ll短篇小说集

⑴ 世界著名短篇小说

THE GIFT OF THE
One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty- seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.

There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.

While the mistress of the home is graally subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.

In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name "Mr. James Dillingham Young."

The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze ring a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, though, they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called "Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introced to you as Della. Which is all very good.

Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out lly at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling--something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.

There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.

Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.

Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Della's hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.

So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.

On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.

Where she stopped the sign read: "Mne. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds." One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the "Sofronie."

"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.

"I buy hair," said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight at the looks of it."

Down rippled the brown cascade.

"Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.

"Give it to me quick," said Della.

Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present.

She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation--as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value--the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.

When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends--a mammoth task.

Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.

"If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a second look at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do--oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty- seven cents?"

At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.

Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: "Please God, make him think I am still pretty."

The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two--and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.

Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.

Della wriggled off the table and went for him.

"Jim, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again--you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say `Merry Christmas!' Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice-- what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."

"You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.

"Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well, anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I?"

Jim looked about the room curiously.

"You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy.

"You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you--sold and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," she went on with sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?"

Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year--what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.

Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.

"Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first."

White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.

For there lay The Combs--the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jewelled rims--just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.

But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Jim!"

And them Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!"

Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The ll precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.

"Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it."

Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.

"Dell," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on."

The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of plication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.

⑵ 莫泊桑的个人简介

19世纪后半期法国优秀的批判现实主义作家。一生创作了6部长篇小说和356多篇中短篇小说， 他的文学成就以短篇小说最为突出，被誉为 “短篇小说之王”，对后世产生了极大影响。

莫泊桑出身于一个没落贵族之家，母亲醉心文艺，并有很深的文学修养，尤其喜爱诗歌，在其影响下，莫泊桑少年时代便憧憬作一名诗人。他13岁开始写诗。

在鲁昂读中学时，他又受老师、诗人路易·布那影响，开始多种体裁的文学习作，后在福楼拜亲自指导下练习写作，参加了以左拉为首的自然主义作家集团的活动。1870年，莫泊桑参加了普法战争，退伍后，在工作之余，依然从事文学写作。

他以《羊脂球》（1880）入选《梅塘晚会》短篇小说集，一跃登上法国文坛，其创作盛期是80年代。10年间，他创作了6部长篇小说：《一生》（1883）、《俊友》（1885）、《温 泉》（1886）、《 皮埃尔和若望》（1887）、《像死一般坚强》（1889）、《我们的心》（1890）。这些作品揭露了第三共和国的黑暗内幕：内阁要员从金融巨头的利益出发，欺骗议会和民众，发动掠夺非洲殖民地摩洛哥的帝国主义战争；抨击了统治集团的腐朽、贪婪、尔虞我诈的荒淫无耻。莫泊桑还创作了350多部中短篇小说，在揭露上层统治者及其毒化下的社会风气的同时，对被侮辱被损害的小人物寄予深切同情。

短篇的主题大致可归纳为三个方面：第一是讽刺虚荣心和拜金主义，如《项链》、《我的叔叔于勒》；第二是描写劳动人民的悲惨遭遇，赞颂其正直、淳朴、宽厚的品格，如《归来》；第三是描写普法战争，反映法国人民爱国情绪，如《羊脂球》。

莫泊桑短篇小说布局结构的精巧。典型细节的选用、叙事抒情的手法以及行云流水般的自然文笔，都给后世作家提供了楷模。

另外，他敏锐的观察也是令人称道的，自从他拜师福楼拜之后，每逢星期日就带着新习作，从巴黎长途奔波到鲁昂近郊的福楼拜的住处去，聆听福楼拜对他前一周交上的习作的点评。福楼拜对他的要求非常严格，首先要求他敏锐透彻的观察事物。莫泊桑遵从师教，逐渐善于“发现别人没有发现过和没有写过的特点”，后来，当他在谈到作家应该细致、敏锐的观察事物时，说：“必须详细的观察你想要表达的一切东西，时间要长，而且要全神贯注，才能从其中发现迄今还没有人看到与说过的那些方面。为了描写烧的很旺的火或平地上的一棵树，我们就需要站在这堆火或这棵树的面前，一直到我们觉得它们不再跟别的火焰和别的树木一样为止。”

一次，福楼拜还建议莫泊桑做这样的锻炼：骑马出去跑一圈，一两个钟头之后回来，把自己所看到的一切记下来。莫泊桑按照这个办法锻炼自己的观察力有一年之久。

⑶ 短篇小说ll一个家

门，是上帝最初为人间创造的杰作。而窗，只是附带的小礼物。

——前言

天幕渐渐降临，人间又回到最初的平静。灯如期亮起来了，这是黑夜里的太阳，照耀了那些依赖光线生存的黑眼睛。农村远离城市，宁静与喧嚣形成了反差。正如白天与黑夜，黑白不分的世界，其实是两个世界的寄生。

天上繁星闪，地下虫豸叫。宁静的夜晚，天使一般美丽的幻想似乎在这里诞生。上帝已经活到九百九十九亿光年了，他觉得老是呆在天宫，活得也太乏味了。于是，趁月色正好，到人间走一趟，体察一下民情。

这是他第二次来人间。第一次来的时候，地球还是杂草横生，人烟稀少，到处呈现自然美丽和谐的风景。这次他来，还是选择到老地方，一个依山而居，依水而旁的地方。

路上，他遇见了一个正在田野上捉萤火虫的小男孩。他感到很惊讶，问：“你在干嘛？”小男孩看见一个白发苍苍，衣冠闪烁的老人，也感到很惊讶。他从来没有看见老人这般的打扮。男孩小声地回答：“我在捉萤火虫啊。”

“你捉它们来干嘛？”上帝不解地问。

“我是捉来学习用的。家里没有电灯，煤油也买不起。”小男孩说。

上帝开始悲悯起来了，想不到人间还有这么贫苦人家。当初，他是白天来，不知道人间也有黑暗。因为自己在天宫，总是灯火辉煌。那次他临走的时候，为一户人家造了一扇木门，他希望人间的房子都有门，有门才像一个家庭。

“我可以帮你什么吗？”上帝问。

小男孩根本不知道他是上帝，他小时候常听父亲说，“这个世界，还不知道是否有上帝的佑护，但人还是要靠自己的。”

“你能帮我什么吗？我只需要一扇窗。”小男孩在书本里看过这样一句话：“当上帝关闭了所有的门，他还会开启一扇窗。”所以，小男孩常常憧憬着心中的那扇幸福又久远的“窗”。

“我是上帝，你知道吗？不要说是窗，就是楼房，只要我说一声，它们就出现在你面前了。”

小男孩惊奇得后退了几步，心里纳闷：他是上帝？我不会遇见鬼了吧。

上帝看着小男孩那般表情，笑着说：“我真的是上帝，我可以帮你忙，请相信我吧。”

“那好，我只要一扇窗就够了。”于是，上帝把小男孩居住地那所坐北向南的房子，变成了两个有窗的房子，一个面朝东，一个面朝西。

“你现在回去看看，你家的房子已经有窗了。”

“我说的窗不是这个意思啊。”小男孩说。

“那你要什么窗呢？”上帝不解地问。

“我要的窗是面朝大海，春暖花开的窗。你明白吗？”

“这个也不难啊。”上帝一边回答小男孩，一边用手指划，顿时，朝东的那个窗口外面有一片花海，繁花似锦。朝西的那个窗口不远的地方，出现了一个大海，浪涛翻滚。

“你欺负人，你不是上帝。”小男孩说完就跑开了，他不相信那是上帝，他要回家。

上帝站在那，望着远去的背影，急坏了。他想：“人间怎么了？我早已创造了门，现在又创造了窗，这还不够吗？”

上帝由此生气起来了，他决定关闭起人间的门来。于是，他心情不好的时候，就关闭起“门”来；等心情好的时候，就为人间打开一扇窗。

仁慈的上帝啊，可怜的上帝啊，你永远不懂得人间的愁与苦。或许，人间根本就与你无关。

⑷ 有哪些德国作家获得过诺贝尔奖

德国的11位诺贝尔文学奖获奖者。

1、特奥多尔·蒙森 Theodor Mommsen (1817-1903)。

2、鲁道夫·奥依肯 RudolfEucken (1846-1926)。

3、保罗·海泽Paul Heyse (1830-1914)。

4、盖尔哈特·豪普特里Gerhart Hauptmann (1862-1946)。

5、卡尔·弗里德里希·乔治·施皮特勒 Carl Friedrich Georg Spitteler (1845-1924)。

6、托马斯·曼 Thomas Mann (1875-1955)。

7、赫尔曼.黑塞 Hermann Hesse (1877-1962)。

8、海因里希·伯尔 Heinrich Böll(1917-1985)。

9、艾里亚斯·卡耐基 Elias Canetti(1905-1994)。

10、君特·格拉斯 (Günter Grass)。

11、赫塔·缪勒 Herta Müller。

1953年出生在罗马尼亚一个讲德语的少数民族家庭，1987年她与丈夫迁居德国。1982年，穆勒发表了其“处女作”——一本名为《低地》Niederungen的短篇小说集。缪勒是历史上第12位女性诺贝尔文学奖获得者，进入21世纪后的第3位诺贝尔文学奖获得者。