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2012年10月28日星期日

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整天关注娱乐版的男人,你指望它有什么成就?整天玩游戏的男人、整体打麻将的男人,你指望它有什么成就么?不管喜不喜欢,这样的东西都是值得一读。

一、拥有自信和风度
男 人到了二十几岁后,就要开始学着用心去经营自己了,它体现在自己的思想与涵养上。自信是一个男人最重要的品质,自信的男人就你像一只在暴风雨中战斗的海鸥。海鸥所要说的只有一句话“让暴风雨来的再猛烈些吧”,只因为它无所畏惧。一个自信的男人,总是能够感染别人,无论这些人是朋友还是敌人。要使别人对你有信心,就必须要先对自己充满信 心。自信的男人可以战胜一切困难。
一个有风度的男人就像一片大海,不拒点滴,又包容江河。有风度使男人得到更多的青睐,不争眼前才能够放眼世 界,给予别人才能够受益无穷。正所谓“宰相肚里能撑船”,一个心如大海的男人,肚中不知能撑多少船呀!风度偏偏让男人看上去潇洒万千。

二、养成看书和写作的习惯
男人到了二十几岁后,就开始要走入社会了,在与别人交往的过程中,谈吐与修养是最能征服别人的。一个有知识的男人一定是常看书的,一个有智慧的男人一定是常写作的。无论自己多忙,都要抽出时间来看看书,写写文章。因为这样做能够改变一个男人的思想与行为。一个男人要改变自己思想首先要做的就是读一本好书,读一本书就像交了一个好朋友,他能够帮助你走好自己的路。读书的生活是最丰富多彩的,写作的时光是最能启迪智慧的。
喜欢看书和写作的男人,一定能够培养出一个好的心态。因为知识与智慧的海洋是无边无际的,但喜欢看书和写作的男人却能做到执著追求。追求是一个男人的思想,也是一个男人的行动,永不放弃地追求,无时不刻的在激励的男人去战斗。在这种战斗中,使一个男人能够经历风雨的洗礼,成长为一棵参天大树。读书使男人变得的冷静,写作使男人变得成熟。

三、要试着发现生活里的真、善、美
男人到了二十几岁后,就要学会如何去面对生活。什么是“真”,现在的男人越来越不懂,那是因为现在的男人都很浮躁,他们不懂什么才是“真心”地去生活。“真”,就是对自己实事求是,不要骗自己,也不要骗别人。“真”,就是诚实做人,诚实做事,诚实的男人最可爱。“善”,自然是善良的意思了。善待别人,就是在善待自己的生活。“善”其实就在我们每一个人的身边,不要为难别人,不要挖苦别人,不要侮辱别人,就是善良的行为。有时你的一点点善意就能结出一个善果,使你的生活因此而变得幸福。
哲人说,“生活中本不缺少美,缺少的是发现美的眼睛”。是的,生活也的确是如此。不要总在惦记着自己的不幸,这样做只能使你生活的更加不幸。你觉得“不幸”是因为你无法乐观的面对生活,生活总是充满着希 望的。只要你常常抬抬头,看看阳光,你就能感受到温暖。在温暖中乐观地去追美好的人生,你自然能够发现美。

四、 与有思想的人交朋友
男人到了二十几岁后,就要开始有目的性的去选择朋友了。社会中的人脉关系是非常重要的,你的朋 友圈子将对你的人生起着很大的影响。男人要广交朋友,多交诤友,不交损友。所谓诤友就是那些对你有帮助的朋友,而这些人往往自身也很优秀。多交诤友对一个人的生活、工作都是非常有益的。但真正的诤友也不易结交,因为这种朋友需要你付出极大的真诚,发自内心的真诚。
有思想的朋友,他很清楚你有没有 把他当作朋友。如果你只是在利用他,他在心中是不会把你当作朋友来看待的。交朋友有时并没有什么目的性,你只是觉得这个人很有思想,值得你与之相交。但往 往就是这些有思想的朋友,在你最困难的时候向你伸出他的手。朋友,是一个男人生命中最重要的元素的之一。一个男人要想使自己像一人真正的男人那样活着,就 一定要广交朋友,多交诤友。

五、必须改掉自身的不良习惯
男人到了二十几 岁后,就必须要改掉自身的不良习惯。不良的习惯是养成的,良好的习惯也是养成。培养自己拥有良好的习惯,就是在改掉自身的不良习惯。如果一个男人到了二十 几岁后,身上还有这样那样的不良习惯,那就是一件非常糟糕的事情了。这些不良的习惯会阻碍你人生的发展,生活会因此而失去不少光彩,事业也会因此难以取得更大的成功。
如果你到现在还爱睡懒觉,那么清晨的第一抹阳光永远也不会照到你的笑脸上。如果你到现在还总是拖拖拉拉 的,那么你将永远也无法站在冠军的位置上。如果你到现在还不会主动的去学习和工作,那么你的前途只能是一片暗淡无光的灰色。我相信没有哪一个男人想要灰色 的人生,所有的男人都期望自己能有一个绚丽多彩的人生。所以为了使自己的人生绚丽多彩,男人到了二十几岁后,就必须要改掉自身的不良习惯。

六、学会忍耐与宽容
男人到了二十几岁后,就要学会忍耐与宽容。在社会中常有许多你无法 接受的事情,但这些事情你又不得不接受时,这就需要你的忍耐。忍耐别人其实也是在宽容别人,一个能够宽容别人的男人会显得很大度。成功的男人往往也是一个能够忍辱负重的男人。耐得住寂寞的男人从不甘寂寞,男人的忍耐是为了更好的爆发。 对那些说我们是傻瓜的人,说一句“我就是傻瓜”,使他们不知所措吧!对于那些无故指责我们的人,不要与他们争论,因为这样只会使自己变的愤怒。与其去伤害别人,不如去宽容别人,宽容是治疗他人伤口最好的灵丹圣药。

七、保持良好的心态,重视自己的身体
男人到了二十几岁后,就要学会调节自 己的心态,重视自己的身体。身体是革命的本钱,心态是验钞机。男人要想获取更多的财富就要拥有一副强健的体魄,男人要想长久的做首富就要拥有一种积极乐观 的心态。注意饮食,经常锻练,充足的睡眼,是健康身体的保证。不要患得患失,勤奋拼搏,让心态决定一切。
你可以不用天天去晨跑,其实那也不会占 用你多长的时间,需要的只是恒心和毅力。但你一定要时常去运动一下你的身体,散步是一种不错的选择,这样做会使你充满力量。你在冬天可以不用冷水洗澡,其 实那也没有什么大不了的,因为我也曾坚持过一个冬天。但你在冬天一定要经常用冷水洗洗脸,这样做不仅可以防止感冒,还能保持一个清醒的头脑。你可以失败, 但你永远要保持一种求胜的心态,战胜自己你就没有敌人。

八、时刻保持你的微笑,让礼貌成为你的名片
男人到了二十几岁后,要时刻保持你的微笑。笑脸迎人,说明你是一个善良的人,所有的人都愿意与善良的人打交道。不要把苦闷写在 你的脸上,这样只会使别人远离你。你是什么样的人,别人通过你是否微笑着与他打招呼来判断。而这种判断对你在人家心中的印象起着很重要的作用。
人们常说“细节决定成败”,而这细节往往就反应在你是不是一个有礼貌的人。有礼貌的人,知道关心别人。别人也会因为你的礼貌与关心,而给你走向成功的机会。 男人的名片是微笑与礼貌,它是男人成就事业的通行证。

九、追求一个自己真正爱的女人,你一辈子也不会后悔
男人到了二十几岁后,慢慢地就会极渴望爱情。这是非常正常的事情,千万不压抑自己这种发自内心的情感。一个男人最傻最可爱的 时候就是当他爱上了一个女人的时候。当你爱上一个女人却不知道她会不会爱上你的时候,你一定要选择一个恰当的时间向他表白。至于他是选择接受还选择拒绝那 就要看你们之间的缘份和你的努力了。男人一定要明白,女人最渴望的一定是一个深爱着她的男人。
爱情这种事不能强求,男人一定要明白。千万不要因 为得不到你的爱情就让你的友情轻易的失去,能与一个自己曾经爱过的女人成为朋友是一件不可多得的好事。爱情之所以神圣不可侵犯,是因为它是人最心甘情愿的 选择,它体现的人与人之间的尊重与信任。所以男人一定要尊重你爱着的那个女人的选择,相信她的选择是为了她自己的幸福而做出的决定。只要你曾经追求一个自 己真正爱的女人,那么你一辈子也不会后悔。

十、为了自己的事业付出一切
男人到了二十几岁后,一定要为了自己的事业去努力拼搏。男人最重要的就是事业,没有事业的男人不能算作真正的男人。男人的事业不定要轰轰烈烈,但一定要有 所成就,能使自己感到骄傲和自豪。一个事业心强的男人,也是一个求胜心与责任心同样强的男人。求胜心强的男人,从不甘平庸。责任心强的男人,从不惧困难。 男人因自己成功的事业而变得高大,从而获得别人的尊重和信任。
作为一个男人,就要为了自己的事业付出一切。要想成功你必须付出,而付出就意味你 要失去一些东西。如果你不想为事业付出任何代价,那么你只能失去更多的东西,而且最后还一无所获。

十一、爱情跟事业是可以共同 拥有的
男人到了二十几岁后,就应该努力做到爱情跟事业的双丰收。人们常说一个男人如果选择了爱情就会失去事业,如 果选择了事业就得不到爱情。我却偏偏不这样认为,我反而觉得爱情越甜蜜的男人,事业越成功。其实爱情和事业本就是两回事,爱得轰轰烈烈的男人,一点也不会 妨碍其获得成功的事业。一个有爱情滋润的男人一定比一个不知爱情是什么味道的男人更成熟,更有魅力,更有干一番事业的决心。
二十几岁的男人们,千万不要相信那些偏激的人所说的话。就像人们常说的“婚姻是爱情的坟墓”,这种说法太偏激了。婚姻与爱情的区别只是多了一些“柴米油 盐”,可以说婚姻才是一种完整的爱情,之前的爱情只是处在一种恋爱的阶段。也只有通过婚姻才能使男人和女人彻底的认识什么是爱情。爱情就是相互理解,相互 鼓励,相互支持。在生活上彼此帮助,在事业上彼此帮助,让爱情跟事业可以双丰收。

十二、一定要努力比女人做的更好
男人到了二十几岁后,在任何事上一定要努力比女人做的更好。即使在一些不可能比女人做的更好的事情上,也要努力 做的和女人一样好。在这里这不是想说男人天生就应该比女人强,而是要说男人天生就应该比女人做的更好。因为只要女人努力了,就很容易超越男人,所以男人应 该知道努力比女人做的更好是天经地义的事情。在如今的社会,女人的地位越来越高了,女人第一次有了选择男人的权力。所以如果作为男人的你,不能比女人做的 更好,那么女人凭什么选择你呢? 女人们常说“女子能顶半边天”,而且现在的女人在本属于男人的某些领域里比男人做的更出色。所以男人不仅要在属 于自己的领域里做的非常出色,而且也要能在本属于女人的领域里做得一样的出色。

十三、努力帮自己的妻子实现她的梦想
男人到了二十几岁后,如果你已经结婚了,那就请你一定要努力帮自己的妻子实现她的梦想。人们学说“男人靠征服 世界来征服女人,女人靠征服男人来征服世界”,所以一个已经征服了你的女人,你一定要努力帮她征服世界。女人的梦想从不会因为和一个男人生活在一起了而消 失掉,只会因此而变得更加强烈。女人这种强烈的愿望和梦想也许不会表现在你的面前,但你的心中一定要明白。
妻子是一个男人生命的核心,妻子生活得是否幸福,男人一定要关心。不要以为妻子取回家,就是来为你服务的。每一个男人的妻子都会关心自己的丈夫,每一个男人也要学会关心自己的妻子。而最关心 妻子的事,莫过于关心她的梦想是什么,怎么做才能帮妻子实现她的梦想。

十四、学会勇敢一些,去承担起自己肩上的责任
男人到了二十几岁后,要学会勇敢一些,挻起自己的肩膀去承担起属于自己的那份义不容辞的责任。孝顺父母是一个 男人责任,疼爱妻儿是一个男人的责任,成就事业也是一个男人的责任。男人的责任不外乎家庭和事业。这些责任的确比较沉重,但作为一个男人你必须挻起自己的 肩膀去承担。没有什么原因,只因为你是一个男人。
男人一样有权力哭泣,但却没有权力哭出声音来。男人一样有权力流泪,但却没有权力在父母妻 儿面前流泪。男人一样有权力放弃,但却没有权力放弃家庭与事业上的责任。作为一个男人,你别无选择,你只能选择承担,用你的肩膀去承担。

十五、永远不要放弃自己,相信自己一定能行
男人到了二十几岁后,就必须做到永远不要放弃 自己。别人之所以放弃你,那就因为你已经先放弃了自己。相信只要你不放弃自己,没有哪个人会放弃你或者说没有哪个人能放弃你。相信自己是一个男人战胜一切 的力量之源,不相信自己的男人没有成功的理由,因为他的一脚已经跨到了失败的坟墓中。
有一句广告语,这样说“相信自己,力量在心中”。还有一句广告语,这样说“我能”。是的,我想,我也相信只要每一个男人能够做到相信自己,你就一定能行。

2011年5月21日星期六

The Dandelion Girl

The Dandelion Girl
——by Robert F. Young

注:英文原版,先在这坑着吧,什么时候想起来了来翻译下,说实在这种文学的东西不好翻译,尤其是意境什么的。
这篇小说是“前天见到了小兔子,昨天是小鹿,今天是你。”的出处,说来麻织大魔王读的书还真多……

The girl on the hill made Mark think of Edna St. Vincent Millay. Perhaps it was because of the way she was standing there in the afternoon sun, her dandelion-hued hair dancing in the wind; perhaps it was because of the way her old-fashioned white dress was swirling around her long and slender legs. In any event, he got the definite impression that she had somehow stepped out of the past and into the present; and that was odd, because as things turned out, it wasn't the past she had stepped out of, but the future.

He paused some distance behind her, breathing hard from the climb. She had not seen him yet, and he wondered how he could apprise her of his presence without alarming her. While he was trying to make up his mind, he took out his pipe and filled and lighted it, cupping his hands over the bowl and puffing till the tobacco came to glowing life. When he looked at her again, she had turned around and was regarding him curiously.

He walked toward her slowly, keenly aware of the nearness of the sky, enjoying the feel of the wind against his face. He should go hiking more often, he told himself. He had been tramping through woods when he came to the hill, and now the woods lay behind and far below him, burning gently with the first pale fires of fall, and beyond the woods lay the little lake with its complement of cabin and fishing pier. When his wife had been unexpectedly summoned for jury duty, he had been forced to spend alone the two weeks he had saved out of his summer vacation and he had been leading a lonely existence, fishing off the pier by day and reading the cool evenings away before the big fireplace in the raftered living room; and after two days the routine had caught up to him, and he had taken off into the woods without purpose or direction and finally he had come to the hill and had climbed it and seen the girl.

Her eyes were blue, he saw when he came up to her—as blue as the sky that framed her slender silhouette. Her face was oval and young and soft and sweet. It evoked a déjà vu so poignant that he had to resist an impulse to reach out and touch her wind-kissed cheek; and even though his hand did not leave his side, he felt his fingertips tingle.

Why, I'm forty-four, he thought wonderingly, and she's hardly more than twenty. What in heaven's name has come over me? "Are you enjoying the view?" he asked aloud.

"Oh, yes," she said and turned and swept her arm in an enthusiastic semicircle. "Isn't it simply marvelous!"

He followed her gaze. "Yes," he said, "it is." Below them the woods began again, then spread out over the lowlands in warm September colors, embracing a small hamlet several miles away, finally bowing out before the first outposts of the suburban frontier. In the far distance, haze softened the serrated silhouette of Cove City, lending it the aspect of a sprawling medieval castle, making it less of a reality than a dream. "Are you from the city too?" he asked.

"In a way I am," she said. She smiled at him. "I'm from the Cove City of two hundred and forty years from now."

The smile told him that she didn't really expect him to believe her, but it implied that it would be nice if he would pretend. He smiled back. "That would be A.D. twenty-two hundred and one, wouldn't it?" he said. "I imagine the place has grown enormously by then."

"Oh, it has," she said. "It's part of a megalopolis now and extends all the way to there." She pointed to the fringe of the forest at their feet. "Two Thousand and Fortieth Street runs straight through that grove of sugar maples," she went on, "and do you see that stand of locusts over there?"

"Yes," he said, "I see them."

"That's where the new plaza is. Its supermarket is so big that it takes half a day to go through it, and you can buy almost anything in it from aspirins to aerocars. And next to the supermarket, where that grove of beeches stands, is a big dress shop just bursting with the latest creations of the leading couturiers. I bought this dress I'm wearing there this very morning. Isn't it simply beautiful?"

If it was, it was because she made it so. However, he looked at it politely. It had been cut from a material he was unfamiliar with, a material seemingly compounded of cotton candy, sea foam, and snow. There was no limit any more to the syntheses that could be created by the miracle-fiber manufacturers—nor, apparently, to the tall tales that could be created by young girls. "I suppose you traveled here by time machine," he said.

"Yes. My father invented one."

He looked at her closely. He had never seen such a guileless countenance. "And do you come here often?"

"Oh, yes. This is my favorite space-time coordinate. I stand here for hours sometimes and look and look and look. Day before yesterday I saw a rabbit, and yesterday a deer, and today, you."

"But how can there be a yesterday," Mark asked, "if you always return to the same point in time?"

"Oh, I see what you mean," she said. "The reason is because the machine is affected by the passage of time the same as anything else, and you have to set it back every twenty-four hours if you want to maintain exactly the same co-ordinate. I never do because I much prefer a different day each time I come back."

"Doesn't your father ever come with you?"

Overhead, a V of geese was drifting lazily by, and she watched it for some time before she spoke. "My father is an invalid now," she said finally. "He'd like very much to come if he only could. But I tell him all about what I see," she added hurriedly, "and it's almost the same as if he really came. Wouldn't you say it was?"

There was an eagerness about the way she was looking at him that touched his heart. "I'm sure it is," he said—then, "It must be wonderful to own a time machine."

She nodded solemnly. "They're a boon to people who like to stand on pleasant leas. In the twenty-third century there aren't very many pleasant leas left."

He smiled. "There aren't very many of them left in the twentieth. I guess you could say that this one is sort of a collector's item. I'll have to visit it more often."

"Do you live near here?" she asked.

"I'm staying in a cabin about three miles back. I'm supposed to be on vacation, but it's not much of one. My wife was called to jury duty and couldn't come with me, and since I couldn't postpone it, I've ended up being a sort of reluctant Thoreau. My name is Mark Randolph."

"I'm Julie," she said. "Julie Danvers."

The name suited her. The same way the white dress suited her—the way the blue sky suited her, and the hill and the September wind. Probably she lived in the little hamlet in the woods, but it did not really matter. If she wanted to pretend she was from the future, it was all right with him. All that really mattered was the way he had felt when he had first seen her, and the tenderness that came over him every time he gazed upon her gentle face. "What kind of work do you do, Julie?" he asked. "Or are you still in school?"

"I'm studying to be a secretary," she said. She took a half step and made a pretty pirouette and clasped her hands before her. "I shall just love to be a secretary," she went on. "It must be simply marvelous working in a big important office and taking down what important people say. Would you like me to be your secretary, Mr. Randolph?"

"I'd like it very much," he said. "My wife was my secretary once—before the war. That's how we happened to meet." Now, why had he said that? he wondered.

"Was she a good secretary?"

"The very best. I was sorry to lose her; but then when I lost her in one sense, I gained her in another, so I guess you could hardly call that losing her."

"No, I guess you couldn't. Well, I must be getting back now, Mr. Randolph. Dad will be wanting to hear about all the things I saw, and I've got to fix his supper."

"Will you be here tomorrow?"

"Probably. I've been coming here every day. Good-bye now, Mr. Randolph."

"Good-bye, Julie," he said.

He watched her run lightly down the hill and disappear into the grove of sugar maples where, two hundred and forty years hence, Two Thousand and Fortieth Street would be. He smiled. What a charming child, he thought. It must be thrilling to have such an irrepressible sense of wonder, such an enthusiasm for life. He could appreciate the two qualities all the more fully because he had been denied them. At twenty he had been a solemn young man working his way through law school; at twenty-four he had had his own practice, and small though it had been, it had occupied him completely—well, not quite completely. When he had married Anne, there had been a brief interim during which making a living had lost some of its immediacy. And then, when the war had come along, there had been another interim—a much longer one this time—when making a living had seemed a remote and sometimes even a contemptible pursuit. After his return to civilian life, though, the immediacy had returned with a vengeance, the more so because he now had a son as well as a wife to support, and he had been occupied ever since, except for the four vacation weeks he had recently been allowing himself each year, two of which he spent with Anne and Jeff at a resort of their choosing and two of which he spent with Anne, after Jeff returned to college, in their cabin by the lake. This year, though, he was spending the second two alone. Well, perhaps not quite alone.

His pipe had gone out some time ago, and he had not even noticed. He lighted it again, drawing deeply to thwart the wind, then he descended the hill and started back through the woods toward the cabin. The autumnal equinox had come and the days were appreciably shorter. This one was very nearly done, and the dampness of evening had already begun to pervade the hazy air.

He walked slowly, and the sun had set by the time he reached the lake. It was a small lake, but a deep one, and the trees came down to its edge. The cabin stood some distance back from the shore in a stand of pines, and a winding path connected it with the pier. Behind it a gravel drive led to a dirt road that gave access to the highway. His station wagon stood by the back door, ready to whisk him back to civilization at a moment's notice.

He prepared and ate a simple supper in the kitchen, then went into the living room to read. The generator in the shed hummed on and off, but otherwise the evening was unsullied by the usual sounds the ears of modern man are heir to. Selecting an anthology of American poetry from the well-stocked bookcase by the fireplace, he sat down and thumbed through it to Afternoon on a Hill. He read the treasured poem three times, and each time he read it he saw her standing there in the sun, her hair dancing in the wind, her dress swirling like gentle snow around her long and lovely legs; and a lump came into his throat, and he could not swallow.

He returned the book to the shelf and went out and stood on the rustic porch and filled and lighted his pipe. He forced himself to think of Anne, and presently her face came into focus—the firm but gentle chin, the warm and compassionate eyes with that odd hint of fear in them that he had never been able to analyze, the still-soft cheeks, the gentle smile—and each attribute was made more compelling by the memory of her vibrant light brown hair and her tall, lithe gracefulness. As was always the case when he thought of her, he found himself marveling at her agelessness, marveling how she could have continued down through the years as lovely as she had been that long-ago morning when he had looked up, startled, and seen her standing timidly before his desk. It was inconceivable that a mere twenty years later he could be looking forward eagerly to a tryst with an overimaginative girl who was young enough to be his daughter. Well, he wasn't—not really. He had been momentarily swayed—that was all. For a moment his emotional equilibrium had deserted him, and he had staggered. Now his feet were back under him where they belonged, and the world had returned to its sane and sensible orbit.

He tapped out his pipe and went back inside. In his bedroom he undressed and slipped between the sheets and turned out the light. Sleep should have come readily, but it did not; and when it finally did come, it came in fragments interspersed with tantalizing dreams.

"Day before yesterday I saw a rabbit," she had said, "and yesterday a deer, and today, you."


· · · · ·


On the second afternoon she was wearing a blue dress, and there was a little blue ribbon to match tied in her dandelion-colored hair. After breasting the hill, he stood for some time, not moving, waiting till the tightness of his throat went away; then he walked over and stood beside her in the wind. But the soft curve of her throat and chin brought the tightness back, and when she turned and said, "Hello, I didn't think you'd come," it was a long while before he was able to answer.

"But I did," he finally said, "and so did you."

"Yes," she said. "I'm glad."

A nearby outcropping of granite formed a bench of sorts, and they sat down on it and looked out over the land. He filled his pipe and lighted it and blew smoke into the wind. "My father smokes a pipe too," she said, "and when he lights it, he cups his hands the same way you do, even when there isn't any wind. You and he are alike in lots of ways."

"Tell me about your father," he said. "Tell me about yourself too."

And she did, saying that she was twenty-one, that her father was a retired government physicist, that they lived in a small apartment on Two Thousand and Fortieth Street, and that she had been keeping house for him ever since her mother had died four years ago. Afterward he told her about himself and Anne and Jeff—about how he intended to take Jeff into partnership with him someday, about Anne's phobia about cameras and how she had refused to have her picture taken on their wedding day and had gone on refusing ever since, about the grand time the three of them had had on the camping trip they'd gone on last summer.

When he had finished, she said, "What a wonderful family life you have. Nineteen-sixty-one must be a marvelous year in which to live!"

"With a time machine at your disposal, you can move here any time you like."

"It's not quite that easy. Even aside from the fact that I wouldn't dream of deserting my father, there's the time police to take into consideration. You see, time travel is limited to the members of government-sponsored historical expeditions and is out of bounds to the general public."

"You seem to have managed all right."

"That's because my father invented his own machine, and the time police don't know about it."

"But you're still breaking the law."

She nodded. "But only in their eyes, only in the light of their concept of time. My father has his own concept."

It was so pleasant hearing her talk that it did not matter really what she talked about, and he wanted her to ramble on, no matter how farfetched her subject. "Tell me about it," he said.

"First I'll tell you about the official concept. Those who endorse it say that no one from the future should participate physically in anything that occurred in the past, because his very presence would constitute a paradox, and future events would have to be altered in order for the paradox to be assimilated. Consequently the Department of Time Travel makes sure that only authorized personnel have access to its time machines, and maintains a police force to apprehend the would-be generation-jumpers who yearn for a simpler way of life and who keep disguising themselves as historians so they can return permanently to a different era.

"But according to my father's concept, the book of time has already been written. From a macrocosmic viewpoint, my father says, everything that is going to happen has already happened. Therefore, if a person from the future participates in a past event, he becomes a part of that event—for the simple reason that he was a part of it in the first place—and a paradox cannot possibly arise."

Mark took a deep drag on his pipe. He needed it. "Your father sounds like quite a remarkable person," he said.

"Oh, he is!" Enthusiasm deepened the pinkness of her cheeks, brightened the blueness of her eyes. "You wouldn't believe all the books he's read, Mr. Randolph. Why, our apartment is bursting with them! Hegel and Kant and Hume; Einstein and Newton and Weizsäcker. I've—I've even read some of them myself."

"I gathered as much. As a matter of fact, so have I."

She gazed raptly up into his face. "How wonderful, Mr. Randolph," she said. "I'll bet we've got just scads of mutual interests!"

The conversation that ensued proved conclusively that they did have—though the transcendental esthetic, Berkeleianism and relativity were rather incongruous subjects for a man and a girl to be discussing on a September hilltop, he reflected presently, even when the man was forty-four and the girl was twenty-one. But happily there were compensations—their animated discussion of the transcendental esthetic did more than elicit a priori and a posteriori conclusions, it also elicited microcosmic stars in her eyes; their breakdown of Berkeley did more than point up the inherent weaknesses in the good bishop's theory, it also pointed up the pinkness of her cheeks; and their review of relativity did more than demonstrate that E invariably equals mc2; it also demonstrated that far from being an impediment, knowledge is an asset to feminine charm.

The mood of the moment lingered far longer than it had any right to, and it was still with him when he went to bed. This time he didn't even try to think of Anne; he knew it would do no good. Instead he lay there in the darkness and played host to whatever random thoughts came along—and all of them concerned a September hilltop and a girl with dandelion-colored hair.

Day before yesterday I saw a rabbit, and yesterday a deer, and today, you.

Next morning he drove over to the hamlet and checked at the post office to see if he had any mail. There was none. He was not surprised. Jeff disliked writing letters as much as he did, and Anne, at the moment, was probably incommunicado. As for his practice, he had forbidden his secretary to bother him with any but the most urgent of matters.

He debated on whether to ask the wizened postmaster if there was a family named Danvers living in the area. He decided not to. To have done so would have been to undermine the elaborate make-believe structure which Julie had built, and even though he did not believe in the structure's validity, he could not find it in his heart to send it toppling.

That afternoon she was wearing a yellow dress the same shade as her hair, and again his throat tightened when he saw her, and again he could not speak. But when the first moment passed and words came, it was all right, and their thoughts flowed together like two effervescent brooks and coursed gaily through the arroyo of the afternoon. This time when they parted, it was she who asked, "Will you be here tomorrow?"—though only because she stole the question from his lips—and the words sang in his ears all the way back through the woods to the cabin and lulled him to sleep after an evening spent with his pipe on the porch.

Next afternoon when he climbed the hill it was empty. At first his disappointment numbed him, and then he thought, She's late, that's all. She'll probably show up any minute. And he sat down on the granite bench to wait. But she did not come. The minutes passed—the hours. Shadows crept out of the woods and climbed partway up the hill. The air grew colder. He gave up, finally, and headed miserably back toward the cabin.

The next afternoon she did not show up either. Nor the next. He could neither eat nor sleep. Fishing palled on him. He could no longer read. And all the while, he hated himself—hated himself for behaving like a lovesick schoolboy, for reacting just like any other fool in his forties to a pretty face and a pair of pretty legs. Up until a few days ago he had never even so much as looked at another woman, and here in the space of less than a week he had not only looked at one but had fallen in love with her.

Hope was dead in him when he climbed the hill on the fourth day—and then suddenly alive again when he saw her standing in the sun. She was wearing a black dress this time, and he should have guessed the reason for her absence; but he didn't—not till he came up to her and saw the tears start from her eyes and the telltale trembling of her lip. "Julie, what's the matter?"

She clung to him, her shoulders shaking, and pressed her face against his coat. "My father died," she said, and somehow he knew that these were her first tears, that she had sat tearless through the wake and funeral and had not broken down till now.

He put his arms around her gently. He had never kissed her, and he did not kiss her now, not really. His lips brushed her forehead and briefly touched her hair—that was all. "I'm sorry, Julie," he said. "I know how much he meant to you."

"He knew he was dying all along," she said. "He must have known it ever since the strontium 90 experiment he conducted at the laboratory. But he never told anyone—he never even told me … I don't want to live. Without him there's nothing left to live for—nothing, nothing, nothing!"

He held her tightly. "You'll find something, Julie. Someone. You're young yet. You're still a child, really."

Her head jerked back, and she raised suddenly tearless eyes to his. "I'm not a child! Don't you dare call me a child!"

Startled, he released her and stepped back. He had never seen her angry before. "I didn't mean—" he began.

Her anger was as evanescent as it had been abrupt. "I know you didn't mean to hurt my feelings, Mr. Randolph. But I'm not a child, honest I'm not. Promise me you'll never call me one again."

"All right," he said. "I promise."

"And now I must go," she said. "I have a thousand things to do."

"Will—will you be here tomorrow?"

She looked at him for a long time. A mist, like the aftermath of a summer shower, made her blue eyes glisten. "Time machines run down," she said. "They have parts that need to be replaced—and I don't know how to replace them. Ours—mine may be good for one more trip, but I'm not sure."

"But you'll try to come, won't you?"

She nodded. "Yes, I'll try. And Mr. Randolph?"

"Yes, Julie?"

"In case I don't make it—and for the record—I love you."

She was gone then; running lightly down the hill, and a moment later she disappeared into the grove of sugar maples. His hands were trembling when he lighted his pipe, and the match burned his fingers. Afterward he could not remember returning to the cabin or fixing supper or going to bed, and yet he must have done all of those things, because he awoke in his own room, and when he went into the kitchen, there were supper dishes standing on the drainboard.

He washed the dishes and made coffee. He spent the morning fishing off the pier, keeping his mind blank. He would face reality later. Right now it was enough for him to know that she loved him, that in a few short hours he would see her again. Surely even a run-down time machine should have no trouble transporting her from the hamlet to the hill.

He arrived there early and sat down on the granite bench and waited for her to come out of the woods and climb the slope. He could feel the hammering of his heart and he knew that his hands were trembling. Day before yesterday I saw a rabbit, and yesterday a deer, and today, you.

He waited and he waited, but she did not come. She did not come the next day either. When the shadows began to lengthen and the air grow chill, he descended the hill and entered the grove of sugar maples. Presently he found a path, and he followed it into the forest proper and through the forest to the hamlet. He stopped at the small post office and checked to see if he had any mail. After the wizened postmaster told him there was none, he lingered for a moment. "Is—is there a family by the name of Danvers living anywhere around here?" he blurted.

The postmaster shook his head. "Never heard of them."

"Has there been a funeral in town recently?"

"Not for nigh onto a year."

After that, although he visited the hill every afternoon till his vacation ran out, he knew in his heart that she would not return, that she was lost to him as utterly as if she had never been. Evenings he haunted the hamlet, hoping desperately that the postmaster had been mistaken; but he saw no sign of Julie, and the description he gave of her to the passersby evoked only negative responses.

Early in October he returned to the city. He did his best to act toward Anne as though nothing had changed between them; but she seemed to know the minute she saw him that something had changed. And although she asked no questions, she grew quieter and quieter as the weeks went by, and the fear in her eyes that had puzzled him before became more and more pronounced.

He began driving into the country Sunday afternoons and visiting the hilltop. The woods were golden now, and the sky was even bluer than it had been a month ago. For hours he sat on the granite bench, staring at the spot where she had disappeared. Day before yesterday I saw a rabbit, and yesterday a deer, and today, you.

Then, on a rainy night in mid-November, he found the suitcase. It was Anne's, and he found it quite by accident. She had gone into town to play bingo, and he had the house to himself; and after spending two hours watching four jaded TV programs, he remembered the jigsaw puzzles he had stored away the previous winter.

Desperate for something—anything at all—to take his mind off Julie, he went up to the attic to get them. The suitcase fell from a shelf while he was rummaging through the various boxes piled beside it, and it sprang open when it struck the floor.

He bent over to pick it up. It was the same suitcase she had brought with her to the little apartment they had rented after their marriage, and he remembered how she had always kept it locked and remembered her telling him laughingly that there were some things a wife had to keep a secret even from her husband. The lock had rusted over the years, and the fall had broken it.

He started to close the lid, paused when he saw the protruding hem of a white dress. The material was vaguely familiar. He had seen material similar to it not very long ago—material that brought to mind cotton candy and sea foam and snow.

He raised the lid and picked up the dress with trembling fingers. He held it by the shoulders and let it unfold itself, and it hung there in the room like gently falling snow. He looked at it for a long time, his throat tight. Then, tenderly, he folded it again and replaced it in the suitcase and closed the lid. He returned the suitcase to its niche under the eaves. Day before yesterday I saw a rabbit, and yesterday a deer, and today, you.

Rain thrummed on the roof. The tightness of his throat was so acute now that he thought for a moment that he was going to cry. Slowly he descended the attic stairs. He went down the spiral stairway into the living room. The clock on the mantel said ten-fourteen. In just a few minutes the bingo bus would let her off at the corner, and she would come walking down the street and up the walk to the front door. Anne would … Julie would. Julianne?

Was that her full name? Probably. People invariably retained part of their original names when adopting aliases; and having completely altered her last name, she had probably thought it safe to take liberties with her first. She must have done other things, too, in addition to changing her name, to elude the time police. No wonder she had never wanted her picture taken! And how terrified she must have been on that long-ago day when she had stepped timidly into his office to apply for a job! All alone in a strange generation, not knowing for sure whether her father's concept of time was valid, not knowing for sure whether the man who would love her in his forties would feel the same way toward her in his twenties. She had come back all right, just as she had said she would.

Twenty years, he thought wonderingly, and all the while she must have known that one day I'd climb a September hill and see her standing, young and lovely, in the sun, and fall in love with her all over again. She had to know because the moment was as much a part of her past as it was a part of my future. But why didn't she tell me? Why doesn't she tell me now?

Suddenly he understood.

He found it hard to breathe, and he went into the hall and donned his raincoat and stepped out into the rain. He walked down the walk in the rain, and the rain pelted his face and ran in drops down his cheeks, and some of the drops were raindrops, and some of them were tears. How could anyone as agelessly beautiful as Anne—as Julie—was, be afraid of growing old? Didn't she realize that in his eyes she couldn't grow old—that to him she hadn't aged a day since the moment he had looked up from his desk and seen her standing there in the tiny office and simultaneously fallen in love with her? Couldn't she understand that that was why the girl on the hill had seemed a stranger to him?

He had reached the street and was walking down it toward the corner. He was almost there when the bingo bus pulled up and stopped, and the girl in the white trench coat got out. The tightness of his throat grew knife-sharp, and he could not breathe at all. The dandelion-hued hair was darker now, and the girlish charm was gone; but the gentle loveliness still resided in her gentle face, and the long and slender legs had a grace and symmetry in the pale glow of the November street light that they had never known in the golden radiance of the September sun.

She came forward to meet him, and he saw the familiar fear in her eyes—a fear poignant now beyond enduring because he understood its cause. She blurred before his eyes, and he walked toward her blindly. When he came up to her, his eyes cleared, and he reached out across the years and touched her rain-wet cheek. She knew it was all right then, and the fear went away forever, and they walked home hand in hand in the rain.

The End

© 1961 by the Curtis Publishing Company. Reprinted by permission of the author's estate. Originally appeared in The Saturday Evening Post, April 1, 1961.

2008年8月17日星期日

夜莺与玫瑰


夜莺与玫瑰
(英)王尔德
王林 译



“她说过只要我送给她一些红玫瑰,她就愿意与我跳舞,”一位年轻的学生大声说道,“可是在我的花园里,连一朵红攻瑰也没有。”
这番话给在圣栎树上自己巢中的夜莺听见了,她从绿叶丛中探出头来,四处张望着。
“我的花园里哪儿都找不到红玫瑰,”他哭着说,一双美丽的眼睛充满了泪水。“唉,难道幸福竟依赖于这么细小的东西!我读过智者们写的所有文章,知识的一切奥秘也都装在我的头脑中,然而就因缺少一朵红玫瑰我却要过痛苦的生活。”
“这儿总算有一位真正的恋人了,”夜莺对自己说,“虽然我不认识他,但我会每夜每夜地为他歌唱,我还会每夜每夜地把他的故事讲给星星听。现在我总算看见他了,他的头发黑得像风信子花,他的嘴唇就像他想要的玫瑰那样红;但是感情的折磨使他脸色苍白如象牙,忧伤的印迹也爬上了他的眉梢。”
“王子明天晚上要开舞会,”年轻学生喃喃自语地说,“我所爱的人将要前往。假如我送她一朵红玫瑰,她就会同我跳舞到天明;假如我送她一朵红玫瑰,我就能搂着她的腰,她也会把头靠在我的肩上,她的手将捏在我的手心里。可是我的花园里却没有红玫瑰,我只能孤零零地坐在那边,看着她从身旁经过。她不会注意到我,我的心会碎的。”
“这的确是位真正的恋人,”夜莺说,“我所为之歌唱的正是他遭受的痛苦,我所为之快乐的东西,对他却是痛苦。爱情真是一件奇妙无比的事情,它比绿宝石更珍贵,比猫眼石更稀奇。用珍珠和石榴都换不来,是市场上买不到的,是从商人那儿购不来的,更无法用黄金来称出它的重量。”
“乐师们会坐在他们的廊厅中,”年轻的学生说,“弹奏起他们的弦乐器。我心爱的人将在竖琴和小提琴的音乐声中翩翩起舞。她跳得那么轻松欢快,连脚跟都不蹭地板似的。那些身着华丽服装的臣仆们将她围在中间。然而她就是不会同我跳舞,因为我没有红色的玫瑰献给她。”于是他扑倒在草地上,双手捂着脸放声痛哭起来。
“他为什么哭呢?”一条绿色的小蜥蜴高高地翘起尾巴从他身旁跑过时,这样问道。
“是啊,到底为什么?”一只蝴蝶说,她正追着一缕阳光在跳舞。
“是啊,到底为什么?”一朵雏菊用低缓的声音对自己的邻居轻声说道。
“他为一朵红玫瑰而哭泣,”夜莺告诉大家。
“为了一朵红玫瑰?”他们叫了起来。“真是好笑!”小蜥蜴说,他是个爱嘲讽别人的人,忍不住笑了起来。
可只有夜莺了解学生忧伤的原因,她默默无声地坐在橡树上,想象着爱情的神秘莫测。
突然她伸开自己棕色的翅膀,朝空中飞去。她像个影子似的飞过了小树林,又像个影子似的飞越了花园。
在一块草地的中央长着一棵美丽的玫瑰树,她看见那棵树后就朝它飞过去,落在一根小枝上。
“给我一朵红玫瑰,”她高声喊道,“我会为你唱我最甜美的歌。”
可是树儿摇了摇头。
“我的玫瑰是白色的,”它回答说,“白得就像大海的浪花沫,白得超过山顶上的积雪。但你可以去找我那长在古日晷器旁的兄弟,或许他能满足你的需要。”
于是夜莺就朝那棵生长在古日晷器旁的玫瑰树飞去了。
“给我一朵红玫瑰,”她大声说,“我会为你唱我最甜美的歌。”
可是树儿摇了摇头。
“我的玫瑰是黄色的,”它回答说,“黄得就像坐在琥珀宝座上的美人鱼的头发,黄得超过拿着镰刀的割草人来之前在草地上盛开的水仙花。但你可以去找我那长在学生窗下的兄弟,或许他能满足你的需要。”
于是夜莺就朝那棵生长在学生窗下的玫瑰树飞去了。
“给我一朵红玫瑰,”她大声说,“我会为你唱我最甜美的歌。”
可是树儿摇了摇头。
“我的玫瑰是红色的,”它回答说,“红得就像鸽子的脚,红得超过在海洋洞穴中飘动的珊瑚大扇。但是冬天已经冻僵了我的血管,霜雪已经摧残了我的花蕾,风暴已经吹折了我的枝叶,今年我不会再有玫瑰花了。”
“我只要一朵玫瑰花,”夜莺大声叫道,“只要一朵红玫瑰!难道就没有办法让我得到它吗?”

“有一个办法,”树回答说,“但就是太可怕了,我都不敢对你说。”
“告诉我,”夜莺说,“我不怕。”
“如果你想要一朵红玫瑰,”树儿说,“你就必须借助月光用音乐来造出它,并且要用你胸中的鲜血来染红它。你一定要用你的胸膛顶住我的一根刺来唱歌。你要为我唱上整整一夜,那根刺一定要穿透你的胸膛,你的鲜血一定要流进我的血管,并变成我的血。”
“拿死亡来换一朵玫瑰,这代价实在很高,”夜莺大声叫道,“生命对每一个人都是非常宝贵的。坐在绿树上看太阳驾驶着她的金马车,看月亮开着她的珍珠马车,是一件愉快的事情。山楂散发出香味,躲藏在山谷中的风铃草以及盛开在山头的石南花也是香的。然而爱情胜过生命,再说鸟的心怎么比得过人的心呢?”
于是她便张开自己棕色的翅膀朝天空中飞去了。她像影子似的飞过花园,又像影子似的穿越了小树林。
年轻的学生仍躺在草地上,跟她离开时的情景一样,他那双美丽的眼睛还挂着泪水。
“快乐起来吧,”夜莺大声说,“快乐起来吧,你就要得到你的红玫瑰了。我要在月光下把它用音乐造成,献出我胸膛中的鲜血把它染红。我要求你报答我的只有一件事,就是你要做一个真正的恋人,因为尽管哲学很聪明,然而爱情比她更聪明,尽管权力很伟大,可是爱情比他更伟大。火焰映红了爱情的翅膀,使他的身躯像火焰一样火红。他的嘴唇像蜜一样甜;他的气息跟乳香一样芬芳。”
学生从草地上抬头仰望着,并侧耳倾听,但是他不懂夜莺在对他讲什么,因为他只知道那些写在书本上的东西。
可是橡树心里是明白的,他感到很难受,因为他十分喜爱这只在自己树枝上做巢的小夜莺。
“给我唱最后二支歌吧,”他轻声说,“你这一定我会觉得很孤独的。”
于是夜莺给橡树唱起了歌,她的声音就像是银罐子里沸腾的水声。
等她的歌声一停,学生便从草地上站起来,从他的口袋中拿出一个笔记本和一支铅笔。
“她的样子真好看,”他对自己说,说着就穿过小树林走开了——“这是不能否认的;但是她有情感吗?我想她恐怕没有。事实上,她像大多数艺术家一样,只讲究形式,没有任何诚意。她不会为别人做出牺牲的。她只想着音乐,人人都知道艺术是自私的。不过我不得不承认她的歌声中也有些美丽的调子。只可惜它们没有一点意义,也没有任何实际的好处。”他走进屋子,躺在自己那张简陋的小床上,想起他那心爱的人儿,不一会儿就进入了梦乡。
等到月亮挂上了天际的时候,夜莺就朝玫瑰树飞去,用自己的胸膛顶住花刺。她用胸膛顶着刺整整唱了一夜,就连冰凉如水晶的明月也俯下身来倾听。整整一夜她唱个不停,刺在她的胸口上越刺越深,她身上的鲜血也快要流光了。
她开始唱起少男少女的心中萌发的爱情。在玫瑰树最高的枝头上开放出一朵异常的玫瑰,歌儿唱了一首又一首,花瓣也一片片地开放了。起初,花儿是乳白色的,就像悬在河上的雾霾——白得就如同早晨的足履,白得就像黎明的翅膀。在最高枝头上盛开的那朵玫瑰花,如同一朵在银镜中,在水池里照出的玫瑰花影。
然而这时树大声叫夜莺把刺顶得更紧一些。“顶紧些,小夜莺,”树大叫着,“不然玫瑰还没有完成天就要亮了。”
于是夜莺把刺顶得更紧了,她的歌声也越来越响亮了,因为她歌唱着一对成年男女心中诞生的激情。
一层淡淡的红晕爬上了玫瑰花瓣,就跟新郎亲吻新娘时脸上泛起的红晕一样。但是花刺还没有达到夜莺的心脏,所以玫瑰的心还是白色的,因为只有夜莺心里的血才能染红玫瑰的花心。
这时树又大声叫夜莺顶得更紧些,“再紧些,小夜驾,”树儿高声喊着,“不然,玫瑰还没完成天就要亮了。”
于是夜莺就把玫瑰刺顶得更紧了,刺着了自己的心脏,一阵剧烈的痛楚袭遍了她的全身。痛得越来越厉害,歌声也越来越激烈,因为她歌唱着由死亡完成的爱情,歌唱着在坟墓中也不朽的爱情。
最后这朵非凡的玫瑰变成了深红色,就像东方天际的红霞。花瓣的外环是深红色的,花心更红得好似一块红宝石。
不过夜莺的歌声却越来越弱了,她的一双小翅膀开始扑打起来,一层雾膜爬上了她的双目。她的歌声变得更弱了,她觉得喉咙给什么东西堵住了。
这时她唱出了最后一曲。明月听着歌声,竟然忘记了黎明,只顾在天空中徘徊,红玫瑰更是欣喜若狂,张开了所有的花瓣去迎接凉凉的晨风。回声把歌声带回自己山中的紫色洞穴中,把酣睡的牧童从梦乡中唤醒。歌声飘越过河中的芦苇,芦苇又把声音传给了大海。
“快看,快看!”树叫了起来,“玫瑰已长好了。”可是夜莺没有回答,因为她已经躺在长长的草丛中死去了,心口上还扎着那根刺。
中午时分,学生打开窗户朝外看去。
“啊,多好的运气呀!”他大声嚷道,“这儿竟有一朵红玫瑰!这样的玫瑰我一生也不曾见过。它太美了,我敢说它有一个好长的拉丁名字。”他俯下身去把它摘了下来。
随即他戴上帽子,拿起玫瑰,朝教授的家跑去。
教授的女儿正坐在门口,在纺车上纺着蓝色的丝线,她的小狗躺在她的脚旁。
“你说过只要我送你一朵红玫瑰,你就会同我跳舞,”学生高声说道,“这是全世界最红的一朵玫瑰。你今晚就把它戴在你的胸口上,我们一起跳舞的时候,它会告诉你我是多么的爱你。”
然而少女却皱起眉头。
“我担心它与我的衣服不相配,”她回答说,“再说,宫廷大臣的侄儿已经送给我一些珍贵的珠宝,人人都知道珠宝比花更加值钱。”
“噢,我要说,你是个忘恩负义的人,”学生愤怒地说。一下把玫瑰扔到了大街上,玫瑰落入阴沟里,一辆马车从它身上碾了过去。
“忘恩负义!”少女说,“我告诉你吧,你太无礼;再说,你是什么人?只是个学生。啊,我敢说你不会像宫廷大臣侄儿那样,鞋上钉有银扣子。”说完她就从椅子上站起来朝屋里走去。
“爱情是多么愚昧啊!”学生一边走一边说,“它不及逻辑一半管用,因为它什么都证明不了,而它总是告诉人们一些不会发生的事,并且还让人相信一些不真实的事。说实话,它一点也不实用,在这个年代,一切都要讲实际。我要回到哲学中去,去学形而上学的东西。”
于是他想便回到自己的屋子里,拿出满是尘土的大书,读了起来。