No Country for Old Men (Vintage International)[老无所依(电影版)] [平装] pdf epub mobi txt 电子书 下载 2025

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☆☆☆☆☆

Cormac McCarthy 著

图书标签:

• 犯罪小说
• 西部小说
• 悬疑
• 惊悚
• 美国文学
• 科恩兄弟
• 普利策获奖作品
• 黑色电影
• 现代文学
• 小说

出版社： Vintage Books USA

ISBN：9780307387134

版次：1

商品编码：19045229

包装：平装

丛书名： Vintage International

出版时间：2007-10-09

用纸：胶版纸

页数：320

正文语种：英文

商品尺寸：12.95x1.78x20.32cm

内容简介

In No Country for Old Men, Cormac McCarthy simultaneously strips down the American crime novel and broadens its concerns to encompass themes as ancient as the Bible and as bloodily contemporary as this morning’s headlines.

作者简介

Cormac McCarthy was born in Rhode Island. He later went to Chicago, where he worked as an auto mechanic while writing his first novel, The Orchard Keeper. The Orchard Keeper was published by Random House in 1965; McCarthy's editor there was Albert Erskine, William Faulkner's long-time editor. Before publication, McCarthy received a traveling fellowship from the American Academy of Arts and Letters, which he used to travel to Ireland. In 1966 he also received the Rockefeller Foundation Grant, with which he continued to tour Europe, settling on the island of Ibiza. Here, McCarthy completed revisions of his next novel, Outer Dark. In 1967, McCarthy returned to the United States, moving to Tennessee. Outer Dark was published by Random House in 1968, and McCarthy received the Guggenheim Fellowship for Creative Writing in 1969. His next novel, Child of God, was published in 1973. From 1974 to 1975, McCarthy worked on the screenplay for a PBS film called The Gardener's Son, which premiered in 1977. A revised version of the screenplay was later published by Ecco Press. In the late 1970s, McCarthy moved to Texas, and in 1979 published his fourth novel, Suttree, a book that had occupied his writing life on and off for twenty years. He received a MacArthur Fellowship in 1981, and published his fifth novel, Blood Meridian, in 1985. All the Pretty Horses, the first volume of The Border Trilogy, was published by Knopf in 1992. It won both the National Book Award and the National Book Critics Circle Award and was later turned into a feature film. The Stonemason, a play that McCarthy had written in the mid-1970s and subsequently revised, was published by Ecco Press in 1994. Soon thereafter, Knopf released the second volume of The Border Trilogy, The Crossing; the third volume, Cities of the Plain, was published in 1998.McCarthy's next novel, No Country for Old Men was published in 2005. This was followed in 2006 by a novel in dramatic form, The Sunset Limited, originally performed by Steppenwolf Theatre Company of Chicago and published in paperback by Vintage Books. McCarthy's most recent novel, The Road, was published in 2006 and won the Pulitzer Prize.

精彩书评

Seven years after Cities of the Plain brought his acclaimed Border Trilogy to a close, McCarthy returns with a mesmerizing modern-day western. In 1980 southwest Texas, Llewelyn Moss, hunting antelope near the Rio Grande, stumbles across several dead men, a bunch of heroin and $2.4 million in cash. The bulk of the novel is a gripping man-on-the-run sequence relayed in terse, masterful prose as Moss, who's taken the money, tries to evade Wells, an ex–Special Forces agent employed by a powerful cartel, and Chigurh, an icy psychopathic murderer armed with a cattle gun and a dangerous philosophy of justice. Also concerned about Moss's whereabouts is Sheriff Bell, an aging lawman struggling with his sense that there's a new breed of man (embodied in Chigurh) whose destructive power he simply cannot match. In a series of thoughtful first-person passages interspersed throughout, Sheriff Bell laments the changing world, wrestles with an uncomfortable memory from his service in WWII and—a soft ray of light in a book so steeped in bloodshed—rejoices in the great good fortune of his marriage. While the action of the novel thrills, it's the sensitivity and wisdom of Sheriff Bell that makes the book a profound meditation on the battle between good and evil and the roles choice and chance play in the shaping of a life.
--Starred Review

McCarthy’s Border Trilogy, distinguished by the award-winning All the Pretty Horses (1992), contains dark Westerns set against beautiful, bleak landscapes. His newest novel updates his character-driven plots and themes of violence and moral ambiguity. Perhaps the true sign of a master is one whose work raises debate—and this is what No Country has done. Most critics praised McCarthy’s clean, simple prose, though a few thought it too spare for such a graceful stylist. ("The man looked at Chigurh’s eyes for the first time. Blue as lapis. At once glistening and opaque. Like wet stones.") Compelling characters (even women) abound, but Sheriff Bell came off as either smart or too long winded. Finally, the violence seemed gratuitous to some. Even if No Country may be a more minor McCarthy novel, it’s still a terrifying page-turner in the vein of the Trilogy.
--Bookmarks Magazine

精彩书摘

I
I sent one boy to the gaschamber at Huntsville. One and only one. My arrest and my testimony. I went up there and visited with him two or three times. Three times. The last time was the day of his execution. I didnt have to go but I did. I sure didnt want to. He’d killed a fourteen year old girl and I can tell you right now I never did have no great desire to visit with him let alone go to his execution but I done it. The papers said it was a crime of passion and he told me there wasnt no passion to it. He’d been datin this girl, young as she was. He was nineteen. And he told me that he had been plannin to kill somebody for about as long as he could remember. Said that if they turned him out he’d do it again. Said he knew he was goin to hell. Told it to me out of his own mouth. I dont know what to make of that. I surely dont. I thought I’d never seen a person like that and it got me to wonderin if maybe he was some new kind. I watched them strap him into the seat and shut the door. He might of looked a bit nervous about it but that was about all. I really believe that he knew he was goin to be in hell in fifteen minutes. I believe that. And I’ve thought about that a lot. He was not hard to talk to. Called me Sheriff. But I didnt know what to say to him. What do you say to a man that by his own admission has no soul? Why would you say anything? I’ve thought about it a good deal. But he wasnt nothin compared to what was comin down the pike.
They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. I dont know what them eyes was the windows to and I guess I’d as soon not know. But there is another view of the world out there and other eyes to see it and that’s where this is goin. It has done brought me to a place in my life I would not of thought I’d of come to. Somewhere out there is a true and living prophet of destruction and I dont want to confront him. I know he’s real. I have seen his work. I walked in front of those eyes once. I wont do it again. I wont push my chips forward and stand up and go out to meet him. It aint just bein older. I wish that it was. I cant say that it’s even what you are willin to do. Because I always knew that you had to be willin to die to even do this job. That was always true. Not to sound glorious about it or nothin but you do. If you aint they’ll know it. They’ll see it in a heartbeat. I think it is more like what you are willin to become. And I think a man would have to put his soul at hazard. And I wont do that. I think now that maybe I never would.
The deputy left Chigurh standing in the corner of the office with his hands cuffed behind him while he sat in the swivelchair and took off his hat and put his feet up and called Lamar on the mobile.
Just walked in the door. Sheriff he had some sort of thing on him like one of them oxygen tanks for emphysema or whatever. Then he had a hose that run down the inside of his sleeve and went to one of them stunguns like they use at the slaughterhouse. Yessir. Well that’s what it looks like. You can see it when you get in. Yessir. I got it covered. Yessir.
When he stood up out of the chair he swung the keys off his belt and opened the locked desk drawer to get the keys to the jail. He was slightly bent over when Chigurh squatted and scooted his manacled hands beneath him to the back of his knees. In the same motion he sat and rocked backward and passed the chain under his feet and then stood instantly and effortlessly. If it looked like a thing he’d practiced many times it was. He dropped his cuffed hands over the deputy’s head and leaped into the air and slammed both knees against the back of the deputy’s neck and hauled back on the chain.
They went to the floor. The deputy was trying to get his hands inside the chain but he could not. Chigurh lay there pulling back on the bracelets with his knees between his arms and his face averted. The deputy was flailing wildly and he’d begun to walk sideways over the floor in a circle, kicking over the wastebasket, kicking the chair across the room. He kicked shut the door and he wrapped the throwrug in a wad about them. He was gurgling and bleeding from the mouth. He was strangling on his own blood. Chigurh only hauled the harder. The nickelplated cuffs bit to the bone. The deputy’s right carotid artery burst and a jet of blood shot across the room and hit the wall and ran down it. The deputy’s legs slowed and then stopped. He lay jerking. Then he stopped moving altogether. Chigurh lay breathing quietly, holding him. When he got up he took the keys from the deputy’s belt and released himself and put the deputy’s revolver in the waistband of his trousers and went into the bathroom.
He ran cold water over his wrists until they stopped bleeding and he tore strips from a handtowel with his teeth and wrapped his wrists and went back into the office. He sat on the desk and fastened the toweling with tape from a dispenser, studying the dead man gaping up from the floor. When he was done he got the deputy’s wallet out of his pocket and took the money and put it in the pocket of his shirt and dropped the wallet to the floor. Then he picked up his airtank and the stungun and walked out the door and got into the deputy’s car and started the engine and backed around and pulled out and headed up the road.
On the interstate he picked out a late model Ford sedan with a single driver and turned on the lights and hit the siren briefly. The car pulled onto the shoulder. Chigurh pulled in behind him and shut off the engine and slung the tank across his shoulder and stepped out. The man was watching him in the rearview mirror as he walked up.
What’s the problem, officer? he said.
Sir would you mind stepping out of the vehicle?
The man opened the door and stepped out. What’s this about? he said.
Would you step away from the vehicle please.
The man stepped away from the vehicle. Chigurh could see the doubt come into his eyes at this bloodstained figure before him but it came too late. He placed his hand on the man’s head like a faith healer. The pneumatic hiss and click of the plunger sounded like a door closing. The man slid soundlessly to the ground, a round hole in his forehead from which the blood bubbled and ran down into his eyes carrying with it his slowly uncoupling world visible to see. Chigurh wiped his hand with his handkerchief. I just didnt want you to get blood on the car, he said.
Moss sat with the heels of his boots dug into the volcanic gravel of the ridge and glassed the desert below him with a pair of twelve power german binoculars. His hat pushed back on his head. Elbows propped on his knees. The rifle strapped over his shoulder with a harnessleather sling was a heavybarreled .270 on a ’98 Mauser action with a laminated stock of maple and walnut. It carried a Unertl telescopic sight of the same power as the binoculars. The antelope were a little under a mile away. The sun was up less than an hour and the shadow of the ridge and the datilla and the rocks fell far out across the floodplain below him. Somewhere out there was the shadow of Moss himself. He lowered the binoculars and sat studying the land. Far to the south the raw mountains of Mexico. The breaks of the river. To the west the baked terracotta terrain of the run- ning borderlands. He spat dryly and wiped his mouth on the shoulder of his cotton workshirt.
The rifle would shoot half minute of angle groups. Five inch groups at one thousand yards. The spot he’d picked to shoot from lay just below a long talus of lava scree and it would put him well within that distance. Except that it would take the better part of an hour to get there and the antelope were grazing away from him. The best he could say about any of it was that there was no wind.
When he got to the foot of the talus he raised himself slowly and looked for the antelope. They’d not moved far from where he last saw them but the shot was still a good seven hundred yards. He studied the animals through the binoculars. In the compressed air motes and heat distortion. A low haze of shimmering dust and pollen. There was no other cover and there wasnt going to be any other shot.
He wallowed down in the scree and pulled off one boot and laid it over the rocks and lowered the forearm of the rifle down into the leather and pushed off the safety with his thumb and sighted through the scope.
They stood with their heads up, all of them, looking at him.
Damn, he whispered. The sun was behind him so they couldnt very well have seen light reflect off the glass of the scope. They had just flat seen him.
The rifle had a Canjar trigger set to nine ounces and he pulled the rifle and the boot toward him with great care and sighted again and jacked the crosshairs slightly up the back of the animal standing most broadly to him. He knew the exact drop of the bullet in hundred yard increments. It was the distance that was uncertain. He laid his finger in the curve of the trigger. The boar’s tooth he wore on a gold chain spooled onto the rocks inside his elbow.

边境的低语：追踪命运的幽灵 本书简介 在这部令人毛骨悚然、气氛压抑的叙事中，我们被猛地拽入德克萨斯州西部的广袤荒原，一个法律与道德的界限如同干裂的河床般模糊不清的领域。这不是一个关于英雄与恶棍的传统故事，而是一场关于人性的荒谬、无法逃避的宿命，以及现代世界中暴力如何像不可阻挡的瘟疫般扩散的深刻沉思。 故事始于一个鲁莽的决定。莱韦林·莫斯（Llewelyn Moss），一个在石油钻井平台上工作的普通工人，偶然间闯入了一场失败的毒品交易现场。他发现的不是一堆毒品，而是堆积如山的现金，以及两具冰冷的尸体。那一刻，莫斯选择了一条不归路——他带走了那笔钱。他以为自己赢得了改变命运的机会，却不知道自己已经触动了一个比他想象中任何人都更冷酷、更有效率的捕食者——安东·西格（Anton Chigurh）。 西格，一个有着近乎哲学意味的残忍的杀手，他没有固定的动机，只有一套遵循的规则。他的工具箱里没有普通的手枪，只有一把高压空气压缩枪，这种武器的嘶鸣声和致命的精确性，成为了死亡在干旱平原上行走时的独特标志。他不是为了金钱而来，而是为了完成“修正”这个世界秩序的使命——任何打破平衡的人都必须被抹去。他的每一次出现，都伴随着一种令人窒息的必然性，仿佛命运本身披上了一层人皮。 与此形成鲜明对比的，是退休警长埃德·汤姆·贝尔（Ed Tom Bell）。贝尔是旧日法律与秩序的最后一位守门人，一个在目睹了二十年来德州警务工作的日渐堕落后，内心充满疲惫与困惑的老人。他目睹了犯罪手法的演变，从传统的抢劫与谋杀，升级到这种毫无理由、近乎形而上学的暴力。当莫斯的失踪案浮出水面，并牵扯出那笔神秘的巨款时，贝尔不得不重新穿上警徽，踏上这条他早已厌倦的搜寻之路。他试图理解这一切的逻辑——如果还有逻辑可言——却发现自己面对的，是一个没有动机、只有结果的世界。 小说的结构如同沙漠中的迷宫，多线叙事交织推进，但始终围绕着那笔钱和追逐者与被追逐者之间的致命舞蹈展开。 莫斯的逃亡充满了智慧和绝望。他深知自己面对的是什么，他像一只被猎犬锁定的兔子，利用沙漠的险恶环境、旅店的临时避难所，以及对人性的精确判断来暂时延缓死亡的到来。他努力保护他的妻子卡拉·让（Carla Jean），但枪响和阴影似乎总能找到穿透墙壁的缝隙。每一次他以为自己已经脱身，下一次的电话铃声或是不速之客的敲门声，都将他拉回现实：他所拥有的，不过是借来的时间。 西格的视角则令人不安地冷静。他的行动基于一种冷酷的计算和对概率的掌握。他不是一个会发怒的人，也不是一个会怜悯的人。他使用抛硬币来决定无辜者的生死，这不仅仅是一种手法，更是一种宣言：在某些至高无上的力量面前，人类的自由意志不过是一个随机事件。他所到之处，只留下沉默的尸体和等待被解读的信号。 贝尔的视角则承载了小说的全部哲学重量。他不断地与自己的过去对话，回忆着他刚入行时那些“可以理解”的犯罪，以及现在这种无法解释的、纯粹的虚无主义暴力。他追逐的不仅仅是莫斯或西格，他追逐的是一个正在消逝的时代，一个他曾经相信的道德体系。当他最终接近真相的边缘时，他发现自己面对的深渊，比他想象的还要空旷。 这部作品对美国西部的传统“边疆神话”进行了彻底的颠覆。这里的荒凉不再是英雄可以大展身手的舞台，而是人性被剥去外衣，暴露其最原始恐惧的试验场。语言简洁有力，场景描绘细致入微，作者如同一个冷漠的观察者，记录着每一个呼吸和每一个滴落的血点。 它探讨了选择的重量，以及当暴力成为一种行业、一种哲学，甚至是一种艺术时，普通人如何徒劳地试图与之抗衡。最终，读者会意识到，在这片无垠的土地上，追逐与被追逐的界限终将模糊，而真正的恐怖，不在于谁拿走了钱，而在于那股驱使一切发生的、看不见的、不可阻挡的力量。这是一次对现代困境的深刻、令人不安的审视，其结局留下的回响，将久久萦绕在读者的脑海之中。

评分☆☆☆☆☆

这本书的对话是绝妙的。它们极其口语化，充满了地方色彩，却又蕴含着深刻的哲学思辨。角色之间很少进行无谓的寒暄，每一句话都像是经过千锤百炼的，直击要害。尤其是一些关于命运、关于选择的对白，简洁到让人忍不住停下来，反复咀嚼其中的深意。这种文学处理方式，让读者在阅读时不得不积极参与到文本的意义构建中去。它不像有些小说把所有东西都喂到你嘴边，而是要求你弯下腰，在沙砾中去寻找那些闪光的真理碎片。我常常在想，如果把这些对话抽离出来，它们本身就是一组组极具力量的短篇故事。这种对白艺术，与小说整体那种荒凉、不加修饰的美学风格完美地融合在一起，形成了一种独一无二的阅读体验，令人过目难忘。

评分☆☆☆☆☆

看完这本书后，我花了好几天时间才真正“走出来”。它带来的后劲太大了，以至于我看向周围的世界时，总会不自觉地用书中那种冷峻的滤镜去审视一切。这本书的结构非常巧妙，看似是几条平行的线索，最终却以一种近乎宿命论的方式交汇在一起，揭示了某种宏大的、超越个人意志的运作法则。它探讨的“恶”不是那种可以被法律制裁的恶，而是一种宇宙性的、难以名状的熵增力量。我特别欣赏作者在描绘环境时的笔法，那些干旱的平原、无垠的夜空，不仅仅是故事发生的背景，它们本身就是角色，是压迫主角的沉默力量。阅读这本书，就像是参与了一场漫长而痛苦的仪式，它剥去了你对世界的许多不切实际的幻想，但同时也赋予了你一种更清醒、更坚韧的生存视角。

评分☆☆☆☆☆

这本小说给我带来的震撼，简直是文字力量的极致展现。科马克·麦卡锡的笔触冷峻而精准，像一把锋利的手术刀，毫不留情地剖开了人性的幽暗角落。故事的推进充满了宿命般的压迫感，你仿佛能闻到德州旷野上那股干燥、令人窒息的尘土味。人物塑造极其成功，特别是那个几乎是纯粹邪恶化身的杀手，他的存在本身就是对秩序和道德的彻底颠覆。读这本书的过程更像是一种体验，一种直面混乱和暴力的过程，而不是简单的消遣。每一次翻页都伴随着心跳的加速，因为你知道，作者不会给你任何安慰，他只会把真相赤裸裸地摆在你面前，让你自己去消化那种无处不在的、随机的、毫无理由的残酷。那种感觉就像置身于一场永无止境的、没有明确目标的追逐中，你知道自己跑不掉，但又必须不停地跑下去。结局的处理更是高明，它没有提供任何廉价的答案或正义的宣泄，留给读者的只有无尽的回味和对生命本质的深刻反思。

评分☆☆☆☆☆

我得承认，这本书并不适合所有人。它非常“硬核”，需要读者投入极大的专注力去跟随那些看似散漫却又紧密相连的叙事线索。对我个人而言，这本书更像是一部现代西部悲剧的史诗，只不过这里的英雄不再是骑着白马拯救人民的警长，而是一个被卷入漩涡、努力想保有自己那点可怜尊严的普通人。书中弥漫着一种强烈的“失落感”，不是怀旧式的怀旧，而是一种关于道德高地和人性光辉正在迅速崩塌的失落。那种仿佛整个世界都在向后退化的绝望感，通过主角最后的困境被放大到了极致。我喜欢那种氛围的营造，那种仿佛时间静止在某个荒凉的交叉路口，所有选择都导向同一片虚无的感受。它不像很多惊悚小说那样追求高潮迭起，它的张力是持续性的、渗透性的，像一滴水慢慢滴穿石头。

评分☆☆☆☆☆

说实话，初读这本书时，我感到一种强烈的疏离感，那种简洁到近乎残忍的句式结构，一开始确实让人有些不适应。麦卡锡似乎完全摒弃了传统小说中那些繁复的内心独白和情绪铺垫，他只是冷漠地记录着事件的发生。然而，正是这种克制，反而带来了更强大的情感冲击力。当你习惯了他的节奏后，你会发现每一个被省略的逗号和省略的引导词，都像是在推动故事以一种不可逆转的、机械般的步伐向前。书中对暴力场面的描绘，没有丝毫的煽情或美化，它就是在那里，冷酷、直接、后果严重。这迫使我必须自己去构建和感受那种恐惧和绝望。这本书的厉害之处在于，它探讨的不是“好人”与“坏人”的对决，而是当“绝对的混乱”降临时，个体如何挣扎求存。它让我开始思考，我们赖以生存的社会规则，在真正的原始力量面前，究竟有多么脆弱不堪。

评分☆☆☆☆☆

如题................................

评分☆☆☆☆☆

和中文版一起买的，用来增进英文能力

评分☆☆☆☆☆

比我预想的要小一点，没买的其他书精致，不过价钱在那，还好吧。

评分☆☆☆☆☆

这本书，写的很细腻。。。。。

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京东这次的活动很给力，一下买了十几本原版书，此书素质不错。

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不知道是不会是英语小说都是这么贵

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比我预想的要小一点，没买的其他书精致，不过价钱在那，还好吧。

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too good to play on the big screen

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电影缩短版，但是经典。