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吉莉安·弗琳（Gillian Flynn），出生于美国密苏里州堪萨斯市，作家及资深媒体人。父母皆为大学教授，从小便在无数的书籍和电影的浸润下成长。大学毕业后进入加州的一家杂志媒体，之后定居芝加哥，并在西北大学取得了新闻学硕士学位，进入《娱乐周刊》工作，常在世界各地的拍片现场进行采访。迄今为止，吉莉安·弗琳已出版三部小说，部部都揽获了文坛与媒体的无数好评。更是凭借本期推荐——《Gone Girl》一书，弗琳跻身美国畅销书作家之列。处女作《Sharp Objects》入围“爱伦·坡奖”决选，并创下了史上首度同时获得两座英国匕首奖的罕见记录。《Dark Places》和《Gone Girl》则双双荣登《纽约时报》畅销书排行榜。二十世纪福克斯电影公司还天价抢下了《Gone Girl》的电影版权，《七宗罪》及《返老还童》的导演大卫·芬奇只看了两页书稿便表示要执导同名电影。
整部小说以两人购房的矛盾开篇，预示了接下来的情节将会是一波三折。男主人公尼克一切都要遂自己心愿的性格造就了这场悲剧，婚姻也犹如那道千里之堤一般，但它却更加经不起蚁穴的浸毁。女主人公艾米在与尼克结婚五周年纪念日的当天，离奇失踪！尼克通过媒体深情告白，疯狂寻找消失的爱人。然而，艾米的一本日记，字字直指尼克是真凶。霎时间，人人自危，开始重新审视枕边人……到底谁才是凶手，到底是为了什么？婚姻的经营到底能不能敷衍，懒散消极的爱人到底又该不该得到教训？吉莉安·弗琳将用她那如刀锋般犀利的笔锋，为你讲述一个又一个令人心惊胆战的情节，她将给你一种经历，那种经历叫作——目不转睛。
NICK DUNNE THE DAY OF
When I think of my wife， I always think of her head. The shape of it， to begin with. The very first time I saw her， it was the back of the head I saw， and there was something lovely about it， the angles of it. Like a shiny， hard corn 1）kernel or a riverbed fossil. She had what the 2）Victorians would call a finely shaped head. You could imagine the skull quite easily. I’d know her head anywhere.
And what’s inside it. I think of that， too： her mind. Her brain， all those coils， and her thoughts shutting through those coils like fast， frantic 3）centipedes. Like a child， I picture opening her skull， unspooling her brain and sifting through it， trying to catch and pin down her thoughts. What are you thinking， Amy？ The question I’ve asked most often during our marriage， if not out loud， if not to the person who could answer. I suppose these question stormcloud over every marriage： What are you thinking？ How are you feeling？ Who are you？ What have we done to each other？ What will we do？
尼克·邓恩事发当日
每当想起我太太，我总会想起她的头。先是轮廓：第一眼见到她时，我望见的就是她的后脑，其自有某种曼妙之处，好似一粒闪亮坚硬的玉米粒儿，要不然便是河床上的一块化石。在维多利亚时代，人们定会夸她“头型雅致”，你简直一下子就能想出颅骨的形状。不管在哪儿，我都不会错认她那颗小脑袋。
我也会想起那颗脑袋里的思绪。她的脑中有着无数沟回，一个个念头穿梭其间，好似狂乱的蜈蚣。我像个孩子一般想象着一幕场景：我要打开她的头颅，理清沟回，捉住思绪，让其无处可逃。“你在想些什么呢，艾米？”自结婚以来，这是我问得最多的问题，即使我没有大声问出口，也没有问那个掌握着答案的人；但据我猜想，这些问题恰似阴云一般笼罩着每一段婚姻——“你在想些什么呢？你感觉怎么样？你是谁？我们都对彼此做了些什么？我们该怎么办？”
My eyes flipped open at exactly six a.m. This was no avian fluttering of the lashes， no gentle blink toward consciousness. The awakening was mechanical. A spooky ventriloquist—dummy click of the lids： The world is black and then， showtime！ 6-0-0 the clock said—in my face， first thing I saw. 6-0-0. It felt different. I rarely woke at such a rounded time. I was a man of jagged risings： 8：43， 11：51， 9：26. My life was alarmless. At that exact moment， 6-0-0， the sun climbed over the skyline of oaks， revealing its full summer angry—God self. Its reflection flared across the river toward our house， a long， blaring finger aimed at me through our frail bedroom curtains. Accusing： You have been seen. You will be seen. I 4）wallowed in bed， which was our New York bed in our new house， which we still called the new house， even though we’d been here for two years. It’s a rented house right along the Mississippi River， a house that screams Suburban 5）Nouveau Riche， the kind of place I aspired to as a kid from my 6）splitlevel， shag-carpet side of town. The kind of house that is immediately familiar： a generically grand， unchallenging， new， new， new house that my wife would—and
did—detest.
清晨六点整，我睁开了眼睛，可不是睡眼惺忪悠然醒来，这次我是直挺挺地醒过来的。眼帘“咔嗒”一下睁开，好似诡异的木偶娃娃，眼前先是一片漆黑，紧接着——好戏登场！我面前的闹钟显示六点整——我一眼瞧见：六点整。这种感觉有点怪，因为我很少在整点睡醒，我这人起床的时间很不规律，要么是八点四十三分，要么是十一点五十一分，要么是九点二十六分。我的生活可不受闹钟的摆布。恰在六点整，夏日朝阳从橡树丛背后喷薄而出，露出凌人的气势。阳光在河面上投下了一片倒影，光亮照耀着我们的屋子，活像一根亮闪闪的长手指，刺破卧室里薄薄的窗帘指向我，仿佛在控诉：“你已经暴露在光天化日之下，你终究会暴露在光天化日之下。”
我正在床上辗转反侧，身下躺的是在纽约用过的那张床，身处的却是我们位于密苏里州的“新家”。回到密苏里州已经两年了，我们却仍然把这栋房子叫作“新家”。这是一栋租来的房子，位于密西西比河畔，从上到下都流露出一股暴发户气质，儿时住在铺着粗毛地毯的错层式小破屋里时，我便一心期盼着这种豪宅。房子看上去似曾相识，模样倒是宏伟豪华、中规中矩，也新得不能再新，可惜注定不讨我太太的欢心，话说回来，她也确实对我们的“新家”深恶痛绝。
“Should I remove my soul before I come inside？” Her first line upon arrival. It had been a compromise： Amy demanded we rent， not buy， in my little Missouri hometown， in her firm hope that we wouldn’t be stuck here long. But the only houses for rent were clustered in this failed development： a miniature ghost town of bankowned， recession-busted， price-reduced mansions， a neighborhood that closed before it ever opened. It was a compromise， but Amy didn’t see it that way， not in the least. To Amy， it was a punishing whim on my part， a nasty， selfish twist of the knife. I would drag her， caveman-style， to a town she had aggressively a v o i d e d ， a n d make her live in the kind of house she used to mock. I suppose it’s not a compromise if only one of you considers it such， but that was what our compromises tended to look like. One of us was always angry. Amy， usually.
Do not blame me for this particular 7）grievance， Amy. The 8）Missouri Grievance. Blame the economy， blame bad luck， blame my parents， blame your parents， blame the Internet， blame people who use the Internet. I used to be a writer. I was a writer who wrote about TV and movies and books. Back when people read things on paper， back when anyone cared about what I thought. I’d arrived in New York in the late ’90s， the last gasp of the glory days， although no one knew it then.
New York was packed with writers， real writers， because there were magazines， real magazines， loads of them. This was back when the Internet was still some exotic pet kept in the corner of the publishing world—throw some 9）kibble at it， watch it dance on its little leash， oh quite cute， it definitely won’t kill us in the night. Think about it： a time when newly graduated college kids could come to New York and get paid to write. We had no clue that we were 10）embarking on careers that would vanish within a decade. “进家之前我得先把魂弄掉吧？”一到“新家”她就开口说了这么一句。其实，当时租房是个折衷的办法，艾米一心盼着早日搬出密苏里州，因此死活不让我在自己的家乡小镇购房，只肯租上一所。但本地仅供出租的宅邸全部聚集在这片烂尾的住宅小区里，当时经济不景气，撂下了一个烂摊子，这片小区还没开启新生便已然没落，房产收归银行所有，里面的豪宅通通降了价。租这个“新家”是一条折衷之道，可惜艾米却不这么认为，一点也不。在艾米眼里，这就是我用来修理她的一招，是我非要背地里捅她一刀子，不由分说地把她拽到一个她死活不愿意待的城市，让她住进一栋死活看不上眼的房子。如果只有一方认为某个主意是一条折衷之道，那我想这主意也算不上折衷，但我与艾米的折衷常常就是这样，我们两人中间总有一个人为此怒气冲冲，通常这个人都会是艾米。
拜托，别把你对密苏里州的一腔怨气撒在我头上。艾米，这事都怪经济形势，怪运气不好，怪我父母和你父母，怪互联网，还要怪上网的那帮家伙。我曾经是一名撰稿人，写些关于电视、电影和图书的文字，当时人们还乐于阅读纸质作品，还肯搭理我的所思所想。我于上世纪90年代末抵达纽约，算起来那已是辉煌岁月的垂死挣扎，可惜当时无人具备这份远见。
纽约挤满了密密麻麻的作家，都是响当当配得上“作家”头衔的那种真货，因为彼时的纽约遍地都是杂志，也是响当当配得上“杂志”头衔的那种真货。互联网还只能算是出版界豢养在角落里的一只珍稀小宠，人们时不时扔口食物逗逗它，看它拴着锁链翩翩起舞，那小家伙真是可爱得不得了，谁知道它会趁着夜色了结我们的小命呢？请诸位想想吧，当时刚毕业的大学生居然可以到纽约靠写作赚钱。可惜我们没料到自己上了一艘沉船，十年之内，我们那刚刚扬帆的职业就会消失得无影无踪。
I had a job for eleven years and then I didn’t， it was that fast. All around the country， magazines began shuttering， succumbing to a sudden infection brought on by the busted economy. Writers （my kind of writers： aspiring novelists， 11）ruminative thinkers， people whose brains don’t work quick enough to blog or link or tweet， basically old， stubborn 12）blowhards） were through. We were like women’s hat makers or buggy-whip manufacturers： Our time was done. Three weeks after I got cut loose， Amy lost her job， such as it was. （Now I can feel Amy looking over my shoulder， smirking at the time I’ve spent discussing my career， my misfortune， and dismissing her experience in one sentence. That， she would tell you， is typical. Just like Nick， she would say. It was a 13）refrain of hers： Just like Nick to…and whatever followed， whatever was just like me， was bad.） Two jobless grown-ups， we spent weeks wandering around our 14）Brooklyn brownstone in socks and pajamas， ignoring the future， strewing unopened mail across tables and sofas， eating ice cream at ten a.m. and taking thick afternoon naps.
我当了整整十一年撰稿人，却在一眨眼间丢了工作，形势就是变得这么快。当时经济萧条，全国各地的杂志纷纷倒闭，撰稿人也跟着一起完蛋（我说的是像我这样的撰稿人，也就是胸怀大志的小说家和上下求索的思想家，这些家伙的脑子转得不够快，玩不转博客、链接和“推特”，基本上属于夸夸其谈的老顽固）。我们这群人是过时的老古董，就像是那些做女帽、马车鞭子的，属于我们的时代已经结束。在我丢掉饭碗三个星期以后，艾米也跟着失了业（现在我能感觉到艾米在背后冷眼嘲讽当初我一味想着自己的事业，自怜自怨，对她的遭遇却不当一回事。她会告诉你，这一套就是我的作风，“……简直是尼克的典型作风”，她会说出这么一句话来。这句话是我太太的口头禅，不管这句话前面说的是件什么事，不管我的典型作风具体怎么样，总之不会是什么好事）。于是我与艾米摇身一变成了两个失业的成年人，穿着袜子和睡衣在布鲁克林的褐沙石宅邸里赋闲了好几个星期，一股脑儿把未来抛在了脑后，还把没开封的信件撒得到处都是，扔在桌子和沙发上，上午十点钟就吃上了冰激凌，下午则倒头呼呼大睡。
Then one day the phone rang. My twin sister was on the other end. Margo had moved back home after her own New York layoff a year before—the girl is one step ahead of me in everything， even shitty luck. Margo， calling from good ole 15）North Carthage， Missouri， from the house where we grew up， and as I listened to her voice， I saw her at age ten， with a dark cap of hair and overall shorts， sitting on our grandparents’ back dock， her body slouched over like an old pillow， her skinny legs dangling in the water， watching the river flow over fishwhite feet， so intently， utterly self-possessed even as a child. Go’s voice was warm and crinkly even as she gave this cold news： Our indomitable mother was dying. Our dad was nearly gone—his （nasty） mind， his （miserable） heart， both murky as he meandered toward the great gray beyond. But it looked like our mother would beat him there. About six month later， maybe a year， she had. I could tell that Go had gone to meet with the doctor by herself， taken her studious notes in her 16）slovenly handwriting， and she was teary as she tried to 17）decipher what she’d written. Dates and doses. “Well， f**k， I have no idea what this says， is it a nine？ Does that even make sense？” she said， and I interrupted. Here was a task， a purpose， held out on my sister’s palm like a palm. I almost cried with relief.
“I’ll come back， Go. We’ll move back home. You shouldn’t have to do this all by yourself.” She didn’t believe me. I could hear her breathing on the other end.
“I’m serious， Go. Why not？ There’s nothing here.”
A long exhale. “What about Amy？”
That is what I didn’t take long enough to consider. I simply assumed I would bundle up my New York wife with her New York interests， her New York pride， and remove her from her New York parents—leave the frantic， thrilling futureland of Manhattan behind—and transplant her to... I did not yet understand how foolish， how optimistic， how， yes， just like Nick I was for thinking this. The misery it would lead to.
后来有一天，电话铃响了，来电人是我的孪生妹妹玛戈。玛戈一年前在纽约丢了工作，随即搬回了家乡，这个姑娘不管什么事都抢先我一步，撞上霉运也不例外。当时玛戈从密苏里州北迦太基老家打来电话（我与玛戈就在那所房子里长大成人），听着她的声音，我的眼前不由得浮现出她十岁时的一幕：一头黑发的玛戈穿着连体短裤坐在祖父母屋后的码头上，像个旧枕头般耷拉着身子，在水中晃着两条纤细的腿，目不转睛地望着河水流过自己雪白的脚，显得格外冷静沉着，虽然只是个小孩。在电话里，玛戈的声音十分温暖，带来的消息却令人寒心。
她告诉我，我们那位不服输的妈妈快要撑不住了。我们的爸爸也快不行了，他已心智糊涂，可怜兮兮，正一步步迈向生命的尽头。但看上去妈妈会比他先行一步——后来大约过了半年，也可能是一年，她果真先父亲一步离开了人世。但当初接到电话时，我可以断定玛戈单独去见过医生，还用她那歪歪扭扭的字勤恳地记着笔记，眼泪汪汪地想要读懂自己写下的日期和药剂。
“嗯，见鬼，我压根儿不知道这写的是个什么玩意儿，是九吗？这个数字有意义吗？” 玛戈念叨着，我却插嘴打断了她。妹妹适时向我展示了照料父母的重任，我感动得差点儿哭出了声。
“我会回来，玛戈，我们会搬回家，这副担子不应该让你一个人来挑。”她压根儿不相信我的话，我能听到她在电话那头的呼吸声。
“我是说真的，玛戈，回去又何妨？反正我在这里无牵无挂。 ”
玛戈长长地呼了一口气，“那艾米怎么办？”
我确实没有把这一点考虑周全，我只是简单地认为自己可以带着艾米离开她那住在纽约的父母，把我那一身纽约气息的妻子，她的纽约品位还有她那身为纽约人的自豪一股脑儿带走，就此把激动人心、光怪陆离的曼哈顿抛在脑后。当时我还没有弄明白自己的想法是多么蠢、多么盲目乐观，没错，“……简直是尼克的典型作风”，我也还不明白这种想法会招来多大一场祸。
整部小说以两人购房的矛盾开篇，预示了接下来的情节将会是一波三折。男主人公尼克一切都要遂自己心愿的性格造就了这场悲剧，婚姻也犹如那道千里之堤一般，但它却更加经不起蚁穴的浸毁。女主人公艾米在与尼克结婚五周年纪念日的当天，离奇失踪！尼克通过媒体深情告白，疯狂寻找消失的爱人。然而，艾米的一本日记，字字直指尼克是真凶。霎时间，人人自危，开始重新审视枕边人……到底谁才是凶手，到底是为了什么？婚姻的经营到底能不能敷衍，懒散消极的爱人到底又该不该得到教训？吉莉安·弗琳将用她那如刀锋般犀利的笔锋，为你讲述一个又一个令人心惊胆战的情节，她将给你一种经历，那种经历叫作——目不转睛。
NICK DUNNE THE DAY OF
When I think of my wife， I always think of her head. The shape of it， to begin with. The very first time I saw her， it was the back of the head I saw， and there was something lovely about it， the angles of it. Like a shiny， hard corn 1）kernel or a riverbed fossil. She had what the 2）Victorians would call a finely shaped head. You could imagine the skull quite easily. I’d know her head anywhere.
And what’s inside it. I think of that， too： her mind. Her brain， all those coils， and her thoughts shutting through those coils like fast， frantic 3）centipedes. Like a child， I picture opening her skull， unspooling her brain and sifting through it， trying to catch and pin down her thoughts. What are you thinking， Amy？ The question I’ve asked most often during our marriage， if not out loud， if not to the person who could answer. I suppose these question stormcloud over every marriage： What are you thinking？ How are you feeling？ Who are you？ What have we done to each other？ What will we do？
尼克·邓恩事发当日
每当想起我太太，我总会想起她的头。先是轮廓：第一眼见到她时，我望见的就是她的后脑，其自有某种曼妙之处，好似一粒闪亮坚硬的玉米粒儿，要不然便是河床上的一块化石。在维多利亚时代，人们定会夸她“头型雅致”，你简直一下子就能想出颅骨的形状。不管在哪儿，我都不会错认她那颗小脑袋。
我也会想起那颗脑袋里的思绪。她的脑中有着无数沟回，一个个念头穿梭其间，好似狂乱的蜈蚣。我像个孩子一般想象着一幕场景：我要打开她的头颅，理清沟回，捉住思绪，让其无处可逃。“你在想些什么呢，艾米？”自结婚以来，这是我问得最多的问题，即使我没有大声问出口，也没有问那个掌握着答案的人；但据我猜想，这些问题恰似阴云一般笼罩着每一段婚姻——“你在想些什么呢？你感觉怎么样？你是谁？我们都对彼此做了些什么？我们该怎么办？”
My eyes flipped open at exactly six a.m. This was no avian fluttering of the lashes， no gentle blink toward consciousness. The awakening was mechanical. A spooky ventriloquist—dummy click of the lids： The world is black and then， showtime！ 6-0-0 the clock said—in my face， first thing I saw. 6-0-0. It felt different. I rarely woke at such a rounded time. I was a man of jagged risings： 8：43， 11：51， 9：26. My life was alarmless. At that exact moment， 6-0-0， the sun climbed over the skyline of oaks， revealing its full summer angry—God self. Its reflection flared across the river toward our house， a long， blaring finger aimed at me through our frail bedroom curtains. Accusing： You have been seen. You will be seen. I 4）wallowed in bed， which was our New York bed in our new house， which we still called the new house， even though we’d been here for two years. It’s a rented house right along the Mississippi River， a house that screams Suburban 5）Nouveau Riche， the kind of place I aspired to as a kid from my 6）splitlevel， shag-carpet side of town. The kind of house that is immediately familiar： a generically grand， unchallenging， new， new， new house that my wife would—and
did—detest.
清晨六点整，我睁开了眼睛，可不是睡眼惺忪悠然醒来，这次我是直挺挺地醒过来的。眼帘“咔嗒”一下睁开，好似诡异的木偶娃娃，眼前先是一片漆黑，紧接着——好戏登场！我面前的闹钟显示六点整——我一眼瞧见：六点整。这种感觉有点怪，因为我很少在整点睡醒，我这人起床的时间很不规律，要么是八点四十三分，要么是十一点五十一分，要么是九点二十六分。我的生活可不受闹钟的摆布。恰在六点整，夏日朝阳从橡树丛背后喷薄而出，露出凌人的气势。阳光在河面上投下了一片倒影，光亮照耀着我们的屋子，活像一根亮闪闪的长手指，刺破卧室里薄薄的窗帘指向我，仿佛在控诉：“你已经暴露在光天化日之下，你终究会暴露在光天化日之下。”
我正在床上辗转反侧，身下躺的是在纽约用过的那张床，身处的却是我们位于密苏里州的“新家”。回到密苏里州已经两年了，我们却仍然把这栋房子叫作“新家”。这是一栋租来的房子，位于密西西比河畔，从上到下都流露出一股暴发户气质，儿时住在铺着粗毛地毯的错层式小破屋里时，我便一心期盼着这种豪宅。房子看上去似曾相识，模样倒是宏伟豪华、中规中矩，也新得不能再新，可惜注定不讨我太太的欢心，话说回来，她也确实对我们的“新家”深恶痛绝。
“Should I remove my soul before I come inside？” Her first line upon arrival. It had been a compromise： Amy demanded we rent， not buy， in my little Missouri hometown， in her firm hope that we wouldn’t be stuck here long. But the only houses for rent were clustered in this failed development： a miniature ghost town of bankowned， recession-busted， price-reduced mansions， a neighborhood that closed before it ever opened. It was a compromise， but Amy didn’t see it that way， not in the least. To Amy， it was a punishing whim on my part， a nasty， selfish twist of the knife. I would drag her， caveman-style， to a town she had aggressively a v o i d e d ， a n d make her live in the kind of house she used to mock. I suppose it’s not a compromise if only one of you considers it such， but that was what our compromises tended to look like. One of us was always angry. Amy， usually.
Do not blame me for this particular 7）grievance， Amy. The 8）Missouri Grievance. Blame the economy， blame bad luck， blame my parents， blame your parents， blame the Internet， blame people who use the Internet. I used to be a writer. I was a writer who wrote about TV and movies and books. Back when people read things on paper， back when anyone cared about what I thought. I’d arrived in New York in the late ’90s， the last gasp of the glory days， although no one knew it then.
New York was packed with writers， real writers， because there were magazines， real magazines， loads of them. This was back when the Internet was still some exotic pet kept in the corner of the publishing world—throw some 9）kibble at it， watch it dance on its little leash， oh quite cute， it definitely won’t kill us in the night. Think about it： a time when newly graduated college kids could come to New York and get paid to write. We had no clue that we were 10）embarking on careers that would vanish within a decade. “进家之前我得先把魂弄掉吧？”一到“新家”她就开口说了这么一句。其实，当时租房是个折衷的办法，艾米一心盼着早日搬出密苏里州，因此死活不让我在自己的家乡小镇购房，只肯租上一所。但本地仅供出租的宅邸全部聚集在这片烂尾的住宅小区里，当时经济不景气，撂下了一个烂摊子，这片小区还没开启新生便已然没落，房产收归银行所有，里面的豪宅通通降了价。租这个“新家”是一条折衷之道，可惜艾米却不这么认为，一点也不。在艾米眼里，这就是我用来修理她的一招，是我非要背地里捅她一刀子，不由分说地把她拽到一个她死活不愿意待的城市，让她住进一栋死活看不上眼的房子。如果只有一方认为某个主意是一条折衷之道，那我想这主意也算不上折衷，但我与艾米的折衷常常就是这样，我们两人中间总有一个人为此怒气冲冲，通常这个人都会是艾米。
拜托，别把你对密苏里州的一腔怨气撒在我头上。艾米，这事都怪经济形势，怪运气不好，怪我父母和你父母，怪互联网，还要怪上网的那帮家伙。我曾经是一名撰稿人，写些关于电视、电影和图书的文字，当时人们还乐于阅读纸质作品，还肯搭理我的所思所想。我于上世纪90年代末抵达纽约，算起来那已是辉煌岁月的垂死挣扎，可惜当时无人具备这份远见。
纽约挤满了密密麻麻的作家，都是响当当配得上“作家”头衔的那种真货，因为彼时的纽约遍地都是杂志，也是响当当配得上“杂志”头衔的那种真货。互联网还只能算是出版界豢养在角落里的一只珍稀小宠，人们时不时扔口食物逗逗它，看它拴着锁链翩翩起舞，那小家伙真是可爱得不得了，谁知道它会趁着夜色了结我们的小命呢？请诸位想想吧，当时刚毕业的大学生居然可以到纽约靠写作赚钱。可惜我们没料到自己上了一艘沉船，十年之内，我们那刚刚扬帆的职业就会消失得无影无踪。
I had a job for eleven years and then I didn’t， it was that fast. All around the country， magazines began shuttering， succumbing to a sudden infection brought on by the busted economy. Writers （my kind of writers： aspiring novelists， 11）ruminative thinkers， people whose brains don’t work quick enough to blog or link or tweet， basically old， stubborn 12）blowhards） were through. We were like women’s hat makers or buggy-whip manufacturers： Our time was done. Three weeks after I got cut loose， Amy lost her job， such as it was. （Now I can feel Amy looking over my shoulder， smirking at the time I’ve spent discussing my career， my misfortune， and dismissing her experience in one sentence. That， she would tell you， is typical. Just like Nick， she would say. It was a 13）refrain of hers： Just like Nick to…and whatever followed， whatever was just like me， was bad.） Two jobless grown-ups， we spent weeks wandering around our 14）Brooklyn brownstone in socks and pajamas， ignoring the future， strewing unopened mail across tables and sofas， eating ice cream at ten a.m. and taking thick afternoon naps.
我当了整整十一年撰稿人，却在一眨眼间丢了工作，形势就是变得这么快。当时经济萧条，全国各地的杂志纷纷倒闭，撰稿人也跟着一起完蛋（我说的是像我这样的撰稿人，也就是胸怀大志的小说家和上下求索的思想家，这些家伙的脑子转得不够快，玩不转博客、链接和“推特”，基本上属于夸夸其谈的老顽固）。我们这群人是过时的老古董，就像是那些做女帽、马车鞭子的，属于我们的时代已经结束。在我丢掉饭碗三个星期以后，艾米也跟着失了业（现在我能感觉到艾米在背后冷眼嘲讽当初我一味想着自己的事业，自怜自怨，对她的遭遇却不当一回事。她会告诉你，这一套就是我的作风，“……简直是尼克的典型作风”，她会说出这么一句话来。这句话是我太太的口头禅，不管这句话前面说的是件什么事，不管我的典型作风具体怎么样，总之不会是什么好事）。于是我与艾米摇身一变成了两个失业的成年人，穿着袜子和睡衣在布鲁克林的褐沙石宅邸里赋闲了好几个星期，一股脑儿把未来抛在了脑后，还把没开封的信件撒得到处都是，扔在桌子和沙发上，上午十点钟就吃上了冰激凌，下午则倒头呼呼大睡。
Then one day the phone rang. My twin sister was on the other end. Margo had moved back home after her own New York layoff a year before—the girl is one step ahead of me in everything， even shitty luck. Margo， calling from good ole 15）North Carthage， Missouri， from the house where we grew up， and as I listened to her voice， I saw her at age ten， with a dark cap of hair and overall shorts， sitting on our grandparents’ back dock， her body slouched over like an old pillow， her skinny legs dangling in the water， watching the river flow over fishwhite feet， so intently， utterly self-possessed even as a child. Go’s voice was warm and crinkly even as she gave this cold news： Our indomitable mother was dying. Our dad was nearly gone—his （nasty） mind， his （miserable） heart， both murky as he meandered toward the great gray beyond. But it looked like our mother would beat him there. About six month later， maybe a year， she had. I could tell that Go had gone to meet with the doctor by herself， taken her studious notes in her 16）slovenly handwriting， and she was teary as she tried to 17）decipher what she’d written. Dates and doses. “Well， f**k， I have no idea what this says， is it a nine？ Does that even make sense？” she said， and I interrupted. Here was a task， a purpose， held out on my sister’s palm like a palm. I almost cried with relief.
“I’ll come back， Go. We’ll move back home. You shouldn’t have to do this all by yourself.” She didn’t believe me. I could hear her breathing on the other end.
“I’m serious， Go. Why not？ There’s nothing here.”
A long exhale. “What about Amy？”
That is what I didn’t take long enough to consider. I simply assumed I would bundle up my New York wife with her New York interests， her New York pride， and remove her from her New York parents—leave the frantic， thrilling futureland of Manhattan behind—and transplant her to... I did not yet understand how foolish， how optimistic， how， yes， just like Nick I was for thinking this. The misery it would lead to.
后来有一天，电话铃响了，来电人是我的孪生妹妹玛戈。玛戈一年前在纽约丢了工作，随即搬回了家乡，这个姑娘不管什么事都抢先我一步，撞上霉运也不例外。当时玛戈从密苏里州北迦太基老家打来电话（我与玛戈就在那所房子里长大成人），听着她的声音，我的眼前不由得浮现出她十岁时的一幕：一头黑发的玛戈穿着连体短裤坐在祖父母屋后的码头上，像个旧枕头般耷拉着身子，在水中晃着两条纤细的腿，目不转睛地望着河水流过自己雪白的脚，显得格外冷静沉着，虽然只是个小孩。在电话里，玛戈的声音十分温暖，带来的消息却令人寒心。
她告诉我，我们那位不服输的妈妈快要撑不住了。我们的爸爸也快不行了，他已心智糊涂，可怜兮兮，正一步步迈向生命的尽头。但看上去妈妈会比他先行一步——后来大约过了半年，也可能是一年，她果真先父亲一步离开了人世。但当初接到电话时，我可以断定玛戈单独去见过医生，还用她那歪歪扭扭的字勤恳地记着笔记，眼泪汪汪地想要读懂自己写下的日期和药剂。
“嗯，见鬼，我压根儿不知道这写的是个什么玩意儿，是九吗？这个数字有意义吗？” 玛戈念叨着，我却插嘴打断了她。妹妹适时向我展示了照料父母的重任，我感动得差点儿哭出了声。
“我会回来，玛戈，我们会搬回家，这副担子不应该让你一个人来挑。”她压根儿不相信我的话，我能听到她在电话那头的呼吸声。
“我是说真的，玛戈，回去又何妨？反正我在这里无牵无挂。 ”
玛戈长长地呼了一口气，“那艾米怎么办？”
我确实没有把这一点考虑周全，我只是简单地认为自己可以带着艾米离开她那住在纽约的父母，把我那一身纽约气息的妻子，她的纽约品位还有她那身为纽约人的自豪一股脑儿带走，就此把激动人心、光怪陆离的曼哈顿抛在脑后。当时我还没有弄明白自己的想法是多么蠢、多么盲目乐观，没错，“……简直是尼克的典型作风”，我也还不明白这种想法会招来多大一场祸。