茶花女的墓是棺椁造型。棺盖上有一樽高脚杯，寓意着纸醉金迷的人生；棺墓的正面上方是一个绣花方枕，枕头上放着一束红玫瑰，喻义着玛丽沦落风尘的一生...
以上文字介绍转自豆瓣:
http://www.douban.com/subject/1092907/
以上文字介绍转自豆瓣:
http://www.douban.com/subject/1092907/
茶花女吧 关注：3,319贴子：16,448
茶花女和小仲马的墓在蒙玛特尔里面的位置：
左上是小仲马的，右下是茶花女的，相隔不远……
小仲马坚持要和她葬在一起，或许是因为小仲马多年以后想到当年自己成名的同时，她却孤寂死去，心里有很多愧疚。更或许是曾经动过的真情让他一辈子也忘不记
左上是小仲马的，右下是茶花女的，相隔不远……
小仲马坚持要和她葬在一起，或许是因为小仲马多年以后想到当年自己成名的同时，她却孤寂死去，心里有很多愧疚。更或许是曾经动过的真情让他一辈子也忘不记
自己摘录的一些让人感动的句子……
Farewell, my dear Marguerite. I am neither rich enough to love you as I should wish, nor poor enough to
love you as you would like. Let us both forget: you, a name which must mean very little to you, and I,
happiness which has become impossible for me to bear.
"Well, Monsieur Duval, kiss me once as you would kiss your daughter, and I will swear to you that your
touch, the only truly chaste embrace I ever received, will make me stand strong against my love. I swear
that within a week, your son will be back with you, unhappy for a time perhaps, but cured for good."
When I thought that this old man, now begging me for his son's future, would some day tell his daughter
to include my name in her prayers, as that of a mysterious benefactress, I was transformed and looked on
myself with pride.
Marguerite
you know i have no long to live,therefore i will live fast!
Each time the door opens, her eyes light up, for each time she believes that you will walk in. Then,
when she sees that it is not you, her face reverts to its expression of suffering, breaks into a cold
sweat and her cheeks turn crimson.
20 February, 5 o'clock in the afternoon
It is all over.
Marguerite began her mortal agony last night, around two o'clock. No martyr ever suffered such torment,
to judge by the screams she uttered. Two or three times, she sat bolt upright in her bed, as though she
would snatch at the life which was winging its way back to God.
And two or three times she said your name. Then everything went quiet, and she slumped back on the bed
exhausted. Silent tears welled up in her eyes, and she died.
I went close to her, called her name and, when she did not answer, I closed her eyes and kissed her on
the forehead.
Poor, dear Marguerite! How I wished I had been a holy woman so that my kiss might commend your soul to
God!
Julie Duprat
His daughter, whose name was Blanche, had the cleareyed gaze and serene mouth which point to a soul that
conceives only saintly thoughts and lips that speak only pious words. She greeted her brother's return
with smiles, unaware, chaste young woman that she was, that in a far country a courtesan had sacrificed
her own happiness to the mere mention of her name.
But I have learned that one such woman, once in her life, experienced deep love, that she suffered for
it and that she died of it. I have told the reader what I learned. It was a duty
Farewell, my dear Marguerite. I am neither rich enough to love you as I should wish, nor poor enough to
love you as you would like. Let us both forget: you, a name which must mean very little to you, and I,
happiness which has become impossible for me to bear.
"Well, Monsieur Duval, kiss me once as you would kiss your daughter, and I will swear to you that your
touch, the only truly chaste embrace I ever received, will make me stand strong against my love. I swear
that within a week, your son will be back with you, unhappy for a time perhaps, but cured for good."
When I thought that this old man, now begging me for his son's future, would some day tell his daughter
to include my name in her prayers, as that of a mysterious benefactress, I was transformed and looked on
myself with pride.
Marguerite
you know i have no long to live,therefore i will live fast!
Each time the door opens, her eyes light up, for each time she believes that you will walk in. Then,
when she sees that it is not you, her face reverts to its expression of suffering, breaks into a cold
sweat and her cheeks turn crimson.
20 February, 5 o'clock in the afternoon
It is all over.
Marguerite began her mortal agony last night, around two o'clock. No martyr ever suffered such torment,
to judge by the screams she uttered. Two or three times, she sat bolt upright in her bed, as though she
would snatch at the life which was winging its way back to God.
And two or three times she said your name. Then everything went quiet, and she slumped back on the bed
exhausted. Silent tears welled up in her eyes, and she died.
I went close to her, called her name and, when she did not answer, I closed her eyes and kissed her on
the forehead.
Poor, dear Marguerite! How I wished I had been a holy woman so that my kiss might commend your soul to
God!
Julie Duprat
His daughter, whose name was Blanche, had the cleareyed gaze and serene mouth which point to a soul that
conceives only saintly thoughts and lips that speak only pious words. She greeted her brother's return
with smiles, unaware, chaste young woman that she was, that in a far country a courtesan had sacrificed
her own happiness to the mere mention of her name.
But I have learned that one such woman, once in her life, experienced deep love, that she suffered for
it and that she died of it. I have told the reader what I learned. It was a duty
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