NOCTURNES（ISBN=9780307455789）pdf/txt下载_在线阅读全文

内容简介

　　One of the most celebrated writers of our time gives us hisfirst cycle of short fiction: five brilliantly etched,interconnected stories in which music is a vivid and essentialcharacter.
　　A once-popular singer, desperate to make a comeback, turningfrom the one certainty in his life . . . A man whose unerring tastein music is the only thing his closest friends value in him . . . Astruggling singer-songwriter unwittingly involved in the failingmarriage of a couple he’s only just met . . . A gifted,underappreciated jazz musician who lets himself believe thatplastic surgery will help his career . . . A young cellist whosetutor promises to “unwrap” his talent . . .
　　Passion or necessity—or the often uneasy combination of thetwo—determines the place of music in each of these lives. And, inone way or another, music delivers each of them to a moment ofreckoning: sometimes comic, sometimes tragic, sometimes justeluding their grasp.

One of the most celebrated writers of our time gives us his
first cycle of short fiction: five brilliantly etched,
interconnected stories in which music is a vivid and essential
character.
　　A once-popular singer, desperate to make a comeback, turning
from the one certainty in his life . . . A man whose unerring taste
in music is the only thing his closest friends value in him . . . A
struggling singer-songwriter unwittingly involved in the failing
marriage of a couple he’s only just met . . . A gifted,
underappreciated jazz musician who lets himself believe that
plastic surgery will help his career . . . A young cellist whose
tutor promises to “unwrap” his talent . . .
　　Passion or necessity—or the often uneasy combination of the
two—determines the place of music in each of these lives. And, in
one way or another, music delivers each of them to a moment of
reckoning: sometimes comic, sometimes tragic, sometimes just
eluding their grasp.
　　An exploration of love, need, and the ineluctable force of the
past, Nocturnes reveals these individuals to us with extraordinary
precision and subtlety, and with the arresting psychological and
emotional detail that has marked all of Kazuo Ishiguro’s acclaimed
works of fiction.

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作者简介

　　Kazuo Ishiguro is the author of six previous novels, including Never Let Me Go and The Remains of the Day, which won the Booker Prize and was adapted into an award-winning film. Ishiguro’s work has been translated into forty languages. In 1995 he received an Order of the British Empire for service to literature, and in 1998 was named a Chevalier de l’Ordre des Arts et des Lettres by the French government. He lives in London with his wife and daughter.

目　　录

CROONER
COME RAIN OR COME SHINE
MALVERN HILLS
NOCTURNE
CELLISTS

媒体评论

　　Reviews from the UK:
　　“A brilliant new book . . . Art, its dangers, its pains and itsgaiety [are] all topics seriously considered in this accomplishedbook.”
　　–Frank Kermode, London Review of Books
　　“Spellbinding . . . Each of these stories is heartbreaking in itsown way, but some have moments of great comedy, and they allrequire a level of attention that, typically, Ishiguro’s writingrewards . . . The final story [is] exquisite.”
　　–Observer

Reviews from the UK: 
　　“A brilliant new book . . . Art, its dangers, its pains and its
gaiety [are] all topics seriously considered in this accomplished
book.” 
　　–Frank Kermode, London Review of Books 
　　“Spellbinding . . . Each of these stories is heartbreaking in its
own way, but some have moments of great comedy, and they all
require a level of attention that, typically, Ishiguro’s writing
rewards . . . The final story [is] exquisite.” 
　　–Observer 
　　“By now it is clear that this exquisite stylist is serious in his
pursuit of a minimal–perhaps even universal–mode of expression for
the emotional experiences that define our lives as human. Nocturnes
is a set of poised and playful reflections on the falling away of
sentiment . . . These stories recall Ishiguro’s best known novel,
The Remains of the Day. In their surreal touches they resonate with
The Unconsoled. And in their deceptively simple exploration of love
and loss, they build on the achievement of Never Let Me Go.” 
　　–The Times 
　　“It is hardly surprising that a writer as resonant, and as
emotionally pitch-perfect, as Kazuo Ishiguro should be so keen on
music . . . [The title story’s] set-up is so beautifully engineered
that it left me simultaneously gasping in admiration and shaking
with laughter.” 
　　–Sunday Telegraph 
　　“These stories come up on you quietly, in Ishiguro’s strangely
weightless style [and] haunt you for days . . . A nocturne is a
piece of music inspired by, or evocative of, the night . . . These
little pieces could only be the work of a great composer.” 
　　–Evening Standard 
　　“Chopin is the composer most associated with the form [of the
nocturne], bringing to it grace and beauty, fragility and poise,
qualities conspicuous in this diverting collection of five stories
by Kazuo Ishiguro . . . Serious as Ishiguro’s intentions surely
are, in these well-tempered, witty and droll stories he is more
playful than he has ever been.” 
　　–Glasgow Herald 
　　“Ishiguro’s volume has the quality of a song cycle, with
recurring themes developed in different guises . . . They resonate
long after the book is set aside.” 
　　–Daily Telegraph 
　　“It’s hardly surprising that the arrival of a new Ishiguro book
makes a reader eager to pounce on it . . . The quintet consists of
first person narratives and each one is likeable, original and
succeed in sustaining the reader to the final word . . . There are
echoes of Somerset Maugham. But Ishiguro, the most literary of
writers, is seldom derivative. [He is] a canny writer who is cool,
poised and well capable of shifting directions and shaping
surprises . . . Somehow he manages to say a great deal about the
business of being alive.” 
　　–The Irish Times　 
　　From the Hardcover edition.

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在线试读部分章节

　　Crooner
　　Chapter 1
　　The morning i spotted Tony Gardner sitting among the tourists,spring was just arriving here in Venice. We’d completed our firstfull week outside in the piazza—a relief, let me tell you, afterall those stuffy hours performing from the back of the cafe,getting in the way of customers wanting to use the staircase. Therewas quite a breeze that morning, and our brand-new marquee wasflapping all around us, but we were all feeling a little bitbrighter and fresher, and I guess it showed in our music.
　　But here I am talking like I’m a regular band member. Actually,I’m one of the “gypsies,” as the other musicians call us, one ofthe guys who move around the piazza, helping out whichever of thethree cafe orchestras needs us. Mostly I play here at the CaffèLavena, but on a busy afternoon, I might do a set with the Quadriboys, go over to the Florian, then back across the square to theLavena. I get on fine with them all—and with the waiters too—and inany other city I’d have a regular position by now. But in thisplace, so obsessed with tradition and the past, everything’s upsidedown. Anywhere else, being a guitar player would go in a guy’sfavour. But here? A guitar! The cafe managers get uneasy. It lookstoo modern, the tourists won’t like it. Last autumn I got myself avintage jazz model with an oval sound-hole, the kind of thingDjango Reinhardt might have played, so there was no way anyonewould mistake me for a rock-and-roller. That made things a littleeasier, but the cafe managers, they still don’t like it. The truthis, if you’re a guitarist, you can be Joe Pass, they still wouldn’tgive you a regular job in this square.
　　There’s also, of course, the small matter of my not beingItalian, never mind Venetian. It’s the same for that big Czech guywith the alto sax. We’re well liked, we’re needed by the othermusicians, but we don’t quite fit the official bill. Just play andkeep your mouth shut, that’s what the cafe managers always say.That way the tourists won’t know you’re not Italian. Wear yoursuit, sunglasses, keep the hair combed back, no one will know thedifference, just don’t start talking.

Crooner 
　　Chapter 1 
　　The morning i spotted Tony Gardner sitting among the tourists,
spring was just arriving here in Venice. We’d completed our first
full week outside in the piazza—a relief, let me tell you, after
all those stuffy hours performing from the back of the cafe,
getting in the way of customers wanting to use the staircase. There
was quite a breeze that morning, and our brand-new marquee was
flapping all around us, but we were all feeling a little bit
brighter and fresher, and I guess it showed in our music. 
　　But here I am talking like I’m a regular band member. Actually,
I’m one of the “gypsies,” as the other musicians call us, one of
the guys who move around the piazza, helping out whichever of the
three cafe orchestras needs us. Mostly I play here at the Caffè
Lavena, but on a busy afternoon, I might do a set with the Quadri
boys, go over to the Florian, then back across the square to the
Lavena. I get on fine with them all—and with the waiters too—and in
any other city I’d have a regular position by now. But in this
place, so obsessed with tradition and the past, everything’s upside
down. Anywhere else, being a guitar player would go in a guy’s
favour. But here? A guitar! The cafe managers get uneasy. It looks
too modern, the tourists won’t like it. Last autumn I got myself a
vintage jazz model with an oval sound-hole, the kind of thing
Django Reinhardt might have played, so there was no way anyone
would mistake me for a rock-and-roller. That made things a little
easier, but the cafe managers, they still don’t like it. The truth
is, if you’re a guitarist, you can be Joe Pass, they still wouldn’t
give you a regular job in this square. 
　　There’s also, of course, the small matter of my not being
Italian, never mind Venetian. It’s the same for that big Czech guy
with the alto sax. We’re well liked, we’re needed by the other
musicians, but we don’t quite fit the official bill. Just play and
keep your mouth shut, that’s what the cafe managers always say.
That way the tourists won’t know you’re not Italian. Wear your
suit, sunglasses, keep the hair combed back, no one will know the
difference, just don’t start talking. 
　　But I don’t do too bad. All three cafe orchestras, especially
when they have to play at the same time from their rival tents,
they need a guitar—something soft, solid, but amplified, thumping
out the chords from the back. I guess you’re thinking, three bands
playing at the same time in the same square, that would sound like
a real mess. But the Piazza San Marco’s big enough to take it. A
tourist strolling across the square will hear one tune fade out,
another fade in, like he’s shifting the dial on a radio. What
tourists can’t take too much of is the classical stuff, all these
instrumental versions of famous arias. Okay, this is San Marco,
they don’t want the latest pop hits. But every few minutes they
want something they recognise, maybe an old Julie Andrews number,
or the theme from a famous movie. I remember once last summer,
going from band to band and playing “The Godfather” nine times in
one afternoon. 
　　Anyway there we were that spring morning, playing in front of a
good crowd of tourists, when I saw Tony Gardner, sitting alone with
his coffee, almost directly in front of us, maybe six metres back
from our marquee. We get famous people in the square all the time,
we never make a fuss. At the end of a number, maybe a quiet word
will go around the band members. Look, there’s Warren Beatty. Look,
it’s Kissinger. That woman, she’s the one who was in the movie
about the men who swap their faces. We’re used to it. This is the
Piazza San Marco after all. But when I realised it was Tony Gardner
sitting there, that was different. I did get excited. 
　　Tony Gardner had been my mother’s favourite. Back home, back in
the communist days, it had been really hard to get records like
that, but my mother had pretty much his whole collection. Once when
I was a boy, I scratched one of those precious records. The
apartment was so cramped, and a boy my age, you just had to move
around sometimes, especially during those cold months when you
couldn’t go outside. So I was playing this game jumping from our
little sofa to the armchair, and one time I misjudged it and hit
the record player. The needle went across the record with a
zip—this was long before CDs—and my mother came in from the kitchen
and began shouting at me. I felt so bad, not just because she was
shouting at me, but because I knew it was one of Tony Gardner’s
records, and I knew how much it meant to her. And I knew that this
one too would now have those popping noises going through it while
he crooned those American songs. Years later, when I was working in
Warsaw and I got to know about black-market records, I gave my
mother replacements of all her worn-out Tony Gardner albums,
including that one I scratched. It took me over three years, but I
kept getting them, one by one, and each time I went back to see her
I’d bring her another. 
　　So you see why I got so excited when I recognised him, barely six
metres away. At first I couldn’t quite believe it, and I might have
been a beat late with a chord change. Tony Gardner! What would my
dear mother have said if she’d known! For her sake, for the sake of
her memory, I had to go and say something to him, never mind if the
other musicians laughed and said I was acting like a
bell-boy. 
　　But of course I couldn’t just rush over to him, pushing aside the
tables and chairs. There was our set to finish. It was agony, I can
tell you, another three, four numbers, and every second I thought
he was about to get up and walk off. But he kept sitting there, by
himself, staring into his coffee, stirring it like he was really
puzzled by what the waiter had brought him. He looked like any
other American tourist, dressed in a pale-blue polo shirt and loose
grey trousers. His hair, very dark, very shiny on those record
covers, was almost white now, but there was still plenty of it, and
it was immaculately groomed in the same style he’d had back then.
When I’d first spotted him, he’d had his dark glasses in his hand—I
doubt if I’d have recognised him otherwise—but as our set went on
and I kept watching him, he put them on his face, took them off
again, then back on again. He looked preoccupied and it
disappointed me to see he wasn’t really listening to our
music. 
　　Then our set was over. I hurried out of the tent without saying
anything to the others, made my way to Tony Gardner’s table, then
had a moment’s panic not knowing how to start the conversation. I
was standing behind him, but some sixth sense made him turn and
look up at me—I guess it was all those years of having fans come up
to him— and next thing I was introducing myself, explaining how
much I admired him, how I was in the band he’d just been listening
to, how my mother had been such a fan, all in one big rush. He
listened with a grave expression, nodding every few seconds like he
was my doctor. I kept talking and all he said every now and then
was: “Is that so?” After a while I thought it was time to leave and
I’d started to move away when he said: 
　　“So you come from one of those communist countries. That must
have been tough.” 
　　“That’s all in the past.” I did a cheerful shrug. “We’re a free
country now. A democracy.” 
　　“That’s good to hear. And that was your crew playing for us just
now. Sit down. You want some coffee?” 
　　I told him I didn’t want to impose, but there was now something
gently insistent about Mr. Gardner. “No, no, sit down. Your mother
liked my records, you were saying.” 
　　So I sat down and told him some more. About my mother, our
apartment, the black-market records. And though I couldn’t remember
what the albums were called, I started describing the pictures on
their sleeves the way I remembered them, and each time I did this,
he’d put his finger up in the air and say something like: “Oh, that
would be Inimitable. The Inimitable Tony Gardner.” I think we were
both really enjoying this game, but then I noticed Mr. Gardner’s
gaze move off me, and I turned just in time to see a woman coming
up to our table. 
　　She was one of those American ladies who are so classy, with
great hair, clothes and figure, you don’t realise they’re not so
young until you see them up close. Far away, I might have mistaken
her for a model out of those glossy fashion magazines. But when she
sat down next to Mr. Gardner and pushed her dark glasses onto her
forehead, I realised she must be at least fifty, maybe more. Mr.
Gardner said to me: “This is Lindy, my wife.” 
　　Mrs. Gardner flashed me a smile that was kind of forced, then
said to her husband: “So who’s this? You’ve made yourself a
friend.” 
　　“That’s right, honey. I was having a good time talking here with
. . . I’m sorry, friend, I don’t know your name.” 
　　“Jan,” I said quickly. “But friends call me Janeck.” 
　　Lindy Gardner said: “You mean your nickname’s longer than your
real name? How does that work?” 
　　“Don’t be rude to the man, honey.” 
　　“I’m not being rude.” 
　　“Don’t make fun of the man’s name, honey. That’s a good
girl.” 
　　Lindy Gardner turned to me with a helpless sort of expression.
“You know what he’s talking about? Did I insult you?” 
　　“No, no,” I said, “not at all, Mrs. Gardner.” 
　　“He’s always telling me I’m rude to the public. But I’m not rude.
Was I rude to you jus...

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