舞!舞!舞!（英文版，Dance Dance Dance）|报价￥79.20|图书,小说,英文原版小说,
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基本信息
·出版社：Vintage
·页码：393 页码
·出版日：2002年
·ISBN：0099448769
·条码：9780099448761
·版次：2002-02-01
·装帧：平装
·开本：32开 32开
内容简介
High-class call girls billed to Mastercard. A psychic 13-year-old dropout with a passion for Talking Heads. A hunky matinee idol doomed to play dentists and teachers. A one-armed beach-combing poet, an uptight hotel clerk and one very bemused narrator caught in the web of advanced capitalist mayhem. Combine this offbeat cast of characters with Murakami's idiosyncratic prose and out comes Dance Dance Dance. It is an assault on the sense, part murder mystery, part metaphysical speculation; a fable for our times as catchy as a rock song blasting from the window of a sports car.
作者简介
Haruki Murakami was born in Kyoto in 1949.He met his wife,Yoko,at university and they openet a jazz club in Tokyo called Peter Cat.The massive success of his novel Norwegian Wood(1987)made him a ntional celebrity.He fled Japan and did not return until1995.His other books include Dance Dance Dance,Hare-boiled Wonderland and the End of the World,A Wild Sheep Chase,The Wind-up Bird Chronicle,Underground,his first work of non-fiction,Sputnik Sweetheart,and Soutb of the Border,West of thd Sputnik Sweetheart,and soutb of the work of F.Scott Sun.He has translated into Japanese the work of F.Scott Fitzgerald,Truman Cppote,John Irving and Raymond Carver.
媒体推荐
Customer Reviews
Reviewer: Kevin Scales
Although Dance Dance Dance is probably my favorite Haruki Murakami novel besides The Wind Up Bird Chronicle, and possibly the deepest, I just have to start with an amusing observation. That is that four of the five Murakami novels I've read have prominently involved mysterious vanishing women. Sometimes they show up again soon, sometimes later, and sometimes not at all. I might think he was running short of ideas if his novels were not so rich in imagination that each plot works.
But on to more important points. I'm finally getting a grasp on what Murakamis are all about. In this one, we meet an unnamed writer of magazine filler articles (shoveling snow is his metaphor; someone has to do it, so it may as well be him). In the beginning he finds himself out of town, staying at the site of the Dolphin hotel where four years earlier his girlfriend just vanished one day. Now, he finds that the run down dump has been replaced by a glittering new luxury hotel of the same name. Compelled to stay, he meets up with an attractive young clerk, and discovers strange goings on. Later he escorts a young girl back to Tokyo and meets up with an old school friend who is now a famous actor. Through it all we see him passing through a world of shallowness and false glamour, and get a taste of yearning for a simpler life.
As usual, I find it hard to say more about what actually happens. So much of Murakami is hidden in the style and the background that I dare not say too much for fear of giving something away. It's better to get it from the actual text than from me. He returns to (or predates, I'd have to check the copyright dates) the sort of strange and unsettling otherworldliness that we find in Wind Up Bird, but the effect here is not as jarring to the consciousness of the reader. All in all, an exceptional work.
Reviewer: "pierce_inverarity" (silicon valley)
A sheep-man sits in a hotel room and operates a switchboard connecting the lonely, drifting narrator to a web of unforgottable individuals. The sheep-man's room is full of books about, well, sheep, and the narrator mostly experiences reality with the aid of his thirteen-year-old sort-of girlfriend. Logs of days spent "lolling" on the beach, wonderful descriptions of pizza, allusions to Boy George and the Talking Heads, and the sense of frantically trying to escape something (or is it find something?) all combine to make a novel that is not plotted, but choreographed.
Dance Dance Dance is electrifying, captivating, and intense -- and it's pretty brainy too, much like Murakami's characters. The narrator's perspective is standard Murakami: the slightly dreamy, out-of-place 30ish man trying to reason with a world that seems stranger by the minute. Assumptions constantly fall, and no one is sure what or whom to believe.
Yet the strange-goings on are the only thing rescuing the narrator from the miasma of ennui that comes from having rejected the dream of being a "salaryman" with a family and a linear, predictable lifestyle. This is a novel about staring out into the unknown -- and staring deeply into that unknown, it seems Murakami is saying, is the only way to find meaning if we reject the traditional lives that have been prearranged for us.
The only slightly negative thing I can say about this novel is that the plot and the characters have uncanny similarities to those in The Wind Up Bird Chronicle. It almost seems as if Murakami had one outline of a novel, which could go two different ways, and made one into the Wind Up Bird Chronicle, and the other into this book. The narrator's voice, and many of the supporting characters, are exactly the same, as are several plot elements.
Overall, this is significant, and highly enjoyable literature. It manages to ask deep questions about reality, fate, relationships, family, and life, while still packing the thrills of something much more pulpish.
编辑推荐
High-class call girls billed to Mastercard. A psychic 13-year-old dropout with a passion for Talking Heads. A hunky matinee idol doomed to play dentists and teachers. A one-armed beach-combing poet, an uptight hotel clerk and one very bemused narrator caught in the web of advanced capitalist mayhem. Combine this offbeat cast of characters with Murakami's idiosyncratic prose and out comes Dance Dance Dance. It is an assault on the sense, part murder mystery, part metaphysical speculation; a fable for our times as catchy as a rock song blasting from the window of a sports car.
文摘
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I often dream about the Dolphin Hotel.
In these dreams, I'm there, implicated in some kind of ongoing circumstance. All indications are that I belong to this dream continuity.
The Dolphin Hotel is distorted, much too narrow. It seems more like a long, covered bridge. A bridge stretching endlessly through time. And there I am, in the middle of it. Someone else is there too, crying.
The hotel envelops me. I can feel its pulse, its heat. In dreams, I am part of the hotel.
I wake up, but where? I don't just think this, I actually voice the question to myself: ?Where am I?? As if I didn't know: I'm here. In my life. A feature of the world that is my existence. Not that I particularly recall ever having approved these matters, this condition, this state of affairs in which I feature. There might be a woman sleeping next to me. More often, I'm alone. Just me and the expressway that runs right next to my apartment and, bedside, a glass (five millimeters of whiskey still in it) and the malicious — no, make that indifferent—dusty morning light. Sometimes it's raining. If it is, I'll just stay in bed. And if there's whiskey still left in the glass, I'll drink it. And I'll look at the raindrops dripping from the eaves, and I'll think about the Dolphin Hotel. Maybe I'll stretch, nice and slow. Enough for me to be sure I'm myself and not part of something else. Yet I'll remember the feel of the dream. So much that I swear I can reach out and touch it, and the whole of that something that includes me will move. If I strain my ears, I can hear the slow, cautious sequence of play take place, like droplets in an intricate water puzzle falling, step upon step, one after the other. I listen carefully. That's when I hear someone softly, almost imperceptibly, weeping. A sobbing from somewhere in the darkness. Someone is crying for me.
The Dolphin Hotel is a real hotel. It actually exists in a so-so section of Sapporo. Once, a
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