众荷喧哗,而你是离我最近最静的一朵。
------洛夫
久违的这句诗安静的躺在翻开的笔记本中。笔记本的封皮写着:Success
许许多多时刻
有我看到的
有我想到的
有不睡午觉的孩子
告诉我的
各种形态的
像叶片一样活泼的
时刻,在风中唱歌
使天空变成一片
浅蓝色的火星
火星,浅蓝色
在梦里闪闪烁烁
…………
我将在绿色中消失
我将在为许多美好的
时刻,美好得
像一枚枚明亮的浆果
在山地倾斜的阳光里
等待着
等待着不睡午觉的
孩子们长大
长大,成为远行者
----------------顾城《许许多多时刻》
IHe disappeared in the dead of winter:
The books were frozen, the airport almost deserted,
And snow disfigured the public statues;
The mercury sank in the mouth of dying day,
O all the instruments agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.
Far from his illness
The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests,
The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays;
By mourning tongues
The death of the poet was kept from his poems.
But for him it was his last afternoon as himself,
An afternoon of nurses and rumours;
the provinces of his body revolted,
The squares of his mind were empty,
Silence invaded the suburbs,
The current of his feeling failed;he became his admirers.
Now he is scattered among a hundred cities
And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections,
To find his happiness in another kind of wood
And be punished under a foreign code of conscience.
The words of a dead man
Are modified in the guts of the living.
But in the importance and noise of to-morrow
When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of the Bourse,
And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly accustomed,
And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom,
A few thousand will think of this day
As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual.
What instruments we have agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.
II
You were silly like us;your gift survived it all:
The parish of rich women, physical decay,
Yourself. Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.
Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still,
For poetry makes nothing happen:it survives
In the valley of its making where executives
Would never want to tamper, flows on south
From ranches of isolations and the bust griefs,
Raw towns that we believe and die in;it survives,
A way of happening ,a mouth.
III
Earth,receive an honoured guest:
William Yeats is laid to rest.
Let the Irish vessel lie
Emptied of its poetry.
Time that is intolerant
Of the brave and innocent,
And indifferent in a week
To a beautiful physique,
Worships language and forgives
Everyone by whom it lives;
Pardons cowardice,conceit,
Lays its honours at their feet.
Time that with this strange excuse
Pardoned Kipling and his views,
And will pardon Paul Claudel,
Pardons him for writing well.
In the nightmare of the dark
All the dogs of Europe bark,
and the living nations wait,
Each sequestered in its hats;
Intellectual disgrace
Stares from every human face,
and the seas of pity lie
Locked and frozen in each eye.
Follow poet, follow right
To the bottom of the night.
with your unconstraining voice
Still persuade us to rejoice;
With the farming of a verse
Make a vineyard of the curse,
Sing of human unsuccess
In a rapture of distress;
In the deserts of the heart
Let the healing fountain start,
In the prison of his days
Teach the free man how to praise.
我的浣熊喜食甜玉米,因此,她的经济状况很不牢靠。如果我愿意,我可以随时用一支点二二口径的枪射杀她。她在收获季节攫取我的玉 米,每吃掉一穗,都会糟蹋掉另外五穗,品尝滋味好坏、成熟与否。但在乡下,人得事权衡利弊,拿一种快乐和嗜好与另一种作比较。我发现我不能射杀这头浣熊, 还得继续种玉米——有些归她,剩下的归我和我的家人——我用各种各样的遮挡围住了玉米田。这是个效果不错的安排。有一件事我很清楚:我喜欢玉米的味道,但 我更喜欢浣熊守在身边,我不记得还有过什么时候,吃一穗玉米带来的满足感,胜过了向晚时分观看一浣熊从树上爬下来。
---------《浣熊之树》E.B.怀特
What I'm trying to say is ,I understand feeling as small and as insignificant as humanly possible,and how it can actually ache in places that you didn't know you had inside you.It doesn't matter how many new haircuts you get,or gyms you join,or how many glasses of chardonnay you drink with your girlfriends, you still go to bed every night going over every detail,and wonder what you did wrong ar how you could have misunderstood .and how in the hell, for that brief moment,you could think you were that happy.And sometimes you can even convince yourself that he'll see the light and show up at your door,and after all that, however long "all that" may be,you'll go somewhere new.And you will meet people who make you feel worthwhile again,and little pieces of your soul will finally come back .And all that fuzzy stuff,those years of your life that you wasted,that will eventually begin to fade.
---------------------------------------------from《The Holiday(恋爱假期)》
如此看来,这些陶器朝气蓬勃、喜笑盈盈,其大肚子膨胀到极致,线条绷紧得到了要爆裂的地步---就让我用这些词语来形容吧。这些陶器是村里的陶匠用陶车旋出来的。那头脑简单的匠人旋坯的时候会走走神,但不会比隔壁食品杂货铺得老板走得更远,而手下却不会停,手指无意识地遵循着千百年来的传统定下的规矩。这个传统与现代大工厂里天知道谁设计的那些怪异和低能的形式形成强烈对比。那是一个笨人,某个下层画师一时兴起绘出的东西,之所以绘出这样的而不是那样的形状,唯一的目的就是要与昨日绘的不同。在多瑙河沿线,以及后来在土耳其的阿德里安城堡,我们发现了迈锡尼画家曾用黑色阿拉伯式装饰图案覆盖的那些形状;坚持传统的态度是何其执著!因此,不知有没有比近日单为创立“新”目标而否定传统的做法更可悲的事情了。在各个艺术领域都出现了这种创造力偏离正道的现象,它不单给我们带来了不实用的茶壶,样子丑陋的茶杯,肚子往里凹陷的花瓶,还带来了坐伤人的椅子,装不了东西的箱子,以及外形奇丑、荒谬、不合规范的房屋---我的雕塑家朋友啊,那些房屋上面无用的雕刻布满污垢,刀法没有分寸,让人无法原谅。我们生活在一个不适宜居住的混乱环境,不是吗?……------------勒.柯布西耶
到现在虽然已经过了十多年了,只要我眼花的时候,我仍然能把一切东西看成红的。这红,奇异的红,苦恼着我。我前面不是说,这是粉红色的一段吗?我仍然不否认这话。真的,又有谁能否人呢?我只要回忆到这一段,我就能看见自己的微笑,别人的微笑;连周围的东西也充满了笑意。咧着嘴的大哭也充满了无量的甜蜜;我就能看见自己的影子,在向大米缸里插手,在凭空击着纸球;我也就能看见这老实的中年的北方农民特有的纯朴的面孔,他向我微笑着说话的样子,只有这中年人使我这粉红色的一段更柔美。也只有他把这粉红色的一段结尾涂上了大红。这红色给我以大的欢喜,它遮盖了一存在在我的回忆里的影子。但也对我有大威胁,它时常使我战栗。每次我看到红色的东西,我总是想到这老实的中年人--我仿佛还能看到我们俩第一次见面时春的阳光在他脸上跳跃,和最后一瞥里,他脸上的蜡黄--我应该怜悯他呢?或者,正相反,我应该憎恶他呢?
-------------------------季羡林《红》
你们明年要是搬走的话,我当然非常怅惘,尽管地方远近于我似乎没什么分别。你是在我极少数信任的朋友的Pantheon里的,十年二十年都是一样,不过就是我看似不近人情的地方希望能谅解。请千万不要有特为回信,下次有事再谈 ,匆匆祝。
---------张爱玲to庄信正
再一次重复播放着big hole , 暮色沉重。躺在床上,对着天花板发呆,好像可以感觉到时间在眼前来回踱着步,世界变得安静的时候,开始烦恼今年的我是否如去年,或者不如去年,开始烦恼明 年的自己是否会变得陌生。一直在控制自己沿着一个熟悉的方向走,不要变成自己的陌生人。这一刻,我甚至恐惧。在审视自己的过去和现在,我只有可惜没有欣 喜。有很多事情错过了,再也追不回来。转眼10年就像没有裁剪过的,我写不出让自己感动的句子,我说着可以修饰的话,我学会退让,我看无聊的流行杂志,读没有营养的快餐书,唯一的坚持是还听着自己喜欢的歌。我想最好的人生不过是回忆的时候不会遗憾,或者根本忘记了去回忆。
那天晚上,我们在芬兰Porvoo附近一家古朴的乡村饭馆里吃地道的芬兰菜肴。饭馆不大,粗壮的桦木柱子配雪白的四壁,土红亮丽的方砖铺满两座宽大的庭堂。夏季天黑得晚,落地长窗外的小花园在淡淡的暮色中散发着入夜前瞬息的缤纷。我们喝了好多种餐酒,微醺之际,有人低声唱出一支芬兰情歌,凄切而深幽。一位大胡子美国朋友醉意渐浓,走到角落里掀开钢琴一边弹一边唱Moon River。几桌的人都跟着唱。他越唱越起劲,抓我过去替他接着弹。另一座庭堂里的客人都过来看我们胡闹,有几对男女忽然翩翩起舞来。钢琴弹出In the Mood的时候,五六个年轻人一个箭步跑到花园里的小池边大跳牛仔舞。那天晚上,我跟大胡子轮流弹遍古老的欧美歌曲 ,那么多不同国家来的人居然都会哼几段。有个荷兰中年人说他只会 弹小施特劳斯的《蓝色多瑙河》,坐下来一出手有点生硬 ,弹第二遍就弹出味道来了。深夜话别,一位芬兰女教师轻声对我说 :“The man that hath no music in himself/Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds/Is fit for treasons,stratagems and spoils... ”我没等她念完就脱口而出说: The Merchant of Venice!暗黄的街灯下,她甜甜的一笑就像晚风中的蔷薇。
----董桥《晚风中的蔷薇》