—歡迎選擇真實的世界

尼爾·蓋曼（Neil Gaiman） 1960年出生于英國漢普郡樸次茅斯的一個東歐猶太移民家庭。他從小在教會學校受教育，20世紀70年代上大學，80年代投身新聞業，90年代開始小說創作，是當代英美文壇最重要的科幻小說家和奇幻文學作家之一，代表作有《無有鄉》（Neverwhere）、《星塵》（Stardust）、《美國眾神》（American Gods）等，先后獲得了奇幻文學獎、星云獎、雨果獎等一系列科幻小說與奇幻小說的最高獎項。《卡蘿蘭》（Coraline，也譯為《鬼媽媽》）出版于2002年，獲得了當年的布拉姆·斯托克獎以及2003年的雨果獎最佳中篇小說獎。2009年，該小說被改編為同名動畫長片，獲得了奧斯卡以及金球獎最佳動畫片提名。

Excerpts1）

Coraline went through the door.

She wondered what the empty flat would be like—if that was where the corridor led.

Coraline walked down the corridor uneasily. There was something very familiar about it.

The carpet beneath her feet was the same carpet they had in their flat. The wallpaper was the same wallpaper they had. The picture hanging in the hall was the same that they had hanging in their hallway at home.

She knew where she was： She was in her own home. She hadn’t left.

She shook her head， confused.

She stared at the picture hanging on the wall： No， it wasn’t exactly the same. The picture they had in their own hallway showed a boy in old-fashioned clothes staring at some bubbles. But now the expression on his face was different—he was looking at the bubbles as if he was planning to do something very nasty indeed to them. And there was something peculiar about his eyes.

Coraline stared at his eyes， trying to work out what exactly was different.

She almost had it when somebody said， “Coraline？”

It sounded like her mother. Coraline went into the kitchen， where the voice had come from. A woman stood in the kitchen with her back to Coraline. She looked a little like Coraline’s mother. Only ...

Only her skin was white as paper.

Only she was taller and thinner.

Only her fingers were too long， and they never stopped moving， and her dark-red fingernails were curved and sharp.

“Coraline？” the woman said. “Is that you？”

And then she turned round. Her eyes were big black buttons.

“Lunchtime， Coraline，” said the woman.

“Who are you？” asked Coraline.

“I’m your other mother，” said the woman. “Go and tell your other father that lunch is ready.” She opened the door of the oven. Suddenly Coraline realised how hungry she was. It smelled wonderful. “Well， go on.”

Coraline went down the hall， to where her father’s study was. She opened the door. There was a man in there， sitting at the keyboard， with his back to her. “Hello，” said Coraline. “I—I mean， she said to say that lunch is ready.”

The man turned round.

His eyes were buttons—big and black and shiny.

“Hello， Coraline，” he said. “I’m starving.”

He got up and went with her into the kitchen. They sat at the kitchen table and Coraline’s other mother brought them lunch. A huge， golden-brown roasted chicken， fried potatoes， tiny green peas. Coraline shovelled the food into her mouth. It tasted wonderful.

“We’ve been waiting for you for a long time，” said Coraline’s other father.

“For me？”

“Yes，” said the other mother. “It wasn’t the same here without you. But we knew you’d arrive one day， and then we could be a proper family. Would you like some more chicken？”

It was the best chicken that Coraline had ever eaten. Her mother sometimes made chicken， but it was always out of packets， or frozen， and was very dry， and it never tasted of anything. When Coraline’s father cooked chicken he bought real chicken， but he did strange things to it， like stewing it in wine， or stuffing it with prunes2）， or baking it in pastry3）， and Coraline would always refuse to touch it on principle.

She took some more chicken.

“I didn’t know I had another mother，” said Coraline cautiously.

“Of course you do. Everyone does，” said the other mother， her black-button eyes gleaming. “After lunch I thought you might like to play in your room with the rats.”

“The rats？”

“From upstairs.”

Coraline had never seen a rat， except on television. She was quite looking forward to it. This was turning out to be a very interesting day after all.

After lunch her other parents did the washing-up， and Coraline went down the hall to her other bedroom.

It was different from her bedroom at home. For a start it was painted in an off-putting shade of green and a peculiar shade of pink.

Coraline decided that she wouldn’t want to have to sleep in there； but that the colour scheme was an awful lot more interesting than the one in her own bedroom.

There were all sorts of remarkable things in there she’d never seen before： wind-up angels that fluttered around the bedroom like startled sparrows； books with pictures that writhed and crawled and shimmered； little dinosaur skulls that chattered their teeth as she passed. A whole toybox filled with wonderful toys.

This is more like it， thought Coraline. She looked out of the window. Outside， the view was the same one she saw from her own bedroom： trees， fields and， beyond them， on the horizon， distant purple hills …