我读《热夜之梦》
好吧，如果你是被《热夜之梦》四个字吸引进来的，那么，你上当了
这篇文字是我读完《热夜之梦》之后产生的一系列的关于写作的不着边际的联想，通篇充满了
词不达意和语无伦次
不过多少还是和《热夜之梦》有点关系
就勉强当一篇读后感看吧
（重要提示：如果你还没读过这部作品并且有读这部作品的打算，就不要往下读这篇文章
了，强力剧透！同时也强力建议没读过的朋友去读一读这部作品）
按照国际惯例应该先介绍作者——乔治·马丁
但是我有点不想做介绍，因为对于写研的大家，介绍他似乎有向法国人介绍拿破仑，向德
国人介绍希特勒的嫌疑
至少你应该听说过《冰与火之歌》
我会看情况考虑在文末找一段作者的介绍
那么，按照我的顺序，首先就是立意
立意，在我看来是一篇文章最重要的东西
我读完一篇文章，几百字也好，几百万字也好，我都期待着这篇文字能够给我留下思考
思考作者想要表达什么。也许这就可以作为“立意”的定义
立意也有高低之分
歌颂人类的优秀品质，英雄的气概，或是悲天悯人的情怀
至少至少，可以是一个正义战胜邪恶的故事吧
关于爱情这个主题，我持保留意见
因为除了莎翁的《罗与朱》，确实没有哪个以爱情为主题的故事给我留下深刻印象
当然也有我读书少的原因，不过我必须说，在我看来，爱情这个主题太纤细
从轻小说的角度来讲，更倾向于给予读者轻松愉快的阅读体验，不需要搞什么沉重的主题
但是我还是认为，比起《十二国记》，《fate stay night》来，《凉宫春日》确实没给我
留下什么深刻印象，或者说，持久的震撼。
所以说，在落笔之前，立意的高下已经决定了作品的层次（注意不是水准，毫无疑问《凉
宫》是一部水准很高的书）。
好，位面归还，说《热夜之梦》
一个讲吸血鬼的故事，如果是你，会如何立意？
请看以下这个故事大纲
一位决心摆脱“猩红饥渴”——使吸血鬼产生吸血冲动的一种生理现象——的吸血鬼，千
里迢迢来到1857年的北美大陆，乘着华丽的汽船，沿着密西西比河寻找自己的同类并劝服
他们克制自己的冲动，最后打败了死不悔改的吸血鬼大boss，成为了大陆上吸血鬼的“新
王”。
如何？或许会是个很华丽，诡异，血腥，令人有点热血沸腾的故事吧
恕我直言，如果真的是这样一个故事，那这就不过是一部普通的猎奇小说了
请看作者的故事大纲
前面说到的这位吸血鬼——乔希——仍然是千里迢迢来到1857年的北美大陆，找到了一位
人类的合伙人——马什船长。乔希的目的是收服大陆上所有的吸血鬼克服“猩红饥渴”，
乘着由马什管理的“菲佛之梦”号沿密西西比河漂流。乔希和马什，这两个不同种族的生
物经过若干回合的彼此试探后，艰难的建立了信任关系。乔希发现了以人类为“牲口”的
吸血鬼ｂｏｓｓ朱利安，向他挑战却被打败了，无奈的投降。而马什却不屈不挠，好几次
向朱利安挑战，最后终于鼓舞起乔希的斗志，两个人（或者说人和吸血鬼）合力除去了朱
利安这个恶魔。
作者没有将注意力放在异类的内斗上，而是写两个种族之间如何艰难的建立信任，直达最
后同生共死
马什，这部小说真正的主人公，承载着作者真正创作意图的角色，使这部小说与所有猎奇
小说划清了界限，成为一部经典
吸血鬼强壮，敏捷，拥有着夜视能力和惊人的恢复能力，可是在人类坚强的意志面前还是
败北了
人类骨子里的那种坚韧不拔，不言放弃，战斗到底的本色在他身上淋漓尽致的得到了表现
另外我还从这部小说里读到了一些东西
这场吸血鬼大战其实是美国南北战争的一场写照
ｂｏｓｓ朱利安是不放弃“猩红饥渴”的南方农场主，乔希则代表北方的资本主义新兴改
革势力，马什这个人类是美国普通民众和黑奴的化身
朱利安不肯放弃从民众身上吸血的地位，结果被资本主义改革势力和民众联手打倒了
……
好吧，我承认这是我一点上纲上线的妄想
请华丽的无视吧
说完立意，然后是故事情节的设计
乔希和马什上了船，他们顺流而下，他们打败了１号ｂｏｓｓ，他们打败了２号ｂｏｓｓ
，他们打败了３号ｂｏｓｓ，他们打败了最终ｂｏｓｓ
全文完，感谢您的阅读
喂喂……
好吧我在口胡
一个故事可能文笔很差，但却有吸引读者读下去的力量
举例举例，举谁呢，举金庸先生吧
我猜这位老先生在轻国人气不太高，但是大多数人还是承认他在文学上的造诣
个人鄙见，金老的文字相当朴实，平铺直叙，毫无华丽的抢眼点（除了《天龙八部》的章
节名）
可是很多人读他的书都欲罢不能
情节很出色，或者说故事线布得出神入化，尤以《天龙八部》为最
我个人比较喜欢的故事线，就是好几方势力的大乱斗，力量的抗衡，利益的博弈，势力的
乱入，搞得越复杂越好——这样的故事会抓住我
我相信，读完一个故事，我会记住情节，但未必会记住某处是如何描写的
所以，无论故事是长是短，请精心构架你的故事线
呃，位面归还，让我们看看《热夜之梦》的故事线
故事是双线的操作
开场乔希和马什的相遇后，两个人开始了河上漂流
与此同时，也开始描写朱利安的凶残
基本上每写两三章乔希和马什的行动就会有一章写朱利安
一方面，乔希和马什之间的秘密越来越少，关系也就越来越险恶
当乔希向马什公布自己的身份的时候，乔希会杀了马什吗？读者的好奇被不断勾起
另一方面，朱利安愈发凶残的暴行像是逐渐逼近的黑影，也抓住了读者的心
两条线在文章三分之二强的地方汇合了，小说也由此进入了高潮
这样的故事线，实际上并不难想
但是达到的效果确实是非凡的
这里有一个问题和读过的朋友探讨
看过一篇评论，说故事的最后作者笔力不足，我想是在说在两次和朱利安的大战之间间隔
的十几年时间
为什么作者这样处理，我觉得是有道理的
乔希的思想要完成改变绝非一朝一夕，他一开始并不想杀朱利安，所以败在朱利安手上之
后一蹶不振
十几个年头给了他思考的时间，当朱利安决定再现血洗计划的时候，乔希下定决心要干掉
朱利安，于是向马什伸出了求援之手
这个时间差是必要的，是我的看法
好，然后是什么
情节过后，我关心的是故事塑造人物的方法
关于这个我没什么碎碎念，详情请参看书中仙的所有回复
（你送我一个外号，我就送你一个外号）
在《热夜之梦》中，是很典型的双雄模式，两个主人公
刚开始出场的乔希显得神秘而强大，马什则是个粗鲁的船老大
然后是乔希和马什的几次勾心斗角，乔希都占了优势，马什处处落了下风
可是后来乔希和朱利安决斗却败北，读者的情绪落到了最低点
马什这时候却显出精明顽强的一面，一次又一次的向朱利安发起挑战，直到最后帮助乔希
战胜了朱利安
乔希性格中最本质的部分，软弱而善良，也在这个过程中体现了出来
读到最后，掩卷慨叹，原来马什是攻，乔希是受啊
……我真的不腐……
这种欲扬先抑的方法，很值得我们这些学习写作的人去借鉴
再往后是文笔，也是我亟需学习的地方之一
怎么说呢，包括太多
先说修辞吧
说修辞不能不说比喻
想必大家手头都有很多精彩的比喻
看看这两个能不能让你眼前一亮
“翌日，清晨的太阳在新奥尔良升起，像一只鼓胀的眼球。”
这个句子出现在马什刚刚经历过朱利安的杀戮之夜，从鲜血和尸体中落荒而逃后的清晨
“马什舔了舔自己砂纸般干燥的嘴唇。”
这个句子出现在马什准备再次挑战朱利安前向船员下命令的场景
然后是描写
……
以上
如果要摘取精彩的段落
恐怕我要手录整部小说了
呃，暂时就这些吧，如果再想到什么，再添上
免责声明：本人抱着学习的态度，为大家分享一点个人鄙见，欢迎大家文明讨论，写研新风，从我做起
下面是百度百科版作者介绍
【乔治马丁(George R.R. Martin)简介】
就像奇幻界上很多作家一样，乔治马丁也是一位同时涉足科幻奇幻领域的作家。他
出生于1948年，1971年也就是他23岁时便开始从事职业写作，其间多次获得雨果，星云，
locus和史铎克奖。如78年的雨果奖：Dying of the Light，84年的世界奇幻奖决选提名作
品：The Armageddon Rag。
但从1989年开始，马丁淡出文学界，转而投身演艺界发展，其中包括《美女与野兽
》的编剧和The Twilight Zone的剧本编辑。96年他才重返文坛而开始奇幻文学的创作，处
女作便是《权力的游戏》（The Game Of Throne），即为《冰与火之歌》（The Song Of
Fire And Ice）的首部曲。虽然封笔几近10年，但大师风范犹在，《权力的游戏》甫出便
拿下了British Fantasy Society 世界奇幻奖和星云奖年度最佳幻想作品提名，即使是由
其中抽取章节编成的Blood of the Dragon也获得多个最佳中篇奖。在科幻奇幻界引起极大
的反响。Anne McCaffrey看完后形容"我看得眼珠都快掉出来了" (I read my eyes out)。
之后的A Clash of Kings，和A Storm of Swords更是把作者的实力体现的淋漓尽致。在非
官方的不记名奇幻作品投票中，《冰火之歌》俨然已经可以和《魔戒》平起平坐，作者网
站的访问量也是和斯蒂芬大叔，罗林阿姨等不相上下。其受欢迎的程度可见一斑。他的读
者群早已是远远的超越奇幻科幻爱好者的范围，而受到更为广泛的关注。
乔治马丁正安居在他新墨西哥的居所里，完成他拖了三年的第四部，A Feast Of
Crows以及剩下三部的构思。
原帖由 回声 于 2008-9-5 23:07 发表
我怎么觉得……蓝天你本人的想法并不是很多，引用别人的话和介绍部分倒是很不少||||感觉上好像很多是我在别人的评论里看见过的话，再多谈谈自己的感受嘛，读后感这种东西，不是叫你分析一本书，而是谈谈这本书给予自 ...
呃，耍大刀的时候遇到关公了……
我在读这部小说之后还读了一篇导读
其中描写人物的那一段我印象很深
不过也没有完全拿来用，而是自己表述了一下
其余的部分还是有一点自己的感想的
这本来就是一篇披着读后感包装的技法讨论
我也不是以评价评价者的身份
而是学习者的身份来讨论的
希望能够起到抛砖引玉的作用，和大家探讨这部小说更多的可学习之处
另外就是我希望大家不要局限于这部小说
我在文里也顺带讨论了一些其他问题，也希望能看到大家的意见
－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－
话说这文很像是写烂尾了（其实就是）……大家包涵
原帖由 qqgeogor 于 2008-9-19 04:31 发表
建议把你读到认为好的桥段发出来，然后给一点分析
然后大家一起来讨论
研究的精髓应该在这里吧
我们已经知道太多的大道理，但是却极度缺乏对于细节的把握，提议更多一点细节的研究
呃，非常感谢您的意见
因为最近比较忙，没有空出手来继续打理这个帖子
我也觉得这样一部作品应该精读
所以产生了下面这个想法
我想办法寻找《热夜》的电子版贴上来，大家一起研究讨论
现在手头找到的是sfw的译文版，而且不全，只能希望法的人以后补全了
不过既然是一段一段的讨论，也不必非追求完本
在寻找的过程中还意外地找到了英文全本
所以也一并奉上，供没读过英文版的朋友一快朵颐
再就是据说2008年六月四川某出版社出版了这本书
有兴趣的朋友可以找找实体书看
话不多说，奉上《热夜之梦》第一章 欢迎大家讨论
等有时间我会第一时间写出自己的心得
第一章 圣路易斯，1857年4月
阿布纳·马什用胡桃木拐杖重重地敲打着旅店的柜台。“我要找一个名叫约克的人，他自称乔希·约克。这里有没有这个人？”
店员是个戴眼镜的老者。他被拐杖的声音吓了一跳，抬头认出马什，露出了微笑。“怎么，是马什船长！”他亲切地说，“半年没见啦，船长。我听人谈起过你的不幸遭遇。惨哪，实在是惨。我从1836年就来这里了，从没见过这么严重的冰塞 。”
“用不着你操心。”阿布纳·马什没好气地说。他早料到会有这种议论。“拓殖者之家”在汽船水手中很受欢迎，马什自己在严酷的冬天来临之前也经常到这儿吃饭，但自从冰塞后他就躲得远远的。阿布纳·马什不需要任何人同情。“只要说出约克住哪间房就行。”他蛮横地说。
店员紧张地点点头。“约克先生不在房间，船长。你到餐厅去可以找到他，他在用餐。”
“现在？这个时间？”马什瞄了一眼华丽的旅店时钟，又解开外套的黄铜纽扣，掏出金怀表。“零点十分。”他不相信地问，“你说他在吃东西？”
“没错，先生，他是在吃东西。约克先生自有选择，他是那种我行我素的人，船长。”
阿布纳·马什的喉咙深处粗鲁地咕噜一声，把表放回衣袋，转头穿过陈设豪奢的旅店大厅。他是个大块头，没有耐性，不习惯半夜三更跟人见面谈生意。他挥舞着手杖，像个从来没遭遇过不幸的人一般大踏步前行，径直走向餐厅远端的一角。一个衣着讲究的陌生人正在那里独自进餐。
那个男人一定听见了马什走近的声响，却并不理会。他不慌不忙地从瓷碗里舀着甲鱼汤。黑色长外套的剪裁式样清楚地表明他不是河上居民，而是来自东部，甚至是外国人。此人身材高大，但比不上马什。马什一开始认为他是个老人，因为他的头发是白的；等靠得更近些以后，马什才看清那不是白发，而是非常浅的金色。陌生人突然侧过脸来，露出一张年轻的面孔。
约克的脸刮得很干净，表情冷淡，皮肤像头发一样泛白。马什想，他长着一双女人的手。
他用拐杖敲打桌子，桌布减弱了音量，使响声有点发闷。“你是乔希·约克？”他问。
约克抬眼看着马什，他们的视线相遇了。
直到走完人生最后的旅程，阿布纳·马什始终记得这一刻，他第一次与乔希·约克四目相对的这个瞬间。年轻年老、纨绔子弟或者来自国外之类，所有设想和估计都被约克这一眼一古脑儿扫走了。一时间，眼前只剩下约克这个男人，还有他的力量、梦想和激情。
约克的眼睛是灰色的，在苍白的脸上显得阴暗吓人。瞳孔细小如针，黑得灼人，直刺入马什的心灵深处，掂量着马什灵魂的份量。瞳孔周围的灰色游移不定，如同一片迷雾。仿佛河堤隐匿，光线隐匿，整个世界什么也没有，只剩下你的船、河流和暗夜里的这片迷雾。阿布纳·马什似乎在这片迷雾中看到了什么，种种幻象，闪现又消逝。他感觉到了这片迷雾中透出的智慧和冷酷，还感觉到迷雾之后，有一头被束缚住的无形野兽，不断发出愤怒的吼啸。你能从他的眸子里看到笑声、孤独和无情的狂热。
眼光里透露得更多的是力量，可怕的力量，如同粉碎过马什梦想的冰塞。马什甚至能感到和冰塞同样的挤压，缓慢而无情，他听到自己的船和自己的希望正在破裂。
阿布纳·马什这辈子注视过许多人，但这次注视的时间最长。他紧握拐杖，担心自己会把拐杖折成两段。最后，他移开了视线。
坐在桌前的男人推开汤碗，打个手势道：“马什船长，我正在等你。请坐。”声音柔和而有教养，平易近人。
“好的。”马什说道，声音轻得有些失常。他推开约克对面的椅子坐进去，让自己放松下来。马什身材壮硕，六英尺高，三百磅重。他的脸红红的，蓄着一脸长长的黑胡须，以掩饰扁平的鼻子和满脸疙瘩。尽管如此，人们仍然公认他是河上最丑的男人。他身穿厚重的、钉着双排黄钮扣的蓝色船长外套，看上去凶恶威武。但是，约克的眼神让他无法嚣张。这人是个疯子，马什下了判断。他在疯子和最狂热的传教士眼睛里见过相同的眼神，也在下游地区该死的堪萨斯的一个人那儿见过，那人叫约翰·布朗 。马什不想跟疯子、传教士、废奴主义者和戒酒的人打交道。
但约克说话时却并不像个疯子。“我名叫乔希·安东·约克，船长。谈生意的时候我自称J·A·约克，朋友们叫我乔希。希望我们既能成为生意上的伙伴，也能成为朋友。”他的声音很诚恳，有条有理，“我想你大概收到我的信了。”
“我一直带在身边。”马什从外套口袋里掏出一个折叠起来的信封。刚接到这封信时，上面提供的商机像从天而降的好运，可以挽救他害怕失去的一切。但现在，马什不那么有把握了。“你想做汽船生意，是吗？”他说，身体朝前倾。
一个侍者走过来。“您要和约克先生一同用餐吗，船长？”
“请吧。”约克殷勤地说。
“谢谢。”马什说道。约克的眼神也许能瞪得他无法招架，但要说饭量，整条河上没有人比得过他。“我要汤、一打生蚝、两只加马铃薯泥的烤鸡。最好烤脆一点。再来点饮料把东西冲下肚。你喝什么，约克？”
“勃艮第 。”
“很好，我也来一瓶。”
约克微微一笑。“你的胃口真不小，船长，真可怕。”
“这是个‘可怕’的镇子，”马什字斟句酌地说，“我在一条‘可怕’的河上谋生，约克先生。男人必须保持体力。这里不是纽约，也不是伦敦。”
“这一点我注意到了。”约克说。
“但愿如此。如果你要开汽船的话，这可是最‘可怕’的事。”
“咱们言归正传，谈谈生意吧。你有一家货运轮船公司，而我想买下一半权益。既然你人在这里，我想你对我的提议是感兴趣的。”
“我相当感兴趣，”马什同意，“但疑问也不少。你看上去像个聪明人，我想，你在写这封信之前一定调查过我。”马什用手指敲着信，“你应该知道，这个冬天几乎让我破产了。”
约克一言不发，但脸上的神态命令马什说下去。
“菲佛河运公司，我的公司。”马什继续说道，“取这个名字，不只因为我过去一直在菲佛河工作，也因为那是我出生的地方，靠近加利纳 。我有六条船，大部分负责接密西西比河上游的生意，从圣路易斯到圣保罗，也有一些在菲佛河，从伊利诺斯州到密苏里。我的生意做得不错，每年都能新添一两艘船。但去年七月，正当我想着把生意扩大到俄亥俄甚至新奥尔良时，我的玛丽·克拉克号锅炉破裂起火，在迪比克附近。大火一直烧到船的吃水线，死伤上百人。接着是今年冬天，可怕的冬天。我的四艘船停在圣路易斯避冬：尼古拉斯·培罗号、邓利斯号、甜蜜菲佛号，还有我刚造好的伊莉莎白号——她只航行了四个月，是条好船。长三百英尺，有十二个大锅炉，速度可以和河上任何一艘汽船媲美。我真的为我的这位伊莉女士骄傲。她花了我二十万，但每分钱都值得。”汤端上来了，马什尝了一口，皱皱眉，“太烫了。”他说，“总之呢，圣路易斯是个避冬的好地方，结冰不严重，冰冻期也不算久。可今年冬天大不一样。没错，就是冰塞。天杀的河，冻得结结实实。”马什伸出红色的大手，越过桌子摊开手掌，再慢慢缩紧手指攥成拳头。“放个蛋在我手心里，它会变成什么？懂了吗，约克？冰压碎一条船比我捏碎一个蛋还容易。解冻的时候更糟，大块冰凌沿河而下，撞坏码头、河堤、船只。冬天结束，我失去了我的船，四艘全部完蛋，冰把它们都夺走了。”
约克点头。“据我所知，你现在还有一艘船。”
“一条小船。”马什说，他喝完汤，准备向下一道菜进攻，“伊莱·雷诺号。我一直让她跑伊利诺斯州，因为她载不了多少东西。她停在皮奥里亚 ，逃过了一劫。这就是我仅剩的资产，约克先生。麻烦在于，伊莱·雷诺号不值钱。她全新的时候也只值两万五千元，而那是1850年的事。”
“七年，”约克说，“不算太旧。”
马什摇头。“七年对一艘汽船而言太久了。”他说，“大部分船的寿命只有四五年。河流会磨损它们。虽然伊莱·雷诺号造得比大多数船好，但仍然用不了多长时间。”马什开始吃生蚝。他把蚝肉全部铲到半片壳上，然后整只吞下去，每吃一只再贪婪地配一大口酒。“所以我想不透，约克先生，”半打生蚝消失之后，他接着说道，“你想买下我船队一半的经营权，但我只剩一艘又小又老的船。你在信上开的价实在高得有点离谱。在我拥有六艘船的时候，菲佛河运公司可能值这么多，但现在不是了。”他咽下另一只生蚝。“十年之内，你的投资不会得到任何回报。靠雷诺号不行，她无法大量载货，搞客运也一样。”马什用餐巾擦擦嘴唇，注视着餐桌对面的陌生人。食物恢复了他的元气，现在他觉得重新找回了自我，能够主导这次谈话了。约克的眼神的确有点与众不同，但也没啥好怕的。
“你需要我的钱救急，船长。”约克说，“为什么要自揭老底？你就不怕我去找别的合伙人？”
“那不是我做事的方式。”马什说，“我在河上待了三十年，约克。我还是个少年的时候就乘木筏到下游的新奥尔良去了。我在平底船和重帆船上工作过，后来才干上汽船。我当过领航员、大副、勤务工，甚至执事助手。这一行里我什么都干过，除了一项，那就是骗子。”
“一个诚实的人。”约克说。马什觉得对方的话里似乎有一丝嘲弄的语气。“你能如实告诉我公司的境况，我很高兴。当然，这些事我早已了解过了。我原来的提议不变。”
“为什么？”马什粗声问，“只有笨蛋才乱花钱。你不像个笨蛋。”
没等约克回答，主菜送来了。马什要的鸡烤得很漂亮，脆得恰到好处。他锯下一只鸡腿，狼吞虎咽地吃起来。约克盘子里是一块厚厚的牛排，艳红鲜嫩，浸泡在血水和酱汁里。马什看着他灵巧轻松地对付那块牛排，刀仿佛切奶油般滑过肉块，从不停顿，不像马什似的又劈又锯。他拿餐叉的方式像个绅士，总是先放下刀，再换过手来拿叉子。马什不得不承认，约克苍白修长的手兼具力度与优雅，他很奇怪自己刚才竟会认为那是女人的手。这双手白晢，但是有力，坚实得如同日蚀号主船舱里那架钢琴的白键。
“为什么？”马什催促，“你还没回答我的问题。”
乔希·约克迟疑片刻，这才开口说道：“你对我很诚实，马什船长，因此我不能以谎言回报你——原本我是打算这么做的。但是，很抱歉，我不能告诉你真相。有些事我不能对你说，不过我可以保证那些事与你毫无关系。在这个条件下，我来提出价钱，看看是否能与你达成协议。如果不能，我们也可以心平气和地分手。”
马什剁开第二只鸡的胸部。“继续，”他说，“我在听。”
约克放下刀叉，双手搭在一起，指尖交触。“由于个人的理由，我想成为一艘汽船的主人。我要沿这条大河旅行，兼具舒适与隐私，像船长而非乘客。我有一个梦，一个目的。我寻求盟友，但也有敌人，很多敌人。详情与你无关。如果你逼我，我会对你说谎。所以别追问了。”有一刻，他的眼神变得刚硬起来，但随即软化，露出微笑。“你只需要知道，我渴望拥有并掌控一艘船。你看得出我不是河上居民，尽管这个礼拜我在圣路易斯看了点书，学了些东西，但我对汽船和密西西比河仍然一无所知。我需要一个熟悉汽船驾驶、了解河流和河上居民的伙伴，帮助我实现我的梦想。
“这个伙伴还必须具备其他优点：他必须谨言慎微。我不希望我的举动──我承认，有时候我的举动非常特别──成为码头间的话题。在我把所有营运事宜都交到他手中之后，他必须值得信赖。他必须勇敢。我不需要软弱迷信，或对宗教太过虔诚的人。你虔诚吗，船长？”
“不，”马什说，“我从来不喜欢那些《圣经》宣扬家，他们也不喜欢我。”
约克微微一笑。“实干——我需要讲求实干的人。他将专注于工作，不打听我的事。我重视隐私。即使有的时候我的言谈举止显得怪异、专断、反复无常，我也不希望被质疑。你明白我的需求吗？”
马什扯着胡子，沉吟着。“明白又怎么样？”
“那我们就会成为合伙人。”约克说，“把你的公司交给你的律师和职员打理，你和我一同到河上去旅行。船长的职责由我履行，你可以说自己是领航员、大副，或者副船长，随你选。当然，船的实际操作我会交给你。我不会常常下达命令，但如果我下达命令，你必须无条件地确保这些命令被切实遵行。有些同伴会和我们一起旅行，免费住进舱房，我可能视情况把船上的一些职责委派给他们。这些决定你不能质疑。如果你接受所有这些条件，马什船长，我们就可以一起致富，在你的河上享受自由奢华的旅程。”
阿布纳·马什笑出声来。“这个嘛，或许吧，但这不是我的河，约克先生。还有，如果你想在老伊莱·雷诺号上享受奢华的旅程，等上了甲板你一定会跳脚。她又吵又慢，起居设备烂得够呛。甲板上多数时候塞满了外国乘客，航行到一些难以想象的鬼地方去。我两年没上那艘船了──现在是老尤杰船长在驾驶她。我最后一次搭乘那艘船的时候，她闻起来有一股子馊味。真想自由奢华的话，你该去买日蚀号或者约翰·西蒙斯号。”
乔希·约克啜了一口酒，微笑着。“我从没想过乘坐伊莱·雷诺号。”
“但她是我唯一的船。”
约克放下酒杯。“来，”他说，“咱们到房间里接着谈，进一步讨论细节。”
马什无力地抗议。拓殖者之家提供各色甜点，他一道也不想错过。可是约克坚持他的提议。
约克住在设备一流的大套房，是旅店最好的房间，通常提供给来自新奥尔良的富有的庄园主。“坐。”他命令似的说，示意马什坐进客厅一张宽大舒适的椅子里。马什照办，房间的主人走进内室，片刻后带回一个小铁皮箱，把箱子放到桌上，打开锁。“你过来。”他说，马什已经起身，站在他后面。约克掀开盖子。
“金币。”马什低声道。他伸手触摸那些钱币，让它们从指间溜过，体会着这种黄色金属的诱人触感、光泽和哗啦啦的脆响。他拿起一枚金币放进嘴里咬了一下。“十足真金。”然后扔回箱子。
“总共一万美金，一枚金币值二十美金。”约克说，“我还有两个同样的箱子，此外，我在伦敦、费城和罗马都有存款，总数十分可观。接受我的提议吧，马什船长，你将拥有第二艘船，一艘比伊莱·雷诺号大得多的船。或者应该说是我们将拥有第二艘船。”他笑道。
阿布纳·马什本想回绝约克的提议，但他实在太需要钱了。约克的提议听起来太美妙了，马什本能地肯定这件事背后潜藏着某种危险，接受下来一定是个错误。但此刻他眼前一片金光，感到自己的意志力不断削弱。“你是说一艘新船？”他轻声问。
“没错。”约克回答。
“多少……”马什开口道，他的嘴唇发干，他神经质地舔舔嘴唇。“你愿意花多少钱来打造这艘新船？”
“需要多少？”约克平静地问。
马什抓起一把金币，让它们哗啦啦地从指间落下，掉回箱子。金光闪闪，真美呀，他想，但他只说：“你不该随身带这么多钱。单单为了一枚金币，那些无赖都会宰掉你。”
“我能保护自己，船长。”约克说。马什看着他的眼神，感到一股寒意。他同情那些想抢劫乔希·约克的人。
“你愿意和我到外面走一趟吗？去码头。”
“你还没给我答案，船长。”
“你会得到答案的。先来一趟，我要你看样东西。”
“好吧。”约克说。他盖上箱子，柔和的黄光消失了，房间突然变得封闭而昏暗。
夜气湿冷。他们走在黑暗寂寥的街道上，靴子敲出回声。约克显得敏捷而优雅，马什则声势浩荡。约克穿着一件剪裁类似披肩的宽大的领航员外套，头戴老式海狸皮高帽，弦月的光辉在街道上拉出他长长的身影。马什瞪着砖砌仓库之间的阴冷小巷，极力表现出健壮剽悍的模样。一般说来，他只要皱皱眉就足以吓跑流氓。
码头挤满船只，至少四十艘船系在岸桩和趸船边。即便在这个时刻也不是彻底安静。月色下，货船巨大的烟囱投下黑色阴影，吞没了倚着货箱和干草堆随意坐卧、互递酒瓶、抽着烟斗的码头工人。一打以上的船，舱房窗户中依旧亮着光。密苏里河运公司的怀恩多特号灯火通明，蒸气缭绕。有个人站在一艘大邮轮的最高甲板舱 顶上，好奇地望着他们这个方向。阿布纳·马什带着约克从那艘船边走过，接着走过一排黑沉沉的汽船，它们高耸的烟囱直指夜空，托着繁星，仿佛一列阴暗的树，顶端长着怪异的花朵。
最后，他停在一艘华丽的明轮船前。烟囱矗立在主甲板上，栈台高高升起，这是为防备不速之客登船。饱经风霜的老旧趸船与她相偎相倚。即使在朦胧弦月下，仍旧可以看出她的壮丽。码头上没有任何一艘船像她这样庞大、这样骄傲。
“这是？”乔希·约克肃然起敬。
“这是日蚀号。”马什说，“看，驾驶舱上有她的名字，在那边。”他用拐杖点了点，“看得见吗？”
“非常清楚。我的夜视力很好。这是一艘特别的船？”
“没错，特别极了。她是日蚀号！这条天杀的河上，每个男人和小男孩都晓得她。她现在很老了──1852年造的，五年了，但仍然是最顶级的。据说她的造价达到三十七万五千美金，我相信，完全值那个价。没有比她更大、更美、更‘可怕’的船了。我研究过她，乘坐过她，我很清楚。”马什加重语气道，“全长三百六十五英尺，宽四十英尺，大厅就有三百三十平方英尺。没有哪条船能和她相提并论。大厅一头有亨利·克莱的金雕像，另一头是安迪·杰克逊 的，他俩隔着整座大厅互相瞪眼。水晶、银器、彩色玻璃，多得连拓殖者之家都望尘莫及；油画、从没尝过的食物，还有镜子。但是，和她的速度相比，这一切都不算什么。
“她的主甲板下有十五具锅炉。划一桨可以行进11英尺。不骗你。只要斯特金船长让她点火启动，不管哪条河上的哪艘船都追不上她，时速可达十八英里，轻而易举。1853年，她创下了从新奥尔良到路易斯威尔的最快记录。花了多少时间我记得一清二楚：四天九小时三十分，以五十分钟的差距，击败天杀的夏特威尔号。”马什转身面向约克，“我原本希望我的伊莉女士有朝一日能取代日蚀号，打败她，或者和她势均力敌，但她永远不可能做到啦。我现在总算明白了，我只是在愚弄自己，我根本没有足够的钱去造一艘可以取代日蚀号的船。
“给我这笔钱，约克先生，你就会成为我的合伙人——这就是我的答案。你要半个菲佛河运公司，和一个只管开船、不过问你任何私事的合伙人？没问题。给我钱，让我造一艘像那样的船。”
乔希·约克凝视着那艘巨大的明轮船。黑暗中的日蚀号沉默无声，自在地漂浮在水面，准备迎接一切挑战。约克向阿布纳·马什转过身来，唇上挂着微笑，暗色的眼中似乎有隐约的火焰。他只说了两个字：“成交。”然后伸出手。
马什咧开嘴，高兴地笑了，露出一口暴牙。他肥厚的大手抓住约克纤瘦白皙的手，紧紧地握着。“成交！”他大声说，粗鲁地使着劲儿，用上了全身力气。谈生意的时候他总是这么做，他在考验交易对象的意志力和胆量，他会一直把手握紧，直到在对方的眼睛里看见痛苦。
但约克的眼神依然清澈，并用惊人的力量攫住马什的手，不断收紧，苍白的皮肤下肌肉虬结。马什好不容易才咽下呼痛声。
约克松开手。“来吧，我们有计划要商量。”他说，用力拍了马什肩膀一下。马什不由得打了个趔趄。
以下是英文版
CHAPTER ONESt. Louis, April 1857ABNER Marsh rapped the head of his hickory walking stick smartly on the hotel desk to get the clerk's attention. "I'm here to see a man named York," he said. "Josh York, I believe he calls hisself. You got such a man here?"
The clerk was an elderly man with spectacles. He jumped at the sound of the rap, then turned and spied Marsh and smiled. "Why, it's Cap'n Marsh," he said amiably. "Ain't seen you for half a year, Cap'n. Heard about your misfortune, though. Terrible, just terrible. I been here since '36 and I never seen no ice jam like that one."
"Never you mind about that," Abner Marsh said, annoyed. He had anticipated such comments. The Planters' House was a popular hostelry among steamboatmen. Marsh himself had dined there regularly before that cruel winter. But since the ice jam he'd been staying away, and not only because of the prices. Much as he liked Planters' House food, he was not eager for its brand of company: pilots and captains and mates, rivermen all, old friends and old rivals, and all of them knowing his misfortune. Abner Marsh wanted no man's pity. "You just say where York's room is," he told the clerk peremptorily.
The clerk bobbed his head nervously. "Mister York won't be in his room, Cap'n. You'll find him in the dining room, taking his meal."
"Now? At this hour?" Marsh glanced at the ornate hotel clock, then loosed the brass buttons of his coat and pulled out his own gold pocket watch. "Ten past midnight," he said, incredulous. "You say he's eatin'?"
"Yes sir, that he is. He chooses his own times, Mister York, and he's not the sort you say no to, Cap'n."
Abner Marsh made a rude noise deep in his throat, pocketed his watch, and turned away without a word, setting off across the richly appointed lobby with long, heavy strides. He was a big man, and not a patient one, and he was not accustomed to business meetings at midnight. He carried his walking stick with a flourish, as if he had never had a misfortune, and was still the man he had been.
The dining room was almost as grand and lavish as the main saloon on a big steamer, with cut-glass chandeliers and polished brass fixtures and tables covered with fine white linen and the best china and crystal. During normal hours, the tables would have been full of travelers and steamboatmen, but now the room was empty, most of the lights extinguished. Perhaps there was something to be said for midnight meetings after all, Marsh reflected; at least he would have to suffer no condolences. Near the kitchen door, two Negro waiters were talking softly. Marsh ignored them and walked to the far side of the room, where a well-dressed stranger was dining alone.
The man must have heard him approach, but he did not look up. He was busy spooning up mock turtle soup from a china bowl. The cut of his long black coat made it clear he was no riverman; an Easterner then, or maybe even a foreigner. He was big, Marsh saw, though not near so big as Marsh; seated, he gave the impression of height, but he had none of Marsh's girth. At first Marsh thought him an old man, for his hair was white. Then, when he came closer, he saw that it was not white at all, but a very pale blond, and suddenly the stranger took on an almost boyish aspect. York was clean-shaven, not a mustache nor side whiskers on his long, cool face, and his skin was as fair as his hair. He had hands like a woman, Marsh thought as he stood over the table.
He tapped on the table with his stick. The cloth muffled the sound, made it a gentle summons. "You Josh York?" he said.
York looked up, and their eyes met.
Till the rest of his days were done, Abner Marsh remembered that moment, that first look into the eyes of Joshua York. Whatever thoughts he had had, whatever plans he had made, were sucked up in the maelstrom of York's eyes. Boy and old man and dandy and foreigner, all those were gone in an instant, and there was only York, the man himself, the power of him, the dream, the intensity.
York's eyes were gray, startlingly dark in such a pale face. His pupils were pinpoints, burning black, and they reached right into Marsh and weighed the soul inside him. The gray around them seemed alive, moving, like fog on the river on a dark night, when the banks vanish and the lights vanish and there is nothing in the world but your boat and the river and the fog. In those mists, Abner Marsh saw things; visions swift-glimpsed and then gone. There was a cool intelligence peering out of those mists. But there was a beast as well, dark and frightening, chained and angry, raging at the fog. Laughter and loneliness and cruel passion; York had all of that in his eyes.
But mostly there was force in those eyes, terrible force, a strength as relentless and merciless as the ice that had crushed Marsh's dreams. Somewhere in that fog, Marsh could sense the ice moving, slow, so slow, and he could hear the awful splintering of his boats and all his hopes.
Abner Marsh had stared down many a man in his day, and he held his gaze for the longest time, his hand closed so hard around his stick that he feared he would snap it in two. But at last he looked away.
The man at the table pushed away his soup, gestured, and said, "Captain Marsh. I have been expecting you. Please join me." His voice was mellow, educated, easy.
"Yes," Marsh said, too softly. He pulled out the chair across from York and eased himself into it. Marsh was a massive man, six foot tall and three hundred pounds heavy. He had a red face and a full black beard that he wore to cover up a flat, pushed-in nose and a faceful of warts, but even the whiskers didn't help much; they called him the ugliest man on the river, and he knew it. In his heavy blue captain's coat with its double row of brass buttons, he was a fierce and imposing figure. But York's eyes had drained him of his bluster. The man was a fanatic, Marsh decided. He had seen eyes like that before, in madmen and hell-raising preachers and once in the face of the man called John Brown, down in bleeding Kansas. Marsh wanted nothing to do with fanatics, with preachers, and abolitionists and temperance people.
But when York spoke, he did not sound like a fanatic. "My name is Joshua Anton York, Captain. J. A. York in business, Joshua to my friends. I hope that we shall be both business associates and friends, in time." His tone was cordial and reasonable.
"We'll see about that," Marsh said, uncertain. The gray eyes across from him seemed aloof and vaguely amused now; whatever he had seen in them was gone. He felt confused.
"I trust you received my letter?"
"I got it right here," Marsh said, pulling the folded envelope from the pocket of his coat. The offer had seemed an impossible stroke of fortune when it arrived, salvation for everything he feared lost. Now he was not so sure. "You want to go into the steamboat business, do you?" he said, leaning forward.
A waiter appeared. "Will you be dining with Mister York, Cap'n?"
"Please do," York urged.
"I believe I will," Marsh said. York might be able to outstare him, but there was no man on the river could outeat him. "I'll have some of that soup, and a dozen oysters, and a couple of roast chickens with taters and stuff. Crisp 'em up good, mind you. And something to wash it all down with. What are you drinking, York?"
"Burgundy."
"Fine, fetch me a bottle of the same."
York looked amused. "You have a formidable appetite, Captain."
"This is a for-mid-a-bul town," Marsh said carefully, "and a for-mid-a-bul river, Mister York. Man's got to keep his strength up. This ain't New York, nor London neither."
"I'm quite aware of that," York said.
"Well, I hope so, if you're going into steamboatin'. It's the for-mid-a-bullest thing of all."
"Shall we go directly to business, then? You own a packet line. I wish to buy a half-interest. Since you are here, I take it you are interested in my offer."
"I'm considerable interested," Marsh agreed, "and considerable puzzled, too. You look like a smart man. I reckon you checked me out before you wrote me this here letter." He tapped it with his finger. "You ought to know that this last winter just about ruined me."
York said nothing, but something in his face bid Marsh continue.
"The Fevre River Packet Company, that's me," Marsh went on. "Called it that on account of where I was born, up on the Fevre near Galena, not 'cause I only worked that river, since I didn't. I had six boats, working mostly the upper Mississippi trade, St. Louis to St. Paul, with some trips up the Fevre and the Illinois and the Missouri. I was doing just fine, adding a new boat or two most every year, thinking of moving into the Ohio trade, or maybe even New Orleans. But last July my Mary Clarke blew a boiler and burned, up near to Dubuque, burned right to the waterline with a hundred dead. And this winter—this was a terrible winter. I had four of my boats wintering here at St. Louis. The Nicholas Perrot, the Dunleith, the Sweet Fevre, and my Elizabeth A., brand-new, only four months in service and a sweet boat too, near 300 feet long with 12 big boilers, fast as any steamboat on the river. I was real proud of my lady Liz. She cost me $200,000, but she was worth every penny of it." The soup arrived. Marsh tasted a spoonful and scowled. "Too hot," he said. "Well, anyway, St. Louis is a good place to winter. Don't freeze too bad down here, nor too long. This winter was different, though. Yes, sir. Ice jam. Damn river froze hard." Marsh extended a huge red hand across the table, palm up, and slowly closed his fingers into a fist. "Put an egg in there and you get the idea, York. Ice can crush a steamboat easier than I can crush an egg. When it breaks up it's even worse, big gorges sliding down the river, smashing up wharfs, levees, boats, most everything. Winter's end, I'd lost my boats, all four of 'em. The ice took 'em away from me."
"Insurance?" York asked.
Marsh set to his soup, sucking it up noisily. In between spoons, he shook his head. "I'm not a gambling man, Mister York. I never took no stock in insurance. It's gambling, all it is, 'cept you're bettin' against yourself. What money I made, I put into my boats."
York nodded. "I believe you still own one steamboat."
"That I do," Marsh said. He finished his soup and signaled for the next course. "The Eli Reynolds, a little 150-ton stern-wheeler. I been using her on the Illinois, 'cause she don't draw much, and she wintered in Peoria, missed the worse of the ice. That's my asset, sir, that's what I got left. Trouble is, Mister York, the Eli Reynolds ain't worth much. She only cost me $25,000 new, and that was back in '50."
"Seven years," York said. "Not a very long time."
Marsh shook his head. "Seven years is a powerful long time for a steamboat," he said. "Most of 'em don't last but four or five. River just eats 'em up. The Eli Reynolds was better built than most, but still, she ain't got that long left." Marsh started in on his oysters, scooping them up on the half shell and swallowing them whole, washing each one down with a healthy gulp of wine. "So I'm puzzled, Mister York," he continued after a half-dozen oysters had disappeared. "You want to buy a half-share in my line, which ain't got but one small, old boat. Your letter named a price. Too high a price. Maybe when I had six boats, then Fevre River Packets was worth that much. But not now." He gulped down another oyster. "You won't earn back your investment in ten years, not with the Reynolds. She can't take enough freight, nor passengers neither." Marsh wiped his lips on his napkin, and regarded the stranger across the table. The food had restored him, and now he felt like his own self again, in command of the situation. York's eyes were intense, to be sure, but there was nothing there to fear.
"You need my money, Captain," York said. "Why are you telling me this? Aren't you afraid I will find another partner?"
"I don't work that way," Marsh said. "Been on the river thirty years, York. Rafted down to New Orleans when I was just a boy, and worked flatboats and keelboats both before steamers. I been a pilot and a mate and a striker, even a mud clerk. Been everything there is to be in this business, but one thing I never been, and that's a sharper."
"An honest man," York said, with just enough of an edge in his voice so Marsh could not be sure if he was being mocked. "I am glad you saw fit to tell me the condition of your company, Captain. I knew it already, to be sure. My offer stands."
"Why?" Marsh demanded gruffly. "Only a fool throws away money. You don't look like no fool."
The food arrived before York could answer. Marsh's chickens were crisped up beautifully, just the way he liked them. He sawed off a leg and started in hungrily. York was served a thick cut of roasted beef, red and rare, swimming in blood and juice. Marsh watched him attack it, deftly, easily. His knife slid through the meat as if it were butter, never pausing to hack or saw, as Marsh so often did. He handled his fork like a gentleman, shifting hands when he set down his knife. Strength and grace; York had both in those long, pale hands of his, and Marsh admired that. He wondered that he had ever thought them a woman's hands. They were white but strong, hard like the white of the keys of the grand piano in the main cabin of the Eclipse.
"Well?" Marsh prompted. "You ain't answered my question."
Joshua York paused for a moment. Finally he said, "You have been honest with me, Captain Marsh. I will not repay your honesty with lies, as I had intended. But I will not burden you with the truth, either. There are things I cannot tell you, things you would not care to know. Let me put my terms to you, under these conditions, and see if we can come to an agreement. If not, we shall part amiably."
Marsh hacked the breast off his second chicken. "Go on," he said. "I ain't leaving."
York put down his knife and fork and made a steeple of his fingers. "For my own reasons, I want to be master of a steamboat. I want to travel the length of this great river, in comfort and privacy, not as passenger but as captain. I have a dream, a purpose. I seek friends and allies, and I have enemies, many enemies. The details are none of your concern. If you press me about them, I will tell you lies. Do not press me." His eyes grew hard a moment, then softened as he smiled. "Your only interest need be my desire to own and command a steamboat, Captain. As you can tell, I am no riverman. I know nothing of steamboats, or the Mississippi, beyond what I have read in a few books and learned during the weeks I have spent in St. Louis. Obviously, I need an associate, someone who is familiar with the river and river people, someone who can manage the day-to-day operations of my boat, and leave me free to pursue my own purposes.
"This associate must have other qualities as well. He must be discreet, as I do not wish to have my behavior—which I admit to be sometimes peculiar—become the talk of the levee. He must be trustworthy, since I will give all management over into his hands. He must have courage. I do not want a weakling, or a superstitious man, or one who is overly religious. Are you a religious man, Captain?"
"No," said Marsh. "Never cared for bible-thumpers, nor them for me."
York smiled. "Pragmatic. I want a pragmatic man. I want a man who will concentrate on his own part of the business, and not ask too many questions of me. I value my privacy, and if sometimes my actions seem strange or arbitrary or capricious, I do not want them challenged. Do you understand my requirements?"
Marsh tugged thoughtfully on his beard. "And if I do?"
"We will become partners," York said. "Let your lawyers and your clerks run your line. You will travel with me on the river. I will serve as captain. You can call yourself pilot, mate, co-captain, whatever you choose. The actual running of the boat I will leave to you. My orders will be infrequent, but when I do command, you will see to it that I am obeyed without question. I have friends who will travel with us, cabin passage, at no cost. I may see fit to give them positions on the boat, with such duties as I may deem fitting. You will not question these decisions. I may acquire other friends along the river, and bring them aboard as well. You will welcome them. If you can abide by such terms, Captain Marsh, we shall grow rich together and travel your river in ease and luxury."
Abner Marsh laughed. "Well, maybe. But it ain't my river, Mister York, and if you think we're going to travel in luxury on the old Eli Reynolds, you're going to be awful sore when you come on board. She's a rackety old tub with some pretty poor accommodations, and most times she's full of foreigners taking deck passage to one unlikely place or the other. I ain't been on her in two years—old Cap'n Yoerger runs her for me now—but last time I rode her, she smelled pretty bad. You want luxury, you ought to see about buying into the Eclipse or the John Simonds."
Joshua York sipped at his wine, and smiled. "I did not have the Eli Reynolds in mind, Captain Marsh."
"She's the only boat I got."
York set down his wine. "Come," he said, "let us settle up here. We can proceed up to my room, and discuss matters further."
Marsh made a weak protest—the Planters' House offered an excellent dessert menu, and he hated to pass it up. York insisted, however.
York's room was a large, well-appointed suite, the best the hotel had to offer, and usually reserved for rich planters up from New Orleans. "Sit," York said commandingly, gesturing Marsh to a large, comfortable chair in the sitting room. Marsh sat, while his host went into an inner chamber and returned a moment later, bearing a small iron-bound chest. He set it on a table and began to work the lock. "Come here," he said, but Marsh had already risen to stand behind him. York threw back the lid.
"Gold," Marsh said softly. He reached out and touched the coins, running them through his fingers, savoring the feel of the soft yellow metal, the gleam and the clatter of it. One coin he brought to his mouth and tasted. "Real enough," he said, spitting. He chunked the coin back in the chest.
"Ten thousand dollars in twenty-dollar gold coins," York said. "I have two other chests just like it, and letters of credit from banks in London, Philadelphia, and Rome for sums considerably larger. Accept my offer, Captain Marsh, and you shall have a second boat, one far grander than your Eli Reynolds. Or perhaps I should say that we shall have a second boat." He smiled.
Abner Marsh had meant to turn down York's offer. He needed the money bad enough, but he was a suspicious man with no use for mysteries, and York asked him to take too much on faith. The offer had sounded too good; Marsh was certain that danger lay hidden somewhere, and he would be the worse for it if he accepted. But now, staring at the color of York's wealth, he felt his resolve weakening. "A new boat, you say?" he said weakly.
"Yes," York replied, "and that is over and above the price I would pay you for a half-interest in your packet line."
"How much . . ." Marsh began. His lips were dry. He licked them nervously. "How much are you willin' to spend to build this new boat, Mister York?"
"How much is required?" York asked quietly.
Marsh took up a handful of gold coins, then let them rattle through his fingers back into the chest. The gleam of them, he thought, but all he said was, "You oughtn't carry this much about with you, York. There's scoundrels would kill you for one of them coins."
"I can protect myself, Captain," York said. Marsh saw the look in his eyes and felt cold. He pitied the robber who tried to take Joshua York's gold.
"Will you take a walk with me? On the levee?"
"You haven't given me my answer, Captain."
"You'll get your answer. Come first. Got something I want you to see."
"Very well," York said. He closed the lid of the chest, and the soft yellow gleam faded from the room, which suddenly seemed close and dim.
The night air was cool and moist. Their boots sent up echoes as they walked the dark, deserted streets, York with a limber grace and Marsh with heavy authority. York wore a loose pilot's coat cut like a cape, and a tall old beaver hat that cast long shadows in the light of the half-moon. Marsh glared at the dark alleys between the bleak brick warehouses, and tried to present an aspect of solid, scowling strength sufficient to scare off ruffians.
The levee was crowded with steamboats, at least forty of them tied up to landing posts and wharfboats. Even at this hour all was not quiet. Huge stacks of freight threw black shadows in the moonlight, and they passed roustabouts lounging against crates and bales of hay, passing a bottle from hand to hand or smoking their cob pipes. Lights still burned in the cabin windows of a dozen or more boats. The Missouri packet Wyandotte was lit and building steam. They spied a man standing high up on the texas deck of one big side-wheel packet, looking down at them curiously. Abner Marsh led York past him, past the procession of darkened, silent steamers, their tall chimneys etched against the stars like a row of blackened trees with strange flowers on their tops.
Finally he stopped before a great ornate side-wheeler, freight piled high on her main deck, her stage raised against unwanted intruders as she nuzzled against her weathered old wharfboat. Even in the dimness of the half-moon the splendor of her was clear. No steamer on the levee was quite so big and proud.
"Yes?" Joshua York said quietly, respectfully. That might have decided it right there, Marsh thought later—the respect in his voice.
"That's the Eclipse," Marsh said. "See, her name is on the wheel-house, there." He jabbed with his stick. "Can you read it?"
"Quite well. I have excellent night vision. This is a special boat, then?"
"Hell yes, she's special. She's the Eclipse. Every goddamned man and boy on this river knows her. Old now—she was built back in '52, five years ago. But she's still grand. Cost $375,000, so they say, and worth all of it. There ain't never been a bigger, fancier, more for-mid-a-bul boat than this one right here. I've studied her, taken passage on her. I know." Marsh pointed. "She measures 365 feet by 40, and her grand saloon is 330 feet long, and you never seen nothin' like it. Got a gold statue of Henry Clay at one end, and Andy Jackson at the other, the two of 'em glaring at each other the whole damn way. More crystal and silver and colored glass than the Planters' House ever dreamed of, oil paintings, food like you ain't never tasted, and mirrors—such mirrors. And all that's nothin' to her speed.
"Down below on the main deck she carries 15 boilers. Got an 11-foot stroke, I tell you, and there ain't a boat on any river can run with her when Cap'n Sturgeon gets up her steam. She's done eighteen miles an hour upstream, easy. Back in '53, she set the record from New Orleans to Louisville. I know her time by heart. Four days, nine hours, thirty minutes, and she beat the goddamned A. L. Shotwell by fifty minutes, fast as the Shotwell is." Marsh rounded to face York. "I hoped my Lady Liz would take the Eclipse some day, beat her time or race her head to head, but she never could of done it, I know that now. I was just foolin' myself. I didn't have the money it takes to build a boat that can take the Eclipse.
"You give me that money, Mister York, and you've got yourself a partner. There's your answer, sir. You want half of Fevre River Packets, and a partner who runs things quiet and don't ask you no questions 'bout your business? Fine. Then you give me the money to build a steamboat like that."
Joshua York stared at the big side-wheeler, serene and silent in the darkness, floating easily on the water, ready for all challengers. He turned to Abner Marsh with a smile on his lips and a dim flame in his dark eyes. "Done," was all he said. And he extended his hand.
Marsh broke into a crooked, snaggle-toothed grin, wrapped York's slim white hand within his own meaty paw, and squeezed. "Done, then," he said loudly, and he brought all his massive strength to bear, squeezing and crushing, as he always did in business, to test the will and the courage of the men he dealt with. He squeezed until he saw the pain in their eyes.
But York's eyes stayed clear, and his own hand clenched hard around Marsh's with a strength that was surprising. Tighter and tighter it squeezed, and the muscles beneath that pale flesh coiled and corded like springs of iron, and Marsh swallowed hard and tried not to cry out.
York released his hand. "Come," he said, clapping Marsh solidly across the shoulders and staggering him a bit. "We have plans to make."
首先感谢impp大和三文鱼殿的支持，我的本意是请大家讨论，而不是我自己来写心得，不
过如果能起到抛砖引玉的作用，我还是很高兴能写点东西供大家评论的。
有的地方可能有点上纲上线，胡思乱想，有的地方参照了英文原文，本人英语苦手，要是
有理解错误的地方也请大家指出来。
那么先抛出我的学习心得吧。
阅读第一章，我觉得有一个关键字是不能忽略的
那就是开头
万事开头难，求助的也一般都是开头
开头该怎么写？
这个故事
如果是我写的话，恐怕会情不自禁的先去描写一番密西西比河的吧
下面请看马丁老师的示范
文章第一句
阿布纳·马什用胡桃木拐杖重重地敲打着旅店的柜台。“我要找一个名叫约克的人，他自
称乔希·约克。这里有没有这个人？”
没有多余的词句描写环境或描写气氛，船老大的出场先声夺人，带着他那根不离身的胡桃
木拐杖。“敲打”的这个动作，表现出马什“粗”的性格。如果是我写，也许会写成“阿
布纳·马什站在旅店的柜台边问……”这种温吞吞的句子呢
当然，马什说的话也要注意，看中文版或许体会不到，我们来看看英文原句
ABNER Marsh rapped the head of his hickory walking stick smartly on the hotel
desk to get the clerk's attention. "I'm here to see a man named York," he said.
"Josh York, I believe he calls hisself. You got such a man here?"
"Josh York, I believe he calls hisself"
这个句子很有意思，它把从句的宾语提前了。我觉得这并不只是想强调Josh York这个名字
，而是想表达马什的一种性格——心直口快，先把自己关心的东西说出来，然后再慢慢作
补充，也就是多少有点急性子的感觉。（我在想如果中文版中译为“我要找一个名叫约克
的人，乔希·约克——可能是这么自称的，有这么个人没？”是不是更好？）还有那个
hisself，不知道英语俚语里有没有这种用法，没用himself更体现出船老大没什么文化—
—至少我是这么认为的
总的来看这句开头就是简洁明了，直截了当
从动作到语气再到说话的内容，将马什这个人物勾勒出了一个大概的轮廓
另外还有一个好处
读过这部小说的朋友知道，全文除了写boss朱利安的片断以外，基本上都是以马什为观察
的视角。上来的第一句话直接写马什，就让我们把视角固定到马什身上了
说一点题外话
感觉外国的小说作家一般上来第一句都是写人。
我找了《达芬奇密码》的开头第一句如下
罗伯特·兰登慢慢醒来。
黑暗中电话铃响了起来——一种微弱的、不熟悉的响声。他伸手去摸床头灯，把灯打开。
他眯着眼打量了一下环境，发现这是一间文艺复兴风格的豪华卧室，路易十六世的家俱，
装饰有手工壁面的墙面，还有一张宽大的四柱红木床。
斯蒂芬·金的《神秘火焰》
“爸爸，我累了。”穿着红裤子，绿罩衫的小女孩烦躁地说，“我们还不能停下来吗？”
“还不能，亲爱的。”
说话的是一个高大、宽肩的男人。他穿着一件破旧。磨损了的灯芯绒夹克衫和一条普通的
棕色斜纹裤，他拉着小女孩的手，飞快地走在纽约第三大街上。回头望去，那辆绿色轿车
仍在跟着他们，紧靠人行道慢慢地向前爬行。
而国内作者的小说一般上来就是一段场面描写或者环境描写。
不知道这是否可以看作一种有趣的文学现象来研究呢
回归正题
下面我们可以期待看到的是马丁老师的人物塑造
首先是马什
从一开头我们就不断地看到他的形象描写
他蛮横地说
马什瞄了一眼华丽的旅店时钟，又解开外套的黄铜纽扣，掏出金怀表
阿布纳·马什的喉咙深处粗鲁地咕噜一声
他是个大块头，没有耐性，不习惯半夜三更跟人见面谈生意
蛮横，粗鲁，没有耐心——这类词汇几乎充斥了开头关于马什的描写
可是请不要忽略其中的这句话
阿布纳·马什不需要任何人同情
这一句话点明了马什好强不服输的本质
成为了全文最重大的伏笔之一
正是这样的一个人物性格
将最后的结局引向了good end
然后是乔希的首次出场
这段描写很长
我拣我比较关注的地方说
我注意到了这样一句话
马什想，他长着一双女人的手。
这句话可以看成是对乔希的手泛白，修长之类特征的描写
但同时它是马什的主观想法
以他船老大的身份来看，他很可能从这只手判断对方只不过是一个软弱的纨绔子弟
所以这句话一箭双雕
既是客观描绘，又是主观想法
一句话描写了两个人
用一个人的看法去描绘另一个人，似乎是值得注意的方法呢
直到走完人生最后的旅程，阿布纳·马什始终记得这一刻，他第一次与乔希·约克四目相
对的这个瞬间。年轻年老、纨绔子弟或者来自国外之类，所有设想和估计都被约克这一眼
一古脑儿扫走了。一时间，眼前只剩下约克这个男人，还有他的力量、梦想和激情。
这一段一气呵成，让我们也感觉到了马丁老师的力量，梦想和激情。
约克的眼睛是灰色的，在苍白的脸上显得阴暗吓人。瞳孔细小如针，黑得灼人，直刺入马
什的心灵深处，掂量着马什灵魂的份量。瞳孔周围的灰色游移不定，如同一片迷雾。仿佛
河堤隐匿，光线隐匿，整个世界什么也没有，只剩下你的船、河流和暗夜里的这片迷雾。
阿布纳·马什似乎在这片迷雾中看到了什么，种种幻象，闪现又消逝。他感觉到了这片迷
雾中透出的智慧和冷酷，还感觉到迷雾之后，有一头被束缚住的无形野兽，不断发出愤怒
的吼啸。你能从他的眸子里看到笑声、孤独和无情的狂热。
马丁老师抓住了乔希的眼睛这个窗口，不吝于用大量的笔墨和华丽的笔法去描绘乔希的内
心。
到“女人的手”之前，马什是带着一种优势的心理来到谈判桌前的，他有着在河流上闯荡
多年的船老大的骄傲，认为只有河上人才是真正的男人。可是从这里开始，马什的心理落
入了劣势。
眼光里透露得更多的是力量，可怕的力量，如同粉碎过马什梦想的冰塞。马什甚至能感到
和冰塞同样的挤压，缓慢而无情，他听到自己的船和自己的希望正在破裂。
不过，马什可不是那么容易就放弃的人，他很快从劣势心理中摆脱出来，准备和面前这个
家伙讨价还价了
马丁老师当然不会放过这样一个绝佳的让马什作自我介绍的机会，下面以马什的自我介绍
为动机（也就是说写这段是为了介绍马什的背景）的对话开始了
我觉得如果要我写这么一段对话，必然落入对话流……
（未完待续，慢慢写，慢慢写……）
大家也一起来讨论吧，就你关注的细节，喜欢的描写，结构的设计，什么都可以
填坑填坑，再不填坑就要成坟了
接下来是长篇的对话描写
前两天刚刚发了一个求问行文节奏的帖子
今天就来学习下这部小说的节奏
两个人见面后，并没有直接进入对话，而是插入了对马什的外貌描写
为什么不在马什一出场的时候，也就是文章的最开头来描写呢？
我说说我的理解，我认为有两个原因
第一：作者采用的是限制性的第三人称，视角是放在马什身上的，如果上来就对马什进行
外貌描写，会使读者感觉到视角的错乱。而放在两个人见面时，也就是两个人互相打量的
时候来作描写，就很自然，可以说得通了。
第二：两个陌生人见面的时候，一上来必然会有互相打量的过程。这实际上是一个很好的
可以用来描写的空白时段。而在这里对马什的描写就很好的填充了这个空白，使读者体会
到了那一小段的沉默对视。
一番寒暄后，马什开始做自己情况的介绍。是的，这部分内容由马什自己亲口表述再好不
过了，如果由作者旁白，将会是多么乏味的一段叙述啊
究竟哪些东西该由人物叙述，哪些东西该由作者旁白叙述
似乎也是个值得考虑的问题呢
而且，这段内容也起到了另一个作用，那就是提起悬念
马什已经这么惨了，为什么乔希还要对公司投资呢
这时候，大家都在期望着乔希作出回答
然后是这样一段描写
没等约克回答，主菜送来了。马什要的鸡烤得很漂亮，脆得恰到好处。他锯下一只鸡腿，
狼吞虎咽地吃起来。约克盘子里是一块厚厚的牛排，艳红鲜嫩，浸泡在血水和酱汁里。马
什看着他灵巧轻松地对付那块牛排，刀仿佛切奶油般滑过肉块，从不停顿，不像马什似的
又劈又锯。他拿餐叉的方式像个绅士，总是先放下刀，再换过手来拿叉子。马什不得不承
认，约克苍白修长的手兼具力度与优雅，他很奇怪自己刚才竟会认为那是女人的手。这双
手白晢，但是有力，坚实得如同日蚀号主船舱里那架钢琴的白键。
笔锋马上转到乔希的手上，在揭示答案之前微微一顿
似乎这就是一种控制节奏的办法？
然后，乔希作了回答，可是这段回答充满了神秘感，似乎什么也没有说，却又处处留下暗
示，更加把读者的疑惑拉高，产生继续读下去的欲望。
那么，这笔买卖会不会成功呢？
双方都了解了对方的情况，然后开始讨价还价
乔希亮出了自己的财富
轮到马什出牌
这个时候如果是我写，会不会直接提出要造一艘好船呢？
作者没有这样做，他让马什带着乔希来到了码头，亲眼看到了日蚀号，这时候马什才说出
了自己的执念——想有一艘超过日蚀号的船！
（必须得说，读到了这里，感觉船老大实在是个热血沸腾的家伙呢）
马什没有直接提出自己的要求，而是将日蚀号展示在我们面前。这又是轻轻一顿
在读者急迫想要知道下文的时候轻轻一顿
这是不是就是节奏的一种呢
最后，两个人达成了协议
同时，这个带乔希看船的情节也为后来马什对菲佛之梦的执著埋下了深深的伏笔。
仍然有很多精彩的细节
不过只拿这个比喻出来吧
阿布纳·马什带着约克从那艘船边走过，接着走过一排黑沉沉的汽船，它们高耸的烟囱直指夜空，托着繁星，仿佛一列阴暗的树，顶端长着怪异的花朵。
形象的比喻，同时成功地烘托了当时的气氛
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