它是藏语心中的日月；
它是汉语世外桃源；
它是英语遥远而迷人的地方；
它雪峰傲视、山谷静谧、庙宇辉煌；
它安详、神秘，万物生灵，引得无数人踏路追寻。
它就是传说中的——Shangri-La……
在这里，太阳和月亮就停泊在你心中——Shangri-La香格里拉。
新书推荐：
《消失的地平线》（中英文套装，讲述寻找“香格里拉”的传奇故事）一部小说创造神秘理想国“香格里拉”，探险藏区的传奇故事，寻找你心中的日月！
【内容简介】
20世纪30年代，四名西方人闯入了神秘的中国藏区，经历了一系列不可思议的事件。这部书是终造就了西方乃至世界的“世外桃源”。这里有神圣的雪山，幽深的峡谷，飞舞的瀑布，被森林环绕的 宁静的湖泊，徜徉在美丽草原上的成群的牛羊，净如明镜的天空，金碧辉煌的庙宇，这些都有着让人窒息的美丽。纯洁、好客的人们热情欢迎着远道而来的客人。这里是宗教的圣土，人间的天堂。在这里，太阳和月亮就停泊在你心中。这就是传说中的香格里拉。
【作者简介】
詹姆斯·希尔顿
（JamesHilton，1900—1954）英国作家。一生共创作二十余部作品。代表作为《消失的地平线》（1933）和《再见，奇普斯先生》（1934）。詹姆斯·希尔顿还是一位编剧，1942年由他编剧的影片《忠勇之家》获得了奥斯卡剧本奖。他还曾参与编剧希区柯克的影片《海外特派员》。
詹姆斯·希尔顿1900年9月9日生于英格兰，曾就读于剑桥大学。20世纪30年代末移居美国。1954年因癌症去世。
詹姆斯·希尔顿在《消失的地平线》一书中首次创造了词汇Shangri-La（香格里拉），香格里拉也成为了永恒、宁静和平的象征。
【目录】
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
EPILOGUE
【前言】
PROLOGUE
CIGARS HAD BURNED low, and we were beginning to sample the disillusionment that usually afflicts old school friends who have met again as men and found themselves with less in common than they had believed they had. Rutherford wrote novels; Wyland was one of the Embassy secretaries; he had just given us dinner at Tempelhof—not very cheerfully, I fancied, but with the equanimity which a diplomat must always keep on tap for such occasions. It seemed likely that nothing but the fact of being three celibate Englishmen in a foreign capital could have brought us together, and I had already reached the conclusion that the slight touch of priggishness which I remembered in Wyland Tertius had not diminished with years and an M.V.O. Rutherford I liked more, he had ripened well out of the skinny, precocious infant whom I had once alternately bullied and patronized. The probability that he was making much more money and having a more interesting life than either of us, gave Wyland and me our one mutual emotion—a touch of envy.
The evening, however, was far from dull. We had a good view of the big Luft-Hansa machines as they arrived at the aerodrome from all parts of Central Europe, and towards dusk, when arc-flares were lighted, the scene took on a rich, theatrical brilliance. One of the planes was English, and its pilot, in full flying-kit, strolled past our table and saluted Wyland, who did not at first recognize him. When he did so there were introductions all around, and the stranger was invited to join us. He was a pleasant, jolly youth named Sanders. Wyland made some apologetic remark about the difficulty of identifying people when they were all dressed up in Sibleys and flying-helmets; at which Sanders laughed and answered: “Oh, rather, I know that well enough. Don’t forget I was at Baskul.” Wyland laughed also, but less spontaneously, and the conversation then took other directions.
Sanders made an attractive addition to our small company, and we all drank a great deal of beer together. About ten o’clock Wyland left us for a moment to speak to some one at a table near by, and Rutherford, into the sudden hiatus of talk, remarked: “Oh, by the way, you mentioned Baskul just now. I know the place slightly. What was it you were referring to that happened there?”
Sanders smiled rather shyly. “Oh, just a bit of excitement we had once when I was in the Service.” But he was a youth who could not long refrain from being confidential. “Fact is, an Afghan or an Afridi or somebody ran off with one of our buses, and there was the very devil to pay afterwards, as you can imagine. Most impudent thing I ever heard of. The blighter waylaid the pilot, knocked him out, pinched his kit, and climbed into the cockpit without a soul spotting him. Gave the mechanics the proper signals, too, and was up and away in fine style. The trouble was, he never came back.”
【免费在线读】
- ONE -
DURING THAT THIRD week of May the situation in Baskul had become much worse and, on the 20th, Air Force machines arrived by arrangement from Peshawar to evacuate the white residents. These numbered about eighty, and most were safely transported across the mountains in troop-carriers. A few miscellaneous aircraft were also employed, among them being a cabin machine lent by the Maharajah of Chandapore. In this, about 10 A.M., four passengers embarked: Miss Roberta Brinklow, of the Eastern Mission; Henry D. Barnard, an American; Hugh Conway, H. M. Consul; and Captain Charles Mallinson, H. M. Vice-Consul.
These names are as they appeared later in Indian and British newspapers.
Conway was thirty-seven. He had been at Baskul for two years, in a job which now, in the light of events, could be regarded as a persistent backing of the wrong horse. A stage of his life was finished; in a few weeks time, or perhaps after a few months leave in England, he would be sent somewhere else. Tokyo or Teheran, Manila or Muscat; people in his profession never knew what was coming. He had been ten years in the Consular Service, long enough to assess his own chances as shrewdly as he was apt to do those of others. He knew that the plums were not for him; but it was genuinely consoling, and not merely sour grapes, to reflect that he had no taste for plums. He preferred the less formal and more picturesque jobs that were on offer, and as these were often not good ones, it had doubtless seemed to others that he was playing his cards rather badly. Actually, he felt he had played them rather well; he had had a varied and moderately enjoyable decade.
He was tall, deeply bronzed, with brown short cropped hair and slate-blue eyes. He was inclined to look severe and brooding until he laughed, and then (but it happened not so very often) he looked boyish. There was a slight nervous twitch near the left eye which was usually noticeable when he worked too hard or drank too much, and as he had been packing and destroying documents throughout the whole of the day and night preceding the evacuation, the twitch was very conspicuous when he climbed into the aeroplane. He was tired out, and overwhelmingly glad that he had contrived to be sent in the maharajahs luxurious air liner instead of in one of the crowded troop-carriers. He spread himself indulgently in the basket seat as the plane soared aloft. He was the sort of man who, being used to major hardships, expected minor comforts by way of compensation. Cheerfully he might endure the rigors of the road to Samarkand, but from London to Paris he would spend his last tenner on the Golden Arrow.
……
