Name: Perfume
ISBN: 9780375725845

作者: Patrick Suskind
出版社: Vintage
副标题: The Story of a Murderer
译者: John E. Woods
出版年: 2001-02-13
页数: 255
定价: USD 13.95
装帧: Paperback
ISBN: 9780375725845

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内容简介 · · · · · ·

An acclaimed bestseller and international sensation, Patrick Suskind's classic novel provokes a terrifying examination of what happens when one man's indulgence in his greatest passion—his sense of smell—leads to murder.

In the slums of eighteenth-century France, the infant Jean-Baptiste Grenouille is born with one sublime gift-an absolute sense of smell. As a boy, he lives to...

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作者简介 · · · · · ·

Patrick Süskind (born March 26, 1949) is a German writer and screenwriter.

He was born in Ambach am Starnberger See, near Munich in Germany. His father was Wilhelm Emanuel Süskind. He studied Medieval and Modern History at the University of Munich and in Aix-en-Provence from 1968-1974. In the 1980s he worked as a screenwriter, for "Kir Royal" and "Monaco Franze" among others. H...

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尽管他知道，为了占有这种香味，他必定要付出即将丧失这香味的高昂代价，但是他觉得先占有而后丧失比起简单地放弃二者更值得追求，因为他在一生中有过放弃，但从未有过占有和丧失。 (查看原文)

C.C.叔家的糕点 1 回复 14赞 2012-08-09 14:15:13

—— 引自第178页
人的不幸来源于他不肯安分守己地呆在自己应呆的房间里。帕斯卡尔这么说。 (查看原文)

tiny大羊羊 5赞 2012-11-24 20:54:37

—— 引自第61页

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外国文学小说英文英文原版谋杀想象力香水

喜欢读"Perfume"的人也喜欢 · · · · · ·

: Middlemarch

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: The Stranger

: Watership Down

: A Passage to India

: Brave New World

: Beloved

: Bleak House

: Autobiography of Red

: Great Expectations

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Perfume的话题 · · · · · · ( 全部条 )

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无论是一部作品、一个人，还是一件事，都往往可以衍生出许多不同的话题。将这些话题细分出来，分别进行讨论，会有更多收获。

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Perfume的书评 · · · · · · ( 全部 722 条 )

热门 / 最新 / 好友 /只看本版本的评论

长虎牙的羊 2007-08-09 22:00:46 上海译文出版社2005版

存在是一门太深奥的学问

（一）用一句冠冕堂皇的话来讲，《香水》写的是一部追求史，对价值的追求，对美的追求——对存在的追求。作者给了味觉天才葛奴乙一个最最低谷的背景——鱼肆！多么悲惨的环境，对嗅觉超级敏感的人被丢在臭鱼烂虾和各种动物尸体混合的世界里，估计不啻于屈原老先生投河前... (展开)

581

44 113回应

和菜头 2006-02-28 15:22:08 上海译文出版社2005版

请温柔地杀死我

《香水：一个谋杀犯的故事》就要被搬上银幕了，《看电影》杂志上这么说的，而且很别致地把作者的名字翻译为徐四金。我怀疑电影怕无法拍出小说里的味道，好像从来烂小说都被拍成了好电影，如《阿甘正传》；好小说都被拍成了烂电影，如《玫瑰的名字》（又名《魔宫传奇》），连肖... (展开)

422

100 105回应

meiya 2012-03-25 22:52:35 上海译文出版社2009版

人生的真相：事与愿违是常态，得偿所愿是变态

最近一周我的地铁和睡前读物是聚斯金德的小说《香水》，如果是个小说家读这本书一定会气急败坏又沮丧无比地来一句：妈的，为什么我写不出这样的东西！如果是一个野心勃勃想当作家的人读这本书一定会斗志全无，颓丧万分地来一句：妈的，我这辈子没希望了！如果是一个像我这样热... (展开)

328

25 64回应

檀柒 2009-11-19 21:49:16 上海译文出版社2005版

你就算站在世界最高处，仍然不曾有人爱过你啊。

昨天写到《面纱》，说起电影与原著的不同，最近还读了另外一本书的原著，也就是《香水》。不是刻意要对电影和文字进行比较，但是，很显然，大部分的电影改编，由于缺失大量文字中所独有的细节性的描绘，都会显得比较乏味和失败。能够超越原著的电影改编作品屈指可数，像《肖申... (展开)

146

12 21回应

九尾黑猫 2007-11-18 23:38:19 上海译文出版社2005版

《香水》——他窃笑着洒下绿色的淫粉

　　一、他窃笑着洒下绿色的淫粉　　在输给嗜战的墨奈劳斯之后，爱神阿芙洛狄忒在神一样的帕里斯心中埋下欲念，令他听不到阿特柔斯之子愤怒的吼叫，也忘却决斗失败的耻辱，沉浸在金灿灿的海伦的甜美欲念中。备受争议的法国作家萨德侯爵一生中的二十七年都在监狱中度过，为他... (展开)

8 15回应

御堂柴 2007-12-17 22:41:55 上海译文出版社2005版

盛大的寓言

几年前看的这个小说，看了豆瓣上的评论，有些不平，抒发抒发。当他们后来敢于这么做，起先是偷偷地、后来则是完全公开地相互对现时，他们不禁破涕为笑。他们感到特别自豪。他们第一次出于爱而做了一点事情。这是小说的结尾。聚斯金德实在太酷了，因为他把所有的矛盾、隐... (展开)

2 7回应

阿改 2009-10-03 13:56:55 上海译文出版社2009版

杰作

好的小说应该能够置读者于道德判断的两难上，无疑，《香水》做到了。对于主人公，一个可以辨别、收集世界上最遥远最轻微的气味的人，自身却没有任何气味，这一特征让整个谋杀案从一个开始就充满了悲剧的色彩。归根到底，这是一个狂想者、执迷者追寻自我的徒劳之旅，他在巴黎... (展开)

4 10回应

安东 2006-08-14 17:20:01 上海译文出版社2005版

生平最快乐的地方在哪里？

金庸的《天龙八部》里，一干人等去应征西夏国驸马，西夏公主的使女问了众人三个问题： ——你生平最快乐的地方在哪里？ ——你最爱的人是谁？ ——她叫什么？三个问题里，第一个问题的答案最为有趣。段誉听到问题后脱口而出：“在一口枯井的烂... (展开)

10 19回应

澈之 2012-11-06 21:19:53 上海译文出版社2005版

聚斯金德和提克威的《香水》王国——有关人性和欲望的终极寓言

一格雷诺耶嗅觉中的爱与被爱 “人可以在伟大之前、恐惧之前、在美之前闭上眼睛，可以不倾听美妙的旋律或诱骗的言词，却不能逃避味道，因为味道和呼吸同在，人呼吸的时候，味道就同时渗透进去了，人若是要活下去就无法拒绝味道，味道直接渗进人心，鲜明地决定人的癖好，藐... (展开)

1回应

雅克 2007-12-18 09:48:05 上海译文出版社2005版

关于聚斯金德的小说《香水》的只言片语

这篇书评可能有关键情节透露

1 气味，泛泛地讲，实在是不足为奇的一个元素。相比于看到的影像，听到的声音，它没有那么容易为人所感知，所触动。可一旦有了一段距离，有一个场，留出恰当的位置，给它发挥作用，那就不得了。比如野兽，洒下排泄物，是想用气味来划分领地；漂亮抑或不那么漂亮的女人，喷上香... (展开)

1 6回应

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ocean11 (实名验证就是自证其罪)

文字很棒，可以拿来练写作 We are familiar with people who seek out solitude: penitents, failures, saints, or prophets. They retreat to deserts, preferably, where they live on locusts and honey. Others, however, live in caves or cells on remote islands; some—more spectacularly—squat in cages mounted high atop poles swaying in the breeze. They do this to be nearer to God. Their solitude is a sel...
2018-02-09 22:22 1人喜欢

文字很棒，可以拿来练写作
We are familiar with people who seek out solitude: penitents, failures, saints, or prophets. They retreat to deserts, preferably, where they live on locusts and honey. Others, however, live in caves or cells on remote islands; some—more spectacularly—squat in cages mounted high atop poles swaying in the breeze. They do this to be nearer to God. Their solitude is a self-mortification by which they do penance. They act in the belief that they are living a life pleasing to God. Or they wait months, years, for their solitude to be broken by some divine message that they hope then speedily to broadcast among mankind. Grenouille’s case was nothing of the sort. There was not the least notion of God in his head. He was not doing penance nor waiting for some supernatural inspiration. He had withdrawn solely for his own personal pleasure, only to be near to himself. No longer distracted by anything external, he basked in his own existence and found it splendid. He lay in his stony crypt like his own corpse, hardly breathing, his heart hardly beating—and yet lived as intensively and dissolutely as ever a rake had lived in the wide world outside.
引自 over all
Grenouille stood there and smiled. Or rather, it seemed to the people who saw him that he was smiling, the most innocent, loving, enchanting, and at the same time most seductive smile in the world. But in fact it was not a smile, but an ugly, cynical smirk that lay upon his lips, reflecting both his total triumph and his total contempt. He, Jean-Baptiste Grenouille, born with no odor of his own on the most stinking spot in this world, amid garbage, dung, and putrefaction, raised without love, with no warmth of a human soul, surviving solely on impudence and the power of loathing, small, hunchbacked, lame, ugly, shunned, an abomination within and without—he had managed to make the world admire him. To hell with admire! Love him! Desire him! Idolize him! He had performed a Promethean feat. He had persevered until, with infinite cunning, he had obtained for himself that divine spark, something laid gratis in the cradle of every other human being but withheld from him alone. And not merely that! He had himself actually struck that spark upon himself. He was even greater than Prometheus. He had created an aura more radiant and more effective than any human being had ever possessed before him. And he owed it to no one—not to a father, nor a mother, and least of all to a gracious God—but to himself alone. He was in very truth his own God, and a more splendid God than the God that stank of incense and was quartered in churches. A flesh-and-blood bishop was on his knees before him, whimpering with pleasure. The rich and the mighty, proud ladies and gentlemen, were fawning in adoration, while the common folk all around—among them the fathers, mothers, brothers, and sisters of his victims—celebrated an orgy in his honor and in his name. A nod of his head and they would all renounce their God and worship him, Grenouille the Great.
引自 over all
From time to time he reached in his pocket and closed his hand around the little glass flacon of his perfume. The bottle was still almost full. He had used only a drop of it for his performance in Grasse. There was enough left to enslave the whole world. If he wanted, he could be feted in Paris, not by tens of thousands, but by hundreds of thousands of people; or could walk out to Versailles and have the king kiss his feet; write the pope a perfumed letter and reveal himself as the new Messiah; be anointed in Notre-Dame as Supreme Emperor before kings and emperors, or even as God come to earth—if there was such a thing as God having Himself anointed… He could do all that, if only he wanted to. He possessed the power. He held it in his hand. A power stronger than the power of money or the power of terror or the power of death: the invincible power to command the love of mankind. There was only one thing that power could not do: it could not make him able to smell himself. And though his perfume might allow him to appear before the world as a god—if he could not smell himself and thus never know who he was, to hell with it, with the world, with himself, with his perfume.
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ocean11 (实名验证就是自证其罪)

文字很棒，可以拿来练写作 We are familiar with people who seek out solitude: penitents, failures, saints, or prophets. They retreat to deserts, preferably, where they live on locusts and honey. Others, however, live in caves or cells on remote islands; some—more spectacularly—squat in cages mounted high atop poles swaying in the breeze. They do this to be nearer to God. Their solitude is a sel...
2018-02-09 22:22 1人喜欢

文字很棒，可以拿来练写作
We are familiar with people who seek out solitude: penitents, failures, saints, or prophets. They retreat to deserts, preferably, where they live on locusts and honey. Others, however, live in caves or cells on remote islands; some—more spectacularly—squat in cages mounted high atop poles swaying in the breeze. They do this to be nearer to God. Their solitude is a self-mortification by which they do penance. They act in the belief that they are living a life pleasing to God. Or they wait months, years, for their solitude to be broken by some divine message that they hope then speedily to broadcast among mankind. Grenouille’s case was nothing of the sort. There was not the least notion of God in his head. He was not doing penance nor waiting for some supernatural inspiration. He had withdrawn solely for his own personal pleasure, only to be near to himself. No longer distracted by anything external, he basked in his own existence and found it splendid. He lay in his stony crypt like his own corpse, hardly breathing, his heart hardly beating—and yet lived as intensively and dissolutely as ever a rake had lived in the wide world outside.
引自 over all
Grenouille stood there and smiled. Or rather, it seemed to the people who saw him that he was smiling, the most innocent, loving, enchanting, and at the same time most seductive smile in the world. But in fact it was not a smile, but an ugly, cynical smirk that lay upon his lips, reflecting both his total triumph and his total contempt. He, Jean-Baptiste Grenouille, born with no odor of his own on the most stinking spot in this world, amid garbage, dung, and putrefaction, raised without love, with no warmth of a human soul, surviving solely on impudence and the power of loathing, small, hunchbacked, lame, ugly, shunned, an abomination within and without—he had managed to make the world admire him. To hell with admire! Love him! Desire him! Idolize him! He had performed a Promethean feat. He had persevered until, with infinite cunning, he had obtained for himself that divine spark, something laid gratis in the cradle of every other human being but withheld from him alone. And not merely that! He had himself actually struck that spark upon himself. He was even greater than Prometheus. He had created an aura more radiant and more effective than any human being had ever possessed before him. And he owed it to no one—not to a father, nor a mother, and least of all to a gracious God—but to himself alone. He was in very truth his own God, and a more splendid God than the God that stank of incense and was quartered in churches. A flesh-and-blood bishop was on his knees before him, whimpering with pleasure. The rich and the mighty, proud ladies and gentlemen, were fawning in adoration, while the common folk all around—among them the fathers, mothers, brothers, and sisters of his victims—celebrated an orgy in his honor and in his name. A nod of his head and they would all renounce their God and worship him, Grenouille the Great.
引自 over all
From time to time he reached in his pocket and closed his hand around the little glass flacon of his perfume. The bottle was still almost full. He had used only a drop of it for his performance in Grasse. There was enough left to enslave the whole world. If he wanted, he could be feted in Paris, not by tens of thousands, but by hundreds of thousands of people; or could walk out to Versailles and have the king kiss his feet; write the pope a perfumed letter and reveal himself as the new Messiah; be anointed in Notre-Dame as Supreme Emperor before kings and emperors, or even as God come to earth—if there was such a thing as God having Himself anointed… He could do all that, if only he wanted to. He possessed the power. He held it in his hand. A power stronger than the power of money or the power of terror or the power of death: the invincible power to command the love of mankind. There was only one thing that power could not do: it could not make him able to smell himself. And though his perfume might allow him to appear before the world as a god—if he could not smell himself and thus never know who he was, to hell with it, with the world, with himself, with his perfume.
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回应 2018-02-09 22:22

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ocean11 (实名验证就是自证其罪)

文字很棒，可以拿来练写作 We are familiar with people who seek out solitude: penitents, failures, saints, or prophets. They retreat to deserts, preferably, where they live on locusts and honey. Others, however, live in caves or cells on remote islands; some—more spectacularly—squat in cages mounted high atop poles swaying in the breeze. They do this to be nearer to God. Their solitude is a sel...
2018-02-09 22:22 1人喜欢

文字很棒，可以拿来练写作
We are familiar with people who seek out solitude: penitents, failures, saints, or prophets. They retreat to deserts, preferably, where they live on locusts and honey. Others, however, live in caves or cells on remote islands; some—more spectacularly—squat in cages mounted high atop poles swaying in the breeze. They do this to be nearer to God. Their solitude is a self-mortification by which they do penance. They act in the belief that they are living a life pleasing to God. Or they wait months, years, for their solitude to be broken by some divine message that they hope then speedily to broadcast among mankind. Grenouille’s case was nothing of the sort. There was not the least notion of God in his head. He was not doing penance nor waiting for some supernatural inspiration. He had withdrawn solely for his own personal pleasure, only to be near to himself. No longer distracted by anything external, he basked in his own existence and found it splendid. He lay in his stony crypt like his own corpse, hardly breathing, his heart hardly beating—and yet lived as intensively and dissolutely as ever a rake had lived in the wide world outside.
引自 over all
Grenouille stood there and smiled. Or rather, it seemed to the people who saw him that he was smiling, the most innocent, loving, enchanting, and at the same time most seductive smile in the world. But in fact it was not a smile, but an ugly, cynical smirk that lay upon his lips, reflecting both his total triumph and his total contempt. He, Jean-Baptiste Grenouille, born with no odor of his own on the most stinking spot in this world, amid garbage, dung, and putrefaction, raised without love, with no warmth of a human soul, surviving solely on impudence and the power of loathing, small, hunchbacked, lame, ugly, shunned, an abomination within and without—he had managed to make the world admire him. To hell with admire! Love him! Desire him! Idolize him! He had performed a Promethean feat. He had persevered until, with infinite cunning, he had obtained for himself that divine spark, something laid gratis in the cradle of every other human being but withheld from him alone. And not merely that! He had himself actually struck that spark upon himself. He was even greater than Prometheus. He had created an aura more radiant and more effective than any human being had ever possessed before him. And he owed it to no one—not to a father, nor a mother, and least of all to a gracious God—but to himself alone. He was in very truth his own God, and a more splendid God than the God that stank of incense and was quartered in churches. A flesh-and-blood bishop was on his knees before him, whimpering with pleasure. The rich and the mighty, proud ladies and gentlemen, were fawning in adoration, while the common folk all around—among them the fathers, mothers, brothers, and sisters of his victims—celebrated an orgy in his honor and in his name. A nod of his head and they would all renounce their God and worship him, Grenouille the Great.
引自 over all
From time to time he reached in his pocket and closed his hand around the little glass flacon of his perfume. The bottle was still almost full. He had used only a drop of it for his performance in Grasse. There was enough left to enslave the whole world. If he wanted, he could be feted in Paris, not by tens of thousands, but by hundreds of thousands of people; or could walk out to Versailles and have the king kiss his feet; write the pope a perfumed letter and reveal himself as the new Messiah; be anointed in Notre-Dame as Supreme Emperor before kings and emperors, or even as God come to earth—if there was such a thing as God having Himself anointed… He could do all that, if only he wanted to. He possessed the power. He held it in his hand. A power stronger than the power of money or the power of terror or the power of death: the invincible power to command the love of mankind. There was only one thing that power could not do: it could not make him able to smell himself. And though his perfume might allow him to appear before the world as a god—if he could not smell himself and thus never know who he was, to hell with it, with the world, with himself, with his perfume.
引自 over all

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回应 2018-02-09 22:22