来源 :粉笔网 2019-11-20 18:05:12|生财有道青岛美食



  AT THE END OF THE CENTURY The Stories of Ruth Prawer Jhabvala 439 pp. Counterpoint. .

  Perhaps no author has made more art of dispossession than Ruth Prawer Jhabvala. The author of a dozen novels and twice as many screenplays — she’s the only person to have won both the Booker Prize (for her eighth and best-known novel, “Heat and Dust”) and an Academy Award (twice, for best adapted screenplay) — Jhabvala was 12 when she fled Nazi Germany with her family in 1939. After the war, when her father learned the fate of the relatives left behind, he killed himself.

  But even before her “disinheritance,” as she would later call these fundamental losses, Jhabvala was writing stories — first in German, and after they had settled in London, in English. She was studying English literature when she met Cyrus Jhabvala, an architect, and in 1951, they married and moved to Delhi. India was her home and subject until 1975, when she moved to New York’s Upper East Side, buying an apartment near her friends and creative partners, Ismail Merchant and James Ivory, as her career as a screenwriter flourished. There, as if closing a circle, she wrote fiction inspired by the European émigrés she met, people who understood what it meant to be homesick for a way of life that no longer existed. In a 1979 lecture, Jhabvala described herself as “blown about from country to country, culture to culture,” a “cuckoo forever insinuating itself into other’s nests.”

  In this country, she’s best known as the screenwriting talent behind so many Merchant-Ivory films, among them the sumptuous, Oscar-winning adaptations of E. M. Forster’s “A Room With a View” and “Howards End” (a film of her own novel “The Householder” was their first collaboration). Her name brings to mind Edwardian corset dresses and Julian Sands in a meltingly lit field of poppies — though her asperity and sense of moral stakes, so in tune with Forster’s, were the crisp counterpoint to all that romance. These weren’t merely costume dramas or comedies of manners, but struggles for the souls of women. Forster’s great subject, the pull of individual passions against stifling social conformity, the old order against the new — “the unlovely chaos that lies between obedience and freedom,” as he once put it — is also the through-line in Jhabvala’s wryly tender early stories and novels. Raising three daughters in Delhi, she was well situated to observe Indian society post-independence, with its Westernizing, marriage-minded middle class — and, at the same time, to apply her well-developed irony to the many European seekers of the 1960s she encountered, people for whom India was a semi-mythical destination, a warm, sensuous alternative to their own lumpen postwar continent, as it was for Jhabvala herself for a time. Her work anticipates a world of displaced people, where, as the half-British, half-Indian narrator of one of her stories puts it, everyone is “moving more freely” as “refugees or emigrants or just out of restless curiosity” and where there are “at least two generations of people in whom several kinds of heritage are combined.”

  A posthumous new collection of selected short fiction, “At the End of the Century: The Stories of Ruth Prawer Jhabvala,” showcases her darker cadences. The stories — all of them elegantly plotted and unsentimental, with an addictive, told-over-tea quality — are largely character studies of people isolated, often tragically, by custom or self-delusion. In “The Widow,” a woman in her prime, Durga, finds herself surrounded by grasping relatives following the death of her much older, impotent husband, who leaves her with a fine house and a sense that “somehow, somewhere, she has been shortchanged.” Disastrously, her dormant maternal feelings — mingling with erotic longings — are awakened by her tenant’s teenage son. “Expiation” movingly depicts a cloth merchant’s Job-like devotion to his prodigal younger brother, who rapes and murders an upper-class schoolboy, stealing his roller skates. In “Desecration,” a privileged young bride, Sofia, pursues a debasing affair with a thuggish local official. These vivid, unsparing portraits are leavened with the kind of humanizing moments that evoke a total world within their compression, as when the cloth merchant delivers last rites to his brother or when Sofia realizes that the person who knows her best is the chauffeur. In such moments, one feels very far from that poppy field.

  Jhabvala’s stories are also, of course, unfashionable for another reason: their unabashed ventriloquizing of another culture, an inhabiting of India and Indians that a contemporary author might take pains to artistically justify, all the more so now that our bookshelves are filled with Indian authors writing in English. But this is what surely gives Jhabvala’s work its rare gleam: the undeceived clarity of the eternal outsider, immersed yet apart. In the collection’s final story, “The Judge’s Will” — published in The New Yorker 10 days before her death — she returns to India with a setup worthy of Singer or Chekhov: A dying judge reveals to his wife his wish to provide for his mistress after his death. (In a move Jhabvala might have appreciated, the story is being transplanted to Chicago for a film written by James Ivory and directed by Alexander Payne.) In a few pages, Jhabvala executes a deft reversal of marital power, touching, along the way, on sex and class, duty and desire — and the surprise, across all barriers, of empathy.



  生财有道青岛美食【金】【思】【哲】【心】【中】【暗】【暗】【吐】【槽】:【你】【还】【有】【啥】【格】【调】? “【难】【怪】【你】【会】【想】【拉】【拢】【叔】【爷】【爷】【他】【老】【人】【家】【了】,【这】【个】【事】【儿】【投】【入】【实】【在】【是】【大】,【咱】【家】【那】【点】【家】【底】【是】【干】【不】【起】【来】【的】,【但】【是】【咱】【们】【可】【以】【参】【股】【啊】。【我】【觉】【得】【这】【次】【咱】【们】【家】【只】【要】【参】【股】【一】【定】【是】【可】【以】【赚】【大】【钱】【的】。”【金】【大】【哥】【双】【眼】【熠】【熠】【生】【辉】【的】【说】【道】。 “【恩】,【要】【是】【能】【拿】【下】【这】【个】【主】【原】【料】,【或】【许】【咱】【们】【真】【的】【能】【发】【一】【笔】。【可】【是】【问】【题】

  【这】【样】【想】,【他】【猛】【地】【化】【为】【狼】【形】,【冲】【向】【前】【方】【那】【相】【拥】【的】【两】【人】。 【然】【而】【半】【途】【中】,【娃】【瓷】【站】【了】【出】【来】,【拦】【截】【住】【了】【洛】【桑】【白】。 “【阿】【洛】~”【暮】【笍】【略】【带】【不】【平】【的】【跑】【到】【他】【面】【前】,【委】【屈】【的】【看】【着】【他】。 【他】【为】【什】【么】【不】【能】【放】【下】?【白】【奇】【梦】【都】【放】【下】【他】【了】,【他】【就】【不】【能】【看】【她】【一】【眼】【吗】? 【瑾】【怀】【里】【的】【人】【微】【微】【动】【了】【下】,【随】【即】【一】【个】【小】【脑】【袋】【探】【了】【出】【来】。 【奇】【梦】【看】【着】

  “【什】【么】?”【听】【到】【于】【涵】【说】【的】【话】【以】【后】,【刚】【才】【那】【名】【大】【厨】【彻】【底】【傻】【眼】【了】。 【傻】【眼】【的】【不】【止】【是】【他】,【还】【有】【其】【他】【几】【名】【大】【厨】,【大】【家】【都】【无】【法】【相】【信】【自】【己】【所】【听】【到】【的】。 【鸡】【骨】【架】【可】【以】【做】【一】【道】【菜】,【怎】【么】【可】【能】? “【李】【掌】【柜】【的】,【怎】【么】【回】【事】?”【飞】【燕】【看】【着】【站】【在】【不】【远】【处】【的】【李】【福】【面】【无】【表】【情】【的】【出】【声】【问】【道】。 “【飞】【燕】【姑】【娘】,【酒】【楼】【前】【面】【的】【路】【被】【人】【群】【堵】【着】,【咱】【们】【的】【马】

  【坐】【地】【铁】【回】【家】【的】【路】【上】,【俩】【人】【都】【翻】【着】【自】【己】【的】【手】【机】【默】【默】【无】【语】。 【荀】【甙】【是】【对】【愈】【加】【纷】【乱】【不】【可】【知】【的】【未】【来】【感】【到】【担】【忧】,**【则】【是】【有】【一】【种】【说】【不】【清】【道】【不】【明】【的】【不】【舒】【服】【的】【感】【觉】,【那】【种】【心】【理】【上】【压】【抑】【的】【不】【快】【感】【很】【难】【形】【容】,【但】【却】【压】【的】【他】【几】【乎】【透】【不】【过】【气】【来】。 【人】【在】【没】【心】【情】【的】【时】【候】【什】【么】【都】【不】【想】【做】,【出】【了】【地】【铁】【站】【的】【路】【上】,【荀】【甙】【破】【天】【荒】【的】【问】【了】【他】【一】【句】:“【今】【晚】【我】

  【北】【陵】,【在】Z【国】【的】【最】【北】【边】【的】【地】【方】。【一】【个】【被】【沙】【漠】【和】【草】【原】【围】【在】【中】【间】【的】【地】【方】。【仅】【靠】【一】【条】【高】【速】【和】【一】【个】【飞】【机】【场】【通】【往】【外】【面】。【草】【原】【上】【有】【牧】【民】【搭】【的】【帐】【篷】【和】【喂】【的】【牛】【羊】。【轻】【轻】【一】【嗅】,【似】【乎】【还】【能】【闻】【到】【空】【气】【中】【弥】【漫】【的】【牛】【羊】【粪】【便】【和】【青】【草】【的】【味】【道】。【靠】【近】【草】【原】【的】【一】【边】【天】【气】【比】【较】【湿】【润】,【适】【合】【居】【住】。【靠】【近】【沙】【漠】【的】【一】【端】,【天】【气】【比】【较】【干】【燥】,【炎】【热】。【早】【晚】【温】【差】【比】【较】【大】。 生财有道青岛美食“【这】【样】【么】?” 【血】【波】【至】【尊】【等】【人】【微】【微】【一】【怔】,【旋】【即】【似】【乎】【想】【起】【了】【什】【么】,【有】【些】【失】【魂】【落】【魄】【了】【起】【来】。 【剑】【无】【双】【在】【旁】【边】【没】【有】【出】【声】,【默】【默】【倾】【听】。 【他】【一】【直】【很】【好】【奇】【生】【命】【神】【宫】【的】【宫】【主】【到】【底】【是】【谁】,【为】【何】【一】【直】【没】【有】【出】【现】,【此】【刻】【听】【霸】【族】【老】【祖】【和】【血】【波】【至】【尊】【的】【讨】【论】,【顿】【时】【明】【白】【了】【过】【来】,【似】【乎】【生】【命】【神】【宫】【的】【宫】【主】【被】【困】【在】【了】【某】【个】【地】【方】,【无】【法】【出】【来】。 【片】【刻】

  “【如】【若】【不】【然】【呢】?【你】【知】【不】【知】【道】【我】【重】【新】【修】【整】【梅】【园】【花】【了】【多】【少】【银】【子】【啊】?【若】【是】【不】【想】【办】【法】【赚】【回】【来】,【那】【我】【还】【不】【得】【心】【疼】【死】【我】【的】【银】【子】。【况】【且】,【买】【树】【苗】【的】【银】【子】【暂】【时】【还】【没】【有】【着】【落】【呢】,【估】【计】【还】【得】【等】【上】【一】【两】【个】【月】,【待】【优】【品】【阁】【那】【边】【的】【盈】【利】【够】【了】,【才】【能】【动】【工】【重】【新】【载】【树】。” 【墨】【芊】【芊】【瞪】【着】【萧】【文】【远】,【假】【装】【生】【气】【道】:“【说】【到】【这】【个】【我】【还】【真】【的】【很】【不】【满】【意】,【你】【说】【你】【赐】【什】

  【容】【平】,【老】【茶】【馆】。 【台】【上】【川】【剧】【咿】【咿】【呀】【呀】【唱】【着】,【宋】【维】【扬】【撇】【着】【盖】【碗】【茶】,【说】【道】:“【要】【不】,【你】【暂】【时】【退】【下】【来】,【先】【休】【息】【一】【年】【半】【载】【吧】。” “【不】【用】。”【陈】【桃】【一】【口】【拒】【绝】。 “【当】【集】【团】COO【很】【忙】【的】,【可】【别】【累】【坏】【了】。”【宋】【维】【扬】【说】。 【陈】【桃】【说】:“【我】【自】【己】【有】【分】【寸】。” “【行】【吧】,【你】【自】【己】【注】【意】【点】,”【宋】【维】【扬】【只】【能】【顺】【着】【她】,【又】【补】【充】【了】【一】【句】,

  【龙】【炎】【依】【旧】【还】【是】【一】【步】【不】【停】【的】【朝】【着】【前】【方】【走】【去】,【只】【是】【现】【在】【所】【有】【门】【派】【的】【弟】【子】【哪】【里】【还】【敢】【招】【惹】【这】【个】【煞】【星】,【刚】【才】【的】【榜】【样】【都】【化】【成】【飞】【灰】【或】【者】【化】【成】【碎】【尸】【躺】【在】【地】【上】【了】。 “【一】【起】【上】。” 【众】【多】【的】【门】【派】【掌】【门】【互】【相】【对】【视】【了】【一】【眼】,【接】【着】【所】【有】【掌】【门】【都】【冲】【天】【而】【起】,【罗】【武】【珏】【虽】【然】【只】【是】【一】【个】【人】,【但】【是】【论】【气】【势】【方】【面】【竟】【然】【丝】【毫】【都】【不】【必】【那】【群】【人】【弱】【上】【半】【分】。 “【此】【子】

  “【我】【需】【要】【你】【传】【令】【回】【苗】【疆】,【如】【今】【汉】【人】【的】【一】【个】【大】【官】【来】【到】【了】【黔】【省】,【他】【叫】【武】【定】【国】。【他】【是】【这】【次】【黔】【省】【团】【练】【的】【总】【负】【责】【人】,【杀】【了】【他】,【黔】【省】【团】【练】【就】【办】【不】【起】【来】,【这】【对】【于】【我】【苗】【疆】【好】【处】【极】【大】,【所】【以】,【我】【需】【要】【老】【家】【人】【出】【手】,【帮】【我】【干】……【咳】【咳】,【干】【一】【件】【事】,【活】【捉】【武】【定】【国】!” “【特】【使】,【恕】【小】【的】【直】【言】,【活】【捉】【的】【难】【度】【远】【大】【于】【杀】【死】【他】,【而】【且】,【特】【使】【好】【像】【就】【在】【武】

责任编辑:李一智 未经授权不得转载
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