朗读【围城】钱钟书

The RED SEA had long since been crossed, and the ship

was now on its way over the Indian Ocean; but as always

the sun mercilessly rose early and set late, encroaching

upon the better part of the night. The night, like paper

soaked in oil, had become translucent. Locked in the

embrace of the sun, the night’s own form was indiscernible.

Perhaps it had become intoxicated by the sun, which would

explain why the night sky remained flushed long after the

gradual fading of the rosy sunset. By the time the ruddiness

dissipated and the night itself awoke from its stupor, the

passengers in their cabins had awakened, glistening with

sweat; after bathing, they hurried out on deck to catch the

ocean breeze. Another day had begun.

It was toward the end of July, equivalent to the

“san-fu” period of the lunar calendar-the hottest days of the

year. In China the heat was even more oppressive than

usual. Later everyone agreed the unusual heat was a

portent of troops and arms, for it was the twenty-sixth year

of the Republic (1937).

its way to China. Some time after eight in the morning, the

third-class deck, still damp from swabbing, Jewish refugees

from Germany, the Indians, the Vietnamese, and needless

to say, the Chinese.

The ocean breeze carried with it an arid heat; the

scorching wind blew dry the bodies of fat people and

covered them with a frosty layer of salt congealed with

sweat, as though fresh from a bath in the Dead Sea in

Palestine. Still, it was early morning, and people’s high

spirits had not yet withered or turned limp under the glare

of the sun. They talked and bustled about with great zest.