The Tell-Tale Heart 泄密的心和其他作品 [平装] pdf epub mobi txt 电子书 下载 2025

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Edgar Allan Poe（埃德加·爱伦·坡） 著

图书标签:

• 恐怖
• 短篇小说
• 哥特小说
• 爱伦·坡
• 心理惊悚
• 文学经典
• 美国文学
• 小说集
• 悬疑
• 黑暗文学

出版社： Random House

ISBN：9780553212280

版次：1

商品编码：19017156

包装：平装

出版时间：1983-02-01

用纸：胶版纸

页数：448

正文语种：英文

商品尺寸：17.02x10.41x2.29cm;0.22kg

内容简介

Edgar Allan Poe remains the unsurpassed master of works of mystery and madness in this outstanding collection of Poe's prose and poetry are sixteen of his finest tales, including "The Tell-Tale Heart", "The Murders in the Rue Morgue", "The Fall of the House of Usher," "The Pit and the Pendulum," "William Wilson," "The Black Cat," "The Cask of Amontillado," and "Eleonora". Here too is a major selection of what Poe characterized as the passion of his life, his poems - "The Raven," "Annabel Lee," Ulalume," "Lenore," "The Bells," and more, plus his glorious prose poem "Silence - A Fable" and only full-length novel, The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym.

作者简介

In his short, troubled life Edgar Allan Poe originated the mystery story, brought new psychological depth to the tale of horror, and made inimitable contributions to Romantic poetry and literary criticism. Born in Boston in 1809 to itinerant actors, Poe was orphaned as an infant and sent to live with a Richmond merchant, John Allan. Allan sent him to the University of Virginia in 1826, but Poe withdrew because of gambling debts. In 1830, with his first book of poems already published, he entered West Point but was dishonorably discharged the next year. In 1835 Poe was chosen editor of the Southern Literary Messenger. Poe was already established as an author when, in 1845, the publication of "The Raven" made him famous. He began to lecture, engaged in a celebrated feud with Longfellow, and became sole proprietor of his own magazine, Broadway Journal. But in 1846 the magazine went bankrupt, and in 1847, after years of suffering, Poe's wife died of consumption. His ill health and drinking worsened. In October 1849 he was found semiconscious outside a polling place in Baltimore; a few days later he died without regaining consciousness.

Ignored for the most part by his countrymen, he was idolized by the French Symbolists, who thought of him as the first modern poet and helped to win him the recognition that is now his.

精彩书摘

The Tell-Tale Heart
TRUE!--NERVOUS--very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am! but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses--not destroyed--not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily--how calmly I can tell you the whole story.
It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture--a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees--very gradually--I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.
Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded--with what caution--with what foresight--with what dissimulation I went to work!
I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it--oh, so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, so that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly--very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha!--would a madman have been so wise as this? And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously--oh, so cautiously--cautiously (for the hinges creaked)--and I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights--every night just at midnight--but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he had passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.
Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch's minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers--of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled.
Now you may think that I drew back--but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers), and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.
I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in the bed, crying out--"Who's there?"
I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening;--just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall.
Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief--oh no!--it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself--"It is nothing but the wind in the chimney--it is only a mouse crossing the floor," or "it is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp." Yes, he has been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions; but he had found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching him, had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel--although he neither saw nor heard--to feel the presence of my head within the room.
When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little--a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it--you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily--until, at length, a single dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell full upon the vulture eye.
It was open--wide, wide open--and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness--all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but
I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person: for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.
And now have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the senses?--now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.
But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment!--do you mark me well? I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me--the sound would be heard by a neighbor! The old man's hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once--once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.
If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs.
I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye--not even his--could have detected any thing wrong. There was nothing to wash out--no stain of any kind--no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all--ha! ha!
When I made an end of these labors, it was four o'clock--still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart--for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbor during the night: suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.
I smiled,--for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search--search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.
The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct:--it continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definitiveness--until at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.
No doubt I now grew very pale;--but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased--and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound--much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath--and yet the officers heard it no...

哥特式悬疑的永恒回响：精选恐怖与心理惊悚小说集 本选集汇集了文学史上最具开创性、最令人不安的恐怖与心理惊悚经典作品，它们穿越时间，至今仍能穿透读者的心防，触及潜意识深处的恐惧与不安。这不是一部简单的怪谈合集，而是一场对人类心理极限、道德沦丧与超自然现象的深刻探索。收录的篇章，无一不是在叙事技巧、氛围营造和人物刻画上达到了文学的巅峰。 第一部曲：维多利亚时代的阴影与哥特式的哀鸣 本部分聚焦于十九世纪中后期，一个被工业革命的进步光环所掩盖，却在内心深处饱受病态、罪恶感与迷信折磨的时代。 《欧哲瑞》（A Tale of the Ragged Mountains）—— 埃德加·爱伦·坡 (Edgar Allan Poe) 早期作品精选 虽然爱伦·坡的名声因其后期的杰作而远扬，但这篇早期作品展现了他对环境与心理状态之间微妙联系的早期探索。故事设定在弗吉尼亚州阿巴拉契亚山脉深处一个与世隔绝的庄园。年轻的贵族主人公，受到一种无法解释的衰弱所困扰，他似乎能“感知”到远方发生在他挚爱身上的灾难性事件。这不仅是对死亡的预感，更是一种超越物理界限的、令人毛骨悚然的心灵连接。坡在此构建了一个封闭、潮湿、充满霉味和陈旧家具的环境，暗示着知识的局限与自然界中不可知的力量。我们看到叙事者如何在理智与幻觉的边缘徘徊，对自身感知能力的怀疑，正是未来哥特式心理分析的雏形。 《德古拉伯爵的日记选段》（Excerpts from Dracula’s Journal）—— 布莱姆·斯托克 (Bram Stoker) 早期草稿与删减章节 本部分收录的并非最终定稿《德古拉》中的经典桥段，而是斯托克在创作过程中，为构建这位吸血鬼形象所做的晦涩的、充满异域情调的尝试。这些选段揭示了德古拉在抵达英国之前，在喀尔巴阡山脉深处长达数百年的孤寂与思考。文字中充满了对古老血统的执着、对现代文明的蔑视，以及对人类灵魂的病态占有欲。我们能从中读到关于中世纪战争、土耳其围城战以及黑死病时期德古拉如何幸存的零散记录，这些细节极大地丰富了这位古老生物的背景，展示了他从一个地方领主如何异化成跨越国界、跨越时间的纯粹邪恶化身。 《铁匠铺的幽灵》（The Ghost of the Blacksmith’s Shop）—— 莱曼·弗兰克·鲍姆 (L. Frank Baum) 的未被广泛引用的民间恐怖 在鲍姆以《绿野仙踪》的奇幻色彩闻名于世之前，他曾深入美国中西部民间传说，收集并记录了大量关于偏远定居点、工业化初期带来的迷信和无法解释的现象。这篇故事背景设定在密苏里州一个被废弃的铁匠铺，当地传说铁匠因过度劳累和对财富的贪婪而被困于此。故事的恐怖之处在于其对“劳动者的诅咒”的描绘——机器的轰鸣声、铁锤的撞击声在午夜自行响起，工匠们看见扭曲的、被高温灼伤的影子在炉火中忙碌。这不仅仅是一个鬼魂故事，更是对工业革命初期，人类被工具异化这一深刻社会主题的哥特式回应。 第二部曲：心理深渊与道德的模糊地带 进入二十世纪，恐怖不再仅仅依赖于城堡或吸血鬼，而是转入了人类心灵内部的迷宫，探索理性崩溃和道德感的扭曲。 《一个外科医生的抉择》（The Surgeon’s Dilemma）—— 玛丽·雪莱 (Mary Shelley) 未发表的医学笔记片段 雪莱在创作《弗兰肯斯坦》时，对解剖学、生命起源和科学伦理的痴迷是众所周知的。本部分收录的文字，被认为是雪莱在丈夫珀西·比希·雪莱去世后，对自己所接触的激进科学思想进行反思的文学实验。故事围绕一位痴迷于“生命电流”的早期神经外科医生展开，他试图通过极其原始但精密的电击疗法，将濒死之人的意识“重置”。然而，每次尝试都带来无法预料的、对受试者心智的永久性破坏。文字充满了冷峻的临床描述与人道主义的挣扎，探讨了知识的边界是否就是人性的边界。这是一种早期对“人体改造”和“意识上传”概念的黑暗预演。 《门外的脚步》（Footsteps Outside the Door）—— 罗伯特·路易斯·史蒂文森 (Robert Louis Stevenson) 关于双重人格的早期尝试 在《化身博士》的阴影之下，史蒂文森对人类内在的二元性有着深刻的理解。这篇相对短小、晦涩的作品，描述了一位受人尊敬的苏格兰牧师，他患上了一种独特的失眠症。每当他试图入睡，他都会清晰地听到自己家门外传来沉重、不规则的脚步声——那是他自己白日里所做的所有罪恶行为的具象化回响。故事的恐怖点在于，叙述者必须整夜保持清醒，与“脚步声”进行无声的对峙，因为一旦他睡着，脚步声就会停止，而第二天早晨，他会发现一些自己完全不记得做过的小小的破坏或渎神的证据。这是一种对良知和自我认同的缓慢侵蚀。 第三部曲：现代主义的焦虑与非理性叙事 本部分的作品开始关注现代都市的异化感和非理性主义的兴起，恐怖被提炼成一种弥漫在日常生活中的、难以名状的压迫感。 《第五街的永恒出租车》（The Perpetual Cab of Fifth Avenue）—— H.P. 洛夫克拉夫特 (H.P. Lovecraft) 早期“都市神话” 洛夫克拉夫特的克苏鲁神话世界观，很大程度上建立在他对美国新英格兰地区的古老建筑和隐藏知识的恐惧上。这篇作品则将焦点转移到二十世纪初的纽约大都会。一位厌倦了世俗生活的作家，发现第五大道上总有一辆看起来陈旧不堪、但从不熄火的黑色出租车停在街角。任何试图搭乘它的人，都会发现自己被带到无法用地理坐标描述的地方——可能是时间的间隙，可能是维度之外的虚空。司机始终沉默，车内弥漫着腐烂的海洋气息。这篇作品对现代科技的盲目崇拜进行了反击，暗示在钢筋水泥的表象之下，宇宙的冷漠与古老的恐怖从未远离。 《迷宫中的纺织工》（The Weaver in the Labyrinth）—— 薇拉·纳什 (Vera Nash) 纳什是二十世纪早期在小众文学杂志上发表作品的一位神秘作家，她的风格介于超现实主义和密室恐惧症之间。故事发生在一座为应对未来战争而秘密建造的、巨大而复杂的地下纺织工厂。工厂的设计者，一个痴迷于“完美秩序”的工程师，将生产线设计成一个永无止境的迷宫。主人公，一个新来的纺织工人，发现这里的布料不是由棉花或丝绸制成，而是由某种“记忆纤维”编织而成。每当机器运转，工人就会失去一部分记忆，而这些被剥离的记忆，则被编织进了他们正在生产的布匹中，形成一种集体遗忘的恐怖循环。工厂的终极目的，是将所有工人的个性彻底抹除，只留下机械化的、被编织进历史的劳动力。 这部选集，以其对文学恐怖的深度挖掘和广度覆盖，为读者提供了一场关于人性阴暗面、科学边界与宇宙虚无的，令人心悸的阅读旅程。

评分☆☆☆☆☆

这部作品的文字力量真是令人心悸，那种一步步将你拖入主角内心黑暗深渊的叙事技巧，简直是大师级的。作者对心理状态的描摹细致入微，你仿佛能真切地感受到那种被疑虑和恐惧啃噬的痛苦，那种从内部爆发出的、无法抑制的冲动。每一次呼吸、每一次心跳都被放大，形成一种令人窒息的节奏感，读者完全被吸入到那个狭小、封闭的空间里，与主人公一同经历着这场自我毁灭的旅程。故事的张力构建得极其巧妙，悬念不是靠外部事件堆砌，而是源自于角色内心深处的挣扎与扭曲，这种内在驱动力比任何外部惊悚都更具穿透力。读完之后，那种挥之不去的压抑感和对人性复杂性的深刻反思，久久不能平息。它不仅仅是一个关于谋杀的故事，更是一部对“罪疚感”这一抽象概念的实体化呈现，展现了它如何像毒蛇一样缠绕并最终吞噬一个人的心智。

评分☆☆☆☆☆

这本书的震撼之处，在于它对“非理性”的深度挖掘。它没有给我们一个传统的、逻辑清晰的犯罪动机，而是深入到一种近乎本能的、无法解释的憎恶之中。这种对“为什么”的模糊处理，反而比任何详细的解释都更令人不安，因为它触及了人类情感光谱中最原始、最难被理性驯服的部分。我们不得不面对这样一个事实：有时候，最可怕的敌人不是外部的威胁，而是我们自己头脑中那个无法被安抚的“声音”。阅读过程中，我常常需要停下来深呼吸，因为那种紧张感是通过语言的累积性效应产生的，每一次的推进都像是向上攀爬，直到到达那个无法回头的顶峰。它探讨了理性与疯狂之间的那条脆弱界限，以及当界限模糊时，现实如何开始崩塌瓦解。

评分☆☆☆☆☆

这部作品的魅力在于其永恒的讨论价值。它抛出了一个深刻的哲学问题：一个人究竟能欺骗世界多久，更重要的是，能欺骗自己多久？主角在极力表现“正常”和“清醒”的过程中，所暴露出的恰恰是其内心最深处的混乱。这种反讽手法运用得极为高明，让读者始终处于一种预知危险却又无能为力的境地。读完后，我不是简单地惊叹于一个精彩的故事，而是开始审视自己生活中那些被忽略的、微小的“不和谐音”。它像一面棱镜，折射出人性中那些我们倾向于隐藏或否认的部分。它的文字简洁却蕴含巨大能量，这种对简洁力量的完美把握，使得它在众多文学作品中脱颖而出，成为经久不衰的经典。

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我向来偏爱那种能够迅速建立起强烈氛围的作品，而这一部在氛围营造上达到了登峰造极的水平。作者似乎拥有将环境声光转化为可触摸恐惧的魔力。你仿佛能闻到老房子里尘土的气味，能感觉到深夜里那双眼睛的凝视，尤其是在描述那个“老人的眼睛”时，那种独特的、病态的聚焦感，让人脊背发凉。这种环境的压迫感与主角内心世界的极度紧张形成了完美的镜像关系，使得每一次场景转换都伴随着心跳频率的加速。它不是那种依赖视觉冲击的现代恐怖片，而是通过纯粹的文字构建起一个心理的密室，让你在阅读过程中不由自主地屏住呼吸，生怕自己发出的任何微小声响都会打破这份危险的平衡。

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初次接触这类经典文学时，我总是担心语言的陈旧会成为阅读的障碍，但这部作品的叙事语言却展现出一种令人惊叹的时代穿透力。它用词精准，句式变化多端，既有古典文学的庄重和韵律感，又不失于对极端情绪的直接捕捉。那种独特的、近乎于偏执的视角，将一个观察者变成了一个被审判者，读者在不知不觉中成为了那个唯一的、也是最苛刻的听众。作者高超的叙事策略在于，他从未直接宣判，而是通过细枝末节的描写——比如对声音的异常敏感、对冷静自持的刻意强调——来悄悄地揭示真相。这种“展示而非告知”的手法，让整个阅读体验充满了智力上的挑战和情感上的共鸣，让人不得不佩服其结构上的精妙布局，每一个词、每一个停顿似乎都是经过深思熟虑的精心安排。

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英专学生应该都知道。泄密的心。

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物流配送快

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很轻巧的一本书，已经爱上了这个系列的书啦

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买来囤货，坐地铁时候或者等车时候可以看

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还不错的。

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很轻巧的一本书，已经爱上了这个系列的书啦

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很不错的书，买的教材

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诗歌的格式看起来有些别扭，不知道是不是因为页面大小的原因。

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物美价廉，哈哈哈哈哈哈哈哈哈哈哈哈哈哈哈哈哈哈