从梦想到现实:李宝群剧作随想集 李宝群 著 在线下载 pdf mobi 2025 epub 电子版

《从梦想到现实:李宝群剧作随想集》由李宝群著

01自序/一路走来

我眼中的当下中国戏剧

003当代中国话剧的一大困境

—话剧界纪念话剧百年研讨会上的发言

013"别无选择"与"多种选择"

——在建国60年中国话剧艺术发展论坛上的发言

020对中国话剧的追问与思考

024对中国话剧的再追问

029对中国话剧的追问之三

035对中国话剧的追问之四

040读奥尼尔，看当下戏剧

048读迪伦马特，看当下戏剧

053读阿瑟·密勒，看当下細

061读曹禺与老舍

070读赖声川的《暗恋桃花源》

073孟冰和他的两部军旅话剧

081孟京辉和他的《活着》

087喻荣军和他的《老大》

——在话剧《老大》研讨会上的发言

093我看《中华士兵》

102谈京剧《曹操与杨修》和《成败萧何》

108观看辽宁人艺话剧《秘方》

114对北京戏剧的冷思考

120对辽艺戏剧的再思考

我的老师和挚友

133从默然老师的几封信说起

——在李默然艺术人生研讨会上的发言

144记默然老师的追思会

148说说我心中的谭先生

158说不完的査明哲

166梅花香彻骨，却自苦寒来

——我眼中的"梅花大奖"获得者宋国锋

……

李宝群，1963年出生，1984年毕业于辽宁大学中文系，2001年毕业于中央戏剧学院不错编剧班，1984年—2007年在辽宁省艺术研究所、剧目工作室工作，曾任辽宁省艺术研究所副所长、剧目工作室副主任，辽宁省剧协副。2007年８月调入总政话剧团，现任总政话剧团艺术指导兼创作室主任，一级编剧。

中宣部全国“四个一批”人才，文化部很好话剧艺术工作者，中国文联全国百名很好青年文艺家。

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• 作者：青葵 发布时间：2022-08-08 22:02:26

  古生代、中生代、新生代、冰期，一场从生命起源开始的奇妙之旅，近百种动物依次登场。每种动物都有详细的介绍，配图有动物化石和还原后的样子。几亿年的岁月就在生命更迭中迅速流过。增长知识的同时感悟生命。

• 作者：Song,F. 发布时间：2014-05-29 08:59:34

  2012年暑假

• 作者：客场不负 发布时间：2023-05-25 16:40:02

  三位作者的文风都略显稚嫩，

  不过阅读过程还是很有趣味的。

  仿佛回到了学生时代，

  晚自习时悄悄翻出《科幻世界》，

  一边警惕着教室后门的窗口，

  一边津津有味的沉浸在故事当中。

• 作者：红珊瑚 发布时间：2010-08-24 20:47:57

  中国品牌业第一书

• 作者：戚先生 发布时间：2024-04-19 18:50:31

  截止目前，也才看过一遍魏书。

• 作者：Robin @ T&S 发布时间：2022-02-23 13:06:44

  同意另一个书评观点。在我看来，这本书主要是为了建构自己对于网络心理咨询的想象。对于实际的咨询工作经验没有帮助。作者对于网络化是一种无奈的态度，但又试图合理化。对于空间和人际互动，对于个体的影响描述也很肤浅。

• 《没意思的故事》里最有意思的卡嘉

  作者：无花果爱茉莉 发布时间：2023-10-21 07:44:07

  契科夫（1860.1.29---1904.7.15）于1889年完成的中篇小说《没意思的故事》副标题是“摘自一个老人的札记”，男主人公就是那位老人，那位在俄罗斯德高望重的、人称“圣壁”（所获得的勋章可挂满前胸）的、卓有建树的62岁的著名医学教授尼古拉·司捷潘诺维奇，他虽然地位很高，受人尊敬，却不曾丧失自省与批判的能力，且患有“值得尊敬的失眠症”（契科夫的《出诊》）。女主人公则是他的养女、可爱的卡嘉了，一位尼古拉的好友、眼科医生的独生女儿。

  卡嘉的青少年

  卡嘉的父亲在她7岁的时候去世了，留下6万卢布的遗产，成为孤儿的她来到了保护人尼古拉家生活，3年后，10岁的卡嘉上了寄宿女校，只有暑假时回来住一段时间。卡嘉喜欢观察新家的一切，从生活琐事到谈心聊天，“她的眼睛老是表现着同样的思想，那就是这个世界上进行着的一切事情都很好，都合理。” 看起来无论是原生家庭还是寄养家庭，他们对卡嘉的引导和保护都很好，使她“好奇心重，很喜欢和我（长辈，有知识、有文化）聊天”，她是个“温柔的、有耐性的、善良的孩子。”对别人的欺凌，她选择忍受，只是脸上会出现“常在的信任表情跟一种悲哀的神情混在一起”的神态。十四五岁时，卡嘉疯狂迷恋上了戏剧。假期回家，每天都渴望跟家里人交流，谈剧本、谈角色、谈男女演员，别人都听烦了，只有繁忙的尼古拉能耐心听她的滔滔不绝，毕业前卡嘉参加了几次业余演出，然后就声明自己天生就是做演员的料。

  而尼古拉对卡嘉演戏爱好并不看好，因为他觉得俄国的戏剧几十年来没有什么变化，剧本不好、演员不好，剧院就是娱乐场所，是奢侈的休闲，观众花了钱，看到舞台上充满了“处理不正确的凶杀、私通、伪证等道德上的损失”，好青年应该去成为医师、农艺家、女教师、军官。卡嘉却认为舞台与讲台一样，作用相同，甚至比讲台、书本更高尚，因为戏剧和表演能够影响更多的人，给人们带来更多的影响和灵魂的满足。

  接着，“在一个晴朗的日子，卡嘉参加了一个剧团，一块走了，随身带去很多钱、无数愉快的希望、对事业崇高的看法。”对此尼古拉没有阻拦。

  卡嘉的巡演

  卡嘉对尼古拉是十分信任和坦诚的，她尊重自己的监护人，时刻书信汇报自己的行踪和思想，从那些充满文法错误、没有标点的书信里，尼古拉体验了卡嘉“青春的的朝气、心地的纯洁、神圣的清白和细致又切实的判断”。尼古拉欣喜地跟着她的书信游历了城市、伏尔加河流、大自然的一切，当然也有演出的成功和失败。

  半年后，卡嘉告诉尼古拉，她恋爱了，随信寄来了小伙子的照片，卡嘉的心仍是对生活信心满满，还希望在伏尔加河流域找个地方开办一个大剧场等等，尼古拉觉得这些事本应该是男人们该想的，这说明卡嘉受男友影响很大。

  一年半或两年后，情况变了，卡嘉明显地泄气了。

  卡嘉先是抱怨同事们的不敬业：不参加排演、不打磨角色，为了增加票房收入，甚至在正剧的台词中加入不健康的台词和下流的故事情节，卡嘉难过了，她想象中的艺术和现实的艺术差距太大。她认为，戏剧水平整体下滑是因为演员素质太低。

  而尼古拉对卡嘉非常耐心，抽出宝贵的时间，写长信耐心地来劝导卡嘉，他认为，“演员们的活动并不尽是由他们的个人智慧和自由意志指导者，多半是由社会的风气和喜好控制着”，环境差才是造成戏剧水平低俗的主要原因，卡嘉对此不赞同，认为自己周围的演员们缺乏才能，品德也低下。自己周围的人都是“一帮野人”。

  之后，卡嘉来信说自己被骗了，尼古拉后来知道卡嘉的孩子死了，她自杀过，在克里米亚盘桓了一年半后，回家来了。此次出走，卡嘉在外共4年，身心布满伤痕，尼古拉像真正的父亲一样伤心，但是没有办法阻止，只能按要求不断地寄钱。

  卡嘉的彷徨

  卡嘉自己租了房子，离尼古拉的家不出半俄里。卡嘉按照自己的爱好布置了房子，每天就是躺在沙发上看书，主要是小说。每天下午出门来看尼古拉。卡嘉还是喜欢观察尼古拉做事，眼神已经没有信任了，满是冷漠和涣散，像是火车站等待很久的乘客的眼神。她穿着随意，也不问问题了，仿佛已经经历过生活的一切不幸事情。

  尼古拉的妻子和女儿很反感卡嘉的来访，她们相互仇视，几乎不见面、不交流。尼古拉也觉得势力、虚伪、轻浮的妻女难以忍受，所以时常到卡嘉家里聊天，消磨时间。

  三只癞蛤蟆

  60多岁的成功人士尼古拉放下长辈的架子，开始了在卡嘉面前抱怨了。他总是回顾自己的人生，年轻时的梦想、自己所做出的努力和对未来的希望，可是现在却成了生活的奴隶，满脑子都是“阴暗”（负面）的思想，不仅怀疑自己的职业，还憎恶社会，甚至厌恶家人，认为是自己身体坏了，脑子差了。现在，20几岁的卡嘉做了开解人，说：“这只不过是您眼睛睁开了罢了，您以前不肯看，现在却看见了。”她希望尼古拉离开大学和家庭，因为他这些年的碌碌无为培养的医生都是大批的“敲诈无知无识的人”，而他的家人只看重地位和钱财，对尼古拉根本不关心。

  发完牢骚，尼古拉就开始讲些以前开心的事，实施真正老人的嗜好------回忆，而卡嘉望着尼古拉，听着，温暖地笑着。许多时候语言学家，尼古拉的同事，50多岁身体结实的米哈伊尔·费朵罗维奇串门来了，三个怪人------三只癞蛤蟆凑到了一起。

  费朵罗维奇“讲话的最大特点就是永远不变的讲话口吻，把哲学和打诨揉在一起，跟莎士比亚戏剧里的掘墓人一样，经他一谈，严肃的事就再也不严肃了。他的评语总是尖酸刻薄、爱挑毛病。他每天都带来大学里的5-6个故事。”先是调侃一下某位教授------用“翘起马那样的下巴，抱怨自己的偏头痛、妻子、学生”，接着是那位讲话像吮冰糖那样唏哩呼噜的教授作报告，他说这些的时候，目光里是尖刻和狐狸样的狡猾，只有在盯着卡嘉背影的时候“有点温柔、恳求、纯洁的眼神”。

  当然。三人也谈科学，科学的发展，科学的意义，谈到最后，谈到高尚、苍蝇和蛆，结果是什么都没有意义。尼古拉觉得他们是三只癞蛤蟆，空气中都是毒素。

  卡嘉诀别尼古拉

  卡嘉是最先发现尼古拉身体出现了问题，她敦促他去看病，他消极对待了，她沉默了，她买了马车，不在乎邻居、友人、尼古拉妻女的眼神，每天陪尼古拉午后出门溜溜。“您是一个好人，没有一个演员会演您的角色。谁也演不了您，我嫉妒您。”他们还是在对艺术进行争论着，谁也说服不了对方。尼古拉担心卡嘉的未来，担心她的钱花完了怎么办。

  在即将再次成为孤儿的时候，卡嘉没有得到尼古拉的建议，因为他自己都觉得他的一生非常疲惫，一直都在奔波奉献，也名声累累，还是自己缺乏精神力量，过着毫无意义的生活，更无力指引别人的人生方向。她选择了离开，离开那慵懒、散漫的其实也是疗伤的生活，回到她曾经受过伤的地方-------克里米亚，去开始新的生活。

  “再会，我亲爱的！”尼古拉最后一次祝福他的养女和朋友------卡嘉。

• 转载：经济学人为桑贝写的讣告

  作者：edge 发布时间：2022-08-31 16:07:18

  The joy of small things

  Jean-Jacques Sempé, cartoonist of human dreams, hazards and delights, died on August 11th, aged 89

  At the edge of the gigantic sea, his clothes left in a pile, his arms hugging his shivering body, a frail, tiny figure wondered whether to take the plunge. In an immense plain, under a huge black cloud, a woman in a sunhat furiously pedalled her bicycle, with its basket of precious vegetables, towards some distant home. Amid an infinity of fir trees two ant-size cyclists almost met, but their paths diverged before contact. In a landscape of rampaging lushness and glorious views a pipe-smoking painter worked at his easel. His human subject, insignificant in the long grass, called "Remember not to forget me!"

  In cityscapes-the tall grey buildings and mansard roofs of Paris, the massed skyscrapers of New York-the proportions were the same. Here the human ants often moved in crowds, through the rainy streets, into opulent concert halls, towards political rallies, usually in the same direction. Yet in the city, too, they broke away and became solitary among the enormous towers. On a flat roof, a little girl jumped a skipping rope. In one lit window, a trainer coaxed a tiger through a hoop. From one balcony, a couple leaned out dangerously to catch the crescent moon through a canyon of high walls. In an immense lamplit colonnade, a furtive tuba-player smoked behind a column.

  Images like these, in ink and wash or gentle watercolour, featured for decades in dozens of French magazines, in Britain's Punch and on the covers of the New Yorker. They filled books that sold in the millions. His little figures, coping with the world, made Jean-Jacques Sempé internationally famous. But why, he wondered, did humans assume they were big? They were tiny, little scraps of things. Their lives were a mess, his own especially. He had been brought up petit-bourgeois and poor in south-west France, never knowing his real father, feeling therefore he was built on nothing. His foster parents almost killed him, and his stepfather- when his sales of canned anchovies went well- would come home drunk and beat him. He was expelled from school at 14 for being distrait, too distractable. When he looked for work, everyone rejected him.

  His tiny figures were haunted by notions of greatness. Under an enormous statue to music, in an overgrown park, a weary man trudged with a violin. Before a colossal monument to some ancient hero wrestling a stallion, a glum businessman waited for the crossing light to change. Backstage, among soaring fly-towers, half a dozen child ballerinas lined up nervously to go on. Dreams of what they might do were limitless, but what might befall if they tried? His own ambitions had been, first, to be a brilliant jazz pianist like Duke Ellington. He had even met him once, in Saint Tropez, and they had banged out "Satin Doll" for a few bars. He still dreamed of reprising that, duelling with the Duke. An even bolder hope had been to be centre forward in the French national team. But by some conspiracy he had not been called.

  In default of greatness, his little figures did whatever they could. In the midst of one of his exuberant forests, a couple with a caravan laid out a garden and mowed a lawn. A middle-aged woman in a housecoat polished the railway tracks that ran past her cottage. One plump, balding husband, home from work, serenaded his wife with a cello; another, rising from the supper table, took a bow in the sunlight that streamed through the window. In a garden shed, a mousy little man forged a knight's shining sword.

  As for him, he became an artist. It was not easy. In his youth he had only doodled, nothing serious. He never drew from life, only from his head, which contained everything necessary. When he started to sell drawings for a living, a last resort, he came across copies of the New Yorker with drawings by Saul Steinberg and James Thurber. He decided they were just too great, little dreaming that in 1978 he would dare to ask to do the same. But at the New Yorker, as elsewhere, he felt he did nothing remarkable. Though he teased philosophers with the titles of his collections ("Nothing is Simple", "Everything is Complicated", "Unfathomable Mysteries"), he just drew the world as he saw it, striving for a new idea every day. He filled big sheets and canvases with the smallest details of grass, birds, mouldings, chandelier drops, creating a whole world for a single image which often required no words.

  That world was old-fashioned, more interesting than the modern one. On his rural roads there were no cars. Women stayed around the house; men put on hats and went to work, or sat in neighbourhood bistros, among the half-net curtains and bentwood chairs, talking politics and football. His cartoon-novel, "Monsieur Lambert", was set entirely there. He did not care to update himself. Nor would he do satire or mockery, only humour of the sort that friends and colleagues indulged in. The gently nudging sort. How could he mock, when in every image he was drawing his own vulnerability?

  The hero of "Le Petit Nicolas", a series of books for children created with René Goscinny in 1959, also looked vulnerable and small. But Nicolas caused chaos on all sides with his daydreams and his pranks. He lay on his bed with his football, scheming, surrounded by toy cars and the discarded pages of his lessons. He was scolded at school, while behind the master's back his friends leered and laughed. Off diving boards he jumped cheerfully into nothingness, holding his nose for luck. Little Nicolas had the happy-go-lucky childhood he himself never had. That made his own a bit easier to take.

  Childlike instincts helped generally. A middle-aged businessman kicked up fallen leaves in a park; an office worker, returning home, flicked the pedal of a drum kit. Another, smiling blissfully, rocked on a playground swing to contemplate the sunset. A plutocrat sat splashing in his villa's private pool. Cyclists, the happiest of beings, raced down tracks together, brought cities alive with their colours and coasted solo above gridlocked traffic over the Brooklyn Bridge. At the edge of the gigantic sea, on a vast beach, a tiny figure in red shorts did a handstand for sheer joy.

  

  借豆友的文字图片转成纯文字，便于阅读