作者：陈榕
出版社：浙江教育出版社
格式: AZW3, DOCX, EPUB, MOBI, PDF, TXT
一书一世界：不容错过的35部外国现当代小说赏析试读：
自序
我是什么时候开始为《新东方英语》的“名人名篇”栏目写了第一篇稿子？回头想了想，应该是在2007 年春夏交替的季节吧。非常感谢高敏老师、丁春晓老师，还有长期以来一直担任这个栏目责编的耳海燕老师对我的信任，从最初的每年三四篇，到每年七八篇，到后来的一年十二期，攒到现在出合集的篇幅，四年多的时间竟然就这样一晃而过。
曾经看过一篇英国心理学家写的文章，说对大多数人而言，任何行为在经过66天的坚持之后，就会变成日常的习惯。四年的时间不算短，因为写这个专栏，我的确养成了很多小习惯。比如去书店或是图书馆，会关心新上架的英美小说；碰到喜欢的作品，会想到是否适合推荐；读到精彩的段落，会考虑篇幅长短、情节发展以及文字难度等是否适合做选摘。为此，有了动力，读了很多的新小说；也为此，有了动力，重读了很多过去读过的作品。觉得很幸福，为阅读这些文本所收获的感动。
然而，在幸福之余，也有浓重的惶恐感，担心自己的笔无法准确地形容这些书在心灵深处所唤起的复杂情感，就像是一个笨拙的画家，想要捕捉一日的晦明、四季的光影，却不知道如何在画布上落下笔触。该如何形容《心灵是孤独的猎手》所描绘的那种钝痛的寂寞？该如何描述《一个圣诞节的回忆》中那种伤感的温暖？该如何体现《麦田里的守望者》里那种不肯妥协的抗争？
答案或许只有一个：自己去读这些小说——去倾听这些小说对自己的灵魂说些什么，去体会自己的心被这些作品中的哪些细节所打动。
真正好的小说，必定会创造一个专属于它的独一无二的世界。同样是写人生，《小人物日记》讲知足者长乐，《月亮和六便士》刻画不肯受尘世半分羁绊的灵魂。同样是写人性，《蝇王》关注人性恶，看世外桃源如何变成了修罗场；《问题的核心》关心人性善，描写的是污秽的环境里，人性是暗夜飘摇却不肯熄灭的烛光。如果说在写赏析的时候，存有一己私念的话，那便是希望经由赏析，唤起读到它的人们一点探索的兴趣，由此而结缘，共同走入赏析背后这一部部小说所创造的一个个世界。
那里，的的确确会有更好看的风景。陈榕2012 年3 月第一部分爱情是长久而专注的凝视[ˈbærək]《纯真博物馆》——爱情是长久而专注的凝视
奥尔罕·帕慕克（Orhan Pamuk) 1952年出生于土耳其伊斯坦布尔的一个富裕家庭，从小受到家人的影响，喜欢绘画和诗歌。1972年，帕慕克考入伊斯坦布尔科技大学学习建筑学，后转入伊斯坦布尔大学攻读新闻系。1982年，帕慕克发表了处女作《塞夫得特州长和他的儿子们》(Cevdet Bey and Hijpgs Sons)，小说获得了奥尔罕·凯马尔小说奖。近三十年来，帕慕克先后出版了多部作品，其中较为著名的有《白色城堡》(The White Castle)、《黑书》(The BlackBook)、《我的名字叫红》(My Name Is Red)、《雪》(Snow）以及《伊斯坦布尔：一座城市的记忆》(Istanbul: Memories of a City)。这些作品深入地刻画了受到欧洲文化冲击的土耳其社会的时代变迁，为此，2006年帕慕克获得了诺贝尔文学奖。《纯真博物馆》(The Museum of Innocence)是帕慕克于2008年完成的作品，是一部深情隽永的爱情小说。本文英文节选部分选自该小说的第81和82节，主要讲述了在女主人公因车祸去世后，小说男主人公凯末尔前往巴黎的博物馆参观；回国后，他买下了女主人公家的房子作为博物馆，来珍藏自己收集的关于女主人公的一切，以示怀念。Excerpts
I had not said, “This trip to Paris is not on business, Mother.” For if she’d asked my reason, I could not have offered her a proper answer, having concealed the purpose even from myself. As I left for the airport, I considered my journey in some sense the atonement I had obsessively sought for my sins, among them, my having failed to ［1］notice Füsun’s earring.
But as soon as I had boarded the plane, I realized that I had set out on this voyage both to forget and to dream. Every corner of ［2］Istanbul was teeming with reminders of her. The moment we were airborne, I noticed that outside Istanbul, I was able to think about Füsun and our story more profoundly. In Istanbul I’d always seen ［3］Füsun through the prism of my obsession; but in the plane I could see my obsession, and Füsun, from the outside.
I felt such consolation, the same deep understanding, as I wandered idly around museums. I do not mean the Louvre or the ［4］Beaubourg, or the other crowded, ostentatious ones of that ［5］ilk; I am speaking now of the many empty museums I found in Paris, the collections that no one ever visits. There was the Musée Édith Piaf, founded by a great admirer, where by appointment I viewed hairbrushes, combs, and teddy bears, and the Musée Jacquemart-André, where other objects were arranged alongside paintings in a ［6］most original way—I saw empty chairs, chandeliers, and haunting unfurnished spaces there. Whenever wandering alone through museums like this, I felt myself uplifted. I would find a room at the back, far from the gaze of the guards who paid close attention to my every step; as the sound of traffic and construction and the urban ［7］din filtered in from outside, it was as if I had entered a separate realm that coexisted with the city’s crowded streets but was not of ［8］them; and in the eerie timelessness of this other universe, I would find solace.
Sometimes, thus consoled, I would imagine it possible for me to frame my collection with a story, and I would dream happily of a museum where I could display my life—the life that first my mother, ［9］and then Osman, and finally everyone else thought I had wasted—where I could tell my story through the things that Füsun had left behind, as a lesson to us all.［10］
On returning to Istanbul, I went directly to see Aunt Nesibe. After telling her about Paris and its museums, and sitting down to eat, I went straight to the matter foremost in my mind.
“You know that I’ve been taking away things from this house, Aunt Nesibe,” I said, with the ease of a patient who can at last smile about an illness he was cured of long ago. “Now I’d like to buy the house itself—the entire building.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’d like you to sell me the house and all its contents.”
“But what will happen to me?”
We talked it through in a way that was only half serious. I spoke almost ceremoniously: “I would like to find a way to commemorate Füsun in this house.” … I told her that I had found her an excellent apartment in Nişantaş, on Kuyulu Bostan Street, where she’d once lived.
A month later we’d bought Aunt Nesibe a big apartment in the nicest part of Kuyulu Bostan Street, just a little way beyond her former apartment. She deeded to me the whole building in Çukurcuma, including the ground-floor flat and all the movables.
I brought my entire collection to the newly converted ［11］［12］museum … When the Keskins had lived in the house, the attic had been the domain of mice, spiders, and cockroaches, and the dark, mildewy home of the water tank; but now it had become a clean, bright room open to the stars by a skylight. I wanted to sleep surrounded by all the things that reminded me of Füsun and made me feel her presence, and so that spring evening I used the key to the new door on Dalgiç Street to enter the house that had metamorphosed into a museum, and, like a ghost, I climbed the long, straight staircase, and throwing myself upon the bed in the attic, I fell asleep.
Some fill their dwellings with objects and, by the time their lives are coming to an end, turn their houses into museums. But I, having turned another family’s house into a museum, was now—by the presence of my bed, my room, my very self—trying to turn it back into a house. What could be more beautiful than to spend one’s nights surrounded by objects connecting one to his deepest sentimental attachments and memories!
Especially in the spring and summer, I began to spend more nights in the attic flat. Ihsan the architect had created a space in the heart of the building, which I could see through a great opening between the upper and lower levels; I could pass the night in the company of each and every object in my collection— commune with the entire edifice. Real museums are places where Time is transformed into Space.
Whenever I was in Istanbul, I would pay monthly visits to Aunt Nesibe, who seemed happy with her new apartment and her new circle of friends. It was upon returning from my first visit to the Museum Berggruen in Berlin that I told her excitedly about the agreement I’d heard about between the founder, Heinz Berggruen, and the municipal government, a pact whereby he would be allowed to spend the rest of his days in the garret of the house he’d bequeathed to the city, to display the collection he had accumulated over a lifetime.
“While strolling through the museum, visitors can walk into a room or climb the stairs and find themselves face-to-face with the person who created the collection, until the day he dies. Isn’t that strange, Aunt Nesibe?”
“May God ordain that your time will be late in coming,” said Aunt Nesibe as she lit a cigarette. Then she wept a bit for Füsun, and with the cigarette still in her mouth, and the tears still streaming down her cheeks, she gave me a mysterious smile.作品赏析
据历史学家考证，世界上最早的博物馆修建于公元前3世纪，是托勒密王朝的统治者托勒密·索托在埃及的亚历山大城建立的缪斯神庙，里面收藏了来自各地的文化珍品。如果以这一时间为衡量标准，博物馆这一概念已经有两千多年的历史了。在当代，博物馆更是成为现代都市重要的景观之一。人们来到巴黎，会去卢浮宫，为了看一看蒙娜·丽莎的神秘微笑；人们来到伦敦，会去大英博物馆，为了看一看莎士比亚的手稿真迹；人们来到北京，会去故宫，为了看一看太和殿的庄严肃穆。帕慕克的小说《纯真博物馆》写的也是博物馆，也是收藏。不过，这座博物馆没有卢浮宫或故宫的壮丽恢弘，它不过是位于伊斯坦布尔穷街陋巷中的一所民宅；藏品也不是年代久远的名画或价值连城的古董，而是生活中最寻常的物品：勺子、叉子、挂钟、钥匙、彩票票根、手帕、发卡、耳坠……这是一个人为另一个人建立的纪念馆，为了纪念一份爱情。
小说中，修建博物馆的凯末尔出身于土耳其上流社会，他本来已有了门当户对的女友茜贝尔，却因为一次邂逅，爱上了远房的穷亲戚、比自己小12岁的芙颂。起初，凯末尔并不知道这份感情的真正含义，他一边和芙颂陷入热恋，一边和茜贝尔订了婚。为此，芙颂决然离开。在与茜贝尔订婚后，凯末尔才认识到，芙颂是他生命中最为重要的人，为此，他选择了与茜贝尔解除婚约。他下定决心要找到芙颂，和她结婚。可是，一年以后，当他和芙颂再次相遇时，却发现芙颂已嫁给了电影人费利敦。凯末尔为了接近芙颂，天天以亲戚的名义到芙颂家吃晚饭、聊天，就这样执着地坚持了八年。他甚至还赞助费利敦拍电影，帮助他成为知名的导演。然而，成名后的费利敦却和芙颂因感情破裂而离了婚。离婚后，芙颂接受了凯末尔的求婚。不幸的是，订婚第二天他们就遭遇了车祸，芙颂当场死亡。幸存下来的凯末尔决定建立一座博物馆来纪念他一生的挚爱。为此，他买下了芙颂家的旧居，并在其间摆满了他认识芙颂以来所收集的旧物。他希望能够透过这些展品，让人们了解他爱的是怎样一个女子，以及自己是怎样深深地爱着她。
所谓博物馆，其实是时间的招魂器。每一件物品，都源自一段过去，各自诉说着各自的故事。在小说的结尾，凯末尔的最后一句话是：“我的一生过得很幸福。”按照世俗的标准衡量，凯末尔的生活离幸福有相当的距离：他爱了芙颂九年零四个月，两个人刚刚能够相守，芙颂就以死亡与他诀别。然而，从另外一层意义上看，凯末尔也的确是幸福的。如果我们将幸福定义为爱，那么他的一生正是因为芙颂而懂得了爱、得到了爱。而且，即便在芙颂死后，凯末尔也并不孤独：他通过建立博物馆，用一件件旧物穿起了时空的链条，还原出了他所深爱的芙颂，与她的灵魂永远相伴。
凯末尔从与芙颂相识之初，就养成了收集芙颂身边物品的习惯。这是因为芙颂是他在现实中没有资格靠近的女子：他们初相识，凯末尔不是自由身，有即将订婚的女友；他们再相遇，芙颂不是自由身，已成为他人之妻——凯末尔和芙颂坐在同一张餐桌，咫尺的距离，却像博斯普鲁斯海峡一样远；终于，他们订了婚，死亡却用无人能与其对抗的力量，将两人彻底分离。收藏对凯末尔来说不仅仅是爱好，他是在用它对抗现实对他爱情的否定。物品是无生命的，却会因为它与主人的靠近而沾染主人的气息，带上主人的精魂。凯末尔借着这些物品，汲取和依恋着芙颂温暖的存在感。芙颂是凯末尔一切藏品的源头，也是一切藏品的皈依。比如，凯末尔的藏品中有芙颂的4213个烟蒂，香烟来自同一个品牌，表面看不出特别的差异，但凯末尔的眼睛却辨别得出它们各自鲜明的个性：有的抽到了尽头，有的半中腰熄灭，还有的被狠狠掐灭。它们留下了芙颂的唇纹或指印，透射出芙颂4213个时刻的心情。借着它们提供的线索，凯末尔在心中细细回想着芙颂在这4213个时刻里每一刻的姿态和表情。即使人已去，只要物尤在，便可以凭借物，唤起记忆中的盈盈身影以及一颦一笑，以慰怀想。
当今的时代，爱情往往被简化成快餐式的欲望满足以及“和则成，不和则散”的潇洒。凯末尔对芙颂的爱却带着古典主义的执着。在他和芙颂重逢后的2864个日子里，他共拜访了芙颂家1593次。无论是冬夜还是夏夜，无论是平常日子还是发生军事政变，他坚持穿越半个伊斯坦布尔城，只为见芙颂一面，让自己的灵魂获得安宁。他的爱同时也带着古典主义的虔诚。凯末尔的博物馆其实是一座纪念爱情的圣殿，芙颂就是他的信仰。为了找到最适合的修建形式，他像一个朝圣者，花费了15年时间，走过了1743个博物馆。我们都知道，在参观博物馆的时候，最迷人的体验往往来自于在展品前停下脚步、细细观看的那一刻。那一刻，时间仿佛凝固，过去与现在相连，历史在我们专注的目光下，浮现出它深沉的故事和婉约动人的细节。《纯真博物馆》告诉我们，爱情的动人也存在于这样沉心静气的凝望。凝望爱人的笑靥，凝望爱人的睡颜，凝望她雪天冻得绯红的脸，凝望他骑着单车的背影，拾起她用过的黄杨木梳，收好他的灰色毛线围巾，在飞速发展的喧嚣时代，谈缓慢而悠长的恋爱……［1］ Füsun:芙颂，小说中的女主人公，男主人公凯末尔一直深爱着的女子［2］ teem [tiːm] vi。充满［3］ prism [ˈprɪz(ə)m] n。棱镜［4］ ostentatious [ˌɒstenˈteɪʃəs] adj。豪华的；惹人注目的［5］ ilk [ɪlk] n. 类；等级［6］ chandelier [ˌʃændəˈlɪə(r)] n. 枝形吊灯［7］ din [dɪn] n. 喧嚣，喧闹声，嘈杂声［8］ eerie [ˈɪəri] adj。怪异的，神秘的［9］ Osman ：奥斯曼，小说中男主人公的哥哥［10］ Aunt Nesibe：内希贝姑妈，小说中芙颂的妈妈［11］ the newly converted museum ：指由芙颂家的房子改成的博物馆［12］ the Keskins：凯斯金一家，指芙颂和她的父母《英国病人》——爱在战火纷飞时
迈克尔·翁达杰（Michael Ondaatje）是一位拥有国际背景的小说家。他1943年出生于斯里兰卡一个庄园主家庭，青少年时期在英国度过，成年后移民加拿大。他初涉文坛的时候，主要从事诗歌创作，诗风以鲜明灵动的意象、富有新意的叙述手法见长。进入20世纪70年代后半期，他开始了小说创作，先后出版了《狮皮》(In the Skin of a Lion)、《英国病人》(The English Patient)、《阿尼尔的幽灵》(Anil‘s Ghost）等作品。其中创作于1992年的《英国病人》为他赢得了英国文学最高奖布克奖。1996年，由这部小说改编的电影获得了奥斯卡金像奖的九项大奖。Excerpts
On the floor of the Cave of Swimmers, after her husband had crashed their plane, he had cut open and stretched out the parachute ［1］she had been carrying. She lowered herself onto it, grimacing with the pain of her injuries. He placed his fingers gently into her hair, searching for other wounds, then touched her shoulders and her feet.
Now in the cave it was her beauty he did not want to lose, the grace of her, these limbs. He knew he already had her nature tight in his fist.
She was a woman who translated her face when she put on makeup. Entering a party, climbing into a bed, she had painted on ［2］［3］blood lipstick, a smear of vermilionover each eye.
He looked up to the one cave painting and stole the colours from ［4］［5］it. The ochre went into her face, he daubed blue around her eyes. He walked across the cave, his hands thick with red, and combed his fingers through her hair. Then all of her skin, so her knee ［6］［7］that had poked out of the plane that first day was saffron. The ［8］pubis. Hoops of colour around her legs so she would be immune to the human. There were traditions he had discovered in ［9］Herodotus in which old warriors celebrated their loved ones by locating and holding them in whatever world made them eternal—a colourful fluid, a song, a rock drawing.
It was already cold in the cave. He wrapped the parachute around ［10］her for warmth. He lit one small fire and burned the acacia twigs and waved smoke into all the corners of the cave. He found he could not speak directly to her, so he spoke formally, his voice against the bounce of the cave walls. I’m going for help now, Katharine. Do you understand? There is another plane nearby, but there is no petrol. I ［11］might meet a caravan or a jeep, which means I will beback sooner. I don’t know. He pulled out the copy of Herodotus and placed it beside her. It was September 1939. He walked out of the cave, out of the flare of firelight, down through darkness and into the desert full of moon.［12］
He climbed down the boulders to the base of the ［13］plateau and stood there.［14］
No truck. No plane. No compass. Only moon and his shadow. He found the old stone marker from the past that located the ［15］direction of El Taj, north-northwest. He memorized the angle of his shadow and started walking. Seventy miles away was the
［16］souk with the street of clocks. Water in a skin bag he hadfilled ［17］［18］from the ain hung from his shoulder and sloshed like a ［19］placenta.
There were two periods of time when he could not move. At noon, when the shadow was under him, and at twilight, between sunset and the appearance of the stars. Then everything on the disc of the desert was the same. If he moved, he might err as much as ninety degrees off his course. He waited for the live chart of stars, then moved forward reading them every hour. In the past, when they had had desert guides, they would hang a lantern from a long pole and the rest of them would follow the bounce of light above the star reader.
A man walks as fast as a camel. Two and a half miles an hour. If ［20］lucky, he would come upon ostrich eggs. If unlucky, a sandstorm would erase everything. He walked for three days without any food. He ［21］refused to think about her. If he got to El Taj he would eat abra, ［22］which the Goran tribes made out of colocynth, boiling the ［23］pips to get rid of bitterness and then crushing it along with dates and locusts. He would walk through the street of clocks and ［24］alabaster. May God make safety your companion, Madox had said. Good-bye. A wave. There is God only in the desert, he wanted to acknowledge that now. Outside of this there was just trade and power, ［25］money and war. Financial and military despots shaped the world.
He was in broken country, had moved from sand to rock. He refused tothink about her. Then hills emerged like mediaeval castles. He walked till he stepped with his shadow into the shadow of a ［26］mountain. Mimosa shrubs. Colocynths. He yelled out her name into the rocks. For echo is the soul of the voice exciting itself in hollow places.作品赏析
如果需要用最简短的语言来总结《英国病人》的主题，那就应该是“战争与爱情”.1944年的夏日，在意大利一所废弃的乡间别墅，战争将来自加拿大的女护士哈娜、哈娜父亲的好友卡拉瓦焦、印度籍排雷士兵基普以及被人们称为“英国病人”的无名伤者带到了一起。这是一群饱受战争创伤的人。哈娜的父亲和她的第一任男友都在二战前线阵亡，哈娜腹中的胎儿也被迫流产。卡拉瓦焦被英国政府招募，参加了情报组织，因一次失误，被德军捕获，砍掉了双手的大拇指，成为一名残疾人。基普来自英联邦的殖民地印度，他和教他排雷的瑟福克爵士情同父子，后者在一次排雷过程中死去。至于“英国病人”，他的身体深度烧伤，黑如焦炭，形容尽毁，每天依靠吗啡，在迷幻与清醒的边缘挣扎。
然而，即便是在战争之中，爱情的花朵始终奇迹般地开放着。《英国病人》描写了两段感人的爱情故事。爱情主线中的一条，属于哈娜和基普。哈娜喜欢上了基普黝黑的皮肤和沉静的个性，基普也对这个聪慧而独立的女性产生了深深的眷恋。在战火纷飞的背景下，两个人相互依偎，彼此抚慰。然而，他们并没有最终生活在一起。基普离开了哈娜：广岛的原子弹将他从为大英帝国服务的迷梦中震醒。他愤然回到了印度，自此和哈娜天各一方。
小说中，另一对在战争阴影中相爱的恋人是被人们称为“英国病人”的奥尔马希和他的情人凯瑟琳。“英国病人”的真实身份是匈牙利伯爵拉斯洛·奥尔马希，他是国际地理协会的成员，常年在非洲沙漠探寻古迹、考察地貌。在二战爆发前夕，英国将政治触角延伸到了非洲沙漠，情报员杰弗里·克利夫顿带着新婚妻子凯瑟琳来到了非洲，参与了地理协会的探险。奥尔马希被凯瑟琳的纤细优雅和风情妩媚所征服，两个人坠入了爱河。这一段恋情最终被凯瑟琳的丈夫发现。他驾驶飞机，载着妻子，疯狂地向奥尔马希俯冲，想要三人同归于尽。飞机坠毁，杰弗里当场死亡，凯瑟琳受了重伤，本文英文节选部分便描写了凯瑟琳受伤后，奥尔马希去寻求救援的情节。
江淹在《别赋》中曾经说过：“黯然销魂者，唯别而已矣。”展现离别，可以佐以对泣的泪眼，也可以写为强作的欢颜，《英国病人》中对奥尔马希与凯瑟琳的诀别却不属于这司空见惯的两类。翁达杰用抒情而又隐忍的笔法，将这一段黯然的离别写出了别样酸楚细腻的滋味。为了挽救凯瑟琳的生命，奥尔马希将她留在山洞里，独自去寻找救援。在茫茫沙漠，他没有指向的罗盘，没有足够的食物，他并不知道自己是不是能够活着走出沙漠，更不知道是不是能够找到援军。在离别前，他为凯瑟琳梳理着金发。这是个爱漂亮的女人，他和着岩洞中留下的远古壁画的颜料，为凯瑟琳描上绚丽的彩妆，留下她最后的美丽。离去的时候，他无法面对她的眼睛，他告诉她他一定会回来，便再也不敢回头。“他走在崎岖不平的大地上，从沙漠走到岩石地。他拒绝想起她。……他走啊走，直到他和他的影子步入了高山的影子。……他对着岩石呼喊她的名字。（因为在凹地里的回声是声音的灵魂激动的震颤。）”
当奥尔马希离开的时候，他知道这或许是他和凯瑟琳的死别。沙海漫漫，他无法预测变幻莫测的大自然是否会应允他的愿望。不过，他没有料到，让他和凯瑟琳永诀的，并不是大自然，而是战争。他走出了沙漠，却成了他试图寻求援救的英国士兵的俘虏。没有人听他解释一个女人在70公里外的沙漠正挣扎在死亡线上。英国人根据他的名字，断定他是德国的间谍，将他关进了监牢。为了兑现他对凯瑟琳的承诺，他整整辗转三年，才终于又回到了沙漠腹地的山洞。他将凯瑟琳的尸骨带上了飞机，飞机起飞后失火，他被烧成了火人，从空中坠落。他活着，然而，身已残、心已死。他所热爱的和珍视的一切都被夺走了——爱人离世，和平的北非沙漠在二战中成了一片杀戮场。在他的请求下，哈娜终于用药物结束了他的生命。奥尔马希死于烈焰焚身造成的创伤，其实，真正灼伤他的是爱，是在战火纷飞时代那段无法受到祝福的炙热感情。［1］ grimace [ˈɡrɪməs] vi。作苦相［2］ smear [smɪə(r)] n。涂抹物［3］ vermilion [və(r)ˈmɪliən] n. [亦作vermillion]朱红色［4］ ochre [ˈəʊkə(r)] n. 赭色［5］ daub [dɔːb] vt。在……上涂抹［6］ poke [pəʊk] vi。伸出［7］ saffron [ˈsæfrən] adj。金黄的，橘黄的［8］ pubis [ˈpjuːbɪs] n. [解]耻骨［9］ Herodotus：希罗多德（约485BC～约425BC)，希腊历史学家，这里指希罗多德的作品。［10］ acacia [əˈkeɪʃə] n。刺槐，洋槐［11］ caravan [ˈkærəvæn] n.（商队、游客经过沙漠时为安全起见而结队同行的）沙漠旅行队［12］ boulder [ˈbəʊldə(r)] n.大石头［13］ plateau [ˈplætəʊ] n. 高地［14］ compass [ˈkʌmpəs] n. 罗盘，指南针［15］ EL Taj ：厄塔吉，地名［16］ souk [suːk] n。露天市场［17］ ain：这里指井［18］ slosh [slɒʃ] v。边移动边泼溅［19］ placenta [pləˈsentə] n.胎盘［20］ ostrich [ˈɒstrɪtʃ] n.鸵鸟［21］ abra：阿巴拉，一种食物［22］ colocynth [ˈkɒləsɪnθ] n. [植]药西瓜［23］ pip [pɪp] n.种子［24］ alabaster [ˈæləˌbɑːstə(r)] n.雪花石膏［25］ despot [ˈdespɒt] n. 专制君主，暴君［26］ mimosa [mɪˈməʊzə] n. [植]含羞草《星尘》——爱上一颗星
尼尔·盖曼（Neil Gaiman) 1960年出生于英国汉普郡，是英国当代文坛最重要的科幻小说家和奇幻文学作家。迄今为止，盖曼的作品，比如《睡魔》(Sandman)系列、《美国众神》(American Gods)、《鬼妈妈》(Coraline)等，已经为他赢得了包括世界奇幻奖、星云奖、雨果奖、布拉姆·斯托克奖等一系列科幻小说与奇幻小说的最高奖项。《星尘》(Stardust)完成于1999年，一出版就获得了当年的洛克斯奇幻文学奖最佳小说提名和神话奇幻文学奖成年组奖。2007年，美国派拉蒙公司将该部小说改编为电影，搬上了大荧幕。Excerpts［1］
They sat side by side on a thick, white cumulus cloud the size of a small town. The cloud was soft beneath them, and a little cold. It became colder the deeper into it one sank, and Tristran pushed ［2］his burned hand as far as he could down into the fabric of it: it resisted him slightly, but accepted his hand. The interior of the cloud ［3］felt spongy and chilly, real and insubstantial at once. The cloud cooled a little of the pain in his hand, allowing him to think more clearly.
“Well,” he said, after some time, “I‘m afraid I’ ve made rather a mess of everything.”
The star sat on the cloud beside him, wearing the robe she had borrowed from the woman in the inn, with her broken leg stretched out on the thick mist in front of her. “You saved my life,” she said, eventually. “Didn’t you?”
“I suppose I must have done, yes.”
“I hate you,” she said. “I hated you for everything already, but now I hate you most of all.”
Tristran flexed his burned hand in the blessed cool of the cloud. He felt tired and slightly faint.
“Any particular reason?”［4］
“Because, ” she told him, her voice taut, “now that you have saved my life, you are, by the law of my people, responsible for me, and I for you. Where you go, I must also go.”
“Oh,” he said. “That’s not that bad, is it?”［5］
“I would rather spend my days chained to a vile wolf or a ［6］stinking pig or a marsh-goblin,” she told him flatly.
“I’m honestly not that bad,” he told her, “not when you get to know me. Look, I’m sorry about all that chaining you up business. Perhaps we could start all over again—just pretend it never happened. Here now, my name’s Tristran Thorn. Pleased to meet you.” He held out his unburned hand to her.
“Mother Moon defend me!” said the star. “I would sooner take the hand of an—”
“I’m sure you would,” said Tristran, not waiting to find out what he was going to be unflatteringly compared to this time. “I’ve said I’m sorry,” he told her. “Let’s start afresh. I’m Tristran Thorn. Pleased to meet you.”
She sighed.
The air was thin and chill so high above the ground, but the sun was warm, and the cloud shapes about them reminded Tristran of a fantastical city or an unearthly town. Far, far below he could see the real world: the sunlight pricking out every tiny tree, turning every winding river into a thin silver snail-trail glistening and looping across ［7］the landscape of Faerie.
“Well?” said Tristran.［8］
“Aye, ”said the star. “It is a mighty joke, is it not? Whither ［9］thou goest, there I must go. Even if it kills me.” She swirled the surface of the cloud with her hand, rippling the mist. Then, momentarily, she touched her hand to Tristran’s. “My sisters called me Yvaine,” she told him, “for I was an evening star.”
“Look at us,” he said. “A fine pair. You with your broken leg, me with my hand.”
“Show me your hand.”
He pulled it from the cool of the cloud: his hand was red, and ［10］blisters were coming up on each side of it and on the back of it, where the flames had licked against his flesh.
“Does it hurt?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “Quite a lot, really.”
“Good,” said Yvaine.
“If my hand had not been burned, you would probably be dead now,” he pointed out. She had the grace to look down, ashamed. “You know,” he added, changing the subject, “I left my bag in that madwoman’s inn. We have nothing now, save the clothes we stand up in.”
“Sit down in,” corrected the star.
“There’s no food, no water. We’re half a mile or so above the world with no way of getting down, and no control over where the cloud is going. And both of us are injured. Did I leave anything out?”［11］
“You forgot the bit about clouds dissipating and vanishing into nothing,” said Yvaine. “They do that. I’ve seen them. I could not survive another fall.”
Tristran shrugged. “Well,” he said. “We’re probably doomed, then. But we may as well have a look around while we’re up here.”
试读结束[说明：试读内容隐藏了图片]