貓貓頭聽我講《麥琪的禮物》不知道幾百遍了，自以為已經領會了歐亨利筆下男女主人公對于愛情和家庭的奉獻和犧牲，但是當他看到自己大量的錯誤后也不禁傻眼了。
歐亨利故事中男女主人公為愛奉獻的橋段我們已經不再陌生了，老題材如何寫出新意思，如何讓人不感到千篇一律？
歐亨利很擅長寫社會底層人士，窮人，流浪漢，都是他得意的模特兒。特別是每個人的疾苦又不一樣，正是反映了“幸福的家庭都相似，不幸的家庭各有各的不幸。”
讀者可以把兩篇文章放在一起對比來讀，看一下寫作手法，看一下文字和語氣。就會發現，作者是有意避免兩篇文章上有任何雷同和類似的。
在《麥》一文中，作者對主人公充滿同情，所以在行為的描述和評論上只有這么一句："life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating." 因此，對于Della和Jim的種種敘述也是簡單的平鋪直敘的描寫，不夾雜任何個人情感。
但是《愛的犧牲》則不一樣。而且我也不明白為什么會翻譯成這樣的題目，雖然我也同意直譯成《愛的服務》也挺傻的。《愛》一文中開篇就來一句醒世恒言。如果看過類似開頭的應該在腦海中立刻背誦列夫托爾斯泰的《安娜卡列尼娜》和簡奧斯丁的《傲慢與偏見》開篇的金句。
All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.?
????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????--Leo Tolstoy's?Anna Karenina?
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.
-- Jane Austin'sPride and Prejudice
如果更加想炫耀一下在文學閱讀上的功底（如我）的，可以大段地抄寫狄更斯的《雙城記》中的開篇。
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,?
it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness,?
it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity,?
it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness,?
it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair,?
we had everything before us, we had nothing before us,?
we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way
-- Charles Dickens'?A Tale of Two Cities?
除了開頭之外，通篇都充斥著各種反諷和諷刺。
反諷法、反語（irony），為說話或文章時一種帶有諷刺意味的語氣或寫作技巧，文學上常稱為倒反法，字面上不能了解其真正要表達的事物，而真義正好是字面上意涵的反面，通常需要從上下文及語境來了解其用意。
諷刺（英語：satire）是一種文學手法，用于暴露對象的矛盾或缺點。常采用夸張或反諷等方式，從而產生幽默的效果。當然拙劣模仿、作戲、毗鄰、并置、并列、對比、類似、類推等也經常用于諷刺手法種。
如果說反諷就是諷刺的話，是一個很大的錯誤。嚴格來說，諷刺是一種俗稱類型；而反諷則是一種比較具體的修飾手法。
有同學說“我還是不知道兩者的區別”。好吧，慢慢來，多讀讀。
這樣的寫法對于沒有相當生活經驗的學生來說確實比較難以理解，就像有的家長說的，你明明在對孩子說反話，他也聽不出來的。
所以在理解這篇文章的時候，我認為孩子們需要從兩方面著手進行分析：一是男女主人公自身生活的進展，另一方面是造成這樣窘迫生活的原因。
When one loves one's Art no service seems too hard.
That is our premise. This story shall draw a conclusion from it, and show at the same time that the premise is incorrect. That will be a new thing in logic, and a feat in story-telling somewhat older than the great wall of China.
Joe Larrabee came out of the post-oak flats of the Middle West pulsing with a genius for pictorial art. At six he drew a picture of the town pump with a prominent citizen passing it hastily. This effort was framed and hung in the drug store window by the side of the ear of corn with an uneven number of rows. At twenty he left for New York with a flowing necktie and a capital tied up somewhat closer.
Delia Caruthers did things in six octaves so promisingly in a pine- tree village in the South that her relatives chipped in enough in her chip hat for her to go "North" and "finish." They could not see her f--, but that is our story.
Joe and Delia met in an atelier where a number of art and music students had gathered to discuss chiaroscuro, Wagner, music, Rembrandt's works, pictures, Waldteufel, wall paper, Chopin and Oolong.
Joe and Delia became enamoured one of the other, or each of the other, as you please, and in a short time were married--for (see above), when one loves one's Art no service seems too hard.
Mr. and Mrs. Larrabee began housekeeping in a flat. It was a lonesome flat--something like the A sharp way down at the left-hand end of the keyboard. And they were happy; for they had their Art, and they had each other. And my advice to the rich young man would be--sell all thou hast, and give it to the poor--janitor for the privilege of living in a flat with your Art and your Delia.
Flat-dwellers shall indorse my dictum that theirs is the only true happiness. If a home is happy it cannot fit too close--let the dresser collapse and become a billiard table; let the mantel turn to a rowing machine, the escritoire to a spare bedchamber, the washstand to an upright piano; let the four walls come together, if they will, so you and your Delia are between. But if home be the other kind, let it be wide and long--enter you at the Golden Gate, hang your hat on Hatteras, your cape on Cape Horn and go out by the Labrador.
Joe was painting in the class of the great Magister--you know his fame. His fees are high; his lessons are light--his high-lights have brought him renown. Delia was studying under Rosenstock--you know his repute as a disturber of the piano keys.
They were mighty happy as long as their money lasted. So is every-- but I will not be cynical. Their aims were very clear and defined. Joe was to become capable very soon of turning out pictures that old gentlemen with thin side-whiskers and thick pocketbooks would sandbag one another in his studio for the privilege of buying. Delia was to become familiar and then contemptuous with Music, so that when she saw the orchestra seats and boxes unsold she could have sore throat and lobster in a private dining-room and refuse to go on the stage.
But the best, in my opinion, was the home life in the little flat-- the ardent, voluble chats after the day's study; the cozy dinners and fresh, light breakfasts; the interchange of ambitions--ambitions interwoven each with the other's or else inconsiderable--the mutual help and inspiration; and--overlook my artlessness--stuffed olives and cheese sandwiches at 11 p.m.
But after a while Art flagged. It sometimes does, even if some switchman doesn't flag it. Everything going out and nothing coming in, as the vulgarians say. Money was lacking to pay Mr. Magister and Herr Rosenstock their prices. When one loves one's Art no service seems too hard. So, Delia said she must give music lessons to keep the chafing dish bubbling.
For two or three days she went out canvassing for pupils. One evening she came home elated.
"Joe, dear," she said, gleefully, "I've a pupil. And, oh, the loveliest people! General--General A. B. Pinkney's daughter--on Seventy-first street. Such a splendid house, Joe--you ought to see the front door! Byzantine I think you would call it. And inside! Oh, Joe, I never saw anything like it before.
"My pupil is his daughter Clementina. I dearly love her already. She's a delicate thing-dresses always in white; and the sweetest, simplest manners! Only eighteen years old. I'm to give three lessons a week; and, just think, Joe! $5 a lesson. I don't mind it a bit; for when I get two or three more pupils I can resume my lessons with Herr Rosenstock. Now, smooth out that wrinkle between your brows, dear, and let's have a nice supper."
"That's all right for you, Dele," said Joe, attacking a can of peas with a carving knife and a hatchet, "but how about me? Do you think I'm going to let you hustle for wages while I philander in the regions of high art? Not by the bones of Benvenuto Cellini! I guess I can sell papers or lay cobblestones, and bring in a dollar or two."
Delia came and hung about his neck.
"Joe, dear, you are silly. You must keep on at your studies. It is not as if I had quit my music and gone to work at something else. While I teach I learn. I am always with my music. And we can live as happily as millionaires on $15 a week. You mustn't think of leaving Mr. Magister."
"All right," said Joe, reaching for the blue scalloped vegetable dish. "But I hate for you to be giving lessons. It isn't Art. But you're a trump and a dear to do it."
"When one loves one's Art no service seems too hard," said Delia.
THE END
