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Alice Munro（艾丽丝·门罗） 著

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出版社： Vintage Books

ISBN：9781400077915

商品编码：19352525

包装：平装

丛书名： Vintage Contemporaries

出版时间：2005-11-08

用纸：胶版纸

页数：335

正文语种：英文

商品尺寸：1.9x14x19.1cm

编辑推荐

　　她们的生活细节，世上女人天天都在经历；细节背后的情绪，无数女人一生都不曾留意
　　荣获2009年布克国际奖
　　《隐之书》作者拜雅特倾情推荐
　　著名翻译家李文俊精心翻译
　　《纽约时报》年度图书
　　法国《读书》杂志年度外国小说
　　荣获加拿大文学大奖吉勒奖
　　逃离，或许是旧的结束。或许是新的开始。
　　或许只是一些微不足道的瞬间，就像看戏路上放松的脚步，就像午后窗边怅然的向往。

内容简介

The incomparable Alice Munro’s bestselling and rapturously acclaimed Runaway is a book of extraordinary stories about love and its infinite betrayals and surprises, from the title story about a young woman who, though she thinks she wants to, is incapable of leaving her husband, to three stories about a woman named Juliet and the emotions that complicate the luster of her intimate relationships. In Munro’s hands, the people she writes about–women of all ages and circumstances, and their friends, lovers, parents, and children–become as vivid as our own neighbors. It is her miraculous gift to make these stories as real and unforgettable as our own.

　　逃离，或许是旧的结束。或许是新的开始。或许只是一些微不足道的瞬间，就像看戏路上放松的脚步，就像午后窗边怅然的向往。
　　卡拉，十八岁从父母家出走，如今又打算逃脱丈夫和婚姻； 朱丽叶，放弃学术生涯，毅然投奔在火车上偶遇的乡间男子；佩内洛普，从小与母亲相依为命，某一天忽然消失得再无踪影；格雷斯，已然谈婚论嫁，却在一念之间与未婚夫的哥哥出逃了一个下午……
　　一次次逃离的闪念，就是这样无法预知，无从招架，或许你早已被它们悄然逆转，或许你早已将它们轻轻遗忘。

作者简介

**Winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature**
Alice Munro grew up in Wingham, Ontario, and attended the University of Western Ontario. She has published eleven new collections of stories-Dance of the Happy Shades; Something I've Been Meaning to Tell You; The Beggar Maid; The Moons of Jupiter; The Progress of Love; Friend of My Youth; Open Secrets; The Love of a Good Woman; Hateship, Friendship, Courtship, Loveship, Marriage; Runaway; and a volume of Selected Stories-as well as a novel, Lives of Girls and Women. During her distinguished career she has been the recipient of many awards and prizes, including the Man Booker International Prize, three of Canada's Governor General's Literary Awards and two of its Giller Prizes, the Rea Award for the Short Story, the Lannan Literary Award, England's W. H. Smith Book Award, the United States' National Book Critics Circle Award, and the Edward MacDowell Medal in literature. Her stories have appeared in The New Yorker, The Atlantic Monthly, The Paris Review, and other publications, and her collections have been translated into thirteen languages.
Alice Munro divides her time between Clinton, Ontario, near Lake Huron, and Comox, British Columbia.

　　艾丽丝·门罗（Alice Munro，1931.07.10~），加拿大女作家，被称为“加拿大的契科夫”。艾丽丝·门罗1931年生于加拿大加拿大渥太华，大部分时间都在这个安静的城市度过，少女时代即开始写小说。门罗以短篇小说见长，截至2013年10月，创作了11部短篇小说集和1部类似故事集的长篇小说。1968年，门罗发表第一部短篇小说集《快乐影子舞》(Dance of the Happy Shades)，并获得加拿大总督文学奖。其代表作有《好荫凉之舞》和《逃离》。门罗多次获奖，其中包括三次加拿大总督奖，两次吉勒奖，以及英联邦作家奖、欧亨利奖、笔会马拉穆德奖和美国全国书评人奖等。2009年获得第三届布克国际奖。
　　2013年10月10日，艾丽丝·门罗获得2013年诺贝尔文学奖，获奖理由是：“当代短篇小说大师。”爱丽丝·门罗是诺贝尔文学奖历史上获此殊荣的第13位女性作家。

精彩书评

There seems nothing missing in this yet again brilliant collection...a literary inspiration'
-- Lorrie Moore

'Alice Munro has a strong claim to being the best fiction wirter in North America. Runaway is a marvel'
-- Jonathan Franzen

'Her genius cannot be denied...The contemporary writer I admire above all others'
-- Paul Bailey, The Independent

'Magic...It is a beautiful, echoing collection, and a demonstration of perfected and unflinching form'
-- Ali Smith, Scotsman

'The stories of Alice Munro make everyone else's look like the work of babies'
-- Ethan Canin

　　她是我们这个时代最伟大的短篇小说作家。
　　——A.S.拜雅特（《隐之书》作者，布克奖得主）

　　被中断的人生、岁月的痕迹、生命的残酷……艾丽丝·门罗达到了无以伦比的高度。
　　——《纽约时报》（美）

　　每读艾丽丝·门罗的小说，便知道生命中曾经疏忽遗忘太多事情。
　　——布克国际奖评语

　　令人难以忘怀的作品：语言精细独到，情节朴实优美，令人回味无穷。
　　——吉勒奖评语

　　乔伊斯，力压契诃夫，每个故事中都是一个丰沛的人生。
　　——《波士顿环球报》（美）

精彩书摘

Carla heard the car coming before it topped the little rise in the road that around here they called a hill. It’s her, she thought. Mrs. Jamieson—Sylvia—home from her holiday in Greece. From the barn door—but far enough inside that she could not readily be seen—she watched the road Mrs. Jamieson would have to drive by on, her place being half a mile farther along the road than Clark and Carla’s.

If it was somebody getting ready to turn in at their gate it would be slowing down by now. But still Carla hoped. Let it not be her.

It was. Mrs. Jamieson turned her head once, quickly—she had all she could do maneuvering her car through the ruts and puddles the rain had made in the gravel—but she didn’t lift a hand off the wheel to wave, she didn’t spot Carla. Carla got a glimpse of a tanned arm bare to the shoulder, hair bleached a lighter color than it had been before, more white now than silver-blond, and an expression that was determined and exasperated and amused at her own exasperation—just the way Mrs. Jamieson would look negotiating such a road. When she turned her head there was something like a bright flash—of inquiry, of hopefulness—that made Carla shrink back.

So.

Maybe Clark didn’t know yet. If he was sitting at the computer he would have his back to the window and the road.

But Mrs. Jamieson might have to make another trip. Driv- ing home from the airport, she might not have stopped for groceries—not until she’d been home and figured out what she needed. Clark might see her then. And after dark, the lights of her house would show. But this was July, and it didn’t get dark till late. She might be so tired that she wouldn’t bother with the lights, she might go to bed early.

On the other hand, she might telephone. Any time now.

This was the summer of rain and more rain. You heard it first thing in the morning, loud on the roof of the mobile home. The trails were deep in mud, the long grass soaking, leaves overhead sending down random showers even in those moments when there was no actual downpour from the sky and the clouds looked like clearing. Carla wore a high, wide-brimmed old Australian felt hat every time she went outside, and tucked her long thick braid down her shirt.

Nobody showed up for trail rides, even though Clark and Carla had gone around posting signs in all the camping sites, in the cafes, and on the tourist office billboard and anywhere else they could think of. Only a few pupils were coming for lessons and those were regulars, not the batches of schoolchildren on vacation, the busloads from summer camps, that had kept them going through last summer. And even the regulars that they counted on were taking time off for holiday trips, or simply cancelling their lessons because of the weather being so discouraging. If they called too late, Clark charged them for the time anyway. A couple of them had complained, and quit for good.

There was still some income from the three horses that were boarded. Those three, and the four of their own, were out in the field now, poking around in the grass under the trees. They looked as if they couldn’t be bothered to notice that the rain was holding off for the moment, the way it often did for a while in the afternoon. Just enough to get your hopes up—the clouds whitening and thinning and letting through a diffuse brightness that never got around to being real sunshine, and was usually gone before supper.

Carla had finished mucking out in the barn. She had taken her time—she liked the rhythm of her regular chores, the high space under the barn roof, the smells. Now she went over to the exercise ring to see how dry the ground was, in case the five o’clock pupil did show up.

Most of the steady showers had not been particularly heavy, or borne on any wind, but last week there had come a sud- den stirring and then a blast through the treetops and a nearly horizontal blinding rain. In a quarter of an hour the storm had passed over. But branches lay across the road, hydro lines were down, and a large chunk of the plastic roofing over the ring had been torn loose. There was a puddle like a lake at that end of the track, and Clark had worked until after dark, digging a channel to drain it away.

The roof had not yet been repaired. Clark had strung fence wire across to keep the horses from getting into the mud, and Carla had marked out a shorter track.

On the Web, right now, Clark was hunting for someplace to buy roofing. Some salvage outlet, with prices that they could afford, or somebody trying to get rid of such material secondhand. He would not go to Hy and Robbert Buckley’s Building Supply in town, which he called Highway Robbers Buggery Supply, because he owed them too much money and had had a fight with them.

Clark had fights not just with the people he owed money to. His friendliness, compelling at first, could suddenly turn sour. There were places he would not go into, where he always made Carla go, because of some row. The drugstore was one such place. An old woman had pushed in front of him—that is, she had gone to get something she’d forgotten and come back and pushed in front, rather than going to the end of the line, and he had complained, and the cashier had said to him, “She has emphysema,” and Clark had said, “Is that so? I have piles, myself,” and the manager had been summoned, to say that was uncalled-for. And in the coffee shop out on the highway the advertised breakfast discount had not been allowed, because it was past eleven o’clock in the morning, and Clark had argued and then dropped his takeout cup of coffee on the floor—just missing, so they said, a child in its stroller. He said the child was half a mile away and he dropped the cup because no cuff had been provided. They said he had not asked for a cuff. He said he shouldn’t have had to ask.

“You flare up,” said Carla.

“That’s what men do.”

She had not said anything to him about his row with Joy Tucker. Joy Tucker was the librarian from town who boarded her horse with them. The horse was a quick-tempered little chestnut mare named Lizzie—Joy Tucker, when she was in a jokey mood, called her Lizzie Borden. Yesterday she had driven out, not in a jokey mood at all, and complained about the roof’s not being fixed yet, and Lizzie looking miserable, as if she might have caught a chill.

There was nothing the matter with Lizzie, actually. Clark had tried—for him—to be placating. But then it was Joy Tucker who flared up and said that their place was a dump, and Lizzie deserved better, and Clark said, “Suit yourself.” Joy had not—or not yet—removed Lizzie, as Carla had expected. But Clark, who had formerly made the little mare his pet, had refused to have anything more to do with her. Lizzie’s feelings were hurt, in consequence—she was balky when exercised and kicked up a fuss when her hoofs had to be picked out, as they did every day, lest they develop a fungus. Carla had to watch out for nips.

But the worst thing as far as Carla was concerned was the absence of Flora, the little white goat who kept the horses company in the barn and in the fields. There had not been any sign of her for two days. Carla was afraid that wild dogs or coyotes had got her, or even a bear.

She had dreamt of Flora last night and the night before. In the first dream Flora had walked right up to the bed with a red apple in her mouth, but in the second dream—last night—she had run away when she saw Carla coming. Her leg seemed to be hurt but she ran anyway. She led Carla to a barbed-wire barricade of the kind that might belong on some battlefield, and then she—Flora—slipped through it, hurt leg and all, just slithered through like a white eel and disappeared.

The horses had seen Carla go across to the ring and they had all moved up to the fence—looking bedraggled in spite of their New Zealand blankets—so that she would take notice of them on her way back. She talked quietly to them, apologizing for coming empty-handed. She stroked their necks and rubbed their noses and asked whether they knew anything about Flora.

Grace and Juniper snorted and nuzzled up, as if they recognized the name and shared her concern, but then Lizzie butted in between them and knocked Grace’s head away from Carla’s petting hand. She gave the hand a nip for good measure, and Carla had to spend some time scolding her.

Up until three years ago Carla never really looked at mobile homes. She didn’t call them that, either. Like her parents, she would have thought “mobile home” pretentious. Some people lived in trailers, and that was all there was to it. One trailer was no different from another. When Carla moved in here, when she chose this life with Clark, she began to see things in a new way. After that she started saying “mobile home” and she looked to see how people had fixed them up. The kind of curtains they had hung, the way they had painted the trim, the ambitious decks or patios or extra rooms that had been built on. She could hardly wait to get at such improvements herself.

Clark had gone along with her ideas, for a while. He had built new steps, and spent a lot of time looking for an old wrought-iron railing for them. He didn’t make any complaint about the money spent on paint for the kitchen and bathroom or the material for curtains. Her paint job was hasty—she didn’t know, at that time, that you should take the hinges off the cupboard doors. Or that you should line the curtains, which had since faded.

What Clark balked at was tearing up the carpet, which was the same in every room and the thing that she had most counted on replacing. It was divided into small brown squares, each with a pattern of darker brown and rust and tan...

评分☆☆☆☆☆

应该很不错，只是买了还没时间拜读。诺奖获得者，读过她的其他作品，很棒

评分☆☆☆☆☆

很好的书，关注很久了，值得一看

评分☆☆☆☆☆

速度快，服务好，快递员态度好，看后分享

评分☆☆☆☆☆

纸质和装订都好差，感觉像盗版书。

评分☆☆☆☆☆

绝对正版，封面是我喜欢的

评分☆☆☆☆☆

送货快，价格划算，东西不错！

评分☆☆☆☆☆

包装挺好，书籍正版的，好好读下

评分☆☆☆☆☆

书单来了推荐过，买来慢慢读

评分☆☆☆☆☆

书籍是人类进步的阶梯，多看书，改变人的气质。