书名：The Road路
难度：Lexile蓝思阅读指数670L
作者：Cormac McCarthy
出版社名称：Vintage
出版时间：2007
语种：英文
ISBN：9780307386458
商品尺寸：10.5 x 1.6 x 17.6 cm
包装：简装
页数：288 （以实物为准）

一场灾变突然来临，死亡之灰遮天蔽日。物质的极度缺乏使文明人沦为食人生番。此时此刻，人的名字成了荒唐的累赘。长路无尽，一对父子秉持良知，上下求索。他们出路何在？
在The Road《路》中，麦卡锡用自己一贯客观、犀利、冷峻、深刻、练达的笔触，给我们描述了一个末日来临之前的荒凉世界，这对那些侵蚀文明、消解道德、毁坏环境、发动战争的人，是一种警示和鞭挞。父子俩在险恶的环境中执著求生，怀抱希望，克服重重困难，面对种种险恶，一路向前，这种坚毅、执著、果敢的精神对人们是一种激励。
根据小说改编的电影《末日危途》影响深远，荣获多项提名。

推荐理由：
1.美国小说之王、“笔会终身成就奖”获得者科马克·麦卡锡经典之作；
2.第91届普利策小说奖、“鹅毛笔奖”、美国独立书商协会年度图书奖获奖作品；
3.灾难大片《末日危途》原著小说，内容无删减。
PULITZER PRIZE WINNER
National Book Critic’s Circle Award Finalist
A New York Times Notable Book
One of the Best Books of the Year
The Boston Globe, The Christian Science Monitor, The Denver Post, The Kansas City Star, Los Angeles Times, New York, People, Rocky Mountain News, Time, The Village Voice, The Washington Post
The Road has been hailed by critics as a masterpiece. The novel paints a bleak vision of a post-apocalyptic America: a land where no hope remains. A man and his son walk alone towards the coast, and this is the moving story of their journey. The Road is an unfl inching exploration of human behavior—from ultimate destructiveness to extreme tenderness.
Review
“His tale of survival and the miracle of goodness only adds to McCarthy’s stature as a living master. It’s gripping, frightening and, ultimately, beautiful. It might very well be the best book of the year, period.”  — San Francisco Chronicle

“Vivid, eloquent... The Road is the most readable of [McCarthy’s] works, and consistently brilliant in its imagining of the posthumous condition of nature and civilization.”  — The New York Times Book Review

“One of McCarthy’s best novels, probably his most moving and perhaps his most personal.”  — Los Angeles Times Book Review

“Illuminated by extraordinary tenderness.... Simple yet mysterious, simultaneously cryptic and crystal clear. The Road offers nothing in the way of escape or comfort. But its fearless wisdom is more indelible than reassurance could ever be.”  — The New York Times

“No American writer since Faulkner has wandered so willingly into the swamp waters of deviltry and redemption.... [McCarthy] has written this last waltz with enough elegant reserve to capture what matters most.”  —The Boston Globe

“There is an urgency to each page, and a raw emotional pull... making [The Road] easily one of the most harrowing books you’ll ever encounter.... Once opened, [it is] nearly impossible to put down; it is as if you must keep reading in order for the characters to stay alive.... The Road is a deeply imagined work and harrowing no matter what your politics.”  — Bookforum

核子战争爆发十年之后，地球几乎成为一片废墟，阴暗凄冷。幸存下来的人多数同类相食，少数则孤独地挣扎求生。在这种荒凉绝望的境遇中，一对父子行走在求生之“路”上。为了躲避严寒，他们向南方海岸前进。在路上，父子俩总要克服难以想象的饥饿、寒冷和追杀，被迫目睹世间惨象和人性崩溃。他们相依为命，希望自己能做“好人”。但是严峻的考验在前：生存，还是放弃人性？父子俩的“路”能够穿过这个困境吗？
A father and his son walk alone through burned America. Nothing moves in the ravaged, nuclear landscape save the ash on the wind. It is cold enough to crack stones, and when the snow falls it is grey. The sky is dark. Their destination is the coast, although they don’t know what, if anything, awaits them there. They have nothing; just a pistol to defend themselves against the lawless bands that stalk the road, the clothes they are wearing, a cart of scavenged food—and each other. The Roadis the profoundly moving story of a journey. It boldly imagines a future in which no hope remains, but in which the father and his son, “each other’s world entire”, are sustained by love. Awesome in the totality of its vision, it is an unflinching meditation on the worst and the best that we are capable of: ultimate destructiveness, desperate tenacity, and the tenderness that keeps two people alive in the face of total devastation.

科马克·麦卡锡（Cormac McCarthy），美国小说家和剧作家。1933年7月出生于美国罗德岛。代表作有《血色子午线》《边境三部曲》《老无所依》《路》等。《血色子午线》开启麦卡锡创作的转折点，在《纽约时报》评选的“过去25年美国zui佳小说”中名列第三。《边境三部曲》引起图书界的轰动，荣膺美国国家图书奖和国家书评奖。由《老无所依》改编的同名电影力夺奥斯卡zui佳影片等四项重量级奖项。这些都奠定了麦卡锡的大师地位，他因此获誉“当代伟大的美国作家之一”以及海明威与福克纳的继承者。而且，他也一直是诺贝尔文学奖的大热门人选。
Winner of the 2007 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction and the James Tait Black Memorial Prize, Cormac McCarthyis one of America’s most important literary novelists. His ten novels include No Country for Old Men, Blood Meridian, and All the Pretty Horses. McCarthy has previously won the National Book Award and the National Book Critics Circle Award.

When he woke in the woods in the dark and the cold of the night he’d reach out to touch the child sleeping beside him. Nights dark beyond darkness and the days more gray each one than what had gone before. Like the onset of some cold glaucoma dimming away the world. His hand rose and fell softly with each precious breath. He pushed away the plastic tarpaulin and raised himself in the stinking robes and blankets and looked toward the east for any light but there was none. In the dream from which he’d wakened he had wandered in a cave where the child led him by the hand. Their light playing over the wet flowstone walls. Like pilgrims in a fable swallowed up and lost among the inward parts of some granitic beast. Deep stone flues where the water dripped and sang. Tolling in the silence the minutes of the earth and the hours and the days of it and the years without cease. Until they stood in a great stone room where lay a black and ancient lake. And on the far shore a creature that raised its dripping mouth from the rimstone pool and stared into the light with eyes dead white and sightless as the eggs of spiders. It swung its head low over the water as if to take the scent of what it could not see. Crouching there pale and naked and translucent, its alabaster bones cast up in shadow on the rocks behind it. Its bowels, its beating heart. The brain that pulsed in a dull glass bell. It swung its head from side to side and then gave out a low moan and turned and lurched away and loped soundlessly into the dark.
With the first gray light he rose and left the boy sleeping and walked out to the road and squatted and studied the country to the south. Barren, silent, godless. He thought the month was October but he wasnt sure. He hadnt kept a calendar for years. They were moving south. There’d be no surviving another winter here.
When it was light enough to use the binoculars he glassed the valley below. Everything paling away into the murk. The soft ash blowing in loose swirls over the blacktop. He studied what he could see. The segments of road down there among the dead trees. Looking for anything of color. Any movement. Any trace of standing smoke. He lowered the glasses and pulled down the cotton mask from his face and wiped his nose on the back of his wrist and then glassed the country again. Then he just sat there holding the binoculars and watching the ashen daylight congeal over the land. He knew only that the child was his warrant. He said: If he is not the word of God God never spoke. 
When he got back the boy was still asleep. He pulled the blue plastic tarp off of him and folded it and carried it out to the grocery cart and packed it and came back with their plates and some cornmeal cakes in a plastic bag and a plastic bottle of syrup. He spread the small tarp they used for a table on the ground and laid everything out and he took the pistol from his belt and laid it on the cloth and then he just sat watching the boy sleep. He’d pulled away his mask in the night and it was buried somewhere in the blankets. He watched the boy and he looked out through the trees toward the road. This was not a safe place. They could be seen from the road now it was day. The boy turned in the blankets. Then he opened his eyes. Hi, Papa, he said.
I’m right here.
I know.
An hour later they were on the road. He pushed the cart and both he and the boy carried knapsacks. In the knapsacks were essential things. In case they had to abandon the cart and make a run for it. Clamped to the handle of the cart was a chrome motorcycle mirror that he used to watch the road behind them. He shifted the pack higher on his shoulders and looked out over the wasted country. The road was empty. Below in the little valley the still gray serpentine of a river. Motionless and precise. Along the shore a burden of dead reeds. Are you okay? he said. The boy nodded. Then they set out along the blacktop in the gunmetal light, shuffling through the ash, each the other’s world entire.