2006年6月23日星期五
蔡康永的残酷故事
http://lz.book.sohu.com/chapter-5094-1-13.html
《有一天啊，宝宝……》 第一部分铁血恋爱〈饭店房间〉
亲爱的宝宝：
我小时候被很多残酷又迷人的爱情故事暗暗地吓过好几跳，虽然那时还没恋爱，但已经觉得这玩意似乎是未来人生的重要戏码，来势汹汹，才会到处埋伏下这么多郑重宣告“即将上映、不容错过”的预告片。
这些爱情故事里，有一个古中国的，非常冷酷。
故事是说一个君王，带着军队，出发去打仗，沿路停停走走，直到一处水边扎营时，君王和长驻水边的女神恋爱了。
他们缠绵了一段时间，直到君王惊觉他再不离开，继续踏上征途的话，他的军队将要瓦解，他该打的那场仗会毫不留情地抛弃他，片面宣布他可笑的缺席，和他缺席必然带来的，他的战败。
君王坚持向女神道别，女神挽留他，怎么留也留不住。女神只好答应放他走。
第二天早上，君王整顿好军队，准备要出发，走出居住的洞口一看，天却是黑的，原来满天飞舞着飞虫，密密麻麻，完全遮蔽了天空。要上路的君王，不要说是前进，连辨认阳光的方向都不能。
君王无奈地退回洞里，女神又出现，安慰他，叫他耐心多呆一天，和他缠绵。
又过了一天，君王走出洞外，又是满天飞虫，遮蔽天空和道路。君王只好再退回洞里。
这样过了三天，君王在第三天的夜晚告诉女神，说他出征后，将会再回到这水边来找他相聚。君王郑重地为女神围上一条珍贵的绿色腰带，说这腰带就是两人爱情的证物，要她好好珍藏。
女神围上腰带，虽然感动，但也知道君王心意已决，下次日出时他一定会全力突破困难离去。
次日一早，果然君王早已披挂好武器，准备无论如何要走了。没想到飞虫竟然变成了两三倍之多，简直把白天变成了黑夜。
君王瞇起眼睛，搜寻着飞虫，终于发现最上空有一只飞虫，腰上有一道鲜明的绿色，君王拉开弓箭，“嗖”的一箭，射穿了那只绿腰的飞虫，绿腰飞虫坠落，在半空就已还原成了绑着绿腰带的女神，轻轻掉落在水里，死了。
女神一死，满天她幻化出来的飞虫瞬间消失不见，晴空万里，君王带队离去。
宝宝啊，故事讲完了。
如何？
2006年6月22日星期四
from Cai Kangyong 《有一天啊，宝宝……》
亲爱的宝宝：
虽然不能说得很斩钉截铁，虽然平常很容易就会感到或多或少的不值得，但是我还是想要试着说出这句话：
宝宝啊，人生是值得活的。
我懂什么呢？在这么多这么多活过又死掉的人生面前，我所依据的，无非也就是我自己这个小小的人生而已。
小小的、没头没脑的人生。
我所出生的这个使用中文的地方，俯拾皆是老气的人生态度。我小时候手边堆放的那些厚厚的书、印满了千百年前的人得到的人生结论，四个字的、五个字的、七个字的，都有。
我随手翻一页，就会诧异一次，诧异人是这样活下来的。比方说，我会翻到一句四个字的，说你如果在别人种瓜的田里就别蹲下来穿鞋，免得别人以为你找机会偷他的瓜。再翻一页，又是一句四个字的，说有一个不识货的暴发户，明明买到了一颗上好的珍珠，却只喜欢装珍珠的那个华丽的盒子，他竟然大方地付钱买走了盒子，反而把盒子里的珍珠丢下给店家说他不要。
我拿起另一本厚书，随手翻一页，里面的句子都押韵，念起来很好听，但感情都很特别。这一首是四个字的，说：“青色的是你的衣衫，晃动的却是我的心。”
再换一首，是五个字的，说：“白天这么短，夜晚这么长，当然要点起蜡烛啊到处去游荡。”
再换一首，七个字的，“我如果是蚕，我会吐丝吐到我死为止，我如果是蜡烛，我会燃烧到变成灰，我的泪才算滴完。”
我看着这些奇妙的字，诧异着大人有这么多各自找到的、活下去的方法，这么珍重地想告诉别人，告诉连他们自己也不能想象的、千百年之后的人。
小时候的我，并没有因此觉得接下去的人生好像会很复杂，反而兴味盎然地翻着这些人认真写下来的话，想象着各式各样的人生。
有些小时候读到的故事也很奇怪。故事可能两句话就讲完了，却让我很久很久地发愣。
“有一个人睡着，梦见自己是蝴蝶，结果他醒过来后，就一直搞不清楚到底是他睡着，梦见自己是蝴蝶，还是有一只蝴蝶睡着以后，梦见自己是他？”
“有一个被很多人追着跑的和尚，逃到一条河边，结果看见一个尸体从上游漂过来，他靠近一看，发现那个尸体，竟然是自己。”
这一类的故事，藏在没人注意的这里那里，没事就会让我眼睛一亮。
我一定从此暗暗地对人生建立了一点点戒备。
我长大以后，喜欢很多幼稚肤浅的东西。我去美国那个充满阳光和微笑的加州，去学拍电影的时候，一点也不介意我的美国同学们从来没听说过深沉的、充满玄机的欧洲电影；也没听说过喜欢搞暧昧、追求意境的东方电影。我喜欢他们理直气壮地把电影就当成是能赚大钱、能逗人大哭大笑、能给人力量，也能让人逃避的娱乐货品。
我选课时会选充满不伦和谋杀的黑色电影，会选充满愚蠢怪物和烂特效的科幻恐怖片。我喜欢那些故作冷酷的侦探、怪异的杀人方式、孤立的英雄，还有满脑子浆糊的外星人。
我也喜欢那个年轻国家一些孩子气的事：没事就拥抱、同不同意当面说开、随口开玩笑，以及，很认真地想要相信“诚实、正义”这些简单明了但不实际的原则。
我有些在欧洲求学，或者在美国一些比较森严的大学求学的朋友，都觉得我怎么会在求知这方面这么不想长大、这么口味古怪。
宝宝，虽然我很少察觉，但恐怕事情正如一位和我同住一岛的作家所提示的：
我的灵魂有点太老了，
我太早就闻够了衰老的气息，
我只好倒过来活。
宝宝，你所出生的那个家庭，会给你很多东西，有些你会理所当然地收下，比方说名字、比方说他们在这世上存在的方式、他们交往的人、他们的爱或不爱。
你有可能会像我这样，到某个年纪就挣脱一些、到某个年纪又捡回来另一些。
如果觉得衰老的气味太强了，就不知不觉地往游乐园方向走去。如果太受宠爱了，就可能被不把自己当回事的人所吸引。
也许这样粗糙地描述起来，会给人一种徒劳无功、反反复复的感觉。
但那只是描述的语言太无能罢了。
反反复复会无聊吗？
太阳每天都升起一次、降下一次，但只要我从对的地方望过去，日出和日落都还是让人目眩神驰。
每一场雨都还是能让人狼狈或感伤，每一道闪电还是有魄力，每一道海浪、每一阵微风……全都是反反复复，来了又去、去了又来的。宝宝，我对这些从来没有觉得无聊过。
我的工作，做电视，倒是常令我感到无聊的，原因很简单：我知道自己在递送远超过人生所需要的故事，不管是骇人的、感人的、好笑的，还是好哭的故事。
一个像样的人生，哪里会需要知道这么多故事？会需要看这么多长得这么好看的人？
这摆明了是一件勉强的事，参与制造的我，本来就应该感觉到一点起码的不安。
其他的工作，帮人减肥的、设计电脑程式的、挖钻石的、收税的、卖房子的、造汽车的、卖小狗小猫的，在做着各式各样工作的人，也都应该感觉到这份起码的不安。
如果我们所做的是在勉强彼此的人生，这种勉强造成的不安，是会干扰我，但还不足以掩盖那些很根本的喜悦和悲伤。
我一旦经历了那些最根本的喜悦和悲伤，我就还是相信：人生是值得活的。那些零碎的不安，没什么杀伤力。
纵然我是一个这么爱怀疑的人，我也愿意把这怀疑，当成是人生值得活的重要原因之一。
当然也会有人觉得人生是不值得活的。
也会有人觉得想法是不值得这样花时间写下来的。
他们有他们面对人生的方法，跟我不一样，这本来就是一个冰与火都存在的世界。
宝宝啊，我是很好奇，你的人生会走向哪里？我甚至还在好奇，我的人生会走向哪里？
但愿当你也感受到这份好奇的时候，会欣然同意这好奇是乐趣，而不是负担。
然后有一天啊，宝宝，你也会微笑地点点头说：是啊，人生是值得活的.
http://lz.book.sohu.com/chapter.php?id=5094&volume=4&chapter=18
夏至
妈妈已经来了几天了，我每天睡地板睡得很有心得。她早上起的很早，起来以后就到我的厨房里去看报纸或者到滨河公园去散步。我赖着继续睡觉，磨蹭到上班时间才起床。回笼觉特别的香，但是今天的却很难过。我不知怎么的梦到了爸爸。很久都没有见到他了，他看上去一点儿都没有老。不知道为什么他又一个人回到了塔院我们的老房子，一个人住，把家里的摆设都调整了一遍。梦里的逻辑全乱了，好像妈妈已经不在了，所以爸爸一个人过。我从美国飞回去看他，因为有采访的任务只能住一天。我发现他的冰箱里满满的，有很多蔬菜，所以觉得挺放心的。我问他能不能抽出一天时间和我出去玩，就像小时候一样，爸爸连连说不行，因为明天他要去参加三井俊彦的研讨会。我非常难过和委屈，坐在屋子的角落里，像小时候被哥哥欺负了一样哭了。我哭着哭着就醒了过来，也不想起床，就接着在地板上哭。印象里只从梦里哭醒过一次，那时Prof.Harbinson去世的时候，我梦到他，非常难过，他在梦里对我说对不起，因为第二天很忙不能见我。这一次能梦到爸爸，我又高兴又难过。觉得自己过了七年还能看到他的音容笑貌非常幸福，但是现在妈妈来了，爸爸却永远也没有机会来了。可是我知道他在天上一定看得到，听得到，经常和我们在一起。而且他一定过得不错，家里吃喝的东西都不缺。在梦里，我去厨房做饭，厨房里又变成了老式的煤球炉子，我不会烧，爸爸就教我用。看来天堂里的生活和地上也没什么区别，也是茶米油盐酱醋茶。现在我放心了，即使爸爸一个人在天堂里，他也过得不错。而且他仍然喜欢文学，生活也不单调。但是我可能又会很长的一段时间看不到他了。希望天上文学研讨会丰富，所以他不至于寂寞。
昨天下午和老板以及Rachel一起喝茶，介绍我妈妈跟她们认识。她们对中国都很好奇，妈妈简直像是外交部发言人答记者问。不过一切得很好，我们聊得很高兴。之后，和我在纽约的朋友吃饭。刘长颖也来了，还有景芹。随便点了几个菜，但是我们吃得挺痛快的。有趣的是，旁边坐了一桌子的纽约警察，他们也到“哥大小馆”来吃饭，有说有笑，好不热闹。吃完了晚饭，我们顺着阿姆斯特丹大街散步，晚霞极美，聚集在天边不肯退去。这一天正好是夏至，夏天的开始，也是一年之中最长的一日。夏天懒散的气氛已经充满了纽约的大街小巷，大家穿的随随便便地处来散步，带着大小不同的狗狗。妈妈和我一直走到于展家，他的爸爸妈妈也从中国来访问，所以一家人其乐融融，挤在他的一居室里。
后记：再GOOGLE上真的找到了叫做“三井俊彦”的人，是个日本人，毕业于大阪産業大学経済学部経済学科。
2006年6月20日星期二
韩寒歌词《偶像》
安静舒缓不见 人类动荡妖艳欠揍的出现 开始放电 他怎么不触电
偶像露出嘴脸 英雄开始下贱 所谓的尊严 不值一钱 你竟以此共勉
上帝派出和平鸽 却被人类做汤喝 别啦 投胎快乐
没有偶像的年代 万物一年被淘汰 人们礼尚往来 内心却很坏 啦啦这是最好的年代 充斥最烂的情怀 孩子难免受害 再给下一代我最怀念某年 空气自由新鲜远山和炊烟 狗和田野 我沉睡一夏天
突然满眼的工业 麻木代替热血永别 把我消灭
我最心底的姑娘 她已模糊不成样 请安息在脑海 让年岁掩埋 啦啦没有信仰的年代 我们等着被变卖 我们只会发呆 发成了痴呆 啦啦这是最好的年代 充斥最假的情爱 噪音变成天籁 金钱换来爱 拉拉这是最好的年代 这是完美的年代 拉拉拉拉拉拉 最后变成了 时代 拉拉……
Airport
Airport is an amazing place. Here all the life stories converge to a single arrival or a departure. Tears, laughs, and dreams come true. People bring all emotions with them, hopes, nostalgia, memory, hatred, resentment, and love. In this dramatic setting, one encounters her past, present and future. I waited my mom’s flight and felt like my mom waited for me at the gate of the kindergarten. Some people run into tears when they see their beloved faces, some yield at the top of their voices, and some wave their hands like crazy. Suddenly people of different colors speak a common language, the language of love and reassurance. As usual, the Air China flight is late. Most of the passengers had come out before I finally saw my mom. She looked great in her dark green shirt and she even managed to get herself a cart to move her luggage. I waved to her and she smiled right away, as she smiled at the kindergarten gate. Many years passed by and we felt the inner connection of us reverberate again. We took a supershuttle and it was around the rush hour of the day. But she looked cheerful and the 13 hours flight was not even make her tired.
The summer heat started this week and the locals were so jammed. I remembered my mom used to take me on her bicycle back seat when I was young and rode for an hour to go back home. The chilly wind of Beijing and mom’s warm back made such a contrast, and sometimes I was fallen into asleep on our way home. Now the sunshine of late June afternoon makes Queens and Manhattan like hotspots, and now it is me who tour my mom of my city in another time zone. Mom laughed and said, the time was almost the same as Beijing except we were 12 hours apart. We have been lived 12 hours apart for 5 years and this is the very first time we share the same time zone. It was great! As the shuttle run across Queens Boro Bridge, I showed her the streets and places in middle town. People finished their work and started to walk home, and the street was full of tourists. Mom was surprised by the doges in town, and she found the dogs were huge here in States. We traveled on 57th Street from east heading west, across the Park Ave, Madison Ave, Fifth Ave, the lower side of Central Park and up to Amsterdam Ave. On our way, I showed her the Carnegie Hall, the Lincoln Center, the Central Park, the St. Johnes the Divine Church, and my university. Although it took almost two hours to come back home, but we had a nice and quick tour of the middle-upper part of the town.
Jin and Leifan were very nice and invited my mom and me to dinner. I managed to make two cold dishes and we had a great dinner together. Mom brought the latest news from China, and I found Jin know so much about the current status of our country and I was almost out of touch of reality. My world is much narrowly focused, around my dissertation and my reading. Mom brings me back to everyday life and makes me feel at home. My small room has never been so crowded, but it looks like a home and even smiles like a home. I have to change many things, such as switch my computer to Chinese setting, change SINA instead of GOOGLE as my homepage. I guess this is about happiness, heavy but real.
2006年6月19日星期一
Identity , a review
http://www.yale.edu/yrb/spring99/review06.htm
On a balmy day on a Normandy beach, Jean-Marc searches for his lover Chantal. He spots her strolling and gazing at sailboats. Beside her, children speed down the beach in cars powered sails. Suddenly, one car swerves towards Chantal, and it appears as if the car will strike her. As usual, Chantal is oblivious to her surroundings. Jean-Marc screams to warn her, but she cannot hear. "His face clenched in a grimace of weeping, for a few seconds he is living with the horror of her death."
Somehow the car misses her. "Jean-Marc laughs at the comedy of bereavement he'd just played out....he really sets off running and waving his hands." But as he approaches Chantal, she fails to recognize him, and as he gets even closer, the woman "he had thought was Chantal became old, ugly, pathetically other." In his worry, Jean-Marc had mistaken an unattractive stranger for his love.
So begins Identity, the new novel by the highly praised Franco-Czech writer Milan Kundera. The novel explores the question of human identity and whether its possible for lovers to understand each other in a world that is forever trapped on the level of the physical and the shallow.
In Identity, Kundera trades the polyvocal complexity of his earlier novels for a tighter, more conventional form. Populated by only two main characters, Identity is Kundera's shortest novel. But although light in pages, Identity sets out to tackle a hefty subject-the nature of human identity.
Despite its heavy theme, the central plot of the novel is fairly simple. One day Chantal notices that as a woman already possessed by a lover, other men no longer look at her. Distraught, she tells Jean-Marc. Misunderstanding the cause of her distress, Jean-Marc begins sending Chantal anonymous love letters to reassure her of her beauty. "I follow you around like a spy-you are beautiful, very beautiful," states the first. As the anonymous love letters continue, this secret divides the lovers, and a domino effect of misinterpretations follows.
When Chantal finally discovers the sender of the letters, she imagines entrapment-not reassurance-as Jean-Marc's goal. When Jean-Marc discovers that Chantal keeps all the letters, he imagines infidelity, instead of curiosity. The characterizations of Jean-Marc and Chantal are indelibly real, but the central plot seems forced. We are never suprised at the identity of the letter writer, and Chantal's many attempts to discover his identity, although often hilarious, become plodding.
As the lovers slip apart, the novel becomes increasing surreal. At the end Chantal is walled into a strange house the night after an orgy, the ultimate loss of identity, and Jean-Marc succumbs to amnesia sleeping on a park bench. The ending seems so strange and tragic, that Kundera's voice, which had remained silent for the entire novel, must break in to comfort us.
"And I ask myself: who was dreaming?" Kundera writes. "Who dreamed this story? Who imagined it? She? He? Both of them?"
Never fear, Kundera says, the plot was all a dream. Some critics have pointed to the dream ending as a serious flaw in the narrative, and it certainly feels as if we have been swindled of a proper ending. But could Kundera have a deeper purpose? Perhaps, he is suggesting the impossibility of separating lovers who have defined themselves through each other, or maybe, Kundera is calling into question the identity of the novel itself. What is a novel, after all, but an author's dream? But one can only guess at the causes for the novel's abrupt ending.
Kundera gained fame writing against the Soviet occupation of Prague, but unlike Tom Clancy, the end of the Cold War has not left Kundera short on targets, as he criticizes the emptiness of modern life. In the collective struggle against boredom, people engage in dull occupations and fake freinships. About all the modern world is suited for, Kundera seems to say, is to provide fodder for conversation. In a café, Jean-Marc and Chantal sit next to a silent couple. After a captivating dialogue speculating about the causes of the couple's silence, Jean-Marc concludes, "Two people in love, isolated from the world, that's very beautiful. But what would they nourish their intimate talk with? However contemptible the world may be, they still need it to be able to talk together."
"They could be silent," replies Chantal.
"Like those two at the next table?" Jean-Marc laughed. "Oh, no, no love can survive muteness."
Identity is the product of a remarkably observant social commentator and gifted writer. Like Kundera's earlier work, it is intellectually stimulating and can reinterpret everyday events with brilliance. But for all his wit, this incarnation of Kundera's world suffers from a lack of narrative, something which even the most philosophical of novels require.
Love Letter
The Atlantic Sea along New Jersey shore is beautiful. The color of the waves changes constantly depending on the sunlight and the color of your sunglasses. Because of the cloud, the temperature is not very high and the beach is quiet and relaxed. In mid of June, the water is still cold but refreshing. The long waves desperately wish to come back to the seashore. They push forward and pull back again, dancing in a repeated way. The sound of the waves is incredibly loud, like a naughty boy roaring all the way.
The beach gives one endless space to reflect one's life. The super power of nature makes it possible to open one's mind. I walked for two miles on the wet beach, tried to reconcile my feeling and my thought. The book I am reading bothers me a lot, Kundera's Identity. What is a love letter? Kundera makes a joke of love letter by imitating Cyrano de Bergerac, letting Jean-Marc sent love letter to his lover Chantel under a fake name. The more he sent those letters the more he observed how she changed and rejuvenated. The love letters, speaking the unspoken desire of a stranger, convey a sense of intimacy and admiration which is long lost in their relationship. In those letters, you have no practical purpose but communicating your most secret passion. The freedom one gains in those letters usually goes beyond their daily language and reaches the divine stage of spirituality. The murmuring of the spiritual trees in the back of our mind echo our love language and makes it so strong that the desire its self becomes a dwarf. The love letters are not about the person you love, but about the figure you wish to love or love to love. The writing creates an idle, a pure being without any touch of the mundane world, a bluebird in everyone’s dream. Like Cyrano, sometimes we can not speak our love, so we write for others. But the love is true, as virtuous as anyone else. Deeply inside us, there is a longing for companionship, for sharing and afraid of death alone. Those letters remind us of our youth, the days before our falling. Remembering the swallowtail butterflies in Shunji Iwai’s movie? The unsatisfied love and lust in Yen Town? I envision one’s life as two stages, the innocent youth and the hopeless adulthood. We fall from our divine being as we grow up, in an irreversible way. Everyone of us is the leading figure of this tragedy, we are the producers, directors and actors. Only when we write the love letters, we regain our power of imagination, of boundless freedom to express ourselves, of worship the paradise lost.
2006年6月18日星期日
订阅：
博文 (Atom)
