介绍:
「主播与诗」由播客先声作为主理人，每期会邀请一些朋友读诗、读短篇。喜欢它，把它朗读出来吧。节目每周六22点更新~
第四十九期节目，我们邀请了“青年导演”杨益辰，他读的短篇小说是维吉尼亚.伍尔芙的“A Haunted House”
↓大家好！欢迎收听主播与诗，我是青年导演杨益辰，今天带来的是现代与女性主义先锋作家维吉尼亚.伍尔芙 收录在其小说集A Haunted House中的短篇小说A Haunted House, 关于生命，空间，时间与横跨万物的爱。
选择这篇不太知名的小说是因为它启发了在2017年由David Lowery导演的A24电影 A Ghost Story 鬼魅浮生。这部电影对我而言意义非凡，每次在远方想起故乡，亲人，与爱人，都会去重温它。
电影开头也引用了这篇故事的前言 Whatever hour you woke there was a door shutting, 每当你醒来，不管几点钟，总有一扇门会关上。A Haunted HouseBy Virginia WoolfWHATEVER HOUR you woke there was a door shutting. From room to room they went, hand in hand, lifting here, opening there, making sure–a ghostly couple."Here we left it," she said. And he added, "Oh, but here too!" "It's upstairs," she murmured. "And in the garden," he whispered. "Quietly," they said, "or we shall wake them."But it wasn't that you woke us. Oh, no. "They're looking for it; they're drawing the curtain," one might say, and so read on a page or two. "Now they've found it, " one would be certain, stopping the pencil on the margin. And then, tired of reading, one might rise and see for oneself, the house all empty, the doors standing open, only the wood pigeons bubbling with content and the hum of the threshing machine sounding from the farm. "What did I come in here for? What did I want to find?" My hands were empty. "Perhaps it's upstairs then?" The apples were in the loft. And so down again, the garden still as ever, only the book had slipped into the grass.But they had found it in the drawing room. Not that one could ever see them. The window panes reflected apples, reflected roses; all the leaves were green in the glass. If they moved in the drawing room, the apple only turned its yellow side. Yet, the moment after, if the door was opened, spread about the floor, hung upon the walls, pendant from the ceiling–what? My hands were empty. The shadow of a thrush crossed the carpet; from the deepest wells of silence the wood pigeon drew its bubble of sound. "Safe, safe, safe" the pulse of the house beat softly. "The treasure buried; the room . . ." the pulse stopped short. Oh, was that the buried treasure?A moment later the light had faded. Out in the garden then? But the trees spun darkness for a wandering beam of sun.So fine, so rare, coolly sunk beneath the surface the beam I sought always burnt behind the glass. Death was the glass; death was between us; coming to the woman first, hundreds of years ago, leaving the house, sealing all the windows; the rooms were darkened. He left it, left her, went North, went East, saw the stars turned in the Southern sky; sought the house, found it dropped beneath the Downs. "Safe, safe, safe," the pulse of the house beat gladly. "The Treasure yours."The wind roars up the avenue. Trees stoop and bend this way and that. Moonbeams splash and spill wildly in the rain. 
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