雙語名著·追風(fēng)箏的人 The Kite Runner(138)

12歲的阿富汗富家少爺阿米爾與仆人哈桑情同手足。然而，在一場風(fēng)箏比賽后，發(fā)生了一件悲慘不堪的事，阿米爾為自己的懦弱感到自責(zé)和痛苦，逼走了哈桑，不久，自己也跟隨父親逃往美國。

成年后的阿米爾始終無法原諒自己當(dāng)年對哈桑的背叛。為了贖罪，阿米爾再度踏上暌違二十多年的故鄉(xiāng)，希望能為不幸的好友盡最后一點(diǎn)心力，卻發(fā)現(xiàn)一個(gè)驚天謊言，兒時(shí)的噩夢再度重演，阿米爾該如何抉擇?

故事如此殘忍而又美麗，作者以溫暖細(xì)膩的筆法勾勒人性的本質(zhì)與救贖，讀來令人蕩氣回腸。

下面就跟小編一起來欣賞雙語名著·追風(fēng)箏的人 The Kite Runner(138)的精彩內(nèi)容吧！

He said. The Khyber Pass was as famous for its terrain as for the bandits who used that terrain to rob travelers. Before I could answer, he winked and said in a loud voice, “Of course no dozd would waste his time on a car as ugly as my brother’s.”
Farid wrestled the smallest of the three boys to the floor and tickled him on the ribs with his good hand. The kid giggled and kicked. “At least I have a car,” Farid panted. “How is your donkey these days?”
“My donkey is a better ride than your car.”
“Khar khara mishnassah,” Farid shot back. Takes a donkey to know a donkey. They all laughed and I joined in. I heard female voices from the adjoining room. I could see half of the room from where I sat. Maryam and an older woman wearing a brown hijab--presumably her mother--were speaking in low voices and pouring tea from a kettle into a pot.
“So what do you do in America, Amir agha?” Wahid asked.
“I’m a writer,” I said. I thought I heard Farid chuckle at that.
“A writer?” Wahid said, clearly impressed. “Do you write about Afghanistan?”
“Well, I have. But not currently,” I said. My last novel, A Season for Ashes, had been about a university professor who joins a clan of gypsies after he finds his wife in bed with one of his stu dents. It wasn’t a bad book. Some reviewers had called it a “good” book, and one had even used the word “riveting.” But suddenly I was embarrassed by it. I hoped Wahid wouldn’t ask what it was about.
“Maybe you should write about Afghanistan again,” Wahid said. “Tell the rest of the world what the Taliban are doing to our country.”
“Well, I’m not... I’m not quite that kind of writer.”

他說。與開伯爾隘口同樣遠(yuǎn)近聞名的是，強(qiáng)盜利用那里的地形打劫過往旅客。我還沒有回答，他就眨眨眼，大聲說：“當(dāng)然，沒有任何強(qiáng)盜會(huì)打我兄弟那輛破車的主意。”
法里德將最小那個(gè)孩子抱倒在地，用那只完好的手去撓他的肋骨。那孩子咯咯大笑，雙腳亂踢?！白钌傥疫€有一輛車，”法里德氣喘吁吁地說，“你那頭驢子最近怎樣？”
“我的驢子騎起來比坐你的車好。”
“騎驢才知驢難騎。”法里德回敬說。他們?nèi)夹ζ饋恚乙残α?。我聽見隔壁傳來女人的聲音。從我坐的地方，可以看到那間屋子的一半。瑪麗亞和蒙著棕色面紗的婦女低聲交談，從一個(gè)大水壺往茶壺里面倒茶。那女人年紀(jì)較大，應(yīng)該是她媽媽。
“你在美國干什么呢，老爺？”瓦希德問。
“我是個(gè)作家?！蔽艺f，法里德聽到之后輕聲一笑。
“作家？”瓦希德說，顯然頗有好感?！澳銓懓⒏缓箚?？”
，寫的是一個(gè)大學(xué)教授的故事，他發(fā)現(xiàn)妻子跟他的學(xué)生上床之后，追隨一群吉卜賽人而去。這本書不錯(cuò)。有些評論家說它是本“好”書，有一個(gè)甚至還用了“引人人勝”這樣的評語。但突然之間，它讓我很難為情。我希望瓦希德不會(huì)問起它的內(nèi)容。
“也許你應(yīng)該再寫寫阿富汗?！蓖呦５抡f，“將塔利班在我們國家的所作所為告訴世界其他角落的人們。”
“嗯，我不是……我不算是那種作家?！?