Baixe o app Kindle gratuito e comece a ler livros do Kindle instantaneamente em seu smartphone, tablet ou computador - sem a necessidade de um dispositivo Kindle.
Leia instantaneamente em seu navegador com o Kindle para internet.
Usando a câmera do seu celular, digitalize o código abaixo e baixe o app Kindle.
Imagem não disponível
Cor:
-
-
-
- Para ver este vídeo faça o download Flash Player
Seguir o autor
OK
The Mill on the Floss Capa comum – 29 abril 2003
Preço | Novo a partir de | Usado a partir de |
Audiolivro, Versão integral
"Tente novamente" |
R$ 32,99
| — | — |
Capa Comum
"Tente novamente" | R$ 53,78 | — |
Capa Comum, 29 abril 2003 |
—
| R$ 95,05 | — |
Edição econômica
"Tente novamente" |
—
| R$ 668,00 | R$ 597,00 |
CD de áudio, Audiolivro
"Tente novamente" |
—
| R$ 107,88 | — |
Áudio, Cassete, Abreviado, Audiolivro
"Tente novamente" |
—
| R$ 124,45 | — |
- Kindle
R$ 1,99 Leia com nossos apps gratuitos -
Audiolivro
R$ 32,99 - Capa dura
R$ 117,52 - Capa Comum
a partir de R$ 95,05 - Edição econômica
a partir de R$ 597,00 - CD de áudio
a partir de R$ 107,88 - Áudio, Cassete
a partir de R$ 124,45
Clientes que visualizaram este item também visualizaram
Descrição do produto
Capa Interna
Contracapa
Sobre o Autor
Trecho. © Reimpressão autorizada. Todos os direitos reservados
Outside Dorlcote Mill
A wide plain, where the broadening Floss hurries on between its green banks to the sea, and the loving tide, rushing to meet it, checks its passage with an impetuous embrace. On this mighty tide the black ships—laden with the fresh-scented fir-planks, with rounded sacks of oil-bearing seed, or with the dark glitter of coal—are borne along to the town of St. Ogg’s, which shows its aged, fluted red roofs and the broad gables of its wharves between the low wooded hill and the river brink, tinging the water with a soft purple hue under the transient glance of this February sun. Far away on each hand stretch the rich pastures, and the patches of dark earth, made ready for the seed of broad-leaved green crops, or touched already with the tint of the tender-bladed autumn-sown corn. There is a remnant still of the last year’s golden clusters of beehive ricks rising at intervals beyond the hedgerows; and everywhere the hedgerows are studded with trees: the distant ships seem to be lifting their masts and stretching their red-brown sails close among the branches of the spreading ash. Just by the red-roofed town the tributary Ripple flows with a lively current into the Floss. How lovely the little river is, with its dark, changing wavelets! It seems to me like a living companion while I wander along the bank and listen to its low placid voice, as to the voice of one who is deaf and loving. I remember those large dipping willows. I remember the stone bridge.
And this is Dorlcote Mill. I must stand a minute or two here on the bridge and look at it, though the clouds are threatening, and it is far on in the afternoon. Even in this leafless time of departing February it is pleasant to look at—perhaps the chill damp season adds a charm to the trimly-kept, comfortable dwelling-house, as old as the elms and chestnuts that shelter it from the northern blast. The stream is brimful now, and lies high in this little withy plantation, and half drowns the grassy fringe of the croft in front of the house. As I look at the full stream, the vivid grass, the delicate bright-green powder softening the outline of the great trunks and branches that gleam from under the bare purple boughs, I am in love with moistness, and envy the white ducks that are dipping their heads far into the water here among the withes, unmindful of the awkward appearance they make in the drier world above.
The rush of the water, and the booming of the mill, bring a dreamy deafness, which seems to heighten the peacefulness of the scene. They are like a great curtain of sound, shutting one out from the world beyond. And now there is the thunder of the huge covered waggon coming home with sacks of grain. That honest waggoner is thinking of his dinner, getting sadly dry in the oven at this late hour; but he will not touch it till he has fed his horses,—the strong, submissive, meek-eyed beasts, who, I fancy, are looking mild reproach at him from between their blinkers, that he should crack his whip at them in that awful manner as if they needed that hint! See how they stretch their shoulders up the slope towards the bridge, with all the more energy because they are so near home. Look at their grand shaggy feet that seem to grasp the firm earth, at the patient strength of their necks, bowed under the heavy collar, at the mighty muscles of their struggling haunches! I should like well to hear them neigh over their hardly-earned feed of corn, and see them, with their moist necks freed from the harness, dipping their eager nostrils into the muddy pond. Now they are on the bridge, and down they go again at a swifter pace, and the arch of the covered waggon disappears at the turning behind the trees.
Now I can turn my eyes towards the mill again, and watch the unresting wheel sending out its diamond jets of water. That little girl is watching it too: she has been standing on just the same spot at the edge of the water ever since I paused on the bridge. And that queer white cur with the brown ear seems to be leaping and barking in ineffectual remonstrance with the wheel; perhaps he is jealous, because his playfellow in the beaver bonnet is so rapt in its movement. It is time the little playfellow went in, I think; and there is a very bright fire to tempt her: the red light shines out under the deepening grey of the sky. It is time, too, for me to leave off resting my arms on the cold stone of this bridge. . . .
Ah, my arms are really benumbed. I have been pressing my elbows on the arms of my chair, and dreaming that I was standing on the bridge in front of Dorlcote Mill, as it looked one February afternoon many years ago. Before I dozed off, I was going to tell you what Mr. and Mrs. Tulliver were talking about, as they sat by the bright fire in the left-hand parlour, on that very afternoon I have been dreaming of.
chapter ii Mr. Tulliver, of Dorlcote Mill, Declares His Resolution About Tom
“What I want, you know,” said Mr. Tulliver—“what I want is to give Tom a good eddication; an eddication as’ll be a bread to him. That was what I was thinking of when I gave notice for him to leave the academy at Ladyday. I mean to put him to a downright good school at Midsummer. The two years at th’ academy ’ud ha’ done well enough, if I’d meant to make a miller and farmer of him, for he’s had a fine sight more schoolin’ nor I ever got: all the learnin’ my father ever paid for was a bit o’ birch at one end and the alphabet at th’ other. But I should like Tom to be a bit of a scholard, so as he might be up to the tricks o’ these fellows as talk fine and write with a flourish. It ’ud be a help to me wi’ these lawsuits, and arbitrations, and things. I wouldn’t make a downright lawyer o’ the lad—I should be sorry for him to be a raskill—but a sort o’ engineer, or a surveyor, or an auctioneer and vallyer, like Riley, or one o’ them smartish businesses as are all profits and no outlay, only for a big watch-chain and a high stool. They’re pretty nigh all one, and they’re not far off being even wi’ the law, I believe; for Riley looks Lawyer Wakem i the face as hard as one cat looks another. He’s none frightened at him.”
Mr. Tulliver was speaking to his wife, a blond comely woman in a fan-shaped cap (I am afraid to think how long it is since fan-shaped caps were worn—they must be so near coming in again. At that time, when Mrs. Tulliver was nearly forty, they were new at St. Ogg’s, and considered sweet things).
“Well, Mr. Tulliver, you know best: I’ve no objections. But hadn’t I better kill a couple o’ fowl and have th’ aunts and uncles to dinner next week, so as you may hear what sister Glegg and sister Pullet have got to say about it? There’s a couple o’ fowl wants killing!”
“You may kill every fowl i’ the yard, if you like, Bessy; but I shall ask neither aunt nor uncle what I’m to do wi’ my own lad,” said Mr. Tulliver, defiantly.
“Dear heart!” said Mrs. Tulliver, shocked at this sanguinary rhetoric, “how can you talk so, Mr. Tulliver? But it’s your way to speak disrespectful o’ my family; and sister Glegg throws all the blame upo’ me, though I’m sure I’m as innocent as the babe unborn. For nobody’s ever heard me say as it wasn’t lucky for my children to have aunts and uncles as can live independent. Howiver, if Tom’s to go to a new school, I should like him to go where I can wash him and mend him; else he might as well have calico as linen, for they’d be one as yallow as th’ other before they’d been washed half-a-dozen times. And then, when the box is goin backards and forrards, I could send the lad a cake, or a pork-pie, or an apple; for he can do with an extry bit, bless him, whether they stint him at the meals or no. My children can eat as much victuals as most, thank God.”
“Well, well, we won’t send him out o’ reach o’ the carrier’s cart, if other things fit in,” said Mr. Tulliver. “But you mustn’t put a spoke i the wheel about the washin’, if we can’t get a school near enough. That’s the fault I have to find wi’ you, Bessy; if you see a stick i’ the road, you’re allays thinkin’ you can’t step over it. You’d want me not to hire a good waggoner, ’cause he’d got a mole on his face.”
Sobre o autor
Descubra mais livros do autor, veja autores semelhantes, leia blogs de autores e muito mais
Avaliações de clientes
As avaliações de clientes, incluindo as avaliações do produto por estrelas, ajudam os clientes a saberem mais sobre o produto e a decidirem se é o produto certo para eles.
Para calcular a classificação geral por estrelas e o detalhamento percentual por estrelas, não usamos uma média simples. Em vez disso, nosso sistema considera coisas como o quão recente é uma avaliação e se o avaliador comprou o produto na Amazon. As avaliações também são analisadas para verificar a confiabilidade.
Saiba mais sobre como as avaliações de clientes funcionam na AmazonPrincipais avaliações de outros países
Avaliado na Índia em 30 de julho de 2023
I was struck senseless by this book. As much as I have enjoyed other books from this era, I somehow could not anticipate a novel of 1860 would feel so contemporary. In the greatness and insipidness of human character, the grinding realities of property and class, and the complexities of family relationships.
I am not sure if I am heartened or depressed to discover how little has changed. This book had me riotously laughing, lying awake worrying over Maggie and Tom, and rereading passages in sheer awe of Evans' powers of observation.
All of this, though, for the first 2/3 of the book. Which marked some of the very finest reading I've ever stumbled across. I was surprised then, to find the last 1/3 rather loathsome. We had already experienced a slow build of several characters, the move from childhood to adulthood, scandal, destitution, alienation, oaths, violence, comedic side shows, sickness, death, riches, and changes of fortune. It was really quite enough for any one narrative. But all of this seems tossed aside when Evans decides to make this a love story, and not any love story, but one indulging in every miserable glance and half-glance and thought of a glance, wallowing in the depressed entanglements from every conceivable angle. I felt I lost Maggie completely in this storyline. Earlier she was marked by her intellect and spirit, but by the end we only hear of her looks and conscience. And while earlier Evans was making a point of how Maggie's life was circumvented by her gender, she seems to become a bit infatuated by Maggie's beauty herself and abandons the more interesting components of her character. If this book is autobiographical it is all the more curious, as Evans herself never so succumbed to the opinion of the petty masses, even if they plagued her. I also lost Evans' voice in the final part of the book, which abandoned its sense of humor and prior acerbic distance from human foibles.
And when the misery of this plotline is thoroughly wrung out, so no drop remains to fall on its numb readers, Evan literally brings in a flood to drown out all other senses. I actually feel cheated of having all the earlier characters—with their mad idiosyncrasies and turns of speech—so meanly snatched away so all those pages would be crowded with the stupid man Stephen Guest. I think Aunt Glegg is bitter to have been denied some last words, too.
And it really is those character portraits that continue to haunt me, in the best way. For as irritating and narrow-minded as some persons were, they were at all times believable, and never wholly despicable. They make some of the best portraits in English literature, as Evans seems to have circled her characters with equal parts ruthlessness and tolerance. I sensed an understanding—at times made explicit—that a human can never escape her peculiar personality and capacity, but only hope they will meet kindly with fate. Which I find one of the most fascinating elements of this book, one that has already made me turn over some of my views on equally confounding people I have encountered in 2015.
The way money determines a person's reality and mood is another brilliantly exposed theme. My favorite passage is in book four: "But then, good society has its claret and its velvet-carpets, its dinner-engagements six weeks deep, its opera and its faëry ballrooms; rides off its ennui on thoroughbred horses, lounges at the club, has to keep clear of crinoline vortices, gets its science done by Faraday, and its religion by the superior clergy who are to be met in the best houses: how should it have time or need for belief and emphasis? But good society, floated on gossamer wings of light irony, is of very expensive production; requiring nothing less than a wide and arduous national life condensed in unfragrant deafening factories, cramping itself in mines, sweating at furnaces, grinding, hammering, weaving under more or less oppression of carbonic acid—or else, spread over sheepwalks, and scattered in lonely houses and huts on the clayey or or chalky corn-lands, where the rainy days look dreary. ... Under such circumstances, there are many among its myriads of souls who have absolutely needed an emphatic belief: life in this unpleasurable shape demanding some solution even to unspeculative minds."
Which is why I will now turn my attentions to "Felix Holt, The Radical," and see if Evans elsewhere fulfilled the political promise that was set forth but never delivered here. For whatever mad brilliance and disappointment this book offers, I end it feeling thoroughly obsessed with Mary Ann Evans, and wondering how I lived so long without her. Thus begins a summer of George Eliot.
I was wrong, in fact. The book's a tragedy, but it has a cozy, cheery ending for a tragedy. I felt better when the book was over. I forgot how good Victorians were at writing upbeat endings, even in their saddest stuff. I forgot, too, that there's a large mixture of dialect comedy in the book, along with excellent suspense, so Eliot knows how to keep her readers laughing and stay popular. She made a fortune off this book.
But let's look at some complaints that have been made. The heroine, Maggie Tulliver, is extremely bright -- and as a woman, she can't be sent to school by her rich but totally unintellectual country parents. Her much dumber brother is sent to school, hates school but ends up making good money, misunderstands and refuses to speak to his intelligent sister.
That is the theme of the book: how the brother hurts the sister because he is a practical man who doesn't understand or respect intelligence. The reader has her nose rubbed in this theme from the beginning to the end. At the beginning, nine-year-old Maggie absent-mindedly forgets all about the rabbits her thirteen-year-old brother asked her to look after while he was away. He asked another farmworker to look after them too, and the farmworker also forgot. The unreliable farmworker is (to the brother) just a loser employee, but Maggie he punishes for her absent-mindedness. He refuses to speak to her, and of course the reader is very close to being on the brother's side. The rabbits die. They don't get saved by luck or by some other guy. They die of starvation.
In other words, Eliot does not desert her theme or cover it with sugar. Intelligent girls can be absent-minded to a murderous degree, and no one thinks girls deserve an education in any case. A practical money-making man is obviously superior to a dreamy girl who deserves no education in the first place. Look: the girl kills rabbits! The boy gets practical things done! Maybe, reader, you'll agree that the girl would be better off dead.
That's how deep the hook is sunk to begin with, and the following narrative only sinks it deeper. When she grows up, Maggie commits herself to an intelligent hunchback, but then falls in lust with a handsome, shallow man who likes her looks. Maggie's love is wrong. She knows that with her head and heart, but her head and heart aren't all there is to her. She wants the guy. Obviously, and many readers agreed at the time the book was written, and still agree now, Maggie is no good. She's slutty. She would be better off never having been born. When her brother got mad at her about the rabbits, he forgave her because he was thirteen and because, among tough country people, dead rabbits don't register very heavily. But when he's an adult and she's a slut, he never speaks to her again, just like George Eliot's own brother never spoke to her again when she started living with a married man.
That is the theme of the book. The theme of the book is not that intelligent women are lovable because they're so smart and never act slutty because, at nineteen, their passions are totally under their intelligent control. Jane Austen's themes are a tiny little bit like that, because she doesn't mind always leading up to a happy marriage (and I underline _always_). Eliot wanted to make a slightly different point: you don't have to like us, but don't you have to let us live? Can't we, like men, do some good even when we're bad guys in the bedroom and don't much care about cute little animals?
The struggle to ask these questions makes this a scary book. The reader is afraid she will be hurt and disgusted even more than she has been already. In fact, the book ends tragically but calmingly.
Or does it ever end? People complain that Eliot moralizes too much, but how can she have moralized too much when the moral point she wanted to make is still not made, when her heroine Maggie is still seen by some as a dislikeable rabbit-killing slut, a century and a half after she was created? How can Eliot have argued too much when all her argument failed to get her point across?
Perhaps her point will always fail to get across. That would be sadder than THE MILL ON THE FLOSS.
A tale that grew as the reading progressed.
Must be read again.