AliasGrace - (EPUB全文下载)

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Alias Grace
Margaret Atwood
Foreword
In 1843, a 16-year-old Canadian housemaid named Grace Marks was tried for the murder of her employer and his mistress. The sensationalistic trial made headlines throughout the world, and the jury delivered a guilty verdict. Yet opinion remained fiercely divided about Marks—was she a spurned woman who had taken out her rage on two innocent victims, or was she an unwilling victim herself, caught up in a crime she was too young to understand? Such doubts persuaded the judges to commute her sentence to life imprisonment, and Marks spent the next 30 years in an assortment of jails and asylums, where she was often exhibited as a star attraction. In Alias Grace, Margaret Atwood reconstructs Marks’s story in fictional form. Her portraits of 19th-century prison and asylum life are chilling in their detail. The author also introduces Dr. Simon Jordan, who listens to the prisoner’s tale with a mixture of sympathy and disbelief. In his effort to uncover the truth, Jordan uses the tools of the then rudimentary science of psychology. But the last word belongs to the book’s narrator—Grace herself. For the past twenty-five years, Margaret Atwood has written works of striking originality and imagination. Alias Grace proves once again that Atwood is one of the most talented, daring, and exciting writers of our time.
Born in Canada in 1939, Margaret Atwood lives in Toronto.
Whatever may have happened through these years, God knows I speak truth, saying that you lie.
— WILLIAM MORRIS,
“The Defence of Guenevere.”
I have no Tribunal.
— EMILY DICKINSON,
Letters.
I cannot tell you what the light is, but I can tell you what it is not…. What is the motive of the light? What is the light?
— EUGENE MARAIS,
The Soul of the White Ant.
One - Jagged Edge
Chapter 1
Out of the gravel there are peonies growing. They come up through the loose grey pebbles, their buds testing the air like snails’ eyes, then swelling and opening, huge dark-red flowers all shining and glossy like satin. Then they burst and fall to the ground.
In the one instant before they come apart they are like the peonies in the front garden at Mr. Kinnear’s, that first day, only those were white. Nancy was cutting them. She wore a pale dress with pink rosebuds and a triple-flounced skirt, and a straw bonnet that hid her face. She carried a flat basket, to put the flowers in; she bent from the hips like a lady, holding her waist straight. When she heard us and turned to loo ............

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