登陆注册
10299900000010

第10章 THE STORY OF MY LIFE(6)

My studies the first year were French, German, history, English composition and English literature. In the French course I read some of the works of Corneille, Moliere, Racine, Alfred de Musset and Sainte-Beuve, and in the German those of Goethe and Schiller. I reviewed rapidly the whole period of history from the fall of the Roman Empire to the eighteenth century, and in English literature studied critically Milton's poems and "Areopagitica."

I am frequently asked how I overcome the peculiar conditions under which I work in college. In the classroom I am of course practically alone. The professor is as remote as if he were speaking through a telephone. The lectures are spelled into my hand as rapidly as possible, and much of the individuality of the lecturer is lost to me in the effort to keep in the race. The words rush through my hand like hounds in pursuit of a hare which they often miss. But in this respect I do not think I am much worse off than the girls who take notes. If the mind is occupied with the mechanical process of hearing and putting words on paper at pell-mell speed, I should not think one could pay much attention to the subject under consideration or the manner in which it is presented. I cannot make notes during the lectures, because my hands are busy listening. Usually I jot down what I can remember of them when I get home. I write the exercises, daily themes, criticisms and hour-tests, the mid-year and final examinations, on my typewriter, so that the professors have no difficulty in finding out how little I know. When I began the study of Latin prosody, I devised and explained to my professor a system of signs indicating the different meters and quantities.

I use the Hammond typewriter. I have tried many machines, and I find the Hammond is the best adapted to the peculiar needs of my work. With this machine movable type shuttles can be used, and one can have several shuttles, each with a different set of characters—Greek, French, or mathematical, according to the kind of writing one wishes to do on the typewriter. Without it, I doubt if I could go to college.

Very few of the books required in the various courses are printed for the blind, and I am obliged to have them spelled into my hand. Consequently I need more time to prepare my lessons than other girls. The manual part takes longer, and I have perplexities which they have not. There are days when the close attention I must give to details chafes my spirit, and the thought that I must spend hours reading a few chapters, while in the world without other girls are laughing and singing and dancing, makes me rebellious; but I soon recover my buoyancy and laugh the discontent out of my heart. For, after all, every one who wishes to gain true knowledge must climb the Hill Difficulty alone, and since there is no royal road to the summit, I must zigzag it in my own way. I slip back many times, I fall, I stand still, I run against the edge of hidden obstacles, I lose my temper and find it again and keep it better, I trudge on, I gain a little, I feel encouraged, I get more eager and climb higher and begin to see the widening horizon. Every struggle is a victory. One more effort and I reach the luminous cloud, the blue depths of the sky, the uplands of my desire. I am not always alone, however, in these struggles. Mr. William Wade and Mr. E. E. Allen, Principal of the Pennsylvania Institution for the Instruction of the Blind, get for me many of the books I need in raised print. Their thoughtfulness has been more of a help and encouragement to me than they can ever know.

Last year, my second year at Radcliffe, I studied English composition, the Bible as English composition, the governments of America and Europe, the Odes of Horace, and Latin comedy. The class in composition was the pleasantest. It was very lively. The lectures were always interesting, vivacious, witty; for the instructor, Mr. Charles Townsend Copeland, more than any one else I have had until this year, brings before you literature in all its original freshness and power. For one short hour you are permitted to drink in the eternal beauty of the old masters without needless interpretation or exposition. You revel in their fine thoughts. You enjoy with all your soul the sweet thunder of the Old Testament, forgetting the existence of Jahweh and Elohim; and you go home feeling that you have had "a glimpse of that perfection in which spirit and form dwell in immortal harmony; truth and beauty bearing a new growth on the ancient stem of time."

This year is the happiest because I am studying subjects that especially interest me, economics, Elizabethan literature, Shakespeare under Professor George L. Kittredge, and the History of Philosophy under Professor Josiah Royce. Through philosophy one enters with sympathy of comprehension into the traditions of remote ages and other modes of thought, which erewhile seemed alien and without reason.

But college is not the universal Athens I thought it was. There one does not meet the great and the wise face to face; one does not even feel their living touch. They are there, it is true; but they seem mummified. We must extract them from the crannied wall of learning and dissect and analyze them before we can be sure that we have a Milton or an Isaiah, and not merely a clever imitation. Many scholars forget, it seems to me, that our enjoyment of the great works of literature depends more upon the depth of our sympathy than upon our understanding. The trouble is that very few of their laborious explanations stick in the memory. The mind drops them as a branch drops its overripe fruit. It is possible to know a flower, root and stem and all, and all the processes of growth, and yet to have no appreciation of the flower fresh bathed in heaven's dew. Again and again I ask impatiently, "Why concern myself with these explanations and hypotheses?" They fly hither and thither in my thought like blind birds beating the air with ineffectual wings. I do not mean to object to a thorough knowledge of the famous works we read. I object only to the interminable comments and bewildering criticisms that teach but one thing: there are as many opinions as there are men. But when a great scholar like Professor Kittredge interprets what the master said, it is "as if new sight were given the blind." He brings back Shakespeare, the poet.

There are, however, times when I long to sweep away half the things I am expected to learn; for the overtaxed mind cannot enjoy the treasure it has secured at the greatest cost. It is impossible, I think, to read in one day four or five different books in different languages and treating of widely different subjects, and not lose sight of the very ends for which one reads. When one reads hurriedly and nervously, having in mind written tests and examinations, one's brain becomes encumbered with a lot of choice bric-a-brac for which there seems to be little use. At the present time my mind is so full of heterogeneous matter that I almost despair of ever being able to put it in order. Whenever I enter the region that was the kingdom of my mind I feel like the proverbial bull in the china shop. A thousand odds and ends of knowledge come crashing about my head like hailstones, and when I try to escape them, theme-goblins and college nixies of all sorts pursue me, until I wish—oh, may I be forgiven the wicked wish!—that I might smash the idols I came to worship.

But the examinations are the chief bugbears of my college life. Although I have faced them many times and cast them down and made them bite the dust, yet they rise again and menace me with pale looks, until like Bob Acres I feel my courage oozing out at my finger ends. The days before these ordeals take place are spent in cramming your mind with mystic formula and indigestible dates—unpalatable diets, until you wish that books and science and you were buried in the depths of the sea.

At last the dreaded hour arrives, and you are a favoured being indeed if you feel prepared, and are able at the right time to call to your standard thoughts that will aid you in that supreme effort. It happens too often that your trumpet call is unheeded. It is most perplexing and exasperating that just at the moment when you need your memory and a nice sense of discrimination, these faculties take to themselves wings and fly away. The facts you have garnered with such infinite trouble invariably fail you at a pinch.

"Give a brief account of Huss and his work." Huss? Who was he and what did he do? The name looks strangely familiar. You ransack your budget of historic facts much as you would hunt for a bit of silk in a rag-bag. You are sure it is somewhere in your mind near the top—you saw it there the other day when you were looking up the beginnings of the Reformation. But where is it now? You fish out all manner of odds and ends of knowledge—revolutions, schisms, massacres, systems of government; but Huss—where is he? You are amazed at all the things you know which are not on the examination paper. In desperation you seize the budget and dump everything out, and there in a corner is your man, serenely brooding on his own private thought, unconscious of the catastrophe which he has brought upon you.

Just then the proctor informs you that the time is up. With a feeling of intense disgust you kick the mass of rubbish into a corner and go home, your head full of revolutionary schemes to abolish the divine right of professors to ask questions without the consent of the questioned.

It comes over me that in the last two or three pages of this chapter I have used figures which will turn the laugh against me. Ah, here they are—the mixed metaphors mocking and strutting about before me, pointing to the bull in the china shop assailed by hailstones and the bugbears with pale looks, an unanalyzed species! Let them mock on. The words describe so exactly the atmosphere of jostling, tumbling ideas I live in that I will wink at them for once, and put on a deliberate air to say that my ideas of college have changed.

While my days at Radcliffe were still in the future, they were encircled with a halo of romance, which they have lost; but in the transition from romantic to actual I have learned many things I should never have known had I not tried the experiment. One of them is the precious science of patience, which teaches us that we should take our education as we would take a walk in the country, leisurely, our minds hospitably open to impressions of every sort. Such knowledge floods the soul unseen with a soundless tidal wave of deepening thought. "Knowledge is power." Rather, knowledge is happiness, because to have knowledge—broad, deep knowledge—is to know true ends from false, and lofty things from low. To know the thoughts and deeds that have marked man's progress is to feel the great heart-throbs of humanity through the centuries; and if one does not feel in these pulsations a heavenward striving, one must indeed be deaf to the harmonies of life.

Chapter XXI

I have thus far sketched the events of my life, but I have not shown how much I have depended on books not only for pleasure and for the wisdom they bring to all who read, but also for that knowledge which comes to others through their eyes and their ears. Indeed, books have meant so much more in my education than in that of others, that I shall go back to the time when I began to read.

I read my first connected story in May, 1887, when I was seven years old, and from that day to this I have devoured everything in the shape of a printed page that has come within the reach of my hungry finger tips. As I have said, I did not study regularly during the early years of my education; nor did I read according to rule.

At first I had only a few books in raised print—"readers" for beginners, a collection of stories for children, and a book about the earth called "Our World." I think that was all; but I read them over and over, until the words were so worn and pressed I could scarcely make them out. Sometimes Miss Sullivan read to me, spelling into my hand little stories and poems that she knew I should understand; but I preferred reading myself to being read to, because I liked to read again and again the things that pleased me.

It was during my first visit to Boston that I really began to read in good earnest. I was permitted to spend a part of each day in the Institution library, and to wander from bookcase to bookcase, and take down whatever book my fingers lighted upon. And read I did, whether I understood one word in ten or two words on a page. The words themselves fascinated me; but I took no conscious account of what I read. My mind must, however, have been very impressionable at that period, for it retained many words and whole sentences, to the meaning of which I had not the faintest clue; and afterward, when I began to talk and write, these words and sentences would flash out quite naturally, so that my friends wondered at the richness of my vocabulary. I must have read parts of many books (in those early days I think I never read any one book through) and a great deal of poetry in this uncomprehending way, until I discovered "Little Lord Fauntleroy," which was the first book of any consequence I read understandingly.

One day my teacher found me in a corner of the library poring over the pages of "The Scarlet Letter." I was then about eight years old. I remember she asked me if I liked little Pearl, and explained some of the words that had puzzled me. Then she told me that she had a beautiful story about a little boy which she was sure I should like better than "The Scarlet Letter." The name of the story was "Little Lord Fauntleroy," and she promised to read it to me the following summer. But we did not begin the story until August; the first few weeks of my stay at the seashore were so full of discoveries and excitement that I forgot the very existence of books. Then my teacher went to visit some friends in Boston, leaving me for a short time.

When she returned almost the first thing we did was to begin the story of "Little Lord Fauntleroy." I recall distinctly the time and place when we read the first chapters of the fascinating child's story. It was a warm afternoon in August. We were sitting together in a hammock which swung from two solemn pines at a short distance from the house. We had hurried through the dish-washing after luncheon, in order that we might have as long an afternoon as possible for the story. As we hastened through the long grass toward the hammock, the grasshoppers swarmed about us and fastened themselves on our clothes, and I remember that my teacher insisted upon picking them all off before we sat down, which seemed to me an unnecessary waste of time. The hammock was covered with pine needles, for it had not been used while my teacher was away. The warm sun shone on the pine trees and drew out all their fragrance. The air was balmy, with a tang of the sea in it. Before we began the story Miss Sullivan explained to me the things that she knew I should not understand, and as we read on she explained the unfamiliar words. At first there were many words I did not know, and the reading was constantly interrupted; but as soon as I thoroughly comprehended the situation, I became too eagerly absorbed in the story to notice mere words, and I am afraid I listened impatiently to the explanations that Miss Sullivan felt to be necessary. When her fingers were too tired to spell another word, I had for the first time a keen sense of my deprivations. I took the book in my hands and tried to feel the letters with an intensity of longing that I can never forget.

Afterward, at my eager request, Mr. Anagnos had this story embossed, and I read it again and again, until I almost knew it by heart; and all through my childhood "Little Lord Fauntleroy" was my sweet and gentle companion. I have given these details at the risk of being tedious, because they are in such vivid contrast with my vague, mutable and confused memories of earlier reading.

From "Little Lord Fauntleroy" I date the beginning of my true interest in books. During the next two years I read many books at my home and on my visits to Boston. I cannot remember what they all were, or in what order I read them; but I know that among them were "Greek Heroes," La Fontaine's "Fables," Hawthorne's "Wonder Book," "Bible Stories," Lamb's "Tales from Shakespeare," "A Child's History of England" by Dickens, "The Arabian Nights," "The Swiss Family Robinson," "The Pilgrim's Progress," "Robinson Crusoe," "Little Women," and "Heidi," a beautiful little story which I afterward read in German. I read them in the intervals between study and play with an ever-deepening sense of pleasure. I did not study nor analyze them—I did not know whether they were well written or not; I never thought about style or authorship. They laid their treasures at my feet, and I accepted them as we accept the sunshine and the love of our friends. I loved "Little Women" because it gave me a sense of kinship with girls and boys who could see and hear. Circumscribed as my life was in so many ways, I had to look between the covers of books for news of the world that lay outside my own.

I did not care especially for "The Pilgrim's Progress," which I think I did not finish, or for the "Fables." I read La Fontaine's "Fables" first in an English translation, and enjoyed them only after a half-hearted fashion. Later I read the book again in French, and I found that, in spite of the vivid word-pictures, and the wonderful mastery of language, I liked it no better. I do not know why it is, but stories in which animals are made to talk and act like human beings have never appealed to me very strongly. The ludicrous caricatures of the animals occupy my mind to the exclusion of the moral.

Then, again, La Fontaine seldom, if ever, appeals to our highest moral sense. The highest chords he strikes are those of reason and self-love. Through all the fables runs the thought that man's morality springs wholly from self-love, and that if that self-love is directed and restrained by reason, happiness must follow. Now, so far as I can judge, self-love is the root of all evil; but, of course, I may be wrong, for La Fontaine had greater opportunities of observing men than I am likely ever to have. I do not object so much to the cynical and satirical fables as to those in which momentous truths are taught by monkeys and foxes.

But I love "The Jungle Book" and "Wild Animals I Have Known." I feel a genuine interest in the animals themselves, because they are real animals and not caricatures of men. One sympathizes with their loves and hatreds, laughs over their comedies, and weeps over their tragedies. And if they point a moral, it is so subtle that we are not conscious of it.

My mind opened naturally and joyously to a conception of antiquity. Greece, ancient Greece, exercised a mysterious fascination over me. In my fancy the pagan gods and goddesses still walked on earth and talked face to face with men, and in my heart I secretly built shrines to those I loved best. I knew and loved the whole tribe of nymphs and heroes and demigods—no, not quite all, for the cruelty and greed of Medea and Jason were too monstrous to be forgiven, and I used to wonder why the gods permitted them to do wrong and then punished them for their wickedness. And the mystery is still unsolved. I often wonder how

God can dumbness keep While Sin creeps grinning through His house of Time.

It was the Iliad that made Greece my paradise. I was familiar with the story of Troy before I read it in the original, and consequently I had little difficulty in making the Greek words surrender their treasures after I had passed the borderland of grammar. Great poetry, whether written in Greek or in English, needs no other interpreter than a responsive heart. Would that the host of those who make the great works of the poets odious by their analysis, impositions and laborious comments might learn this simple truth! It is not necessary that one should be able to define every word and give it its principal parts and its grammatical position in the sentence in order to understand and appreciate a fine poem. I know my learned professors have found greater riches in the Iliad than I shall ever find; but I am not avaricious. I am content that others should be wiser than I. But with all their wide and comprehensive knowledge, they cannot measure their enjoyment of that splendid epic, nor can I. When I read the finest passages of the Iliad, I am conscious of a soul-sense that lifts me above the narrow, cramping circumstances of my life. My physical limitations are forgotten—my world lies upward, the length and the breadth and the sweep of the heavens are mine!

My admiration for the Aeneid is not so great, but it is none the less real. I read it as much as possible without the help of notes or dictionary, and I always like to translate the episodes that please me especially. The word-painting of Virgil is wonderful sometimes; but his gods and men move through the scenes of passion and strife and pity and love like the graceful figures in an Elizabethan mask, whereas in the Iliad they give three leaps and go on singing. Virgil is serene and lovely like a marble Apollo in the moonlight; Homer is a beautiful, animated youth in the full sunlight with the wind in his hair.

How easy it is to fly on paper wings! From "Greek Heroes" to the Iliad was no day's journey, nor was it altogether pleasant. One could have traveled round the word many times while I trudged my weary way through the labyrinthine mazes of grammars and dictionaries, or fell into those dreadful pitfalls called examinations, set by schools and colleges for the confusion of those who seek after knowledge. I suppose this sort of Pilgrim's Progress was justified by the end; but it seemed interminable to me, in spite of the pleasant surprises that met me now and then at a turn in the road.

I began to read the Bible long before I could understand it. Now it seems strange to me that there should have been a time when my spirit was deaf to its wondrous harmonies; but I remember well a rainy Sunday morning when, having nothing else to do, I begged my cousin to read me a story out of the Bible. Although she did not think I should understand, she began to spell into my hand the story of Joseph and his brothers. Somehow it failed to interest me. The unusual language and repetition made the story seem unreal and far away in the land of Canaan, and I fell asleep and wandered off to the land of Nod, before the brothers came with the coat of many colours unto the tent of Jacob and told their wicked lie! I cannot understand why the stories of the Greeks should have been so full of charm for me, and those of the Bible so devoid of interest, unless it was that I had made the acquaintance of several Greeks in Boston and been inspired by their enthusiasm for the stories of their country; whereas I had not met a single Hebrew or Egyptian, and therefore concluded that they were nothing more than barbarians, and the stories about them were probably all made up, which hypothesis explained the repetitions and the queer names. Curiously enough, it never occurred to me to call Greek patronymics "queer."

But how shall I speak of the glories I have since discovered in the Bible? For years I have read it with an ever-broadening sense of joy and inspiration; and I love it as I love no other book. Still there is much in the Bible against which every instinct of my being rebels, so much that I regret the necessity which has compelled me to read it through from beginning to end. I do not think that the knowledge which I have gained of its history and sources compensates me for the unpleasant details it has forced upon my attention. For my part, I wish, with Mr. Howells, that the literature of the past might be purged of all that is ugly and barbarous in it, although I should object as much as any one to having these great works weakened or falsified.

There is something impressive, awful, in the simplicity and terrible directness of the book of Esther. Could there be anything more dramatic than the scene in which Esther stands before her wicked lord? She knows her life is in his hands; there is no one to protect her from his wrath. Yet, conquering her woman's fear, she approaches him, animated by the noblest patriotism, having but one thought: "If I perish, I perish; but if I live, my people shall live."

The story of Ruth, too—how Oriental it is! Yet how different is the life of these simple country folks from that of the Persian capital! Ruth is so loyal and gentle-hearted, we cannot help loving her, as she stands with the reapers amid the waving corn. Her beautiful, unselfish spirit shines out like a bright star in the night of a dark and cruel age. Love like Ruth's, love which can rise above conflicting creeds and deep-seated racial prejudices, is hard to find in all the world.

The Bible gives me a deep, comforting sense that "things seen are temporal, and things unseen are eternal."

I do not remember a time since I have been capable of loving books that I have not loved Shakespeare. I cannot tell exactly when I began Lamb's "Tales from Shakespeare"; but I know that I read them at first with a child's understanding and a child's wonder. "Macbeth" seems to have impressed me most. One reading was sufficient to stamp every detail of the story upon my memory forever. For a long time the ghosts and witches pursued me even into Dreamland. I could see, absolutely see, the dagger and Lady Macbeth's little white hand—the dreadful stain was as real to me as to the grief-stricken queen.

I read "King Lear" soon after "Macbeth," and I shall never forget the feeling of horror when I came to the scene in which Gloster's eyes are put out. Anger seized me, my fingers refused to move, I sat rigid for one long moment, the blood throbbing in my temples, and all the hatred that a child can feel concentrated in my heart.

I must have made the acquaintance of Shylock and Satan about the same time, for the two characters were long associated in my mind. I remember that I was sorry for them. I felt vaguely that they could not be good even if they wished to, because no one seemed willing to help them or to give them a fair chance. Even now I cannot find it in my heart to condemn them utterly. There are moments when I feel that the Shylocks, the Judases, and even the Devil, are broken spokes in the great wheel of good which shall in due time be made whole.

It seems strange that my first reading of Shakespeare should have left me so many unpleasant memories. The bright, gentle, fanciful plays—the ones I like best now—appear not to have impressed me at first, perhaps because they reflected the habitual sunshine and gaiety of a child's life. But "there is nothing more capricious than the memory of a child: what it will hold, and what it will lose."

同类推荐
  • 那些无法拒绝的名篇

    那些无法拒绝的名篇

    《每天读一点英文》是一套与美国人同步阅读的中英双语丛书,该丛书由美国英语教师协会推荐,内文篇目取自美国最经典、最权威、最流行的读本,适于诵读;“实战提升”部分,包括导读、单词注解、诵读名句,学习英语的同时提升演讲能力。
  • 假如给我三天光明(双语译林)

    假如给我三天光明(双语译林)

    《假如给我三天光明》是教育部推荐的成长励志经典读物,盲聋人海伦·凯勒不屈不挠的坚毅斗志曾激励了一代又一代人。本书完整收录《假如给我三天光明》、《我生命的故事》、《三论乐观》、《在芒特艾里的演讲》以及海伦·凯勒书信十封,英汉双语对照,讲述一个没有光明、没有声音的传奇人生。
  • 玩转生活英语

    玩转生活英语

    本书是一本涵盖日常生活的英语口语书籍。全书信息量丰富,趣味性强,适合不同英语阶段的学习者使用。本书在内容编排上为了帮助读者巩固和提高英语能力,专门设计了“跟我练”栏目,保证能活学活用。
  • 高考英语词汇考点手册

    高考英语词汇考点手册

    词汇是语言学习的重要组成部分。听、说、读、写、译诸项技能的培养与提高,都离不开扎实的词汇基础。《高考英语词汇考点手册》堪称一本多功能的英语工具书。相信《高考英语词汇考点手册》给你提供的是一条学习和记忆单词的有效算途径,能让你收入到意想不到的效果。
  • 黎明踏浪号(纳尼亚传奇:中英双语)

    黎明踏浪号(纳尼亚传奇:中英双语)

    《黎明踏浪号》讲述了暑假里,爱德蒙和露西住在哈罗德舅舅家,和表弟尤斯塔斯住在一起。尤斯塔斯是个令人讨厌的家伙。有一天,墙上的一幅画有帆船的油画忽然将他们拉进了画中,他们在船上遇到了凯斯宾国王,他正出航寻找被叔叔驱逐的骑士们。航行的另一个目的是希望找到雄狮阿斯兰的王国。一路上他们经过了各种神奇的岛屿,如孤独岛、声音岛、黑暗岛等等,历尽种种艰险。他们解除了魔法,唤醒了三位沉睡着的爵爷,最后又都回到纳尼亚。爱德蒙、露西也回到剑桥舅妈家。
热门推荐
  • (校园)酷少的淘气女孩(大结局)

    (校园)酷少的淘气女孩(大结局)

    雨后落下一里的幽香雄花掉落山底的伪装落叶排成思念的形状我唱着Song不去看樱花飘落悲谷的悠雅藏着一句说不出的话窗外吹着屋里的牵挂轻轻吹动我头发初次的爱你化自痛的伤我不想抵抗该要如何学会隐藏傻傻的微笑表情却无法言语偷偷的像是记忆里幸福的相机静静的呼吸身边有你的空气我还记得你说樱花很美丽不愿意在今夜从你身边离去不忘记写下樱花飘落的那场雨不放弃心中刻下了永远爱你你说我和你都为了此刻着迷
  • 心情·百味卷(散文精品)

    心情·百味卷(散文精品)

    《心情:百味卷》收录的散文包括:“你是我梦中的期待”、“请把我的情感留下”、“将芳年写在心灵”、“珍视心中的爱”、“淡淡柳如烟”五个栏目。
  • 《三国演义》在日本

    《三国演义》在日本

    本书以丰富的资料论述了《三国演义》传入日本后流行及其对日本文学的影响(发现),并被根据日本民族性格和日本文学传说特征进行了增补与改造(重构)。还以比较文学的角度将《三国演义》和日本古代文学典籍进行了比较研究。
  • 华丽校园骗局80℃:手指的温度

    华丽校园骗局80℃:手指的温度

    【冰山生日贺文】此文为幻想世界的YY文,华丽丽的学校,有些伤痛的基调,女主不白,却太过坚强。当底线被一再碰触,汹涌而来的会是火山爆发?还是冰川时代?
  • 颠覆经典:穿越之我是秋香

    颠覆经典:穿越之我是秋香

    什么,什么,我就是传说中的秋香?那么我的唐伯虎呢?那个长得和前世情人一模一样脸庞又多情的华安?那个神神秘秘,神出鬼没的华瑞?还是风度翩翩,气质儒雅的王爷?可是唐伯虎一定会点秋香吗?秋香一定中意唐伯虎吗?在封建的古代还能找我真正的爱情,还能坚持寻找真爱的勇气吗?(内容纯属虚构,请勿模仿)
  • 快穿之追男神24式

    快穿之追男神24式

    当一大早被迫下载并打开《追男神24式》游戏注册,随后开始高兴得玩耍时,对,你猜的没错,女主猝死了,成为了攻略游戏里NPC的乞丐女。林吉吉:我以为我是系统攻略宿主,没想到是陪着未来相好的玩了多次百变真人秀???相好的:喜欢吗?林吉吉:迟疑中,看到某人渐渐收回的笑容…喜欢!喜欢得不得了!超级喜欢!(求还可以注销帐号吗?)本文1v1。Ps:正文关于林吉吉的文完后,就是秦越的攻略故事。
  • 末世女王临世

    末世女王临世

    女主白凌微,正在玩一款最新风靡的末世游戏,杀丧尸杀得正起劲,却不想,突然穿越到了昨天才熬夜看完的末世小说里,那个跟她同名同姓,却像菟丝花一样过日子,最后惨死的小萝莉身上。原女主光环,原女主的那些男人“们”,彪悍的剧情等等,都跟她完全没关系,自有金手指,还走自己的女王之路,哼哼……--情节虚构,请勿模仿
  • 郎咸平开讲:中国商帮

    郎咸平开讲:中国商帮

    晋商曾经从南方贩茶叶,掌控了整条产业链,又以“票号”开创了中国金融史上的辉煌历程,实现了“汇通天下”的宏伟理想;徽商从贫困的山区走出来,靠“徽骆驼”精神,最终走出了一条险峻的出路;湖州丝商们敢于走出南浔、走进上海,直接与国外买办交易,生丝的出口成就了湖商的成功……可是曾经辉煌的中国商帮大部分没能经得起时间的考验,到底是什么原因让他们逐渐淹没在了历史的长河中?本书作者从当时的社会环境、国际环境、四大商帮本身的特质以及中华文化的特征等当面进行分析,并指出,从古至今一家企业能走多远,最终都是取决于其战略思维能达到多高。历史会给每个商帮、每个企业留出转型的时间,如何在对的时间做出对的选择,也是本书要告
  • 妖帝至尊之邪妃太嚣张

    妖帝至尊之邪妃太嚣张

    他是神秘的腹黑妖孽,一场意外,遇到了她。从此,毒入心髓,绝不放手!他说:“天地为证,日月为媒。吾以万里江山为聘,许你生世;心血为引,换你安好!你生,我守你永世无忧;你死,我灭天地、入黄泉,繁花碧落亦不负!”******她说:我从无野心,只想保自身周全!奈何敌欲杀我,我灭之!她说:我只求家人安康,奈何国将破、家将亡,我披甲杀敌,战之!她说:吾生之愿,与云陌世世双人。奈何天欲灭我,我便——封天!一袭红衣倾天下,染墨君心醉笑她!******片段一:某人埋头吃饭中……“幽儿,这菜好吃吗?”云陌问。某女拿着鸡大腿:吧唧吧唧……“幽儿,想不想一直吃?”云陌摇了摇狐狸尾巴。某女夹起鸡脆骨:嘎嘣嘎嘣……云陌优雅的伸过俊脸,指了指自己的脸颊,“幽儿,表示一下,以后天天做给你吃。”某女迷茫抬头,看着含羞带臊的某男思索片刻,恍然大悟。在云陌风情万种的小眼神中,她放下一锭银子,飘然离去……伙食费和某男人:……公子安爷新作,一贯宠溺、温情、热血风格,欢迎入坑!旧文推荐:《溺宠之绝色毒医》都市、异能!男女双强,温情热血无极限!
  • 傻妾

    傻妾

    因为她傻,她的夫君在新婚前夜夺了她身却在洞房之时污蔑她并非完璧从此,她沦落为妾盈盈月下,他曾圈她入怀,在她耳边低眉浅语“从此……我不会让你受到任何伤害!”可是...是谁用坚固的铁链将她囚锁于地牢之中是谁为了成就霸业在同一日娶妻纳妾,却任由他的妻妾刻意践踏于她云烟——一场阴谋,她被迫成为棋子,装成傻女错嫁于他逢天翼——他铁血冷颜,明知是毒依旧饮鸩,得了天下却得不到他想要的那颗心阁主——他白衣如仙,情深不悔,为她成为千古罪人却依旧孤独笑看人世沧桑【精彩片段1】一个傻女竟然也敢红杏出墙,还不知廉耻的怀了身孕“这是补药,喝下吧!”她的夫君带着暖笑朝她说道而她是个傻子,只能接过药碗一饮而尽他转身决然而去,她却痛若万刺穿心有朝一日,当他知道他毁去的是他的亲身骨肉时,他是否也会痛不欲生?【精彩片段2】悬崖边,她纤手握刃,斩断了他最爱的三千青丝“从此……你我之间犹若此发!”他苍凉一笑,腥红的血从口中溢出深邃的眸中只看见她与他齐齐跃下山崖的身影-----------重磅推荐开水的完结文:《小妾是这样炼成的》她为何一穿越就脱了她家夫君的裤子?《英雄难过囧女关》十五岁那年,她在哥哥的碗里放了药,让自己成为了哥哥的人《彪悍娘子娇弱夫》洞房之夜,她的夫君口吐鲜血,压在她身上若死人般毫无声息