书名：The End Of The Affair恋情的终结 

作者：Graham Greene 

出版社名称：Vintage Classics 

出版时间：2004 

语种：英文 

ISBN：9780099478447 

商品尺寸：12.9 x 1.3 x 19.8 cm 

包装：平装 

页数：192格雷厄姆·格林是曾获得21次诺贝尔文学奖提名的传奇大师，被誉为诺贝尔文学奖无冕之王；同时，他也是马尔克斯、福克纳推崇备至的知名作家。The End Of The Affair《恋情的终结》是格雷厄姆•格林被公认的代表作，入选《卫报》历史百大英语小说、BBC历史百大英国小说。这本书里有狂热的爱、狂热的恨、狂热的猜疑、狂热的嫉妒、狂热的信仰，有爱情中所有狂热的情感。关于爱情，我又想起了你…… 媒体评论： 我曾以很大的兴趣阅读过《恋情的终结》。我从这部书中借用过一只船，这是大主教的船，我把它用在《一桩事先张扬的凶杀案》这部书里。——马尔克斯 我这个时代里真实又感人的长篇小说，在任何语言里都是如此。——威廉•福克纳 格雷厄姆•格林自成经典，他将不断被阅读和提起，他是20世纪人类意识和焦虑卓越的记录者。——威廉•戈尔丁 他的名字会为我们的获奖名单增光添彩。——诺贝尔奖评委安德斯•奥斯特林 直到他去世，格林一直是20世纪桂冠作家。在任何语言里，他都是细腻的作家。 ——约翰•欧文 这是一部大师之作，完美地向我们展示了写作技法和思想。——《纽约客》 一部引人入胜的作品，一次充满激情和惊人的写作。——《大西洋月刊》 《恋情的终结》是格林的代表作，一次惊人的关于信仰的写作！——《独立报》 一部超越爱情小说类型的作品，更重要的是，这是格林巅峰时期的杰作！——《卫报》 With a new introduction by Monica Ali The love affair between Maurice Bendix and Sarah, flourishing in the turbulent times of the London Blitz, ends when she suddenly and without explanation breaks it off. Two years later, after a chance meeting, Bendix hires a private detective to follow Sarah, and slowly his love for her turns into an obsession. Review 'One of the most true and moving novels of my time, in anybody's language' -- William Faulkner `a deliciously uncomfortable read for anyone who's allowed their heart to rule their head'. -- Psychologies 二战期间的英国伦敦，作家莫里斯爱上公务员亨利的妻子莎拉。一次意外事件导致萨拉不辞而别，莫里斯在恨和嫉妒中度过了两年。两年后，他们再次相遇，当初那段感情中炙热的爱、恨、猜疑、嫉妒、信仰，再度折磨着莫里斯。这段恋情如莫里斯所预言：变成了一桩有开始也有结束的风流韵事。莫里斯记述了爱情开始以及结束的时刻…… 格雷厄姆•格林（Graham Greene，1904—1991），21次诺贝尔文学奖提名的传奇大师。67年写作生涯，创作超过25部小说，被评为20世纪桂冠作家。1950年，第1次获得诺贝尔奖提名；1976年，获美国推理作家协会大师奖；1981年，获耶路撒冷文学奖；1986年，由英女王伊丽莎白二世授予功绩勋章。格林一生游历于墨西哥、西非、南非、越南、古巴、中东等战乱之地，甚至任职于英国军情六处，从事间谍工作，并以此为背景创作小说，关注人灵魂深处的挣扎与救赎、内心的道德和精神斗争，被誉为20世纪人类意识和焦虑卓越的记录者。至今，每年格林生日期间（10月2日），在格林出生地——英国赫特福德郡，都会举办为期四天的格雷厄姆•格林国际艺术节，全球的格林粉丝齐聚这里参加纪念格林的活动。 Graham Greene (1904–1991) worked as a journalist and critic, and was later employed by the foreign office. His many books include The Third Man, The Comedians and Travels with My Aunt. He is the subject of an acclaimed three-volume biography by Norman Sherry. A story has no beginning or end: arbitrarily one chooses that moment of experience from which to look back or from which to look ahead. I say ‘one chooses’ with the inaccurate pride of a professional writer who—when he has been seriously noted at all— has been praised for his technical ability, hut do I in fact of my own will choose that black wet January night on the Common, in 1946, the sight of Henry Miles slanting across the wide river of rain, or did these images choose me? It is convenient, it is correct according to the rules of my craft to begin just there, but if I had believed then in a God, I could also have believed in a hand, plucking at my elbow, a suggestion, ‘Speak to him: he hasn’t seen you yet.’ For why should I have spoken to him? If hate is not too large a term to use in relation to any human being, I hated Henry—I hated his wile Sarah too. And he, I suppose, came soon after the events of that evening to hate me: as he surely at times must have hated his wife and that other, in whom in those days we were lucky enough not to believe. So this is a record of hate far more than of love, and if I come to say anything in favour of Henry and Sarah I can be trusted: I am writing against the bias because it is my professional pride to prefer the near-truth, even to the expression of my near-hate. It was strange to see 1—lenry out on such a night: he liked his comfort and after all—or so I thought—he had Sarah. To me comfort is like the wrong memory at the wrong place or time: if one is lonely one prefers discomfort. There was too much comfort even in the bed sitting-room I had at the wrong—the south—side of the Common, in the relics of other people’s furniture. I thought I would go for a walk through the rain and have a drink at the local. The little crowded hail was full of strangers’ hats and coats and I took somebody else’s umbrella by accident—the man on the second floor had friends in. Then I closed the stained-glass door behind me and made my way carefully down the steps that had been blasted in 1944 and never repaired. I had reason to remember the occasion and how the stained glass, tough and ugly and Victorian, stood up to the shock as our grandfathers themselves would have done.