Dead End in Norvelt《诺福镇的奇幻夏天》.doc

Dead End in Norvelt《诺福镇的奇幻夏天》杰克?甘托斯（Jack Gantos， 1951～） ，美国作家，其创作领域十分广泛，包括儿童绘本、青少年小说以及写给成年人的小说上小学时，甘托斯就意识到一个个日常故事是构成优秀文学作品的基础，因此便开始收集逸闻轶事六年级时读了姐姐的日记之后，他认为自己可以比姐姐写得更好，就此在心中播下了从事写作的种子其代表作有《红猫拉尔夫》 （Rotten Ralph）系列绘本，小说《失去控制的乔伊》 （Joey Pigza Loses Control）和《诺福镇的奇幻夏天》等 《诺福镇的奇幻夏天》2011 年出版，次年便获得了纽伯瑞儿童文学奖金奖（Newberry Medal） ， 被认为是“2011 年为美国儿童文学所做的最为杰出的贡献” 此外，该书还获得了 2012 年的司各特?奥台尔历史小说奖（Scott O&apos；Dell Award for Historical Fiction） ，该奖项每年都会从为儿童创作的历史小说中评选出一本最佳作品 这是一本自传体式的小说，书中的小主人公和作者同名小说讲述了 12 岁的小男孩杰克?甘托斯在诺福镇的成长故事。

因为闯了祸，杰克被妈妈惩罚整个暑假都要在家关禁闭，唯一可以出门的机会就是帮助小镇的首席法医、年迈的沃尔克小姐（Miss Volker）把她口述的讣告打出来，然后交由当地报社刊发随着一篇篇讣告的诞生，杰克了解到小镇上死去的每一位第一代居民的人生故事以及小镇的历史变迁，踏上了一段悬念迭起的奇幻旅程……下文节选自小说第二章，讲述了杰克第一次见到沃尔克小姐时发生的有趣故事1. dead end： 绝境；僵局 2. come to： 苏醒；清醒 3. 杰克非常容易流鼻血，一旦受到惊吓或是太过兴奋，又或者无缘无故因为什么小事而感到害怕，他就会流鼻血上文中，沃尔克小姐请杰克来帮自己写讣告，当杰克到她家时，她正在一个滚烫的锅里煮自己的双手，这让杰克感到惊恐不已，开始流鼻血他以为沃尔克小姐是一个煮自己的肉来吃的神经病，还以为她马上要来吃自己的肉紧接着，杰克便昏死过去了 4. wad [w?d] vt. ??……揉成团；n. 小软团；（一）卷 5. faint [fe?nt] vi. 昏厥；晕倒 6. shove [??v] vt. 塞入；乱塞 7. gum [???m] n. 牙龈；牙床 8. 杰克最近在读有关弗朗西斯科?皮萨罗（Francisco Pizarro，约 1471 或 1476～1541）的书。

皮萨罗是征服南美洲秘鲁印加帝国的西班牙殖民者，率领部下打败印加帝国之后，他以印加帝国末代皇帝阿塔瓦尔帕（Atahualpa）作为人质，从印加人那里索取来大量精美的黄金雕塑品和金银首饰等，然后把其熔化为西班牙金币，一船一船地运回国献给西班牙国王和王后 　　9. arthritis [????θra?t?s] n. 关节炎 10. paraffin [?p?r?f?n] n. 石蜡 11. smack [sm?k] n. 拍击，碰击 12. amnesia [?m?ni?zi?] n. 记忆缺失；健忘（症） 13. lump [l?mp] n. 隆起；肿块 精彩 片段 When I came to2） I was alive and stretched out on Miss Volker&apos；s kitchen floor. I was covered with blood but I didn&apos；t know if it was nose blood3） or blood from after she started eating me. I lifted my head and turned it left and right to check if she had eaten through my neck. I was fine but she was standing above me and pulling long， rotten strips of flesh off her arms and hands as if peeling a rotten banana. She wadded4） them all up， leaned to one side， and dropped a ball into the large pot on the stove. "Am I dead？" I asked. I felt dead. "You fainted5） ，" she replied. "And I fixed your nose." "You touched me？" I asked fearfully， and reached for my nose to see if it was still on my face. "Yes，" she said. "After I got the wax off my fingers they were working okay so I folded some tissues into a wad and shoved6） them up between your upper lip and gum7）. That&apos；s what stops a nosebleed." "You have fingers？" I asked， confused. I had seen them melt off like the Inca gold being melted down8）. 　　"Yes，" she said. "I&apos；m human and I have fingers. They don&apos；t work well because of my arthritis9） so I have to heat them up in a pot of hot paraffin10） in order to get them working for about fifteen minutes." "Hot what？" "Hot wax，" she repeated impatiently. "You saw me doing it when you came in. Did that smack11） on your head when you hit the floor give you amnesia12）？" I sat up and rubbed the lump13） on the back of my head. "I thought you were melting your fingers into gold，" I said. "I thought you had gone crazy." "I think you&apos；ve gone crazy，" she replied. "You&apos；re delusional14）. Now let&apos；s not waste any more time. I have a deadline." "What are we doing？" I asked. "Writing an obituary15） ，" she revealed. "Mine？" "No！ You are fine―you&apos；re a spineless16） jellyfish17） ， but not dead enough to bury. Now take a look at these hands，" she ordered， and thrust18） them in front of me. They were still bright red from the hot wax and curled over like the talons19） of a hawk perched20） on a fence. "I can&apos；t write with them anymore，" she explained， "or do anything that requires fine motor21） skills. My twin sister used to write out the obituaries for me but her jug-headed22） idiot husband moved her to Florida last month. I was hoping he&apos；d just have a spasm23） and drop dead and she would move in with me―but it didn&apos；t work out that way. So you are now my official scribe24）. I got the idea from reading about President John Quincy Adams25）. He had arthritis too and when his hands gave out26） he had a young scribe who wrote for him. I&apos；ll talk and you&apos；ll write. You got that？" "Sure，" I said， and then she caught me sneaking a peek at the glowing kitchen clock which was in the shape of a giant Bayer aspirin27）. It was six-thirty in the morning. "That，" she said proudly， and aimed her chin at the clock， "was given to me by the Bayer Pharmaceutical28） Company after I gave out over a quarter million of their aspirin tablets to coal miners here in western Pennsylvania who suffered with back pain and splitting headaches29）." "That is a lot of pills，" I remarked， not knowing what else to say but the obvious. "In nursing school，" she said， "I was taught by the doctors that the role of medical science is to relieve human suffering， and I&apos；ve lived by that motto all my life." "What about your hands？" I said， pointing up at them. 　　"Someday science will solve that. But for now， get up off the floor，" she ordered. "We&apos；ve got to get this obit to the newspaper in an hour so Mr. Greene can print30） it for tomorrow morning。