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11月21日 11月21日 天氣晴十一月的河面上飛過 煙灰的放蕩出賣了小心翼翼的風 時間列隊跨過季節的縫隙 11月8日 失眠距離世界末日整整一光年的禮拜天 上帝看錯日曆 11月4日 《禁色》（1） - 青春泛著大理石的冷光雖然可以把《禁色》很自然地看做是《假面的告白》的延續，但是可以看出三島由紀夫在兩本書之間心靈上質的轉變。簡單的說，讀《假面》的時候鼻子裏多少能呼吸到一些青澀的氣息，而看《禁色》時，嘴裏卻有一種讓人難受的苦澀。悠一的“美”，反復地被描述成古希臘的雕像。而他的性格也和外觀完全的統一，向身邊的世界輻射出著大理石的冰冷和刀刃般的寒光。這是導致三島後期心理變態的根源。他在《假面》中少年的猶豫與苦悶中煎熬，終於意識到他與整個現實社會的不融和，恐懼和驕傲的水乳交融迅速轉變成一種殘酷的“唯美”主義。象獻身與邪教的人，開始的膜拜無非是走投無路時為了逃避現實抓住的救命稻草，稍微浮出水面以後便認為那是至高的真理，以一種得道者的無知的傲慢沖回現實，自動肩負起要以這種真理拯救全社會的義務。三島走的完全是這樣一條路綫。最初的肉體美的崇拜使他努力改變自己羸弱的身體，到最後，欲將這種所謂的“男性美”強加給整個日本社會。 《假面》中“我”走過的是自覺，自卑到自衛的過程。但是到《禁色》除了變態的自戀看不到別的。《假面》後半部尤其感人，是因為那種貫穿全書的仿似透明的純潔，在園子的身上得到了絕望的昇華。他對園子柏拉圖似的感情，象初遇那個冬日早晨的陽光一樣，清亮而無力。他對於一切為什麼不能停止在精神愛的階段的絕望，帶有讓人同情的真摯。但是人生必須向前，我們要以怎樣的方式來愛一個人，並不能由我們說了算。所以結尾的時候，那種純潔的盛放消耗殆盡，到《禁色》中衹能以乾花或者雕像的形式保持那種已經死了的美的姿勢。《假面》最感人的一段，是關於少年的“我”準備好了“要向人生出發”的描寫。無力阻擋人生的衰竭，以這種淒切的姿態展現出來： “对我来说這也許是唯一快樂的時代。即使有不安，也不过是模模糊糊的，我仍抱有希望，遠遠望去明天就在未知的藍天下。旅行的空想、冒险的夢想、我有一天長成大人的肖像、以及我尚未見面的美麗新娘的肖像、我对名聲的期望，……這些東西，正好象旅行的導遊书、毛巾、牙刷和牙膏、换洗衬衣、换洗袜子、領帶、肥皂这些东西一樣，被整齊地放進“等待出发”的旅行箱里的那個時代。” ”因為沒有什麼比忙於準備行裝，更能使我們感到好像在每個角落都完全擁有這旅行。剩下的就衹是破壞這種擁有，這就是所有旅行的毫無意義。” 在三島眼裏，衹有青春和死亡是無可辯駁的存在，兩者之間沒有本質的區別。而夾在期間的生，是蒼白的，不穩定的，軟弱的，可恥的。死亡的強大，衹有青春的旺盛可以抗爭。所以悸動的青春最接近絕對靜止的死亡。日本人對青春的敏感，和他們對死亡的迷戀是一個硬幣的兩面，在三島這裏得到了提煉。為什麼自殺的年輕人居多？因為他們生命力太旺盛，揮霍不完，擁有太多的東西不可能去珍惜。所以人唯有在青春期，才有敢於一窺永恆的自負，才有敢於挑戰死的生命力。因為青春只要願意就可以象喧鬧而透明的彩色，只要願意也可以立刻變成永恆的死，一切都做得到，但是死卻不能按照不死的意圖變成生命，所以日本少年人的自殺，是生命力的爆炸，是跟死的較量中完勝的宣言。而青春之外生是一種延續和等待，三島不能夠說服自己去相信它，所以他把那種凝固在美的屍體裏不容辯解的姿態想像成一種絕對的存在，用了整整一本書來檢視它膜拜它，最後終於醒悟到這樣僵硬的東西最適合做成兇器。 11月1日 時序入冬，困難重重臥室至今沒有窗簾，早晨一睜眼就看見天，烏雲深重，遮擋著天光不能完全放亮。一看表不到八點，想起今天調時間，憑空多出一個小時，象收到一份貴重卻毫無用處的禮物，捧在手裏有些惶惶不知所措。不了然地躺了半天，悻悻地爬起身來。打開窗戶將赤裸的臉探出窗外，欲雨的清晨有種不透明的氣息，伸出舌尖舔一舔潤濕的空氣。可以用試探十一月一號的冰涼，來預知即將面臨的漫長冬季嗎？象害怕游泳的人在池邊伸出腳尖試探池水的深度。自從中了陳昇的魔咒，十一月變成一個特殊的月份。前奏一響起，我就很自動地沉入一種恍惚的寒意。“也許有天，會在別的城市相遇，但是如果我忘記關於半島的失憶千萬不要提起。”一個每天坐在辦公室擔心著被解雇的人也許沒有什麼資格談論wanderlust，但是我想這首歌對我的毒害，在於它暗示的一種破壞欲。無論什麼難題，離開就可以解決一切，只要決然地抽離，驟然斷裂的疼痛就能象酒精一樣清洗一切不衛生的感傷。但是這種近乎於耍無賴似的情緒，本身難道不也是極其不健康的嗎。“見到了海浪和飛鳥，我象石頭一樣忍住悲傷”是值得欽佩的，但是到了後來終於變成逃離，離開就可以失憶，好像賭氣的小孩子轟然推倒搭不好的積木，多少有點跟自己撒嬌的意思。而我自然是沒有什麼感傷可言，衹是在長時間的空白中以葉公好龍的熱情去意淫一種沒來由的悲愴，在換季的時候也算得上是應景的一件事。 10月26日 《假面的告白》(1) - “你在放蕩的孤獨中閃光”又是一個周末兩天沒有出門，看完了《假面的告白》。如果說唐版的《金閣寺》讀起來痛苦不堪，那麽她的《假面的告白》很多地方完全就是看不懂。因爲根本就不是中文的句子。前面已經說過，唐老師是一個在文學方面完全沒有悟性的俗人，如果說她對《金閣寺》的屠戮（這個詞，用在中日兩种文化之間，有一種莫大的不祥和不安，但是想不到更中性更貼切的了）雖然展現了她毫無趣味的一面但畢竟明知心有餘而力不足但仍然勉力爲之多少也有點勇氣可嘉，那麽她翻譯的《假面的告白》，可以說暴露了她對自己的無趣和庸俗毫無羞恥之心。文中充滿了從中文上講完全讀不通而且即便是絞盡腦汁也無法猜出原作者本意的句子。也許原文所要表達的意義是毫無想象和思辨能力的唐老師完全無法體會的，於是她只是逐字翻譯出來擺在那裏了事。這給我的閲讀增加了一種全新的經驗。我在網上找到另一個版本，將書中讀不懂的句子與網絡版對比（在這種地方，兩种翻譯往往是大相徑庭），以一種近似考古學家的細緻和手批法律文件的嚴謹，用一只鉛筆和一只黃色熒光筆來重新構造一個我的版本。有時候更換詞語尷尬彆扭的次序就能順暢地導出原意，有時候則需要對幾個關鍵字，用通假和聯想的勇氣，去達到一個似乎合情合理的解釋。所倖唐老師一字一板遵照原文鹹魚翻身似的完全讀不通的句子，和網絡版天馬行空跟原文比起來近乎惡意誤傳的謠言一樣的同一個句子，搭配起來往往能隱隱約約看到真相。高度抽象哲思深刻的句子，對於字面的扭曲有一種奇妙的抵抗力。這種抵抗力往往和原句一樣陰晦，藏身在句子本身的艱深和翻譯的辭不達意的雙重阻攔后面。但是如果仔細去探尋，會領悟到因爲這些艱深的詞語沒有太多其它組合的可能，所以反而不象常用的詞語那樣隨便搭配也能產生很多似是而非的歧義。就像一個複雜的迷宮，不管如何扭曲，最後可能的通道只有一條，需要的只是耐性和熱忱。這樣的讀法多少也有點無可奈何的樂趣，而將一本白白淨淨卻不知所云的書划得亂七八糟面目全非，本身也有一種童趣和報復似的快感。 除了純文字方面要跨越的這些干擾，在内容載體方面需要克服的障礙，和當年讀《Death in Venice》的感受不無相似。對於同性戀的主題我有相當的同情甚至興趣，但他對於血的欲望，在多処給我造成心理上的困難。不過與《Death in Venice》中老人對14嵗少年的迷戀不同，這一部分内容並不是與主題不可分割的一個環節。在主人公對近江的愛戀這一段，我可以完全忽略長篇累牘的肉慾描寫，而真切地感受到清早在學校的雪地相遇那一段乾淨而冰冷的美。而且這樣的場景，那種兩個少年的孤獨的共鳴和踫撞，如果是發生在一男一女之間，感覺反而有點變味了。日本人對於青春的無比悵惘和迷惑，而從這種混合著溫柔和殘酷幾乎致命性的懷舊所淋漓盡致地發揮出來的創造性，無論是在文學，音樂或者電影方面，都是沒有其他民族能夠相比的。日本人對於少年的黑色制服和白色手套，有一種根深蒂固迷戀（也許在英文中的fixation這個詞更貼切一些），而這種迷戀，來源於它色調的強烈對比和樣式的嚴格莊重所隱喻的一種無可排解的壓抑與孤獨。中國似的少年的孤獨是“多少的日子裏總是一個人面對著天空發呆”這樣一種柔軟清淡的感受，所以才有“少年不識愁滋味”這種戲謔的説法。日本人的少年的孤獨，是“All about Lily Chou Chou” 開頭那段空靈但又無比壓迫的場面，悽美慾絕但是隱約感到可能真的會死。所以它不是沒來由的傷感和閑愁，而是在清晨新鮮的空氣中能嗅到血腥味的“青春殘酷物語”。 10月14日 不堪入目唐月梅看完了《我是貓》，還算蠻有趣的一本書。常常會看到放聲大笑，即使在生活中也難得這麼開心了。然而結局卻寫成那個樣子，有一種被背叛的感覺。 接下來硬著頭皮拿起《金閣寺》。稍微看過中譯本日文小說的都知道大陸的日譯被兩個人壟斷。川端康成的《雪國》是葉渭渠翻的，《古都》就是唐月梅。我之所以那麼不喜歡《古都》，我曾懷疑唐教授要負一大部分責任。不過既然她以大陸的三島由紀夫專家出位，她對川端康成的屠戮我也一聲不吭地忍了。但是讀她《古都》的譯文，眼前情不自禁浮現出一位不要說毫無才情根本就是毫無趣味的大媽，以一種硬充好漢，勇敢的革命心情，帶上“翻譯家”的標籤挺身而出的景象。於是我專門到台灣的網上書店，居然繁體版的一套三島由紀夫都是她老人家名字若無其事地排在旁邊。但是我以一種記吃不記打，心癢難搔到毫無廉恥的心情統統買了下來。 今天晚上翻開第一頁，映入眼簾的是 根據眾人的懇切期望，父親遁入空門。 這個“根據”看得我老大不是滋味，難道一個普通的“應了”或者“因為”不通順地多嗎。不過我訕訕地說服自己大師的用詞劍走偏鋒也是他牛逼之處。緊接著下來 但這塊土地上總是飄蕩著一种預感到海似的東西。偶爾，風絲也送來了海的气息。海上一起風暴，海鷗群就紛紛逃命，飛落在這一帶的田野上。 我痛苦萬狀地閉上眼睛，腦海裏總算如願以償地浮現起那種白鳥飛翔在臨海的田野上空的美麗景象。“一種預感到海似的東西”。。。唐老師初中語文不及格以後是以大器晚成的魄力終于做到文學教授的嗎。“但這塊土地上總是飄蕩一種海的預感”都要好得多吧，可是我不禁遺憾不能知道原文的意境是怎樣的。即便日文原文的順序翻出來就是這樣，可是也應該知道中文裏讀不通吧。我只能夠寄希望與重新在腦海裏構築原文的意境，算對我的一種考驗吧。但是這個“紛紛逃命”。。。真讓人有話不投機半句多的感覺，直想一抬手扔出去。 我缺乏一种沖動。。。換句話說，我要當藝術家，未免太傲慢了。 我想了半天，這裏“傲慢”原來是“狂妄”或者“不自量力”的意思才對吧。 我迎亮看路上，遠處立著一個朦朧的白影。疑是拂曉的曙光，卻原來是有為子。 這個“迎亮”，是一個中文辭彙嗎？“順著微光”也就多兩個字而已啊，至於這麼懶嗎。 我夢幻多年的金閣，就這樣容易地以其全貌展現在我的眼前。 難道她想說的不是“輕易”嗎。。。是校稿的該被解雇還是唐教授白癡啊。 10月2日 我媽不在家的時候noontide35@hotmail.com says: 9月25日 讀書深夜了趴在床上看着淩亂的房間發呆，突然想到這些書就像眷養着的貓，買回來放在那裡，在一個屋簷下共存卻是各自分別自生自滅。閑了隨便抱起一個來逗着也會開心一下，但是它們對我的存在總體上來講是完全無動於衷，只是躺在地板上怔怔地望着天花板出神。
NFL openning seaon那個周末，在幾場比賽的空當又看完了《千紙鶴》，《人間失格》和《嫌疑人X的獻身》。原來雖然10幾年未曾這樣系統地讀過中文書，中文的閲讀速度還是要快得多。《千紙鶴》，還算喜歡吧。川端康成走到面前意淫良久的那條綫，被渡邊淳一在《櫻花樹下》一擡腳就邁過去了。與其說邁過去，不如說來來回回踩了幾遍然後心滿意足地走開比較恰當。《人間失格》這樣的小説，讓我對所謂文學產生了近乎生理性的反感。寫這樣的東西做什麽呢？這和我看大部分New Yorker上的短篇小説感覺是一致的。後面兩個禮拜基本就是各種懷舊，翻出些舊詩來看，頗有反芻的感覺。突然覺得讀書對我來講有什麽意義呢？在這方面，可以說已經得到了所有應該得到的，然而並未曾覺得富足。今後再看多少書，都只是習慣驅使下的量變過程。 9月24日 I guess recession IS overWall Street Journal today: "An unprofitable clean-tech company that would have been spurned by U.S. investors six months ago turned in the second-best IPO performance of the year Thursday... Electric car-battery maker A123 Systems Inc. jumped 54% on its first day of trading as a public company..." So I hopped over to EDGAR and pulled out the Prospectus, here is some excerpt: "We have never been profitable. We experienced net losses of $15.8 million for 2006, $31.0 million for 2007, $80.5 million for 2008, and $40.7 million for the six months ended June 30, 2009. We expect we will continue to incur net losses in 2009." "We have had negative cash flow before financing activities of $29.1 million for 2006, $56.1 million for 2007, $76.0 million for 2008, and $62.2 million for the six months ended June 30, 2009. We anticipate that we will continue to have negative cash flow for the foreseeable future as we continue to make significant future capital expenditures... " Hooray to exuberance. 9月19日 寂寞的人坐着看花每年初秋天氣驟然轉涼的時候就想起去讀鄭愁予和楊牧的詩。就連驟然轉涼都不是我的語言： 生死俯仰 --楊牧 《故事》，1994 於是在網上定了洪範版的鄭愁予詩集I，II和楊牧詩集I，II，昨天到了。下午步行去Bryant Park的時候，覺得我日後背井還鄉，最懷念紐約的應該就是幾個大道上秋天的下午吧。 當然還有west village的Jazz bars。如此而已了。再讀兩人的詩，覺得在文字的華麗精巧上來說，似乎楊牧還更勝一籌，這是以前沒有的感覺 。其實到了我這個年紀，對漂亮的文字已然有了一種條件反射一般的懷疑，但是楊牧的一些句子，讓我竟然又有了Death in Venice那種心態，完全被它的外觀美征服，極致的美本身就是一種不容辯駁的神意。比如楊牧有這樣的句子： 鐘鳴處，羣鴉畢至 亂鴉飛進寺院，和一個人醉酒後傷秋，應該不是什麼了不起的意象，但是這幾句詞句的安排，完全是音韻上幾乎不可思議的昇華。如果說“早殤”帶來的些微出乎意料是頭兩句的點睛，那後面這一句，即使有 “悲秋”，“惜別”這樣危險而濫俗的詞語，都慰貼地融入綿延流暢的韻律之中，以“怔忡”這樣一個同樣蹊蹺但細想下無比貼切的詞收緊，一股涼意從行段間絲絲滲出。完全是用字的功底。 而鄭愁予的詩，大多美在意象。比如相比上面楊牧那一首，鄭愁予有這樣相似的情景： 鳥聲敲過我的窗，琉璃質的磬聲一夜雨露浸潤過， 這一首單從文字上講，“我的窗”，“膚觸”，特別是“女孩子”，這幾個詞，其實都是相當的突兀拗口，但是最後三句描繪出來的意象，已經比絕大多數整本的愛情小說更淒美動人。這首我從十年前第一次讀到就幾乎立刻可以背誦，那種柔軟纖細是只屬於鄭愁予的。當然他也有金戈鐵馬的句子，比如這首寫於18歲的 是誰傳下這詩人的行業， 有松火低歌的地方
這最後一句，直白簡單，但是卻是大氣象的手筆。正如他後來所說“擁懷天地的人，有簡單的寂寞”。 相比楊牧的句子，很多衹能用妖異來形容： 我的白骨已經風化成缺磷的窘態 我的悼祭者流落在外地 雨中想家，本來是很普通的意象，詩句從內在意義上講也未曾表達出比這個更深切的意義，但是第二，三句，總是讓我想反復去誦讀，哪怕衹是去放縱自己在那種短暫的聲色上的快感。又比如 眼淚永生等等抽象的，給黃昏的鼓 反復讀了幾遍，也不知道他想說什麼，就是覺得很漂亮，很酷的句子。也許這就是鄭愁予比楊牧出名的多的原因，鄭愁予的美輪美奐的意象，是哪怕不經心的人一看到都會被吸引的， 所以他雖然也有很多上面那種大漠孤煙直一類的詩句，他給大眾的永遠是“我打江南走過，那等在季節裏的容顏如蓮花的開落”這樣纖細柔美的印象。而楊牧的純粹文字上的不可思議近乎詭異的美，不是每個人都願意接受的。 兩位都是相當長壽的詩人，從60年代寫道90年代。然而說到這裏，不能不說相當不敬的一些話。我對鄭先生是非常仰慕的。在波士頓的時候，因為一個好朋友剛好是鄭先生的至交，有幸隨他一起兩度去New Haven鄭先生家喝酒。席間還有另外一位我非常崇拜的康正果老師。有一次喝到酣暢時，鄭先生拿出一首飲酒的詩助興，我自告奮勇地拿來誦讀，結果其中很多古字不認識，硬著頭皮讀下去。念完鄭先生興味索然地說，“好些是古字。。。”這件事十年之後我仍然不能釋懷。這裏要說句對鄭先生不敬的話，看他後來的詩，可以說非常悲哀，有尚能飯否的感懷。而楊牧在九十年代，還有《故事》那樣的詩句，應該說生命更長吧。以及同一詩集裏我也喜歡的一首： 不要追問細節： 不能溶解的是記憶 我無比欽佩他的是，他總能把“憂鬱”，“淚”這種本來讓人看了頭皮發麻的詞去庸俗化。而鄭先生《雪的可能》和《寂寞的人坐著看花》兩本裏，我個人感覺已經沒有能與這兩首相提並論的詩了。當然我作為一個沒有天分的人，衹能說說讀別人的想法，是沒有任何資格來評判的。陳克華曾經鼓勵我說，你一定要持續寫下去，我相信你會成為下一代重要的一個詩人。現在想起這句話，也衹能愧對他的期望。象黃舒駿，是我喜歡的一個歌手，能寫出《何德何能》這樣的歌，以及“屬於我們的精彩，早已經不複存在；我的她再好也衹能愛著我的未來。”所以曾經被認為會成為是羅大佑的接班人。最近看到一篇報導，說他已經完全變成一個生意人，聽到自己從前寫的歌，唏噓有恍如隔世的感覺。也許他自己知道畢竟是才情不夠，所以會早早地對楊明煌說出了”我沒成為你以為的那個人，真的很抱歉“這樣的話吧。 9月14日 The sky was good for flying回国两周，一场绵延不去的病，至今枯坐办公室还有零星的咳嗽。每天下午，抱病也去泡一杯茶，蜷在竹藤椅里眯起眼睛听歌，一两个小时就这样过去。夏末的成都已经没有了潮湿的燥热，睁开眼，叶缝间布满了阴天。没有阳光也没有风，视野里一切都是绝对静止的，却能感觉时间的循序渐进，天色一点点暗下来。每天下午我是唯一的客人，不知道我走之后，冷清的院落是怎样打发逐渐转凉的时间。带了那本Mimesis回去，在飞机上的时候饶有兴味的看完第一章，希腊神话与圣经中现实主义手法的比较。然而在午后那种懒散的心境下，似乎很难再集中精力去看文学评论的书。随身带着的另外一本是不记得什么时候买来留在家中的The Penguine Book of English Verse，随手翻开又读了一遍Prufrock，居然有了月落寒潭一般的顿悟，于是一首一首地看下去，身体中那种舒适的柔软，一半是因为持续不退的低烧，一半是因为苏醒了久违的诗的触觉。
The sky was good for flying
Defying the church bells
And every evil iron
Siren and what it tells:
The earth compels,
We are dying, Egypt, dying
这一段，看到第一句不着边际地有些怀旧。想起大学的时候，九月的京城秋高气爽，有一上铺的同屋每天早晨一睁眼必然会说，“真是杀人的好天气。”不知道是不是衰老的表现，如今夤夜难眠，也总是会莫名其妙想起过去的一些场景。从首尾两段来看这首无疑是情诗了，而中间两段，又从花园扯出来谈到迫在眉睫的战乱。想到这是写给刚刚抛弃他的妻子，这种意象的叠加又似乎很贴切。我偏爱这里摘出来的这一段，最后这一句，虽然只是引用莎士比亚，但是强烈的音韵完美地融合并收紧这一段诗句。也许我比较受这种音韵吸引，又比如，"I grow old... I grow old... I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled." 相反最后一段，有太随意而滥俗的嫌疑。倒是不如他在自传里曾经说的，"marriage to Mariette promised a life where the clocks had been put back or even replaced by sundials.” 我为这句话所感动，虽然不是特别明白他具体想说的是什么意思。正如T.S. Eliot所说，"genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood.” 9月11日 Our grossly misunderstood selvesJust as I was watching the clock ticking away towards 6pm, I got a message from someone I don't even know I remembered: "Hihi, today I had my wine tasting classes. We tried Premier Cru Red Burgundy. I thought of you. Just like you said, I won't be disappointed by pinot noir." My first reaction was, huh? Did I really say that? When it comes to wine I know next to nothing. Never liked it and don't even remember when was the last time I had it. Pinot Noir. Maybe I made a passing reference to "Sideways" to her? In any event I said long time no see, how are you doing. To this formatic greeting she answered with unexpected enthusiasm, doing very well, she said, now in Paris. I was like, wow, it HAS been a while. why Paris, married? found a job there? she laughed, and said, nice, 2 for 2 for you. Then she asked, "did you become a lawyer and move to NYC like you planned?" It gave me a pause. After brief hesitation I said yes, but I can't help wondering siliently, did I plan for this? No I did not plan for this.
Then I was haunted by a vague sense of guilt long after she swiftly signed off. Why am I reluctant to say I got what I wanted? Even if it's a job to pay off the loan or the first of many jobs to come, I did put me foot down on square one. A shaky footing for sure, but it could have been much worse. I should have been happier, or at least more appreciative. But I'm not about that, I tried to soothen myself. But I'm certainly not above it. I saw the relief in my mom's eyes and I felt like a good son. I walked into the business class section with an expression of well-practiced nonchalance. And I walked out on a private club with self-righteous digust and the arrogance of knowing that I can easily fend off the self-doubt of not being able to afford a sour grape. So yes I wanted it and I planned for it, and I worked my ass off for it. Why am I secrectly ashamed of admitting it. Maybe it's because I'll never know "what it feels like to know that I made the rain". I arrived on the scene, but everyone else has already gone on to the next station. There will not be another train but a deserted platform should feel just like home. To a man of perpetual bad timing. 9月9日 雪国。古都。从《雪国》的高度下来，不免觉得也是彻夜不眠看完的《古都》有些差强人意了。每个人物感觉都要刻意牵强得多，那种贯穿全文的没来由的哀伤也完全不能体会。不过日本文学，好象是很受阅读时候心境的影响，如果是在骄躁的情绪下，那么对其文字和韵律都只会感觉不耐。也许曼哈顿的节奏慢慢在身体里苏醒了，就算彻夜不睡刻意去营造那种时空错乱的感觉也不能抵抗。但是无论如何于我而言，《雪国》里面那种安静的绝望与爱怜相交织的脉络都是很清楚的。我想岛村的脑海里之所以会反复浮现“徒劳”这两个字，根本原因是他不能排遣的内疚感吧。两个人之间，总会有一个更加投入一些，即便没有到了义无反顾的地步，很多事情做出来也是发自内心自然而然的，反而是不太投入的一方，会因为潜意识的负疚而总是产生要回报对方的想法。所以那种不忍的心情，与其说是疼爱，倒不如说是出于自私的担忧更确切一些。所以当岛村说出“即使继续留在这里也不能帮到你”这种话时，驹子才有那种即疼爱又失望的反应，失望的不是岛村的无法承诺，而是如此表白不自觉流露出的自私与隔阂。然而驹子这方面却始终是毫无修饰的付出，无限的柔情从不在言语上表露，却在深夜剪发和总在房间里留下小物件这些细节中无声地显现出来，让人隐约感觉到在她安静的外表下面，那种明知受伤也义无反顾的勇敢。
从背景上来讲，《雪国》的场景也自然贴切得多。一开始茫茫的雪景奠定了整个小说的基调，也是两人感情发展的最主要时段。接下来回朔到初春一片嫩绿中的初遇，到最后秋天清晨秋虫象征性的死亡，采用的是希腊史诗似的中段开篇的叙事结构。季节的气氛很明显也很到位，似乎是两个人的感情随着气温在波动。春天山雪初融时的惊艳自然地引领了故事的开端，两个人在大雪封山奇寒的夜里相互取暖，从拘谨到温存，似乎绵延的雪野被冬季黄昏的彩霞点燃，无声地在黑暗中燃烧了一整夜。然而到了次年秋天，迅速转凉的空气似乎比冬夜更加寒峭，每天有秋虫在窗格和竹席上死去，离别的寒意象清早的空气一样冰凉刺骨，无可抵御。而《古都》一连串的节日，走马观花一般的呈现，跟小说主旨可以说毫无干系。 9月8日 三万英尺在微弱的晨曦中看完《雪国》，心中充满了无可言说的哀伤。合上书的时候，天已经亮了。抬头望见窗外的河还是安静的流着，只是两岸的树木，已经有了秋天的味道。但是城里的一切都还是离开时候的样子，两个礼拜的时间，似乎就在昨天下午出租车开进曼哈顿的一霎那被无声地抹去了。“穿过县界长长的隧道，便是雪国。”而我两种方式的存在也被隔在林肯隧道两端。想象着又要日复一日在清晨迅速转凉的空气中沿着一大道步行去上班，有一丝安静的绝望，像被风吹起一样在心中上下飘浮，纤细地看不清抓不住，却无比的忉扰。而彻夜的读完这部小说，也许是下意识的抗争一般，想把那种闲逸的日子再延续哪怕一晚。然而一种时空错乱的感觉象乱草一样在心中滋长。在成都，每天下午在那个冷清的院落里就着一壶茶看英文诗。却在回来以后的第一个清晨等待黎明的时候看完这部中译本的小说。然而那种绵长而寂静的凄凉比较起来也许更适合初秋的纽约，在家，无论是安静还是孤单都是舒适惬意的。 一觉醒来的时候看见屏幕上显示飞行高度是3万3千英尺。这个似乎形而上的数字，显示了离开的不可辩驳性。ipod还在响，放到“何德何能”这首歌。很多年前还在波士顿的时候，我曾经跟一个朋友感慨说从来没有过那种为了谁而知足感恩的心情。她说你心思太复杂，那种简单率真的心情你不可能有。这句话我一直记得。而现在突然很危险地想回去过那种简单的生活。岛村的三次雪国之行，无疑也是从现实生活中的完全抽离，所以我想那种爱怜即便真实如冷空气中贴紧肌肤的温暖拥抱一样，他终于也不能投入身心地去依赖于它。“岛村的手也暖和了。驹子的手更加发烫。不知怎的，岛村感到离别已经迫近。”两个人之间的温情永远被模糊但迫切的分离所威胁着。“驹子撞击墙壁的空虚回声，岛村听起来有如雪花飘落在自己的心田里。”这里说的撞击墙壁的回声，是在屋里等待的岛村听到喝醉的驹子陪完客人以后跌跌撞撞地穿过走廊来到他房间的声音。刚读到这一句的时候，不知道为什么觉得很懂，很明白川端康成想要描述的是怎样的一种心情，无限的爱怜混杂着内疚和绝望。这种内疚和绝望，源自岛村的懦弱，对诀别的拖延但深知不能抗拒。 而我在三万英尺的高空，瞬间有了不如归去的想法。 8月30日 So how should I presume  也只有休假的时候才能静下心来看诗。每天下午在南亭银杏的咖啡厅或者窄巷子的茶铺泡杯茶，过分的舒适会衍生一种隐约的负罪感。亦或是对于明知这种舒适之不能持久的不安。重新读了the Love Song of Prufrock，有了然顿悟的感觉。那些黄昏的意象次第挂现，象浸在下午三点已经喝白的茶水里面，隐约但是偎贴 - Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? 我曾经写过，“你已经错过的，我终究不能用笔墨向你描述”，然而如此看起来那不过是我天资不够。我几乎可以看见一张已经被磨损的脸从这三行文字之间茫然的望出来。Levin再见到Kitty之后，第二天早晨出门看到每一个人都感觉洋溢着无以言说的幸福，是这一段的完美的anti-thesis。然而这种情绪的投射对于他人的毫无意义，可以很自然地延伸到整个写作的无价值。“So how should I Presume?”he asked. 这句话的两度出现，于我而言是整首诗的核心。 For I have known them all already, known them all:-- Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room. So how should I presume? “I have measured out my life with coffee spoons”，算是很煽情的句子了。然而每次回成都，感觉都象被从线性的存在中抽离，置于无可丈量的一段错乱的时空。此时读到这样的句子，一边搅拌着咖啡，也只有一笑置之。 And I have known the eyes already, known them all-- The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? And how should I presume? “So how should I presume？”这句话读了两遍，无比兴奋地喝了两大口咖啡，突然之间明白了很多事情。 8月23日 天色渐亮不知道为什么这次回来时差居然倒不过来。也许体内的生物钟要向前拨12小时的时候，杠杆突然从中间断裂，于是卡在午夜和黎明之间，整夜有僵硬的疼痛。 “在白天失神，在夜晚失眠”（24岁的时候自己这样写过）。几个小时听着客厅里里水流的声音，玻璃缸里的潮汐吞吐。（河流闪在大陆/亿万次的潮汐吞吐/我还要呼吸/我不能拥抱自己。夏天有打湿衣襟的理由/哭无所谓。27岁的时候看到一个朋友这样写到）。天快亮的时候热气开始蒸腾，终于起身，百无聊赖中到书房，借着晨曦的微光浏览满是灰尘的书架。那些书脊上积的灰尘是湿抹布也擦不掉的，已经渗透在书页间，慢慢变成一种土黄色。快速翻动的时候书页会有些黏手，扇起一丝若有若无的碱味。一墙的书架从左往右漫不经心的看过去，我爸的这些书大部分我是看着长大的。有些是被指定看的，有些是趁大人不在偷看的，有些，站在那里十几年，名字熟悉的象一首儿歌，但是从来没有想到去拿下来翻一翻。我在第二个书柜最顶层看到一本“博尔赫斯短篇小说集”，很诧异，为什么之前从来没有注意到。“外国文艺丛书”，定价1.20。翻开，盖着我爸单位工会的公章，借出日期是85年3月27日。很感慨，去年看Borges，象发现一个异样的时空，没想到10几年对面不相识。如果早20年看到，也许整个人生也会不一样吧。 8月15日 Pagan PoetryAgain, didn't see it coming. It was Friday afternoon, an hour away from weekend, balmy weather, ice latte and a cigarette, it was all good. Then it hit me:
And he placed her
Unclothed Long, long, longlegged On top of the, family tree This is not the first time I got waylaid by Bjork. When I listen to her songs, I always think of a child playing adults' game, running with sharp scissors ("I'll heal you, with a razor blade"), brimmed with emotions ("I'm a fountain of blood, in the shape of a girl") to the point of unbearableness ("Excuse me, I just have to, explode"). She pushes vulnerability and sensitivity to a level i did not know that exists. Some of her songs make my blood boiling, some make me chilled to the bone.
And there's Pagan Poetry. In the very end, after the chorus monotonously, repeatedly, pounds the words "I love him I love him I love him", to the point of becoming utterly meaningless, suddenly, high up in the background, comes the aria, "He makes me want to hurt myself, again..." Then it trails away just as quickly, like a kite blown away and swiftly fading out of sight. It was just, wow... It's, at first blush, romantic as hell, but it also asks a deeper, more sober question: for those who get hurt over and over again by love, how many of those wounds are really self-inflicted? Why don't they learn?
But Human wants affections, like monkeys want bananas, it's nature, just can't be helped. In the end, after enough hissing and chest pumping, tearing and scratching, when they finally come to the realize that there is simply not enough to go around, they learn to share, make do with what's given, play with the cards that are dealt to them, but that's acquired skilled, not natural.
I of course know of ppl very much in love who confidently and proudly proclaimed that things will never go awry. They love each other so much they can't possible image how they could divide that love and share with someone else. Things went awry. The equation is fundamentally flawed. Affection goes by multiplication, not division. But ultimately, we cannot all be happy together. 8月1日 On Beckett (4)Lately, I feel increasingly lonely in my reading experience. I'm using the word "lonely" in a neutral tone, without the negative connotation usually associated with it. It's as if I'm walking deeper and deeper into a no-man's-land, all the while fully aware of a total disconnection with the real world. I used to think reading makes me a better person, or makes my life more self-sustainable, and to a certain extent, and for a while, it's true. As I gradually broadened my horizon in the literature world, my self-assurance unconsciously grew with it. But that comes with a price, I become ensnared in this massive web I waved for myself. The first symptom is the increasing random quotes popping up in writing and conversation, most of which deliberate and unnecessary. It's the first symptom of a dangerous tendency, of referencing real life to a personal literary universe. As the symptom worsens, the quotes become more tangental and obscure, the worst of them being quotes from myself. Although I can safely say this is not done out of vanity or desire to show off, it does make communication increasingly difficult and eventually self-selective: I increasingly only talk to those who can understand, and eventually, as the web becomes wider-spread and more-exclusive, only to myself. I keep looking inward for validation for every real world experience, labeling it as true or false depending on if a reference is found. When I write about a book, or a movie, it's not really about the book or the movie itself, it's about its location on this value system, or the lack of it. I think to a very large extent that's the real problem when I was waylaid by the Trilogy. It forces itself into this elaborately waved system, his mastery of words not only commands a force to be reckon with, but also a messages not to be denied. It completely breaks down the system and reduces it to total chaos. It's as if a life-time Catholic finally get a chance to meet to Pope, only to be told it's all really just a hoax. Isn't that to an extent what Salieri thought Mozart did to him? Salieri finally met this person who's blessed with the highest form of talent, but what he does with it, he only uses it to mock the less fortunate ones and music itself. 7月31日 the WellLike a well brimmed with thoughts under an overcast sky, you are worried that one more drop of rain will make you overflow. But the sky is darkening, clouds gathering, you lie in wait for what's coming to you. Yes, thunder will roll, flashes will tear the sky, and storm Will arrive with all its sound and fury. But rest assured, the fresh rain will mix with what you harbored inside all this time, until there is no telling one from the other, and together they will sink in, inside of you, make you reach deeper into the ground, while on the surface you seem to be the same well brimmed with silence. 7月25日 On Beckett (3.5) - on insolence, a detourWhen I obsessively write about Beckett, after being under his spell, or should I rather say curse, for a good 3 months, I'm fully aware probably nobody will bother to read it except me, myself and maybe yours truly (Yes, sometimes I read what I myself wrote as many as three times). This is really meant for myself rather than for anyone else, I have to write it down to get past it, "move the fuck on, you know?" Like Nathan said. Actually same thing goes for the whole blog, it's an endless, obsessive self-righteous rant about random shit which no one else cares about. But if anyone ever bothers to spend 2 mins skimming through this blog, he/she probably won't miss the fact that whatever this blog is lacking, it's not biblical references. Many of them have an unmistakeable negative connotation, they are inaccurate, sarcastic and self-serving. To a devoted believer, some of them are right out blasphemy and any number of them might be sufficient to condemn me to a tropical ever after. I guess I'll have plenty of chances then, after all time is no more and all I have is "eternity", to learn from my sins. It's probably safe to say my life is more entangled with the Word than many of the Christians. I first read the Bible when I was 14, then again 17, and all through the years, there are probably not many books I've read that are not in some tangental way related to Bible. I often open it out of boredom, and close it awe-struck. The Word is all engendering, all powerful. In the beginning, God says "Let there be light", and there is light. So God creates the world through words. As opposed to the goddamn, pathetic pagan gods, who have to get their hands dirty and rub clay together to make human. And to me, Bible is just that, the magnificent concoction of words, and nothing more than that. I have zero interests in Christianity as a religion. Prof White once said, "The tolerance many non-believers have towards Christianity is in essence not tolerance at all, but contempt in disguise." I remember how that stuck me like a revelation and an accusation. I thought about it long and hard, but eventually decided I'm ok with that. If I have to pick, out of the seven sins, Pride is something I'm willing to live with. After all, Christians are no stranger to the sense of superiority either. How many Jews were persecuted because they are insolent enough to claim to be the "chosen ones"? Many years ago, I went to a random party where I ran into this Chinese Christian. Upon learning that it was my first month in US, he must figure I'm an easy target. He wasted no time trying to enlighten me. At first I was, of course, quite amused. Then He tried to convinced me I was lost. I said it's ok someone is giving me a ride home. He sighed, "You are so lost you don't even know it." Being young, I was naturally a little irritated being told I don't know something. I started to walk away and asked him please not to follow me. He said, "You can't turn your back on God, God is everywhere watching you, judging everything you do." I did turn around, and said, "Let me ask you a question..." I did pause a little but I couldn't help myself, "Do you masturbate?" He said "Excuse me?" I said, "Do you masturbate? If you do, does it spoil the fun a little or get you off even more knowing that God is watching you doing it?" I was asked to leave the party, and it was a big hassle for me since I was not driving. That of course is poor judgment on my part, it only showed my ignorance by taking a cheap jab like that. I've learned much more after that, but I'm aware I'm still very ignorant when it come to what it means to be a believer. But I guess I've decided I'm ok with that too. 7月23日 On Beckett (3)The fact that he wreaks havoc between the two ends of a book in itself should not be so threatening. After all one of the great past-times of human being is to conjure up all sorts of fucked-up situations and write a book about it. Double-crossing, backstabbing, murder, suicide, adultery, incest, you name it. If there is a sin, there is a book about it. And that's just Shakespears. But of course it's a cliche to say tragedies exist because of their therapeutic values. The indescribable joy of seeing the neigbour's house on fire, is the reason God has forsaken us in the first place. I admit I did derive some sort of odd joy when I fist started to read it: "It's like being molested at parts which I didn't know could be sexual before, shamed by the insolence and mortified by the audacity, but secretly liking it." Cocky. And I paid for it. So what is it in his book that spilled over into reality and hung over my already meager existence like a constant menace? He denied the basic assumptions we, I, built my existence on. The most apparent one is what we know as time.
7月19日 On Beckett (2)The immediate impact was somewhat a surprise to me, and I had this feeling of being waylaid from the very beginning. I was no doubt fascinated by the unique approach of narration as well as his mastery (or there are times where maybe the more proper word is “trickery”, with the cunning but not the negative connotation) on the tempo of words. It’s surprising how he can paint the full spectra of total detachment and deliver the utter hopelessness inevitably associated with it, in just a matter of 3 pages. It took Kafka and Camus a whole book to do it. I naturally wondered, and anticipated with excitement, where this high intensity and efficiency lead to. And maybe that was where disaster stroke. Excitement is not me, I don’t get excited, ever. Maybe there is a reason for it. Anyway I digress. Yes, where will it lead to. I turned each page with the excitement of a kid unwrapping his X’mas gift. I found out the answer pretty quick to, and it’s devastating just like how a kid looking forward to a PS3 ended up getting a sweater – it leads to NOWHERE. It’s a reign of Chaos, Chaos in its most profound, frightening and destructive sense. And that’s exact what Beckett intended to convey, and as soon as I realized that, the fear was instilled in me. In Paradise Lost there is Heaven, which in my mind is always like somewhat a field of blinding light (in a rather unpleasant sense) and floating cotton candies everywhere; there is Paradise, again to me nothing more than an overgrown tropic jungle; there is Hell, which strangely evokes a sense of grandiose and purpose in me, a cradle for the ultimate anti-hero (Blake did comment that Milton is more at easy writing about Hell that Heaven, being a fellow devil of his). And then there is the place that stands between Heaven and Hell, which does not even have a name, where Chaos rules: Before their eyes in sudden view appear … Into this wild Abyss, THAT’s the place Beckett has conjured up. The place with no name, the place that nearly swallow up Satan like the raging sea would swallow up a boat: Audacious, but that seat soon failing, meets Now, this is the place initially everything was created from, by the divine intervention that pulled the world out from this ungodly orderlessness. Who, (apparently not even Satan itself), would be audacious enough to send this world as we know it spinning back to that state, by sheer power of his words? 7月16日 On Beckett (1)I was at a loss for words, when a particularly cynical friend of mine, in the context of after-lunch speculations on social economics, asked, "how much is a reasonable salary for an English literature professor in a random liberal art college?" I don't have a legitimate counter argument to the underlying accusation that in an ideal society of ruthless economic efficiency, we shouldn't be dragging the dead weight of redundant words. Nor can I come up with a number for the fair market value of what was perceived here as a mere necessary pretense of an "evolved" society. we don't need literature. I don't need literature. Evidenced by the 4-month dry spell. In fact, the 100 or so words I just typed, at 1:10am in the middle of a week, is itself nothing but yet another restatement of maybe the most meaningless cliche. Presumptuously summon up what's already been beat to death a thousand times, only to commit my personal offense over its corpse. Just like summer 2003 is a 3 months of uncanny productivity which now only serves as a constant reminder that my best days are already behind me, March 2008 to March 2009 is a year that has left an unmistakable mark on my literature experience and changed it in a way I likely will not experience again. Almost everything I've read in the span of this 12 months had an immediately impact on me in its own profound way, and the resonances of them all eventually proved to be too much to bear. It started with a brief, and I'd say relatively harmless prelude with the Trial, then the first wave of shock came in the form of The Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Followed by Crime and Punishment, a heavy dose of what turned out to be more or less nothing. But that two months of half-sleepiness was succeeded by Paradise Lost, which marked the onset of a wallow in Biblical images and metaphors that to this day has not shown any sign of relenting its grip on me. I was enchanted by the metaphysical image of flight like the particular paragraphs had been tattooed in my brain. It also directly caused the ensuing nosedive into Blake (mixed with a brief revisit to Chinese classical writings, for no apparent reason). Upon arriving in Manhattan I took a detour to Anna Karenina. It solidified my general aversion to the love of an unattainable woman but very little beyond that. Around deep September Borges made his entrance, sprawled a world of imagination and creativity that is almost divine and fascinated me to no end. Although not without its own fair share of Biblical references and speculations, Borges to me read like a green pasture floating on a boundless sea of darkness and chaos, the sea of the Word and everything else engendered from it. "Beast in the Jungle" and "The Turn of the Screw" I mainly read on sunless Sunday afternoons, October, November, in the crispy air by the river side, on the bench facing Queens and over Turkish Gold and a lukewarm cup of Latte. "Beast" is dear and near to me only on a personal level. Then after rain on 1st Ave, snow over East River and wind that dutifully blew in everywhich direction (not necessarily in that order), came January and on the airplane back to China I opened Beckett's Trilogy. A fateful moment, to say the least. In the following two months I've experienced every awe, ecstasy, resignation, jealousy and hatred that must have burnt through Salieri's soul and eventually turned him into the demon, not to suggest I even have the caliber anywhere near his. At a moment of unguarded cockiness I commented, "I worship Borges as a pagan god at his best moments, but I fear Beckett like a Biblical (or should I say more precisely, Blakesque) Devil through and through". It Shut me Down. I watched my literary vanity lit up as if on gasoline and burnt swiftly to ashes, leaden ashes without a hint of umber. For the 4 months after, I can't so much as read a label on a bottle of shampoo without having a faint feeling of nausea in my stomach. Words disgusted me. |
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