房 間 The Room（中英文對照）

 

房 間 　　在半夢半醒之間，我發現自己在一個房間裏。這房間並沒有什麽特別之處，隻不過一麵牆壁滿是小小的索引卡抽屜。就像圖書館那些字母順序編排的作者或主題目錄。但是這些密密麻麻從地板伸到天花板，並且似乎向各個方向無盡伸展的抽屜有著非常不同的標題。 　　當我走近這麵牆壁時，首先吸收我注意力的是名為“我喜歡過的人”的抽屜。我打開它翻了翻那些卡片。看了幾眼我馬上關了上抽屜，每個卡片上寫的名字我都認識，這確實讓我驚詫。無需告知，我很清楚我身處何地。這個沒有生氣卻滿是小抽屜的房間是我一生粗略的記錄。這裏記載著我每時每刻的行為，事無巨細，一一在案，讓我的記憶自歎弗如。 　　當我信手打開那些抽屜探究裏麵的內容時，一種好奇心混雜著恐懼令我心神不寧。有些內容給我帶來快樂和甜蜜的回憶；有些則令我慚愧萬分後悔不已，真害怕有什麽旁人也看到了。一個名為“朋友”的抽屜就在“我背叛過的朋友”旁邊。 　　題目從世俗平凡的到奇異怪誕的可謂五花八門。“我讀過的書”，“我說過的謊”，“我給予過的安撫”，“我哈哈大笑過的笑話”。 　　有些標題惟妙惟肖讓我真想笑出聲來，如“我衝我的兄弟吼叫過的事情”；而有些則讓我難以發笑：“憤怒下我做過的事情”，“我向父母咕噥抱怨過的事情”。 　　卡片的內容讓我驚奇不已。卡片的數目常常讓我猜測的要多，有時也有比我希望的要少些的。我被我一生浩瀚的內容所震驚。在我20年的生活裏我真會有時間來記錄這數千張甚至數百萬張卡片嗎？但每一張卡片又證實了這一事實。每張都是我親筆寫的，每張上都有我的簽名。當我打開名為“我聽過的歌”的抽屜時，我意識到抽屜內的容量在增加。卡片一張挨一張，我翻過兩三碼（一碼合三英寸）後，依然看不到尾。我關上抽屜，感到慚愧，不光因為音樂的質量，更多的是因為我知道這抽屜表明我曾為此耗費過多少時間。 　　當我翻到“淫念”的抽屜時，我感到一股寒流通遍全身。我把抽屜隻打開一英寸寬——我不願探究這個抽屜究竟有多深——然後抽出一張卡。上麵記錄的詳細內容讓我戰栗。一想到這樣的時刻也被記錄下來，我直犯惡心。一種動物般的暴怒讓我無法自控。 　　一個念頭占據了我的大腦：“誰也甭想看到這些卡片！誰也甭想看到這間屋子！我必須毀了它們！”瘋狂之下我猛地把抽屜拉了出來。它有多長我也顧不上了。我必須把它一傾而空燒掉那些卡片。但當我把抽屜拉出重重摔到地上時，一張卡也沒有撤出。我氣急敗壞抽出一張卡，拚命要撕毀它時卻發現它堅如鋼板。 　　隻好認輸，一籌莫展，我把抽屜放回原處。前額抵在牆上，我發出一聲長長的自憐的歎息。這時我看見了那個名為“我與之分享過福音的人們”的抽屜。抽屜的把手比其周圍的更亮更新，幾乎未被觸摸過。我一拉把手，一個不過三英寸長的抽屜落入我手中。我可以用一隻手就數清有多少張卡。這時我的眼淚奪眶而出。我開始哭泣。抽泣如此深切，我的胃開始隱隱作痛，不久疼痛遍及全身。我跪在地上嚎啕大哭。我因羞愧而痛哭，因滿胸滿腹的羞愧而痛哭。 　　一排排抽屜在我噙滿淚水的眼眶裏渦旋著。誰也別想知道這間房間，別想！我必須把它鎖起來並藏好鑰匙。但正當我擦去眼淚時，我看見了他。不可能是他呀！不能在這裏呀！哦，是誰也不能是耶穌呀！我束手無策地看著他打開抽屜看卡片。我無法忍受看他的反應。等我定住神看他的麵孔時，我看到了比我更為深切的悲痛。他似乎憑直覺翻到了那些最糟糕的抽屜。他幹嗎非得挨個讀遍呢？終於他轉過身看看房間那頭的我。他的眼裏滿是憐憫。但這種憐憫並沒激怒我。我低下頭，用手捂住臉，再次痛哭起來。 　　他走過來摟住我。他本可以說許多話，但他隻字未說。他隻是和我一起哭。然後他起身走回滿是抽屜的那麵牆。從房間的一頭開始，他取出一個抽屜，在每張卡上在我的名上簽下他的名字。 　　“不”我邊喊邊衝向他。我從他的手中奪過卡片，嘴裏說的隻是“不，不”。他的名字不能落在這些卡片上。但它確實在上麵，紅色的，那麽濃厚，那麽深沉，那麽活生生的。耶穌的名字覆蓋了我的。那是用他的血寫出的。他溫柔地把卡片拿回，悲哀地一笑繼續簽名。我想我永遠也不會弄明白他怎麽簽得那麽快，但片刻之後我似乎聽到他關上最後一個抽屜走回我身旁。 　　他把手放在我的肩上，說“完成了”。我站起身，他領我走出房間。門上沒鎖。還有卡片待寫。 　　我徹底醒了。

The Room In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room. There were no distinguishing features except for the one wall covered with small index card files. They were like the ones in libraries that list titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which were stretched from floor to ceiling and were seemingly endless in either direction, had very different headings. As I drew near the wall of files, the first to catch my attention was one that read "Girls I Have Liked," I opened it and began flipping through the cards. I quickly shut it, shocked to realise that I recognised the names written on each one. And then without being told, I knew exactly where I was. This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalogue system for my life. Here were written the actions of my every moment, big and small, in a detail my memory couldn't match. A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me, as I began randomly opening files and exploring their content. Some brought joy and sweet memories; others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching. A file named "Friends" was next to one marked "Friends I Have Betrayed." The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird. "Books I Have Read," "Lies I Have Told", "Comfort I Have Given", "Jokes I Have Laughed At". Some were almost hilarious in their exactness: "Things I Have Yelled At My Little Brother." Others I couldn't laugh at: "Things I Have Done In My Anger", "Things I Have Muttered Under My Breath At My Parents". I never ceased to be surprised by the contents. Often there were many more cards than I expected. Sometimes even fewer than I hoped. I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had lived. Could it be possible that I had the time in my life to write each of these thousands or even millions of cards? But each card confirmed this truth. Each was written in my own handwriting. Each was signed with my signature. When I pulled out the file marked "Songs I Have Listened To," I realised that the files grew to contain their contents. The cards were packed tightly, and yet after two or three yards, I hadn't found the end of the file. I shut it, shamed, not so much by the quality of music, but more by the vast amount of wasted time that file represented. While I came to a file marked "Lustful Thoughts," I felt a chill run through my body. I pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to test its size, and drew out a card. I shuddered at its detailed content. I felt sick to think that such a moment had been recorded. An almost animal rage broke on me. One thought dominated my mind: "No one must ever see this room! I have to destroy them!" In an insane frenzy I yanked the file out - its size didn't matter now. I had to empty it and burn those cards. But as I took it at one end and began pounding it on the floor. I could not dislodge a single card. I became desperate and pulled out a card, only to find it as strong as steel when I tried to tear it out. Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to its slot. Leaning my forehead against the wall, I let out a long self-pitying sigh. And then I saw it. The file with the title "People I Have Shared The Gospel With." The handle was brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused. I pulled on its handle and a small box not more than three inches long fell into my hands. I could count the cards it contained on one hand. And then the tears came. I began to weep with sobs so deep that the hurt started in my stomach and shook through me. I feel on my knees and cried. I cried out of shame, from the overwhelming shame of it all. The rows of file shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No one must ever, ever know of this room. I must lock it up and hide the key. But then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him. No, please, not Him! Not here. Oh, anyone but Jesus. I watched helplessly as He began to read the cards. I couldn't bear to watch His response, and in the moments I could bring myself to look at His face, I saw a sorrow deeper than my own. He seemed to intuitively to go to the worst boxes. Why did He have to read every one? Finally, He turned around and looked at me from across the room. He looked at me with pity in His eyes, but His was a pity that didn't anger me. I dropped my head, covered my face with my hands, and began to cry again.He walked over and put His arm around me. He could have said so many things. But He didn't say a word. He just cried with me. Then He got up and walked back to the wall of files. Starting at one end of the room, He took out a file and, one by one, began to sign His name over mine on each card. "No!" I shouted rushing to Him. All I could find to say was "No, No," as I pulled the card from Him. His name shouldn't be on these cards. But there it was, written in red so rich, so dark, so alive. The name of Jesus covered mine. It was written with His blood. He gently took the card back. He smiled a sad smile and began to sign the cards. I don't think I'll ever understand how He did it so quickly, but the next instant it seemed I heard Him close the last file and walk back to my side. He placed His hand on my shoulder and said, "It is finished." I stood up, and He led me out of the room. There was no lock on its door. There were still cards to be written……