你好!您可以在发一些王尔德的作品吗，还有他的名言，还有李白的诗句，谢谢了，我很喜欢他俩的名言
第一本小说《道林·格雷的画像》散文《社会主义下人的灵魂》诗作《瑞丁监狱之歌》和书信集《深渊书简》《瑞丁监狱之歌》王尔德常被引用的语录：“我们都在阴沟里，但仍有人仰望星空。
”(We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.)
王尔德读原著还是读译文
个人认为如果英语不好的话还是先去读一下译文比较好，等你读懂了译文以后可以尝试去看看原著提高一下英语水平，还可以体会一下作者的遣词造句
急求 奥斯卡.王尔德所有作品名称的中英文对照
代表作品 Missing image Wildfilm.jpg Wildfilm 文作 道林·格雷的画像（The Picture of Dorian Gray，1891年） 《社会主义下人的灵魂》（The Soul of Man Under Socialism，1891年） 《深渊书简》（De Profundis，1897年。
原本是作者写给道格拉斯的一封长信，1905年作者死后出版） 童话集 《快乐王子和其他故事》（The Happy Prince and Other Tales，1888年） 《石榴屋》（A House of Pomegranates，1891年） 诗作 诗(王尔德作品)（Poems，1881年） 《斯芬克斯》（Sphinx，1894年） 《瑞丁监狱之歌》（The Ballad of Reading Gaol，1898年） （王尔德的诗作充满了夸张的隐喻的古代文字和古代俚谣的音律，对于感官、情欲的描写十分隐晦，体现了唯美主义诗歌的特征） 戏剧剧本 薇拉（Vera，1880年） 《温德密尔夫人的扇子》（Lady Windermere`s Fan，1892年） 《帕都瓦公爵夫人》（The Duchess of Padua，1893年） 莎乐美（Salomé，1893年）（原著用法语写成） 《无足轻重的女人》（A Woman of No Importance，1892年）（1893年Theatre Royal Haymarket首演） 《真诚最要紧》（The Importance of Being Earnest，1895年） 《理想的丈夫》（An Ideal Husband，1895年）
为什么一些英语国家的人用法语写小说：比如王尔德用法语写小说莎乐美
直接可以阅读，是文本形式。
目录如下：TABLE OF CONTENTS The Preface Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 前言：The Preface The artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and conceal the artist is art's aim. The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things. The highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography. Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault. Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only beauty. There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all. The nineteenth century dislike of realism is the rage of Caliban seeing his own face in a glass. The nineteenth century dislike of romanticism is the rage of Caliban not seeing his own face in a glass. The moral life of man forms part of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists in the perfect use of an imperfect medium. No artist desires to prove anything. Even things that are true can be proved. No artist has ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an unpardonable mannerism of style. No artist is ever morbid. The artist can express everything. Thought and language are to the artist instruments of an art. Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for an art. From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is the art of the musician. From the point of view of feeling, the actor's craft is the type. All art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril. Those who read the symbol do so at their peril. It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors. Diversity of opinion about a work of art shows that the work is new, complex, and vital. When critics disagree, the artist is in accord with himself. We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely. All art is quite useless.
夜莺与玫瑰英文原文
NIGHTINGALE AND ROSE She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses, cried young Student, but in all my garden there is red rose. From her nest in the oak tree the Nightingale heard , and she looked out through the leaves and wondered. red rose in all my garden! he cried, and beautiful eyes filled with tears. Ah, on what tle things does happiness depend! I have read all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want (没有) of a red rose is my made wretched. Here at last is a true lover, said the Nightingale. Night after night have I sung of , though I knew t: night after night have I told story to the stars and now I see him. hair is dark as the hyacinth()-- blossom, and his lips are red as the rose of his desire; but passion has made his face like pale ivory, and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow. The Prince gives a ball (舞会) to-morrow night, murmured the young student, and my love will be of the company. If I bring her a red rose she will dance with me till dawn. If I bring her a red rose, I should hold her in my arms, and she will lean her head upon my shoulder, and her hand will be clasped in mine. But there is no red rose in my garden, so I shall sit lonely, and she will pass me by. She will have no heed of me, and my heart will break. Here, indeed, is the true lover, said the Nightingale. What I sing of, he suffers: what is to me, to him is pain. Surely love is a wonderful thing. It is more precious than emeralds (), and dearer than fine opals (). Pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor is it set forth in the market-place. It may not be purchased of the merchants, nor can it be weighed out in the balance for gold. The musicians will sit in their gallery, said the young Student, and play upon their stringed instruments, and my love will dance to the sound of the harp and the violin. She will dance so lightly that her feet will not touch the floor, and the courtiers in their gay dresses will throng round her. But with me she will not dance, for I have no red rose to give her: and he flung himself down on the grass, and buried his face in his hands, and wept. Why is he weeping? asked a tle Green Lizard, as he ran past him with his tail in the air. Why, indeed? said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after a sunbeam. Why, indeed? whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low voice. He is weeping for a red rose, said the Nightingale. For a red rose? they cried: how very ridiculous! and the little Lizard, who was something of a cynic (愤世嫉俗者), laughed outright. But the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student’s sorrow, and she sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery of Love. Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She passed through the grove like a shadow and like a shadow she sailed across the garden. In the center of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful Rose-tree, and when she saw it she flew over to it, and lit upon a spray. Give me a red rose, she cried, and I will sing you my sweetest song. But the Tree shook its head. My roses are white, it answered; as white as the foam of the sea, and whiter than the snow upon the mountain. But go to my brother who grows round the old sun-dial (一种玫瑰), and perhaps he will give you what you want. So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing round the old sun-dial. Give me a red rose, she cried, and I will sing you my sweetest song. But the Tree shook its head. My roses are yellow, it answered; as yellow as the hair of the mermaiden (美人鱼) who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower than the daffodil (黄水仙) that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with his scythe. But go to my brother who grows beneath the Student’s window (一种玫瑰), and perhaps he will give you what you want. So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing beneath the Student’s window. Give me a red rose, she cried, and I will sing you my sweetest song. But the Tree shook its head. My roses are red, it answered, as red as the feet of the dove, and redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the ocean-cavern. But the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost has nipped (摧残) my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and I shall have no roses at all this year. One red rose is all I want, cried the Nightingale, only one red rose! Is there no way by which I can get it? There is a way, answered the Tree; but it is so terrible that I dare not tell it to you. Tell it to me, said the Nightingale, I am not afraid. If you want a red rose, said the Tree, you must build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart’s blood. You must sing to me with your breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow into me veins, and become mine. Death is a great price to pay for a red rose, cried the Nightingale, and Life is very dear to all. It is pleasant to sit in the green wood, and to watch the Sun in his chariot (战车) of gold, and the Moon in her chariot of pearl. Sweet is the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and the heather that blows on the hill. Yet love is better than Life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man? So she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air. She swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed through the grove. The young Student was still lying on the grass, where she had left him, and the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes. Be happy, cried the Nightingale, be happy; you shall have your red rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart’s blood. All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a true lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy (哲学), though he is wise, and mightier than Power, though he is mighty. Flame-coloured are his wings, and coloured like flame is his body. His lips are sweet as homey, and his breath is like frankincense. The Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could not understand what the Nightingale was saying to him, for he only knew the things that are written down in books. But the Oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of the little Nightingale, who had built her nest in his branches. Sing me one last song, he whispered; I shall feel lonely when you are gone. So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was like water bubbling from a silver jar. When she had finished her song, the Student got up, and pulled a note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket. She had form, her said to himself, as he walked away through the grove—that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling? I am afraid not. In fact, she is like most artists; she is all style without any sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself for others. She thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish. Still, it must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her voice. What a pity it is that they do not mean anything, or do any practical good! And he went into his room, and lay down on his little pallet-bed, and began to think of his love; and, after a time, he fell asleep. And when the moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to the Rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang, with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal Moon leaned down and listened. All night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from her. She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl. And on the topmost spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a marvelous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song. Pale was it, at first, as the mist that hangs over the river—pale as the feet of the morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn. As the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, as the shadow of a rose in a water-pool, so was the rose that blossomed on the topmost spray of the Tree. But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. Press closer, little Nightingale, cried the Tree, or the Day will come before the rose is finished. So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a maid. And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like the flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose’s heart remained white, for only a Nightingale’s heart’s blood can crimson the heart of a rose. And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn. Press closer, little Nightingale, cried the Tree, or the Day will come before the rose is finished. So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her. Bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the tomb. And the marvelous rose became crimson (猩红), like the rose of the eastern sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby (红宝石) was the heart. But the Nightingale’ voice grew fainter, and her little wings began to beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter grew her song, and she felt something choking her in her throat. Then she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it, and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. The red rose heard it, and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its petals to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavern in the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams. It floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its message to the sea. Look, look! cried the Tree, the rose is finished now; but the Nightingale made not answer, for she was lying dead in the long grass, with the thorn in her heart. And at noon the Student opened his window and looked out. Why, what a wonderful piece of luck! He cried; here is a red rose! I have never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is so beautiful that I am sure it has a long Latin name; and he leaned down and plucked it. Then he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor’s house with the rose in his hand. The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway winding blue silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet. You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red rose, cried the Student. Here is the reddest rose in all the world. You will wear it to-night next your heart, and as we dance together it will tell you how I love you. But he girl frowned. I am afraid it will not go with my dress, she answered; and, besides, the Chamberlain’s nephew had sent me some real jewels, and everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers. Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful, said the Student angrily; and he threw the rose onto he street, where it fell into the gutter (阴沟), and a cartwheel went over it. Ungrateful! said the girl. I tell you what, you are very rude; and, after all, who are you? Only a Student. Why, I dont believe you have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlain’s nephew has; and she got up from her chair and went into the house. What a silly thing Love is! said the Student as he walked away. It is not half as useful as Logic, for it does not prove anything, and it is always telling one of things that are not going to happen, and making one believe things that are not true. In fact, it is quite unpractical, and, as in this age to be practical is everything, I shall go back to Philosophy and study Metaphysics (玄学). So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and began to read.
英语翻译麻烦能不能找到奥斯卡.王尔德的原话，我找
麻烦能不能找到奥斯卡.王尔德的原话Can you find Oscar, Wilde?重点词汇释义麻烦trouble; troublesome; bother; inconvenient找到find; seek out; hit; discover; lay hands on奥斯卡Oscar王尔德Wilde [英格兰人姓氏] &L[Wild]的变体
英国作家王尔德的作品有哪些
作品一览《道格雷的画像》集》 1881年 《斯芬克斯》 1894年 《监狱之歌》 1898年 《薇拉》 剧本 1880年 《米尔夫人的扇子》又译《温夫人的扇子》、《少奶奶的扇子》1892年 《帕都瓦公爵夫人》 1893年 《莎乐美》（原著用法语写成） 1893年 《无足轻重的女人》1892年 《认真的重要性》 1895年 《理想的丈夫》又译《好丈夫》 1895年 《快乐王子和其他故事》收录童话：《快乐王子》《夜莺与玫瑰》《自私的巨人》《忠实的朋友》《了不起的火箭》自私的巨人少年国王童话集 1888年 《石榴屋\\\/石榴之家》收录童话：《少年国王》《西班牙公主的生日》《渔人和他的灵魂》《星孩》 1891年 《社会主义下人的灵魂》 散文集 1891年 《深渊书简》又译《自深深处》、《王尔德狱中记》原本是作者写给道格拉斯的书信集，1905年作者死后出版书信集1897年 《ESSAYS AND LECTURE》 随笔集 《笔秆子、画笔和毒药》 意图集《身为艺术家的评论者》 《谎言的衰朽》 1889年 《面具下的真实》 《坎特维尔之鬼》 短篇故事集 《模范百万富翁》 《没有秘密的斯芬克斯》 《亚瑟·萨维尔勋爵的罪行》 奥斯卡·王尔德（Oscar Wilde，1854年10月16日－1900年11月30日），爱尔兰作家、诗人、剧作家，英国唯美主义艺术运动的倡导者。
他的作品在剧院演出后得到广大回响，在19世纪与萧伯纳齐名。
他的戏剧、诗作、小说留给后人许多惯用语，如“活得快乐，就是最好的报复”。
王尔德富有过人的自信和天赋，虽然他的晚年极为潦倒，但他的艺术成就仍使他成为世界经典的艺术家。
他创作了9 篇童话，结集为《快乐王子和其他故事》和《石榴屋》两部童话集。
1895年5月25日，英国作家奥斯卡·王尔德因为“与其他男性发生不道德的行为”而被判处两年徒刑。
1900年王尔德因脑膜炎于巴黎的旅馆去世，终年46岁。
1909年，王尔德的遗体移灵到拉雪兹神父国家公墓，长眠至今。
