姐,我要。。。
轻松的小说阅读环境
巴黎圣母院英文版 - BOOK FIFTH CHAPTER II.THIS WILL KILL THAT. Page 2
繁体
恢复默认
返回目录【键盘操作】左右光标键:上下章节;回车键:目录;双击鼠标:停止/启动自动滚动;滚动时上下光标键调节滚动速度。
  And when one observes that this mode of expression is not only the most conservative, but also the most simple, the most convenient, the most practicable for all; when one reflects that it does not drag after it bulky baggage, and does not set in motion a heavy apparatus; when one compares thought forced, in order to transform itself into an edifice, to put in motion four or five other arts and tons of gold, a whole mountain of stones, a whole forest of timber-work, a whole nation of workmen; when one compares it to the thought which becomes a book, and for which a little paper, a little ink, and a pen suffice,--how can one be surprised that human intelligence should have quitted architecture for printing? Cut the primitive bed of a river abruptly with a canal hollowed out below its level, and the river will desert its bed.Behold how, beginning with the discovery of printing, architecture withers away little by little, becomes lifeless and bare.How one feels the water sinking, the sap departing, the thought of the times and of the people withdrawing from it!The chill is almost imperceptible in the fifteenth century; the press is, as yet, too weak, and, at the most, draws from powerful architecture a superabundance of life.But practically beginning with the sixteenth century, the malady of architecture is visible; it is no longer the expression of society; it becomes classic art in a miserable manner; from being Gallic, European, indigenous, it becomes Greek and Roman; from being true and modern, it becomes pseudo-classic.It is this decadence which is called the Renaissance.A magnificent decadence, however, for the ancient Gothic genius, that sun which sets behind the gigantic press of Mayence, still penetrates for a while longer with its rays that whole hybrid pile of Latin arcades and Corinthian columns.It is that setting sun which we mistake for the dawn.Nevertheless, from the moment when architecture is no longer anything but an art like any other; as soon as it is no longer the total art, the sovereign art, the tyrant art,--it has no longer the power to retain the other arts.So they emancipate themselves, break the yoke of the architect, and take themselves off, each one in its own direction.Each one of them gains by this divorce.Isolation aggrandizes everything. Sculpture becomes statuary, the image trade becomes painting, the canon becomes music.One would pronounce it an empire dismembered at the death of its Alexander, and whose provinces become kingdoms.Hence Raphael, Michael Angelo, Jean Goujon, palestrina, those splendors of the dazzling sixteenth century.Thought emancipates itself in all directions at the same time as the arts.The arch-heretics of the Middle Ages had already made large incisions into Catholicism.The sixteenth century breaks religious unity.Before the invention of printing, reform would have been merely a schism; printing converted it into a revolution.Take away the press; heresy is enervated. Whether it be providence or Fate, Gutenburg is the precursor of Luther.Nevertheless, when the sun of the Middle Ages is completely set, when the Gothic genius is forever extinct upon the horizon, architecture grows dim, loses its color, becomes more and more effaced.The printed book, the gnawing worm of the edifice, sucks and devours it.It becomes bare, denuded of its foliage, and grows visibly emaciated.It is petty, it is poor, it is nothing.It no longer expresses anything, not even the memory of the art of another time.Reduced to itself, abandoned by the other arts, because human thought is abandoning it, it summons bunglers in place of artists.Glass replaces the painted windows.The stone-cutter succeeds the sculptor. Farewell all sap, all originality, all life, all intelligence. It drags along, a lamentable workshop mendicant, from copy to copy.Michael Angelo, who, no doubt, felt even in the sixteenth century that it was dying, had a last idea, an idea of despair.That Titan of art piled the pantheon on the parthenon, and made Saint-peter's at Rome.A great work, which deserved to remain unique, the last originality of architecture, the signature of a giant artist at the bottom of the colossal register of stone which was closed forever.With Michael Angelo dead, what does this miserable architecture, which survived itself in the state of a spectre, do?It takes Saint-peter in Rome, copies it and parodies it.It is a mania. It is a pity.Each century has its Saint-peter's of Rome; in the seventeenth century, the Val-de-Grace; in the eighteenth, Sainte-Geneviève.Each country has its Saint-peter's of Rome.London has one; petersburg has another; paris has two or three.The insignificant testament, the last dotage of a decrepit grand art falling back into infancy before it dies.If, in place of the characteristic monuments which we have just described, we examine the general aspect of art from the sixteenth to the eighteenth century, we notice the same phenomena of decay and phthisis.Beginning with Fran?ois II., the architectural form of the edifice effaces itself more and more, and allows the geometrical form, like the bony structure of an emaciated invalid, to become prominent.The fine lines of art give way to the cold and inexorable lines of geometry.An edifice is no longer an edifice; it is a polyhedron.Meanwhile, architecture is tormented in her struggles to conceal this nudity.Look at the Greek pediment inscribed upon the Roman pediment, and vice versa.It is still the pantheon on the parthenon: Saint-peter's of Rome.Here are the brick houses of Henri IV., with their stone corners; the place Royale, the place Dauphine.Here are the churches of Louis XIII., heavy, squat, thickset, crowded together, loaded with a dome like a hump.Here is the Mazarin architecture, the wretched Italian pasticcio of the Four Nations. Here are the palaces of Louis XIV., long barracks for courtiers, stiff, cold, tiresome.Here, finally, is Louis XV., with chiccory leaves and vermicelli, and all the warts, and all the fungi, which disfigure that decrepit, toothless, and coquettish old architecture.From Fran?ois II. to Louis XV., the evil has increased in geometrical progression.Art has no longer anything but skin upon its bones.It is miserably perishing.Meanwhile what becomes of printing?All the life which is leaving architecture comes to it.In proportion as architecture ebbs, printing swells and grows.That capital of forces which human thought had been expending in edifices, it henceforth expends in books.Thus, from the sixteenth century onward, the press, raised to the level of decaying architecture, contends with it and kills it.In the seventeenth century it is already sufficiently the sovereign, sufficiently triumphant, sufficiently established in its victory, to give to the world the feast of a great literary century.In the eighteenth, having reposed for a long time at the Court of Louis XIV., it seizes again the old sword of Luther, puts it into the hand of Voltaire, and rushes impetuously to the attack of that ancient Europe, whose architectural expression it has already killed.At the moment when the eighteenth century comes to an end, it has destroyed everything. In the nineteenth, it begins to reconstruct.Now, we ask, which of the three arts has really represented human thought for the last three centuries? which translates it? which expresses not only its literary and scholastic vagaries, but its vast, profound, universal movement? which constantly superposes itself, without a break, without a gap, upon the human race, which walks a monster with a thousand legs?--Architecture or printing?It is printing.Let the reader make no mistake; architecture is dead; irretrievably slain by the printed book,--slain because it endures for a shorter time,--slain because it costs more.Every cathedral represents millions.Let the reader now imagine what an investment of funds it would require to rewrite the architectural book; to cause thousands of edifices to swarm once more upon the soil; to return to those epochs when the throng of monuments was such, according to the statement of an eye witness, "that one would have said that the world in shaking itself, had cast off its old garments in order to cover itself with a white vesture of churches." ~Erat enim ut si mundus, ipse excutiendo semet, rejecta vetustate, candida ecclesiarum vestem indueret~.(GLABER RADOLpHUS.)A book is so soon made, costs so little, and can go so far! How can it surprise us that all human thought flows in this channel?This does not mean that architecture will not still have a fine monument, an isolated masterpiece, here and there.We may still have from time to time, under the reign of printing, a column made I suppose, by a whole army from melted cannon, as we had under the reign of architecture, Iliads and Romanceros, Mahabahrata, and Nibelungen Lieds, made by a whole people, with rhapsodies piled up and melted together.The great accident of an architect of genius may happen in the twentieth century, like that of Dante in the thirteenth.But architecture will no longer be the social art, the collective art, the dominating art.The grand poem, the grand edifice, the grand work of humanity will no longer be built: it will be printed.And henceforth, if architecture should arise again accidentally, it will no longer be mistress.It will be subservient to the law of literature, which formerly received the law from it.The respective positions of the two arts will be inverted.It is certain that in architectural epochs, the poems, rare it is true, resemble the monuments.In India, Vyasa is branching, strange, impenetrable as a pagoda.In Egyptian Orient, poetry has like the edifices, grandeur and tranquillity of line; in antique Greece, beauty, serenity, calm; in Christian Europe, the Catholic majesty, the popular naivete, the rich and luxuriant vegetation of an epoch of renewal. The Bible resembles the pyramids; the Iliad, the parthenon; Homer, phidias.Dante in the thirteenth century is the last Romanesque church; Shakespeare in the sixteenth, the last Gothic cathedral.Thus, to sum up what we have hitherto said, in a fashion which is necessarily incomplete and mutilated, the human race has two books, two registers, two testaments: masonry and printing; the Bible of stone and the Bible of paper.No doubt, when one contemplates these two Bibles, laid so broadly open in the centuries, it is permissible to regret the visible majesty of the writing of granite, those gigantic alphabets formulated in colonnades, in pylons, in obelisks, those sorts of human mountains which cover the world and the past, from the pyramid to the bell tower, from Cheops to Strasburg. The past must be reread upon these pages of marble.This book, written by architecture, must be admired and perused incessantly; but the grandeur of the edifice which printing erects in its turn must not be denied.That edifice is colossal.Some compiler of statistics has calculated, that if all the volumes which have issued from the press since Gutenberg's day were to be piled one upon another, they would fill the space between the earth and the moon; but it is not that sort of grandeur of which we wished to speak.Nevertheless, when one tries to collect in one's mind a comprehensive image of the total products of printing down to our own days, does not that total appear to us like an immense construction, resting upon the entire world, at which humanity toils without relaxation, and whose monstrous crest is lost in the profound mists of the future?It is the anthill of intelligence.It is the hive whither come all imaginations, those golden bees, with their honey.The edifice has a thousand stories.Here and there one beholds on its staircases the gloomy caverns of science which pierce its interior.Everywhere upon its surface, art causes its arabesques, rosettes, and laces to thrive luxuriantly before the eyes.There, every individual work, however capricious and isolated it may seem, has its place and its projection. Harmony results from the whole.From the cathedral of Shakespeare to the mosque of Byron, a thousand tiny bell towers are piled pell-mell above this metropolis of universal thought.At its base are written some ancient titles of humanity which architecture had not registered.To the left of the entrance has been fixed the ancient bas-relief, in white marble, of Homer; to the right, the polyglot Bible rears its seven heads.The hydra of the Romancero and some other hybrid forms, the Vedas and the Nibelungen bristle further on.Nevertheless, the prodigious edifice still remains incomplete. The press, that giant machine, which incessantly pumps all the intellectual sap of society, belches forth without pause fresh materials for its work.The whole human race is on the scaffoldings.Each mind is a mason.The humblest fills his hole, or places his stone.Retif dè le Bretonne brings his hod of plaster.Every day a new course rises.Independently of the original and individual contribution of each writer, there are collective contingents.The eighteenth century gives the _Encyclopedia_, the revolution gives the _Moniteur_.Assuredly, it is a construction which increases and piles up in endless spirals; there also are confusion of tongues, incessant activity, indefatigable labor, eager competition of all humanity, refuge promised to intelligence, a new Flood against an overflow of barbarians.It is the second tower of Babel of the human race.
或许您还会喜欢:
人性的记录
作者:佚名
章节:31 人气:0
摘要:公众的记忆力是短暂的。曾几何时。埃奇韦尔男爵四世-乔治-艾尔弗雷德-圣文森特-马什被害一案引起巨大轰动和好奇,而今一切已成旧事,皆被遗忘,取而代之的是更新的轰动一时的消息。人们谈起这案子时从未公开说及我的朋友-赫尔克里-波洛。我得说,这全都是由于他本人的意愿。他自己不想出现在案子里。也正如他本人所希望的,功劳就算到别人头上。更何况。按照波洛自己独特的观点,这案子是他的一个失败。 [点击阅读]
人是世上的大野鸡
作者:佚名
章节:15 人气:0
摘要:坑地阵亡战士纪念碑四周长满了玫瑰。这是一片茂密的灌木林。杂乱丛生,小草透不过气来。白色的小花开着,像纸一样卷起。花儿簌簌作响。天色破晓,就快天亮了。每天早上独自穿过马路去往磨坊的路上,温迪施数着一天的时光。在纪念碑前,他数着年头。每当自行车过了纪念碑后的第一棵杨树,他数着天数,从那儿他骑向同一个坑地。夜晚,每当温迪施锁上磨坊,他又数上一遍年头和天数。他远远地看着小小的白玫瑰、阵亡战士纪念碑和杨树。 [点击阅读]
人生的智慧
作者:佚名
章节:11 人气:0
摘要:出版说明叔本华(1788-1860)是德国着名哲学家,唯意志主义和现代悲观主义创始人。自称“性格遗传自父亲,而智慧遗传自母亲”。他一生未婚,没有子女,以狗为伴。他于年写了《附录与补遗》一书,《人生的智慧》是该书中的一部分。在书中他以优雅的文体,格言式的笔触阐述了自己对人生的看法。《人生的智慧》使沉寂多年的叔本华一举成名。 [点击阅读]
人类群星闪耀时
作者:佚名
章节:17 人气:0
摘要:作品简介StefanZweig斯蒂芬·茨威格茨威格于1881年出生在奥地利维也纳一个富裕的犹太工厂主家庭,青年时代曾在维也纳和柏林攻读哲学和文学,获得博士学位。从二十世纪二十年代起,茨威格便“以德语创作赢得了不让于英、法语作品的广泛声誉”。 [点击阅读]
人鱼
作者:佚名
章节:8 人气:0
摘要:眼前是突兀林立的岩石群。多摩河上游的这片布满岩石的区域,地势险峻,令垂钓者望而却步。几年前,曾发现一女子被人推下悬崖赤裸裸地嵌陷在岩石缝中。岩石区怪石嶙峋、地势凶险,当初,调查现场的警官也是费尽周折才踏进这片岩石区域的。一个少女划破清澈的溪流浮出水面。十四五岁的样子,赤身倮体,一丝不挂。望着眼前的情景,垂钓者的两颊不由得痉挛起来。直到方才为止,在不断敲打、吞噬着岩石的激流中还不曾出现过任何物体。 [点击阅读]
今天我不愿面对自己
作者:佚名
章节:11 人气:0
摘要:第一章我被传讯了。周四上午十点整。我总是经常被传讯:周二上午十点整,周六上午十点整,周三或者周一。几年就像一周似的,我感到惊讶的是,夏末一过,冬天又即将来临了。在去有轨电车的路上,结着白色浆果的灌木丛又从篱笆上垂挂下来了。像下面被缝上的珠光纽扣,也许一直长到地里,或者就像小馒头。对转动鸟嘴的白色鸟头来说,这些浆果太小了,但我还是忍不住想到白色鸟头。想得人直犯晕。 [点击阅读]
从地球到月球
作者:佚名
章节:28 人气:0
摘要:在南北战争时期,美国马里兰州中部的巴尔的摩城成立了一个很有势力的新俱乐部。我们知道,当时在这些以造船、经商和机械制造为业的人们中间,军事才能是怎样蓬勃地发展起来的。许多普普通通的商人,也没有受到西点军校的训练,就跨出他们的柜台,摇身一变,当上了尉官、校官,甚至将军,过了不久,他们在“作战技术”上就和旧大陆的那些同行不相上下,同时也和他们一样,仗着大量的炮弹、金钱和生命,打了几次胜仗。 [点击阅读]
他们来到巴格达
作者:佚名
章节:26 人气:0
摘要:一克罗斯毕上尉从银行里走出来,好象刚刚兑换完支票,发现自己存折上的钱比估计的还要多一些,因此满面春风,喜气溢于形色。克罗斯毕上尉看上去很自鸣得意,他就是这样一种人。他五短身材,粗壮结实,脸色红润,蓄着很短的带军人风度的小胡子,走起路来有点摇晃,衣着稍许有点惹人注目。他爱听有趣的故事,人们都很喜欢他。他愉快乐观,普普通通,待人和善,尚未结婚,没有什么超凡拔群之处。在东方,象克罗斯毕这样的人很多。 [点击阅读]
他杀的疑惑
作者:佚名
章节:9 人气:0
摘要:最早发现山桥启太郎死去的,是山桥的夫人佐代子。那天,山桥从早晨起就失去了踪影。其实,说“从早晨起”还不正确。山桥离开自己家的时候,是前一天晚上9点以后。他从公司下班回家,吃了晚饭以后,说有一些东西要写,便去了附近当作工作室的公寓里。山桥在学生时代起就喜欢写诗歌和小说,还亲自主恃着一份《同人》杂志,屡次在文艺类杂志的有奖征稿中人眩对他来说,写作几乎已经超越了纯兴趣的阶段。 [点击阅读]
以眨眼干杯
作者:佚名
章节:14 人气:0
摘要:她有个大目的1以深蓝色的蓝宝石为中心,围绕镶嵌着一圈小小的钻石。把这些宝石连接到一起的,是灿灿发光的黄金。卖点在于其非凡的品质。项链、挂坠、耳环、再加上一对手镯,共计七千四百三十万日元。旁边是一条用红宝石、钻石和水晶组合而成的项链,二千八百万日元。耳环,一千万日元--双层玻璃的背后,仿佛就像是另一个世界。一颗小小的石头,其价格甚至要超过一个大活人。但这也是没办法的事。因为它们是那样地耀眼夺目。 [点击阅读]
伊利亚特
作者:佚名
章节:32 人气:0
摘要:《荷马史诗》是希腊最早的一部史诗,包括《伊里亚特》和《奥德赛》两部分,相传是由盲诗人荷马所作,实际上它产生于民间口头文学。伊里亚特(ΙΛΙΑΣ,Ilias,Iliad,又译《伊利昂记》,今译《伊利亚特》。)是古希腊盲诗人荷马(Homer,800BC-600BC)的叙事诗史诗。是重要的古希腊文学作品,也是整个西方的经典之一。 [点击阅读]
伊豆的舞女
作者:佚名
章节:9 人气:0
摘要:道路变得曲曲折折的,眼看着就要到天城山的山顶了,正在这么想的时候,阵雨已经把从密的杉树林笼罩成白花花的一片,以惊人的速度从山脚下向我追来.那年我二十岁,头戴高等学校的学生帽,身穿藏青色碎白花纹的上衣,围着裙子,肩上挂着书包.我独自旅行到伊豆来,已经是第四天了.在修善寺温泉住了一夜,在汤岛温泉住了两夜,然后穿着高齿的木屐登上了天城山. [点击阅读]