Auguries of Innocence is the first book of poetry from Patti Smith in more than a decade. It marks a major accomplishment from a poet and performer who has inscribed her vision of our world in powerful anthems, ballads, and lyrics. In this intimate and searing collection of poems, Smith joins in that great tradition of troubadours, journeymen, wordsmiths, and artists who respond to the world around them in fresh and original language. Her influences are eclectic and striking: Blake, Rimbaud, Picasso, Arbus, and Johnny Appleseed. Smith is an American original; her poems are oracles for our times.</p>
The Mast is Down We lay in the cursed grass devoid of magic, tracing our disintegration in the kinetic sky. I touched your arm and the flesh fell away, and my hands were no longer empty. Our mount is made of blood earth, when wet a clay thing writhing. If y...
评分The Mast is Down We lay in the cursed grass devoid of magic, tracing our disintegration in the kinetic sky. I touched your arm and the flesh fell away, and my hands were no longer empty. Our mount is made of blood earth, when wet a clay thing writhing. If y...
评分The Mast is Down We lay in the cursed grass devoid of magic, tracing our disintegration in the kinetic sky. I touched your arm and the flesh fell away, and my hands were no longer empty. Our mount is made of blood earth, when wet a clay thing writhing. If y...
评分The Mast is Down We lay in the cursed grass devoid of magic, tracing our disintegration in the kinetic sky. I touched your arm and the flesh fell away, and my hands were no longer empty. Our mount is made of blood earth, when wet a clay thing writhing. If y...
评分The Mast is Down We lay in the cursed grass devoid of magic, tracing our disintegration in the kinetic sky. I touched your arm and the flesh fell away, and my hands were no longer empty. Our mount is made of blood earth, when wet a clay thing writhing. If y...
我必须承认,阅读这本书的过程并非总是愉悦的,它更像是一场智力上的马拉松,偶尔会让人感到迷失在文字构建的迷宫之中。这本书的结构是极其非线性的,它跳跃性极大,可能上一页还在描绘某种植物的生长周期,下一页就转向对社会秩序瓦解的隐晦评论。这种看似散漫的组织方式,反而构建出一种独特的张力,迫使读者的大脑始终处于高度活跃的状态,去主动搭建起作者意图连接的桥梁。我特别喜欢其中穿插的那些极具画面感的意象,它们不是简单的比喻,而是近乎超现实主义的视觉冲击,常常在最平静的段落中,突然炸开一团绚烂的色彩或一个令人不安的符号,让人心头一震。这本书的“野心”是毋庸置疑的,它试图触及人类存在的最深层本质,探讨那些我们习以为常却从未真正审视过的观念。它没有提供任何现成的答案,而是像一位沉默的导师,不断地提出更尖锐、更令人不安的问题,直到你不得不直面自身的局限。
评分这本厚重的典籍,初翻阅时便觉一股磅礴之气扑面而来,它不像寻常的文学作品那样以情节取胜,更像是一部凝练了数代人智慧与观察的百科全书,只不过其内容全然聚焦于对世间万物的细致描摹与深刻洞察。我印象最深的是其中关于自然界细微变迁的描述,比如对清晨雾气如何依附于不同质地的叶片,以及不同昆虫在特定时间发出的振翅声的精确记录。这些片段读起来,仿佛能让人瞬间穿越到那个被描绘的场景之中,感官被极大地调动起来。作者似乎拥有一种近乎偏执的精确度,用词考究,绝不含糊。我尤其欣赏它在描绘人类情感的微妙层次时所展现出的克制与力度,没有歇斯底里的宣泄,却能让读者在字里行间体会到那种深沉的、难以言喻的复杂情绪。这本书要求读者付出极大的专注力,因为它拒绝提供捷径,它要求你与作者一同在细节中探寻宏大的意义。读完一章,我常常需要停下来,不是因为疲惫,而是因为信息量太大,需要时间去消化那些被精心雕琢的句子所蕴含的重量。这本书的价值,不在于它讲述了什么故事,而在于它如何教会我们“看”世界,以一种近乎虔诚的目光去审视每一个瞬间。
评分与其说这是一本书,不如说它是一份极其精细的、关于“感知”的实验报告。作者对人类感官的局限性有着近乎冷酷的洞察,并巧妙地利用文字本身去挑战这些局限。我发现自己阅读这本书的时候,开始不自觉地关注到生活中的那些“微小”事件——比如光线穿过窗棂在木地板上投下的角度变化,或者邻居家中传来的某种细微的声响。书中的叙述口吻时常在宏大叙事与极端个人化的体验之间摇摆,这种切换的幅度非常大,却又显得无比自然。比如,前一刻还在讨论宇宙的起源,下一刻便聚焦于一滴水珠如何折射出整个世界的影像。这种视角的快速转换,极大地拓宽了我的思维空间。它不迎合大众口味,它的节奏缓慢而坚定,要求读者放下所有预设的判断和急躁的情绪,进入一种近乎沉思的状态。这是一部需要时间来“发酵”的作品,初读时的困惑感,会在时间的作用下,逐渐转化为一种深刻的共鸣和理解。
评分这本书的语言风格是如此的独特,以至于我几乎找不到可以类比的对象。它拥有一种古老的、近乎仪式性的庄重感,但同时又充满了对现代世界那种近乎讽刺的敏锐观察。作者似乎拥有洞悉事物表象之下潜藏的悖论的能力,并用一种不动声色的方式将其展现出来。我被它对“秩序”与“混乱”之间界限模糊性的探讨所深深吸引。在许多篇幅中,作者精心编织的句子结构,本身就模仿了某种复杂系统的运作方式,读起来需要像解构一件精密的机械装置那样,仔细分辨每一个词语的落点和作用。它不是一本提供安慰的书,相反,它更像是一面镜子,无情地反射出我们自身的盲点和认知上的漏洞。但正是这种直率和不妥协,使得它具有了一种持久的生命力。它强迫你重新审视你对“真理”的定义,让你意识到,许多我们坚信不疑的事物,可能只是时间偶然搭建起来的幻象。这本书带来的思考深度,远远超过了其页码所暗示的范围。
评分如果说有什么阅读体验能让人体验到某种时间感的扭曲,那么这本书绝对是其中的佼佼者。它有一种奇特的魔力,让你感觉自己仿佛置身于一条漫长的时间河流中,观察着事物从萌芽到衰败的全过程,却又以一种超然的姿态跳脱出来,不带批判地记录下这一切的发生。我注意到作者在处理历史事件的引用时,其手法极其高超,并非简单地堆砌史实,而是将这些事件如同星辰般嵌入到更宏大的宇宙图景之中,用一种近乎神谕般的口吻,揭示出事件背后的某种不变的规律。这种叙事结构极其松散,但逻辑却异常严密,像一张巨大的、无形的网,将所有看似不相干的元素联系起来。很多篇章都需要反复阅读才能捕捉到其内在的韵律,它拒绝迎合现代阅读习惯的快速浏览,更像是一首需要被吟诵和冥想的古代颂歌。每一次重读,都会发现新的联系,新的视角,这让我确信,这本书并非一次性消费品,而是一部需要伴随人一生去慢慢解锁的密码本。其语言的密度之高,令人咋舌,每一句话都像是一个经过无数次锤炼的哲学命题。
评分too beautifullll very joyful
评分We are led to believe a lie When we see not thro' the eye, Which was born in a night to perish in a night, When the soul slept in beams of light.
评分We are led to believe a lie When we see not thro' the eye, Which was born in a night to perish in a night, When the soul slept in beams of light.
评分How would Patti Smith sing her poetry? Chris
评分We are led to believe a lie When we see not thro' the eye, Which was born in a night to perish in a night, When the soul slept in beams of light.
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