毛姆,月亮与六便士,英文版26～30章

Chapter XXVI

Next day we moved Strickland. It needed a good deal of firmness and still more patience to induce him to come, but he was really too ill to offer any effective resistance to Stroeve's entreaties and to my determination. We dressed him, while he feebly cursed us, got him downstairs, into a cab, and eventually to Stroeve's studio. He was so exhausted by the time we arrived that he allowed us to put him to bed without a word. He was ill for six weeks. At one time it looked as though he could not live more than a few hours, and I am convinced that it was only through the Dutchman's doggedness that he pulled through. I have never known a more difficult patient. It was not that he was exacting and querulous; on the contrary, he never complained, he asked for nothing, he was perfectly silent; but he seemed to resent the care that was taken of him; he received all inquiries about his feelings or his needs with a jibe, a sneer, or an oath. I found him detestable, and as soon as he was out of danger I had no hesitation in telling him so.

"Go to hell," he answered briefly.

Dirk Stroeve, giving up his work entirely, nursed Strickland with tenderness and sympathy. He was dexterous to make him comfortable, and he exercised a cunning of which I should never have thought him capable to induce him to take the medicines prescribed by the doctor. Nothing was too much trouble for him. Though his means were adequate to the needs of himself and his wife, he certainly had no money to waste; but now he was wantonly extravagant in the purchase of delicacies, out of season and dear, which might tempt Strickland's capricious appetite. I shall never forget the tactful patience with which he persuaded him to take nourishment. He was never put out by Strickland's rudeness; if it was merely sullen, he appeared not to notice it; if it was aggressive, he only chuckled. When Strickland, recovering somewhat, was in a good humour and amused himself by laughing at him, he deliberately did absurd things to excite his ridicule. Then he would give me little happy glances, so that I might notice in how much better form the patient was. Stroeve was sublime.

But it was Blanche who most surprised me. She proved herself not only a capable, but a devoted nurse. There was nothing in her to remind you that she had so vehemently struggled against her husband's wish to bring Strickland to the studio. She insisted on doing her share of the offices needful to the sick. She arranged his bed so that it was possible to change the sheet without disturbing him. She washed him. When I remarked on her competence, she told me with that pleasant little smile of hers that for a while she had worked in a hospital. She gave no sign that she hated Strickland so desperately. She did not speak to him much, but she was quick to forestall his wants. For a fortnight it was necessary that someone should stay with him all night, and she took turns at watching with her husband. I wondered what

she thought during the long darkness as she sat by the bedside. Strickland was a weird figure as he lay there, thinner than ever, with his ragged red beard and his eyes staring feverishly into vacancy; his illness seemed to have made them larger, and they had an unnatural brightness.

"Does he ever talk to you in the night?" I asked her once.

"Never."

"Do you dislike him as much as you did?"

"More, if anything."

She looked at me with her calm gray eyes. Her expression was so placid, it was hard to believe that she was capable of the violent emotion I had witnessed.

"Has he ever thanked you for what you do for him?"

"No," she smiled.

"He's inhuman."

"He's abominable."

Stroeve was, of course, delighted with her. He could not do enough to show his gratitude for the whole-hearted devotion with which she had accepted the burden he laid on her. But he was a little puzzled by the behaviour of Blanche and Strickland towards one another.

"Do you know, I've seen them sit there for hours together without saying a word?"

On one occasion, when Strickland was so much better that in a day or two he was to get up, I sat with them in the studio. Dirk and I were talking. Mrs. Stroeve sewed, and I thought I recognised the shirt she was mending as Strickland's. He lay on his back; he did not speak. Once I saw that his eyes were fixed on Blanche Stroeve, and there was in them a curious irony. Feeling their gaze, she raised her own, and for a moment they stared at one another.

I could not quite understand her expression. Her eyes had in them a strange perplexity, and perhaps -- but why? -- alarm. In a moment Strickland looked away and idly surveyed the ceiling, but she continued to stare at him, and now her look was quite inexplicable.

In a few days Strickland began to get up. He was nothing but skin and bone. His clothes hung upon him like rags on a scarecrow. With his untidy beard and long hair, his features, always a little larger than life, now emphasised by illness, he had an extraordinary aspect; but it was so odd that it was not quite ugly. There was something monumental in his ungainliness. I do not know how to express precisely the impression he made upon me. It was not exactly spirituality that was obvious, though the screen of the flesh seemed almost transparent, because there was in his face an outrageous sensuality; but, though it sounds nonsense, it

seemed as though his sensuality were curiously spiritual. There was in him something primitive. He seemed to partake of those obscure forces of nature which the Greeks personified in shapes part human and part beast, the satyr and the faun. I thought of Marsyas, whom the god flayed because he had dared to rival him in song. Strickland seemed to bear in his heart strange harmonies and unadventured patterns, and I foresaw for him an end of torture and despair. I had again the feeling that he was possessed of a devil; but you could not say that it was a devil of evil, for it was a primitive force that existed before good and ill.

He was still too weak to paint, and he sat in the studio, silent, occupied with God knows what dreams, or reading. The books he liked were queer; sometimes I would find him poring over the poems of Mallarme, and he read them as a child reads, forming the words with his lips, and I wondered what strange emotion he got from those subtle cadences and obscure phrases; and again I found him absorbed in the detective novels of Gaboriau. I amused myself by thinking that in his choice of books he showed pleasantly the irreconcilable sides of his fantastic nature. It was singular to notice that even in the weak state of his body he had no thought for its comfort. Stroeve liked his ease, and in his studio were a couple of heavily upholstered arm-chairs and a large divan. Strickland would not go near them, not from any affectation of stoicism, for I found him seated on a three-legged stool when I went into the studio one day and he was alone, but because he did not like them. For choice he sat on a kitchen chair without arms. It often exasperated me to see him. I never knew a man so entirely indifferent to his surroundings.

Literature Network ?William Somerset Maugham ?Moon and Sixpence ?Chapter XXVI

Chapter XXVII

Two or three weeks passed. One morning, having come to a pause in my work, I thought I would give myself a holiday, and I went to the Louvre. I wandered about looking at the pictures I knew so well, and let my fancy play idly with the emotions they suggested. I sauntered into the long gallery, and there suddenly saw Stroeve. I smiled, for his appearance, so rotund and yet so startled, could never fail to excite a smile, and then as I came nearer I noticed that he seemed singularly disconsolate. He looked woebegone and yet ridiculous, like a man who has fallen into the water with all his clothes on, and, being rescued from death, frightened still, feels that he only looks a fool. Turning round, he stared at me, but I perceived that he did not see me. His round blue eyes looked harassed behind his glasses.

"Stroeve," I said.

He gave a little start, and then smiled, but his smile was rueful.

"Why are you idling in this disgraceful fashion?" I asked gaily.

"It's a long time since I was at the Louvre. I thought I'd come and see if they had anything new."

"But you told me you had to get a picture finished this week."

"Strickland's painting in my studio."

"Well?"

"I suggested it myself. He's not strong enough to go back to his own place yet. I thought we could both paint there. Lots of fellows in the Quarter share a studio. I thought it would be fun. I've always thought it would be jolly to have someone to talk to when one was tired of work."

He said all this slowly, detaching statement from statement with a little awkward silence, and he kept his kind, foolish eyes fixed on mine. They were full of tears.

"I don't think I understand," I said.

"Strickland can't work with anyone else in the studio."

"Damn it all, it's your studio. That's his lookout."

He looked at me pitifully. His lips were trembling.

"What happened?" I asked, rather sharply.

He hesitated and flushed. He glanced unhappily at one of the pictures on the wall.

"He wouldn't let me go on painting. He told me to get out."

"But why didn't you tell him to go to hell?"

"He turned me out. I couldn't very well struggle with him. He threw my hat after me, and locked the door."

I was furious with Strickland, and was indignant with myself, because Dirk Stroeve cut such an absurd figure that I felt inclined to laugh.

"But what did your wife say?"

"She'd gone out to do the marketing."

"Is he going to let her in?"

"I don't know."

I gazed at Stroeve with perplexity. He stood like a schoolboy with whom a master is finding fault.

"Shall I get rid of Strickland for you?" I asked.

He gave a little start, and his shining face grew very red.

"No. You'd better not do anything."

He nodded to me and walked away. It was clear that for some reason he did not want to discuss the matter. I did not understand.

Literature Network ?William Somerset Maugham ?Moon and Sixpence ?Chapter XXVII

Chapter XXVIII

The explanation came a week later. It was about ten o' clock at night; I had been dining by myself at a restaurant, and having returned to my small apartment, was sitting in my parlour, reading I heard the cracked tinkling of the bell, and, going into the corridor, opened the door. Stroeve stood before me.

"Can I come in?" he asked.

In the dimness of the landing I could not see him very well, but there was something in his voice that surprised me. I knew he was of abstemious habit or I should have thought he had been drinking. I led the way into my sitting room and asked him to sit down.

"Thank God I've found you," he said.

"What's the matter?" I asked in astonishment at his vehemence.

I was able now to see him well. As a rule he was neat in his person, but now his clothes were in disorder. He looked suddenly bedraggled. I was convinced he had been drinking, and I smiled. I was on the point of chaffing him on his state.

"I didn't know where to go," he burst out. "I came here earlier, but you weren't in."

"I dined late," I said.

I changed my mind: it was not liquor that had driven him to this obvious desperation. His face, usually so rosy, was now strangely mottled. His hands trembled.

"Has anything happened?" I asked.

"My wife has left me."

He could hardly get the words out. He gave a little gasp, and the tears began to trickle down his round cheeks. I did not know what to say. My first thought was that she had come to the end of her forbearance with his infatuation for Strickland, and, goaded by the latter's cynical behaviour, had insisted that he should be turned out. I knew her capable of temper, for all the calmness of her manner; and if Stroeve still refused, she might easily have flung out of the studio with vows never to return. But the little man was so distressed that I could not smile.

"My dear fellow, don't be unhappy. She'll come back. You mustn't take very seriously what women say when they're in a passion."

"You don't understand. She's in love with Strickland."

"What!" I was startled at this, but the idea had no sooner taken possession of me than I saw it was absurd. "How can you be so silly? You don't mean to say you're jealous of Strickland?"

I almost laughed. "You know very well that she can't bear the sight of him."

"You don't understand," he moaned.

"You're an hysterical ass," I said a little impatiently. "Let me give you a whisky-and-soda, and you'll feel better."

I supposed that for some reason or other -- and Heaven knows what ingenuity men exercise to torment themselves -- Dirk had got it into his head that his wife cared for Strickland, and with his genius for blundering he might quite well have offended her so that, to anger him, perhaps, she had taken pains to foster his suspicion.

"Look here," I said, "let's go back to your studio. If you've made a fool of yourself you must eat humble pie. Your wife doesn't strike me as the sort of woman to bear malice."

"How can I go back to the studio?" he said wearily. "They're there. I've left it to them."

"Then it's not your wife who's left you; it's you who've left your wife."

"For God's sake don't talk to me like that."

Still I could not take him seriously. I did not for a moment believe what he had told me. But he was in very real distress.

"Well, you've come here to talk to me about it. You'd better tell me the whole story."

"This afternoon I couldn't stand it any more. I went to Strickland and told him I thought he was quite well enough to go back to his own place. I wanted the studio myself."

"No one but Strickland would have needed telling," I said. "What did he say?"

"He laughed a little; you know how he laughs, not as though he were amused, but as though you were a damned fool, and said he'd go at once. He began to put his things together. You remember I fetched from his room what I thought he needed, and he asked Blanche for a piece of paper and some string to make a parcel."

Stroeve stopped, gasping, and I thought he was going to faint. This was not at all the story I had expected him to tell me.

"She was very pale, but she brought the paper and the string. He didn't say anything. He made the parcel and he whistled a tune. He took no notice of either of us. His eyes had an

ironic smile in them. My heart was like lead. I was afraid something was going to happen, and I wished I hadn't spoken. He looked round for his hat. Then she spoke:

"`I'm going with Strickland, Dirk,' she said. `I can't live with you any more.'

"I tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come. Strickland didn't say anything. He went on whistling as though it had nothing to do with him."

Stroeve stopped again and mopped his face. I kept quite still. I believed him now, and I was astounded. But all the same I could not understand.

Then he told me, in a trembling voice, with the tears pouring down his cheeks, how he had gone up to her, trying to take her in his arms, but she had drawn away and begged him not to touch her. He implored her not to leave him. He told her how passionately he loved her, and reminded her of all the devotion he had lavished upon her. He spoke to her of the happiness of their life. He was not angry with her. He did not reproach her.

"Please let me go quietly, Dirk," she said at last. "Don't you understand that I love Strickland? Where he goes I shall go."

"But you must know that he'll never make you happy. For your own sake don't go. You don't know what you've got to look forward to."

"It's your fault. You insisted on his coming here."

He turned to Strickland.

"Have mercy on her," he implored him. "You can't let her do anything so mad."

"She can do as she chooses," said Strickland. "She's not forced to come."

"My choice is made," she said, in a dull voice.

Strickland's injurious calm robbed Stroeve of the rest of his self-control. Blind rage seized him, and without knowing what he was doing he flung himself on Strickland. Strickland was taken by surprise and he staggered, but he was very strong, even after his illness, and in a moment, he did not exactly know how, Stroeve found himself on the floor.

"You funny little man," said Strickland.

Stroeve picked himself up. He noticed that his wife had remained perfectly still, and to be made ridiculous before her increased his humiliation. His spectacles had tumbled off in the struggle, and he could not immediately see them. She picked them up and silently handed them to him. He seemed suddenly to realise his unhappiness, and though he knew he was making himself still more absurd, he began to cry. He hid his face in his hands. The others watched him without a word. They did not move from where they stood.

"Oh, my dear," he groaned at last, "how can you be so cruel?"

"I can't help myself, Dirk," she answered.

"I've worshipped you as no woman was ever worshipped before. If in anything I did I displeased you, why didn't you tell me, and I'd have changed. I've done everything I could for you."

She did not answer. Her face was set, and he saw that he was only boring her. She put on a coat and her hat. She moved towards the door, and he saw that in a moment she would be gone. He went up to her quickly and fell on his knees before her, seizing her hands: he abandoned all self-respect.

"Oh, don't go, my darling. I can't live without you; I shall kill myself. If I've done anything to offend you I beg you to forgive me. Give me another chance. I'll try harder still to make you happy."

"Get up, Dirk. You're making yourself a perfect fool."

He staggered to his feet, but still he would not let her go.

"Where are you going?" he said hastily. "You don't know what Strickland's place is like. You can't live there. It would be awful."

"If I don't care, I don't see why you should."

"Stay a minute longer. I must speak. After all, you can't grudge me that."

"What is the good? I've made up my mind. Nothing that you can say will make me alter it."

He gulped, and put his hand to his heart to ease its painful beating.

"I'm not going to ask you to change your mind, but I want you to listen to me for a minute. It's the last thing I shall ever ask you. Don't refuse me that."

She paused, looking at him with those reflective eyes of hers, which now were so different to him. She came back into the studio and leaned against the table.

"Well?"

Stroeve made a great effort to collect himself.

"You must be a little reasonable. You can't live on air, you know. Strickland hasn't got a penny."

"I know."

"You'll suffer the most awful privations. You know why he took so long to get well. He was half starved."

"I can earn money for him."

"How?"

"I don't know. I shall find a way."

A horrible thought passed through the Dutchman's mind, and he shuddered.

"I think you must be mad. I don't know what has come over you."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Now may I go?"

"Wait one second longer."

He looked round his studio wearily; he had loved it because her presence had made it gay and homelike; he shut his eyes for an instant; then he gave her a long look as though to impress on his mind the picture of her. He got up and took his hat.

"No; I'll go."

"You?"

She was startled. She did not know what he meant.

"I can't bear to think of you living in that horrible, filthy attic. After all, this is your home just as much as mine. You'll be comfortable here. You'll be spared at least the worst privations."

He went to the drawer in which he kept his money and took out several bank-notes.

"I would like to give you half what I've got here."

He put them on the table. Neither Strickland nor his wife spoke.

Then he recollected something else.

"Will you pack up my clothes and leave them with the concierge? I'll come and fetch them to-morrow." He tried to smile." Good-bye, my dear. I'm grateful for all the happiness you gave me in the past."

He walked out and closed the door behind him. With my mind's eye I saw Strickland throw his hat on a table, and, sitting down, begin to smoke a cigarette.

Chapter XXIX

I kept silence for a little while, thinking of what Stroeve had told me. I could not stomach his weakness, and he saw my disapproval. "You know as well as I do how Strickland lived," he said tremulously. "I couldn't let her live in those circumstances -- I simply couldn't."

"That's your business," I answered.

"What would you have done?" he asked.

"She went with her eyes open. If she had to put up with certain inconveniences it was her own lookout."

"Yes; but, you see, you don't love her."

"Do you love her still?"

"Oh, more than ever. Strickland isn't the man to make a woman happy. It can't last. I want her to know that I shall never fail her."

"Does that mean that you're prepared to take her back?"

"I shouldn't hesitate. Why, she'll want me more than ever then. When she's alone and humiliated and broken it would be dreadful if she had nowhere to go."

He seemed to bear no resentment. I suppose it was commonplace in me that I felt slightly outraged at his lack of spirit. Perhaps he guessed what was in my mind, for he said:

"I couldn't expect her to love me as I loved her. I'm a buffoon. I'm not the sort of man that women love. I've always known that. I can't blame her if she's fallen in love with Strickland."

"You certainly have less vanity than any man I've ever known," I said.

"I love her so much better than myself. It seems to me that when vanity comes into love it can only be because really you love yourself best. After all, it constantly happens that a man when he's married falls in love with somebody else; when he gets over it he returns to his wife, and she takes him back, and everyone thinks it very natural. Why should it be different with women?"

"I dare say that's logical," I smiled, "but most men are made differently, and they can't."

But while I talked to Stroeve I was puzzling over the suddenness of the whole affair. I could not imagine that he had had no warning. I remembered the curious look I had seen in Blanche Stroeve's eyes; perhaps its explanation was that she was growing dimly conscious of a feeling in her heart that surprised and alarmed her.

"Did you have no suspicion before to-day that there was anything between them?" I asked.

He did not answer for a while. There was a pencil on the table, and unconsciously he drew a head on the blotting-paper.

"Please say so, if you hate my asking you questions," I said.

"It eases me to talk. Oh, if you knew the frightful anguish in my heart." He threw the pencil down. "Yes, I've known it for a fortnight. I knew it before she did."

"Why on earth didn't you send Strickland packing?"

"I couldn't believe it. It seemed so improbable. She couldn't bear the sight of him. It was more than improbable; it was incredible. I thought it was merely jealousy. You see, I've always been jealous, but I trained myself never to show it; I was jealous of every man she knew; I was jealous of you. I knew she didn't love me as I loved her. That was only natural, wasn't it? But she allowed me to love her, and that was enough to make me happy. I forced myself to go out for hours together in order to leave them by themselves; I wanted to punish myself for suspicions which were unworthy of me; and when I came back I found they didn't want me -- not Strickland, he didn't care if I was there or not, but Blanche. She shuddered when I went to kiss her. When at last I was certain I didn't know what to do; I knew they'd only laugh at me if I made a scene. I thought if I held my tongue and pretended not to see, everything would come right. I made up my mind to get him away quietly, without quarrelling. Oh, if you only knew what I've suffered!"

Then he told me again of his asking Strickland to go. He chose his moment carefully, and tried to make his request sound casual; but he could not master the trembling of his voice; and he felt himself that into words that he wished to seem jovial and friendly there crept the bitterness of his jealousy. He had not expected Strickland to take him up on the spot and make his preparations to go there and then; above all, he had not expected his wife's decision to go with him. I saw that now he wished with all his heart that he had held his tongue. He preferred the anguish of jealousy to the anguish of separation.

"I wanted to kill him, and I only made a fool of myself."

He was silent for a long time, and then he said what I knew was in his mind.

"If I'd only waited, perhaps it would have gone all right. I shouldn't have been so impatient. Oh, poor child, what have I driven her to?"

I shrugged my shoulders, but did not speak. I had no sympathy for Blanche Stroeve, but knew that it would only pain poor Dirk if I told him exactly what I thought of her.

He had reached that stage of exhaustion when he could not stop talking. He went over again every word of the scene. Now something occurred to him that he had not told me before; now he discussed what he ought to have said instead of what he did say; then he lamented his blindness. He regretted that he had done this, and blamed himself that he had omitted the other. It grew later and later, and at last I was as tired as he.

"What are you going to do now?" I said finally.

"What can I do? I shall wait till she sends for me."

"Why don't you go away for a bit?"

"No, no; I must be at hand when she wants me."

For the present he seemed quite lost. He had made no plans. When I suggested that he should go to bed he said he could not sleep; he wanted to go out and walk about the streets till day. He was evidently in no state to be left alone. I persuaded him to stay the night with me, and I put him into my own bed. I had a divan in my sitting-room, and could very well sleep on that. He was by now so worn out that he could not resist my firmness. I gave him a sufficient dose of veronal to insure his unconsciousness for several hours. I thought that was the best service I could render him.

Literature Network ?William Somerset Maugham ?Moon and Sixpence ?Chapter XXIX

Chapter XXX

But the bed I made up for myself was sufficiently uncomfortable to give me a wakeful night, and I thought a good deal of what the unlucky Dutchman had told me. I was not so much puzzled by Blanche Stroeve's action, for I saw in that merely the result of a physical appeal.

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. It is an emotion which is defenceless against passion. I suspected that Blanche Stroeve's violent dislike of Strickland had in it from the beginning a vague element of sexual attraction. Who am I that I should seek to unravel the mysterious intricacies of sex? Perhaps Stroeve's passion excited without satisfying that part of her nature, and she hated Strickland because she felt in him the power to give her what she needed. I think she was quite sincere when she struggled against her husband's desire to bring him into the studio; I think she was frightened of him, though she knew not why; and I remembered how she had foreseen disaster. I think in some curious way the horror which she felt for him was a transference of the horror which she felt for herself because he so strangely troubled her. His appearance was wild and uncouth; there was aloofness in his eyes and sensuality in his mouth; he was big and strong; he gave the impression of untamed passion; and perhaps she felt in him, too, that sinister element which had made me think of those wild beings of the world's early history when matter, retaining its early connection with the earth, seemed to possess yet a spirit of its own. If he affected her at all, it was inevitable that she should love or hate him. She hated him.

And then I fancy that the daily intimacy with the sick man moved her strangely. She raised his head to give him food, and it was heavy against her hand; when she had fed him she wiped his sensual mouth and his red beard. She washed his limbs; they were covered with thick hair; and when she dried his hands, even in his weakness they were strong and sinewy. His fingers were long; they were the capable, fashioning fingers of the artist; and I know not what troubling thoughts they excited in her. He slept very quietly, without a movement, so that he might have been dead, and he was like some wild creature of the woods, resting after a long chase; and she wondered what fancies passed through his dreams. Did he dream of the nymph flying through the woods of Greece with the satyr in hot pursuit? She fled, swift of foot and desperate, but he gained on her step by step, till she felt his hot breath on her neck; and

still she fled silently, and silently he pursued, and when at last he seized her was it terror that thrilled her heart or was it ecstasy?

Blanche Stroeve was in the cruel grip of appetite. Perhaps she hated Strickland still, but she hungered for him, and everything that had made up her life till then became of no account. She ceased to be a woman, complex, kind and petulant, considerate and thoughtless; she was a Maenad. She was desire.

But perhaps this is very fanciful; and it may be that she was merely bored with her husband and went to Strickland out of a callous curiosity. She may have had no particular feeling for him, but succumbed to his wish from propinquity or idleness, to find then that she was powerless in a snare of her own contriving. How did I know what were the thoughts and emotions behind that placid brow and those cool gray eyes?

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; the most clear-sighted, though he may know, cannot realise that his love will cease; it gives body to what he knows is illusion, and, knowing it is nothing else, he loves it better than reality. It makes a man a little more than himself, and at the same time a little less. He ceases to be himself. He is no longer an individual, but a thing, an instrument to some purpose foreign to his ego. Love is never quite devoid of sentimentality, and Strickland was the least inclined to that infirmity of any man I have known. I could not believe that he would ever suffer that possession of himself which love is; he could never endure a foreign yoke. I believed him capable of uprooting from his heart, though it might be with agony, so that he was left battered and ensanguined, anything that came between himself and that uncomprehended craving that urged him constantly to he knew not what. If I have succeeded at all in giving the complicated impression that Strickland made on me, it will not seem outrageous to say that I felt he was at once too great and too small for love.

《月亮和六便士》读后感五篇精选(最新)

这是我第一次很自觉地想写一些关于我读过的书的感觉。我想写下来这份感觉，主要是因为这本书给我太多的震撼了，压的我踹不过气来，我迫切的需要通过写作这一方式来缓解心中的那份沉重。 看过《月亮和六便士》后，我一直笃信作者毛姆不仅是一位伟大的作家，而且也是一位很伟大的心里学家。尽管在此之前，同时在此之后，我并没有看过有关毛姆的简介，我的这份笃信我是很坚定的。这本书对人的心里的细节描写及为何会产生这种心里的分析，让我十分震撼，以至于我到现在心中翻起的那份波浪还没有得到平静，甚至是连语言这个我最为熟悉的东西我都不知道如何说了。尽管这本书给我带来这么强大的震撼，以至于我都不能好好的说话，但是我还是觉得应该写一下自己的感受。 看完整本书后，我最大的感触是“我”认为查尔斯。思里特克兰德寻找到的不是自己，而是一个新的灵魂。对这句话，感触颇深。一直以来，身边的每一个人都在告诉我要做自己，要做真正的自己。于是我以为只要我做到了自己，显示出自己独特的个性与才华，我便可以一鸣惊人，成为万众瞩目、名留史册的人物。可是当我看见这句话的时候，我突然明白事情似乎并不是自己想象的那么简单。“我”亲身经历与感受到了斯特里克兰德的事迹与存在，“我”看着他抛弃妻子，看着他又如何伤害对自己最真的朋友，这样一个未被社会传统价值观的人为何能够取得这么伟大的成就?心中很震撼!也就通过作者不断的记述并且引起潜意识的问题，我突然意识到一个伟人之所以能够成为一个伟人，他在成长中必须要做一些违背社会道德的事情，他们抛弃以前的生活基础，被人们认为是个不折不扣的疯子及社会道德败坏的人。但是他们在做这些时候，早就已经忘却了社会道德对他们的审判，他们心中有的只是一个新的灵魂。但是这个新的灵魂在他们刚抛弃以前生活基础的时候，还没有成行，还不足以让这个新的灵魂发挥到让世界为之震撼的地步。于是他们需要继续磨练，需要在社会里面辗转，寻找一处真正适合他们新灵魂居住的地方。这样他们才能创作出不朽的价值。 读这本书是因一位绘画老师的介绍，也是因这本书的名字看起来很有趣，毛姆的《月亮与六便士》讲述了主人公恩特里克兰德是个在伦敦做事的证券经纪人，他有一个富裕和美满的家庭：妻子漂亮，喜爱虚荣，两个孩子健康快乐。按理说，他应该满足于这种人世的快乐才对，尽管这种生活未免太过平淡。但是，就在他们婚后的第17个年头，他突然离家出去去了巴黎，抛弃了令外人羡慕的事业和生活。就在人们以为他的出走是因为有外遇的原因时，人们发现的事实是：他原来只是为了画画。这时的恩特里克兰德没有任何的绘画基础，也没有任何人教过他这些，他也不打算向任何人学习什么。在外人看来，他简直疯了，他开始变得生活窘迫，几次险些因饥饿和疾病而死。他画的画也完全不像个样子，总是在原有的事物上进行破坏，除了有个蹩脚的画家把他当成上帝外任何人都不会买他的画，事实上他也从不轻易卖画。就是这样的一个人，他拒绝了爱情和家庭，拒绝物质和欲望，一心追求个人精神的自由和艺术上的美，孤独地生活在他自己的精神世界里，艰难地跋涉着。他不需要钱，但有时金钱会束缚他，他不停地流浪，最后来到了塔西提岛上与土著人生活在了一起。这时的他看起来似乎很知足，他有了一个土著人作妻子，他们生活在与世隔绝的地方，他每天都在那里作画。在

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住在一座破烂、脏脏、挤得转不过身来的小楼里，他对说我，他对妻子和孩子已不感兴趣，也不关心他们的将来，并向我发誓，他决不是因为别的女人才离开妻子，促使他弃家而去的是画画。“我必须画画儿，”思特里克兰德先生一再地重复这句话，“我由不了我自己。一个要在跌进水里，他游泳游得好不好是无关紧要的，反正他得挣扎出去，不然就得淹死。”他说这些话时流露出一种热诚，似乎有一种压倒一切的力量在控制着他，他的这种对于艺术的虔诚感动了我。 回到伦敦之后，我向思特里克兰德太太如实地讲了她丈夫的现状，并建议她离婚。而此时的思特里克兰德太太却表现出了我以前没有体会到的尖酸、虚荣和严重的报复心。此后，她把两个孩子交给了没有孩子，生活优越的姐姐，让姐姐帮她来抚养。她自己则找了一条谋生之路，开始学习速记和打字。果然，她成功地开了一家打字事务所。 迁往巴黎 5年之后，我因讨厌伦敦的生活，迁往巴黎居住。在巴黎，我有一个画家朋友，叫戴尔克·施特略夫，他虽然画技不怎么高明，但是对艺术有敏锐的鉴赏力。施特略夫认识思特里克兰德，说他是个“伟大的画家”、“有天才”。但他的妻子勃朗什·施特略夫却很不喜欢这个人，似乎预感到他会带来什么可 怕的事。 在施特略夫的引见下，我见到了思特里克兰德。此时的他穷困破落，连饭也吃不饱，但他一直没有停止过自己的绘画活动。他经常独自一人关在小屋里埋头画他的画儿，沉浸在自己的纪想世界中。以前的富

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《月亮与六便士》读书笔记 《月亮与六便士》读后感1200字 威廉?萨默塞特?毛姆他是英国著名小说家和戏剧家。著名 的有戏剧《圈子》，长篇小说《人生的枷锁》、《月亮和六便士》和他七十多岁是的著作《刀锋》，短篇小说集有《叶的震颤》、《卡苏里那树》、《阿金》等。“毛姆他具有敏锐的观察力，善于剖析人的内心世界。他的笔锋像一把解剖刀，能够挖掘出隐藏在人们 心底深处的思想活动。” 毛姆的作品，让人对于艺术有了一层不一样的感觉。他的 小说扣人心弦，让人每每深入其中而不自觉，不得不说他是一个 讲故事的天才。“《月亮与六便士》通过一个作家的口吻讲述一个普通人，突然放弃原本宽裕舒适的生活，像“被魔鬼服了体”一 样迷上画画，最后，远走他乡追求理想。在异国受尽肉体和精神 上的折磨后，他最终离开文明世界，远遁到与世隔绝的塔希提岛上。在那里，他终于找到了灵魂的故土，并在那奔放和原始的热 带岛屿上完成了许多令后世景仰的杰作。”通过描述这样一个人，毛姆探索了“个性与天才的关系、艺术的产生与本质、艺术家与 社会的矛盾等引人深思的问题”。 正如他所说：“一个艺术家你可能不喜欢他的艺术，但无 论如何你不能不对他感兴趣，他的作品使你不能平静，扣紧你的 心弦。”对于艺术家，人们的界定界线很是模糊，有人觉得他是

个很伟大的人，很了不起的人，但也许另一些人便会觉得他就是 一个神经病。对于一位艺术家或者是一件艺术品往往都是充满争 议的。艺术到底是什么，是名工巧匠才能完全理解的艺术技巧还 是人人都有资格理解的语言。？在《月亮与六便士》中作者认为“艺术史感情的表露，艺术是使用一种人人都能理解的语言。” 艺术品，它是一种大雅大俗的东西，就像酒一样，不同的 时间、不同的地点、不同的人、不同的心境总是会有不同的认识。大雅大俗的东西，往往是流传最久远也永远不会过时、富有魅力 的东西。 艺术在人类文明中是个很奇怪的东西，我认为，若文字是 人类文明与自然中最重要之处，那么艺术便是人类超出人类自身 的创作。对艺术接触的越多，你越会感觉到它的伟大魅力与不可 思议之处。 “我想在过去的日子里我们都羞于使自己的感情外露，因为 怕人嘲笑，所以都约束着自己不给人以傲慢自大的印象。我们对 自己的一些荒诞不经的行为遮上了一层保持体面的缄默，并不认 为这是虚伪。我们讲究含蓄，并不是口无遮拦，说什么都直言不讳。”我觉得艺术有一个最大的特色就是敢于表露，艺术家和哲 学家一样，他们敢于将自己所思所想，敢于将自己的一切，表露 出来。曾有人说，“真正的模特儿，是将自己的灵魂撕开，展现 给下面的观众，她的一个眼神，就可以引发一场战争，或者止息 战争。”

月亮和六便士

月亮和六便士 所有人看月亮，都觉得美。所有人对一枚硬币，不会那么在意。六便士，就是 一枚硬币而已。 这里问一个问题:你是要追求梦想，还是要甘于沉浸生活碎碎念,我相信绝大多 数人说我要追求梦想～嗯，月亮就是梦想，硬币就是生活碎碎念。 接着问一个问题:梦想和正常的生活，必须要做个选择，你会选择哪一个, 嗯，这是个极端的问题，还会被不少人嗤之以鼻: 没有正常的生活，要梦想又有何用,愚蠢的假设，幼稚的陷阱～ 这里不做评价，再评价下去，这篇文章要成一碗鸡汤了。我今天要介绍的其实 是一本书，著名文学家毛姆的小说《月亮和六便士》。 这部小说是目前为止最触动我内心的小说，没有之一。我在文章中经常说:做 自己，但我看了这本小说后，我才知道什么才是真正的做自己。 毛姆讲了一个故事，一个画家的故事。 1 思特里克兰德，四十岁之前，是住在伦敦的一位证券经纪人，有两个孩子，和 妻子结婚十七年，蛮恩爱的。忽然有一天，这个人悄无声息的离开了伦敦去了巴 黎，告诉妻子说他不能跟她在一起了。所有人都觉得这个男人一定是遇到了某个漂 亮女人，然后抛妻弃子私奔了。作者也是这么认为，受人之托，他去了巴黎，找到 了这个人，发现的真相居然是这个人只不过想画画。 为什么画画就要抛妻弃子,难道他不觉得对不起家人么,看到这里，和你一样， 我有很多疑问，作者也有很多疑问，于是就有了下面的对话，作者和这个人的对话: 你想到过没有，你的妻子痛苦极了, 事情会过去的。

你这样对待她说得过去吗, 说不过去。 你有什么不满意她的地方吗, 没有。 那么，你们结婚十七年，你又挑不出她任何毛病，你这样离开了她不是太岂有此理了吗, 是太岂有此理了。 …… 你还爱她不爱她了, 一点儿也不爱了。 2 他妈的，你得想想自己的孩子啊, 他们已经过了不少舒服的日子了，大多数孩子都没有享过这么大的福。 可是，你难道不喜欢他们吗,你的两个孩子多么可爱啊, 孩子小的时候我确实喜欢他们，可是现在他们都长大了，我对他们没有什么特殊的感情了。 你简直太没有人性了。 我看就是这样的。 你一点儿也不觉得害臊, 我不害臊。 谁都会认为你是个没有人性的坏蛋。 让他们这么想去吧。 所有人都讨厌你、鄙视你，这对你一点儿都无所谓吗, 无所谓～

月亮和六便士读后感

月亮和六便士读后感 月亮和六便士读后感这是我第一次很自觉地想写一些关于我读过的书的感觉。我想写下来这份感觉，主要是因为这本书给我太多的震撼了，压的我踹不过气来，我迫切的需要通过写作这一方式来缓解心中的那份沉重。 看过《月亮和六便士》后，我一直笃信作者毛姆不仅是一位伟大的作家，而且也是一位很伟大的心里学家。尽管在此之前，同时在此之后，我并没有看过有关毛姆的简介，我的这份笃信我是很坚定的。这本书对人的心里的细节描写及为何会产生这种心里的分析，让我十分震撼，以至于我到现在心中翻起的那份波浪还没有得到平静，甚至是连语言这个我最为熟悉的东西我都不知道如何说了。尽管这本书给我带来这么强大的震撼，以至于我都不能好好的说话，但是我还是觉得应该写一下自己的感受。 看完整本书后，我最大的感触是我认为查尔斯。思里特克兰德寻找到的不是自己，而是一个新的灵魂。对这句话，感触颇深。一直以来，身边的每一个人都在告诉我要做自己，要做真正的自己。于是我以为只要我做到了自己，显示出自己独特的个性与才华，我便可以一鸣惊人，成为万众瞩目、名留史册的人物。可是当我看见这句话的时候，我突然明白事情似乎并不是自己想象的那么简单。我亲身经历与感受到了斯特里克兰德的事迹与存在，我看着他抛弃妻子，看着他

又如何伤害对自己最真的朋友，这样一个未被社会传统价值观的人为何能够取得这么伟大的成就?心中很震撼!也就通过作者不断的记述并且引起潜意识的问题，我突然意识到一个伟人之所以能够成为一个伟人，他在成长中必须要做一些违背社会道德的事情，他们抛弃以前的生活基础，被人们认为是个不折不扣的疯子及社会道德败坏的人。但是他们在做这些时候，早就已经忘却了社会道德对他们的审判，他们心中有的只是一个新的灵魂。但是这个新的灵魂在他们刚抛弃以前生活基础的时候，还没有成行，还不足以让这个新的灵魂发挥到让世界为之震撼的地步。于是他们需要继续磨练，需要在社会里面辗转，寻找一处真正适合他们新灵魂居住的地方。这样他们才能创作出不朽的价值。 月亮和六便士读后感 读这本书是因一位绘画老师的介绍，也是因这本书的名字看起来很有趣，毛姆的《月亮与六便士》讲述了主人公恩特里克兰德是个在伦敦做事的证券经纪人，他有一个富裕和美满的家庭：妻子漂亮，喜爱虚荣，两个孩子健康快乐。按理说，他应该满足于这种人世的快乐才对，尽管这种生活未免太过平淡。但是，就在他们婚后的第17个年头，他突然离家出去去了巴黎，抛弃了令外人羡慕的事业和生活。就在人们以为他的出走是因为有外遇的原因时，人们发现的事实是：他原来只是为了画画。这时的恩特里克兰德没有任何的

月亮与六便士

对于克兰德来说：画画是他生存所必需的，就像我们普通人吃饭，喝水，睡觉一样。他说他不得不停的画画，就像一个掉进水里的人一样，他不得不停的游泳，不然他就得死。克兰德对于内心渴望的追求，使得我肃然起敬。即便在他最穷困潦倒，生活最艰难的时候，他依旧没有放弃。 想必大家都对《月亮和六便士》的名字有所好奇，月亮代表什么？六便士又代表什么？有人说“月亮”指艺术，“六便士”指世俗价值观。还有说法是，“六便士”是英国币种中最小的，与月亮都是圆形的，两相对比，一个象征着圣洁，一个象征着尘埃。 有一句很文艺的话，是这么说的：满地都是六便士，他却抬头看见了月亮。但是我个人则觉得，月亮也好，六便士也好，都是美丽和重要的。一边是完全的自由和理想，但是衣不蔽、体食不果腹。另一边是稳定的收入，安定幸福的生活和美满的家庭。抛去文艺青年浪漫洒脱的想法，从理智的角度来看，哪个更重要呢？ 它传递的是某种关于世界的真相，而真相通常就在那里，正负只是人们的眼睛。 所以这本书带给我的就是不停的自我追问，我到底喜欢什么。我们大多数人都是普通人，并不是像克兰德一样，一天不画画就活不下去，一天不做实验，就混身不舒服。于我而言，追求内心，最重要的是坚持。当你坚持不懈地做一件事的时候，到最后就会发现，你已经彻底的爱上了它。 在我小的时候。我也觉得，我生命的意义就是要做一名科学家，像爱迪生，爱因斯坦一样。为这个世界的发展做出贡献。但我渐渐长大，我发现我自己很可能永远也成为不了一名科学家。那段时间，我很迷茫，我找不到生命的意义。难道我就要这样平庸的过完一生，最后什么也不留下的死去？直到有一天。我看见《死亡诗社》的时候，里面的诗歌老师对他的学生说：科学、工程、法律、艺术、商学、政治等都是很崇高的理想，都足以让人追求一生，但热情、浪漫、爱才是生命的意义！那一刻，我如梦初醒。马克思说，什么是人，人是一切社会关系的总和。我们有家人、爱人、师生、朋友、同事。他们值得我用心去爱，对于工作理想，不要怕。任凭自己的全部热情去追求。即使最终成为不了一名科学家，没关系，他不是我生命的意义。因为当我死亡的时候，

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《月亮与六便士》读后感 《月亮与六便士》读后感1 ＂满地都是六便士，他却抬头看见了月亮。＂ 在书友们大都在诟病翻译生硬时，我却在读到一些人物对话时难掩会心一笑，我喜欢这个翻译的调调，读来俏皮又不失深意。 我不懂斯朱兰，因为我与艺术绝缘，但这并不妨碍我怀着极大的好奇心去＂窥视＂这个天才艺术家的一生。他性格乖张不羁，对德克的嘲弄、鄙视甚至伤害，令人发指。但他在大溪地留下的那两滴泪水，以及付之一炬的绝世遗作，又让人释然了，他并非为这俗世而生，又何必用俗世之方圆去约束他。 虽说故事关于一个艺术家的生平，但我更多地从中看到了关于友情、爱情以及亲情的温馨和残酷。那个画得一手烂画却鉴赏力惊人的荷兰胖子，透过纸面油腻腻地朝着我笑……他的第一任妻子，永远优雅得体，却让人只想与她走成两条平行线……那个为他自杀的情人，寡言，沉静，你永远不知道她内里的急风骤雨……还有那个大溪地土著女孩儿，坚忍，执着，她的字典里没有艺术二字，但她生活过成了艺术……喜欢这些丰腴的人物形象，纵然现实骨感，仍旧可以在书中与他们聊聊天…… 《月亮与六便士》读后感2 一个家庭美满，事业有

成的证券交易人突然放弃了自己的一切，抛妻弃子，身无分文的来到巴黎，在一间破旧的廉租房里开始了自己的第二重人生。没有蓄谋已久，不是头脑一热，他像是被魔鬼抽走了灵魂，被命为画奴，终其一生只为画画。对于世人的指控，情人的以死相逼，他冷酷无情，岿然不动；对于朋友的接济与善意，他理所应当的接受，还不断打骂欺辱他们。这样的奇幻，却又有种魔力在震撼着我们，他技艺粗陋却坚定地强调“我必须画画”，他在临终前瞎着双眼却将生命的那种明艳、壮美、力量铺陈在整个房间，又甘愿将其付之一炬，他把生命托付在画纸上，只有用颜料填涂才能拥有色彩。 坦白说，毛姆笔下的这种人是不存在的，相比于原型来说更像是毛姆自己的理想化身，是为歌颂理想而存在的人物。原型高更在做出改变一切的时候也是经历了诸多选择和考量的，但文中的斯特里克兰却是直截了当的改了行，让人摸不着头脑。但从全书来看，正因为他是斯克里特兰，所以他一定会这样，对于世俗的抛弃，道德的背离，人际关系的逃脱，正证明着他不具有社会人的特质。一切的社会行为，包括给人做翻译，和朋友的爱人建立情人关系，都是为了生存和原始需求的服务，是对社会的妥协。而他两次搬迁，从高度文明的上流阶级到鱼龙混杂的底层阶级，再到无管辖的自由状态，隐居大山深处，都体现着他在想方设法逃离人类社会的枷锁，所以如果用道德标尺去衡量他是不公平和没有

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毛姆《月亮与六便士》主要内容简介及读后 感 导读：读书笔记毛姆《月亮与六便士》主要内容简介及读后感，仅供参考，如果觉得很不错，欢迎点评和分享。 毛姆《月亮与六便士》主要内容简介及读后感心得感想范文： 艺术家，无论画家、诗人、音乐家，用他的崇高美好装点世界，唤醒意识，但这类似人类的性本能，总免不了野蛮：他带给你最大的礼物，同时也占有。——毛姆《月亮与六便士》 【故事梗概】《月亮与六便士》主要内容简介： 查尔斯·斯特里克兰，在证券交易所工作，在周围人的眼中是一个无趣、沉闷、乏味的人，而也是一个可有可无的人设，忽然有一天毫无任何征兆的离开了家，到巴黎，所有人都认为他是因为有了新的人而抛弃现下的生活，然而当“我”受斯特里克兰夫人所托去巴黎寻找时，现实是斯特里克兰到巴黎，只是为了画画，而非众人所猜测。在巴黎，德克·斯特洛夫是斯特里克兰的忠实拥护者，认为斯特里克兰是个画画的天才，在斯特里克兰生病命悬一线的时候把他带到了自己家里悉心照顾，然而结局是斯特洛夫夫人爱上了斯特里克兰，最后为了成全斯特洛夫夫人，德克·斯特洛夫离开了家，然而斯特里克兰也离开了，斯特洛夫夫人自杀，斯特洛夫回老家阿姆斯特丹；斯特里克兰离开巴黎到达马赛，最后到达塔希提岛。在塔希提岛，斯特里克

兰和阿塔结了婚，最后死于麻风病，生前的最后一幅壁画，嘱咐阿塔将其烧毁。 【观点】 斯特里克兰在文中最开始是一个可有可无的人，所以当他抛开一切离开家到达巴黎画画时，所有人都不愿相信他的目的，甚至很有意思的描述就是斯特里克兰夫人宁愿相信他是和别人女人跑了，也不愿意相信他是为了所谓的画画，这种描述的高明之处在于，现实之中，我们也一样，宁愿接受卑劣的庸俗，也不愿意承认伟大的崇高。在巴黎，斯特里克兰是一个性格怪异，让很多人无法靠近的人，然而，当你读到他在巴黎这一段的时候，你会忽然觉得这个人似乎变得更加生动了，大多数人并不看好斯特里克兰的画，似乎唯一一个全力支持他的人就是斯特洛夫，然而换来的却是悲剧的结局，斯特洛夫也是一个喜欢画画的人，他认为斯特里克兰是天才，哪怕在最后自己因为他而失去自己在意的东西之后依然愿意为斯特里克兰去辩解，在现实之中，这样的人会让人觉得很卑微，然而又很可怜，他们一腔热血的喜欢某样东西，然而现实就是再怎么努力都达不到，并非外界而是自身的原因，不能不算一种悲哀。斯特里克兰夫人，一个很有意思的角色，最开始的追求平静，把斯特里克兰夫人作为生存的依靠，在斯特里克兰离开后，自己开了一家打印店，日子似乎过得尚可，最后却不愿意承认自己是靠这个生存下来的，仿佛依旧拥有曾经的骄傲，这算是文中一个虚伪的代表，这或许也是和斯特里克兰格格不入的一点。斯特洛夫夫人，或许是因为把心中唯一的部分燃烧而后没有回应，当这一部

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《月亮与六便士》个人读书心得5篇范文 第一次读毛姆的小说，想读《月亮与六便士》起源于一位自己喜爱的网络写手有这样一句话：遍地都是六便士，他却抬头看到了月亮，但愿你的生活中同时拥有月亮和六便士。今天在这给大家整理了一些关于《月亮与六便士》读书心得体会，我们一起来看看吧! 毛姆的文字有太大的魅力，总是吸引着我不断的往下看，看到最后一页的时候，突然脑子里一个声音在说：“你应该再看一遍，认真、仔细、慢慢的看一遍。” 书的封皮上写着，“月亮是那崇高而不可企及的梦想，六便士是为了生存不得不赚取的卑微收入，多少人只是胆怯地抬头看一眼月亮，又继续低头追逐赖以温饱的六便士”。其实，当你看完整本书的时候发现，全书没有一处提到六便士，但又时时刻刻在透露着关于“六便士”的问题。我时时刻刻都怀揣着去远行的想法，然而总是被各种各样的“在乎”缠住脚，怎么也挪不动脚步。世界上肯定还有千千万万和我一样有诸多想法的人，绝大部分应该也是像我一样被各种各样的“在乎”缠身，无法动身。懦弱，大概就是我们冠于自己的代名词，家庭，朋友还有那每一份可怜的“六便士”无一不牵绊着我们。斯特里克兰果真就像毛姆所写的，他在决定画画之后，像灵魂出窍，像被强大的恶魔附身，像在全世界之外，又像全世界都是他一个人的。我们大概永远也做不到像斯特里克兰一样，全然不顾周遭的世界以及

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The Moon and Sixpence and I It is said that The Moon and Sixpence was a fairy tale written for adults. However, I hadn’t realized that it was the time for me to read this book until last semester. I used to get extremly frustrated after entering college. As an engineering student, I even felt more tired than high school. There were so much knowledge I was supposed to absorb that I didn’t have a second to build my own interests. Finally I perceived that I should stop and have a break. Then I bought this book by chance. The hero of this novel called Strickland. He worked as a broker in a stock exchange and had a happy family at the beginning. Yet he gave up all of those enviable issues including his children. Everyone thought he must be crazy. His wife and relatives suspected him of loving someone else. Ultimately the truth exceeded everybody’s expectations. Strickland was just made a decision that he would escape from his old life and become an artist. The only problem was that he didn’t know how to draw. To everyone’s surprise, he succeeded at last. After I’ve finished this book, I believe that I’ve recognized something unique, something I can’t speak out. I can only say that we all have the ability to change our lives, if you’re not content with your current life, don’t just cross your arms and complain about it. No one but you are taking control of your life.

月亮与六便士

The Moon and Sixpence 江苏省宜兴中学高一13班指导老师胡赛 The ground is 6 pence, he looked up at the moon. Other people's lives always have overlapping personality, but the turning point of thinking is reduced. He has lost an identity. In order to pursue the ideal, he abandoned the house and abandoned the money position to paint in Paris. Because of his poverty, he eventually lost his hometown... Siritkelan is not only himself, but also looking for a new soul. This kind of thinking is a requirement for Mu's spiritual life and a spiritually ideal idealist. Even now, "Month and Six Pence" is my favorite novel, and Mom is also my respected writer. I like his understanding of Mom's keen insight and humanity. Although his work is ironic, he does not pull out the banner, but humor always does not lose the light hole. The tone always has a British-style cold atmosphere outside the novel and the reader. I like to chase dreams and bad news in the book, but I like the gesture of entering it. Although the ideal is the moon that hangs in the air, the wealth of secular honours, like 6 pence, can be almost come out as long as it is always honestly abiding by social norms. Maugham’s insight, insight, and insight into the human stains did not criticize the victors of his life holding the penny, but he also praised the dreamer who stepped on the foot to the Higir Palace on the foot. You don't have to stand on

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然有序的幸福”，却在四十岁的某天不辞而别，蜗居巴黎从头开始学习绘画。在异国，他生活潦倒，怀才不遇，不被人理解，在肉体和精神上都忍受着痛苦折磨。他不再是那个规规矩矩的老实人，而是变得性格怪异、冷漠自私，甚至同挽救了其性命的荷兰画家施特略夫的妻子勃朗什私通，导致他的恩人家破人亡。在巴黎度过离奇而又艰难的七年后，思特里克兰德最终离开文明世界，远遁到与世隔绝的塔西堤岛上，找到灵魂的宁静和家园的归属感。在染上麻风病双目失明之前，他在自己房屋四壁画了一幅表现伊甸园的伟大作品。但逝世之前，他命令与自己结婚的土著女子爱塔在他死后将房子烧光，包括那幅旷世奇作...... 关于题目| 满地是六便士，可曾看见月亮 “六便士”是英国价值最低的银币，代表着碌碌无为的庸人们所处的卑俗现实；而“月亮”则高悬夜空，象征着无所畏惧的冒险家们所苦苦追寻的理想。二者都是圆形的，都闪闪发光，但本质却完全不同。本书的主人公恩特里克兰德正是在“六便士”与“月亮”之间挣扎的灵魂的典型代表。他本像大多数人一样，带着对安逸生活的暗喜和得过且过的苟且，在捡拾六便士的路上愈走愈远，却在四十岁的节点幡然醒悟，意识到追逐月亮的机会与日俱减，于是抛弃一切投身绘画。虽然变得冷漠无情，却也因此能够不受任何人的妨碍，到达自己想要去的地方。他的前半生被六便士充斥，温饱但

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最新《月亮和六便士》读后感_0

《月亮和六便士》读后感 最初看到这本书的时候是在大学读书时校园图书馆里一个不起眼的书架上，一眼望去那平淡朴实的题目在初次相见的那一刻其实并未勾起我阅读的兴趣来，;月亮;与;六便士;简单的排列组合，容易让人产生书中资料无非就是两物之间简单比较的错觉。直至2016年运营总部十大好书评选的舞台上，我才再一次见到了它的身影，而这次舞台上简单描述的百字简介在那一刻瞬间抓住了我的眼球，让我下定决心将其加入到自己的必读书单里。辗转至今，最后有空利用了周末的空余时间通读全书，真正了解到了题目中两物间非凡的象征好处以及其描述广阔的生命维度，震撼心灵，发人深省。 记得文中有这么一句经典的话语：追逐梦想就是追逐自己的厄运，在满地都是六便士的街上，他抬起头看到了月光。而那里的;他;，指的便是思特里克兰德，本书的男主人公，一个贯穿整本小说的灵魂人物。全书描述了主人公在四十七岁时毅然决然地放弃了他原本作为证券经纪人的安定生活，选取了绘画，选取了去追求自己对美的渴望，而他的生活也从许多人都羡慕的小康生活直接过渡到穷困潦倒、风餐露宿。最后去到了南太平洋的塔希提岛，用自己的画笔谱写出绚烂璀璨的生命，把生命的价值全部注入到自己追寻的画布中去，并在他去逝之后，作品被世人所赞颂的故事。

故事描述的十分真实，书中人物原型来自于法国印象派三大巨匠的保罗;高更，文中人物刻画细腻且引人入胜，虽然文中人物与高更的生平和人格不尽真实，但擅于将戏剧性推向极致的作者毛姆却用他独特的文笔塑造了一个更具批判意识的人物，并最终以杜撰超越了事实。在他笔下的思特里克兰德在俗世的标准里是一个不负职责的混蛋，他抛妻弃子，过着为人所不耻的流浪者生活。他不懂得感恩，对救治自己的人时常恶言相对，他不爱惜生命，对自己的生命挥霍无度，作者试图塑造出一个惊世骇俗的主角，他蔑视生活中所存在的一切纲常伦理，选取忠于自身对美的冲动与渴求，他放纵人作为生物所具有的动物性特质，摒弃了人类身为群聚生物的社会属性，这种力量太过于强大，以至于冲破了家庭人伦、社会束缚，也突破了个人对于生活的最低需求。同时，在书中我们也体会到了作者对于社会制度的深入思考，我们许多人从出生就走在了一条被选取好的路上，而这样约定俗成的行走是否适合每一个人，无论这人天性是喜欢绘画、热爱自由，还是莫名的离经叛道，追求小众的事物，令人所不解。看完这本小说难免会发出这样的疑问：这样的约定俗成到底是一种快乐，一种逃避，抑或一种枷锁？ 在文中，思特里克兰德的有句话印证了一个至今不曾改变的道理：梦想什么时候开始都不晚。有人认为放弃安定生活寻求漂泊是种愚蠢的决定，但