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远大前程读后感范文1
Leafing through the notebook provides me with the pleasure of recovering a cache of longlost photographs. Some of the images are out of focus， some feature individuals whose names have long been forgotten， and others provide moments of sharp recognition. In February， 1984， under the influence of a boyfriend who fancied himself a Wildean wit， I read The Importance of Being Earnest. （You never forget your first aphorist.） That March， I read The Trial， which I vaguely recall being recommended to me by some other young man of high seriousness and literary inclination―but precisely which such young man now escapes me. The May that I was seventeen， I read Middlemarch in the space of two weeks， a reminder of how little else there was to do in my narrow English
coastal town. The Wildean boyfriend lived， exotically enough， in distant London， a useful arrangement if one is developing a taste for nineteenth-century novels.
I made no record of what I thought of any of these books； in my private Goodreads list， there is no starring system. There’s no indication of why I chose the works I did， though since I bought most of my books cheaply， in secondhand shops， the selection was somewhat 5）dictated by availability. Most of them were not assigned texts， at least in the years before I went to university， though there is a certain inevitability about the appearance of many of them： it is 6）axiomatic that a young woman who reads will discover The Bell Jar， as I did in September， 1984. This was a curriculum 7）stumbled into： a few titles culled from the shelves at home； others coming my way from friends at school； and yet others recommended mostly by the Penguin Classics logo on their spine.
My list has its limitations. It’s weighted toward classics of English literature from the nineteenth century and the first half of the twentieth， and， apart from 8）excursions into the Russians and Europeans， it doesn’t range very widely geographically.There was little contemporary literature on it until I discovered the riches of the Picador 9）paperback imprint， while at college. （Milan Kundera， Julian Barnes， Salman Rushdie， Gabriel García Márquez， Italo Calvino， Ian McEwan.） The notebook 10）fizzles out in 1987， around my twenty-first birthday， by which time I was not only studying literature but also reviewing books for a student magazine.
After I found the notebook， I tweeted an image of one of its pages， which covered four months of my reading at the age of seventeen. Among the titles were Great Expectations， The Waves， three Austens， and two Fitzgeralds， as well as books by Elias Canetti， Dostoyevsky， and William Golding， for whom， the notebook reminds me， I had a particular taste at the time. One response： “No fun reads or guilty pleasures？”
It’s a common and easy enough distinction， this separation of books into those we read because we want to and those we read because we have to， and it serves as a useful marketing trope for publishers， especially when they are trying to get readers to take this book rather than that one to the beach. But it’s a flawed and 11）pernicious division.
This linking of pleasure and guilt is intended as an 12） enticement， not as an 13）admonition： reading for guilty pleasure is like letting one’s diet slide for a day―naughty but relatively harmless. The distinction partakes of a debased cultural Puritanism， which insists that the only fun to be had with a book is the 14）frivolous kind， or that it’s necessarily a pleasure to read something accessible and easy. Associating pleasure and guilt in this way presumes an 15）anterior， scolding authority―one which insists that reading must be work.
But there are pleasures to be had from books beyond being lightly entertained. There is the pleasure of being challenged； the pleasure of feeling one’s range and capacities expanding； the pleasure of entering into an unfamiliar world， and being led into empathy with a consciousness very different from one’s own； the pleasure of knowing what others have already thought it worth knowing， and entering a larger conversation. Among my catalogue are some books that I am sure I was―to use an expression applied to elementary-school children―decoding rather than reading. Such， I suspect， was the case with Ulysses， a book I read at eighteen， without having first read The Odyssey， which might have deepened my appreciation of Joyce. Even so―and especially when considering adolescence―we should not underestimate the very real pleasure of being pleased with oneself. What my notebook offers me is a portrait of the reader as a young woman， or at the very least， a sketch. I wanted to read well， but I also wanted to become well read. The notebook is a small record of accomplishment， but it’s also an outline of large aspiration. There’s pleasure in ambition， too.
We have become accustomed to hearing commercial novelists express frustration with the ways in which their books are taken less seriously than ones that are deemed literary： book reviewers don’t pay them enough attention， while publishers give their works safe， predictable cover treatments. In this debate， academic arguments that have been conducted for more than a generation， about the validity or otherwise of a literary 16）canon， meet the marketplace. The debate has its merits， but less discussed has been the converse consequence of the popular-literary distinction： that literary works， especially those not written last year， are placed at the opposite pole to fun.
My list reminds me of a time when I was more or less in ignorance of this 17）proposition. It may not include any examples of what I later learned to call commercial fiction： I did not， for example， read Hollywood Wives， by Jackie Collins， which had been published the same year that I started the list， and I am not sure I had even heard of it. But I can’t imagine that it could have given me more delight than did the romantic 18）travails that ironically unfold in Emma， or that its satisfactions could possibly have been greater than those offered by the lyricism and verydrama of Tender Is the Night. The 19）fallacy that the pleasures offered by reading must necessarily be pleasures to which a self-defeating sense of shame is attached offers a very 20）impoverished definition of gratification， whatever book we choose to pull from the shelf.
不久前，我扒出一本遗失已久的笔记，那是一个蓝色小本子，上面记载了大概有四年的时光中，我所读过的每本书的名字。记录始于1983年的7月中旬，上高中二年级前的暑假刚刚开始，我写下的第一个书名是鲍里斯・帕斯捷尔纳克的《日瓦戈医生》。时至今日，我已不记得自己读过《日瓦戈医生》了，也不知道当时自己为什么觉得读这本书值得记下一笔。
翻阅着笔记本，我愉快得如同重获一盒遗失多年的旧照：有的照片已经模糊不清，有的照片徒有形象但人名却早已忘却，另一些照片则勾起了某些清晰的回忆。我那时的男友以王尔德式才子自许，在他影响下，我在1984年2月读了《不可儿戏》。（平生头一次遇到的警句名家，你绝对忘不了。）3月，我读了《审判》，依稀记得向我推荐此书的另外一个小伙子极为严肃、热爱文学，但我已经记不清到底是哪一位了。那年5月，我17岁，两周内读完《米德尔马契》，这不禁让我想起那时我在那英格兰海滨小镇真是多么的百无聊赖。很奇怪的是，我的才子男友那时住在遥远的伦敦，不过对于正热衷于十九世纪小说的我来说，倒也不无裨益。
这些书我都没有写读后感，它们被一一列入我的私人“好书”名单，并没有分三五九等。至于为什么选择这些书也没有规律可循。不过鉴于我的书大多是在二手书店淘来的便宜货，挑选的书籍多少受货源限制。书单中大部分书都不是老师指定的必读书目，至少在上大学前的两年里，都不是。不过，很多书的出现都有着某种必然性。比如，一个嗜书的女青年理所当然会发现《钟形罩》，正如我在1984年9月与之相遇一样。这些书随兴而至，倒也可观：有些是从我家的藏书中挑选出来，有些是从同学处觅得，然而其他的大都因为书脊上印有“企鹅经典”的标识，让人招架不住。
不过我的书单也有局限。书目主要偏向19世纪以及20世纪上半叶的英语文学经典，除此以外只稍稍涉猎几部俄国和欧洲文学作品，地域性不够宽广。而且书单上几乎没有当代文学作品，直到上了大学，我才发现骑马斗牛士出版社出版的丰富的平装文学书系列（包括米兰・昆德拉、朱利安・巴恩斯、萨尔曼・拉什迪、加夫列尔・加西亚・马尔克斯、伊塔洛・卡尔维诺、伊恩・麦克尤恩）。1987年，我一边主修文学，一边为一本学生刊物写书评。就在快要21岁生日的时候，我的笔记戛然而止了。
在发现这本笔记后，我把其中一页拍照并放到了推特微博上，那是17岁那年四个月的阅读记录，其中包括了《远大前程》、《海浪》、三本奥斯汀、两本菲茨杰拉德，还有艾利亚斯・卡内蒂、陀思妥耶夫斯基以及威廉・戈尔丁的作品。要不是这本笔记，我还真忘了自已那时特别爱看戈尔丁呢。结果有人回复说：“该看些伟大的闷书，还是看堕落却快乐的？”
像这样把书本种类分成我们“想”读和“不得不”读，是一种十分简单也常见的区分方法。出版商也把这种两分法当成一种有用的营销手段，特别对于打算去海边度假的人，在说服他们买这一本、而非那一本时，这种方法特管用。但这种区分存在缺陷，内藏隐患。
它把快乐与罪恶感联系到一起，与其说是劝诫，不如说是诱惑：阅读追求带有罪恶感的快乐，就像节食的人在某一天大开食诫――虽然淘气但也无伤大雅。这种区分带有某种低级的清教文化主义，强调一本书带给我们的唯一乐趣在于这种轻浮浅薄的感受，或者说，浅显易懂的读物必定带来快乐。将快乐和罪恶如此这般联系在一起，也意味着还有一种渊源更深的权威，它一味苛责，认为阅读一定是件“劳累活”。
但除了轻松休闲，阅读还带给我们更多乐趣：迎接挑战之乐，感到界限和能力得到拓宽之乐，进入陌生世界，与异己思想产生共鸣之乐，习得他人已然明白的道理，与更多人对话之乐。我敢说，书单里有一些书，我根本谈不上阅读，借用一下小学生的词汇，是破译天书。在18岁那年，我阅读《尤利西斯》估计就是这种情况，如果那时我先读过《奥德赛》，对乔伊斯的理解应该会更好。即使如此，我们，特别是青少年读者，不应该低估读书的真正快乐，那就是自我满足。我的笔记就向我展现了一个读书少女的形象，或者至少有那么一个轮廓，那个希望好好阅读，成为博学之人的我。这本笔记是个人成就的小小记录，也勾勒出一种远大的志向。抱负也让人快乐。