书名：Orlando奥兰多 

作者：Virginia Woolf 

出版社名称：Alma Classics 

出版时间：2014 

语种：英文 

ISBN：9781847493705 

商品尺寸：12.9 x 1.7 x 19.8 cm 

包装：平装 

页数：224（以实物为准）Orlando《奥兰多》是一部带有浪漫色彩和自传色彩的小说，采用传统的叙述方式，一反以往作者对小说形式进行的种种实验。主人公奥兰多的原型，是出身名门望族的维塔·萨克维尔-威斯特。维塔本人是诗人，美丽、优雅、风流、大胆、世故，此前曾因继承权一案卷入官司败诉。如此一个原型，给了作家无限的遐想空间。于是一个跨越时间、跨越空间、跨越性别的人物诞生了！ Orlando, a young nobleman and one of Queen Elizabeth I's court favourites, is the object of many ladies' attentions but, after suffering heartbreak, he prefers literary pursuits to entertaining any thoughts of marriage. Having obtained a ambassadorial post in Constantinople, Orlando falls into a long sleep and wakes up suddenly transformed into a woman. Also blessed with the gift of never ageing, she embarks on adventurous travels throughout Europe and the following centuries, observing what it is like to be female. 故事始于十六世纪伊丽莎白时代，终于一九二八年伍尔夫搁笔的“现时”，历时四百年。奥兰多先是一位天真无邪的贵族美少年，因深受伊丽莎白女王宠幸而入宫廷。詹姆斯王登基后，大霜冻降临，奥兰多偶遇一位俄罗斯公主，坠入情网，结果失恋亦失宠，隐居乡间大宅。奥兰多从小迷恋文学和诗歌，莎士比亚的身影令他难以忘怀，设法与小有名气的诗人格林相识，不料又受戏弄，加之不堪忍受罗马尼亚女大公的纠缠，遂请缨出使土耳其。在君士坦丁堡的一场大火之后，奥兰多变为女子，离开官场，混迹于吉普赛人之间。再后返回英国，成为上流社会的贵妇，结识一批当时著名文人。进入维多利亚时代，为了继续写作，奥兰多只能与时代精神妥协，并嫁给了一位海船长。到故事结尾，奥兰多已是二十世纪的获奖诗人，回到那贯穿全书、象征传统的大宅，来到大橡树下，回顾她对文学和诗歌的永恒的追求。 弗吉尼亚·伍尔夫，英国著名女作家，二十世纪现代主义作家与女性主义文学先锋。其代表作包括：小说《达洛维夫人》、《到灯塔去》、《海浪》，以及非虚构作品《一间自己的房间》。 Virginia Woolfwas an English novelist, essayist, short-story writer, publisher, critic and member of the Bloomsbury group, as well as being regarded as both a hugely significant modernist and feminist figure. Her most famous works include ‘Mrs Dalloway’,‘To the Lighthouse’ and ‘A Room of One’s Own’. HE-FOR THERE COULD BE NO doubt of his sex, though the fashion of the time did something to disguise it-was in the act of slicing at the head of a Moor which swung from the rafters. It was the colour of an old football, and more or less the shape of one, save for the sunken cheeks and a strand or two of coarse, dry hair, like the hair on a coconut. Orlando's father, or perhaps his grandfather, had struck it from the shoulders of a vast pagan who had started up under the moon in the barbarian fields of Africa; and now it swung, gently, perpetually, in the breeze which never ceased blowing through the attic rooms of the gigantic house of the lord who had slain him.

Orlando's fathers had ridden in fields of asphodel, and stony fields, and fields watered by strange rivers, and they had struck many heads of many colours off many shoulders, and brought them back to hang from the rafters. So too would Orlando, he vowed. But since he was sixteen only, and too young to ride with them in Africa or France, he would steal away from his mother and the peacocks in the garden and go to his attic room and there lunge and plunge and slice the air with his blade. Sometimes he cut the cord so that the skull bumped on the floor and he had to string it up again, fastening it with some chivalry almost out of reach, so that his enemy grinned at him through shrunk, black lips triumphantly. The skull swung to and fro, for the house, at the top of which he lived, was so vast that there seemed trapped in it the wind itself, blowing this way, blowing that way, winter and summer. The green arras with the hunters on it moved perpetually. His fathers had been noble since they had been at all. They came out of the northern mists wearing coronets on their heads. Were not the bars of darkness in the room, and the yellow pools which chequered the floor, made by the sun falling through the stained glass of a vast coat of arms in the window? Orlando stood now in the midst of the yellow body of an heraldic leopard. When he put his hand on the window sill to push the window open, it was instantly coloured red, blue and yellow like a butterfly's wing. Thus, those who like symbols and have a turn for the deciphering of them might observe that though the shapely legs, the handsome body and the well-set shoulders were all of them decorated with various tints of heraldic light, Orlando's face, as he threw the window open, was lit solely by the sun itself. A more candid, sullen face it would be impossible to find. Happy the mother who bears, happier still the biographer who records the life of such a one!