Peeling the Onion（ISBN=9780156035347） mobi 下载 网盘 caj lrf pdf txt 阿里云

In this extraordinary memoir, Nobel Prizewinning author Gnter

Grass remembers his early life, from his boyhood in a cramped

two-room apartment in Danzig through the late 1950s, when The Tin

Drum was published. During the Second World War, Grass volunteered

for the submarine corps at the age of fifteen but was rejected; two

years later, in 1944, he was instead drafted into the Waffen-SS.

Taken prisoner by American forces as he was recovering from

shrapnel wounds, he spent the final weeks of the war in an American

POW camp. After the war, Grass resolved to become an artist and

moved with his first wife to Paris, where he began to write the

novel that would make him famous. Full of the bravado of youth, the

rubble of postwar Germany, the thrill of wild love affairs, and the

exhilaration of Paris in the early fifties, Peeling the Onionwhich

caused great controversy when it was published in Germanyreveals

Grass at his most intimate.

Skins Beneath the Skin

Encapsulations

His Name Was Wedontdothat

How I Learned Fear

Guests at Table

At and Below the Surface

The Third Hunger

How I Became a Smoker

Berlin Air

While Cancer, Soundless

The Wedding Gifs I Received

~Born in Danzig, Germany, in 1927, Gunter Grass is the widely

acclaimed author of plays, essays, poems, and numerous novels

including The Tin Drum, My Century, Crabwalk, and Peeling

the Onion.  He was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature

in 1999. He lives in Lubeck, Germany.Michael Henry Heim is a

contributor for Houghton Mifflin Harcourt titles including:

"Peeling the Onion".~

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Skins Beneath the Skin Today, as in years past, the temptation

to camouflage oneself in the third person remains great: He was

going on twelve, though he still loved sitting in his mothers lap,

when such and such began and ended. But can something that had a

beginning and an end be pinpointed with such precision? In my case

it can. My childhood came to an end when, in the city where I grew

up, the war broke out in several places at once. It began with an

unmistakeable bangthe broadsiding of a ship and the approach of

dive bombers over the Neufahrwasser dock area, which lay opposite

the Polish military base at Westerplatte, and, farther off, the

carefully aimed shots of two armored reconnaissance cars during the

battle for the Polish Post Office in the Old Town of Danzigand was

heralded closer to home by our radioa Volksempfnger, peoples

receiverwhich stood on the sideboard in the living room. Thus the

end of my childhood was proclaimed with words of iron in a

ground-floor flat of a three-story building on Labesweg, in

Langfuhr. Even the time of day sticks in my mind. From then on, the

airport of the Free State near the Baltic Chocolate factory handled

more than just civilian planes. From the skylight in the roof of

our building we could see smoke mounting duskily over the Free Port

each time there was a new attack and a light wind from the

northwest. But the moment I try to remember that distant artillery

fire from the Schleswig-Holstein, which had been retired from

active duty after the Battle of Jutland and could no longer be used

as anything but a training ship for cadets, and the layered sounds

of the Stukas or Stutzkampfflugzeug, dive-bombersso called because

high above the combat zone they would tip to one side, then lunge

down on their target, releasing their bombs at the last momentI am

faced with a question: Why go back to my childhood and its clear

and immutable end date, when everything that happened to me between

milk teeth and permanent onesmy first day at school, scraped knees,

marbles, the earliest secrets of the confessional and later agonies

of faithall merged in the jumble of jottings that has since been

associated with a person who, no sooner had he been put down on

paper, refused to grow and shattered all manner of glass with his

song, kept two wooden sticks at the ready, and thanks to a tin drum

made a name for himself that thereafter existed in quotable form

between book covers and claims immortality in heaven knows how many

languages? Because this as well as that deserves to be part of the

record. Because something flagrantly significant could be missing.

Because certain things at certain times fell into the well before

the lid went on: the holes I left uncovered until later, growth I

could not halt, the linguistic give-and-take I had with lost

objects. And let this, too, be said: because I want to have the

last word. Memory likes to play hide-and-seek, to crawl away. It

tends to hold forth, to dress up, often needless

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太多的事情在没有开头也没结束的岁月中发生

我结交了不能持久的友谊，在十字路口与人相遇又分手，我不得不节省，只是偶尔吃一份柠檬冰激凌。

回忆像孩子一样，也爱玩捉迷藏的游戏。它会躲藏起来。它爱献媚奉承，爱梳妆打扮，而且常常并非迫不得已。它与记忆相悖，与举止迂腐、老爱争个是非曲直的记忆相悖。

你若是缠着它，向它提问，回忆就像一颗要剥皮的洋葱。洋葱剥了皮你才能发现，那里面字母挨字母都写着些什么：很少有明白无误的时候，经常是像镜子里的反字，或者就是其他形式的谜团。

第一层洋葱皮是干巴巴的，一碰就沙沙作响。下面一层刚剥开，便露出湿漉漉的第三层，接着就是第四层第五层在窃窃私语，等待上场。每一层洋葱皮都出汗似的渗出长期回避的词语，外加花里胡哨的字符，似乎是一个故作神秘的人从儿时起，洋葱从发芽时起，就想要把自己编成密码。

于是便唤起了好奇心：这些草书必须辨清，那些密码必须破解。于是就驳斥了那些个都硬说自己是真理的东西，因为谎言，还有它那位名叫“作弊”的小妹，经常充当回忆中最靠得住的部分；回忆落在白纸上写成黑字后就显得可信，吹嘘自己的细节像照片一样历历在目。

连我也没有再三提问，尽管随着战争的爆发我的童年也结束了。

或者说，我不敢提问了，因为我不再是孩子了？

难道像在童话里那样，唯独孩子才提得出正确的问题？

莫非我是因为害怕得到一个颠倒黑白的回答，所以干脆就不提问了？

这是不愿张扬的耻辱，就在那个稀松平常、随手可取、能激活记忆的洋葱的第六层或第七层皮上。我写这种耻辱，写这种尾随着耻辱而来的内心羞愧。那些难得一用的词语进入了亡羊补牢的程序，而我时而宽容、时而严厉的目光始终停留在一个男孩身上：他穿着露出双膝的短裤，跟在秘而不宣的一切后面打探，却仍然未能说出这三个字：为什么？

男孩即十二岁的我，被现在的我盘问得尴尬万分，无疑无法招架。我在加速消逝的当今，在楼梯上每跨一步都要权衡斟酌，我的呼吸都能听得，我听见自己在咳嗽，能多快活就多快活地走在通往死亡的路上。

一个词呼唤另一个词。债和责，债务的“债”和罪责的“责”。这是两个字如此相近，在德语的沃土里如此牢固地扎下了根。然而事实是：债，不难对付，可以——即便像我母亲的赊账客户那样——分期付款来偿还，而责，无论是证实了的、掩盖着的还是仅仅出于猜想的罪责，却清除不了。它总是像钟表一样滴答滴答响，即使在通往乌有之乡的途中它也在场，占着地盘不放。它叨念着短小的咒语，不怕颠来倒去地重复，让你发善心暂时将它忘却，它却在睡梦中享受冬眠。它是不挪窝的积淀，去不掉的污渍，添不干的水洼。它从小就学会了在听取忏悔的耳垂上避难，装出已过期不能再受追究或者早就被人原谅的样子，似乎自己小得不能再小了，微不足道，几近于无。然而，洋葱皮一层一层地收缩后，最嫩的那层上还是始终写着“责”：有时是突出的大写字母，有时则是顺带的从句或者脚注，有时是醒目的笔迹，有时则是古埃及文字，是那种难以辨认的象形文字，即便能够辨认，也得费尽周折。对我来说，言简意赅的三字铭文一清二楚：我沉默。

因为有那么多人沉默，所以这样的诱惑难以抵御：对自己的过失一言不发，代之以对普遍的罪责大声控诉，或者即使谈到自己也是虚晃一枪用起了第三人称：“他”曾是，“他”看见，“他”做了，“他”说道，“他”沉默……而且只是自言自语，反正内心里有的是地方玩捉迷藏。

一旦我叫来以前的那个男孩——他就是十三岁时的我本人，严厉地拷问他，心里真想处决他，也许就像判决某个对其苦难我无动于衷的陌生人，这时我眼前就会出现一个半大小子，穿着短裤和齐膝的长袜，老是做鬼脸。他总是躲着我，不想被人议论，不想受到判决。他躲到了妈妈的怀里，扯着嗓子大喊：“我当时是个孩子，还只是个孩子……”

书籍介绍

In this extraordinary memoir, Nobel Prizewinning author Gnter Grass remembers his early life, from his boyhood in a cramped two-room apartment in Danzig through the late 1950s, when The Tin Drum was published. During the Second World War, Grass volunteered for the submarine corps at the age of fifteen but was rejected; two years later, in 1944, he was instead drafted into the Waffen-SS. Taken prisoner by American forces as he was recovering from shrapnel wounds, he spent the final weeks of the war in an American POW camp. After the war, Grass resolved to become an artist and moved with his first wife to Paris, where he began to write the novel that would make him famous. Full of the bravado of youth, the rubble of postwar Germany, the thrill of wild love affairs, and the exhilaration of Paris in the early fifties, Peeling the Onionwhich caused great controversy when it was published in Germanyreveals Grass at his most intimate.