then, some event that has left a distinct impression on you—how at the corner of the street, perhaps, youpassed two people talking. A tree shook; an electric light danced; the tone of the talk was comic, but also tragic; a whole vision; an entire conception, seemed contained in that moment.But when you attempt to reconstruct it in words, you will find that it breaks into a thousand conflicting impressions. Some must be subdued; others emphasized; in the process you will lose, probably, all grasp upon the emotion itself. Then turn from your blurred and littered pages to the opening pages of some great novelist—Defoe, Jane Austen, or Hardy. Now you will be better able to appreciate their mastery. It is not merely that we are in the presence of a different person—Defoe, Jane Austen, or Thomas Hardy—but that we are living in a different world. Here, in Robinson Crusoe, we are trudging a plain high road; one thing happens after another; the fact and the order of the fact is enough. But if the open air and adventure mean everything to Defoe they mean nothing to Jane Austen. Hers is the drawing-room, and people talking, and by the many mirrors of their talk revealing their characters. And if, when we have accustomed ourselves to the drawing-room and its reflections, we turn to Hardy, we are once more spun around. The other side of the mind is now exposed—the dark side that comes uppermost in solitude, not the light side that shows in company. Our relations are not towards people, but towards Nature and destiny. Yet different as these worlds are, each is consistent with itself. The maker of each is careful to observe the laws of his own perspective, and however great a strain they may put upon us they will never confuse us, as lesser writers so frequently do, by introducing two different kinds of reality into the same book. Thus to go from one great novelist to another—from Jane Austen to Hardy, from Peacock[2] to Trollope,[3] from Scott toMeredith[4]—is to be wrenched and uprooted; to be thrown this way and then that. To read a novel is a difficult and complex art. You must be capable not only of great finesse of perception, but of great boldness ofimagination if you are going to make use of all that the novelist—the great artist—gives you.。
论伍尔夫小说的写作技巧
论伍尔夫小说的写作技巧引言弗吉尼亚·伍尔夫（Virginia Woolf）是20世纪最杰出的英国小说家之一，被公认为现代主义文学的重要代表人物。
伍尔夫的小说以其独特的写作风格和技巧而闻名于世。
本文将探讨伍尔夫小说中所运用的写作技巧，分析其对作品的贡献和影响。
1. 内心独白伍尔夫的小说往往以内心独白的形式呈现，将读者引入角色的内心世界。
这种叙述方式使读者能够深入了解角色的思想、感受和情绪。
使用第一人称的内心独白，伍尔夫能够更好地表达角色的主观意识和个体体验，使读者能够更加密切地与角色产生情感上的共鸣。
2. 流畅的叙述技巧伍尔夫的叙述技巧非常独特，她以一种流畅而连贯的方式书写，将不同的时间、地点和人物交织在一起。
她在小说中运用了大量的内在意识流，将角色的思想和情感以自由联想的方式展现出来。
这种叙述方式使得伍尔夫的作品更具有艺术性和独特的魅力。
3. 对时间的把握伍尔夫善于运用时间的错综复杂来创造小说的层次感。
她在小说中使用了回忆、闪回和跳跃式叙事等手法，打破了时间的线性序列，让故事更具有深度和复杂性。
通过对时间的灵活运用，伍尔夫能够更好地展现角色的内心世界和情感变化，让读者对故事产生更加深入的理解。
4. 描写细腻的人物形象伍尔夫的小说中的人物形象非常细腻描写。
她通过对细节的观察和描绘，展现了人物的个性、心理和情感。
伍尔夫常常通过描述人物的外貌特征、言行举止和内心感受来展现角色的复杂性和矛盾性。
这种描写方式使得读者能够深入理解角色的内在世界，更加真实地感受到他们的存在和独特性。
5. 多重叙事视角伍尔夫经常运用多重叙事视角来刻画作品中的人物和事件。
通过在不同的视角之间切换，她能够展现出不同人物对同一事件的看法和感受，使故事更加丰富和立体。
这种多重叙事视角的运用使得伍尔夫的小说更具有复杂性和多样性，引发读者对故事的深思和思考。
结论综上所述，弗吉尼亚·伍尔夫是一位以其独特的写作风格和技巧而闻名的作家。
伍尔夫（VirginiaWoolf）谈艾米丽.勃朗特TheCommonReader《普通读者》
伍尔夫（VirginiaWoolf）谈艾米丽.勃朗特TheCommonReader《普通读者》家里恰好有这本书，某年某月我又恰好读过伍尔夫关于艾米丽勃朗特的精道评述，本人大爱，所以每个字亲自敲在键盘上...The following exerpt is taken from 'Jane Eyre' and 'Wuthering Heights', a critical essay by Virginia Woolf. Written in 1925Wuthering Heights is a more difficult book to understand than Jane Eyre, because Emily was a greater poet than Charlotte. When Chalotte wrote she said with eloquence and splendour and passion 'I love', 'I hate','I suffer'. Her experience, though more intense, is on a level with our own. But there is no 'I' in Wuthering Heights. There are no governesse. There are no employers. There is love, but it is not the love of men and women. Emily was inspired by some more general conception. The impulse which urged her to create was not her own suffering or her own injuries. She looked out upon a world cleft in to gigantic disorder and felt within her the power to unite it in a book.That gigantic ambition is to be felt throughout the novel-a struggle, half thwarted but of superb conviction, to say something through the mouths of her characters which is not merely 'I love' or 'I hate', but 'we, the whole human race' and 'you, the eternal powers...' The sentence remained unfinished. It is not strange that it should be so; rather it is astonishing that she can make us feel what she had in her to say at all. It surges up in the half-articulate wards of Catherine Earnshaw, 'If all else perished and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to amighty stranger; I should not seem part of it'. It breaks out again in the presence of the dead. 'I see a repose that neither earth nor hell can break, and i feel an assurance of the endless and shadowless hereafter- the eternity they have entered- where life is boundless in its duration, and love in its sympathy and joy in its fulness.' It is this suggestion of power underlying the apparitions of human nature and lifting them up into the presence of greatness that gives the book its huge stature among other novels.But it is not enough for Emily Bronte to write a few lyrics, to utter a cry, to express a creed. In her poems, she did this once and for all, her poems will perhaps outlast her novel. But she was novelist as well as poet. She must take upon herself a more laborious and a more ungrateful task. She must face the fact of ther existences, grapple with the mechanism of external things, build up, in recognisable shape, farms and houses and report the speeches of men and women who existed independently of herself. ......How, we are allowed to ask, can there be truth or insight or the finer shades of emotion in men and women so little resemble what we have seen ourselves? But even as we ask it we see in Heathcliff the brother that a sister of genius might have seen; he is impossible we say, but neverthelss no boy in literature has a more vivid existence than his. So it is with the two Catherines; never could women feel as they do or act in their manner, we say. All the same, they are the most lovable women in English fiction. It is as if she could tear up all that we know human beings by, and fill these unrecognisable transparences with such a gust of life that they transcend reality. Hers, then, is the rarest of all powers. She could free life from its dependence on facts; with a few touches indicate the spirit of a face so that itneeds no body; by speakng of the moor make the wind blow and the thunder roar.。
读伍尔芙《如何读一本书》
读伍尔芙的《如何去读一本书》伍尔芙是英国文坛的前卫开拓者，20世纪最伟大的作家之一，现代主义文学与女性主义潮流的先锋。
她在小说中采用意识流的写作方法，在世界范围内产生了深远影响，评论家称她将英语“朝着光明的方向推进了一小步”。
在散文方面，伍尔芙以其“谁也模仿不了的英国式的优美洒脱、学识渊博”，而被誉为“英国散文大家中的最后一人”“英国传统散文的大师”以及“新散文的首创者”。
曾经在读完一本书后，完全不知道书中说的是什么，跟没读一样。
也有的时候当时读这本书时还记得内容，过了一段时候后，就完全不记得书中的内容了。
弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙的《如何去读一本书》就是教我们如何读小说，如何获取书中的知识，不过伍尔夫在这本书中解读的方法用得都是经典小说来举例说明的，她书中的一些经典小说我们都很熟悉，但是当时读的内容和伍尔芙做的读书笔记感受不同，有的伍尔芙在书中分析到的内容，压根就没有印象。
在这本《如何去读一本书》中主要是解读经典小说，作为一个普通读者不同于批评家和学者，很多都是出于消遣类阅读，但是不管作为什么方式的阅读，都会存在一定的方法来让我们获得书中的信息和我们想知道的知识。
让我们来看看伍尔芙在《如何去读一本书》中向我们讲解的阅读三个步骤：阅读第一步，用最大领悟力获取种种印象，但这只是阅读过程的前一半。
我们想要从一本书中获得全部的乐趣，我们就必须对形形色色的印象做出判断，以使那些一闪而过的形象成为坚实而持久的存在。
我们可以把书和书进行比较，就像建筑和建筑进行比较一样，如果能进行这种比较也意味着我们态度的改变，我们不再是作者的朋友，而是他的判官；作为朋友，我们可以满怀同情，作为判官，我们则不得不非常严厉。
因为我们要筛选出有些浪费了我们的时间，滥用了我们的同情，在阅读过程中遇到种种冲突和疑问，我们都要做出判断。
如何读一部经典作品，我们可以有很多方法来解读，那我们以哪种方式来解读呢？在伍尔芙的《如何去读一本书》中以《鲁滨逊漂流记》做为例子来教我们如何解读，伍尔芙是从通过了解作者的生平来解读这本书的，首先笛福出生、祖先、在写作之前都做过什么，笛福的家庭生活以及成员，对笛福的外貌的描写。
弗吉尼亚·伍尔夫如何阅读
弗吉尼亚·伍尔夫:如何阅读别对你的作家颐指气使；努力成为他。
做他的同事和幕僚。
弗拉基米尔.纳博科夫在《如何成为一名好读者》的专题论文中写道：“思想、大脑、刺痛的脊柱顶端才是或者说应该是用作一本书上的唯一工具。
”Francine Prose指导读者像作家一样阅读时建议道：“读者的部分工作就是要弄明白一些作家为何能长久不衰。
”亨利.米勒回顾自己的一生阅读生涯时总结：“邂逅某些书本，如同偶遇生命中的别样景象、或者另外的想法。
所有的邂逅都相互关联而不孤立。
”可是，人到底应该怎样读书？怎样把书读好？这正是弗吉尼亚.伍尔夫在1925年题为《应该怎样读书？》的文章中解惑的问题。
《第二个普通读者》收藏了包括这篇文章在内的共26篇精炼文章，让我们领略了伍尔夫对批评论的批判，得到文学吉光片羽的享受。
伍尔夫在文章开篇就反驳了阅读的主观性。
半个世纪后约翰.斯坦贝克就写作提出六点永不过时的建议时表达了同样的观点。
伍尔夫是这样写道：关于阅读，一个人能给别人唯一的建议就是，不要听取任何建议，跟着自己的感觉，运用自己的推理能力，来得出自己的见解。
如果在这一点上你我打成共识，那么我才能无拘无束地提出几点想法和建议；因为这样你才不会让我的想法和建议束缚住你的独立性。
独立性是读者拥有的最重要的品质。
毕竟，关于书籍能制定什么条条框框呢？滑铁卢战役无疑发生在具体的某一天，可是，作为戏剧，《哈姆雷特》就是要比《李尔王》好吗？没有人能这么说。
每个人只能为自己找出答案。
把重裘长袍的权威引入到我们的图书馆里，让他们告诉我们怎样阅读，阅读什么，为我们阅读的内容打上什么样的观点，这样就毁掉了自由的灵魂。
自由是图书馆圣地里的气息。
我们在别的其他地方都会受到法律和习俗的约束。
唯独这里没有。
她提醒着不要将以往的看法和先入为主的观念带入阅读中来：很少人看书时会想这个问题：看书能给我们带来什么。
绝大多数常见情形是，我们带着混沌而又零碎的想法接触书本，遇到小说就会说故事应该是真的，遇到诗歌会说情感应该是假的，遇到自传会说传记中应该有夸张成分，遇到历史会说记录应该加强我们的偏见。
翻译硕士散文精选：How Should One Read a Book
How Should One Read a Book?怎样读书？Virginia Woolf弗吉尼亚·伍尔夫It is simple enough to say that since books have classes——fiction，biography，poetry——weshould separate them and take from each what it is right that each should give us. Yet fewpeople ask from books what books can give us. Most commonly we come to books with blurredand divided minds，asking of fiction that it shall be true，of poetry that it shall be false，ofbiography that it shall be flattering，of history that it shall enforce our own prejudices. If wecould banish all such preconceptions when we read，that would be an admirable beginning. Donot dictate to your author;Try to become him. Be his fellow-worker and accomplice. If youhang back，and reserve and criticize at first，you are preventing yourself from getting thefullest possible value from what you read. But if you open your mind as widely as possible，thesigns and hints of almost imperceptible fineness，from the twist and turn of the firstsentences，will bring you into the presence of a human being unlike any other. Steep yourselfin this，acquaint yourself with this，and soon you will find that your author is giving you，orattempting to give you，something far more definite. The thirty-two chapters of a novel—if weconsider how to read a novel first——are an attempt to make something as formed andcontrolled as a building：but words are more impalpable than bricks;Reading is a longer andmore complicated process than seeing. Perhaps the quickest way to understand the elementsof what a novelist is doing is not to read，but to write;To make your own experiment with thedangers and difficulties of words. Recall，then，some event that has left a distinct impressionon you—how at the corner of the street，perhaps，you passed two people talking. A treeshook;an electric light danced;the tone of the talk was comic，but also tragic;a wholevision;an entire conception，seemed contained in that moment.书既然有小说，传记，诗歌之分，就应区别对待，从各类书中取其应该给及我们的东西。
第5届韩素音青年翻译比赛英译汉原文及参考译文
How Should One Read a Book?Virginia WoolfIt is simple enough to say that since books have classes — fiction, biography, poetry — we should separate them and take from each what it is right that each should give us. Yet few people ask from books what books can give us. Most commonly we come to books with blurred and divided minds, asking of fiction that it shall be true, of poetry that it shall be false, of biography that it shall be flattering, of history that it shall enforce our own prejudices. If we could banish all such preconceptions when we read, that would be an admirable beginning. Do not dictate to your author; try to become him. Be his fellow-worker and accomplice. If you hang back, and reserve and criticize at first, you are preventing yourself from getting the fullest possible value from what you read. But if you open your mind as widely as possible, then signs and hints of almost imperceptible fineness, from the twist and turn of the first sentences, will bring you into the presence of a human being unlike any other. Steep yourself in this, acquaint yourself with this, and soon you will find that your author is giving you, or attempting to give you, something far more definite. The thirty-two chapters of a novel — if we consider how to reada novel first — are an attempt to make something as formed and controlled as a building: but words are more impalpable than bricks; reading is a longer and more complicated process than seeing. Perhaps the quickest way to understand the elements of what a novelist is doing is not to read, but to write; to make your own experiment with the dangers and difficulties of words. Recall, then, some event that has left a distinct impression on you — how at the corner of the street, perhaps, you passed two people talking. A tree shook; an electric light danced; the tone of the talk was comic, but also tragic; a whole vision, an entire conception, seemed contained in that moment.But when you attempt to reconstruct it in words, you will find that it breaks into a thousand conflicting impressions. Some must be subdued; others emphasized; in the process you will lose, probably all grasp upon the emotion itself. Then turn from your blurred and littered pages to the opening pages of some great novelist — Defoe, Jane Austen, Hardy. Now you will be better able to appreciate their mastery. It is not merely that we are in the presence of a different person — Defoe, Jane Austen, or Thomas Hardy — but that we are living in a different world. Here, in Robinson Crusoe, we are trudging a plain high road; one thing happens after another; the fact and the order of the factis enough. But if the open air and adventure mean everything to Defoe they mean nothing to Jane Austen. Hers is the drawing-room, and people talking,and by the many mirrors of their talk revealing their characters. And if, when we have accustomed ourselves to the drawing-room and its reflections, we turn to Hardy, we are once more spun around. The moors are round us and the stars above our heads. The other side of the mind is now exposed — the dark side that comes uppermost in solitude, not the light side that shows in company. Our relations are not towards people, but towards Nature and destiny. Yet different as these worlds are, each is consistent with itself. The maker of each is careful to observe the laws of his own perspective,and however great a strain they may put upon us they will never confuse us, as lesser writers so frequently do, by introducing two different kinds of reality into the same book. Thus to go from one great novelist to another — from Jane Austen to Hardy, from Peakcok to Trollope, from Scott to Meredith — is to be wrenched and uprooted; to be thrown this way and then that. To read a novel is a difficult and complex art. You must be capable not only of great finesse of perception, but of great boldness of imagination if you are going to make use of all that the novelist — the great artist — gives you.怎样读书？弗吉尼亚·伍尔夫书既然有小说，传记，诗歌之分，就应区别对待，从各类书中取其应该给及我们的东西。
How should one read a book 双语 Virginia Woolf
The Common ReaderHOW SHOULD ONE READ A BOOK?Virginia WoolfIn the first place, I want to emphasize the note of interrogation at the end of my title. Even if I could answer the question for myself, the answer would apply only to me and not to you. The only advice, indeed, that one person can give another about reading is to take no advice, to follow your own instincts, to use your own reason, to come to your own conclusions. If this is agreed between us, then I feel at liberty to put forward a few ideas and suggestions because you will not allow them to fetter that independence which is the most important quality that a reader can possess. After all, what laws can be laid down about books? The battle of Waterloo was certainly fought on a certain day; but is Hamlet a better play than Lear? Nobody can say. Each must decide that question for himself. To admit authorities, however heavily furred and gowned, into our libraries and let them tell us how to read, what to read, what value to place upon what we read, is to destroy the spirit of freedom which is the breath of those sanctuaries. Everywhere else we may be bound by laws and conventions--there we have none.But to enjoy freedom, if the platitude is pardonable, we have of course to control ourselves. We must not squander our powers, helplessly and ignorantly, squirting half the house in order to water a single rose-bush; we must train them, exactly and powerfully, here on the very spot. This, it may be, is one of the first difficulties that faces us in a library. What is "the very spot"? There may well seem to be nothing but a conglomeration and huddle of confusion. Poems and novels, histories and memoirs, dictionaries and blue-books; books written in all languages by men and women of all tempers, races, and ages jostle each other on the shelf. And outside the donkey brays, the women gossip at the pump, the colts gallop across the fields. Where are we to begin? How are we to bring order into this multitudinous chaos and so get the deepest and widest pleasure from what we read?It is simple enough to say that since books have classes--fiction, biography, poetry--we should separate them and take from each what it is right that each should give us. Yet few people ask from books what books can give us. Most commonly we come to books with blurred and divided minds, asking of fiction that it shall be true, of poetry that it shall be false, of biography that it shall be flattering, of history that it shall enforce our own prejudices. If we could banish all such preconceptions when we read, that would be an admirable beginning. Do not dictate to your author; try to become him. Be his fellow-worker and accomplice. If you hang back, and reserve and criticise at first, you are preventing yourself from getting the fullest possible value from what you read. But if you open your mind as widely as possible, then signs and hints of almost imperceptible fineness, from the twist and turn of the first sentences, will bring you into the presence of a human being unlike any other. Steep yourself in this, acquaint yourself with this, and soon you will find that your author is giving you, or attempting to give you, something far more definite. The thirty-two chapters of a novel--if we consider how to read a novel first--are an attempt to make something as formed and controlled as a building: but words are more impalpable than bricks; reading is a longer and more complicated process than seeing. Perhaps the quickest way to understand the elements of what a novelist is doing is not to read, but to write; to make your own experiment with the dangers and difficulties of words. Recall, then, some event that has left a distinct impression on you--how at the corner of the street, perhaps,you passed two people talking. A tree shook; an electric light danced; the tone of the talk was comic, but also tragic; a whole vision, an entire conception, seemed contained in that moment. But when you attempt to reconstruct it in words, you will find that it breaks into a thousand conflicting impressions. Some must be subdued; others emphasized; in the process you will lose, probably, all grasp upon the emotion itself. Then turn from your blurred and littered pages to the opening pages of some great novelist--Defoe, Jane Austen, Hardy. Now you will be better able to appreciate their mastery. It is not merely that we are in the presence of a different person--Defoe, Jane Austen, or Thomas Hardy--but that we are living in a different world. Here, in Robinson Crusoe, we are trudging a plain high road; one thing happens after another; the fact and the order of the fact is enough. But if the open air and adventure mean everything to Defoe they mean nothing to Jane Austen. Hers is the drawing-room, and people talking, and by the many mirrors of their talk revealing their characters. And if, when we have accustomed ourselves to the drawing-room and its reflections, we turn to Hardy, we are once more spun round. The moors are round us and the stars are above our heads. The other side of the mind is now exposed--the dark side that comes uppermost in solitude, not the light side that shows in company. Our relations are not towards people, but towards Nature and destiny. Yet different as these worlds are, each is consistent with itself. The maker of each is careful to observe the laws of his own perspective, and however great a strain they may put upon us they will never confuse us, as lesser writers so frequently do, by introducing two different kinds of reality into the same book. Thus to go from one great novelist to another--from Jane Austen to Hardy, from Peacock to Trollope, from Scott to Meredith--is to be wrenched and uprooted; to be thrown this way and then that. To read a novel is a difficult and complex art. You must be capable not only of great fineness of perception, but of great boldness of imagination if you are going to make use of all that the novelist--the great artist--gives you.But a glance at the heterogeneous company on the shelf will show you that writers are very seldom "great artists"; far more often a book makes no claim to be a work of art at all. These biographies and autobiographies, for example, lives of great men, of men long dead and forgotten, that stand cheek by jowl with the novels and poems, are we to refuse to read them because they are not "art"? Or shall we read them, but read them in a different way, with a different aim? Shall we read them in the first place to satisfy that curiosity which possesses us sometimes when in the evening we linger in front of a house where the lights are lit and the blinds not yet drawn, and each floor of the house shows us a different section of human life in being? Then we are consumed with curiosity about the lives of these people--the servants gossiping, the gentlemen dining, the girl dressing for a party, the old woman at the window with her knitting. Who are they, what are they, what are their names, their occupations, their thoughts, and adventures?Biographies and memoirs answer such questions, light up innumerable such houses; they show us people going about their daily affairs, toiling, failing, succeeding, eating, hating, loving, until they die. And sometimes as we watch, the house fades and the iron railings vanish and we are out at sea; we are hunting, sailing, fighting; we are among savages and soldiers; we are taking part in great campaigns. Or if we like to stay here in England, in London, still the scene changes; the street narrows; the house becomes small, cramped, diamond-paned, and malodorous. We see a poet, Donne, driven from such a house because the walls were so thin that when the children cried their voices cut through them. We can follow him, through the paths that lie in thepages of books, to Twickenham; to Lady Bedford's Park, a famous meeting-ground for nobles and poets; and then turn our steps to Wilton, the great house under the downs, and hear Sidney read the Arcadia to his sister; and ramble among the very marshes and see the very herons that figure in that famous romance; and then again travel north with that other Lady Pembroke, Anne Clifford, to her wild moors, or plunge into the city and control our merriment at the sight of Gabriel Harvey in his black velvet suit arguing about poetry with Spenser. Nothing is more fascinating than to grope and stumble in the alternate darkness and splendour of Elizabethan London. But there is no staying there. The Temples and the Swifts, the Harleys and the St. Johns beckon us on; hour upon hour can be spent disentangling their quarrels and deciphering their characters; and when we tire of them we can stroll on, past a lady in black wearing diamonds, to Samuel Johnson and Goldsmith and Garrick; or cross the channel, if we like, and meet Voltaire and Diderot, Madame du Deffand; and so back to England and Twickenham--how certain places repeat themselves and certain names!--where Lady Bedford had her Park once and Pope lived later, to Walpole's home at Strawberry Hill. But Walpole introduces us to such a swarm of new acquaintances, there are so many houses to visit and bells to ring that we may well hesitate for a moment, on the Miss Berrys' doorstep, for example, when behold, up comes Thackeray; he is the friend of the woman whom Walpole loved; so that merely by going from friend to friend, from garden to garden, from house to house, we have passed from one end of English literature to another and wake to find ourselves here again in the present, if we can so differentiate this moment from all that have gone before. This, then, is one of the ways in which we can read these lives and letters; we can make them light up the many windows of the past; we can watch the famous dead in their familiar habits and fancy sometimes that we are very close and can surprise their secrets, and sometimes we may pull out a play or a poem that they have written and see whether it reads differently in the presence of the author. But this again rouses other questions. How far, we must ask ourselves, is a book influenced by its writer's life--how far is it safe to let the man interpret the writer? How far shall we resist or give way to the sympathies and antipathies that the man himself rouses in us--so sensitive are words, so receptive of the character of the author? These are questions that press upon us when we read lives and letters, and we must answer them for ourselves, for nothing can be more fatal than to be guided by the preferences of others in a matter so personal.But also we can read such books with another aim, not to throw light on literature, not to become familiar with famous people, but to refresh and exercise our own creative powers. Is there not an open window on the right hand of the bookcase? How delightful to stop reading and look out! How stimulating the scene is, in its unconsciousness, its irrelevance, its perpetual movement--the colts galloping round the field, the woman filling her pail at the well, the donkey throwing back his head and emitting his long, acrid moan. The greater part of any library is nothing but the record of such fleeting moments in the lives of men, women, and donkeys. Every literature, as it grows old, has its rubbish-heap, its record of vanished moments and forgotten lives told in faltering and feeble accents that have perished. But if you give yourself up to the delight of rubbish-reading you will be surprised, indeed you will be overcome, by the relics of human life that have been cast out to moulder. It may be one letter--but what a vision it gives! It may be a few sentences--but what vistas they suggest! Sometimes a whole story will come together with such beautiful humour and pathos and completeness that it seems as if a great novelist had been at work, yet it is only an old actor, Tate Wilkinson, remembering the strangestory of Captain Jones; it is only a young subaltern serving under Arthur Wellesley and falling in love with a pretty girl at Lisbon; it is only Maria Allen letting fall her sewing in the empty drawing-room and sighing how she wishes she had taken Dr. Burney's good advice and had never eloped with her Rishy. None of this has any value; it is negligible in the extreme; yet how absorbing it is now and again to go through the rubbish-heaps and find rings and scissors and broken noses buried in the huge past and try to piece them together while the colt gallops round the field, the woman fills her pail at the well, and the donkey brays.But we tire of rubbish-reading in the long run. We tire of searching for what is needed to complete the half-truth which is all that the Wilkinsons, the Bunburys, and the Maria Allens are able to offer us. They had not the artist's power of mastering and eliminating; they could not tell the whole truth even about their own lives; they have disfigured the story that might have been so shapely. Facts are all that they can offer us, and facts are a very inferior form of fiction. Thus the desire grows upon us to have done with half-statements and approximations; to cease from searching out the minute shades of human character, to enjoy the greater abstractness, the purer truth of fiction. Thus we create the mood, intense and generalised, unaware of detail, but stressed by some regular, recurrent beat, whose natural expression is poetry; and that is the time to read poetry . . . when we are almost able to write it.Western wind, when wilt thou blow?The small rain down can rain.Christ, if my love were in my arms,And I in my bed again!The impact of poetry is so hard and direct that for the moment there is no other sensation except that of the poem itself. What profound depths we visit then--how sudden and complete is our immersion! There is nothing here to catch hold of; nothing to stay us in our flight. The illusion of fiction is gradual; its effects are prepared; but who when they read these four lines stops to ask who wrote them, or conjures up the thought of Donne's house or Sidney's secretary; or enmeshes them in the intricacy of the past and the succession of generations? The poet is always our contemporary. Our being for the moment is centred and constricted, as in any violent shock of personal emotion. Afterwards, it is true, the sensation begins to spread in wider rings through our minds; remoter senses are reached; these begin to sound and to comment and we are aware of echoes and reflections. The intensity of poetry covers an immense range of emotion. We have only to compare the force and directness ofI shall fall like a tree, and find my grave,Only remembering that I grieve,with the wavering modulation ofMinutes are numbered by the fall of sands,As by an hour glass; the span of timeDoth waste us to our graves, and we look on it;An age of pleasure, revelled out, comes homeAt last, and ends in sorrow; but the life,Weary of riot, numbers every sand,Wailing in sighs, until the last drop down,So to conclude calamity in rest,or place the meditative calm ofwhether we be young or old,Our destiny, our being's heart and home,Is with infinitude, and only there;With hope it is, hope that can never die,Effort, and expectation, and desire,And something evermore about to be,beside the complete and inexhaustible loveliness ofThe moving Moon went up the sky,And nowhere did abide:Softly she was going up,And a star or two beside--or the splendid fantasy ofAnd the woodland haunterShall not cease to saunterWhen, far down some glade,Of the great world's burning,One soft flame upturningSeems, to his discerning,Crocus in the shade,to bethink us of the varied art of the poet; his power to make us at once actors and spectators; his power to run his hand into character as if it were a glove, and be Falstaff or Lear; his power to condense, to widen, to state, once and for ever."We have only to compare"--with those words the cat is out of the bag, and the true complexity of reading is admitted. The first process, to receive impressions with the utmost understanding, is only half the process of reading; it must be completed, if we are to get the whole pleasure from a book, by another. We must pass judgment upon these multitudinous impressions; we must make of these fleeting shapes one that is hard and lasting. But not directly. Wait for the dust of reading to settle; for the conflict and the questioning to die down; walk, talk, pull the dead petals from a rose, or fall asleep. Then suddenly without our willing it, for it is thus that Nature undertakes these transitions, the book will return, but differently. It will float to the top of the mind as a whole. And the book as a whole is different from the book received currently in separate phrases. Details now fit themselves into their places. We see the shape from start to finish; it is a barn, a pigsty, or a cathedral. Now then we can compare book with book as we compare building with building. But this act of comparison means that our attitude has changed; we are no longer the friends of the writer, but his judges; and just as we cannot be too sympathetic as friends, so as judges we cannot be too severe. Are they not criminals, books that have wasted our time and sympathy; are they not the most insidious enemies of society, corrupters, defilers, the writers of false books, faked books, books that fill the air with decay and disease? Let us then be severe in our judgments; let us compare each book with the greatest of its kind. There they hang in the mind the shapes of the books we have read solidified by the judgments we have passed on them--Robinson Crusoe, Emma, The Return of the Native. Compare the novels with these--even the latest and least of novels has a right to be judged with the best. And so with poetry--when the intoxication of rhythm has died down and the splendour of words has faded, a visionary shape will return to us and this must be compared with Lear, with Phèdre, with The Prelude; or if notwith these, with whatever is the best or seems to us to be the best in its own kind. And we may be sure that the newness of new poetry and fiction is its most superficial quality and that we have only to alter slightly, not to recast, the standards by which we have judged the old.It would be foolish, then, to pretend that the second part of reading, to judge, to compare, is as simple as the first--to open the mind wide to the fast flocking of innumerable impressions. To continue reading without the book before you, to hold one shadow-shape against another, to have read widely enough and with enough understanding to make such comparisons alive and illuminating--that is difficult; it is still more difficult to press further and to say, "Not only is the book of this sort, but it is of this value; here it fails; here it succeeds; this is bad; that is good". To carry out this part of a reader's duty needs such imagination, insight, and learning that it is hard to conceive any one mind sufficiently endowed; impossible for the most self-confident to find more than the seeds of such powers in himself. Would it not be wiser, then, to remit this part of reading and to allow the critics, the gowned and furred authorities of the library, to decide the question of the book's absolute value for us? Yet how impossible! We may stress the value of sympathy; we may try to sink our identity as we read. But we know that we cannot sympathise wholly or immerse ourselves wholly; there is always a demon in us who whispers, "I hate, I love", and we cannot silence him. Indeed, it is precisely because we hate and we love that our relation with the poets and novelists is so intimate that we find the presence of another person intolerable. And even if the results are abhorrent and our judgments are wrong, still our taste, the nerve of sensation that sends shocks through us, is our chief illuminant; we learn through feeling; we cannot suppress our own idiosyncrasy without impoverishing it. But as time goes on perhaps we can train our taste; perhaps we can make it submit to some control. When it has fed greedily and lavishly upon books of all sorts--poetry, fiction, history, biography--and has stopped reading and looked for long spaces upon the variety, the incongruity of the living world, we shall find that it is changing a little; it is not so greedy, it is more reflective. It will begin to bring us not merely judgments on particular books, but it will tell us that there is a quality common to certain books. Listen, it will say, what shall we call this? And it will read us perhaps Lear and then perhaps the Agamemnon in order to bring out that common quality. Thus, with our taste to guide us, we shall venture beyond the particular book in search of qualities that group books together; we shall give them names and thus frame a rule that brings order into our perceptions. We shall gain a further and a rarer pleasure from that discrimination. But as a rule only lives when it is perpetually broken by contact with the books themselves--nothing is easier and more stultifying than to make rules which exist out of touch with facts, in a vacuum--now at last, in order to steady ourselves in this difficult attempt, it may be well to turn to the very rare writers who are able to enlighten us upon literature as an art. Coleridge and Dryden and Johnson, in their considered criticism, the poets and novelists themselves in their considered sayings, are often surprisingly revelant; they light up and solidify the vague ideas that have been tumbling in the misty depths of our minds. But they are only able to help us if we come to them laden with questions and suggestions won honestly in the course of our own reading. They can do nothing for us if we herd ourselves under their authority and lie down like sheep in the shade of a hedge. We can only understand their ruling when it comes in conflict with our own and vanquishes it.If this is so, if to read a book as it should be read calls for the rarest qualities of imagination, insight, and judgment, you may perhaps conclude that literature is a very complex art and that it is unlikely that we shall be able, even after a lifetime of reading, to make any valuablecontribution to its criticism. We must remain readers; we shall not put on the further glory that belongs to those rare beings who are also critics. But still we have our responsibilities as readers and even our importance. The standards we raise and the judgments we pass steal into the air and become part of the atmosphere which writers breathe as they work. An influence is created which tells upon them even if it never finds its way into print. And that influence, if it were well instructed, vigorous and individual and sincere, might be of great value now when criticism is necessarily in abeyance; when books pass in review like the procession of animals in a shooting gallery, and the critic has only one second in which to load and aim and shoot and may well be pardoned if he mistakes rabbits for tigers, eagles for barndoor fowls, or misses altogether and wastes his shot upon some peaceful cow grazing in a further field. If behind the erratic gunfire of the press the author felt that there was another kind of criticism, the opinion of people reading for the love of reading, slowly and unprofessionally, and judging with great sympathy and yet with great severity, might this not improve the quality of his work? And if by our means books were to become stronger, richer, and more varied, that would be an end worth reaching.Yet who reads to bring about an end, however desirable? Are there not some pursuits that we practise because they are good in themselves, and some pleasures that are final? And is not this among them? I have sometimes dreamt, at least, that when the Day of Judgment dawns and the great conquerors and lawyers and statesmen come to receive their rewards--their crowns, their laurels, their names carved indelibly upon imperishable marble--the Almighty will turn to Peter and will say, not without a certain envy when he sees us coming with our books under our arms, "Look, these need no reward. We have nothing to give them here. They have loved reading."应该怎样读书？弗吉尼亚·伍尔夫首先我要特别提醒读者注意本文标题后面的问号，即便我能够回答这个问题，答案或许也只适合我自己而并不适合你。
《伍尔夫读书心得》读书笔记模板
读书笔记模板
01 思维导图
03 读书笔记 05 目录分析
目录
02 内容摘要 04 作者介绍 06 精彩摘录
思维导图
本书关键字分析思维导图
感想
读诗
心得
关系
书里
文学最佳时机Fra bibliotek心得女性
读者 女人
回忆录
伍尔夫
博览群书
乐趣
印象
莎士比亚
性别
优劣
内容摘要
内容摘要
本书主要选白弗占尼亚·伍尔大的三部重要散文集，即《普通读者》《普通读者二集》和《自己的房间》， 多为伍尔夫的读书心得和感想，而且写得比较随意，不拘一格，故称为“读书心得”。本书卞要内容有：如何读 书？书和女性生活有何关系？如何看待名家名作？以及，如何评价当代文学？
目录分析
1
1为何读书与如 何读书
2
读书不必听人 指导
3
读小说要有想 象力
4
读传记和回忆 录的乐趣
5
读诗的最佳时 机
1
如何评判书的 优劣
2
为读书而读书
3
2书里的女人与 女人的书
4
书与女人
5
书里的两种女 人
假如莎士比亚有个妹 妹
文学与性别
3博览群书与当代印 象
4名家名作与个性阅 读
精彩摘录
精彩摘录
读书笔记
读书笔记
#2021年的读书笔记#第一六七本书 「关于读书，一个人可以对别人提出的唯一指导，就是不必听什么指导， 你只要凭自己的天性、凭自己的头脑得出自己的结论就可以了。 「我们之所以能在一部小说中登上人类情感的顶 峰，并不是因为那里有什么豪言壮语，而往往是因为我们在那里看到有个女孩坐在树枝上，一边摇啊摇啊，一边 哼着古老的歌曲，是因为我们在那里看到羊群在原野上静静地吃草，听见风在草丛里轻轻地吟唱。道理是不错， 且不论放在男性还是女性还是其他什么性别上，都是让一个人可以生活独立精神自由的基本保障。
弗吉尼亚伍尔芙的意识流
67 LOREM
例如，在《达洛维夫人》中，她通过 描述达洛维夫人的内心世界，展现了 她对生活的感受和思考。读者可以看 到达洛维夫人的情感、记忆和思想是 如何交织在一起的，以及她是如何通
过自我反思来理解自己的生活
10 LOREM
3
弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙的 贡献
弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙的贡献
01
弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙的贡献在于她将意识流这种文学手法引入 了英国文学，并发展出了自己独特的表现方式。她的作品深
刻的洞见，成为了意识流小说的代
表人物之一
Bቤተ መጻሕፍቲ ባይዱ
她的作品《达洛维夫人》、《到灯
塔去》等，都是意识流文学的经典
之作
1
意识流是什么？
意识流是什么？
意识流是一种文学手法 ，它通过描述人物内心 深处的想法、感受和记 忆，来展示他们的情感 和思想
这种手法通常不受时间 、空间或逻辑的限制， 而是根据人物的意识流 动来组织情节
弗吉尼亚·伍 尔芙的意识流
-
01 意识流是什么？ 02 弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙如何运用意识流？ 03 弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙的贡献 04 结论 05 弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙对后世的影响 06 总结
弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙的意识流
A
弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙(Virginia
Woolf)是20世纪英国文学的一位重
要人物，她以独特的写作风格和深
刻地揭示了人物的内心世界和情感，打破了传统小说中时间
和空间的限制，为读者提供了一种全新的阅读体验
02
此外，她的作品也探讨了女性在男权社会中的地位和角色，
以及性别、阶级、家庭等社会问题。她通过自己的写作，为
女性主义文学的发展做出了重要贡献
4
结论
结论
Virginia Woolf-怎样读书
How Should One Read a Book?Virginia Woolf怎样阅读一本书？It is simple enough to say that since books have classes---fiction, biography, poetry —we should separate them and take from each what it is right that each should give us.这个问题很简单，既然书分类别，有小说、传记、诗歌，那我们就应该有所区别，并且从中吸取其应该给我们的正确的东西。
Most commonly we come to books with blurred and divided minds, asking of fiction that it shall be true, of poetry that it shall be false, of biography that it shall be flattering, of history that it shall enforce our own prejudices.最常见的是，我们模模糊糊地、心不在焉地在读书。
要求小说该真实，诗歌应该不真实，传记必须充满溢美之词，历史得强化我们固有的观念。
If we could banish all such preconceptions when we read, that would be an admirable beginning. Do not dictate to your author: try to become him. Be his fellow-worker and accomplice.阅读时，如果我们能摒弃这些偏见，便是一个好的开端。
不要强作者所难，而应与作者融为一体，作他的同路人和随行者。
If you hang back, and reserve and criticize at first, you are preventing yourself from getting the fullest possible value from what you read.假如你一开始就踌躇不前，持保留和批评的态度，那么你就无法从你所读的书中获得可能得到的最大益处。
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How Should One Read a Book?Virginia Woolf怎样阅读一本书？It is simple enough to say that since books have classes---fiction, biography, poetry —we should separate them and take from each what it is right that each should give us.这个问题很简单，既然书分类别，有小说、传记、诗歌，那我们就应该有所区别，并且从中吸取其应该给我们的正确的东西。
Most commonly we come to books with blurred and divided minds, asking of fiction that it shall be true, of poetry that it shall be false, of biography that it shall be flattering, of history that it shall enforce our own prejudices.最常见的是，我们模模糊糊地、心不在焉地在读书。
要求小说该真实，诗歌应该不真实，传记必须充满溢美之词，历史得强化我们固有的观念。
If we could banish all such preconceptions when we read, that would be an admirable beginning. Do not dictate to your author: try to become him. Be his fellow-worker and accomplice.阅读时，如果我们能摒弃这些偏见，便是一个好的开端。
不要强作者所难，而应与作者融为一体，作他的同路人和随行者。
If you hang back, and reserve and criticize at first, you are preventing yourself from getting the fullest possible value from what you read.假如你一开始就踌躇不前，持保留和批评的态度，那么你就无法从你所读的书中获得可能得到的最大益处。
But if you open your mind as widely as possible, then signs and hints of almost imperceptible fineness, from the twist and turn of the first sentences, will bring you into the presence of a human being unlike any other.相反，假如你完全敞开思想，你从篇首一些句子的迂回曲折之中就会体察到几乎难以觉察的微妙的暗示与线索，由此，你进入一个与众不同的人性境界。
Steep yourself in this, acquaint yourself with this , and soon you will find that your author is giving you, or attempting to give you, something far more definite.沉浸于作者的境界，并且熟悉这一境界，你很快会领略到作者正在给你或力图给你的东西，其内容大大超过文字所限定的内容。
The thirty-two chapters of a novel —if we consider how to read a novel first —are an attempt to make something as formed and controlled as a building: but words are more impalpable thanbricks; reading is a longer and more complicated process than seeing.我们先来讨论一下小说的读法。
一部三十二章的小说，作者努力把它塑造成像建筑物一样有形态、受制约的东西。
然而，字句之比于砖瓦，更加触摸不到；阅读比之于观看，是个更为长久而复杂的过程。
Perhaps the quickest way to understand the elements of what a novelist is doing is not to read, but to write; to make your own experiment with the dangers and difficulties of words.也许，理解小说家的创作要素的最快方法不是阅读，面是写作。
亲自去体验一下遣字造句的困难和冒险。
Recall, then, some event that has left a distinct impression on you —how at the corner of the street, perhaps, you passed two people talking. A tree shook; an electric light danced; the tone of the talk was comic, but also tragic; a whole vision, an entire conception seemed contained in that moment.那么，就来回忆一下给你留下深刻印象的某一事件吧。
比如说，在马路拐弯的地方，你从两个正在谈话的人的身旁走过；树影摇曳，电光闪烁，谈话的声调亦喜亦悲——这整个景色与意念的构成都在这一刹那之中。
But when you attempt to reconstruct it in words; you will find that it breaks into a thousand conflicting impressions. Some must be subdued: others emphasized; in the process you will lose, probably, all grasp upon the emotion itself.但是，当你企图用文字把它重新组合时，你将会发觉，原来完整的景象分裂成成千上百个互相矛盾的印记。
其中，有的要抑制，有的要强调，在这个过程中，你可能把握不住自己的情绪。
Then turn from your blurred and littered pages to the opening pages of some great novelist —Defoe, Jane Austen, Hardy. Now you will be better able to appreciate their mastery.这时，搁下你那模糊而散乱的几页文字，去阅读某个伟大小说家，例如笛福、珍妮·奥斯丁或托马斯·哈代作品的头几页。
现在你就能更好地欣赏他们的精湛技艺了。
It is not merely that we are in the presence of a different person —Defoe, Jane Austen, or Thomas Hardy —but that we are living in a different world. Here, in Robinson Crusoe, we are trudging a plain high road; one thing happens after another; the fact and the order of the fact is enough.我们不只是站在不同的大师面前---笛福，简·奥斯丁，或者托马斯·哈代----实际上我们是置身于完全不同的世界。
在《鲁宾逊漂流记》中，我们跋涉于久远的征途，一个事件接着一个事件发生，事件与事件之间顺序就足以构成其巨制。
But if the open air and adventure mean everything to Defoe they mean nothing to Jane Austen. Hers is the drawing-room, and people talking, and by the many mirrors of their talk revealing their characters. And if, when we have accustomed ourselves to the drawing-room and its reflections, we turn to Hardy, we are once more spun around.如果说户外和冒险之于笛福是大显身手的领地，那么，对于简·奥斯丁就无关紧要了。
奥斯丁的世界是客厅，她通过活动于客厅里的任务的对话，反映人物性格。
习惯了奥斯丁的客厅和通过客厅所反映的意向以后，我们再转向哈代，脑袋似乎有一次发晕了。
The moors are round us and the stars are above our heads. The other side of the mind is now exposed —the dark side that comes uppermost in solitude, not the light side that shows in company. Our relations are not towards people, but towards Nature and destiny.我们置身于荒野之中，星星在我们头上闪烁。
在这里，人类灵魂的另一面----孤寂中迸发的黑暗面，而不是处于凡世尘嚣时所表露的光明面----被充分解剖。
这里展示的不是人与人的关系，而是人与自然和命运的关系。
Yet different as these worlds are, each is consistent with itself. The maker of each is careful to observe the laws of his own perspective, and however great a strain they may put upon us they will never confuse us, as lesser writers so frequently do, by introducing two different kinds of reality into the same book.三位作家描述了三个不同的世界，他们各自的世界是个连贯一致的整体。