LOVE/TIME OF CHOLERA(OPRAH 59)（ISBN=9780375400698）pdf/txt下载_在线阅读全文

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From Publishers Weekly
The ironic visionand luminous evocation of South America that have distinguishedGarcia Marquez's Nobel Prize-winning fiction since his landmarkwork, One Hundred Years of Solitude, persist in thisturn-of-the-century chronicle of a unique love triangle. It is afully mature novel in scope and perspective, flawlessly translated,as rich in ideas as in humanity. The illustrious and meticulous Dr.Juvenal Urbino and his proud, stately wife Fermina Daza,respectively past 80 and 70, are in the autumn of their solidmarriage as the drama opens on the suicide of the doctor's chesspartner. Jeremiah de Saint-Amour, a disabled photographer ofchildren, chooses death over the indignities of old age, revealingin a letter a clandestine love affair, on the "fringes of a closedsociety's prejudices." This scenario not only heralds Urbino'sdemise soon afterwhen he falls out of a mango tree in an attempt tocatch an escaped parrotbut brilliantly presages the novel's centralthemes, which are as concerned with the renewing capacity of age aswith an anatomy of love. We meet Florentino Ariza, more antiherothan hero, a mock Don Juan with an undertaker's demeanor, at oncepathetic, grotesque and endearing, when he seizes the memorablyunseemly occasion of Urbino's funeral to reiterate to Fermina thevow of love he first uttered more than 50 years before. With thefine detailing of a Victorian novel, the narrative plunges backwardin time to reenact their earlier, youthful courtship of furtiveletters and glances, frustrated when Fermina, in the light ofawaking maturity, realizes Florentino is an adolescent obsession,and rejects him. With his uncanny ability to unearth theextraordinary in the commonplace, Garcia Marquez smoothlyinterweaves Fermina's and Florentino's subsequent histories.Enmeshed in a bizarre string of affairs with ill-fated widows whilevicariously conducting the liaisons of others via love poemscomposed on request, Florentino feverishly tries to fill the voidof his unrequited passion. Meanwhile, Fermina's marriage suffersvicissitudes but endures, affirming that marital love can be asmuch the product of art as is romantic love. When circumstancesboth comic and mystical offer Fermina and Florentino a secondchance, during a time in their lives that is often regarded aspromising only inevitable degeneration toward death, Garcia Marquezbeautifully reveals true love's soil not in the convention ofmarriage but in the simple, timeless rituals that are its cement.100,000 first printing; first serial to the New Yorker; BOMC mainselection.
Copyright 1988 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refersto the Hardcover edition.

From Publishers Weekly The ironic vision
and luminous evocation of South America that have distinguished
Garcia Marquez's Nobel Prize-winning fiction since his landmark
work, One Hundred Years of Solitude, persist in this
turn-of-the-century chronicle of a unique love triangle. It is a
fully mature novel in scope and perspective, flawlessly translated,
as rich in ideas as in humanity. The illustrious and meticulous Dr.
Juvenal Urbino and his proud, stately wife Fermina Daza,
respectively past 80 and 70, are in the autumn of their solid
marriage as the drama opens on the suicide of the doctor's chess
partner. Jeremiah de Saint-Amour, a disabled photographer of
children, chooses death over the indignities of old age, revealing
in a letter a clandestine love affair, on the "fringes of a closed
society's prejudices." This scenario not only heralds Urbino's
demise soon afterwhen he falls out of a mango tree in an attempt to
catch an escaped parrotbut brilliantly presages the novel's central
themes, which are as concerned with the renewing capacity of age as
with an anatomy of love. We meet Florentino Ariza, more antihero
than hero, a mock Don Juan with an undertaker's demeanor, at once
pathetic, grotesque and endearing, when he seizes the memorably
unseemly occasion of Urbino's funeral to reiterate to Fermina the
vow of love he first uttered more than 50 years before. With the
fine detailing of a Victorian novel, the narrative plunges backward
in time to reenact their earlier, youthful courtship of furtive
letters and glances, frustrated when Fermina, in the light of
awaking maturity, realizes Florentino is an adolescent obsession,
and rejects him. With his uncanny ability to unearth the
extraordinary in the commonplace, Garcia Marquez smoothly
interweaves Fermina's and Florentino's subsequent histories.
Enmeshed in a bizarre string of affairs with ill-fated widows while
vicariously conducting the liaisons of others via love poems
composed on request, Florentino feverishly tries to fill the void
of his unrequited passion. Meanwhile, Fermina's marriage suffers
vicissitudes but endures, affirming that marital love can be as
much the product of art as is romantic love. When circumstances
both comic and mystical offer Fermina and Florentino a second
chance, during a time in their lives that is often regarded as
promising only inevitable degeneration toward death, Garcia Marquez
beautifully reveals true love's soil not in the convention of
marriage but in the simple, timeless rituals that are its cement.
100,000 first printing; first serial to the New Yorker; BOMC main
selection. 
Copyright 1988 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refers
to the Hardcover edition. 
 
From Library Journal 
While delivering a message to her father, Florentino Ariza spots
the barely pubescent Fermina Daza and immediately falls in love.
What follows is the story of a passion that extends over 50 years,
as Fermina is courted solely by letter, decisively rejects her
suitor when he first speaks, and then joins the urbane Dr. Juvenal
Urbino, much above her station, in a marriage initially loveless
but ultimately remarkable in its strength. Florentino remains
faithful in his fashion; paralleling the tale of the marriage is
that of his numerous liaisons, all ultimately without the depth of
love he again declares at Urbino's death. In substance and style
not as fantastical, as mythologizing, as the previous works, this
is a compelling exploration of the myths we make of love. Highly
recommended. Barbara Hoffert, "Library Journal"

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内容简介

(Book Jacket Status: Jacketed) From the Nobel Prize-winning author of One Hundred Years of Solitude comes a masterly evocation of an unrequited passion so strong that it binds three people's lives together for more than fifty years. In the story of Florentino Ariza, who waits more than half a century to declare his undying love to the beautiful Fermina Daza, whom he lost to Dr. Juvenal Urbino so many years before, Garcia Marquez has created a vividly absorbing fictional world, as lush and dazzling as a dream and as real and immediate as our own deepest longings. Now available for the first time in the Contemporary Classics series

作者简介

Gabriel Garcia Marquez (1927- ) was born in Aracataca, Colombia. His most recent book, Memories of My Melancholy Whores, is his first new novel to be published in a decade and is available as a Penguin Paperback from August 2007. He is the author of several novels, works of non-fiction and collections of short stories, including Leaf Storm (1955); One Hundred Years of Solitude (1967); The Autumn of the Patriarch (1975); Chronicle of a Death Foretold (1981) and The General in His Labyrinth (1989). He was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1982.

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IT WAS INEVITABLE: the scent of bitter almonds always remindedhim of the fate of unrequited love. Dr. Juvenal Urbino noticed itas soon as he entered the still darkened house where he had hurriedon an urgent call to attend a case that for him had lost allurgency many years before. The Antillean refugee Jeremiah deSaint-Amour, disabled war veteran, photographer of children, andhis most sympathetic opponent in chess, had escaped the torments ofmemory with the aromatic fumes of gold cyanide.

He found the corpse covered with a blanket on the campaign cotwhere he had always slept, and beside it was a stool with thedeveloping tray he had used to vaporize the poison. On the floor,tied to a leg of the cot, lay the body of a black Great Dane with asnow-white chest, and next to him were the crutches. At one windowthe splendor of dawn was just beginning to illuminate the stifling,crowded room that served as both bedroom and laboratory, but therewas enough light for him to recognize at once the authority ofdeath. The other windows, as well as every other chink in the room,were muffled with rags or sealed with black cardboard, whichincreased the oppressive heaviness. A counter was crammed with jarsand bottles without labels and two crumbling pewter trays under anordinary light bulb covered with red paper. The third tray, the onefor the fixative solution, was next to the body. There were oldmagazines and newspapers everywhere, piles of negatives on glassplates, broken furniture, but everything was kept free of dust by adiligent hand. Although the air coming through the window hadpurified the atmosphere, there still remained for the one who couldidentify it the dying embers of hapless love in the bitter almonds.Dr. Juvenal Urbino had often thought, with no premonitoryintention, that this would not be a propitious place for dying in astate of grace. But in time he came to suppose that perhaps itsdisorder obeyed an obscure determination of DivineProvidence.

IT WAS INEVITABLE: the scent of bitter almonds always reminded
him of the fate of unrequited love. Dr. Juvenal Urbino noticed it
as soon as he entered the still darkened house where he had hurried
on an urgent call to attend a case that for him had lost all
urgency many years before. The Antillean refugee Jeremiah de
Saint-Amour, disabled war veteran, photographer of children, and
his most sympathetic opponent in chess, had escaped the torments of
memory with the aromatic fumes of gold cyanide. 
 
He found the corpse covered with a blanket on the campaign cot
where he had always slept, and beside it was a stool with the
developing tray he had used to vaporize the poison. On the floor,
tied to a leg of the cot, lay the body of a black Great Dane with a
snow-white chest, and next to him were the crutches. At one window
the splendor of dawn was just beginning to illuminate the stifling,
crowded room that served as both bedroom and laboratory, but there
was enough light for him to recognize at once the authority of
death. The other windows, as well as every other chink in the room,
were muffled with rags or sealed with black cardboard, which
increased the oppressive heaviness. A counter was crammed with jars
and bottles without labels and two crumbling pewter trays under an
ordinary light bulb covered with red paper. The third tray, the one
for the fixative solution, was next to the body. There were old
magazines and newspapers everywhere, piles of negatives on glass
plates, broken furniture, but everything was kept free of dust by a
diligent hand. Although the air coming through the window had
purified the atmosphere, there still remained for the one who could
identify it the dying embers of hapless love in the bitter almonds.
Dr. Juvenal Urbino had often thought, with no premonitory
intention, that this would not be a propitious place for dying in a
state of grace. But in time he came to suppose that perhaps its
disorder obeyed an obscure determination of Divine
Providence. 
 
A police inspector had come forward with a very young medical
student who was completing his forensic training at the municipal
dispensary, and it was they who had ventilated the room and covered
the body while waiting for Dr. Urbino to arrive. They greeted him
with a solemnity that on this occasion had more of condolence than
veneration, for no one was unaware of the degree of his friendship
with Jeremiah de Saint-Amour. The eminent teacher shook hands with
each of them, as he always did with every one of his pupils before
beginning the daily class in general clinical medicine, and then,
as if it were a flower, he grasped the hem of the blanket with the
tips of his index finger and his thumb, and slowly uncovered the
body with sacramental circumspection. Jeremiah de Saint-Amour was
completely naked, stiff and twisted, eyes open, body blue, looking
fifty years older than he had the night before. He had luminous
pupils, yellowish beard and hair, and an old scar sewn with baling
knots across his stomach. The use of crutches had made his torso
and arms as broad as a galley slave's, but his defenseless legs
looked like an orphan's. Dr. Juvenal Urbino studied him for a
moment, his heart aching as it rarely had in the long years of his
futile struggle against death. 
 
"Damn fool," he said. "The worst was over." 
 
He covered him again with the blanket and regained his academic
dignity. His eightieth birthday had been celebrated the year before
with an official three-day jubilee, and in his thank-you speech he
had once again resisted the temptation to retire. He had said:
"I'll have plenty of time to rest when I die, but this eventuality
is not yet part of my plans." Although he heard less and less with
his right ear, and leaned on a silver-handled cane to conceal his
faltering steps, he continued to wear a linen suit, with a gold
watch chain across his vest, as smartly as he had in his younger
years. His Pasteur beard, the color of mother-of-pearl, and his
hair, the same color, carefully combed back and with a neat part in
the middle, were faithful expressions of his character. He
compensated as much as he could for an increasingly disturbing
erosion of memory by scribbling hurried notes on scraps of paper
that ended in confusion in each of his pockets, as did the
instruments, the bottles of medicine, and all the other things
jumbled together in his crowded medical bag. He was not only the
city's oldest and most illustrious physician, he was also its most
fastidious man. Still, his too obvious display of learning and the
disingenuous manner in which he used the power of his name had won
him less affection than he deserved. 
 
His instructions to the inspector and the intern were precise and
rapid. There was no need for an autopsy; the odor in the house was
sufficient proof that the cause of death had been the cyanide
vapors activated in the tray by some photographic acid, and
Jeremiah de Saint-Amour knew too much about those matters for it to
have been an accident. When the inspector showed some hesitation,
he cut him off with the kind of remark that was typical of his
manner: "Don't forget that I am the one who signs the death
certificate." The young doctor was disappointed: he had never had
the opportunity to study the effects of gold cyanide on a cadaver.
Dr. Juvenal Urbino had been surprised that he had not seen him at
the Medical School, but he understood in an instant from the young
man's easy blush and Andean accent that he was probably a recent
arrival to the city. He said: "There is bound to be someone driven
mad by love who will give you the chance one of these days." And
only after he said it did he realize that among the countless
suicides he could remember, this was the first with cyanide that
had not been caused by the sufferings of love. Then something
changed in the tone of his voice. 
 
"And when you do find one, observe with care," he said to the
intern: "they almost always have crystals in their heart." 
 
Then he spoke to the inspector as he would have to a subordinate.
He ordered him to circumvent all the legal procedures so that the
burial could take place that same afternoon and with the greatest
discretion. He said: "I will speak to the Mayor later." He knew
that Jeremiah de Saint-Amour lived in primitive austerity and that
he earned much more with his art than he needed, so that in one of
the drawers in the house there was bound to be more than enough
money for the funeral expenses. 
 
"But if you do not find it, it does not matter," he said. "I will
take care of everything." 
 
He ordered him to tell the press that the photographer had died of
natural causes, although he thought the news would in no way
interest them. He said: "If it is necessary, I will speak to the
Governor." The inspector, a serious and humble civil servant, knew
that the Doctor's sense of civic duty exasperated even his closest
friends, and he was surprised at the ease with which he skipped
over legal formalities in order to expedite the burial. The only
thing he was not willing to do was speak to the Archbishop so that
Jeremiah de Saint-Amour could be buried in holy ground. The
inspector, astonished at his own impertinence, attempted to make
excuses for him. 
 
"I understood this man was a saint," he said. 
 
"Something even rarer," said Dr. Urbino. "An atheistic saint. But
those are matters for God to decide.'' 
 
In the distance, on the other side of the colonial city, the bells
of the Cathedral were ringing for High Mass. Dr. Urbino put on his
half-moon glasses with the gold rims and consulted the watch on its
chain, slim, elegant, with the cover that opened at a touch: he was
about to miss Pentecost Mass. 
 
In the parlor was a huge camera on wheels like the ones used in
public parks, and the backdrop of a marine twilight, painted with
homemade paints, and the walls papered with pictures of children at
memorable moments: the first Communion, the bunny costume, the
happy birthday. Year after year, during contemplative pauses on
afternoons of chess, Dr. Urbino had seen the gradual covering over
of the walls, and he had often thought with a shudder of sorrow
that in the gallery of casual portraits lay the germ of the future
city, governed and corrupted by those unknown children, where not
even the ashes of his glory would remain. 
 
On the desk, next to a jar that held several old sea dog's pipes,
was the chessboard with an unfinished game. Despite his haste and
his somber mood, Dr. Urbino could not resist the temptation to
study it. He knew it was the previous night's game, for Jeremiah de
Saint-Amour played at dusk every day of the week with at least
three different opponents, but he always finished every game and
then placed the board and chessmen in their box and stored the box
in a desk drawer. The Doctor knew he played with the white pieces
and that this time it was evident he was going to be defeated
without mercy in four moves. "If there had been a crime, this would
be a good clue," Urbino said to himself. "I know only one man
capable of devising this masterful trap." If his life depended on
it, he had to find out later why that indomitable soldier,
accustomed to fighting to the last drop of blood, had left the
final battle of his life unfinished. 
 
At six that morning, as he was making his last rounds, the night
watchman had seen the note nailed to the street door: Come in
without knocking and inform the police. A short while later
the inspector arrived with the intern, and the two of them had
searched the house for some evidence that might contradict the
unmistakable breath of bitter almonds. But in the brief minutes the
Doctor needed to study the unfinished game, the inspector
discovered an envelope among the papers on the desk, addressed to
Dr. Juvenal Urbino and sealed with so much sealing wax that it had
to be ripped to pieces to get the letter out. The Doctor opened the
black curtain over the window to have more light, gave a quick
glance at the e...

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