In his international blockbusters The Da Vinci Code, Angels
Demons, and The Lost Symbol, Dan Brown masterfully fused
history, art, codes, and symbols. In this riveting new thriller,
Brown returns to his element and has crafted his highest-stakes
novel to date.
In the heart of Italy, Harvard professor of symbology Robert
Langdon is drawn into a harrowing world centered on one of
history’s most enduring and mysterious literary masterpieces . . .
Dante’s Inferno.
Against this backdrop, Langdon battles a chilling adversary and
grapples with an ingenious riddle that pulls him into a landscape
of classic art, secret passageways, and futuristic science. Drawing
from Dante’s dark epic poem, Langdon races to find answers and
decide whom to trust . . . before the world is irrevocably
altered.
關於作者：
Dan Brown is the author of numerous #1
bestselling novels, including the recent record-breaking The Lost
Symbol, which had the biggest one-week sale in Random House history
for a single title. His previous title, The Da Vinci Code, has sold
more than 80 million copies worldwide, making it one of the
bestselling novels of all time. In addition to numerous appearances
on The Today Show, Mr. Brown was named one of the World''s 100 Most
Influential People by Time Magazine. He has appeared in the pages
of Newsweek, Forbes, People, GQ, The New Yorker, and others. His
novels are published in over 50 languages around the world.
丹·布朗堪称今日美国最著名畅销书作家。他的小说《达·芬奇密码》自问世以来，一直高居《纽约时报》畅销书排行榜榜首。其父亲是知名数学教授，母亲则是宗教音乐家，成长于这样的特殊环境中，科学与宗教这两种在人类历史上看似如此截然不同却又存在着千丝万缕关联的信仰成为他的创作主题。2010年11月15日，“2010第五届中国作家富豪榜”子榜单外国作家富豪榜首次发布，该榜统计了2000至2010十年间，外国作家在中国大陆地区的版税总收入，共有25位外国作家上榜，丹·布朗以1800万元人民币版税收入，荣登外国作家富豪榜第3位，引发广泛关注。
內容試閱：
I am the Shade.
Through the dolent city, I flee.
Through the eternal woe, I take flight.
Along the banks of the river Arno, I scramble, breathless . . .
turning left onto Via dei Castellani, making my way northward,
huddling in the shadows of the Uffizi.
And still they pursue me.
Their footsteps grow louder now as they hunt with relentless
determination.
For years they have pursued me. Their persistence has kept me
underground . . . forced me to live in purgatory . . . laboring
beneath the earth like a chthonic monster.
I am the Shade.
Here aboveground, I raise my eyes to the north, but I am unable
to find a direct path to salvation . . . for the Apennine Mountains
are blotting out the first light of dawn.
I pass behind the palazzo with its crenellated tower and one-
handed clock . . . snaking through the early- morning vendors in
Piazza San Firenze with their hoarse voices smelling of lampredotto
and roasted olives. Crossing before the Bargello, I cut west toward
the spire of the Badia and come up hard against the iron gate at
the base of the stairs.
Here all hesitation must be left behind.
I turn the handle and step into the passage from which I know
there will be no return. I urge my leaden legs up the narrow
staircase . . . spiraling skyward on soft marble treads, pitted and
worn.
The voices echo from below. Beseeching.
They are behind me, unyielding, closing in.
They do not understand what is coming . . . nor what I have done
for them!
Ungrateful land!
As I climb, the visions come hard . . . the lustful bodies
writhing in fiery rain, the gluttonous souls floating in excrement,
the treacherous villains frozen in Satan''s icy grasp.
I climb the final stairs and arrive at the top, staggering near
dead into the damp morning air. I rush to the head- high wall,
peering through the slits. Far below is the blessed city that I
have made my sanctuary from those who exiled me.
The voices call out, arriving close behind me. "What you''ve done
is madness!"
Madness breeds madness.
"For the love of God," they shout, "tell us where you''ve hidden
it!"
For precisely the love of God, I will not.
I stand now, cornered, my back to the cold stone. They stare deep
into my clear green eyes, and their expressions darken, no longer
cajoling, but threatening. "You know we have our methods. We can
force you to tell us where it is."
For that reason, I have climbed halfway to heaven.
Without warning, I turn and reach up, curling my fingers onto the
high ledge, pulling myself up, scrambling onto my knees, then
standing. . . unsteady at the precipice. Guide me, dear Virgil,
across the void.
They rush forward in disbelief, wanting to grab at my feet, but
fearing they will upset my balance and knock me off. They beg now,
in quiet desperation, but I have turned my back. I know what I must
do.
Beneath me, dizzyingly far beneath me, the red tile roofs spread
out like a sea of fire on the countryside, illuminating the fair
land upon which giants once roamed . . . Giotto, Donatello,
Brunelleschi, Michelangelo, Botticelli.
I inch my toes to the edge.
"Come down!" they shout. "It''s not too late!"
O, willful ignorants! Do you not see the future? Do you not grasp
the splendor of my creation? The necessity?
I will gladly make this ultimate sacrifice . . . and with it I
will extinguish your final hope of finding what you seek.
You will never locate it in time.
Hundreds of feet below, the cobblestone piazza beckons like a
tranquil oasis. How I long for more time . . . but time is the one
commodity even my vast fortunes cannot afford.
In these final seconds, I gaze down at the piazza, and I behold a
sight that startles me.
I see your face.
You are gazing up at me from the shadows. Your eyes are mournful,
and yet in them I sense a veneration for what I have accomplished.
You understand I have no choice. For the love of Mankind, I must
protect my masterpiece.
It grows even now . . . waiting . . . simmering beneath the
bloodred waters of the lagoon that reflects no stars.
And so, I lift my eyes from yours and I contemplate the horizon.
High above this burdened world, I make my final supplication.
Dearest God, I pray the world remembers my name not as a
monstrous sinner, but as the glorious savior you know I truly am. I
pray Mankind will understand the gift I leave behind.
My gift is the future.
My gift is salvation.
My gift is Inferno.
With that, I whisper my amen . . . and take my final step, into
the abyss.
Chapter 1
The memories materialized slowly . . . like bubbles surfacing
from the darkness of a bottomless well.
A veiled woman.
Robert Langdon gazed at her across a river whose churning waters
ran red with blood. On the far bank, the woman stood facing him,
motionless, solemn, her face hidden by a shroud. In her hand she
gripped a blue tainia cloth, which she now raised in honor of the
sea of corpses at her feet. The smell of death hung
everywhere.
Seek, the woman whispered. And ye shall find.
Langdon heard the words as if she had spoken them inside his
head. "Who are you?" he called out, but his voice made no
sound.
Time grows short, she whispered. Seek and find.
Langdon took a step toward the river, but he could see the waters
were bloodred and too deep to traverse. When Langdon raised his
eyes again to the veiled woman, the bodies at her feet had
multiplied. There were hundreds of them now, maybe thousands, some
still alive, writhing in agony, dying unthinkable deaths . . .
consumed by fire, buried in feces, devouring one another. He could
hear the mournful cries of human suffering echoing across the
water.
The woman moved toward him, holding out her slender hands, as if
beckoning for help.
"Who are you?!" Langdon again shouted.
In response, the woman reached up and slowly lifted the veil from
her face. She was strikingly beautiful, and yet older than Langdon
had imagined-in her sixties perhaps, stately and strong, like a
timeless statue.
She had a sternly set jaw, deep soulful eyes, and long, silver-
gray hair that cascaded over her shoulders in ringlets. An amulet
of lapis lazuli hung around her neck- a single snake coiled around
a staff.
Langdon sensed he knew her . . . trusted her. But how? Why?
She pointed now to a writhing pair of legs, which protruded
upside down from the earth, apparently belonging to some poor soul
who had been buried headfi rst to his waist. The man''s pale thigh
bore a single letter- written in mud- R.
R? Langdon thought, uncertain. As in . . . Robert? "Is that . . .
me?"
The woman''s face revealed nothing. Seek and find, she
repeated.
Without warning, she began radiating a white light . . . brighter
and brighter. Her entire body started vibrating intensely, and
then, in a rush of thunder, she exploded into a thousand
splintering shards of light.
Langdon bolted awake, shouting.
The room was bright. He was alone. The sharp smell of medicinal
alcohol hung in the air, and somewhere a machine pinged in quiet
rhythm with his heart. Langdon tried to move his right arm, but a
sharp pain restrained him. He looked down and saw an IV tugging at
the skin of his forearm.
His pulse quickened, and the machines kept pace, pinging more
rapidly.
Where am I? What happened?
The back of Langdon''s head throbbed, a gnawing pain. Gingerly, he
reached up with his free arm and touched his scalp, trying to
locate the source of his headache. Beneath his matted hair, he
found the hard nubs of a dozen or so stitches caked with dried
blood.
He closed his eyes, trying to remember an accident.
Nothing. A total blank.
Think.
Only darkness.
A man in scrubs hurried in, apparently alerted by Langdon''s
racing heart monitor. He had a shaggy beard, bushy mustache, and
gentle eyes that radiated a thoughtful calm beneath his overgrown
eyebrows.
"What . . . happened?" Langdon managed. "Did I have an
accident?"
The bearded man put a finger to his lips and then rushed out,
calling for someone down the hall.
Langdon turned his head, but the movement sent a spike of pain
radiating through his skull. He took deep breaths and let the pain
pass. Then, very gently and methodically, he surveyed his sterile
surroundings.
The hospital room had a single bed. No flowers. No cards. Langdon
saw his clothes on a nearby counter, folded inside a clear plastic
bag.
They were covered with blood.
My God. It must have been bad.
Now Langdon rotated his head very slowly toward the window beside
his bed. It was dark outside. Night. All Langdon could see in the
glass was his own reflection- an ashen stranger, pale and weary,
attached to tubes and wires, surrounded by medical equipment.
Voices approached in the hall, and Langdon turned his gaze back
toward the room. The doctor returned, now accompanied by a
woman.
She appeared to be in her early thirties. She wore blue scrubs
and had tied her blond hair back in a thick ponytail that swung
behind her as she walked.
"I''m Dr. Sienna Brooks," she said, giving Langdon a smile as she
entered. "I''ll be working with Dr. Marconi tonight."
Langdon nodded weakly.
Tall and lissome, Dr. Brooks moved with the assertive gait of an
athlete.
Even in shapeless scrubs, she had a willowy elegance about
her.
Despite the absence of any makeup that Langdon could see, her
complexion appeared unusually smooth, the only blemish a tiny
beauty mark just above her lips. Her eyes, though a gentle brown,
seemed unusually penetrating, as if they had witnessed a profundity
of experience rarely encountered by a person her age.
"Dr. Marconi doesn''t speak much English," she said, sitting down
beside him, "and he asked me to fill out your admittance form." She
gave him another smile.
"Thanks," Langdon croaked.
"Okay," she began, her tone businesslike. "What is your
name?"
It took him a moment. "Robert . . . Langdon."
She shone a penlight in Langdon''s eyes. "Occupation?"
This information surfaced even more slowly. "Professor. Art
history. . . and symbology. Harvard University."
Dr. Brooks lowered the light, looking startled. The doctor with
the bushy eyebrows looked equally surprised.
"You''re . . . an American?"
Langdon gave her a confused look.
"It''s just . . ." She hesitated. "You had no identification when
you arrived tonight. You were wearing Harris Tweed and Somerset
loafers, so we guessed British."
"I''m American," Langdon assured her, too exhausted to explain his
preference for well- tailored clothing.
"Any pain?"
"My head," Langdon replied, his throbbing skull only made worse
by the bright penlight. Thankfully, she now pocketed it, taking
Langdon''s wrist and checking his pulse.
......
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