书名：Howards End霍华德庄园
难度：Lexile蓝思阅读指数820L
作者：E.M. Forster
出版社名称：Penguin Classics
出版时间：2012
语种：英文
ISBN：9780141199405
商品尺寸：13 x 1.8 x 19.8 cm
包装：平装
页数：400
E.M.福斯特不但被公认为二十世纪伟大的小说家之一，同时又是拥有很大读者群的作家之一；他曾十三次被提名为诺贝尔文学奖候选人，并有五部小说作品被改编为电影。Howards End《霍华德庄园》是E.M.福斯特重要的长篇小说的代表作之一，根据小说改编的电影亦成为影史经典。

媒体评论：
“对我来说，福斯特是一个可以反复阅读的现存作家。每一次阅读时，他都能给我一种‘学到’东西的感觉。很少有作家给我们这样的感觉。”——美国文学批评家莱昂内尔·特里林

The Penguin English Library Edition of Howards End by E. M. Forster
'The poor cannot always reach those whom they want to love, and they can hardly ever escape from those whom they love no longer. We rich can'
'Only connect.' is the idea at the heart of this book, a heartbreaking and provocative tale of three families at the beginning of the twentieth century: the rich Wilcoxes, the gentle, idealistic Schlegels and the lower-middle class Basts. As the Schlegel sisters try desperately to help the Basts and educate the close-minded Wilcoxes, the families are drawn together in love, lies and death.
Frequently cited as E. M. Forster's finest work, Howards End brilliantly explores class warfare, conflict and the English character.
The Penguin English Library - 100 editions of the best fiction in English, from the eighteenth century and the very first novels to the beginning of the First World War.
二十世纪初的英格兰，爱德华时代的伦敦城。家境殷实、自信美丽的施莱格尔家两姐妹醉心于伦敦城里的各类思想沙龙与文艺社团，合力塑造着她们远离凡尘的精神世界。一次偶然的邂逅却让妹妹海伦结识了商界新贵威尔科克斯一家，并与小儿子保罗擦出了不可思议的爱情火花……

然而，这段恋情是短命的，幻灭的反作用力将海伦推向了威尔科克斯家的反面——一个经济拮据但不甘庸俗的青年，伦纳德•巴斯特。与此同时，姐姐玛格丽特却通过与威尔科克斯夫人的友谊走入了她的丈夫亨利——一个实干家的世界。这一次，物质对精神产生的不是排斥，而是两个相反磁极的吸引与连接……两姐妹看似踏上了两条截然相反的道路。但命运之手却在远离尘嚣的乡间为她们准备了一处殊途同归的家园。在静谧的霍华德庄园，情感与理智终于跨越鸿沟，完成了终极意义上的“连接”……
E•M•福斯特（Edward Morgan Forster，1879—1970），英国著名小说家、散文家和批评家，著名的人道主义者，毕业于剑桥大学国王学院，后被母校聘为荣誉研究员。主要作品有长篇小说《天使不敢涉足的地方》、《看得见风景的房间》、《霍华德庄园》等。作为著名人道主义者的福斯特，在作品中高举“理解”与“同情”的大旗，强调精神与物质之间、人与人乃至不同的民族之间“只有连接起来”，人类才有希望。

Edward Morgan Forsterwas born in London in 1879. A pacifist and conscientious objector during the First World War, he volunteered instead for the International Red Cross, which took him to Alexandria. During his lifetime he travelled through Europe, Egypt and India, wrote six novels, two volumes of short stories, two collections of essays, two biographies and a libretto for Britten's opera Billy Budd, declined a knighthood, was made a member of the Order of Merit, and died at the age of ninety-one.
It isn’t going to be what we expected. It is old and little, and altogether delightful—red brick. We can scarcely pack in as it is, and the dear knows what will happen when Paul (younger son) arrives tomorrow, From hall you go right or left into dining-room or drawing-room. Hall itself is practically a room. You open another door in it, and there are the stairs going up in a sort of tunnel to the first-floor. Three bedrooms in a row there, and three attics in a row above. That isn’t all the house really, but it’s all that one notices—nine windows as you look up from the front garden.
Then there’s a very big wych-elm--to the left as you look up--leaning a little over the house, and standing on the boundary between the garden and meadow. I quite love that tree already. Also ordinary elms, oaks-- no nastier than ordinary oaks--pear-trees, apple-trees, and a vine. No silver birches, though. However, I must get on to my host and hostess. I only wanted to show that it isn’t the least what we expected. Why did we settle that their house would be all gables and wiggles, and their garden all gamboge-coloured paths? I believe simply because we associate them with expensive hotels--Mrs. Wilcox trailing in beautiful dresses down long corridors, Mr. Wilcox bullying porters, etc. We females are that unjust.
I shall be back Saturday, will let you know train bier. They arc as angry as I am that you did not come too; really Tibby is too tiresome, he starts a new mortal disease every month. How could he have got hay fever in London9 and even if he could, it seems hard that you should give up a visit to hear a schoolboy sriecic. Tell him that Charles Wilcox (the son who is here) has hay fever too, but he’s brave, and gets quite cross when we inquire after it. Men like the Wilcoxes would do Tibby a power of good. But you won’t agree, and I’d better change the subject.
This long letter is because I’m writing before breakfast. Oh, the beautiful vine leaves! The house is covered with a vine. I looked out earlier, and Mrs. Wilcox was already in the garden. She evidently loves it. No wonder she sometimes looks tired. She was watching the large red poppies come out. Then she walked off the lawn to the meadow, whose corner to the right I can just see. Trail, trail, went her long dress over the sopping grass, and she came back with her hands full of the hay that was cut yesterday—I suppose for rabbits or something, as she kept on smelling it. The air here is delicious. Later on I heard the noise of croquet balls, and looked out again, and it was Charles Wilcox practising; they are keen on all games. Presently he started smelling and had to stop. Then I hear more clicketing, and it is Mr. Wilcox practising, and then. ‘a-tissue, a- tissue’: he has to stop too. Then Evie comes out, and does some calisthenic exercises on a machine that is tacked on to a greengage-tree--they put everything to use—and then she says ‘a-tissue,’ and in she goes. And finally Mrs. Wilcox reappears, trail, trail, still smelling hay and looking at the flowers. I inflict all this on you because once you said that life is sometimes life and sometimes only a drama, and one must learn to distinguish t’other from which, and up to now I have always put that down as ‘Meg’s clever nonsense,’ But this morning, it really does seem not life but a play, and it did amuse me enormously to watch the Ws. Now Mrs. Wilcox has come in.