世界短篇小说在线阅读

1. 世界短篇小说3巨匠

世界三大著名短篇小说家是指法国的莫泊桑(1850-1893)，俄国的契诃夫(1860-1904)，美国的欧·亨利(1862-1910)三位文学大师。
莫泊桑
居伊·德·莫泊桑(Guy de Maupassant 1850--1893) ：19世纪后半期法国优秀的批判现实主义作家，曾拜法国著名作家福楼拜为师。一生创作了6部长篇小说和350多篇中短篇小说，他的文学成就以短篇小说最为突出，对后世产生极大影响。他擅长从平凡琐屑的事物中截取富有典型意义的片断，以小见大地概括出生活的真实。他的短篇小说构思别具匠心，情节变化多端，描写生动细致，刻画人情世态惟妙惟肖，令人读后回味无穷。 莫泊桑 像
1880年发表第一个中篇小说《羊脂球》，此后陆续写了一大批思想性和艺术性完美结合的短篇小说，博得世界短篇小说巨匠的赞誉。他的创作广泛而深刻地反映了十九世纪后半期的法国社会现实，无情地揭露了资产阶级道德风尚的丑恶，对下层社会的“小人物”寄予同情。小说构思新颖，描写生动，人物语言个性化，布局谋篇别具匠心。 短篇的主题大致可归纳为三个方面第一是讽刺虚荣心和拜金主义，如《项链》、《我的叔叔于勒》；第二是描写劳动人民的悲惨遭遇，赞颂其正直、淳朴、宽厚的品格，如《归来》；第三是描写普法战争，反映法国人民爱国情绪，如《羊脂球》。莫泊桑短篇小说布局结构的精巧。典型细节的选用、叙事抒情的手法以及行云流水般的自然文笔，都给后世作家提供了楷模。 代表作有中篇小说《羊脂球》、《项链》、《我的叔叔于勒》等，长篇小说《一生》、《俊友》（又译做《漂亮朋友》等。 他写的《福楼拜家的星期天》被选入2001年、2009年和2010年七年级下册的语文书。
编辑本段契诃夫
契诃夫 像
安东·巴甫洛维奇·契诃夫。十九世纪俄国批判现实主义作家、戏剧家、短篇小说艺术大师。 他的早期合作讽刺和揭露了俄国社会官场人物媚上欺下的丑恶面目，写得谐趣横生，发人深思。八十年代中期，他创作了既幽默又富于悲剧的短篇小说，反映了社会底层人民的被侮辱被损害的不幸生活，具有深刻的思想意义。代表作有短篇小说《变色龙》、《苦恼》、《凡卡》、《第六病室》、《套中人》《假面》 《牡蛎》 《必要的前奏》《脖子上的安娜》 《乞丐》 《彩票》《小公务员之死》 《名贵的狗》等。 契夫创造了一种风格独特、言简意赅、艺术精湛的抒情心理小说。他截取片段平凡的日常生活，凭借精巧的艺术细节对生活和人物作真实描绘和刻画，从中展示重要的社会内容。这种小说抒情气味浓郁，抒发他对丑恶现实的不满和对美好未来的向往，把褒扬和贬抑、欢悦和痛苦之情融化在作品的形象体系之中。他认为：“天才的姊妹是简练”，“写作的本领就是把写得差的地方删去的本领”。他提倡“客观地”叙述，说“越是客观给人的印象就越深”。
编辑本段欧·亨利
欧亨利 像
真实姓名：威廉·西德尼·波特。曾被评论界誉为曼哈顿桂冠散文作家和美国现代短篇小说之父。十九世纪末二十世纪初美国现实主义著名作家。曾被诬告罪入狱三年。后迁居纽约，专事写作，他几乎每周写一篇短篇小说，供报刊发表。他一生创作了近三百篇短篇小说和一部长篇小说，对腐朽的资本主义制度、反人道的法律、虚伪的道德给予揭露和讽刺。欧·亨利善于描写美国社会尤其是纽约百姓的生活。他的作品构思新颖，语言诙谐，结局常常出人意外；又因描写了众多的人物，富于生活情趣，被誉为“美国生活的幽默网络全书”。代表作有小说集《白菜与国王》、《四百万》、《命运之路》等。其中一些名篇如《爱的牺牲》、《警察与赞美诗》、《带家具出租的房间》、《麦琪的礼物》、《最后一片藤叶》等 从题材的性质来看，欧·亨利的作品大致可分为三类。一类以描写美国西部生活为主；一类写的是美国一些大城市的生活；一类则以拉丁美洲生活为对象。这些不同的题材，显然与作者一生中几个主要生活时期的不同经历，有着密切的关系。而三类作品当中，无疑又以描写城市生活的作品数量最多，意义最大。

2. 求世界短篇小说排行

莫泊桑 《羊脂球》,《项链》
契可夫 《变色龙》,《苦恼》,《万卡》,《第六病室》,《套中人》
欧.亨利 《麦琪的礼物》,《警察与赞美诗》
这世界三大短篇小说家的其他作品还很多。

3. 世界著名短篇小说有哪些

莫泊桑 《羊脂球》,《项链》
契可夫 《变色龙》,《苦恼》,《万卡》,《第六病室》,《套中人》
欧.亨利 《麦琪的礼物》,《警察与赞美诗》
这三个是短篇小说巨匠，有很多优秀作品呢~

4. 世界著名短篇小说

THE GIFT OF THE
One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty- seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.

There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.

While the mistress of the home is graally subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.

In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name "Mr. James Dillingham Young."

The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze ring a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, though, they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called "Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introced to you as Della. Which is all very good.

Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out lly at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling--something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.

There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.

Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.

Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Della's hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.

So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.

On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.

Where she stopped the sign read: "Mne. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds." One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the "Sofronie."

"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.

"I buy hair," said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight at the looks of it."

Down rippled the brown cascade.

"Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.

"Give it to me quick," said Della.

Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present.

She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation--as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value--the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.

When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends--a mammoth task.

Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.

"If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a second look at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do--oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty- seven cents?"

At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.

Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: "Please God, make him think I am still pretty."

The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two--and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.

Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.

Della wriggled off the table and went for him.

"Jim, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again--you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say `Merry Christmas!' Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice-- what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."

"You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.

"Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well, anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I?"

Jim looked about the room curiously.

"You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy.

"You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you--sold and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," she went on with sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?"

Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year--what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.

Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.

"Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first."

White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.

For there lay The Combs--the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jewelled rims--just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.

But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Jim!"

And them Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!"

Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The ll precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.

"Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it."

Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.

"Dell," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on."

The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of plication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.

5. 《爱伦坡惊悚小说全集世界推理侦探小说之父短篇小说最完整译本》pdf下载在线阅读，求百度网盘云资源

《爱伦坡惊悚小说全集》（(美) 爱伦·坡）电子书网盘下载免费在线阅读

资源链接：

链接: https://pan..com/s/1Fk8Xeyv1pWXbiqsF0VQs6w 提取码: b547

书名：爱伦坡惊悚小说全集

作者：(美) 爱伦·坡

译者：简伊婕

豆瓣评分：8.5

出版社：安徽教育出版社

出版年份：2010

页数：540

内容简介：

爱伦•坡的小说，以永恒的死亡为主题，但又不完全等同于浪漫主义死亡的感伤，亦与哥特小说死亡的纯粹恐怖有差异，当然也不同于现代主义死亡的荒谬。他是独一无二的——以繁复的笔法，渲染诡异恐怖的气氛，勾勒离奇的情节，以及那个亦真亦幻，令人惊诧莫名、难以置信的世界。

○侦探小说的首宗棘手案件《莫格街凶杀案》

○站在尸体上张着血红的独眼《黑猫》

○《跳蛙》的计划，让国王大臣自动受缚，上演血淋淋的人肉烧烤记

《莫格街凶杀案》《玛丽罗杰血案》《黑猫》《金甲虫》等篇目国内读者早已耳熟能详，而这一本《爱伦坡惊悚小说全集》不仅收录了这些经典短篇，还翻译了其余的爱伦·坡的推理作品与惊悚小说，足以勾起每个人内心深处对于恐怖的隐秘渴望。

作者简介：

埃德加·爱伦·坡

十九世纪美国诗人、小说家和文学评论家，在世时长期担任报刊编辑工作。其作品在任何时代都有着独一无二的风格。语言精致，形式优美，内容多样，他的小说被公认为短篇哥特小说的巅峰。他是侦探小说鼻祖，科幻小说先驱，也是恐怖小说大师，象征主义先行者。此外，爱伦·坡还是一个唯美主义者。

6. 世界短篇小说推荐

树妖
裟椤双树的
以及 浮生系列中的猎狮
文笔细腻 感人值得一看

我是一只妖怪，生于漫天飞雪的十二月，浮珑山颠。
哪一年已经不记得，七百年前？！一千年前？！或许更早。
在我未得成人型的时候，每至隆冬盛夏两季，总有形色各异年岁参差的人类，怀着各自的心思，或独来独往，或携家带口，前赴后继昼夜不分地攀上与天相接的浮珑山。
虔诚的汗水，尽入我眼；堕崖的尖叫，尽入我耳。
端立山颠，俯瞰着匍匐在脚下的幸运儿，我心安理得地接受着他们的朝拜，任由他们哆嗦着双手，把一条条五色锦线挂在我的身上。
愿望有多少，锦线就有多少。
这些人，视我为神，执拗地以为我可以给予一切他们所渴望的庇佑。千百年来，他们不在乎这是一座没有路的山峰，无视山脚深谷下的累累白骨，不顾峭壁上遍布毒荆，甘心以自己的性命，彰现无限的虔诚——对我的虔诚。
但是，我不是神，实现不了他们任何愿望。
身上的七色光晕，不过是为了在黑夜里吸引无知的飞鸟小兽供我果腹而已，却被以讹传讹地认作福泽人间的佛光神迹。
天大的误会，真是罪过。
不过，不是我的罪，是人类的一相情愿与偏听偏信的陋习罢了。
所以，我懒得澄清。身为一个妖怪，却被当做神一样的崇拜，这种感觉我并不排斥，还有点喜欢。另外，观赏完全不同的脸孔，听着千奇百怪的祈愿，比起终日面对不能说话不能动的岩石花草，活生生的人类更有利于打发我无聊的时间。
是的，我的时间很无聊，我的生活很孤独。浮珑山颠就是我全部的世界，除了这里，我哪里也不能去，数百年如一日地看着同一片风景，日出日落，风起风止，花开花落，没有哪一天是特别的。
每当目送着心满意足的人类离开时，我总幻想着自己有朝一日也能跟他们一样，迈着轻快的步子离开。
山下的世界，是我一直以来的渴望。
然而，我不能离开这里，寸步都不可能。
因为，我是一只树妖。
我的生命在坚硬的土石下盘根错节，日复一日年复一年地扩张茁壮，长势异常地好。我心里很清楚，离开了土，树只会有一个下场。
要活着，就不能有自由。
这就是身为树妖的宿命，有点荒唐，有点残忍。
不过，我已经逐渐习惯了这种纹丝不动的日子。比起那些默默无名隐没在不起眼角落里的同类，我兴许能说得上是幸运了。因为，我背负着“神”的光环，拜它所赐，我总算还能拥有一些虚伪的快乐，一些不切实际的幻想。
值得庆幸，是吧？！
其实，要改变这种宿命也不是没有办法，只要修成人型，就可以脱离真身自由行动。这办法我很早很早之前就知道。但是，对我而言，这“办法”等同于幻想。以我的肤浅修为，恐怕撑不到成人的那天便化作一抷沙土，形神俱消了。有生命的东西就不会有永远，妖精也一样，千年也罢，万年也好，总有消亡的一天。跟人类从生到死的道理一样，唯一的区别就是一个短，一个长而已。
没有不死的人，也没有不死的妖怪。
一只树妖，却渴望自由。
静如止水的颓废日子，幻想与绝望并存。
然而，当我抱定在浮珑山终老至死的无奈想法时，我自欺也欺人的生活，没有任何预兆地终结于一个炎炎夏日的夜晚……

他刚刚从崖下救回了一对失足的母子，大难不死的人坐在山边，惊魂未定。然，他们没有对救命恩人说半个谢字，不是害怕到忘记，而是不知道要对谁说。
他故意隐了身形，凡人看不到。
可是，我能，一清二楚。
他靠在我身上，沐着清亮的月光，耐心地等待着这一批朝拜者的离开。
除了那些人与猎物，再没有谁如此接近过我，我不欣赏人在乞求时的卑微，以及猎物在被捕时的恐慌。但是，我喜欢他。喜欢他过人不逼人的灵气，冰凉深邃，却有柔软的温暖……
“从今往后，不得如此。”
人，终于尽数散去，他对我说了第一句话，淡定从容，不笑不怒。
我虽活得孤绝，却不愚钝，隐晦的责备与警告令我不快。
七色光华从我的身体里层层跃出，映得半壁山头流光溢彩。风动我动，婆娑曼妙，摇曳生姿，引人注目之势犹胜从前任何时候。
我故意的。
一只不知名的白色鸟儿没有任何防备地落进了我的陷阱，站在美丽剔透的枝叶间婉转鸣唱。
无声无息，我移动着万千枝叶中的一枝，接近着今天的猎物。
鸟儿只顾为自己动人的歌声陶醉，嗅不到半点死亡的味道。
轻轻一扬，迅速套住了脆弱的脖子，只要再用点力气，这小东西就会永远告别它引以为傲的歌声。
猎物扑腾着翅膀，几片白色的羽毛轻飘飘乱纷纷地散落在枝桠间。
其实，现在并不饥饿，我只想告诉面前的人，若不是无知地贪恋我的魅力，他们不会丢掉性命。我从不曾逼过谁，人类也好，鸟兽也罢，一切一切，都是他们心甘情愿，怎能怨我。
但是，我无声的反驳被他制止了。
一滴透明的水珠从他指间弹出，不偏不倚地击中了我攫住了鸟儿性命的“手”。
酸麻微疼的感觉，传遍了我身上每一条叶脉。
由不得我说不，我松了“手”。
扑啦啦逃向天际的鸟儿，成了第一个有幸活着离开的猎物。
“顽劣的小妖。”他收回望向鸟儿去处的目光，缓步走到我面前，夜风撩动他月白色的袍子，垂在腰间的缎带随风而舞，拂过我的脸，竟然痒痒的。
“冤魂不息，一状告到冥府，拿你是迟早的事。”
拨开一缕被吹到眼前的黝黑长发，他“提醒”我。
拿我？他真以为我孤陋寡闻吗？！
这么多年来，我听过的哭诉不计其数。我深知，天下间，比葬身浮珑山的“冤魂”冤枉一百倍的枉死鬼何其多，冥府能管得了多少？！
我需要食物，也需要人类的崇拜。
没有食物，腹空；没有崇拜，心空。
像他这样自由来去的逍遥神仙，怎能体会一只树妖的心思。
是的，他是个神仙，身不染尘，高高在上。
从他一靠近，我就洞悉了他独一无二的身份。
因为他是神仙，所以，时刻展露对苍生的悲悯之心是他天经地义的责任。可是，“苍生”里从来就不包括妖精，这是上界正道千万年来定下的规矩。
我为刚才对他的“喜欢”而后悔，盘算着他接下来会以怎样的态度对待一只“顽劣”的树妖，毁了我肤浅的道行，还是，立即就地正法？！
毕竟，只要他愿意，不费吹灰之力就能给我灭顶之灾，还能凭添一个为民除妖的美名。
今天，遇到他，我会有何后果？
“我在此，由不得你胡来。”
淡淡一句话，凉透我心。
果真被我料中，妖怪没有资格反驳神仙，一旦触怒对方，陪上的只有自己的性命。
浮珑山颠的“神树”，即将不复存在。
“我在此，由不得你胡来。”
淡淡一句话，凉透我心。
果真被我料中，妖怪没有资格反驳神仙，一旦触怒对方，陪上的只有自己的性命。
浮珑山颠的“神树”，即将不复存在。
片刻时间，从杀人跌入被杀，角色转换如此迅速，超出了我全部的想象。从人类那里听来的“杀人偿命”、“恶有恶报”之类的词句一个个幸灾乐祸地跳到我心里。
虽然不满意我的生活，可是，我依然留恋我的生命，能看能听能呼吸，好过无知无觉的黑暗死寂。
我没有“顽劣”到可以对死亡嗤之以鼻，所以，我真心实意地害怕着，夹杂着对他的怨恨。
“别让我死得太难受，慈悲的神仙。”
是气话，也是实话，是对他说的第一句话，也是最后一句。
我恐惧，但是绝不低头哀求。
他的眼里有笑意，深不可测。
清澈灵动的水波从他修长的指间旋绕而出，鳞鳞光点，闪烁其中。一圈一圈，层层叠叠，优雅缓慢地汇入他的掌心，开成了一朵无色的莲花。
山腰处，一片荷塘，翠红相间，正是盛放之季。可是，没有一朵堪与他手中的媲美。
人映花，花映人。
尽管处在这般绝境，我还是要承认，这是我此生所见最美丽的一道风景。
神仙就是神仙，即便是毙命的武器，也要尽善尽美。
无怪人类崇拜他们，也无怪那么多人梦想成为他们的一员。
“去。”
他摊开手来，嘴唇微微一动。
世上最美丽的那朵莲花，旋转着，朝我飞来。

给你发一段你先看看吧

7. 世界短篇小说三巨匠的契诃夫：

安东·巴甫洛复维奇·契诃夫( 英语：制Аnton chekhov ) (1860～1904) 俄国小说家、戏剧家、十九世纪末期俄国批判现实主义作家、短篇小说艺术大师。1860年1月29日生于罗斯托夫省塔甘罗格市。但契诃夫只身留在塔甘罗格，靠担任家庭教师以维持生计和继续求学。1879年进莫斯科大学医学系。1884年毕业后在兹威尼哥罗德等地行医，广泛接触平民和了解生活，这对他的文学创作有良好影响。1904年6月，契诃夫因肺炎病情恶化，前往德国的温泉疗养地黑森林的巴登维勒治疗，7月15日逝世。
代表作：
《胖子和瘦子》
《小公务员之死》
《苦恼》
《凡卡》
《变色龙》
《普里希别叶夫中士》
《第六病室》
《带阁楼的房子》
《农民》
《新娘》