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　　“[David] Mitchell is, clearly, a genius. He writes as though at the helm of some perpetual dream machine, can evidently do anything, and his ambition is written in magma across this novel’s every page.”—The New York Times Book Review
　　“One of those how-the-holy-hell-did-he-do-it? modern classics that no doubt is—and should be—read by any student of contemporary literature.”—Dave Eggers
　　“Wildly entertaining . . . a head rush, both action-packed and chillingly ruminative.”—People
　　“The novel as series of nested dolls or Chinese boxes, a puzzle-book, and yet—not just dazzling, amusing, or clever but heartbreaking and passionate, too. I’ve never read anything quite like it, and I’m grateful to have lived, for a while, in all its many worlds.”—Michael Chabon

内容简介

　　Now a major motion picture starring Tom Hanks, Halle Berry,Susan Sarandon, and Hugh Grant, and directed by Lana and AndyWachowski and Tom Tykwer
　　Includes a new Afterword by David Mitchell
　　A postmodern visionary who is also a master of styles and genres,David Mitchell combines flat-out adventure, a Nabokovian love ofpuzzles, a keen eye for character, and a taste for mind-bendingphilosophical and scientific speculation in the tradition of HarukiMurakami, Umberto Eco, and Philip K. Dick. The result isbrilliantly original fiction that reveals how disparate peopleconnect, how their fates intertwine, and how their souls driftacross time like clouds across the sky.

Now a major motion picture starring Tom Hanks, Halle Berry,
Susan Sarandon, and Hugh Grant, and directed by Lana and Andy
Wachowski and Tom Tykwer 
　　Includes a new Afterword by David Mitchell 
　　A postmodern visionary who is also a master of styles and genres,
David Mitchell combines flat-out adventure, a Nabokovian love of
puzzles, a keen eye for character, and a taste for mind-bending
philosophical and scientific speculation in the tradition of Haruki
Murakami, Umberto Eco, and Philip K. Dick. The result is
brilliantly original fiction that reveals how disparate people
connect, how their fates intertwine, and how their souls drift
across time like clouds across the sky. 
　　By the author of THE THOUSAND AUTUMNS OF JACOB DE ZOET, David
Mitchell's bestselling and Booker Prize-shortlisted novel, one of
Richard & Judy's 100 Books of the Decade, CLOUD ATLAS has now
been adapted for film. The major motion picture, directed by the
Wachowskis and Tom Tykwer, stars Tom Hanks, Halle Berry, Susan
Sarandon, Jim Sturgess, Ben Whishaw, Jim Broadbent and Hugh Grant.
The novel features six characters in interlocking stories, each
interrupting the one before it: a reluctant voyager crossing the
Pacific in 1850; a disinherited composer blagging a precarious
livelihood in between-the-wars Belgium; a high-minded journalist in
Governor Reagan's California; a vanity publisher fleeing his
gangland creditors; a genetically modified dinery server on
death-row; and Zachry, a young Pacific islander witnessing the
nightfall of science and civilisation. The narrators of CLOUD ATLAS
hear each other's echoes down the corridor of history, and their
destinies are changes in ways great and small. Mitchell's other
novels are GHOSTWRITTEN, BLACK SWAN GREEN and NUMBER9DREAM, all
published by Sceptre. <a>www.sceptrebooks.com</a> Facebook: Sceptre
Books Twitter: SceptreBooks

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作者简介

　　David Mitchell's first novel, GHOSTWRITTEN, was published in 1999, when it won the Mail on Sunday/John Llewellyn Rhys Prize and was shortlisted for the Guardian First Book Award. His second, NUMBER9DREAM, was shortlisted for the Booker Prize as well as the James Tait Black Memorial Prize, and in 2003 he was chosen as one of Granta's Best of Young British Novelists. CLOUD ATLAS, his third novel, won the Geoffrey Faber Memorial Prize, the South Bank Show Literature Prize, and the Best Literary Fiction and Richard & Judy Best Read of the Year categories in the British Book Awards, as well as being shortlisted for a further six awards including the Man Booker Prize and the Commonwealth Writers' Prize. It was followed by BLACK SWAN GREEN, which was shortlisted for the Costa Novel Award and longlisted for the Man Booker. His most recent book, THE THOUSAND AUTUMNS OF JACOB DE ZOET, was shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize in 2010. Born in 1969, David Mitchell grew up in Worcestershire. After graduating from Kent University, he spent several years teaching in Japan, and now lives in Ireland with his wife and two children.

媒体评论

　　'A remarkable book ... there won't be a bigger, bolder novel this year.' -- Guardian 'An impeccable dance of genres ... an elegiac, radiant festival of prescience, meditation and entertainment.' -- The Times 'His wildest ride yet ... a singular achievement, from an author of extraordinary ambition and skill' -- Matt Thorne, Independent on Sunday 'David Mitchell entices his readers onto a rollercoaster, and at first they wonder if they want to get off. Then - at least in my case - they can't bear the journey to end.' -- AS Byatt, Guardian 'Mitchell's storytelling in CLOUD ATLAS is of the best. I was, appropriately, captivated.' -- Lawrence Norfolk, Independent 'The best novel of the year so far ... a thrilling ride of a story' -- Philip Hensher, Summer Reading, Observer 'Impeccably structured novel of ideas in many voices by a talent to watch.' -- Literary Editor's Best Books, Observer

在线试读部分章节

　　Thursday, 7th November—
　　Beyond the Indian hamlet, upon a forlorn strand, I happened on atrail of recent footprints. Through rotting kelp, sea cocoa-nuts bamboo, the tracks led me to their maker, a White man, histrowzers Pea-jacket rolled up, sporting a kempt beard an outsized Beaver, shoveling sifting the cindery sand with ateaspoon so intently that he noticed me only after I had hailed himfrom ten yards away. Thus it was, I made the acquaintance of Dr.Henry Goose, surgeon to the London nobility. His nationality was nosurprise. If there be any eyrie so desolate, or isle so remote,that one may there resort unchallenged by an Englishman, ’tis notdown on any map I ever saw.
　　Had the doctor misplaced anything on that dismal shore? Could Irender assistance? Dr. Goose shook his head, knotted loose his’kerchief displayed its contents with clear pride. “Teeth,sir, are the enameled grails of the quest in hand. In days gone bythis Arcadian strand was a cannibals’ banqueting hall, yes, wherethe strong engorged themselves on the weak. The teeth, they spatout, as you or I would expel cherry stones. But these base molars,sir, shall be transmuted to gold how? An artisan ofPiccadilly who fashions denture sets for the nobility payshandsomely for human gnashers. Do you know the price a quarterpound will earn, sir?”
　　I confessed I did not.
　　“Nor shall I enlighten you, sir, for ’tis a professional secret!”He tapped his nose. “Mr. Ewing, are you acquainted with MarchionessGrace of Mayfair? No? The better for you, for she is a corpse inpetticoats. Five years have passed since this harridan besmirchedmy name, yes, with imputations that resulted in my beingblackballed from Society.” Dr. Goose looked out to sea. “Myperegrinations began in that dark hour.”
　　I expressed sympathy with the doctor’s plight.

Thursday, 7th November— 
　　Beyond the Indian hamlet, upon a forlorn strand, I happened on a
trail of recent footprints. Through rotting kelp, sea cocoa-nuts
& bamboo, the tracks led me to their maker, a White man, his
trowzers & Pea-jacket rolled up, sporting a kempt beard &
an outsized Beaver, shoveling & sifting the cindery sand with a
teaspoon so intently that he noticed me only after I had hailed him
from ten yards away. Thus it was, I made the acquaintance of Dr.
Henry Goose, surgeon to the London nobility. His nationality was no
surprise. If there be any eyrie so desolate, or isle so remote,
that one may there resort unchallenged by an Englishman, ’tis not
down on any map I ever saw. 
　　Had the doctor misplaced anything on that dismal shore? Could I
render assistance? Dr. Goose shook his head, knotted loose his
’kerchief & displayed its contents with clear pride. “Teeth,
sir, are the enameled grails of the quest in hand. In days gone by
this Arcadian strand was a cannibals’ banqueting hall, yes, where
the strong engorged themselves on the weak. The teeth, they spat
out, as you or I would expel cherry stones. But these base molars,
sir, shall be transmuted to gold & how? An artisan of
Piccadilly who fashions denture sets for the nobility pays
handsomely for human gnashers. Do you know the price a quarter
pound will earn, sir?” 
　　I confessed I did not. 
　　“Nor shall I enlighten you, sir, for ’tis a professional secret!”
He tapped his nose. “Mr. Ewing, are you acquainted with Marchioness
Grace of Mayfair? No? The better for you, for she is a corpse in
petticoats. Five years have passed since this harridan besmirched
my name, yes, with imputations that resulted in my being
blackballed from Society.” Dr. Goose looked out to sea. “My
peregrinations began in that dark hour.” 
　　I expressed sympathy with the doctor’s plight. 
　　“I thank you, sir, I thank you, but these ivories”—he shook his
’kerchief—“are my angels of redemption. Permit me to elucidate. The
Marchioness wears dental fixtures fashioned by the afore- mentioned
doctor. Next yuletide, just as that scented She-Donkey is
addressing her Ambassadors’ Ball, I, Henry Goose, yes, I shall
arise & declare to one & all that our hostess masticates
with cannibals’ gnashers! Sir Hubert will challenge me,
predictably, ‘Furnish your evidence,’ that boor shall roar, ‘or
grant me satisfaction!’ I shall declare, ‘Evidence, Sir Hubert?
Why, I gathered your mother’s teeth myself from the spittoon of the
South Pacific! Here, sir, here are some of their fellows!’ &
fling these very teeth into her tortoiseshell soup tureen &
that, sir, that will grant me my satisfaction! The twittering wits
will scald the icy Marchioness in their news sheets & by next
season she shall be fortunate to receive an invitation to a
Poorhouse Ball!” 
　　In haste, I bade Henry Goose a good day. I fancy he is a
Bedlamite. 
　　Friday, 8th November— 
　　In the rude shipyard beneath my window, work progresses on the
jibboom, under Mr. Sykes’s directorship. Mr. Walker, Ocean Bay’s
sole taverner, is also its principal timber merchant & he brags
of his years as a master shipbuilder in Liverpool. (I am now versed
enough in Antipodese etiquette to let such unlikely truths lie.)
Mr. Sykes told me an entire week is needed to render the Prophet-
ess “Bristol fashion.” Seven days holed up in the Musket seems a
grim sentence, yet I recall the fangs of the banshee tempest &
the mariners lost o’erboard & my present misfortune feels less
acute. 
　　I met Dr. Goose on the stairs this morning & we took
breakfast together. He has lodged at the Musket since middle
October after voyaging hither on a Brazilian merchantman,
Namorados, from Feejee, where he practiced his arts in a mission.
Now the doctor awaits a long-overdue Australian sealer, the Nellie,
to convey him to Sydney. From the colony he will seek a position
aboard a passenger ship for his native London. 
　　My judgment of Dr. Goose was unjust & premature. One must be
cynical as Diogenes to prosper in my profession, but cynicism can
blind one to subtler virtues. The doctor has his eccentricities
& recounts them gladly for a dram of Portuguese pisco (never to
excess), but I vouchsafe he is the only other gentleman on this
latitude east of Sydney & west of Valparaiso. I may even
compose for him a letter of introduction for the Partridges in
Sydney, for Dr. Goose & dear Fred are of the same cloth. 
　　Poor weather precluding my morning outing, we yarned by the peat
fire & the hours sped by like minutes. I spoke at length of
Tilda & Jackson & also my fears of “gold fever” in San
Francisco. Our conversation then voyaged from my hometown to my
recent notarial duties in New South Wales, thence to Gibbon,
Malthus & Godwin via Leeches & Locomotives. Attentive
conversation is an emollient I lack sorely aboard the Prophetess
& the doctor is a veritable polymath. Moreover, he possesses a
handsome army of scrimshandered chessmen whom we shall keep busy
until either the Prophetess’s departure or the Nellie’s
arrival. 
　　Saturday, 9th November— 
　　Sunrise bright as a silver dollar. Our schooner still looks a
woeful picture out in the Bay. An Indian war canoe is being
careened on the shore. Henry & I struck out for “Banqueter’ s
Beach” in holy-day mood, blithely saluting the maid who labors for
Mr. Walker. The sullen miss was hanging laundry on a shrub &
ignored us. She has a tinge of black blood & I fancy her mother
is not far removed from the jungle breed. 
　　As we passed below the Indian hamlet, a “humming” aroused our
curiosity & we resolved to locate its source. The settlement is
circumvallated by a stake fence, so decayed that one may gain
ingress at a dozen places. A hairless bitch raised her head, but
she was toothless & dying & did not bark. An outer ring of
ponga huts (fashioned from branches, earthen walls & matted
ceilings) groveled in the lees of “grandee” dwellings, wooden
structures with carved lintel pieces & rudimentary porches. In
the hub of this village, a public flogging was under way. Henry
& I were the only two Whites present, but three castes of
spectating Indians were demarked. The chieftain occupied his
throne, in a feathered cloak, while the tattooed gentry & their
womenfolk & children stood in attendance, numbering some thirty
in total. The slaves, duskier & sootier than their nut-brown
masters & less than half their number, squatted in the mud.
Such inbred, bovine torpor! Pockmarked & pustular with
haki-haki, these wretches watched the punishment, making no
response but that bizarre, beelike “hum.” Empathy or condemnation,
we knew not what the noise signified. The whip master was a Goliath
whose physique would daunt any frontier prizefighter. Lizards
mighty & small were tattooed over every inch of the savage’s
musculature:—his pelt would fetch a fine price, though I should not
be the man assigned to relieve him of it for all the pearls of
O-hawaii! The piteous prisoner, hoarfrosted with many harsh years,
was bound naked to an A-frame. His body shuddered with each
excoriating lash, his back was a vellum of bloody runes, but his
insensible face bespoke the serenity of a martyr already in the
care of the Lord. 
　　I confess, I swooned under each fall of the lash. Then a peculiar
thing occurred. The beaten savage raised his slumped head, found my
eye & shone me a look of uncanny, amicable knowing! As if a
theatrical performer saw a long-lost friend in the Royal Box and,
undetected by the audience, communicated his recognition. A
tattooed “blackfella” approached us & flicked his nephrite
dagger to indicate that we were unwelcome. I inquired after the
nature of the prisoner’s crime. Henry put his arm around me. “Come,
Adam, a wise man does not step betwixt the beast & his
meat.” 
　　Sunday, 10th November— 
　　Mr. Boerhaave sat amidst his cabal of trusted ruffians like Lord
Anaconda & his garter snakes. Their Sabbath “celebrations”
downstairs had begun ere I had risen. I went in search of shaving
water & found the tavern swilling with Tars awaiting their turn
with those poor Indian girls whom Walker has ensnared in an
impromptu bordello. (Rafael was not in the debauchers’
number.) 
　　I do not break my Sabbath fast in a whorehouse. Henry’s sense of
repulsion equaled to my own, so we forfeited breakfast (the maid
was doubtless being pressed into alternative service) & set out
for the chapel to worship with our fasts unbroken. 
　　We had not gone two hundred yards when, to my consternation, I
remembered this journal, lying on the table in my room at the
Musket, visible to any drunken sailor who might break in. Fearful
for its safety (& my own, were Mr. Boerhaave to get his hands
on it), I retraced my steps to conceal it more artfully. Broad
smirks greeted my return & I assumed I was “the devil being
spoken of,” but I learned the true reason when I opened my door:—to
wit, Mr. Boerhaave’s ursine buttocks astraddle his Blackamoor
Goldilocks in my bed in flagrante delicto! Did that devil Dutchman
apologize? Far from it! He judged himself the injured party &
roared, “Get ye hence, Mr. Quillcock! or by God’s B——d, I shall
snap your tricksy Yankee nib in two!” 
　　I snatched my diary & clattered downstairs to a riotocracy of
merriment & ridicule from the White savages there gathered. I
remonstrated to Walker that I was paying for a private room & I
expected it to remain private even during my absence, but that
scoundrel merely offered a one-third discount on “a quarter-hour’s
gallop on the co...

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