书名：The Gap of Time时间之间

作者：Jeanette Winterson
出版社名称：Vintage
出版时间：2016
语种：英文
ISBN：9780099598190
商品尺寸：12.9 x 2 x 19.8 cm
包装：平装
页数：320 （以实物为准）

★2016“莎士比亚年”全球联手打造的出版盛举，惠特布雷德奖得主、英国天才女作家、畅销书作者珍妮特·温特森，担纲改写《冬天的故事》这一莎翁晚年重要剧作，引发28国上千万读者热评。
★《纽约时报》、《泰晤士报》、《卫报》、《金融时报》、《星期日邮报》、《出版人周刊》、《观察家报》等携手推荐，《纽约时报》评价它是“一部闪耀着喜悦之光的小说”。

The Gap of Time《时间之间》是一部致敬莎翁的小说。珍妮特·温特森用特点鲜明的写作与思考，在遵循原著精神的前提下进行二次解读与创作，把故事背景转移到当代的美国，这个关于亲情，关于爱情，关于友情，关于破碎的心的故事，比莎翁笔下的世界又多了一丝温情。

往者不谏，来者可追，本书还犀利地讽刺了当今社会的一些现状，而当肤色的差异、阶级的对立，尖锐的矛盾不断撞击与迸发，人们感到失落、彷徨、苦痛。缘起百千种，寻求解脱，又总是急功近利，答案林林总总，在时间的间隙里大多失落了人性中的“爱与宽恕”、“理智与仁慈”，但这正是时间赋予我们的解药。是的，别着急，停下来，给时间一点儿时间，所有的一切终将被它捕获、被它抚平。

媒体评论：
“温特森杰出的天赋在于，通过那些浅吟低唱般优美、常在意料之外迅捷而至的句子，成功地传达出小说的情感分量……她与令人费解的文本之间展开了一场奇妙的搏斗，呈现出一个错综复杂的、让人拍案叫好的当代故事——属于她自己的全新故事。”——《纽约时报书评》

“如同莎士比亚一样，温特森笔下的舞台上，处处充满了奇迹。”——《泰晤士报文学增刊》

“对于莎翁创作生涯的倒数第二个剧本而言，温特森的改写有着可爱的轻快节奏，聪敏而诙谐，故事情节引人入胜……小说让人充满了同情，并在一个众所熟知的故事里注入了一种真正的惊险感，而这绝非易事。它如此引人注目、有趣且优美。”——《卫报》

“探讨了在父母将子女遗弃、做下不可思议之事后，关于爱、失落和宽恕的永恒主题。一本动人心扉的聪慧之书，一次令心灵战栗的阅读之旅。”——《爱尔兰新闻报》

“《时间之间》是一本让你从头到尾都沉迷于其中无法自拔的书。”——美国Paste杂志

“温特森在这部小说中成功地描绘出一幅过去、现在与未来同在、改编与原著并存的迷人世界图景。”——《泰晤士报》

A baby girl is abandoned, banished from London to the storm-ravaged American city of New Bohemia. Her father has been driven mad by jealousy, her mother to exile by grief.
Seventeen years later, Perdita doesn't know a lot about who she is or where she's come from - but she's about to find out.
Jeanette Winterson’s cover version of The Winter’s Tale vibrates with echoes of Shakespeare's original and tells a story of hearts broken and hearts healed, a story of revenge and forgiveness, a story that shows that whatever is lost shall be found.

Review
"She makes us read on, our hearts in our mouths, to see how a twice-told story will turn out this time" (Publishers Weekly)

"The intricacy with which Winterson has plotted her novel against each Shakespearean detail will delight readers familiar with the original… it’s part of a vision of a world in which past, present, and future are lived simultaneously, original and adaptation existing in the same moment."(The Times)

"A book of considerable beauty… Winterson’s fiction is a fine invitation into this deeply Shakespearean vision of imagination as the best kind of truth-telling" (Rowan Williams New Statesman)

"Winterson’s stage, like that of Shakespeare, is filled with wonders" (Frances Wilson Times Literary Supplement)

"Clever and beautiful... it soars" (Financial Times)

"Engrossing, almost soapily addictive"(Independent)

伤害常常只留给爱的人，且以爱之名。

对帕蒂塔的人生来说，时空就此错位。从出生到十八岁，从伦敦到新波西米亚。她更是从未想过，被时空裂隙吞没的自己，是一切救赎的希望所系……

Jeanette Wintersonwas born in Manchester. Adopted by Pentecostal parents she was raised to be a missionary. Discovering early the power of books she left home at 16 to live in a Mini and get on with her education. After graduating from Oxford University she worked for a while in the theatre and published her first novel at 25. Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit is based on her own upbringing but using herself as a fictional character. She scripted the novel into a BAFTA-winning BBC drama. She believes that art is for everyone and it is her mission to prove it.

I saw the strangest sight tonight.
I was on my way home, the night hot and heavy, the way it gets here this time of year so that your skin is shiny and your shirt is never dry. I’d been playing piano in the bar I play in, and nobody wanted to leave, so I was later than I like to be. My son said he’d come by in the car but he never came.
I was on my way home, maybe two in the morning, a cold bottle of beer heating up in my hand. Not supposed to drink on the streets, I know, but what the hell, after a man’s been working nine hours straight, serving shots when the bar’s quiet, playing piano when it gets busy. Folks drink more when there’s live music, and that’s a fact.
I was on my way home when the weather broke in two and the rain came down like ice — it was ice — hailstones the size of golf balls and hard as a ball of elastic. The street had all the heat of the day, of the week, of the month, of the season. When the hail hit the ground, it was like throwing ice cubes into a fat fryer. It was like the weather was coming up from the street instead of down from the sky. I was running through a riddle of low-fire shrapnel, dodging doorway to doorway, couldn’t see my feet through the hiss and steam. On the steps of the church I got above the bubbling froth for a minute or two. I was soaked. The money in my pocket was stuck together and my hair was stuck to my head. I wiped the rain out of my eyes. Tears of rain. My wife’s been dead a year now. No use in sheltering. Might as well get home.
So I took the short cut. I don’t like to take the short cut because of the BabyHatch.
The hospital installed it a year ago. I watched the builders day by day while I was visiting my wife. I saw how they poured the concrete shell, fixed the steel box inside the shell, fitted the seal-shut window, wired the heat and light and the alarm. One of the builders didn’t want to do it, thought it was wrong; immoral, I guess. A sign of the times. But the times has so many signs that if we read them all we’d die of heartbreak.
The hatch is safe and warm. Once the baby is inside and the hatch is closed, a bell rings in the hospital and it doesn’t take long for a nurse to come down, just long enough for the mother to walk away — there’s a Street corner right there. She’s gone.
I saw it happen once. I ran after her. I called out, ‘Lady!’ She turned round. She looked at me. There was a second, the kind that holds a whole world — and then the second hand moved on and she was gone.