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1960
TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD
by Harper Lee
《杀死一只知更鸟（To Kill A Mockingbird）》（英文版）作者：哈柏李（Harper Lee）
一位不顾个人安危，为黑人伸张正义的律师——艾蒂科斯·芬奇。芬奇在南方梅岗城任职，为人正直沉稳，常常不计报酬地为穷人们伸张正义。他对年幼丧母的女儿斯科特与儿子詹姆即严格又慈爱。有一次谈起打鸟时，他对孩子说，不要去杀死知更鸟，因为它们只为人类歌唱，从来不做危害人类的事情。
在当地，歧视黑人的现象十分严重。一天，芬奇去法院为黑人汤姆一案当辩护律师。白人检查官指控汤姆犯有强奸罪，芬奇经过认真调查，发现事实并非如此。于是，在法庭上，他实事求是地进行辩护，把对汤姆的指控一一加以驳斥，最后他要求判汤姆无罪，并且义正辞严地呼吁人们要尊重事实，要维护人类的尊严与平等。可是法官与陪审团都偏信原告的“证词”，仍判汤姆有罪。而且，事情并没有就此结束，持种族偏见的一些白人进而对芬奇一家进行挑衅和恫吓，詹姆与斯科特在参加万圣节庆祝活动时被一伙歹徒袭击，詹姆的胳膊被扭断。面对强暴，芬奇毫不畏缩，他准备继续为汤姆申诉。
主题
·人生的善恶问题。善良与罪恶并存，因而应该欣赏他人美德并以同情态度从他人的视角看待生活来理解他人的罪恶。
·罪恶威胁着无辜者。
·同情与理解在良知发展中的作用。
·儿童与知识和道德上的教育。最重要的是教育他们具同情和理解之心，而同情和理解的方式是教育的最佳途径。
·种族歧视与社会等级的虚伪。
·从童年向成年的过渡问题。人活着不泯灭良知而又不丧失希望、不愤世疾俗是可能的。
象征
知更鸟（Mockingbird）在字面上与情节没什么联系，但在小说中具有强大象征性。它代表了天真无辜者。而“杀死一只知更鸟”的故事就是一个罪恶毁灭天真无辜者的故事。小说中的杰姆(Jem）、汤姆·鲁滨逊(Tom Robinson)、迪尔（Dill)、布(Boo)、雷蒙德先生(Mr. Raymoud)、梅耶拉·尤厄尔(Mayella Ewell)都是“知更鸟”。
布·拉德力（Boo Radley） “布”在小说中很少露面，但孩子们对“布”的态度的变化是衡量孩子们从童年的天真发展为具有承认的道德观的重要尺度。开始时被残暴的父亲摧毁而足不出户的“布”在孩子们眼中代表了恶魔的恐怖，而随着“布”不断向孩子们赠送小礼物，为杰姆缝补了裤子，他在孩子们眼中的形象也逐渐真实起来。到小说最后，“布”从鲍伯·尤厄尔手中救出了斯各特和杰姆时，在斯各特眼里，“布”已由一个鬼魂变成了一个人。“布”象征了人类的高贵善良品质，尽管曾经受伤害，但内心的纯洁善良贯穿于他整个生命。
DEDICATION
for Mr. Lee and Alice
in consideration of Love & Affection
Lawyers, I suppose, were children once.
Charles Lamb
PART ONE
1
When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken
at the elbow. When it healed, and Jem's fears of never being able to
play football were assuaged, he was seldom self-conscious about his
injury. His left arm was somewhat shorter than his right; when he
stood or walked, the back of his hand was at right angles to his body,
his thumb parallel to his thigh. He couldn't have cared less, so
long as he could pass and punt.
When enough years had gone by to enable us to look back on them,
we sometimes discussed the events leading to his accident. I
maintain that the Ewells started it all, but Jem, who was four years
my senior, said it started long before that. He said it began the
summer Dill came to us, when Dill first gave us the idea of making Boo
Radley come out.
I said if he wanted to take a broad view of the thing, it really
began with Andrew Jackson. If General Jackson hadn't run the Creeks up
the creek, Simon Finch would never have paddled up the Alabama, and
where would we be if he hadn't? We were far too old to settle an
argument with a fist-fight, so we consulted Atticus. Our father said
we were both right.
Being Southerners, it was a source of shame to some members of the
family that we had no recorded ancestors on either side of the
Battle of Hastings. All we had was Simon Finch, a fur-trapping
apothecary from Cornwall whose piety was exceeded only by his
stinginess. In England, Simon was irritated by the persecution of
those who called themselves Methodists at the hands of their more
liberal brethren, and as Simon called himself a Methodist, he worked
his way across the Atlantic to Philadelphia, thence to Jamaica, thence
to Mobile, and up the Saint Stephens. Mindful of John Wesley's
strictures on the use of many words in buying and selling, Simon
made a pile practicing medicine, but in this pursuit he was unhappy
lest he be tempted into doing what he knew was not for the glory of
God, as the putting on of gold and costly apparel. So Simon, having
forgotten his teacher's dictum on the possession of human chattels,
bought three slaves and with their aid established a homestead on
the banks of the Alabama River some forty miles above Saint
Stephens. He returned to Saint Stephens only once, to find a wife, and
with her established a line that ran high to daughters. Simon lived to
an impressive age and died rich.
It was customary for the men in the family to remain on Simon's
homestead, Finch's Landing, and make their living from cotton. The
place was self-sufficient: modest in comparison with the empires
around it, the Landing nevertheless produced everything required to
sustain life except ice, wheat flour, and articles of clothing,
supplied by river-boats from Mobile.
Simon would have regarded with impotent fury the disturbance between
the North and the South, as it left his descendants stripped of
everything but their land, yet the tradition of living on the land
remained unbroken until well into the twentieth century, when my
father, Atticus Finch, went to Montgomery to read law, and his younger
brother went to Boston to study medicine. Their sister Alexandra was
the Finch who remained at the Landing: she married a taciturn man
who spent most of his time lying in a hammock by the river wondering
if his trot-lines were full.
When my father was admitted to the bar, he returned to Maycomb and
began his practice. Maycomb, some twenty miles east of Finch's
Landing, was the county seat of Maycomb County. Atticus's office in
the courthouse contained little more than a hat rack, a spittoon, a
checkerboard and an unsullied Code of Alabama. His first two clients
were the last two persons hanged in the Maycomb County jail. Atticus
had urged them to accept the state's generosity in allowing them to
plead Guilty to second-degree murder and escape with their lives,
but they were Haverfords, in Maycomb County a name synonymous with
jackass. The Haverfords had dispatched Maycomb's leading blacksmith in
a misunderstanding arising from the alleged wrongful detention of a
mare, were imprudent enough to do it in the presence of three
witnesses, and insisted that the-son-of-a-bitch-had-it-coming-to-him
was a good enough defense for anybody. They persisted in pleading
Not Guilty to first-degree murder, so there was nothing much Atticus
could do for his clients except be present at their departure, an
occasion that was probably the beginning of my father's profound
distaste for the practice of criminal law.
During his first five years in Maycomb, Atticus practiced economy
more than anything; for several years thereafter he invested his
earnings in his brother's education. John Hale Finch was ten years
younger than my father, and chose to study medicine at a time when
cotton was not worth growing; but after getting Uncle Jack started,
Atticus derived a reasonable income from the law. He liked Maycomb, he
was Maycomb County born and bred; he knew his people, they knew him,
and because of Simon Finch's industry, Atticus was related by blood or
marriage to nearly every family in the town.
Maycomb was an old town, but it was a tired old town when I first
knew it. In rainy weather the streets turned to red slop; grass grew
on the sidewalks, the courthouse sagged in the square. Somehow, it was
hotter then: a black dog suffered on a summer's day; bony mules
hitched to Hoover carts flicked flies in the sweltering shade of the
live oaks on the square. Men's stiff collars wilted by nine in the
morning. Ladies bathed before noon, after their three-o'clock naps,
and by nightfall were like soft teacakes with frostings of sweat and
sweet talcum.
People moved slowly then. They ambled across the square, shuffled in
and out of the stores around it, took their time about everything. A
day was twenty-four hours long but seemed longer. There was no
hurry, for there was nowhere to go, nothing to buy and no money to buy
it with, nothing to see outside the boundaries of Maycomb County.
But it was a time of vague optimism for some of the people: Maycomb
County had recently been told that it had nothing to fear but fear
itself.
We lived on the main residential street in town- Atticus, Jem and I,
plus Calpurnia our cook. Jem and I found our father satisfactory: he
played with us, read to us, and treated us with courteous detachment.
Calpurnia was something else again. She was all angles and bones;
she was nearsighted; she squinted; her hand was wide as a bed slat and
twice as hard. She was always ordering me out of the kitchen, asking
me why I couldn't behave as well as Jem when she knew he was older,
and calling me home when I wasn't ready to come. Our battles were epic
and one-sided. Calpurnia always won, mainly because Atticus always
took her side. She had been with us ever since Jem was born, and I had
felt her tyrannical presence as long as I could remember.
Our mother died when I was two, so I never felt her absence. She was
a Graham from Montgomery; Atticus met her when he was first elected to
the state legislature. He was middle-aged then, she was fifteen
years his junior. Jem was the product of their first year of marriage;
four years later I was born, and two years later our mother died
from a sudden heart attack. They said it ran in her family. I did
not miss her, but I think Jem did. He remembered her clearly, and
sometimes in the middle of a game he would sigh at length, then go off
and play by himself behind the car-house. When he was like that, I
knew better than to bother him.
When I was almost six and Jem was nearly ten, our summertime
boundaries (within calling distance of Calpurnia) were Mrs. Henry
Lafayette Dubose's house two doors to the north of us, and the
Radley Place three doors to the south. We were never tempted to
break them. The Radley Place was inhabited by an unknown entity the
mere description of whom was enough to make us behave for days on end;
Mrs. Dubose was plain hell.
That was the summer Dill came to us.
Early one morning as we were beginning our day's play in the back
yard, Jem and I heard something next door in Miss Rachel Haverford's
collard patch. We went to the wire fence to see if there was a
puppy- Miss Rachel's rat terrier was expecting- instead we found
someone sitting looking at us. Sitting down, he wasn't much higher
than the collards. We stared at him until he spoke:
"Hey."
"Hey yourself," said Jem pleasantly.
"I'm Charles Baker Harris," he said. "I can read."
"So what?" I said.
"I just thought you'd like to know I can read. You got anything
needs readin' I can do it...."
"How old are you," asked Jem, "four-and-a-half?"
"Goin' on seven."
"Shoot no wonder, then," said Jem, jerking his thumb at me. "Scout
yonder's been readin' ever since she was born, and she ain't even
started to school yet. You look right puny for goin' on seven."
"I'm little but I'm old," he said.
Jem brushed his hair back to get a better look. "Why don't you
come over, Charles Baker Harris?" he said. "Lord, what a name."
"'s not any funnier'n yours. Aunt Rachel says your name's Jeremy
Atticus Finch."
Jem scowled. "I'm big enough to fit mine," he said. "Your name's
longer'n you are. Bet it's a foot longer."
"Folks call me Dill," said Dill, struggling under the fence.
"Do better if you go over it instead of under it," I said.
"Where'd you come from?"
Dill was from Meridian, Mississippi, was spending the summer with
