书名：Into the Wild 荒野生存：阿拉斯加之死 

作者：Jon Krakauer 

出版社名称：Anchor Books 

出版时间：1997 

语种：英文 

ISBN：9780385486804 

商品尺寸：13.1 x1.3 x 20.3 cm 

包装：平装 

页数：224

Into the Wild《荒野生存：阿拉斯加之死》是美国杰出的探险类作家、《户外》杂志专栏作家乔恩•克拉考尔（Jon Krakauer）成名作，出版后在美国主流社会刮起阅读旋风，雄踞《纽约时报》畅销书榜长达两年，以二十多种语言在世界各地出版，震撼千万读者心灵。 图书出版后立刻引起了好莱坞知名演员、导演肖恩•潘的注意，他一口气看了两遍，决定将其搬上荧幕，却一直没能得到故事主人公麦坎德利斯家人的同意。肖恩•潘等了十年，终于如愿以偿，并亲自改编。 媒体推荐 “一个探索人类心灵深处某种追寻的令人震撼的故事。”——《纽约时报》 “任何想流浪荒野、拥抱自然的人，都应该读这本扣人心弦的书。” ——《华盛顿邮报》 In April 1992, 23-year-old Chris McCandless hiked into the Alaska bush to “live off the land.” Four months later, hunters found his emaciated corpse in an abandoned Fairbanks city bus, along with five rolls of film, an SOS note, and a diary written in a field guide to edible plants. Cut off from civilization, McCandless had starved to death. The young man’s gruesome demise made headlines and haunted Outside magazine contributing editor Krakauer, who saw “vague, unsettling parallels” between McCandless’s life and his own. Expanding on his 1993 Outside article, Krakauer traces McCandless’s last two years; after his graduation from Emory University, McCandless abandoned his middle-class family, identity, and possessions in favor of the life of “Alexander Supertramp,” wandering the American West in search of “raw, transcendent experience.” In trying to understand McCandless’s behavior and the appeal that risky activities hold for young men, Krakauer examines his own adventurous youth. However, he never satisfactorily answers the question of whether McCandless was a noble, if misguided, idealist or a reckless narcissist who brought pain to his family. For popular outdoor and adventure collections. Review “Terrifying... Eloquent... A heart-rending drama of human yearning.” —New York Times “A narrative of arresting force.  Anyone who ever fancied wandering off to face nature on its own harsh terms should give a look.  It’s gripping stuff.”   —Washington Post “Compelling and tragic... Hard to put down.”    —San Francisco Chronicle “Engrossing... with a telling eye for detail, Krakauer has captured the sad saga of a stubborn, idealistic young man.”   —Los Angeles Times Book Review “It may be nonfiction, but Into the Wild is a mystery of the highest order.”    —Entertainment Weekly

Into the Wild《荒野生存：阿拉斯加之死》是一个真实的故事，《纽约时报》等一线媒体争相报道，在美国主流社会刮起阅读、讨论旋风。1990年5月12日，一个出身于美国东海岸富裕家庭的年轻人大学毕业了，他对父母说：“我要消失一段时间。” 1990年10月，有人在米德湖国家度假区发现了一辆黄色达特桑，车主却不见踪影。 1992年4月28，一位司机遇到一个搭便车的年轻人，说他要去阿拉斯加。 1992年9月6日，几名猎人在阿拉斯加荒野中一辆废弃的公交车内发现一具尸体，没人知道他是谁，来自何处，为什么在那儿。 是什么让一个名牌大学毕业生放弃大好前途、离开爱他的家人，孤身一人走进荒野？ 如果金钱、名誉和安稳的生活都不能给我们幸福，究竟什么才是生命中重要的事？ In April 1992 a young man from a well-to-do family hitchhiked to Alaska and walked alone into the wilderness north of Mt. McKinley. His name was Christopher Johnson McCandless. He had given $25,000 in savings to charity, abandoned his car and most of his possessions, burned all the cash in his wallet, and invented a new life for himself. Four months later, his decomposed body was found by a moose hunter. How McCandless came to die is the unforgettable story of Into the Wild.  Immediately after graduating from college in 1991, McCandless had roamed through the West and Southwest on a vision quest like those made by his heroes Jack London and John Muir. In the Mojave Desert he abandoned his car, stripped it of its license plates, and burned all of his cash. He would give himself a new name, Alexander Supertramp, and, unencumbered by money and belongings, he would be free to wallow in the raw, unfiltered experiences that nature presented. Craving a blank spot on the map, McCandless simply threw the maps away. Leaving behind his desperate parents and sister, he vanished into the wild. Jon Krakauer constructs a clarifying prism through which he reassembles the disquieting facts of McCandless’s short life. Admitting an interest that borders on obsession, he searches for the clues to the dries and desires that propelled McCandless. Digging deeply, he takes an inherently compelling mystery and unravels the larger riddles it holds: the profound pull of the American wilderness on our imagination; the allure of high-risk activities to young men of a certain cast of mind; the complex, charged bond between fathers and sons. When McCandless’s innocent mistakes turn out to be irreversible and fatal, he becomes the stuff of tabloid headlines and is dismissed for his naiveté, pretensions, and hubris. He is said to have had a death wish but wanting to die is a very different thing from being compelled to look over the edge. Krakauer brings McCandless’s uncompromising pilgrimage out of the shadows, and the peril, adversity , and renunciation sought by this enigmatic young man are illuminated with a rare understanding—and not an ounce of sentimentality. Mesmerizing, heartbreaking, Into the Wild is a tour de force. The power and luminosity of Jon Krakauer’s stoytelling blaze through every page. 

Jon Krakauer is the author of Eiger Dreams, Into the Wild, Into Thin Air, Under the Banner of Heaven, Where Men Win Glory, Three Cups of Deceit, and Missoula. He is also the editor of the Modern Library Exploration series. 乔恩•克拉考尔（Jon Krakauer），美国畅销书作家、《户外》杂志专栏作家，美国国家杂志奖、美国艺术与文学院学院奖获得者，被誉为“杰出的探险类作家”。出版多部畅销书，其中，《荒野生存》雄踞《纽约时报》畅销书榜长达两年，《进入空气稀薄地带》英文版销量过百万，译成25种语言在世界各地出版，被誉为“登山者的圣经”。 从1998年开始，克拉考尔陆续将著作所得捐赠给Educate the Children等公益机构，截止到2012年，克拉考尔捐款总额超过170万美元。

THE ALASKA INTERIORApril 27th, 1992Greetings from Fairbanks! This is the last you shall hear from me, Wayne. Arrived here 2 days ago. It was very difficult to catch rides in the Yukon Territory. But I finally got here.Please return all mail I receive to the sender. It might be a very long time before I return South. If this adventure proves fatal and you don’t ever hear from me again I want you to know you’re a great man. I now walk into the wild. —Alex. (Postcard received by Wayne Westerberg in Carthage, South Dakota.)  Jim Gallien had driven four miles out of Fairbanks when he spotted the hitchhiker standing in the snow beside the road, thumb raised high, shivering in the gray Alaska dawn. He didn’t appear to be very old: eighteen, maybe nineteen at most. A rifle protruded from the young man’s backpack, but he looked friendly enough; a hitchhiker with a Remington semiautomatic isn’t the sort of thing that gives motorists pause in the forty-ninth state. Gallien steered his truck onto the shoulder and told the kid to climb in. The hitchhiker swung his pack into the bed of the Ford and introduced himself as Alex. “Alex?” Gallien responded, fishing for a last name. “Just Alex,” the young man replied, pointedly rejecting the bait. Five feet seven or eight with a wiry build, he claimed to be twenty-four years old and said he was from South Dakota. He explained that he wanted a ride as far as the edge of Denali National Park, where he intended to walk deep into the bush and “live off the land for a few months.” Gallien, a union electrician, was on his way to Anchorage, 240 miles beyond Denali on the George Parks Highway; he told Alex he’d drop him off wherever he wanted. Alex’s backpack looked as though it weighed only twenty-five or thirty pounds, which struck Gallien—an accomplished hunter and woodsman—as an improbably light load for a stay of several months in the backcountry, especially so early in the spring. “He wasn’t carrying anywhere near as much food and gear as you’d expect a guy to be carrying for that kind of trip,” Gallien recalls. The sun came up. As they rolled down from the forested ridges above the Tanana River, Alex gazed across the expanse of windswept muskeg stretching to the south. Gallien wondered whether he’d picked up one of those crackpots from the lower forty-eight who come north to live out ill-considered Jack London fantasies. Alaska has long been a magnet for dreamers and misfits, people who think the unsullied enormity of the Last Frontier will patch all the holes in their lives. The bush is an unforgiving place, however, that cares nothing for hope or longing. “People from Outside,” reports Gallien in a slow, sonorous drawl, “they’ll pick up a copy of Alaska magazine, thumb through it, get to thinkin’ ‘Hey, I’m goin’ to get on up there, live off the land, go claim me a piece of the good life.’ But when they get here and actually head out into the bush—well, it isn’t like the magazines make it out to be. The rivers are big and fast. The mosquitoes eat you alive. Most places, there aren’t a lot of animals to hunt. Livin’ in the bush isn’t no picnic.” It was a two-hour drive from Fairbanks to the edge of Denali Park. The more they talked, the less Alex struck Gallien as a nutcase. He was congenial and seemed well educated. He peppered Gallien with thoughtful questions about the kind of small game that live in the country, the kinds of berries he could eat—“that kind of thing.” Still, Gallien was concerned. Alex admitted that the only food in his pack was a ten-pound bag of rice. His gear seemed exceedingly minimal for the harsh conditions of the interior, which in April still lay buried under the winter snowpack. Alex’s cheap leather hiking boots were neither waterproof nor well insulated. His rifle was only .22 caliber, a bore too small to rely on if he expected to kill large animals like moose and caribou, which he would have to eat if he hoped to remain very long in the country. He had no ax, no bug dope, no snowshoes, no compass. The only navigational aid in his possession was a tattered state road map he’d scrounged at a gas station. A hundred miles out of Fairbanks the highway begins to climb into the foothills of the Alaska Range. Alex pulled out his crude map and pointed to a dashed red line that intersected the road near the coal-mining town of Healy. It represented a route called the Stampede Trail. Seldom traveled, it isn’t even marked on most road maps of Alaska. On Alex’s map, nevertheless, the broken line meandered west from the Parks Highway for forty miles or so before petering out in the middle of trackless wilderness north of Mt. McKinley. This, Alex announced to Gallien, was where he intended to go. Gallien thought the hitchhiker’s scheme was foolhardy and tried repeatedly to dissuade him: “I said the hunting wasn’t easy where he was going, that he could go for days without killing any game. When that didn’t work, I tried to scare him with bear stories. I told him that a twenty-two probably wouldn’t do anything to a grizzly except make him mad. Alex didn’t seem too worried. ‘I’ll climb a tree’ is all he said. So I explained that trees don’t grow real big in that part of the state, that a bear could knock down one of them skinny little black spruce without even trying. But he wouldn’t give an inch. He had an answer for everything I threw at him.” Gallien offered to drive Alex all the way to Anchorage, buy him some decent gear, and then drive him back to wherever he wanted to go. “No, thanks anyway,” Alex replied, “I’ll be fine with what I’ve got.” Gallien asked whether he had a hunting license. “Hell, no,” Alex scoffed. “How I feed myself is none of the government’s business. Fuck their stupid rules.” When Gallien asked whether his parents or a friend knew what he was up to—whether there was anyone who would sound the alarm if he got into trouble and was overdue Alex answered calmly that no, nobody knew of his plans, that in fact he hadn’t spoken to his family in nearly two years. “I’m absolutely positive,” he assured Gallien, “I won’t run into anything I can’t deal with on my own.” “There was just no talking the guy out of it,” Gallien remembers. “He was determined. Real gung ho. The word that comes to mind is excited. He couldn’t wait to head out there and get started.” Three hours out of Fairbanks, Gallien turned off the highway and steered his beat-up 4 x 4 down a snow-packed side road. For the first few miles the Stampede Trail was well graded and led past cabins scattered among weedy stands of spruce and aspen. Beyond the last of the log shacks, however, the road rapidly deteriorated. Washed out and overgrown with alders, it turned into a rough, unmaintained track. In summer the road here would have been sketchy but passable; now it was made unnavigable by a foot and a half of mushy spring snow. Ten miles from the highway, worried that he’d get stuck if he drove farther, Gallien stopped his rig on the crest of a low rise. The icy summits of the highest mountain range in North America gleamed on the southwestern horizon. Alex insisted on giving Gallien his watch, his comb, and what he said was all his money: eighty-five cents in loose change. “I don’t want your money,” Gallien protested, “and I already have a watch.” “If you don’t take it, I’m going to throw it away,” Alex cheerfully retorted. “I don’t want to know what time it is. I don’t want to know what day it is or where I am. None of that matters.” Before Alex left the pickup, Gallien reached behind the seat, pulled out an old pair of rubber work boots, and persuaded the boy to take them. “They were too big for him,” Gallien recalls. “But I said, ‘Wear two pair of socks, and your feet ought to stay halfway warm and dry.’“ “How much do I owe you?” “Don’t worry about it,” Gallien answered. Then he gave the kid a slip of paper with his phone number on it, which Alex carefully tucked into a nylon wallet. “If you make it out alive, give me a call, and I’ll tell you how to get the boots back to me.” Gallien’s wife had packed him two grilled-cheese-and-tuna sandwiches and a bag of corn chips for lunch; he persuaded the young hitchhiker to accept the food as well. Alex pulled a camera from his backpack and asked Gallien to snap a picture of him shouldering his rifle at the trailhead. Then, smiling broadly, he disappeared down the snow-covered track. The date was Tuesday, April 28, 1992. Gallien turned the truck around, made his way back to the Parks Highway, and continued toward Anchorage. A few miles down the road he came to the small community of Healy, where the Alaska State Troopers maintain a post. Gallien briefly considered stopping and telling the authorities about Alex, then thought better of it. “I figured he’d be OK,” he explains. “I thought he’d probably get hungry pretty quick and just walk out to the highway. That’s what any normal person would do.”