《THE GREAT GATSBY：瞭不起的蓋茨比（英文朗讀版）》20世紀美國著名小說傢F·S·菲茨傑拉德代錶作，被視為美國文學“爵士時代”的象徵，曾入選20世紀百部英文小說，20世紀50年代後的數十年間一度成為美國高中、大學文學課的標準教材。本書為英文原版，同時配以外教朗讀，在感受原著風貌的同時，提升英語閱讀水平。

內容簡介

《瞭不起的蓋茨比（英文朗讀版）》首次齣版於1925年，20世紀美國著名小說傢F·S·菲茨傑拉德代錶作，被視為美國文學“爵士時代”的象徵，20世紀50年代後的數十年間一度成為美國高中、大學文學課的標準教材。小說以未成名作傢尼剋的視角齣發，全麵展現瞭美國20年代紙醉金迷的上層社會生活，人與人之間的虛情寡義，以及“美國夢”在幻想、愛情與謊言中的破滅。

Described as "the great American novel", The Great Gatsby has become a standard text for generations of American students and one of the most beloved books of all time.

First published on April 10, 1925, The Great Gatsby is set on Long Island's NorthShore and in New York City during the summer of 1922. It is a critique of the American Dream. The novel takes place following the First World War. American society enjoyed having unprecedented levels of prosperity during the "roaring" 1920s as the economy soared. At the same time, Prohibition, the ban on the sale and manufacture of alcohol as mandated by the Eighteenth Amendment, made millionaires out of bootleggers. After its republishing in 1945 and 1953, it quickly found a wide readership and is today widely regarded as a paragon of the Great American Novel, and a literary classic. The Great Gatsby has become a standard text in high school and university courses on American literature in countries around the world, and is ranked second in the Modern Library's lists of the 100 Best Novels of the 20th Century.

作者簡介

F.S.菲茨傑拉德，美國長篇小說、短篇小說作傢，20世紀偉大的美國作傢之一。《瞭不起的蓋茨比》為其代錶作，此書堪稱美國社會縮影的經典代錶，描述瞭1920年代美國人在歌舞升平中空虛、享樂、矛盾的精神與思想。菲茨傑拉德一生被兩樣東西所睏：一是纔華，一是金錢，他都曾一度擁有，最後又全部失去。菲茨傑拉德死的時候，評論傢都批評他生活腐化、自暴自棄，所以短壽，浪費瞭自己的纔華。菲茨傑拉德一生著有《人間天堂》、《美與孽》、《瞭不起的蓋茨比》、《夜色溫柔》、《最後的大亨》及一百七十多篇短篇小說。

內頁插圖

精彩書摘

　　Chapter 1
　　In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.
　　“Whenever you feel like criticizing any one,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.”
　　He didn’t say any more but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence I’m inclined to reserve all judgments, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon—for the intimate revelations of young men or at least the terms in which they express them are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth.
　　And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament” —it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.
　　My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this middle-western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother who came here in fiftyone, sent a substitute to the Civil War and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today.
　　I never saw this great-uncle but I’m supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in Father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm center of the world the middle-west now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe— so I decided to go east and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep-school for me and finally said, “Why—ye-es” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year and after various delays I came east, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two.
　　The practical thing was to find rooms in the city but it was a warm season and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog, at least I had him for a few days until he ran away, and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove.
　　……