现代主义先锋 伦敦文学界核心人物
弗吉尼亚•伍尔夫经典名篇
意识流文学先驱之作
入选人教版语文课本
《墙上的斑点——伍尔夫短篇小说选》收录英国著名作家弗吉尼亚•伍尔夫的十余部短篇小说，涵盖伍尔夫创作早期至晚期的文学创作，婚姻主题、意识流主题等等皆有涉及，集中展现了伍尔夫创作才华。
中文样章 第二个
刺耳的哭号声打破深夜村庄的宁静。一阵杂乱的拖拽声过后，一切陷入死寂。透过窗只能看见道路两旁的丁香树沉重的枝杈悬吊在空中。这是一个无月之夜，寂静，闷热。所有的一切都因为那阵哭号声而变得凶厉起来。是谁在哭泣？为什么她要哭泣？听得出，那个声音出自一个女人，可是因为某种极端情绪的压迫，它已经变得没有任何性别特征可言，而纯粹变成了人性的哀号：宣泄某种不可言说的恐惧，或者因遭遇某种不平之事而大声申诉。
死一般的寂静。连星星都只是发着光亮，不再闪烁。田野间的树木屏息凝神，一动不动。可是不祥仍在弥漫，如同所有的一切都已被判决，被定罪。人们觉得应该做些什么。上下蹿动的火光应该不安地四处游移，某些人应该冲到街道上。那些小房子的窗口应该亮起灯光。或许还会再次传来哭号声，不过那声音多少平和了一些，有了女性的特点，她已经得到了一些安慰，不再泣不成声。可是并没有灯光亮起，也没有脚步声，第二声哭号也没有再响起。第一声哭号已被完全吞没，只剩下一片死寂。
人们躺在黑暗中细细谛听，那不过是一个声音。没有任何事情能与它联系在一起，也没有哪一个画面可以诠释它，以便让人容易理解。当黑暗最终褪去后，人们所能看见的不过是一个模模糊糊、完全不可辨认其体态的人影，正举着它那巨大的手臂，伸向苍天，申斥某种难以抗拒的不公。
第三个
天气一直晴朗适宜。人们甚至会觉得地球停泊在了某个港口，而生活也不再顺着风势卖力前行，它驶入了一个宁静的港湾，像是一动不动地停滞在了宁静的水域里，落碇抛锚——除了夜里的那一阵哭号声。不管人们走到哪儿，总是回荡着那个声音，比方在山里长时间溜达的时候，总是感到有些东西在深处慌乱涌动，以至于连四下里安稳宁静的景致也都虚幻起来。山坡上，一群群绵羊彼此聚拢；山谷如若平缓的水波，上下起伏，又如细小的涟漪，亲吻着海岸。时不时的，人们就会看见一所孤零零的农舍，院子里，有小狗在嬉戏打滚，有蝴蝶在荆豆花的上方翩翩起舞，所有的一切都显得宁静祥和——这一切总会被哭号声给摧毁的，人们不由自主地想到。所有的这一切，这些美好的景致，都参与并谋划了夜里的那场罪行。它们都承诺过，说要保持自己的美丽，持续这份宁静。可是，它们再次被摧毁，可能只是须臾间的事。所有的美好与安稳，都不过是一种表象。
于是人们再次回味起“水手归乡图”，只为了让自己的心不再焦虑难安。那些画景又在眼前重现，还增添了各种之前并没有利用到的细枝末节，比如她蓝色的裙子，开着黄花的树所投射的影子，等等。她轻轻拽着他的衣袖，在他背上背着一只行囊，两人站在门口。一只沙黄色的猫儿从门口偷偷溜达过去。人们会通过回忆这个画面的每一个细节而逐渐让自己相信：隐藏在表象下的，或许并不是罪恶和凶厉，而更可能是善意、满足和平静。羊群正低头吃草，山峦迭起，农舍、小狗，以及翩飞的蝴蝶——一起都宛如从前那般真实。人们一边遐想着水手与他的妻子，一边返身回家，一幕幕画景就在他们的脑海里虚构出来。人们不过是希冀那些美丽幸福的图景能掩盖住他们内心的惶恐罢了，希冀这些画景最后能够把那恐怖的哭号声给闷死，给碾压成齑粉，让它随风消散。
人们走到了每次都要经过的教堂墓园，总算是返回村庄了。如同往常一般，再次走过这片墓园时，人们会想：多么安宁的地方啊，看那紫杉葱茏，石碑被擦拭了一遍又一遍，四周围分散着多少无名者的坟墓——死亡是快乐的！人们会这样觉得。没错，看看这个画面！一个男子正在挖墓，旁边，他的孩子们正在吃东西，当他把黄土一锹一锹地铲出来时，孩子们正自由自在地蘸着果酱吃面包，捧着大牛奶罐子喝牛奶。挖墓者的妻子，一个胖乎乎的金发女郎，靠在一块墓碑边上，挖掘的墓穴旁边的草地上铺了一个围裙，当作茶桌来用。一些泥土撒落在茶具中间。我问：“谁要葬在这个墓里？难道多德森老先生终于去世了吗？”“不，不是，”那个女人回答说，“这个坟头是给年轻的水手罗杰斯挖的。”她看着我说：“两天前的夜里他就死了，说是得了什么外国的热病。你难道没有听见他妻子又哭又嚎吗？她跑到大路上哭嚎……汤米，你看看你，怎么弄得满身是土！”
这又是怎样一个画面啊！
英文样章 The Second Picture
In the middle of the night a loud cry rang through the village. Then there was a sound of something scuffling; and then dead silence. All that could be seen out of the window was the branch of lilac tree hanging motionless and ponderous across the road. It was a hot still night. There was no moon. The cry made everything seem ominous. Who had cried? Why had she cried? It was a woman’s voice, made by some extremity of feeling almost sexless, almost expressionless. It was as if human nature had cried out against some iniquity, some inexpressible horror. There was dead silence. The stars shone perfectly steadily. The fields lay still. The trees were motionless. Yet all seemed guilty, convicted, ominous. One felt that something ought to be done. Some light ought to appear tossing, moving agitatedly. Someone ought to come running down the road. There should be lights in the cottage windows. And then perhaps another cry, but less sexless, less wordless, comforted, appeased. But no light came. No feet were heard. There was no second cry. The first had been swallowed up, and there was dead silence.
One lay in the dark listening intently. It had been merely a voice. There was nothing to connect it with. No picture of any sort came to interpret it, to make it intelligible to the mind. But as the dark arose at last all one saw was an obscure human form, almost without shape, raising a gigantic arm in vain against some overwhelming iniquity.
The Third Picture
The fine weather remained unbroken. Had it not been for that single cry in the night one would have felt that the earth had put into harbour; that life had ceased to drive before the wind; that it had reached some quiet cove and there lay anchored, hardly moving, on the quiet waters. But the sound persisted. Wherever one went, it might be for a long walk up into the hills, something seemed to turn uneasily beneath the surface, making the peace, the stability all round one seem a little unreal. There were the sheep clustered on the side of the hill; the valley broke in long tapering waves like the fall of smooth waters. One came on solitary farmhouses. The puppy rolled in the yard. The butterflies gambolled over the gorse. All was as quiet, as safe [as] could be. Yet, one kept thinking, a cry had rent it; all this beauty had been an accomplice that night; had consented to remain calm, to be still beautiful; at any moment it might be sundered again. This goodness, this safety were only on the surface.
And then to cheer oneself out of this apprehensive mood one turned to the picture of the sailor’s homecoming. One saw it all over again producing various little details—the blue colour of her dress, the shadow that fell from the yellow flowering tree—that one had not used before. So they had stood at the cottage door, he with his bundle on his back, she just lightly touching his sleeve with her hand. And a sandy cat had slunk round the door. Thus gradually going over the picture in every detail, one persuaded oneself by degrees that it was far more likely that this calm and content and good will lay beneath the surface than anything treacherous, sinister. The sheep grazing, the waves of the valley, the farmhouse, the puppy, the dancing butterflies were in fact like that all through. And so one turned back home, with one’s mind fixed on the sailor and his wife, making up picture after picture of them so that one picture after another of happiness and satisfaction might be laid over that unrest, that hideous cry, until it was crushed and silenced by their pressure out of existence.
Here at last was the village, and the churchyard through which one must pass; and the usual thought came, as one entered it, of the peacefulness of the place, with its shady yews, its rubbed tombstones, its nameless graves. Death is cheerful here, one felt. Indeed, look at that picture! A man was digging a grave, and children were picnicking at the side of it while he worked. As the shovels of yellow earth were thrown up, the children were sprawling about eating bread and jam and drinking milk out of large mugs. The gravedigger’s wife, a fat fair woman, had propped herself against a tombstone and spread her apron on the grass by the open grave to serve as a tea-table. Some lumps of clay had fallen among the tea things. Who was going to be buried, I asked. Had old Mr. Dodson died at last? “Oh! no. It’s for young Rogers, the sailor,” the woman answered, staring at me. “He died two nights ago, of some foreign fever. Didn’t you hear his wife? She rushed into the road and cried out. . . . Here, Tommy, you’re all covered with earth!”
What a picture it made!
中文目录 墙上的斑点
三个画面
新 装
热爱同类者的人
拉平与拉平诺娃
坚实之物
公爵夫人与珠宝商
遗 物
探照灯
镜中的女人——一幅映像
狩猎会
邱 园
琼•马丁小姐的日记
弗拉希
英文目录
The Mark on the Wall
Three Pictures
The New Dress
The Man Who Loved His Kind
Lappin and Lapinova
Solid Objects
The Duchess and the Jeweller
The Legacy
The Searchlight
The Lady in the Looking–Glass: A Reflection
The Shooting Party
Kew Gardens
The Journal of Mistress Joan Martyn
Flush: A Biography
