　　★2013年欧洲首席畅销小说，上市一年，仅英美德三国累计销量1，000，000册！！感动36国，同名电影拍摄中
　　★台湾上市20天，狂卖10万册，台湾读者表示“很久没有读一本书读到凌晨”、“是一个简单、素朴但会令人深深感动的故事”、“是一本阖上书后对于人生启发与感触良多的佳作”
　　★本书2012年3月在英国上市，4颗半星好评。读者评论，“小说的主人公就是自己”，“笑泪交织的阅读”。
　　★入围2012年布克文学奖；2013年春季英国有影响力“理查与茱蒂”读书俱乐部书单；欧普拉读书俱乐部夏日选书、美国图书馆协会选书；2012年英国畅销新人小说；《出版人周刊》、《纽约时报》、《泰晤士报》、《嘉人》、《今日美国》等各大媒体高评价推荐
　　★他以为人生就这么过去了，直到收到那封信
　　★1个人，87天，627英里
　　★有关爱的回归、自我发现、日常生活的信念以及万物之美
　　★这一年，全球40余国读者交了同一个朋友；这一年，我们都需要哈罗德安静而勇敢的陪伴

内容简介

Meet Harold Fry, recently retired. He lives in a small English village with his wife, Maureen, who seems irritated by almost everything he does, even down to how he butters his toast. Little differentiates one day from the next. Then one morning the mail arrives, and within the stack of quotidian minutiae is a letter addressed to Harold in a shaky scrawl from a woman he hasn’t seen or heard from in twenty years. Queenie Hennessy is in hospice and is writing to say goodbye.
Harold pens a quick reply and, leaving Maureen to her chores, heads to the corner mailbox. But then, as happens in the very best works of fiction, Harold has a chance encounter, one that convinces him that he absolutely must deliver his message to Queenie in person. And thus begins the unlikely pilgrimage at the heart of Rachel Joyce’s remarkable debut. Harold Fry is determined to walk six hundred miles from Kingsbridge to the hospice in Berwick-upon-Tweed because, he believes, as long as he walks, Queenie Hennessey will live.
Still in his yachting shoes and light coat, Harold embarks on his urgent quest across the countryside. Along the way he meets one fascinating character after another, each of whom unlocks his long-dormant spirit and sense of promise. Memories of his first dance with Maureen, his wedding day, his joy in fatherhood, come rushing back to him—allowing him to also reconcile the losses and the regrets. As for Maureen, she finds herself missing Harold for the first time in years.
And then there is the unfinished business with Queenie Hennessy.
A novel of unsentimental charm, humor, and profound insight into the thoughts and feelings we all bury deep within our hearts, The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry introduces Rachel Joyce as a wise—and utterly irresistible—storyteller.

　　哈罗德·弗莱，六十岁，在酿酒厂干了四十年销售代表后默默退休，没有升迁，既无朋友，也无敌人，退休时公司甚至连欢送会都没开。他跟隔阂很深的妻子住在英国的乡间，生活平静，夫妻疏离，日复一日。
　　一天早晨，他收到一封信，来自二十年未见的老友奎妮。她患了癌症，写信告别。震惊、悲痛之下，哈罗德写了回信，在寄出的路上，他由奎妮想到了自己的人生，经过了一个又一个邮筒，越走越远，最后，他从英国最西南一路走到了最东北，横跨整个英格兰。87天，627英里，只凭一个信念：只要他走，老友就会活下去！
　　这是哈罗德千里跋涉的故事。从他脚步迈开的那一刻起，与他六百多英里旅程并行的，是他穿越时光隧道的另一场旅行。

作者简介

Rachel Joyce is an award-winning writer of more than 20 plays for BBC Radio 4. She started writing after a 20-year acting career in which she performed leading roles for the Royal Shakespeare Company and won multiple awards. Rachel Joyce lives in Gloucestershire on a farm with her family and is at work on her second novel.

蕾秋·乔伊斯 (Rachel Joyce)
资深剧作家，写了二十年的广播剧本，包括二十出以上的BBC Radio 4 原创广播剧。同时活跃于剧场界，获得无数剧本奖，转而创作小说。
《一个人的朝圣》是她的首部小说，未出版已售出二十余国外语版权，一上市即广受各界媒体瞩目，也是读书俱乐部、图书馆热门推荐书单，英国年度最佳新人小说。此书描写一位平凡男人在面对人生已残破、连希望也遗弃他之际，如何透过一段不平凡的徒步旅程，重获人生的第二次机会与挚爱的感人故事。

精彩书评

Advance praise for The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry
“When it seems almost too late, Harold Fry opens his battered heart and lets the world rush in. This funny, poignant story about an ordinary man on an extraordinary journey moved and inspired me.”—Nancy Horan, author of Loving Frank

“There’s tremendous heart in this debut novel by Rachel Joyce, as she probes questions that are as simple as they are profound: Can we begin to live again, and live truly, as ourselves, even in middle age, when all seems ruined? Can we believe in hope when hope seems to have abandoned us? I found myself laughing through tears, rooting for Harold at every step of his journey. I’m still rooting for him.”—Paula McLain, author of The Paris Wife

“Marvelous! I held my breath at his every blister and cramp, and felt as if by turning the pages, I might help his impossible quest succeed.”—Helen Simonson, author of Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand

“Harold’s journey is ordinary and extraordinary; it is a journey through the self, through modern society, through time and landscape. It is a funny book, a wise book, a charming book—but never cloying. It’s a book with a savage twist—and yet never seems manipulative. Perhaps because Harold himself is just wonderful.... I’m telling you now: I love this book.”—Erica Wagner, The Times (UK)

　　这本小说是轻快的，带有些喜剧色彩，用强有力的新声音表达出了一个古老的英式故事，独创，细腻，感人。——布克文学奖入围语

　　《一个人的朝圣》不仅关于爱的失去，还关于日常生活的信念及万物之美，从哈罗德把一只脚放到另一只前面的微小动作开始。——《纽约时报》

　　Wonderful！——《卫报》

　　这趟旅程穿过自我、走过现代社会百态、跨越时间和地理风景。——《泰晤士报》

　　这本小说凝聚了作者的智慧，绕过过度伤感或异想天开的泥淖，达到了一个几乎令人难以承受的动人结局。——《每日邮报》

前言/序言

1
Harold and the Letter
The letter that would change everything arrived on a Tuesday. It was an ordinary morning in mid-April that smelled of clean washing and grass cuttings. Harold Fry sat at the breakfast table, freshly shaved, in a clean shirt and tie, with a slice of toast that he wasn’t eating. He gazed beyond the kitchen window at the clipped lawn, which was spiked in the middle by Maureen’s telescopic washing line, and trapped on all three sides by the neighbors’ stockade fencing.
“Harold!” called Maureen above the vacuum cleaner. “Post!”
He thought he might like to go out, but the only thing to do was mow the lawn and he had done that yesterday. The vacuum tumbled into silence, and his wife appeared, looking cross, with a letter. She sat opposite Harold.
Maureen was a slight woman with a cap of silver hair and a brisk walk. When they first met, nothing had pleased him more than to make her laugh. To watch her neat frame collapse into unruly happiness. “It’s for you,” she said. He didn’t know what she meant until she slid an envelope across the table, and stopped it just short of Harold’s elbow. They both looked at the letter as if they had never seen one before. It was pink. “The postmark says Berwick-upon-Tweed.”
He didn’t know anyone in Berwick. He didn’t know many people anywhere. “Maybe it’s a mistake.”
“I think not. They don’t get something like a postmark wrong.” She took toast from the rack. She liked it cold and crisp.
Harold studied the mysterious envelope. Its pink was not the color of the bathroom suite, or the matching towels and fluffed cover for the toilet seat. That was a vivid shade that made Harold feel he shouldn’t be there. But this was delicate. A Turkish Delight pink. His name and address were scribbled in ballpoint, the clumsy letters collapsing into one another as if a child had dashed them off in a hurry: Mr. H. Fry, 13 Fossebridge Road, Kingsbridge, South Hams. He didn’t recognize the handwriting.
“Well?” said Maureen, passing a knife. He held it to the corner of the envelope, and tugged it through the fold. “Careful,” she warned.
He could feel her eyes on him as he eased out the letter, and prodded back his reading glasses. The page was typed, and addressed from a place he didn’t know: St. Bernadine’s Hospice. Dear Harold, This may come to you as some surprise. His eyes ran to the bottom of the page.
“Well?” said Maureen again.
“Good lord. It’s from Queenie Hennessy.”
Maureen speared a nugget of butter with her knife and flattened it the length of her toast. “Queenie who?”
“She worked at the brewery. Years ago. Don’t you remember?”
Maureen shrugged. “I don’t see why I should. I don’t know why I’d remember someone from years ago. Could you pass the jam?”
“She was in finances. She was very good.”
“That’s the marmalade, Harold. Jam is red. If you look at things before you pick them up, you’ll find it helps.”
Harold passed her what she needed and returned to his letter. Beautifully set out, of course; nothing like the muddled writing on the envelope. Then he smiled, remembering this was how it always was with Queenie: everything she did so precise you couldn’t fault it. “She remembers you. She sends her regards.”
Maureen’s mouth pinched into a bead. “A chap on the radio was saying the French want our bread. They can’t get it sliced in France. They come over here and they buy it all up. The chap said there might be a shortage by summer.” She paused. “Harold? Is something the matter?”
He said nothing. He drew up tall with his lips parted, his face bleached. His voice, when at last it came, was small and far away. “It’s—cancer. Queenie is writing to say goodbye.” He fumbled for more words but there weren’t any. Tugging a handkerchief from his trouser pocket, Harold blew his nose. “I um. Gosh.” Tears crammed his eyes.
Moments passed; maybe minutes. Maureen gave a swallow that smacked the silence. “I’m sorry,” she said.
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