如果你还在
如果你还在，我，就不会觉得那么孤独，不仅仅是孤单，是孤独。孤单只是因为一个人，缺少陪在身边的人。而孤独，却是因为没有懂自己的人，无法达到很好的表达。
如果你还在，我一定不会现在这样，那么没有自信，总是畏畏缩缩，你的离开，让我对自己产生很大的怀疑，几乎收起了所有的张扬和强势。
如果你还在，我一定不会和别人和盘托出那么多事，我是一个渴望倾诉的孩子，总喜欢和别人分享。你还在的时候，我习惯了什么事都和你说，什么都和你分享，可是你离开了，我就找不到你了，可我还是渴望倾诉，喜欢分享。
如果你还在，我一定不会像这样不愿面对一些事，你还在的时候，我是一个很果敢、很自信的女孩儿，从来不怕面对任何事情。可是你离开了，这事情本身对我而言就是一个很大的打击，尽管我总是一副不在意的样子，可是我真的在意。
如果你还在，你肯定不舍得我难过，可惜你不在；如果你还在，你一定会陪在我身边，可惜你不在；如果你还在，我不会是现在的样子，可惜你不在；如果你还在，你还在……
[create_time]2022-06-15 09:17:35[/create_time]2022-06-29 06:49:04[finished_time]1[reply_count]0[alue_good]情感解说家17[uname]https://himg.bdimg.com/sys/portrait/item/wise.1.ed42f0ca.S-PsJR7Ym8JN5vcqkA7MRQ.jpg?time=668&tieba_portrait_time=668[avatar]TA获得超过5371个赞[slogan]这个人很懒，什么都没留下![intro]2[view_count]
如果你还在歌词 歌曲如果你还在歌词
1、歌词如下：每一夜我闭上双眼
仿佛还看见你的脸
那些曾经缠绵的画面
还历历在眼前
每一天 我睁开双眼
以为你还会出现
翻开抽屉里那些相片
我好想再见你一面
如果你还在
我的爱会很精彩
至少不用每天含着泪醒来
如果你还在
我的爱不会空白
我真的好想再拥有你的爱
如果你还在
如果你还在
如果你还在
如果你还在
每一天 我睁开双眼
以为你还会出现
翻开抽屉里那些相片
我好想再见你一面
如果你还在
我的爱会很精彩
至少不用每天含着泪醒来
如果你还在
我的爱不会空白
我真的好想再拥有你的爱
如果你还在
昔日和你缠绵的画面
还映入我眼帘
从你走后的那一天
我的心已经被封撕裂
如果你还在
我的爱会很精彩
至少不用每天含着泪醒来
哦 如果你还在
我的爱不会空白
我真的好想再拥有你的爱
如果你还在
如果你还在
如果你还在
如果你还在
如果你还在
2、歌手：潘广益 所属专辑：热门华语131
[create_time]2022-08-11 14:18:29[/create_time]2022-08-24 04:09:10[finished_time]1[reply_count]0[alue_good]吃瓜群众1718[uname]https://himg.bdimg.com/sys/portrait/item/wise.1.add00f48.MWvhGKc9OkklC0KxM6_V9w.jpg?time=4624&tieba_portrait_time=4624[avatar]TA获得超过6341个赞[slogan]这个人很懒，什么都没留下![intro]22[view_count]
如果你还在这里有一句什么歌
我的宝贝
如果你还在这里的话
我的房间一定还是温暖的家
不用成天成宿对着电脑打电话
也可以听你的声音不知不觉说着梦话
没有你的房间变的真的很大
很大大到我都不敢相信这是我的家
灰蒙蒙的天气
突然下起雪花
不知道你是不是也一样想跟我说说想念的话
走出家门的那一刹那
迎面的风吹乱了头发
想要暂时忘记我和你的童话
回忆却叫人无法挣扎
雪花伴着我的思念
渐渐走远何不飘到你的身边替我说
my baby 我已经习惯在凌晨三点掉进思念你的深渊
记忆的片段不停的变幻凝结成冰冷的照片
你摘的叶片开心的笑脸就好象发生在昨天
多想你又回到我的身边
多少凌晨突然醒来发现你不在
回想起梦里边你的笑容牵着我的期待
不痛快为什么梦里的一切都不存在
真失败好好的梦就这样醒来
回头看着窗外
我对着模糊的玻璃发呆
想一想自己是不是变的越来越怪
我期待我无奈我茫然的坐起来
想抽烟却发现打火机都不在
雪花伴着我的思念
渐渐走远何不飘到你的身边替我说
my baby 我已经习惯在凌晨三点掉进思念你的深渊
记忆的片段不停的变幻凝结成冰冷的照片
你摘的叶片开心的笑脸就好象发生在昨天
多想你又回到我的身边
my baby my baby my baby my baby
woo oh woo oh baby
[create_time]2011-05-07 23:17:02[/create_time]2011-05-27 22:59:09[finished_time]3[reply_count]4[alue_good]朗朗兔兔[uname]https://himg.bdimg.com/sys/portrait/item/wise.1.de34c1fd.wjEYyV2pirOJG9qpF6jNbg.jpg?time=3364&tieba_portrait_time=3364[avatar]TA获得超过6760个赞[slogan]这个人很懒，什么都没留下![intro]4998[view_count]
如果你还在我身边原唱
《如果你还在我身边》是由黄辉填词，黄辉编曲，北堂纹诺演唱的歌曲，该歌曲收录于北堂纹诺2013年发行的专辑《如果你还在我身边》中。中文名如果你还在我身边所属专辑如果你还在我身边歌曲时长0时3分38秒歌曲原唱北堂纹诺填词黄辉【摘要】
如果你还在我身边原唱【提问】
《如果你还在我身边》是由黄辉填词，黄辉编曲，北堂纹诺演唱的歌曲，该歌曲收录于北堂纹诺2013年发行的专辑《如果你还在我身边》中。中文名如果你还在我身边所属专辑如果你还在我身边歌曲时长0时3分38秒歌曲原唱北堂纹诺填词黄辉【回答】
可不可以再具体的阐述一下呢？【提问】
《如果你还在我身边》是由黄辉填词，黄辉编曲，北堂纹诺演唱的歌曲，该歌曲收录于北堂纹诺2013年发行的专辑《如果你还在我身边》中。中文名如果你还在我身边所属专辑如果你还在我身边歌曲时长0时3分38秒歌曲原唱北堂纹诺填词黄辉【回答】
[create_time]2022-10-04 07:10:16[/create_time]2022-10-19 07:08:45[finished_time]1[reply_count]0[alue_good]帐号已注销[uname]https://himg.bdimg.com/sys/portrait/item/wise.1.c60fc64c.X7zIccAymssSumZlg5yUYQ.jpg?time=9829&tieba_portrait_time=9829[avatar][slogan]这个人很懒，什么都没留下![intro]1[view_count]
六哲放不开的歌词
谁会为你守候到黄昏 冷战残留的那道伤痕 想抹也抹不掉 你的天真 令我爱得如此单纯 沉默带走了我的灵魂 想找也找不回 与我共枕 说好了眼泪会溶解伤痛 依赖太多只会带来折磨 这感觉仿佛要离开 安静的无奈 慢慢呈现出那清晰的爱 寂寞苍白了等待 灵魂在夜里徘徊 这世界有没有真爱 (这世界到底有没有真爱) 最后却被你伤害 我还是放不开 阴影一直纠缠到现在 (阴影一直纠缠到现在) 爱你放不开 忘不掉你的依赖 如果你还在 全世界都会精彩 爱你放不开 我依旧为你等待 一颗心一个人一个痛都为你存在 对着流星许下了心愿 静静地闭上双眼 发现你不在身边 你给的诺言我读了一遍又一遍 岁月模糊了你我的终点耶 静静的夜看着那条熟悉的街 变幻了我的世界冷风不断的交接 痛得无法分别眼泪慢慢的溶解 渐渐将心灵的火熄灭 歌词同步qq:707064848 谁会为你守候到黄昏 冷战残留的那道伤痕 想抹也抹不掉 你的天真 令我爱得如此单纯 沉默带走了我的灵魂 想找也找不回 与我共枕 说好了眼泪会溶解伤痛 依赖太多只会带来折磨 这感觉仿佛要离开 安静的无奈 慢慢呈现出那清晰的爱 寂寞苍白了等待 灵魂在夜里徘徊 这世界有没有真爱 (这世界到底有没有真爱) 最后却被你伤害 我还是放不开 阴影一直纠缠到现在 (阴影一直纠缠到现在) 爱你放不开 忘不掉你的依赖 如果你还在 全世界都会精彩 爱你放不开 我依旧为你等待 一颗心一个人一个痛都为你存在 爱你放不开 忘不掉你的依赖 如果你还在 全世界都会精彩 爱你放不开 我依旧为你等待 一颗心一个人一个痛都为你存在 满意请采纳
[create_time]2014-07-16 16:48:33[/create_time]2014-07-18 20:40:07[finished_time]2[reply_count]0[alue_good]夏尔0149[uname]https://himg.bdimg.com/sys/portrait/item/wise.1.b12d3e3e.L4UstxzjCJ1jqeTueS3cGA.jpg?time=3632&tieba_portrait_time=3632[avatar]超过54用户采纳过TA的回答[slogan]这个人很懒，什么都没留下![intro]100[view_count]
六哲-放不开歌词
放不开
作词：六哲 张海风
作曲：六哲 张海风
编曲：Zero
演唱：六哲
谁会为你守候到黄昏
冷战残留的那道伤痕
想抹也抹不掉 你的天真
令我爱得如此单纯
沉默带走了我的灵魂
想找也找不回
与我共枕 说好了眼泪会溶解伤痛
依赖太多只会带来折磨
这感觉仿佛要离开 安静的无奈
慢慢呈现出那清晰的爱
寂寞苍白了等待
灵魂在夜里徘徊
这世界有没有真爱
(这世界到底有没有真爱)
最后却被你伤害
我还是放不开
阴影一直纠缠到现在
(阴影一直纠缠到现在)
爱你放不开
忘不掉你的依赖
如果你还在
全世界都会精彩
爱你放不开
我依旧为你等待
一颗心一个人一个痛都为你存在
对着流星许下了心愿
静静地闭上双眼
发现你不在身边
你给的诺言我读了一遍又一遍
岁月模糊了你我的终点耶
静静的夜看着那条熟悉的街
变幻了我的世界冷风不断的交接
痛得无法分别眼泪慢慢的溶解
渐渐将心灵的火熄灭
谁会为你守候到黄昏
冷战残留的那道伤痕
想抹也抹不掉
你的天真
令我爱得如此单纯
沉默带走了我的灵魂
想找也找不回
与我共枕
说好了眼泪会溶解伤痛
依赖太多只会带来折磨
这感觉仿佛要离开
安静的无奈
慢慢呈现出那清晰的爱
寂寞苍白了等待
灵魂在夜里徘徊
这世界有没有真爱
(这世界到底有没有真爱)
最后却被你伤害
我还是放不开
阴影一直纠缠到现在
(阴影一直纠缠到现在)
爱你放不开
忘不掉你的依赖
如果你还在
全世界都会精彩
爱你放不开
我依旧为你等待
一颗心一个人一个痛都为你存在
爱你放不开
忘不掉你的依赖
如果你还在
全世界都会精彩
爱你放不开
我依旧为你等待
一颗心一个人一个痛都为你存在
[create_time]2012-11-06 22:02:56[/create_time]2012-11-21 12:06:45[finished_time]1[reply_count]0[alue_good]国冰波[uname]https://himg.bdimg.com/sys/portrait/item/wise.1.473000db.WI0s330D8pQ1fwHAY8X67Q.jpg?time=3311&tieba_portrait_time=3311[avatar]TA获得超过304个赞[slogan]这个人很懒，什么都没留下![intro]2[view_count]
人事悲哀后事会放开雨落以后什么歌
应该是文静和Mc吴迪合作的《再遇太难》，估计题主你没听清歌词，“人事悲哀后事会放开雨落以后”应该是“人是悲哀何时会放开一个人以后”，下面是歌词，你搜来听一下看看是不是这首歌曲：再遇太难作曲：小5作词 : 小5演唱：文静、Mc吴迪如果你还在 我怎情绪不快命注定要挡灾 回头人都不在天意弄人 人是悲哀 何时会放开一个人以后 噩梦从不离开把伤心携带 偶尔感觉你在预留空白 怕时间厉害将记忆都覆盖想说的话我只能编辑信息发给将被注销的手机号都不能到老 回忆着很好还记得油然而生在你耳边说爱你你温暖的手臂拥抱回馈很清晰脸颊泛起了红晕幸福没有间距多年之后想你也会暖心又如果来世我们相遇我还想继续想继续此生再无缘经营的爱情等你看到我的想念羽翼 能否梦里回应如果你还在 我怎情绪不快命注定要挡灾 回头人都不在天意弄人 人是悲哀 何时会放开一个人以后 噩梦从不离开把伤心携带 偶尔感觉你在预留空白 怕时间厉害将记忆都覆盖想说的话我只能编辑信息发给将被注销的手机号都不能到老 回忆着很好还记得油然而生在你耳边说爱你你温暖的手臂拥抱回馈很清晰脸颊泛起了红晕幸福没有间距多年之后想你也会暖心又如果来世我们相遇我还想继续想继续此生再无缘经营的爱情等你看到我的想念羽翼 能否梦里回应还记得油然而生在你耳边说爱你你温暖的手臂拥抱回馈很清晰脸颊泛起了红晕幸福没有间距多年之后想你也会暖心又如果来世我们相遇我还想继续想继续此生再无缘经营的爱情等你看到我的想念羽翼 能否梦里回应
[create_time]2017-08-15 20:09:32[/create_time]2017-08-30 12:51:58[finished_time]1[reply_count]5[alue_good]江舍厮[uname]https://himg.bdimg.com/sys/portrait/item/wise.1.c75926f4.Ooj-0J8RmbiMFu_LkEyHHA.jpg?time=4220&tieba_portrait_time=4220[avatar]TA获得超过7650个赞[slogan]这个人很懒，什么都没留下![intro]1603[view_count]关于珍惜时间的名言
1、年少鸡鸣方就枕，老人枕上待鸡鸣。转头三十余年梦，不道消磨只数声。 —— 黄宗羲2、生命的多少用时间计算，生命的价值用贡献计算。 —— 裴多菲3、时间就是这个样子，徜徉其中徜觉得慢，一旦定睛回望，弹指之间 —— 乐小米4、利用时间是一个极其高级的规律。 —— 恩格斯5、时间的步伐有三种：未来姗姗来迟，现在像箭一般飞逝，过去永远静立不动。 —— 席勒6、一万年太久，只争朝夕，虚心使人进步，骄傲使人落后，我们应当永远记住这个真理。 ——毛泽东扩展资料：惜时名言，是汉语词汇，顾名思义，指的是让人懂得道理，珍惜时间的名言警句。如：达尔文：“敢于浪费哪怕一个钟头时间的人，说明他还不懂得珍惜生命的全部价值。”
[create_time]2019-08-15 22:30:52[/create_time]2011-03-06 20:29:00[finished_time]115[reply_count]1404[alue_good]异想记世界[uname]https://gips0.baidu.com/it/u=2559971784,1276338738&fm=3012&app=3012&autime=1689685745&size=b200,200[avatar]醉心答题，欢迎关注[slogan]这个人很懒，什么都没留下![intro]646269[view_count]如果你还在就好了
文/ 北方有佳人
有无数个脆弱想哭的瞬间我都在想，如果你在就好了，那样一切一定都不一样了，一定都会比现在好的。
结果，还是我一个人，熬过了所有的这个时刻，
后来，不用了，谢谢了。
我不知道有多少人和我一样拧巴，喜欢独处又渴望有人陪伴。
所以总是会在身边人向我靠近的时候，习惯性的拉好警戒线，在自己划定好的小圈子里，反反复复的踱步，来来回回的，以为走了很远很远了，然而，回头看的时候才发现，原来从开始我就在这儿，一直都在这儿。
努力了再多，都像是白费的。
2.
做久了家猫，偶尔想做会儿野猫，可忘记了，一旦选择离开了，就再也回不去了。
在月色下独自走了很久很久，想当一个世界的旁观者，做一回浪迹天涯的游侠，从此白衣飘飘，潇潇洒洒。可是想要安定的时候才发现，原来四海虽大，可无处为家。
可我觉得，相比热闹而言，我更享受一个人的时刻。
在那些只有我自己的时候，我才能真正的面对自己的内心，听听它的声音。我太明白，大部分自己会围过来的人都不是来陪伴你的，看热闹的，永远比想关心你的人多。
我总觉得我就是这样的人，喜欢独处多于有人陪伴。
独处的时候，总会觉得自由些，想做什么就做什么，不用顾忌朋友的情绪。
比如逛街买衣服，一个人，听自己内心的声音，喜欢了，买，不喜欢，走。不用考虑别人的意见；
去图书馆，随处一站就可以看书，想走了走，不用探头找同伴她在哪里，问她现在要不要走，问她咱们要坐在那里，想去几楼看什么书。
可是需要有人陪伴的时候却又是实实在在的存在着的。
比如每次想去吃火锅，吃自助，要是没有人陪你坐在你对面谈笑风生，你看着周围男男女女嬉笑怒骂着坐在一桌，你会觉得孤单被呈指数的放大，毫无节制，压得你喘不上你，让你着急着想跑开。
参加聚会的时候，三个五个聚在一起聊天，而你独自坐在一个小角落，那种体验，我们谁都不想再经历第二次。
其实像我这样的人，我心里是一万个希望这个世界上谁都喜欢独来独往，不扎堆在一起。
这样，我自己吃火锅，他自己吃火锅。
那我就不会觉得自己有那么需要人陪伴了.......
3.
我好像一直是个挺孤僻的人，不愿意凑热闹，不愿意混关系，不愿意把希望寄托在谁身上，或者你说我是失望多了也无可厚非。
以前常常会想到底谁可以依靠，走了好久才知道，只有自己最可靠。
这些我都有过，我深刻的经历过，我尝过过，我感受过。
你一定有过这种感觉，当你心事重重，渴望找一个人谈一谈的时候，那个人是来了，是在你身边了。
可你们的对话变成了两条七扭八歪的曲线，各自占据一边，看似盘旋围绕，可实际上却无一处相交点。就那么凄凉的，乏力的延伸下去。
你敷衍着，笑着，听着，又怕冷场的补充着说着，装作很投机的样子，可是只有你自己知道，你心里到底是有多么渴望他离开，让你静下来，静下来安置好自己的那份寂寞。
4.
我不挽留，而他也没有再回来，
每次旅途都会想到一句话，如果你在就好了。
当你错过我的太多日子后，我一个熬过所有难过的时刻后，才发觉，在漫长的自我拉扯和反复煎熬折磨中，我早已经不需要你了，
当我一个人扛下来所有那些难过的日子的时候，
也就不再需要谁安慰了。
你走吧，我一个人，可以的。
[create_time]2022-06-14 08:26:35[/create_time]2022-06-25 14:12:04[finished_time]1[reply_count]0[alue_good]子静子的人3925[uname]https://himg.bdimg.com/sys/portrait/item/wise.1.5f51e665.-gqyPWHvB8Vt3Fq2dWQP1Q.jpg?time=8923&tieba_portrait_time=8923[avatar]TA获得超过6100个赞[slogan]这个人很懒，什么都没留下![intro]7[view_count]
如果你还在这个世界上存在着，那么这个世界无论怎么样，对我都是有意义的
第九章
他进来了，叫喊着不堪入耳的咒骂的话，刚好看见我正把他的儿子往厨房碗橱里藏。哈里顿对于碰上他那野兽般的喜爱或疯人般的狂怒，都有一种恐怖之感，这是因为在前一种情况下他有被挤死或吻死的机会，而在另一种情况下他又有被丢在火里或撞在墙上的机会。他的惊恐倒使我可以随意地把他放在任何地方，这可怜的东西总是不声不响。。。。。
“不是，”她反驳，“那是最好的！其他的动机都是为了满足我的狂想；而且也是为了埃德加的缘故——因为在他的身上，我能感到，既包含着我对埃德加的还包含着他对我自己的那种感情。我不能说清楚，可是你和别人当然都了解，除了你之外，还有，或是应该有，另一个你的存在。如果我是完完全全都在这儿，那么创造我又有什么用处呢？在这个世界上，我的最大的悲痛就是希刺克厉夫的悲痛，而且我从一开始就注意并且互相感受到了。在我的生活中，他是我最强的思念。如果别的一切都毁灭了，而他还留下来，我就能继续活下去；如果别的一切都留下来，而他却给消灭了，这个世界对于我就将成为一个极陌生的地方。我不会像是它的一部分。我对林惇的爱像是树林中的叶子：我完全晓得，在冬天变化树木的时候，时光便会变化叶子。我对希刺克厉夫的爱恰似下面的恒久不变的岩石：虽然看起来它给你的愉快并不多，可是这点愉快却是必需的。耐莉，我就是希刺克厉夫！他永远永远地在我心里。他并不是作为一种乐趣，并不见得比我对我自己还更有趣些，却是作为我自己本身而存在。所以别再谈我们的分离了——那是作不到的；而且——”
[create_time]2012-11-22 15:59:32[/create_time]2012-12-07 15:51:38[finished_time]8[reply_count]19[alue_good]落花澄海[uname]https://himg.bdimg.com/sys/portrait/item/wise.1.b7b1378b.0fpLQM3DPWO7ovi7JZJF_w.jpg?time=3071&tieba_portrait_time=3071[avatar]超过17用户采纳过TA的回答[slogan]这个人很懒，什么都没留下![intro]6528[view_count]
这段话的出处
中文只能找到下面一段了，没有全文：
《简·爱》与《呼啸山庄》
伍尔夫
艾米莉·勃朗特，夏洛蒂·勃朗特，乔治·爱略特--没有一位生育过子女，其中有两位没有结过婚，这一事实具有重大的意义。
然而，虽然不准妇女写作的禁令已被取消，妇女要写小说似乎仍有相当巨大的压力。在天才和性格方面，再也没有比这四位妇女更加相异的了。简·奥斯丁与乔治·爱略特毫无共同之处；乔治·爱略特又与艾米莉·勃朗特截然相反。然而，她们所受的生活训练却使她们从事相同的职业；当她们写作之时，她们都写了小说。
小说过去是，现在仍然是，妇女最容易写作的东西。其原因并不难找。小说是最不集中的艺术形式。一部小说比一出戏或一首诗更容易时作时辍。乔治·爱略特丢下了她的工作，去护理她的父亲。夏洛蒂·勃朗特放下了她的笔，去削马铃薯。虽然她生活在普通的客厅里，被人们包围着，一位妇女所受到的训练，就是运用她的心灵去观察并且分析她的人物。她所受的训练，使她成为一位小说家，而不是一位诗人。
甚至在19世纪，妇女也几乎仅仅在她的家庭和情感之中生活。而那些19世纪的小说，虽然它们是杰出的，却受到这个事实的深刻影响：写作它们的妇女，由于她们的性别，而被排除在某些种类的人生经历之外。而人生经历对于小说有重大的影响，这是无可争辩的事实。例如，康拉德如果不能当上一名水手，他最好的一部分小说就会毁灭。如果剥夺了托尔斯泰作为一名士兵所获得的关于战争的知识，剥夺了他作为一个富家公子所受的教育给予他的各种经历，以及由此所获得的关于人生和社会的知识，《战争与和平》就会变得令人难以置信的贫乏无味。
然而，《傲慢与偏见》、《呼啸山庄》、《维列蒂》和《米德尔马奇》是妇女写作的。她们被强行剥夺了在中产阶级的客厅内所能遇到的事情之外的一切经历。对她们而言，关于战争、航海、政治或商业的任何第一手经验，都无从获得。甚至她们的感情生活，亦受到法律与习惯的严格限制。乔治·爱略特没有结婚，就甘冒天下之大不韪与路易士先生同居，公众舆论为之哗然。在此压力之下，乔治·爱略特退避郊区，离群索居，这就不可避免地给她的创作带来了最不利的影响。她写道：除非人们自动要求来拜访她，她从不邀请他们。与此同时，在欧洲的另一边，托尔斯泰作为一名军人，过着自由自在的生活，与各阶层的男女交往，对此无人加以非议，而他的小说却从其中获得了惊人的广度和活力。 但是，妇女所写的小说，不仅仅是受到女作家必然狭窄的生活经验的影响。至少在19世纪，它们显示出可能归因于作家性别的另一个特征。在《米德尔马奇》和《简·爱》中，我们不仅意识到作者的性格，正如我们在狄更斯的作品中意识到他的性格，我们还意识到有一位女性在场--有人在谴责她的性别所带来的不公正待遇，并且为她应有的权利而呼吁。这就在妇女的作品中注入了一种在男性的作品中完全没有的因素。除非他碰巧确实是一位工人、黑人或者由于某种其他原因意识到自己软弱无能的人。它引起了对现实的歪曲，并且往往导致某种缺陷。
Virginia Woolf on Charlotte Brontë's Jane Eyre
(Excerpted from The Common Reader, First Series: "'Jane Eyre' and 'Wuthering Heights'")
Of the hundred years that have passed since Charlotte Bronte was born, she, the centre now of so much legend, devotion, and literature, lived but thirty-nine. It is strange to reflect how different those legends might have been had her life reached the ordinary human span. She might have become, like some of her famous contemporaries, a figure familiarly met with in London and elsewhere, the subject of pictures and anecdotes innumerable, the writer of many novels, of memoirs possibly, removed from us well within the memory of the middle-aged in all the splendour of established fame. She might have been wealthy, she might have been prosperous. But it is not so. When we think of her we have to imagine some one who had no lot in our modern world; we have to cast our minds back to the 'fifties of the last century, to a remote parsonage upon the wild Yorkshire moors. In that parsonage, and on those moors, unhappy and lonely, in her poverty and her exaltation, she remains for ever.
These circumstances, as they affected her character, may have left their traces on her work. A novelist, we reflect, is bound to build up his structure with much very perishable material which begins by lending it reality and ends by cumbering it with rubbish. As we open Jane Eyre once more we cannot stifle the suspicion that we shall find her world of imagination as antiquated, mid-Victorian, and out of date as the parsonage on the moor, a place only to be visited by the curious, only preserved by the pious. So we open Jane Eyre; and in two pages every doubt is swept clean from our minds.
Folds of scarlet drapery shut in my view to the right hand; to the left were the clear panes of glass, protecting, but not separating me from the drear November day. At intervals, while turning over the leaves of my book, I studied the aspect of that winter afternoon. Afar, it offered a pale blank of mist and cloud; near, a scene of wet lawn and storm-beat shrub, with ceaseless rain sweeping away wildly before a long and lamentable blast.
There is nothing there more perishable than the moor itself, or more subject to the sway of fashion than the "long and lamentable blast." Nor is this exhilaration short-lived. It rushes us through the entire volume, without giving us time to think, without letting us lift our eyes from the page. So intense is our absorption that if some one moves in the room the movement seems to take place not there but up in Yorkshire. The writer has us by the hand, forces us along her road, makes us see what she sees, never leaves us for a moment or allows us to forget her. At the end we are steeped through and through with the genius, the vehemence, the indignation of Charlotte Bronte. Remarkable faces, figures of strong outline and gnarled feature have flashed upon us in passing; but it is through her eyes that we have seen them. Once she is gone, we seek for them in vain. Think of Rochester and we have to think of Jane Eyre. Think of the moor, and again there is Jane Eyre. Think of the drawing-room, even, those "white carpets on which seemed laid brilliant garlands of flowers", that "pale Parian mantelpiece" with its Bohemia glass of "ruby red" and the "general blending of snow and fire"—what is all that except Jane Eyre?
The drawbacks of being Jane Eyre are not far to seek. Always to be a governess and always to be in love is a serious limitation in a world which is full, after all, of people who are neither one nor the other. The characters of a Jane Austen or of a Tolstoi have a million facets compared with these. They live and are complex by means of their effect upon many different people who serve to mirror them in the round. They move hither and thither whether their creators watch them or not, and the world in which they live seems to us an independent world which we can visit, now that they have created it, by ourselves. Thomas Hardy is more akin to Charlotte Bronte in the power of his personality and the narrowness of his vision. But the differences are vast. As we read Jude the Obscure we are not rushed to a finish; we brood and ponder and drift away from the text in plethoric trains of thought which build up round the characters an atmosphere of question and suggestion of which they are themselves, as often as not, unconscious. Simple peasants as they are, we are forced to confront them with destinies and questionings of the hugest import, so that often it seems as if the most important characters in a Hardy novel are those which have no names. Of this power, of this speculative curiosity, Charlotte Brontë has no trace. She does not attempt to solve the problems of human life; she is even unaware that such problems exist; all her force, and it is the more tremendous for being constricted, goes into the assertion, "I love,""I hate,""I suffer."
For the self-centred and self-limited writers have a power denied the more catholic and broad-minded. Their impressions are close packed and strongly stamped between their narrow walls. Nothing issues from their minds which has not been marked with their own impress. They learn little from other writers, and what they adopt they cannot assimilate. Both Hardy and Charlotte Brontë appear to have founded their styles upon a stiff and decorous journalism. The staple of their prose is awkward and unyielding. But both with labour and the most obstinate integrity, by thinking every thought until it has subdued words to itself, have forged for themselves a prose which takes the mould of their minds entire; which has, into the bargain, a beauty, a power, a swiftness of its own. Charlotte Brontë, at least, owed nothing to the reading of many books. She never learnt the smoothness of the professional writer, or acquired his ability to stuff and sway his language as he chooses. "I could never rest in communication with strong, discreet, and refined minds, whether male or female," she writes, as any leader-writer in a provincial journal might have written; but gathering fire and speed goes on in her own authentic voice "till I had passed the outworks of conventional reserve and crossed the threshold of confidence, and won a place by their hearts' very hearthstone." It is there that she takes her seat; it is the red and fitful glow of the heart's fire which illumines her page. In other words, we read Charlotte Brontë not for exquisite observation of character—her characters are vigorous and elementary; not for comedy—hers is grim and crude; not for a philosophic view of life—hers is that of a country parson's daughter; but for her poetry. Probably that is so with all writers who have, as she has, an overpowering personality, so that, as we say in real life, they have only to open the door to make themselves felt. There is in them some untamed ferocity perpetually at war with the accepted order of things which makes them desire to create instantly rather than to observe patiently. This very ardour, rejecting half shades and other minor impediments, wings its way past the daily conduct of ordinary people and allies itself with their more inarticulate passions. It makes them poets, or, if they choose to write in prose, intolerant of its restrictions. Hence it is that both Emily and Charlotte are always invoking the help of nature. They both feel the need of some more powerful symbol of the vast and slumbering passions in human nature than words or actions can convey. It is with a description of a storm that Charlotte ends her finest novel Villette. "The skies hang full and dark—a wrack sails from the west; the clouds cast themselves into strange forms." So she calls in nature to describe a state of mind which could not otherwise be expressed. But neither of the sisters observed nature accurately as Dorothy Wordsworth observed it, or painted it minutely as Tennyson painted it. They seized those aspects of the earth which were most akin to what they themselves felt or imputed to their characters, and so their storms, their moors, their lovely spaces of summer weather are not ornaments applied to decorate a dull page or display the writer's powers of observation—they carry on the emotion and light up the meaning of the book.
（以下可不看）
The meaning of a book, which lies so often apart from what happens and what is said and consists rather in some connection which things in themselves different have had for the writer, is necessarily hard to grasp. Especially this is so when, like the Brontës, the writer is poetic, and his meaning inseparable from his language, and itself rather a mood than a particular observation. Wuthering Heights is a more difficult book to understand than Jane Eyre, because Emily was a greater poet than Charlotte. When Charlotte wrote she said with eloquence and splendour and passion “I love”, “I hate”, “I suffer”. Her experience, though more intense, is on a level with our own. But there is no “I” in Wuthering Heights. There are no governesses. There are no employers. There is love, but it is not the love of men and women. Emily was inspired by some more general conception. The impulse which urged her to create was not her own suffering or her own injuries. She looked out upon a world cleft into gigantic disorder and felt within her the power to unite it in a book. That gigantic ambition is to be felt throughout the novel—a struggle, half thwarted but of superb conviction, to say something through the mouths of her characters which is not merely “I love” or “I hate”, but “we, the whole human race” and “you, the eternal powers . . .” the sentence remains unfinished. It is not strange that it should be so; rather it is astonishing that she can make us feel what she had it in her to say at all. It surges up in the half-articulate words of Catherine Earnshaw, “If all else perished and HE remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger; I should not seem part of it”. It breaks out again in the presence of the dead. “I see a repose that neither earth nor hell can break, and I feel an assurance of the endless and shadowless hereafter—the eternity they have entered—where life is boundless in its duration, and love in its sympathy and joy in its fulness.” It is this suggestion of power underlying the apparitions of human nature and lifting them up into the presence of greatness that gives the book its huge stature among other novels. But it was not enough for Emily Brontë to write a few lyrics, to utter a cry, to express a creed. In her poems she did this once and for all, and her poems will perhaps outlast her novel. But she was novelist as well as poet. She must take upon herself a more laborious and a more ungrateful task. She must face the fact of other existences, grapple with the mechanism of external things, build up, in recognisable shape, farms and houses and report the speeches of men and women who existed independently of herself. And so we reach these summits of emotion not by rant or rhapsody but by hearing a girl sing old songs to herself as she rocks in the branches of a tree; by watching the moor sheep crop the turf; by listening to the soft wind breathing through the grass. The life at the farm with all its absurdities and its improbability is laid open to us. We are given every opportunity of comparing Wuthering Heights with a real farm and Heathcliff with a real man. How, we are allowed to ask, can there be truth or insight or the finer shades of emotion in men and women who so little resemble what we have seen ourselves? But even as we ask it we see in Heathcliff the brother that a sister of genius might have seen; he is impossible we say, but nevertheless no boy in literature has a more vivid existence than his. So it is with the two Catherines; never could women feel as they do or act in their manner, we say. All the same, they are the most lovable women in English fiction. It is as if she could tear up all that we know human beings by, and fill these unrecognisable transparences with such a gust of life that they transcend reality. Hers, then, is the rarest of all powers. She could free life from its dependence on facts; with a few touches indicate the spirit of a face so that it needs no body; by speaking of the moor make the wind blow and the thunder roar.
[create_time]2008-06-17 00:32:56[/create_time]2008-06-26 01:45:28[finished_time]2[reply_count]2[alue_good]wangxiang8026[uname]https://himg.bdimg.com/sys/portrait/item/wise.1.c3312510.LTg-7P255SRYmZcHFDDaxg.jpg?time=2869&tieba_portrait_time=2869[avatar][slogan]这个人很懒，什么都没留下![intro]7664[view_count]
《呼啸山庄》的一句话
爱情未必总是幸福的历程，相爱的人也未必总是彼此善待。恋人们经常陷入感情纠葛之中，又不能决定自己的命运。
——《呼啸山庄》序
附：名言
我并不愿意你受的苦比我受的还大，希斯克利夫。我只愿我们永远不分离：如果我有一句话使你今后难过，想想我在地下也感到一样的难过，看在我自己的份上，饶恕我吧! (《呼啸山庄》)
I and do not would like to what you suffer bitter stiller big than what I suffer, rare 斯 gram benefit man.I only wish we never separate:If I has a words make you from now on sad, wanting that I am in the underground that also feel similar and sad, see on my own share, the 饶 forgives me! ( the 《 roars and shout the country villa 》 )
我爱他，并不是因为他长得漂亮，而是因为他比我更像我自己。”
"so he shall never know how I love him: and that, not because he's handsome, Nelly, but because he's more myself than I am. "
如果你还在这个世界存在着，那么这个世界无论什么样，对我都有是有意义的.但是如果你不在了，无论这个世界有多么好，他在我眼里也只是一片荒漠。而我就像是一个狐魂野鬼。
If you also exist in this world, then this world, regardless of what, has to me is meaningful. But if you not, regardless of this world has how well, he in my eye is also only a wilderness. But I likely am a fox soul wild ghost.
[create_time]2010-01-15 19:58:34[/create_time]2010-01-15 20:23:40[finished_time]4[reply_count]6[alue_good]tourwlx[uname]https://himg.bdimg.com/sys/portrait/item/wise.1.9d2eab2c.9udWFV6DabbCbxt9pL4oww.jpg?time=3061&tieba_portrait_time=3061[avatar]TA获得超过4068个赞[slogan]这个人很懒，什么都没留下![intro]1533[view_count]
