《夜色温柔：TENDER IS THE NIGHT（英文朗读版）》20世纪美国著名小说家F·S·菲茨杰拉德代表作，是一部融个人生活经历中的不幸而演化为整个人类社会的悲剧，并把浸透于小说字里行间的悲剧情感物化为一种审美情趣的佳作。本书为英文未删减原版，小32开经典开本，便于随身携带随时阅读，同时配以英文朗读，下载方式详见图书封底二维码信息。让读者在感受原著风貌的同时，提升英语阅读水平。

内容简介

《夜色温柔：TENDER IS THE NIGHT（英文朗读版）》是一部描写关于爱情如何幻灭的复杂而有趣的书，它描写了对于富有梦幻色彩的理想追求直至破灭过程的故事。这部以梦幻破灭、人生颓败为主题的爱情小说，是美国作家菲茨杰拉德一部带有自我体验的文学作品，情节曲折，寓意深刻，隐含忽明忽暗的抒情幽伤，是“一战”后美国“中产阶级”精神生活的。

本书为英文原版，小32开经典开本，便于随身携带随时阅读，同时配以英文朗读，详见图书封底二维码信息，让读者在感受原著风貌的同时，提升英语阅读水平。

Tender Is the Night is a novel by American writer F. Scott Fitzgerald. It was his fourth and final completed novel, and was regarded the greatest book of Fitzgerald. The novel almost mirrors the events of Fitzgerald and Zelda’s lives. In 1932, Fitzgerald’s wife Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald was hospitalized for schizophrenia in Baltimore, Maryland. The author rented the La Paix estate in the suburb of Towson to work on this book, the story of the rise and fall of Dick Diver, and his wife Nicole.

Rosemary Hoyt, a beautiful eighteen-year-old movie starlet, on vacation with her mother, arrives at a rather deserted portion of the French Riviera. There, Rosemary meets Dick Diver, a handsome American psychologist in his thirties with whom she instantly falls in love. Dick and his wife, Nicole, are exemplars of grace and sophistication, and move among a social set of similarly extraordinary people. Rosemary becomes part of this world, and in the gay times that follow, Dick begins to reciprocate Rosemary’s feelings for him. Everything goes splendidly until, after an alcoholic friend of the Divers accidentally kills a man, Rosemary discovers Dick comforting Nicole, who has had a mental breakdown…

作者简介

F·S·菲茨杰拉德,、作家，20世纪伟大的美国作家之一。1896年9月24日生于明尼苏达州圣保罗市。他年轻时试写过剧本。1920年出版了长篇小说《人间天堂》，一举成名，小说出版后他与吉姗尔达结婚。婚后携妻寄居巴黎，结识了安德逊、等多位美国作家。1925年《了不起的盖茨比》问世，奠定了他在现代的地位，成了20年代“”的发言人和“”的代表作家之一。

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精彩书摘

On the pleasant shore of the French Riviera, about half way between Marseilles and the Italian border, stands a large, proud, rose-colored hotel. Deferential palms cool its flushed façade, and before it stretches a short dazzling beach. Lately it has become a summer resort of notable and fashionable people; a decade ago it was almost deserted after its English clientele went north in April. Now, many bungalows cluster near it, but when this story begins only the cupolas of a dozen old villas rotted like water lilies among the massed pines between Gausse’s Hôtel des Étrangers and Cannes, five miles away.

The hotel and its bright tan prayer rug of a beach were one. In the early morning the distant image of Cannes, the pink and cream of old fortifications, the purple Alps that bounded Italy, were cast across the water and lay quavering in the ripples and rings sent up by sea-plants through the clear shallows. Before eight a man came down to the beach in a blue bathrobe and with much preliminary application to his person of the chilly water, and much grunting and loud breathing, floundered a minute in the sea. When he had gone, beach and bay were quiet for an hour. Merchantmen crawled westward on the horizon; bus boys shouted in the hotel court; the dew dried upon the pines. In another hour the horns of motors began to blow down from the winding road along the low range of the Maures, which separates the littoral from true Provençal France.

A mile from the sea, where pines give way to dusty poplars, is an isolated railroad stop, whence one June morning in 1925 a victoria brought a woman and her daughter down to Gausse’s Hotel. The mother’s face was of a fading prettiness that would soon be patted with broken veins; her expression was both tranquil and aware in a pleasant way. However, one’s eyes moved on quickly to her daughter, who had magic in her pink palms and her cheeks lit to a lovely flame, like the thrilling flush of children after their cold baths in the evening. Her fine high forehead sloped gently up to where her hair, bordering it like an armorial shield, burst into lovelocks and waves and curlicues of ash blonde and gold. Her eyes were bright, big, clear, wet, and shining, the color of her cheeks was real, breaking close to the surface from the strong young pump of her heart. Her body hovered delicately on the last edge of childhood—she was almost eighteen, nearly complete, but the dew was still on her.

As sea and sky appeared below them in a thin, hot line the mother said: “Something tells me we’re not going to like this place.”

“I want to go home anyhow,” the girl answered. They both spoke cheerfully but were obviously without direction and bored by the fact—moreover, just any direction would not do. They wanted high excitement, not from the necessity of stimulating jaded nerves but with the avidity of prize-winning schoolchildren who deserved their vacations.

“We’ll stay three days and then go home. I’ll wire right away for steamer tickets.”

At the hotel the girl made the reservation in idiomatic but rather flat French, like something remembered. When they were installed on the ground floor she walked into the glare of the French windows and out a few steps onto the stone veranda that ran the length of the hotel. When she walked she carried herself like a ballet-dancer, not slumped down on her hips but held up in the small of her back. Out there the hot light clipped close her shadow and she retreated—it was too bright to see. Fifty yards away the Mediterranean yielded up its pigments, moment by moment, to the brutal sunshine; below the balustrade a faded Buick cooked on the hotel drive.

Indeed, of all the region only the beach stirred with activity. Three British nannies sat knitting the slow pattern of Victorian England, the pattern of the forties, the sixties, and the eighties, into sweaters and socks, to the tune of gossip as formalized as incantation; closer to the sea a dozen persons kept house under striped umbrellas, while their dozen children pursued unintimidated fish through the shallows or lay naked and glistening with cocoanut oil out in the sun.

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