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No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend’s or of thine own were: any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore, never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee

谁都不是一座岛屿，自成一体/ 每个人都是一个碎片，那广袤大陆的一部分/ 如果海浪冲掉一块土地，家园就小了一点/ 如果一座海岬，如果你朋友或你自己的庄园被冲掉/ 也是如此/ 任何人的死亡都使我受到损失/ 因为我包孕在人类之中/ 所以不必打听丧钟为谁鸣/ 丧钟为你鸣

Robert Jordan pushed the cup toward him. It was a milky yellow now with the water and he hoped the gypsy would not take more than a swallow. There was very little of it left and one cup of it took the place of the evening papers, of all the old evenings in cafe, of all chestnut trees that would be in bloom now in this month, of the great slow horses of the outer boulevards, of book shops, of kiosques, and of galleries, of the Parc Montsouris, of the Stade Buffalo, and of the Butte Chaumont, of the Guaranty Trust Company and the Ile de la Cite, of Foyot's old hotel, and of being able to read and relax in the evening; of all the things he had enjoyed and forgotten and that came back to him when he tasted that opaque, bitter, tongue-numbing, brain-warming, stomach-warming, idea-changing liqu...

How many times had he heard this? How many times had he watched people say it with difficulty? How many times had he seen their eyes fill and their throats harden with the difficulty of saying my father, or my brother, or my mother, or my sister? He could not remember how many times he had heard them mention their dead in this way. Nearly always they spoke as this boy did now; suddenly and apropos of the mention of the town and always you said, "What barbarians."

You only heard the statement of the loss. You did not see the father fall as Pilar made him see the fascists die in that story she had told by the stream. You knew the father died in some courtyard, or against some wall, or in some field or orchard, or at night, in the lights of a truck, beside some road. You had seen the lights...

1They were walking through the heather of the mountain meadow and Robert Jordan felt the brushing of the heather against his legs, felt the weight of his pistol in its holster against his thigh, felt the sun on his head, felt the breeze from the snow of the mountain peaks cool on his back and, in his hand, he felt the girl's hand firm and strong, the fingers locked in his. From it, from the palm of her hand against the palm of his, from their fingers locked together, and from her wrist across his wrist something came from her hand, her fingers and her wrist to his that was as fresh as the first light air that moving toward you over the sea barely wrinkles the glassy surface of a calm, as light as a feather moved across one's lip, or a leaf falling when there is no breeze; so light that it ...

Now that his rage was gone he was excited by this storm as he was always by all storms. In a blizzard, a gale, a sudden line squall, a tropical storm, or a summer thunder shower in the mountains there was an excitement that came to him from no other thing. It was like the excitement of battle except that it was clean. There is a wind that blows through battle but that was a hot wind; hot and dry as your mouth; and it blew heavily; hot and dirtily; and it rose and died away with the fortunes of the day. He knew that wind well.

But a snowstorm was the opposite of all of that. In the snowstorm you came close to wild animals and they were not afraid. They travelled across country not knowing where they were and the deer stood sometimes in the lee of the cabin. In a snowstorm you rode up to a...

The night was clear and his head felt as clear and cold as the air. He smelled the odor of the pine boughs under him, the piney smell of the crushed needles and the sharper odor of the resinous sap from the cut limbs. Pilar, he thought. Pilar and the smell of death. This is the smell I love. This and fresh-cut clover, the crushed sage as you ride after cattle, wood-smoke and the burning leaves of autumn. That must be the odor of nostalgia, the smell of the smoke from the piles of raked leaves burning in the streets in the fall in Missoula. Which would you rather smell? Sweet grass the Indians used in their baskets? Smoked leather? The odor of the ground in the spring after rain? The smell of the sea as you walk through the gorse on a headland in Galicia? Or the wind from the land as you c...

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• 作者：静静的生活 发布时间：2021-02-03 12:34:40

  这个版本很差，个别句子不通顺，错字别字较多。读这本书的时候像个兼职的校对员，拿着铅笔看到就改。这本小说还是不错的，罗伯特的身上有海明威的影子，其他人物的刻画也很丰富，每个人都在战争中经历着苦难。

• 作者：想發呆的貓 发布时间：2013-02-05 20:45:01

  #电子书PDF#

• 作者：中秋 发布时间：2023-08-19 02:11:32

  最高的统治艺术皆是，荣誉、价值观、道德……不值钱，但比钱更有用。可普通人民中的虚假幸福和自由，这一声声丧钟又能因谁而鸣?

• 作者：苦隐居士 发布时间：2022-09-03 17:36:01

  这种事无巨细并且还夹杂不少意识流碎片，还根据人物延伸出很多回忆的作品毫无疑问是完全不可取的。他就这么硬生生地水了约五十万字。若是削减三分之一，或许还不错。

• 作者：杜络昕。 发布时间：2021-02-16 19:52:33

  有错别字，中间发现排版也是歪的，还以为看到了盗版书，其间有段一度看不下去，但还是耐下性子花了三天看完了，三天的故事能写这么长，感觉跟长安二十四时辰有点异曲同工之妙，每一个瞬间，都有漫长的故事。

• 作者：完颜拓 发布时间：2022-12-01 16:01:47

  做任务前千万不要立Flag啊罗伯特。这版本错字是真的多。

• 丧钟

  作者：说了我是黑无常 发布时间：2011-01-01 15:00:16

  Do you know what's worth fighting for

  你知道还有什么是值得为之战斗的么

  When it's not worth dying for?

  当并不值得为之而死的时候？

  Does it take your breath away

  它有没有让你无法喘气

  And you feel yourself suffocating?

  你是否感到窒息？

  ----Green Day <21 Guns>

  如今爱西班牙的人迷恋的不过是这些：行云流水独扛艺术大旗的板鸭足球、位处自诩文明的西欧却热情得嚣张的舞蹈、疯狂而一往无前的斗牛狂欢、弥漫历史的气息在夜间分外迷人的巴塞罗那风光，抑或是灵动优美节奏感强的西班牙语。然而有那样一个人，他爱的是与西班牙共同经历的彻骨创痛，爱的是每每踏砖都会战栗在耳边的丧钟。

  海明威的每部小说都有种自传的味道。他笔下的主人公，或年轻有为，或英雄迟暮，总在骨子里透着永不低头的倔劲。从那字里行间，总渗出这位作家对世间的痛恨、抗争，以及背后蕴泪的爱。

  乔丹同海明威一样并非西班牙人，却在阴霾笼罩的二战前夕毅然投身西班牙混乱的内战前线，成为势单力薄的反抗军中的共产主义战士，对抗几乎攥有全部胜算的弗朗哥政府军。反抗军给他的任务很简单——炸桥。彼时这桥已成为战场上的生命线，无数补给均从这把守森严的桥上向前线通过，炸掉这桥与切断政府军的粮仓线无异。然而这任务又岂是单单说说这样容易？由此才展开了故事的主体，即乔丹作为一个国际主义者同广大西班牙人民的交往过程中共同经历的炮火洗礼。

  写《丧钟》时的海明威相比从前在面对战争的态度上已变得从容与理智，从《永别了，武器》中一站站场上的逃兵到《丧钟为谁而鸣》中几经思索最终选择为人类的和平牺牲自我的战士。这样的转变中，海明威将自己对战争的思考糅进了书的铅字里。一开始，只是笼统的痛恨、厌恶，为硝烟中纷飞的生命的粉末而撼动，于是他说：“战争中最后承担罪恶的只有人民。”当他从战地记者的角色中跳脱出来，那些前赴后继前者倒地后者接枪的人影又盘桓在他的眼前。面对平静的湖光山色，他开始理解震颤的枪炮之下人类所坚守的勇气与理想、自由与荣耀，于是他笔下的人物蜕尽旧皮，成为了尽管有迷茫，仍最终投身惊涛骇浪的堤坝，将自己铸成拦截高压统治洪峰的砖石的斗牛士。面对友谊、团结、背叛、绝望，张开双臂，放出萤火之光敢与日月争辉的光柱。“没有失败，只有战死。”

  战争之于每个民族都不陌生。几乎每个民族的发展史册上，揭开某些页面，都能看到淋淋的血嗅到刺鼻的腥灌进盈耳的呻吟。西班牙内战在之后紧接着降临的反法西斯战争的掩盖下已显得苍白而鲜有人记得。海明威用钢笔记述了曾经遍地星火的悲壮的西班牙，由此他说，正义战争的价值不在于双方斗争后所建立的体系，而在于人类通过抗争最终获得的和平，战争中的牺牲因之才有了价值。

  海明威的书名是个哀叹般的问句。千古悠悠，有多少冤魂嗟叹。这无尽的拷问弥散着无法抑制的太息。乌干达的阴郁、卢旺达的哀嚎、库尔德人的绝望、吉普赛人的苦难，扬起漫天沙尘蒙蔽天日，然而悲凉的丧钟呜呜的哀鸣难以被掩蔽。

  海明威在扉页上留下的笔记可以作为结束：

  任何人的死亡都是我的损失

  因为我是人类的一员

  因此

  不要问丧钟为谁而鸣

  他就为你而鸣

• 三天的心灵史

  作者：海扬尘 发布时间：2010-11-23 21:11:54