书名：I Capture the Castle我的秘密城堡

读者对象：10-18岁难度：Lexile蓝思阅读指数920L作者：Dodie Smith出版社名称：Penguin出版时间：2016语种：英文ISBN：9780141371504商品尺寸：12.9 x 3.2 x 19.8 cm包装：平装页数：544 （以实物为准）

★被《哈利波特》作者J.K.罗琳誉为“非常有魅力的作品” ★入选BBC100部英国人喜欢的文学作品，《卫报》一生不可不读的1000本书 ★被改编为同名电影，在英国上映 I Capture the Castle《我的秘密城堡》是英国作家多迪·史密斯的处女作，也是陪伴几代英国人成长的读物。多迪的“秘密城堡”格外安静，却足以显示英国文学的优雅。整部小说就是一首卡桑德拉青春的挽歌，恬美宁静，略带初恋的苦涩。作者用外表的“静”来诠释内心的“动”，痛并快乐着，就是爱与成长的代价。 媒体评论：“《我的秘密城堡》是我读过的非常有魅力的作品。”——J.K.罗琳 “时隔多年，这部充满智慧、闪闪发光的作品得以再版，让我们开瓶香槟庆祝吧！”——《洛杉矶时报》 “像上午刚写成的一样新鲜，像简·奥斯汀一样经典。”——美国著名作家 唐纳德·韦斯特莱克 "I write this sitting in the kitchen sink" is the memorable first line of this enchanting coming-of-age story, told in the form of Cassandra Mortmain's journal. Cassandra wittily describes life growing up in a crumbling castle, with her father who suffers from crippling writer's block, her glamorous but ineffectual step-mother and her vain but beloved sister Rose. When two visiting Americans arrive, all of their lives are turned upside down, and Cassandra experiences her first love. This is a classic coming-of-age story, beloved of generations of teenage and adult readers, by Dodie Smith, who also wrote The Hundred and One Dalmatians.

这一刻，我在写作，就坐在厨房的水池里。水滴顺着房檐落进门边的集雨桶。

我和姐姐罗斯，两个女孩子，住在这么一幢始建于查尔斯二世、孤单奇异的宅子里，处境相当浪漫。但罗斯却不这么认为：深锁在衰败的废屋里，四周泥沼重围，哪里有什么浪漫可言？ 的确，我们甚至没有一件像样的睡衣穿。 罗斯决定像浮士德一样，将自己的灵魂出卖给魔鬼，条件是趁青春仍在时好好享受它。 就在那天夜里，两个年轻的美国人闯入古堡，惊起一片涟漪……

I write this sitting in the kitchen sink. That is, my feet are in it; the rest of me is on the draining-board, which I have padded with our dog’s blanket and thetea-cosy. I can’t say that I am really comfortable, and there is a depressing smell of carbolic soap. but this is the only part of the kitchen where there is any daylight left. And I have found that sitting in a place where you have never sat before can be inspiring — I wrote my very best poem while sitting on the hen-house. Though even that isn’t a very good poem. I have decided my poetry is so bad chat I mustn’t write any more of it.

Drips from the roof are plopping into the water-bun by the back door. The view through the windows above the sink is excessively drear. Beyond the dank garden in the courtyard are the ruined walls on the edge of the moat. Beyond the moat, the boggy ploughed fields stretch to the leaden sky. I tell myself that all the rain we have had lately is good for nature, and that at any moment spring will surge on us. I try to see leaves on the trees and the courtyard filled with sunlight. Unfortunately, the more my mind’s eye sees green and gold, the more drained of all colour does the twilight seem. It is comforting to look away from the windows and towards the kitchen fire, near which my sister Rose is ironing — though she obviously can’t see properly, and it will be a pity if she scorches her only nightgown. (I have two, but one is minus its behind.) Rose looks particularly fetching by firelight because she is a pinkish gold, very light and feathery Although I am rather used to her I know she is a beauty She is nearly twenty—one and very bitter with life. I am seventeen, look younger, feel older. I am no beauty but have a neatish face. I have just remarked to Rose that our situation is really rather romantic — two girls in this strange and lonely house. She replied that she saw nothing romantic about being shut up in a crumbling ruin surrounded by a sea of mud. I must admit that our home is an unreasonable place to live in. Yet I love it. The house itself was built in the time of Charles II, but it was damaged by Cromwell. The whole of our east wall was part of the castle; there are two round towers in it. The gatehouse is intact and a stretch of the old walls at their ft11 height joins it to the house. And Belmotte Tower, all that remains of an even older castle, still stands on its mound close by. But I won’t attempt to describe our peculiar home filly until I can see more time ahead of me than I do now. I am writing this journal partly to practise my newly acquired speed-writing and partly to teach myself how to write a novel —I intend to capture all our characters and put in conversations. It ought to be good for my style to dash along without much thought, as up to now my stories have been very stiff and self-conscious.