《手》中文翻译__舍伍德_安德森
手舍伍德安德森一栋小木屋，座落在离俄亥俄州温士堡小城不远的、一个幽谷的边缘附近。
一个胖胖的小老头儿，在这木屋的半朽走廊上，神经质地往来蹀躞。
越过一长块种了苜蓿却只生出浓密的黄色芥草来的田地，他可以看见公路，看见路上行着一辆满载从田野里回来的采浆果者的运货马车。
采浆果的少男和少女，骚骚然大笑大叫。
一个穿蓝衬衫的少男从车上跳下来，要把其中一个少女拉下车来，少女锐声叫喊抗议。
少男的脚在路上踢起一团烟尘，烟尘飘浮过落日的脸。
越过那一长块田地，传来一串轻微的女孩子气的声音。
“喂，飞翼比德尔鲍姆呀，梳梳你的头发吧，头发要落到你的眼睛里去了。
”这声音命令着这个秃顶的人，他的神经质的小手摸索着光秃秃的雪白前额，仿佛正理着一绺乱发似的。
飞翼比德尔鲍姆永远诚惶诚恐，被种种狐疑所困扰；他在城里住了二十年了，却认为自己无论如何不是这小城生活的一部分。
在温士堡所有的人中间，只有一个人跟他是接近的。
他对乔治·威拉德（他是威拉德新旅社的业主汤姆·威拉德的儿子）产生了类似友谊的感情。
乔治·威拉德是《温士堡鹰报》的记者，有时他在晚上沿着公路散步，走到飞翼比德尔鲍姆的家里来。
现在，老人在走廊往来蹀躞，双手神经质地挪动，他正盼望着乔治·威拉德会来和他一同消磨黄昏。
载着采浆果者的运货马车过去之后，他在高高的芥草中间穿过田畴，攀上铁路的栅栏，沿着通向城市的公路急切地凝望。
他这样站了一会儿，搓着双手，朝大路上望来望去；接着，他为恐惧所压倒，又跑回家去，在自己的门廊上徘徊了。
二十年来，飞翼比德尔鲍姆一直是小城里的一个谜。
面前有个乔治·威拉德，比德尔威姆的懦弱便减少几分，而他那朦胧的个性，原来沉没在狐疑的海中的，也冒出来见识世界了。
有年轻的记者在他身边，他敢于在大天白日走上大街，或是在他自己家的歪歪斜斜的门廊里大步徜徉，激动地说着话儿。
原来低沉而颤抖的声音，变得尖锐而响亮了；弯曲的身体也挺直了。
象是在渔夫身边回到小河里去的一尾鱼，身体一扭一摆，缄默者飞翼比德尔鲍姆开始说话了，竭力把沉默的漫长岁月里在他心中累积起来的思想化为言语。
飞翼比德尔鲍姆说话时大做手势。
他那纤细的善于表现的手指，始终活跃而又始终竭力藏在衣袋里或是背后的手指，伸出来了，成为他表情达意的机器上的活塞杆。
飞翼比德尔鲍姆的故事是手的故事。
双手无休止的动作，象是被囚的鸟的双翼的飞动，使他得了这个诨名。
那是城里一个无名诗人想出来的。
这双手吓坏了它们的主人。
他要把这双手隐藏起来，同时他又惊奇地望着旁人的手，在田里挨着他干活的人们或是在乡村大路上赶着瞌睡的牲口的人们的、安静而毫无表情的手。
同乔治·威拉德谈话的时候，飞翼比德尔鲍姆捏紧了拳头，打在桌子上或是打在他家的墙上。
这动作使他更加舒畅。
两人在田野里散步时，要是他想谈天的话，他就设法找一段树桩或是栅栏顶上的一条木版，两手忙着砰砰地猛击，说话便重新从容自在了。
飞翼比德尔鲍姆这双手的故事，本身就值得写一本书。
同情地写来，便可触及无名小人物的许多奇异美丽的品性。
这是诗人的指责。
在温士堡，这双手之引起注意，只是由于它们的动作。
凭着这双手，飞翼比德尔鲍姆在一天中采的草莓，高达一百四十夸脱。
这双手成为他的显著的特色和他的声名的源泉。
这双手也使一个原来已经畸形和不可捉摸的个性更加畸形。
温士堡之以飞翼比德尔鲍姆的双手自豪，其精神实质正如以银行家怀特的新石屋自豪，以韦斯理·莫耶的在克理夫兰秋季赛马中创二分十五秒记录的栗色雄马托尼·蒂普自豪，完全一模一样。
至于乔治·威拉德，他好几次想问起这双手的事。
有时，一种几乎压倒之势的好奇心怂恿着他。
他觉得这双手的奇怪的活动的老是要藏起来的倾向，必定自有道理，只是出于对飞翼比德尔鲍姆逐渐增进的尊敬，使他没把时常萦回心头的问题脱口说出来罢了。
有一次他快要问出口了。
某一个夏天的下午，他们两人正在田野里散步，在一条青草埂上歇息坐下。
整个下午，飞翼比德尔鲍姆谈天说地，象一个神灵感悟的人。
他站在一道栅栏的旁边，象一只巨大的啄木鸟般打击着栅栏顶上的木版，他对乔治·威拉德大叫，责备他那过分受周围人物左右的倾向。
“你在毁灭自己，”他说道。
“你有孤独和做梦的倾向，而你又怕梦境。
你想和这小城的人一样。
你听他们说话，还设法模仿他们。
”在青草埂上，飞翼比德尔鲍姆竭力再强调这一点。
他的语调变成柔和而追怀式的，他心满意足地叹了一口气，开始散漫的长谈，象一个幻游梦境的人在说话。
飞翼比德尔鲍姆就这梦境为乔治·威拉德描出一幅图画。
画中的人物再一次生活在一种牧歌式的黄金时代里。
越过一片苍翠空旷的乡村，来了手足洁净的年轻男子，有的步行，有的骑马。
青年男子成群地聚集在一个老人足旁，老人坐在小小花园里一棵树下对他们说话。
飞翼比德尔鲍姆变得浑身都是灵感。
他暂时忘掉了双手。
慢慢地这双手溜了出来，放在乔治·威拉德的肩上。
某种新鲜而勇敢的东西，渗透进那说话的声音。
“你必须忘掉你所学到的一切，”老人说，“你必须开始做梦，从此你切而听信旁人夸夸其谈。
”飞翼比德尔鲍姆的说话顿了一下，他长久而诚恳地凝视乔治·威拉德。
他的眼睛炯炯发光。
他又伸出手来抚摩那少年，而一瞥惊惧之色随即扫过了他的脸。
飞翼比德尔鲍姆浑身一震，跳起身来，双手直插在裤袋深处。
泪水涌到他的眼睛里。
“我一定得回家了，我不跟你多谈了，”他神经质地说道。
也不回头瞧瞧，老人匆匆赶下山坡，横过草原，丢下乔治·威拉德惶惑而惊讶地在青草埂上。
这少年恐惧得战栗起来，站起身，沿着通达城市的大路走去。
“我决不问他那双手的事了，”他想，记起他在老人眼中看到的恐惧，颇有感触。
“一定有什么委屈的事，可是我不想搞清真相了。
他怕我，怕每一个人，是同他那双手有些关系。
”乔治·威拉德说对了。
让我们对这个手的故事略作探究。
我们讲到这双手，或许会鼓舞诗人道出有关陶冶感化的隐秘奇迹，而那双手只是为了陶冶感化而飘动着的信号旗而已。
在年轻的时候，飞翼比德尔鲍姆曾在宾夕法尼亚的一个小城里当学校教师。
那时他不叫飞翼比德尔鲍姆，却以音调较差的阿道夫·迈耶斯为姓名。
作为教师阿道夫·迈耶斯，他受到学校里孩子们极大的爱戴。
阿道夫·迈耶斯是年轻人的天造地设的教师。
他是那些稀有的，不为世人所了解的人们中的一个，那些人用过分温和的力量来管教孩子们，温和得竟象是一种可爱的弱点。
他们对于自己管教所及的孩子们的感情，跟温文尔雅的妇人对于男子的爱情毫无两样。
然而那不过是粗略的说明。
这种地方需要诗人来解释。
阿道夫·迈耶斯同他的学校里的孩子们，曾在黄昏里散步，或是坐在学校的台阶上直谈到薄暮，神往于一种梦幻之境。
他的手伸来伸去，抚摩着孩子们的肩膀，把玩着头发蓬乱的脑袋。
他讲话的时候，声音变得柔和而富于音乐性。
声调中也渗透着一种爱抚之情。
在某种程度上，这语调和这手，这抚摩肩膀和摩弄头发，对于这教师之把梦送进孩子们的心灵，也尽了几分力量。
他借助于手指的爱抚，表达了他自己的内心。
有的人，其内在的、创造生命的力量，是散漫而不集中的；他便是这样的人中的一个。
在他双手的爱抚下，孩子们心灵里的怀疑和眩惑消失了，他们也开始做梦了。
跟着便发生了悲剧。
学校里的一个鲁钝愚昧的孩子变得迷恋上了这年轻的教师。
夜间他在床上幻想不可言说的事情，早晨他把他的梦境当作实事讲出来。
奇怪的可怕的控诉，从他的没遮拦的嘴里落出来。
全宾夕法尼亚轴为之不寒而栗。
隐藏在人们心中的、对于阿道夫·迈耶斯的朦胧怀疑，竟激变成了信以为真。
悲剧急转直下。
颤栗着的孩子们被从床上拉起来，受到盘问：“他用手臂抱我，”一个说。
“他的手指老是摸弄我的头发，”另一个道。
一天下午，在小城里开酒吧间的亨利•布拉德福，来到学校门口。
他把阿道夫·迈耶斯叫到了校园里，便开始用拳头打他。
他坚硬的指关节打在那吃惊的教师脸上时，他的愤怒变得越来越可怕。
孩子们吓得直叫，像被惊扰的昆虫一样奔来奔去。
“你竟染指我的孩子，我要教训教训你，你这畜生，”酒吧间老板怒吼道，他打得厌倦了，便开始把教师在院子里踢来踢去。
阿道夫·迈耶斯在夜间被逐出宾夕法尼亚。
有十二、三个人，手中拿了灯，走到他独住的屋子门前，命令他穿了衣服走出来。
天正下着雨，其中一人手里拿着一根绳子。
他们原来想吊死这教师的，但他身体上的某些东西，那么小，那么苍白，那么可怜，触动了他们的心，他们便放他逃走了。
当他逃到黑暗之中时，他们又懊恼自己的心肠太软了，便跑上去追他，骂他，向那一面叫喊一面越来越快地奔向黑暗中去的身形，掷木棒和大烂泥块。
阿道夫·迈耶斯孤独地在温士堡住了二十年。
他只有四十岁，看上去倒像六十五岁了。
比德尔鲍姆这名字是他匆忙地经过俄亥俄州东部一个小城时，在货运站内的一只货物箱上看到的。
他在温士堡有一个姑妈，是个养鸡的黑牙齿老妇人，他和她一起生活到她逝世为止。
在宾夕法尼亚受过挫折之后，他病了一年，恢复健康后便在田里卖苦力作零工，他怯生生地走动着，并且竭力藏起他的手来。
虽然他不明白究竟是怎么一回事，但他总觉得他的手是有过失的。
孩子们的父亲一再提到手的事。
酒吧间老板曾经在校园里暴跳如雷地怒喝道：“不许你伸出手来碰别人！”飞翼比德尔鲍姆在他那靠近幽谷的房子走廊上继续往来蹀躞，直到太阳消失，田野外的大路泯灭在灰色的阴影里。
他走进屋内，切几片面包，涂上蜂蜜。
晚间快车载着全天收获的浆果隆隆驶去，夏夜重新归于寂静时，他又到走廊上去散步。
黑暗中他见不到双手，而双手也静止不动了。
虽然他仍旧渴望着少年的出现（那少年是他表达他热爱人类的媒介物），那渴望却又变成了他的孤独和他的期待的一部分了。
飞翼比德尔鲍姆点亮一盏灯，洗涤他简单的一餐所弄脏的几只盆子；他在通向走廊的纱门边搭好一张帆布床，准备解衣就寝。
一些零星的白面包屑，落在桌旁洗刷干净的地板上；他把灯移到一张矮凳上，开始拾起面包屑，以不可思仪的速度一粒粒地送到嘴里。
在桌子底下、灯光的浓密黑影里，这跪着的人，看上去象是在教堂中做礼拜的神父。
神经质的富于表情的手指，在亮光中或隐或现，很可能被误认为信徒的手指在迅速地十个复十个地拨数着他的念珠。
爱的渴望与失落——解析舍伍德·安德森的《手》
作 为 美 国现 代 小说 的 先声 ． 伍 德 ． 德 森将 笔 触深 舍 安 入 到 人物 的心 理 世 界 ． 造 了一 群渴 盼爱 与 自由 ． 塑 却疏 于 交流 、 自我 所隔 离 的“ 人 ” 象 。他 的代 表作 《 为 畸 形 小镇 畸 人》 被誉 为 “ 一部 真正 意 义上 的现 代小 说 ” 《 第 。 小镇 畸人 》 讲 述 的是 “ 俄亥 俄 州 小镇 生 活 的故事 ” 是 一 部关 于 “ 的 ． 爱 失落” 的寓 言 ． 一 则关 于 “ 国疏离 的 寓言 ” 是 美 。俄 亥俄 州
小 镇 的 居 民 多 是 因 心 理 压 抑 而 变 态 的 畸 形 人 物 ． 同 时 他
人 就成 了Байду номын сангаас 副其 实 的“ 畸人 ” 手 》 体现 了安德 森对 机 。《 就
械 文 明 的 态度 和 看 法 ： 世纪 之 交 ． 在忙 着 制 造机 器 ， 手 制 造 各 种 各 样 的东 西 ．到头 来 只 是毁 了乡 村 百 姓温 柔 、 细 腻、 亲密 无 间 的生活 。手 是 为爱 而生 ． 但生 产 机器 的手 却 失 去 了爱 的能 力 另 一方 面 ．人类 自身对 于语 言 的不 信 任 、与 社会 的 疏离 也是 造 成这 类小 人 物悲 惨 一生 的重 要 原 因之 一 对他 们而 言 ． 言 已经 失 去 了原有 的活 力和 沟 语 通 能力 ， 变得 苍 白无 力 。在《 》 。 手 中 飞翼 比德 尔 鲍姆 无法 用 语言 来表 达他 对 学生 的 热爱 ． 只好诉 之 于抚 摸 的动 作 ．
乔 治 的 一 段 话 透 露 了 他 不 愿 与 人 沟 通 的 原 因 — — 对 语 言
之 间 的樊 篱 。舍伍 德 在 《 镇 畸人 》 小 的前 言 部分 指 出 ：当 “
朱永涛《英语国家社会与文化入门》配套题库【课后习题】(美国文学)
第7章美国文学Ⅰ. Decide whether the following statements are true (T) or false (F):1. American literature is mainly about the seeking of the American people for success and happiness. _____【答案】T【解析】美国文学主要是关于美国人民追寻成功和幸福。
2. Rip Van Winkle was a character created by James Fenimore Cooper. _____【答案】F【解析】《瑞普·凡·温克》是小说家及历史家华盛顿·欧文（Washington Irving）的名篇。
故事主要讲述主人公瑞普·凡·温克喝醉之后在梦中的奇遇，然后顿悟过了一生。
3. The Leather-Stocking Tales consist of five novels depicting the American West. _____【答案】T【解析】《皮袜子故事集》是美国作家詹姆斯·费尼莫尔·库柏（James Fenimore Cooper）的系列小说，共包含《杀鹿者》（The Deerslayer）、《最后的莫希干人》（The Last of the Mohicans）、《探路人》（The Pathfinder）、《拓荒者》（The Pioneer）和《大草原》（The Prairie）等五部小说。
4. Before Mark Twain, all major American writers were born on the East Coast. _____ 【答案】T【解析】马克·吐温（Mark Twain），美国作家、演说家，生于美国密苏里州佛罗里达。
《手》文体特征
《手》的文体特征探析摘要本文拟从词汇、句法、语音3方面来分析小说《手》的文体特征，粗略地探讨一下美国作家舍伍德·安德森（sherwood anderson）的语言风格和写作技巧，以期对我们理解国外作品和提升本土写作发挥一点作用。
关键词：手词汇句法语音文体学圆周句中图分类号：h03 文献标识码：a《手》（hands）是美国作家舍伍德·安德森（sherwood anderson）《小城畸人》（winesburg,ohio）中具有代表性的一篇小说。
《小城畸人》发表于1919年，是美国小说中的一篇经典之作，它奠定了舍伍德·安德森在美国小说史上的坚实基础。
小说里的主人公大都性格怪异、沉默寡言、冷漠无情，而且惧怕与世人交往。
舍伍德·安德森是美国著名的作家之一，他对小说艺术的贡献之大，非数言可以论之。
他的文风可以用两句话概括：简朴精炼、通俗易懂。
这使得他的写作技法为众多文人所效仿，曾被称为“a writer’s writer”。
《手》集中体现了舍伍德·安德森的写作特色。
采用倒叙手法，以通俗的口语描写主人公wing在黄昏时分焦急等待george willard来消磨晚上无聊的时间开始，引出耐人寻味的“双手”的故事，从而引导读者一步一步地探究心里残缺的人的内心世界。
整篇故事弥漫着美国中西部的乡土气息。
一词汇舍伍德·安德森是继马克·吐温（mark twain）之后又一位运用口头语言进行创作的小说家，其语言的幽默诙谐、朴素自然、简洁有力在《手》中体现得淋漓尽致。
1 同一个词或词组的反复使用故事的题目是《手》，作者抓住“hands”这个关键词展开故事，用“hands”引起读者的悬念，用“hands”讲述主人公的悲惨遭遇。
该词的运用高达30次，增强了文章的感染力，使读者对于wing产生了更深的同情。
wing作为一名教师，热爱生活，热爱学生，热爱事业，但就是因为那双手——传递感情的桥梁，遭到了学生家长的误解而被逐出学校，开始自己一生的悲剧，再也无法从沉痛的打击中恢复过来。
《手》中文翻译__舍伍德_安德森
手舍伍德安德森一栋小木屋，座落在离俄亥俄州温士堡小城不远的、一个幽谷的边缘附近。
一个胖胖的小老头儿，在这木屋的半朽走廊上，神经质地往来蹀躞。
越过一长块种了苜蓿却只生出浓密的黄色芥草来的田地，他可以看见公路，看见路上行着一辆满载从田野里回来的采浆果者的运货马车。
采浆果的少男和少女，骚骚然大笑大叫。
一个穿蓝衬衫的少男从车上跳下来，要把其中一个少女拉下车来，少女锐声叫喊抗议。
少男的脚在路上踢起一团烟尘，烟尘飘浮过落日的脸。
越过那一长块田地，传来一串轻微的女孩子气的声音。
“喂，飞翼比德尔鲍姆呀，梳梳你的头发吧，头发要落到你的眼睛里去了。
”这声音命令着这个秃顶的人，他的神经质的小手摸索着光秃秃的雪白前额，仿佛正理着一绺乱发似的。
飞翼比德尔鲍姆永远诚惶诚恐，被种种狐疑所困扰；他在城里住了二十年了，却认为自己无论如何不是这小城生活的一部分。
在温士堡所有的人中间，只有一个人跟他是接近的。
他对乔治·威拉德（他是威拉德新旅社的业主汤姆·威拉德的儿子）产生了类似友谊的感情。
乔治·威拉德是《温士堡鹰报》的记者，有时他在晚上沿着公路散步，走到飞翼比德尔鲍姆的家里来。
现在，老人在走廊往来蹀躞，双手神经质地挪动，他正盼望着乔治·威拉德会来和他一同消磨黄昏。
载着采浆果者的运货马车过去之后，他在高高的芥草中间穿过田畴，攀上铁路的栅栏，沿着通向城市的公路急切地凝望。
他这样站了一会儿，搓着双手，朝大路上望来望去；接着，他为恐惧所压倒，又跑回家去，在自己的门廊上徘徊了。
二十年来，飞翼比德尔鲍姆一直是小城里的一个谜。
面前有个乔治·威拉德，比德尔威姆的懦弱便减少几分，而他那朦胧的个性，原来沉没在狐疑的海中的，也冒出来见识世界了。
有年轻的记者在他身边，他敢于在大天白日走上大街，或是在他自己家的歪歪斜斜的门廊里大步徜徉，激动地说着话儿。
原来低沉而颤抖的声音，变得尖锐而响亮了；弯曲的身体也挺直了。
sherwood anderson
舍伍德·安德森（Sherwood Anderson又译作薛伍德·安德森)于1876年9月13日出生于俄亥俄州的坎登(Camden) ，他以自己家乡为题材所写的短篇小说，是他最广为人知的作品。
他在书中描述「令人沉思不已的中西部故事」，这些故事显示「作者对于平凡人物深刻的描写与怜悯。
」作为一个马具制造者与临时油漆工的第三个小孩，安德生有说故事的天分。
安德生年轻的时候时常想要做一个经济独立的人。
他结婚之后共生了三个小孩，虽然他努力工作，但是却对现实商场的工作感到不满。
一直到1909年时，他因为过度辛劳而生成暂时性的精神崩溃。
就在那一年，他开始一边担任芝加哥一家广告公司的记帐员，一边撰写科幻小说。
在芝加哥时，他遇见很多位作家，例如卡尔．山得堡(Cark Sandburg) ，以及创立芝加哥文学复兴运动的西奥多．得瑞司尔(Theodore Dreiser) 。
这些作家中，有很多人和安德生一样，都是在中西部的小城镇中长大的。
在两次世界大战之间，薛伍德．安德生对于美国文坛有相当大的影响。
他擅长把每天谈话中的真实话语用文字表达出来，并且用全新的格式与风格撰写文章，打破了过去常规、守旧的形式。
他对于美国新一代的作家也有很深远的影响，其中最有名的就是恩斯特．海名威(Ernst Heimingway) 以及威廉．福克纳(William Faulkner) 。
许多老牌的作家常常会施压年轻作家，要求他们应该要写自己最擅长的东西。
但是当安德生于1924年在纽奥良遇到福克纳时，他鼓励福克纳撰写有关密西西比家乡的故事。
安德生的作品中，以1919年集结短篇小说出版的俄亥俄州的威尼斯堡(Winesburg, Ohio) 被普遍认为是最好的作品。
Have you ever written a story about your hometown? Maybe you think it's too "boring" to write about. If so, take a look at American writer Sherwood Anderson. Born on September 13, 1876, in Camden, Ohio, he is best known for his short stories that reflect his small-town, Midwestern past. Described as "brooding Midwest tales," they reveal "their author's sympathetic insight into the thwarted lives of ordinary people." This third child of a harness maker and sometime house painter had a fondness for storytelling.As a young man, Anderson was intent on establishing his financial independence. He married, had three children and worked, with growing dissatisfaction, in the corporate world until 1909, when he suffered a brief nervous breakdown. He began to write fiction that year while working as a copywriter at a Chicago advertising agency. In Chicago, he met other thriving writers such as Carl Sandburg and Theodore Dreiser, who formed a sort of Chicago literary renaissance. Many of them, like Anderson, had grown up in small Midwestern townsSherwood Anderson had an important influence upon American writing between World War I and World War II. He is credited with capturing the real sound of everyday speech in his writing and experimenting with new forms and styles, breaking down tired, old formulas. He influenced a whole generation of writers, most notably Ernest Hemingway and William Faulkner. Many experienced writers have stressed that a young writer should write about what he or she knows best. While in New Orleans in 1924, Anderson encouraged Faulkner to write about his home county in Mississippi. Anderson's 1919 collection of short stories, Winesburg, Ohio, is widely considered his best work.舍伍德·安德森（Sherwood Anderson，1876-1941），1876年9月13日出生在中西部俄亥俄州克莱德镇的一个贫寒家庭。
The Egg全文翻译-Sherwood Anderson
《The Egg》Sherwood Anderson1我相信,爸爸是生来是一个活泼开朗的人。
三十四岁之前,他一直在俄亥俄州毕兑奥镇的汤巴托农场打短工。
他自己有匹马,每周六晚上都骑马到镇上和一帮雇农混上个几个钟头。
本海德酒吧那时整晚觥筹交错欢歌笑语,人满为患得没地落脚,他只能站着喝两杯啤酒。
一过十点,他沿一条孤僻乡间小路策马回家,将坐骑安顿停当,上床就寝,对人生心满意足。
当时,他并没有任何出人头地的念想。
2三十五岁的春天, 他娶了当时还是学校教员的妈妈, 第二年春, 我便呱呱坠地。
自从那时起, 他俩起了变化。
他们变得雄心勃勃, 满脑子都是美国式飞黄腾达的远大理想。
3对此我妈可能也要付一定责任。
她识文断字, 一定经常读书看报。
我估计她在坐月子的时候, 就读了伽菲和林肯等人怎么从一介草民变成一代伟人--当时我就躺在她边上--兴许她指望我哪天也能呼风唤雨。
她不由分说, 怂恿爸爸辞掉了雇农的工作, 卖了马匹自己做买卖。
她身高体长, 沉默寡言, 鼻梁高耸, 灰色的眼珠常显得忧虑不安。
她对自己无欲无求, 为我们却豪情万丈到无可救药。
4他们的第一桩投资就惨不忍睹。
他们在距彼兑奥镇八英里的格利路边租了十英亩贫瘠的石板地, 将养鸡厂投入运营。
我在那里进入了孩提时代, 并获得了对人生的第一印象。
最初的印象充斥着死亡和不幸, 如果说我后来成了一个彻头彻尾的悲观主义者, 都归功于我在养鸡场度过的本应快乐的童年时光。
5没有相同的生活经历, 你绝想不到鸡的一生能惨绝人寰到何种程度。
它破壳而生, 像复活节明信片上的小毛球样子活上几周, 然后令人发指地掉毛, 成堆地吃掉你老爹辛勤汗水换来的谷粮, 染上喉舌病, 霍乱等各种鸡瘟, 傻站着两眼朝天, 生病, 然后死翘翘。
多数母鸡和少数公鸡, 为了践行上帝的神秘旨意, 挣扎着撑到成年。
随后母鸡下蛋, 孵出小鸡, 恐怖的生命轮回籍此画上圆圈。
整个过程复杂得匪夷所思。
绝大多数哲学家的童年一定都在养鸡厂度过。
《Hands》翻译
在俄亥俄州温斯堡镇附近的幽⾕旁边有⼀个⼩⽊屋，⽊屋破败的⾛廊上，有个胖胖的⼩⽼头正紧张的来回踱步。
穿过⼀⽚⻓⻓的播种着苜宿却⻓满⻩⾊的芥菜的⽥野，他可以看到⼀条公路，采摘浆果的⼈驾着⻢⻋沿着这条公路返回。
采摘浆果的少年和少⼥们，欢笑着，⼤声吵闹着。
⼀个穿着蓝⾊衬衫的男孩从⻢⻋上跳了下来，试图拖跟在他后⾯的⼀个姑娘，姑娘们尖叫着抗议。
男孩的脚在路上激起了⼀团尘埃，那尘埃拂过了落⽇的脸庞。
⻓⻓的⽥野上传来⼀个少⼥般的声⾳。
“哦，⻜翼⽐德!鲍姆你真应该梳梳你的头发，头发都掉到你的眼睛⾥了。
”这是对那个秃头⼩⽼头说的，他紧张的⼩⼿在光秃秃的⽩额头上晃来晃去的，好像在整死他乱糟糟的卷发⼀样。
⻜翼⽐德!鲍姆，永远被⼀⽚幽灵般的怀疑吓坏了，他根本不认为⾃⼰是他⽣活了⼆⼗年的⼩镇⽣活的⼀部分。
在温斯堡的所有居⺠中，只有⼀个⼈和他关系不错。
他和新威拉德房⼦的主⼈、汤姆·威拉德的⼉⼦——乔治威拉德结下了友谊⼀样的感情。
乔治·威拉德是温斯堡之鹰的记者，有时晚上他沿着公路⾛到⻜翼⽐德!鲍姆的房⼦。
现在，这个⽼年⼈在阳台上⾛来⾛去，两⼿紧张地搓着，他希望乔治·威拉德能来和他共度夜晚。
在运载浆果采摘者的货⻋经过之后，他穿过⾼⾼的芥菜野草穿过⽥野，爬上⼀道铁轨，焦急地注视着⼩镇。
他就这样站了⼀会⼉，搓着双⼿，在路上上下打量，然后，恐惧打败了他，于是⼜跑回到⾃⼰房⼦的⾛廊上。
⼆⼗年来，⻜翼⽐德!鲍姆⼀直是镇上的神秘⼈物，但在乔治·威拉德的⾯前，他的怯懦消失不⻅了，还有他那朦胧的性格，本来沉没在⼀⽚狐疑的海洋中，现在也冒出来张望着这个世界。
在年轻记者的陪伴下，他敢在天还在亮的时候⾛进中⼼街区，或者在⾃⼰家破败的⾛廊上⼤步⾛来⾛去，兴奋地说着话。
他那低沉⽽颤抖的声⾳变得⼜尖⼜洪亮。
他那弯曲的身躯也挺直了。
沉默的⽐德勒鲍姆扭动着身⼦，像被渔夫放⽣回到⼩溪边的⻥⼀样，开始说话，努⼒把他在沉默多年中积累的思想⽤语⾔表达出来。
sherwood anderson舍伍德.安德森
舍伍德.安德森（Sherwood Anderson）简介(2010-11-18 10:27:12)转载▼标签：分类：国际短篇小说安德森俄亥俄州在森林里的死亡第一次世界大战文化北俄亥俄州桑达斯基（Sandusky）舍伍德.安德森（Sherwood Anderson）简介舍伍德.安德森（Sherwood Anderson）(1876-1941)在北俄亥俄州桑达斯基（Sandusky）附近长大。
作家的散文风格，得自于日常用语，影响了第一次世界大战和第二次世界大战之间的美国短篇小说的写作。
安德森把他的名字作为主导的自然主义的作家，把《俄亥俄州的瓦恩斯堡》(1919)——一个典型的中西部小镇的生活画卷，如同通过当地居民的眼睛看见的一样——作为他的代表作。
安德森的教育小说情节经常与埃德加?李大师的《勺子河》文集相媲美。
“年轻人的心思被他成长的梦想激情所迷惑。
看见他的人不会认为他特别敏锐。
许多小事的回忆占据了他的头脑，他闭着眼睛斜靠在汽车座位上。
他长时间地停留在那种状态中，当他自己醒来时，再看车窗外面，瓦恩斯堡镇已经消失了，而他在那里的生活仅仅成了描绘他成年梦想的背景。
”(自《俄亥俄州的瓦恩斯堡》)舍伍德.安德森出生在俄亥俄州的卡姆登。
他的父母导致了瞬息万变的生活，总是在下班以后从一个地方搬到另一个地方。
他的父亲在联邦军队中服役，但是最终结束时只保留下一个小小的鞔具修理商店，然后为一位专画房子和谷仓的画家做工，虽然他自称是“标志作家”。
安德森只断断续续地上过学，同时通过当报童、房屋油漆、收发货经理和养马夫等工作来帮助支持家庭。
17岁时安德森搬到芝加哥。
在那里他晚上上夜校学业务，并且度过了他作为仓库工的岁月。
在美（国）西（班牙）战争期间安德森参加了在古巴的战斗并在战后回到了俄亥俄州，完成了在春田市（斯普林菲尔德）威滕伯格学院最后一年的学习。
在随后的几年里安德森在俄亥俄附近经常搬来搬去。
他的生活有一段时间安定下来并与科妮莉亚.莱恩结婚姻并作为油漆制造商而工作。
《讲故事人的故事》：舍伍德·安德森的心灵自传
2012.02学教育李伟》:舍伍德·安德森的心灵自传内容摘要:《讲故事人的故事》是美国著名作家舍伍德·安德森一部重要的自传性作品。
它由四章及尾声构成,主要讲述安德森童年少年时代的艰辛生活、打工体验和战争经历、弃商从文、文坛跋涉的心路历程。
该传记的描述不求史实与细节的完全准确,但重视人生轨迹的基本写实,忠实于生活的本质。
该传记对于深刻理解美国社会转型期间作家的成长史、深入理解美国文学和美国文化具有重要的价值。
关键词:想象世界现实世界手工业工业文明心路历程一舍伍德·安德森(1876-1941)是美国享有盛誉、承前启后而影响深远的现代作家。
他的主要作品有《温迪·麦克弗森的儿子》、《行进中的人们》、《俄亥俄州瓦恩斯堡镇》(又译《小城畸人》)、《穷苦的白人》、《黑暗的笑声》,短篇小说集《鸡蛋的胜利》、《林中之死》、《马与人》,自传性作品《沥青》、《讲故事人的故事》和《回忆录》等。
美国著名评论家马尔科姆·考利指出,安德森是“作家的作家,是他那一代讲故事者对后一代的风格和视野都造成影响的惟一一位。
”[1]安德森是美国第一位成熟的现代意义上的小说家,曾经深刻地影响过福克纳和海明威两位大师,可以说是大师的教师。
福克纳称他是“我们这一代美国作家和将由我们的后继者继承下去的写作传统的父亲。
”[2]安德森以其敏锐的艺术触角开拓了美国现代小说中彷徨、失落的“荒原”意识,以他的艺术成就为美国文学中的现代主义指明了方向。
《讲故事人的故事》最早出版于1924年,它是安德森一部重要的自传性作品。
正如评论家雷·刘易斯·怀特所言,这是“一个关于一位美国作家穿越自己的想象世界和现实世界的旅程的故事,其中包含他与其他作家的很多交往经历以及他对这些作家的印象。
”[3]《讲故事人的故事》以其别致的自传写法引人瞩目。
安德森凭着自己的回忆、体验、想象和直觉,按照自身精神发展过程,编排和描述一生的经历、事件及其影响。
舍伍德安德森经典The Triumph of the Egg
"The Triumph of the Egg"Sherwood Anderson1920My father was, I am sure, intended by nature to be a cheerful, kindly man. Until he was thirty-four years old he worked as a farmhand for a man named Thomas Butterworth whose place lay near the town of Bidwell, Ohio. He had then a horse of his own, and on Saturday evenings drove into town to spend a few hours in social intercourse with other farmhands. In town he drank several glasses of beer and stood about in Ben Head's saloon-crowded on Saturday evenings with visiting farmhands. Songs were sung and glasses thumped on the bar. At ten o'clock father drove home along a lonely country road, made his horse comfortable for the night, and himself went to bed, quite happy in his position in life. He had at that time no notion of trying to rise in the world.It was in the spring of his thirty-fifth year that father married my mother, then a country schoolteacher, and in the following spring I came wriggling and crying into the world. Something happened to the two people. They became ambitious. The American passion for getting up in the world took possession of them.It may have been that mother was responsible. Being a schoolteacher she had no doubt read books and magazines. She had, I presume, read of how Garfield, Fin coin, and other Americans rose from poverty to fame and greatness, and as I lay beside her-in the days of her lying-in-she may have dreamed that I would Someday rule men and cities. At any rate she induced father to give up his place as a farmhand, sell his horse, and embark on an independent enterprise of his own. She was a tall silent woman with a long nose and troubled gray eyes. For herself she wanted nothing. For father and myself she was incurably ambitious.The first venture into which the two people went turned out badly. They rented ten acres of poor stony land on Grigg's Road, eight miles from Bidwell, and launched into chicken-raising. I grew into boyhood on the place and got my first impressions of life there. From the beginning they were impressions of disaster, and if, in my turn, I am a gloomy man inclined to see the darker side of life, I attribute it to the fact that what should have been for me the happy joyous days of childhood were spent on a chicken farm.One unversed in such matters can have no notion of the many and tragic things that can happen to a chicken. It is born out of an egg, lives for a few weeks as a tiny fluffy thing such as you will see pictured on Easter cards, then becomes hideously naked, eats quantities of corn and meal bought by the sweat of your father's brow, gets diseases called pip, cholera, and other names, stands looking with stupid eyes at the sun, becomes sick and dies. A few hens and now and then a rooster, in' tended to serve God's mysterious ends, struggle through to maturity. The hens lay eggs out of which come other chickens and the dreadful cycle is thus made complete. It is all unbelievably complex. Most philosophers must have been raised on chicken farms. One hopes for so much from a chicken and is so dreadfully disillusioned. Small chickens, just setting out on the journey of life, look so bright and alert and they are in fact so dreadfully stupid. They are so much like people theymix one up in one's judgments of life. If disease does not kill them, they wait until your expectations are thoroughly aroused and then walk under the wheels of a wagon-to go squashed and dead back to their maker. Vermin infest their youth, and fortunes must be spent for curative powders. In later life I have seen how a literature has been built up on the subject of fortunes to be made out of the raising of chickens. It is intended to be read by the gods who have just eaten of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. It is a hopeful literature and declares that much may be done by simple ambitious people who own a few hens. Do not be led astray by it. It was not written for you. Go hunt for gold on the frozen hills of Alaska, put your faith in the honesty of a politician, believe if you will that the world is daily growing better and that good will triumph over evil, but do not read and believe the literature that is written concerning the hen. It was not written for you.I, however, digress. My tale does not primarily concern itself with the hen. If correctly told it will center on the egg. For ten years my father and mother struggled to make our chicken farm pay and then they gave up their struggle and began another. They moved into the town of Bidwell, Ohio, and embarked in the restaurant business. After ten years of worry with incubators that did not hatch, and with tiny-and in their own way lovely-balls of fluff that passed on into semi-naked pullet hood and from that into dead henhood, we threw all aside and, packing our belongings on a wagon, drove down Grigg's Road toward Bidwell, a tiny caravan of hope looking for a new place from which to start on our upward journey through life.We must have been a sad-looking lot, not, I fancy, unlike refugees fleeing from a battlefield. Mother and I walked in the road. The wagon that contained our goods had been borrowed for the day from Mr. Albert Griggs, a neighbor. Out of its side stuck the legs of cheap chairs, and at the back of the pile of beds, tables, and boxes filled with kitchen utensils was a crate of live chickens, and on top of that the baby carriage in which I had been wheeled about in my infancy. Why we stuck to the baby carriage I don't know. It was unlikely other children would be born and the wheels were broken. People who have few possessions cling tightly to those they have. That is one of the facts that make life so discouraging.Father rode on top of the wagon. He was then a baldheaded man of forty-five, a little fat, and from long association with mother and the chickens he had become habitually silent and discouraged. All during our ten years on the chicken farm he had worked as a laborer on neighboring farms and most of the money he had earned had been spent on remedies to cure chicken diseases, on Wilmer's White Wonder Cholera Cure or Professor Bidlow's Egg Producer or some other preparations that mother found advertised in the poultry papers. There were two little patches of hair on father's head just above his ears. I remember that as a child I used to sit looking at him when he had gone to sleep in a chair before the stove; on Sunday afternoons in the winter. I had at that time already begun to read books and have notions of my own, and the bald path that led over the top of his head was, I fancied, something like a broad road, such a road as Caesar might have made on which to lead his legions out of Rome and into the wonders of an unknown world. The tufts of hair that grew above father's ears were, I thought, like forests. I fell into a half sleeping, halfwaking state and dreamed I was a tiny thing going along the road into a far beautiful place where there were no chicken farms and where life was a happy egg less affair.One might write a book concerning our flight from the chicken farm into town. Mother and I walked the entire eight miles-she to be sure that nothing fell from the wagon and I to see the wonders of the world. On the seat of the wagon beside father was his greatest treasure. I will tell you of that.On a chicken farm, where hundreds and even thousands of chickens come out of eggs, surprising things sometimes happen. Grotesques are born out of eggs as out of people. The accident does not often occur-perhaps once in a thousand births. A chicken is, you see, born that has four legs, two pairs of wings, two heads, or what not. The things do not live. They go quickly back to the hand of their maker that has for a moment trembled. The fact that the poor little things could not live was one of the tragedies of life to father. He had some sort of notion that if he could but bring into henhood or roosterhood a five-legged hen or a two-headed rooster his fortune would be made. He dreamed of taking the wonder about the county fairs and of growing rich by exhibiting it to other farmhands.At any rate, he saved all the little monstrous things that had been born on our chicken farm. They were preserved in alcohol and put each in its own glass bottle. These he had carefully put into a box, and on our journey into town it was car tied on the wagon seat beside him. He drove the horses with one hand and with the other clung to the box. When we got to our destination, the box was taken down at once and the bottles removed. All during our days as keepers of a restaurant in the town of Bidwell, Ohio, the grotesques in their little glass bottles sat on a shelf back of the counter. Mother sometimes protested, but father was a rock on the subject of his treasure. The grotesques were, he declared, valuable. People, he said, liked to look at strange and wonderful things.Did I say that we embarked in the restaurant business in the town of Bidwell, Ohio? I exaggerated a little. The town itself lay at the foot of a low hill and on the shore of a small river. The railroad did not run through the town and the station was a mile away to the north at a place called Pickleville. There had been a cider mill and pickle factory at the station, but before the time of our coming they had both gone out of business. In the morning and in the evening buses came down to the station along a road called Turner's Pike from the hotel on the main street of Bidwell. Our going to the out-of-the-way place to embark in the restaurant business was mother's idea. She talked of it for a year and then one day went off and rented an empty store building opposite the railroad station. It was her idea that the restaurant would be profitable. Traveling men, she said, would be always waiting around to take trains out of town and town people would come to the station to await incoming trains. They would come to the restaurant to buy pieces of pie and drink coffee. Now that I am older I know that she had another motive in going. She was ambitious for me. She wanted me to rise in the world, to get into a town school and become a man of the towns.At Pickleville father and mother worked hard, as they always had done. At first there was the necessity of putting our place into shape to be a restaurant. That took amonth. Father built a shelf on which he put tins of vegetables. He painted a sign on which he put his name in large red letters. Below his name was the sharp command —"EAT HERE"—that was so seldom obeyed. A showcase was bought and filled with cigars and tobacco. Mother scrubbed the floors and the walls of the room. I went to school in the town and was glad to be away from the farm, from the presence of the discouraged, sad-looking chickens. Still I was not very joyous. In the evening I walked home from school along Turner's Pike and remembered the children I had seen playing in the town school yard. A troop of little girls had gone hopping about and singing. I tried that. Down along the frozen road I went hopping solemnly on one leg. "Hippity Hop To The Barber Shop," I sang shrilly. Then I stopped and looked doubtfully about. I was afraid of being seen in my gay mood. It must have seemed to me that I was doing a thing that should not be done by one who, like myself, had been raised on a chicken farm where death was a daily visitor.Mother decided that our restaurant should remain open at night. At ten in the evening a passenger train went north past our door followed by a local freight. The freight crew had switching to do in Pickleville, and when the work was done they came to our restaurant for hot coffee and food. Sometimes one of them ordered a fried egg. In the morning at four they resumed north-bound and again visited us. A little trade began to grow up. Mother slept at night and during the day tended the restaurant and fed our boarders while father slept. He slept in the same bed mother had occupied during the night and I went off to the town of Bidwell and to school. During the long nights, while mother and I slept, father cooked meats that were to go into sandwiches for the lunch baskets of our boarders. Then an idea in regard to getting up in the world came into his head. The American spirit took hold of him. He also became ambitious.In the long nights when there was little to do, father had time to think. That was his undoing. He decided that he had in the past been an unsuccessful man because he had not been cheerful enough and that in the future he would adopt a cheerful outlook on life. In the early morning he came upstairs and got into bed with mother. She woke and the two talked. From my bed in the corner I listened.It was father's idea that both he and mother should try to entertain the people who came to eat at our restaurant. I cannot now remember his words, but he gave the impression of one about to become in some obscure way a kind of public entertainer. When people, particularly young people from the town of Bidwell, came into our place, as on very rare occasions they did, bright entertaining conversation was to be made. From father's words I gathered that something of the jolly innkeeper effect was to be sought. Mother must have been doubtful from the first, but she said nothing discouraging. It was father's notion that a passion for the company of himself and mother would spring up in the breasts of the younger people of the town of Bidwell. In the evening bright happy groups would come singing down Turner's Pike. They would troop shouting with joy and laughter into our place. There would be song and festivity. I do not mean to give the impression that father spoke so elaborately of the matter. He was, as I have said, an uncommunicative man. "They want some place to go. I tell you they want some place to go," he said over andover. That was as far as he got. My own imagination has filled in the blanks.For two or three weeks this notion of father's invaded our house. We did not talk much, but in our daily lives tried earnestly to make smiles take the place of glum looks. Mother smiled at the boarders and I, catching the infection, smiled at our cat. Father became a little feverish in his anxiety to please. There was, no doubt, lurking somewhere in him, a touch of the spirit of the showman. He did not waste much of his ammunition on the railroad men he served at night, but seemed to be waiting for a young man or woman from Bidwell to come in to show what he could do. On the counter in the restaurant there was a wire basket kept always filled with eggs, and it must have been before his eyes when the idea of being entertaining was born in his brain. There was something pre-natal about the way eggs kept themselves connected with the development of his idea. At any rate, an egg ruined his new impulse in life. Late one night I was awakened by a roar of anger coming from father's throat. Both mother and I sat upright in our beds. With trembling hands she lighted a lamp that stood on a table by her head. Downstairs the front door of our restaurant went shut with a bang and in a few minutes father tramped up the stairs. He held an egg in his hand and his hand trembled as though he were having a chill. There was a half-insane light in his eyes. As he stood glaring at us I was sure he intended throwing the egg at either mother or me. Then he laid it gently on the table beside the lamp and dropped on his knees beside mother's bed. He began to cry like a boy, and I, carried away by his grief, cried with him. The two of us filled the little upstairs room with our wailing voices. It is ridiculous, but of the picture we made I can remember only the fact that mother's hand continually stroked the bald path that ran across the top of his head. I have forgotten what mother said to him and how she induced him to tell her of what had happened downstairs. His explanation also has gone out of my mind. I remember only my own grief and fright and the shiny path over father's head glowing in the lamplight as he knelt by the bed.As to what happened downstairs. For some unexplainable reason I know the story as well as though I had been a witness to my father's discomfiture. One in time gets to know many unexplainable things. On that evening young Joe Kane, son of a merchant of Bidwell, came to Pickleville to meet his father, who was expected on the ten-o'clock evening train from the South. The train was three hours late and Joe came into our place to loaf about and to wait for its arrival. The local freight train came in and the freight crew were fed. Joe was left alone in the restaurant with father.From the moment he came into our place the Bidwell young man must have been puzzled by my father's actions. It was his notion that father was angry at him for hanging around. He noticed that the restaurant-keeper was apparently disturbed by his presence and he thought of going out. However, it began to rain and he did not fancy the long walk to town and back. He bought a five-cent cigar and ordered a cup of coffee. He had a newspaper in his pocket and took it out and began to read. "I'm waiting for the evening train. It's late," he said apologetically.For a long time father, whom Joe Kane had never seen before, remained silently gazing at his visitor. He was no doubt suffering from an attack of stage fright. As sooften happens in life he had thought so much and so often of the situation that now confronted him that he was somewhat nervous in its presence.For one thing, he did not know what to do with his hands. He thrust one of them nervously over the counter and shook hands with Joe Kane. "How-de-do," he said. Joe Kane put his newspaper down and stared at him. Father's eyes lighted on the basket of eggs that sat on the counter and he began to talk. "Well," he began hesitatingly, Well, you have heard of Christopher Columbus, eh?" He seemed to be angry. "That Christopher Columbus was a cheat," he declared emphatically. "He talked of making an egg stand on its end. He talked, he did, and then he went and broke the end of the egg."My father seemed to his visitor to be beside himself at the duplicity of Christopher Columbus. He muttered and swore. He declared it was wrong to teach children that Christopher Columbus was a great man when, after all, he cheated at the critical moment. He had declared he would make an egg stand on end and then, when his bluff had been called, he had done a trick. Still grumbling at Columbus, father took an egg from the basket on the counter and began to walk up and down. He rolled the egg between the palms of his hands. He smiled genially. He began to mumble words regarding the effect to be produced on an egg by the electricity that comes out of the human body. He declared that, without breaking its shell and by virtue of rolling back and forth in his hands, he could stand the egg on its head. He explained that the warmth of his hands and the gentle rolling movement he gave the egg created a new center of gravity, and Joe Kane was mildly interested. "I have handled thousands of eggs," father said. No one knows more about eggs than I do."He stood the egg on the counter and it fell on its side. He tried the trick again and again, each time rolling the egg between the palms of his hands and saying the words regarding the wonders of electricity and the laws of gravity. When after a half hour's effort he did succeed in making the egg stand for a moment, he looked up to find that his visitor was no longer watching. By the time he had succeeded in calling Joe Kane's attention to the success of his effort, the egg had again rolled over and lay on its side.Afire with the showman's passion and at the same time a good deal disconcerted by the failure of his first effort, father now took the bottles containing the poultry monstrosities down from their place on the shelf and began to show them to his visitor. "How would you like to have seven legs and two heads like this fellow?" he asked, exhibiting the most remarkable of his treasures. A cheerful smile played over his face. He reached over the counter and tried to slap Joe Kane on the shoulder as he had seen men do in Ben Head's saloon when he was a young farmhand and drove to town on Saturday evenings. His visitor was made a little ill by the sight of the body of the terribly deformed bird floating in the alcohol in the bottle and got up to go. Coming from behind the counter, father took hold of the young man's arm and led him back to his seat. He grew a little angry and for a moment had to turn his face away and force himself to smile. Then he put the bottles back on the shelf. In an outburst of generosity he fairly compelled Joe Kane to have a fresh cup of coffee andanother cigar at his expense. Then he took a pan and filling it with vinegar, taken from a jug that sat beneath the counter, he declared himself about to do a new trick. “I will heat this egg in this pan of vinegar," he said. "Then I will put it through the neck of a bottle without breaking the shell. When the egg is inside the bottle it will resume its normal shape and the shell will become hard again. Then I will give the bottle with the egg in it to you. You can take it about with you wherever you go. People will want to know how you got the egg in the bottle. Don't tell them. Keep them guessing. That is the way to have fun with this trick."Father grinned and winked at his visitor. Joe Kane decided that the man who confronted him was mildly insane but harmless. He drank the cup of coffee that had been given him and began to read his paper again. When the egg had been heated in vinegar. father carried it on a spoon to the counter and going into a back room got an empty bottle. He was angry because his visitor did not watch him as he began to do his trick, but nevertheless went cheerfully to work. For a long time he struggled, trying to get the egg to go through the neck of the bottle. He put the pan of vinegar back on the stove, intending to reheat the egg, then picked it up and burned his fingers. After a second bath in the hot vinegar, the shell of the egg had been softened a little, but not enough for his purpose. He worked and worked and a spirit of desperate determination took possession of him. When he thought that at last the trick was about to be consummated, the delayed train came in at the station and Joe Kane started to go nonchalantly out at the door. Father made a last desperate effort to conquer the egg and make it do the thing that would establish his reputation as one who knew how to entertain guests who came into his restaurant. He worried the egg. He attempted to be somewhat rough with it. He swore and the sweat stood out on his forehead. The egg broke under his hand. When the contents spurted over his clothes, Joe Kane, who had stopped at the door, turned and laughed.A roar of anger rose from my father's throat. He danced and shouted a string of inarticulate words. Grabbing another egg from the basket on the counter, he threw it, just missing the head of the young man as he dodged through the door and escaped.Father came upstairs to mother and me with an egg in his hand. I do not know what he intended to do. I imagine he had some idea of destroying it, of destroying all eggs, and that he intended to let mother and me see him begin. When, however, he got into the presence of mother, something happened to him. He laid the egg gently on the table and dropped on his knees by the bed as I have already explained. He later decided to close the restaurant for the night and to come upstairs and get into bed. When he did so, he blew out the light and after much muttered conversation both he and mother went to sleep. I suppose I went to sleep also, but my sleep was troubled. I awoke at dawn and for a long time looked at the egg that lay on the table. I wondered why eggs had to be and why from the egg came the hen who again laid the egg. The question got into my blood. It has stayed there. I imagine, because I am the son of my father. At any rate, the problem remains unsolved in my mind. And that, I conclude, is but another evidence of the complete and final triumph of the egg—at least as far as my family is concerned.—Sherwood Anderson, 1920。