一个人的朝圣2 奎妮的情歌 [正版]一个人的朝圣2 奎妮的情歌 英文原版小说 The Love Song of Miss

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书名：The Love Song of Miss Queenie Hennessy一个人的朝圣2：奎妮的情歌
作者：Rachel Joyce
出版社名称：Black Swan
出版时间：2015
语种：英文
ISBN：9781784160302
商品尺寸：12.7 x 2.4 x 19.8 cm
包装：平装
页数：384

★2013－2015年触动万千读者的全球首席热销书，布克奖入围作品《一个人的朝圣》相伴之作。

★“我写的不是《一个人的朝圣》的续集，也不是一部前传。我写的这一本书，它和哈罗德·弗莱比肩而坐。我会把这本书称为，一个伴儿。”——本书作者蕾秋•乔伊斯
★英、德、美、意等国相继重磅上市，各国书店重点码堆，掀起阅读热潮，美国读者五星好评推荐，《人物周刊》《英国卫报》《每日电讯报》《华盛顿邮报》等媒体热推，红遍欧美各国。
★这是《一个人的朝圣》故事的另一面。这是哈罗德627公里旅程的另一端，奎妮的诉说和告别。当哈罗德开始旅程的同时，奎妮的旅程也开始了。哈罗德被成千上万的人爱着，奎妮也一样。
★关于如何处理痛苦，如何爱，如何休息和放松，关于一个人看见另一个人，给予，我是谁，以及我们已遗忘的爱。引发你我深层的共鸣，一如《一个人的朝圣》。
★《奎妮的情歌》是来帮助我们的。——《华盛顿邮报》
★迷人的相伴，带着苦和甜，对生命微小瞬间的朴素歌唱，智慧之美，坚定的爱之光芒。给每一个心有悲伤、还在爱的人。
★本书延续了《一个人的朝圣》写作风格，金句比比皆是，抚慰人心。
From the author of the 2 million+ copy, worldwide bestseller, The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry, an exquisite, funny and heartrending parallel story.

Review
"5 stars"(The Telegraph)
"Touching ... a quiet, gentle, moving novel. Joyce's writing has a simplicity that sings and she captures hope best of all." (The Observer)
"If you loved The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry, you'll be thrilled with this sequel."(The Sun)
"Invest in a box of Kleenex before you start this tear-jerker - [one of] this month's big reads." (Women & Home)
"A beautiful story which will grip you, make you laugh and cry, uplift your spirit and leave you feeling profoundly grateful and changed by the reading experience ... This is a wonderful book about loss, redemption and joy – and I give it my own prize." (Bel Mooney The Daily Mail)

在《一个人的朝圣》里，65岁的哈罗德，87天行走627英里，只为了一个信念：只要他在走，奎妮就会活下来。

这是故事的另一面，这是奎妮，这里有一个埋藏了20年的秘密，有生命中无数的微小瞬间，有温暖的大手，坐在车里的对话，海上的花园。如何处理痛苦，如何爱，如何休息和放松，如何相处，“因为同一样东西发笑也可以是另一种在一起的方式”。当哈罗德开始旅程的同时，奎妮的旅程也开始了。他们因此各自变得完整。

“跟哈罗德一样，奎妮有其阳光和黑暗的一面，但当故事结束，合上书本，作者巧妙地让黑暗消失了，挥之不去的是奎妮坚定的爱的光芒。”

没错，奎妮的情歌是来帮助我们的。

When Queenie Hennessy discovers that Harold Fry is walking the length of England to save her, and all she has to do is wait, she is shocked. Her note had explained she was dying. How can she wait?

A new volunteer at the hospice suggests that Queenie should write again; only this time she must tell Harold everything. In confessing to secrets she has hidden for twenty years, she will find atonement for the past. As the volunteer points out, 'Even though you've done your travelling, you're starting a new journey too.' 

Queenie thought her first letter would be the end of the story. She was wrong. It was the beginning.

Told in simple, emotionally-honest prose, with a mischievous bite, this is a novel about the journey we all must take to learn who we are; it is about loving and letting go. And most of all it is about finding joy in unexpected places and at times we least expect.

蕾秋·乔伊斯，英国BBC资深剧作家，《星期日泰晤士报》专栏作者，于2007年获得Tinniswood广播剧奖。她还在皇家莎士比亚剧团、皇家国家剧院担任主要角色。

乔伊斯于20年的舞台剧和电视职业生涯之后转向写作，2012年出版小说《一个人的朝圣》，该书入围2012年布克文学奖及英联邦书奖，目前已畅销38国。
Rachel Joyce is the author of the Sunday Times and international bestsellers The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry and Perfect. The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry was shortlisted for the Commonwealth Book Prize and longlisted for the Man Booker Prize and has been translated into 34 languages. Rachel Joyce was awarded the Specsavers National Book Awards 'New Writer of the Year' in December 2012.
She is also the author of the short story, A Faraway Smell of Lemon and is the award-winning writer of over 30 original afternoon plays and classic adaptations for BBC Radio 4. 
Rachel Joyce lives with her family in Gloucestershire.All you have to do is wait!

Your letter arrived this morning. We were in the dayroom for morning activities. Everyone was asleep.
Sister Lucy, who is the youngest nun volunteering in the hospice, asked if anyone would like to help with her new jigsaw. Nobody answered. “Scrabble?” she said.
Nobody stirred.
“How about Mousetrap?” said Sister Lucy. “That’s a lovely game.”
I was in a chair by the window. Outside, the winter evergreens flapped and shivered. One lone seagull balanced in the sky.
“Hangman?” said Sister Lucy. “Anyone?”
A patient nodded, and Sister Lucy fetched paper. By the time she’d got sorted, pens and a glass of water and so on, he was dozing again.
Life is different for me at the hospice. The colors, the smells, the way a day passes. But I close my eyes and I pretend that the heat of the radiator is the sun on my hands and the smell of lunch is salt in the air. I hear the patients cough, and it is only the wind in my garden by the sea. I can imagine all sorts of things, Harold, if I put my mind to it.
Sister Catherine strode in with the morning delivery. “Post!” she sang. Full volume. “Look what I have here!”
“Oh, oh, oh,” went everyone, sitting up.
Sister Catherine passed several brown envelopes, forwarded, to a Scotsman known as Mr. Henderson. There was a card for the new young woman. (She arrived yesterday. I don’t know her name.) There is a big man they call the Pearly King, and he had another parcel though I have been here a week and I haven’t yet seen him open one. The blind lady, Barbara, received a note from her neighbor—­Sister Catherine read it out—­spring is coming, it said. The loud woman called Finty opened a letter informing her that if she scratched off the foil window, she would discover that she’d won an exciting prize.
“And, Queenie, something for you.” Sister Catherine crossed the room, holding out an envelope. “Don’t look so frightened.”
I knew your writing. One glance and my pulse was flapping. Great, I thought. I don’t hear from the man in twenty years, and then he sends a letter and gives me a heart attack.
I stared at the postmark. Kingsbridge. Straight away I could picture the muddy blue of the estuary, the little boats moored to the quay. I heard the slapping of water against the plastic buoys and the clack of rigging against the masts. I didn’t dare open the envelope. I just kept looking and looking and remembering.
Sister Lucy rushed to my aid. She tucked her childlike finger under the flap and wiggled it along the fold to tear the envelope open. “Shall I read it out for you, Queenie?” I tried to say no, but the no came out as a funny noise she mistook for a yes. She unfolded the page, and her face seeped with pink. Then she began to read. “It’s from someone called Harold Fry.”
She went as slowly as she could, but there were a few words only. “I am very sorry. Best wishes. Oh, but there’s a P.S. too,” said Sister Lucy. “He says, Wait for me.” She gave an optimistic shrug. “Well, that’s nice. Wait for him? I suppose he’s going to make a visit.”
Sister Lucy folded the letter carefully and tucked it back inside the envelope. Then she placed my post in my lap, as if that were the end of it. A warm tear slipped down the side of my nose. I hadn’t heard your name spoken for twenty years. I had held the words only inside my head.
“Aw,” said Sister Lucy. “Don’t be upset, Queenie. It’s all right.” She pulled a tissue from the family-­size box on the coffee table and carefully wiped the corner of my closed-­up eye, my stretched mouth, even the thing that is on the side of my face. She held my hand, and all I could think of was my hand in yours, long ago, in a stationery cupboard.
“Maybe Harold Fry will come tomorrow,” said Sister Lucy.
At the coffee table, Finty still scratched away at the foil window on her letter. “Come on, you little bugger,” she grunted.