立的兩維空間
我喜歡無聊的事情。而且，我隻做我喜歡的事情。
檸檬
——我來翻譯一下雷蒙德·卡佛的詩之七
關於詩歌的一些隨筆
有一對年輕的戀人，可能十八、九歲或者二十剛剛出頭，他們來到這裏，沿山穀漫步。後來兩個人在一棵大樹下停了下來，他們親吻了。我一直注視著他們。親吻之後他們又坐到草坪上，這一次他倆沒有靠在一起，顯然這是一對初戀的情人。最後他們又一起離開了。在我眼中這裏滿山青翠，風景秀美，夏天山花爛漫，冬天大雪紛飛。這裏就是我。我是一座山穀。但如果從來沒有人來到過這裏，那麽我就並不存在。但當你反駁說一座山穀即便沒有人知道也依然是存在的時候，我就存在。因為，你已經想到了我。這裏雖然不是風景名勝，但也總偶有人至。有時在節假日甚至會熱鬧上一陣。曾經有過孤獨的遊子，一個人背著雙肩包，在山穀裏遊蕩，一言不發。也曾在周末來過一家人，到這裏燒烤，那個男孩子跑到一棵樹下撒尿，後來他的爸爸也跑過去背過身去解手，再後來女主人也想要解手了，她羞澀的跑到較遠的一個隱秘的矮樹叢裏，四下看了看，才解開褲子蹲下去。燒烤後，他們聊天，在草坪上打球，直到快傍晚時才收拾好東西愉快的離去了。從這裏回去的人們有時會偶爾想起我，在和別人的談話中提到我。於是，現在，我就是一座山穀了。當人們談到山穀時，那就是我。對，it’s me. 山穀。
後來我意識到，一件事情隻有被人講述時才是真實的。真相不是存在於事物的內部，而是存在於對事物的講述裏。而且，隻有那些被重述的事情才是有意義的。一件事情如果隻發生過一次而從來沒有被人重述過，是沒有意義的。我們甚至無法證明這樣的事物的存在。所以，後來我開始迷戀上了講述。講述別人的一部小說，或一首詩，或者一個故事。其實並沒有一個作者真正知道他所寫故事在被講述時是什麽樣子，而更不會知道講述之後會引發些什麽。就像現在。我坐在北京的一家咖啡店裏一邊喝咖啡一邊讀卡佛的這本詩集：All of US，想找出幾首詩來翻譯一下。但隨手翻開的那一頁上印的卻不是一首詩：Some Prose on Poetry。我快速瀏覽了一遍，是一篇小說或者隨筆什麽的。就在這時有一個人來到我的對麵，問我是否可以坐在這裏。當時咖啡店裏幾乎沒有別人到處是空座，但我當時沒有意識到這一點，因為在思索著卡佛寫的這篇Some Prose on Poetry，關於詩歌的一些隨筆，於是就隨口說：當然可以了。卡佛講的故事是這樣開始的：
許多年以前——可能是1956或者57年吧——當時我還是一個不到20歲的孩子，卻已經結了婚，靠給藥房送處方藥掙錢養家。在Yakima，我不知道應該怎麽對你說這個名字，Yakima是華盛頓州東邊的一個小鎮，是個很小的小地方，你肯定沒有聽說過，anyway，我的工作就是開車在小鎮上把藥送到人們家中。有一次我送藥的那家主人把我帶進那棟房子最裏麵的臥房。那個老人顯得很警惕。他已經很老了。一個人住在這棟大房子裏。進到臥室，他請我在這裏等一下，自己緩慢的轉身去取支票本。我倒是無所謂。隻不過通常人們是絕對不會把我帶進他們的臥室裏等待的。不過，anyway，等我一個人留在屋子裏時，就開始打量起這間房間。我馬上就被震驚住了。房子裏到處是書：咖啡桌上，沙發上，床上，床頭櫃上，當然了，還有書櫃裏，還有地板上。到處都能看見書。我從來沒有見過誰家裏有這麽多的書，像個小圖書館。他的書櫃是那種很高都快到屋頂上的那種，裏麵放滿了書。後來，我注意到咖啡桌上有一本雜誌。雜誌上放著一包糖，可我注意的是那本雜誌的名字：Poetry，詩歌。我非常震驚。這毫不誇張。怎麽說呢？anyway，我當時就拿起了那本雜誌，把那包糖推到桌子邊上。這是我第一次看這種嚴肅雜誌，不要說還是一本詩歌雜誌。我當時完全被震撼住。然後，我開始貪婪的拿起那些書翻，一本接著一本。我記得有一本叫：The Little Review Anthology。我得說那時光是看到書上寫的“edited by”的字樣，就讓我感到神秘。更不消說那個神秘的“Anthology”。“Anthology”是什麽意思？為什麽會有這麽多的人，寫了這麽多的書？然後，我又發現一本很厚的詩集。於是我扔下所有其他的書，拿起這本詩集，一頁一頁的翻，都是一行一行的詩，有那麽多，樣子看著怪怪的。為什麽？這是為什麽？為什麽會有人要寫這樣的東西？我從來沒有想過會有這樣的書裏麵是這樣的一些東西。一行一行排下來，留下許多空白。有些很短，有些非常非常長。一頁一頁翻過去，仍然沒有結束，仍然沒有結束。一本詩集，詩集，詩集，……。這時，那個老人突然走了進來。
終極遊戲
我剛進入這家網絡遊戲公司時就聽人們說，老大是一個天才。他3歲時就能背下100首唐詩。那時，他的父母要當眾炫耀兒子時，就會把他叫來，當老大步履蹣跚的走到客人麵前站定時，父母隻需隨口說出一首詩的名字，就像按下了錄音機的開關，那首詩就吱吱呀呀蹣跚著從老大幼稚的喉嚨湧出。不過，現在老大在談話中好像從來沒有引用什麽唐詩宋詞。老大16歲考上重點大學，可能是清華或者浙大什麽的，數學係。可是據我在實際中的觀察，現在老大一點也看不出有什麽天才的跡象。但是，有一次老大在一個例會上說的一段話卻給我震驚住了。他當時說：人類一直在發明遊戲，圍棋，象棋，紙牌，還有體育，舞蹈，雜技，但這些遊戲都不成功。但是，未來人類最終將發明一種終極遊戲。而我們現在做的就是其中的一部分。 “從這一點來看，老大仍然是一個天才。他心裏有著很大的野心。老大畢竟是老大。”我說完，夜店突然像肚子抽筋似的笑了一下，“終極問題。”她又在笑：“老大是一個非常世俗的生意人。我們這裏不過是這抄抄那抄抄而已，並沒有什麽原創的東西。”“終極遊戲。” 夜店再次像肚子抽筋似的笑了一下。夜店的話我也承認，簡單來說，的確是這樣的。老大也常說：關鍵不在原創，而在市場。他總愛舉蘋果的例子。當然不是《聖經》裏亞當和夏娃吃的蘋果。不過，老大的那個終極遊戲的概念讓我著迷。那將是一款什麽樣的遊戲呢？以遊戲終結遊戲。我覺得它就像是在一座屋子裏建起一個更大的屋子，把外麵的屋子包含了進來。解開了一個複雜的結的過程中漸漸係起一個更大的結。它並不是像蛤蟆所說的，是生活的本身，而是對生活的模擬，但模擬的結果是一種否定，就像一個人不停的在各種鏡頭前拍照，後來漸漸他的存在被一張張照片替代了。一種黑色的模擬。一個終極問題。它將是把所有的人都聯係在一起，而最終成為生活的本身。“但是，或許人類早已經發明出了終極遊戲，”我說到這裏時並沒有故弄玄虛的停頓下來，而是繼續輕描淡寫的說出了答案：“那就是語言。”解釋完這些，我伸出了一點點舌頭，舔了舔嘴唇。夜店凝視我片刻，然後伸出手用拇指和食指玩弄著我的下巴，輕聲說：“你也是一個天才啊！”
夜店的手很小。
我不知道女人撫摸到一塊布滿胡子茬的下巴時，會是一種什麽樣的感覺。我每天都要用一把電動剃須刀在臉上不時劃來劃去，把臉上刮得光溜溜的。因為我天生一張娃娃臉，但胡須卻出奇的旺盛，毛發又黑又濃密，長得到處都是，而且每一分鍾都在瘋長。這使得我的麵相，如果不及時刮去胡子，便會呈現出一種相當矛盾而混亂的情景。我曾試著蓄過須，那樣子在鏡子裏看起來相當怪異，像一隻人形的猴子，不像是人但又仍然像人。大學時我的女友時常會在親吻時抱怨我的胡子茬把她的臉紮疼了。她的皮膚非常稚嫩。在我們相愛漸久之後，她首先開始對我的胡子不好了。她不再忍耐我的胡子，有時會在我們熱吻時，會突然把臉閃開。於是，我向前伸出的嘴唇就撲了個空，這才睜開眼睛知道，又忘了提前刮刮胡子。我想蓄起胡子讓我的女友看一看那種奇異的麵相，但被她斷然否決。她仿佛隻愛某種麵相的我。後來她又喜歡上了親自動手給我刮胡子，先讓我坐好，揚起下巴，一動也不許動，然後打開我的電動剃須刀，轟響著在我臉上刮來刮去，我那時就會覺得自己像一隻在被剃毛的小綿羊。有時她刮得會非常悉心，讓我突然間有一種幸福感。但有時她隻是亂刮一氣，同時不時的威脅我，要刮掉我的眉毛，我的眉毛也很重，眉心連在一起。雖然很明顯她是在嬉笑的說出這樣的話，但天曉得她會不會真的在我的眉毛上突然抹上一道，這讓我仰著頭感覺非常恐懼。有一次我在午睡時被轟響的電動刮胡刀驚醒，發現我的女友正在刮我的胡子，嚇得我馬上摸了摸我的眉毛。
有時夜店的笑容給我一種似曾相識的感覺。關於夜店。我應該如何評論夜店呢？夜店的真名叫範夜。她告訴我，這是因為她是在子夜十二點整降生的。一分都不差。說這話時沒有慣常如罩在一層薄紗後麵的笑容，而是表情認真，透出幾分神秘。我於是仿佛在眼前看見，牆上掛的一隻圓形掛鍾。鍾表的指針在分分秒秒的接近著子夜，時針的移動隱秘得幾乎難以察覺，分針在輕微的抽搐，隻有秒針明確無疑在滴滴答答著一刻不停的周而複始的移動。而在這張表盤上我還看見，一間夜晚燈火通明的醫院產房裏一片忙亂的景象。子夜鍾聲敲響的一刻，那隻表盤上的時針、分針和秒針同時動了一下合攏在一起，範夜就是在這個時刻被生了出來。但這也很難說。誰也說不清她到底是在哪一天出生的。這個躺在助產士手中的嬰兒，是屬於今天，還是屬於昨天？接著範夜哇的一聲哭了出來，聲音嘹亮，這時產房中所有的人都同時鬆了一口氣，一股喜悅之情彌散開來。
在範夜的身上總有一股妖氣，或者說某種神經兮兮的氣氛。這可能和她是心理學專業的女研究生有關。我們的公司裏麵有形形色色的怪人，就像一個動物園。我覺得這裏除了一半的人是弱者患兒，其他的都是天才。盡管，我們這個公司隻不過是一個抄襲和拚湊的公司，加上一點小打小鬧的發明，然後用像鼻屎一樣的粘合劑整合在一起。但我們的遊戲仍然有足夠的吸引力。比如蛤蟆。蛤蟆叫李雲輝，是學曆史的。但我們都叫他蛤蟆。呱，呱，……。蛤蟆的嘴特別大，當他說到他想要強調的字句時，他就會注視著他的聽眾，把嘴裂開做出要那個發音的樣子，保持不動，然後才用力的、一字一頓的把要說的話說出來，可是在他說出之前你會覺得他要向你的臉上吐什麽東西。如果他是連續不斷滔滔不絕的議論，那麽他的那張大嘴的運動就又像是在大口的咀嚼著空氣。他好像想做每一個人的精神導師，除了老大和夜店。夜店說他有心理問題，嚴重的自卑情結，所以表現出過於的自大。我感覺蛤蟆好像非常害怕夜店。關於夜店。她打扮時尚。她很漂亮，她也很聰明，但和老大不同，範夜仍然屬於我們這樣的芸芸眾生，使她卓爾不群的，應該說既不是她的漂亮，也不是她的聰明，而是比她漂亮的女人都不如她聰明，而比她聰明的女人都不如她漂亮，這是她的優勢。然而，關於範夜，最吸引我的是她的嘴唇。她的嘴唇有一種特殊的質感，既豐滿，又不過分的豐滿，停止在剛剛感覺到豐滿的時刻恰巧就停止了，而她的形狀迷人，總讓我覺得那雙嘴唇像是身體的本身，而不隻是身體的某一部分。那上麵還總是塗著一層更柔軟的唇彩。就這樣在我和範夜閑聊時，我一次次被她的嘴唇不自覺的吸引，隻是專注的看著那對嘴唇，而漸漸聽不見那對嘴唇正在說的是些什麽了。
範夜說，老大的妻子是一名醫生，不僅身材高挑，非常漂亮，而且還喜好文學詩歌和古典音樂。老大的長相自然是沒法評論了，他比他的妻子還矮一頭。品味更是出奇的差，沒有任何愛好，除了喜歡開著一輛越野車跑長途。夜店的觀點是，當天才離開了學院，就沒有任何優勢，如果不能及時的把天才轉變為狡詐。所以，愛上天才的人最終得到的不過是追悔莫及。我那時的評論是：這都是些世俗的觀點。而夜店說，她就是一個很俗氣的小女人。夜店在講：有一次，老大把大家招到家中聚會，在聚會上，老大的站在高跟鞋上的妻子當眾指責我們開發的這些遊戲，是用各種方法引誘孩子，讓他們沉迷其中不能自拔，像吸毒一樣。她居高臨下指著老大說，這麽做是不道德的。當時老大站在他漂亮的妻子麵前，仰著頭，滿臉通紅，張口結舌，竟然說不出話來。而站在他周圍的我們這些老大的員工也都灰頭土臉的。你知道從心理學的角度，這說明了什麽嗎？
“嘿，你在聽我說話嗎？”
“你一定是失戀了。” 我聽見夜店的聲音，像一隻很輕的貓。夜店說：我不會愛上一個女人。我隻會讓愛上我的女人最終受傷害。我聽了不置可否。對於這一點我自己也不敢說是或者不是。但她接著說我有同性戀傾向，我就一下子笑得趴在了桌子上。我說：“姐，我受不了你了。我有女朋友。”接著，我趴在桌子上，用嘴放了二百個大屁。
那時已經到了下班時間，外麵的天色變得昏黑，公司裏的燈都亮了，人們在紛紛往外走。我聽見耳邊範夜的聲音，她正用兩隻前爪輕輕按在我的肩頭，一隻玫瑰色的孟加拉猛虎，蜻蜓般躍上草尖，走進草葉上那滴明亮的露水裏，她把嘴唇湊近我的耳邊，“你，一定是，失戀了。” “走開，別煩我。”我坐在那裏沒有動，但心裏奇怪自己為什麽一下子就承認了。我的一邊的耳朵仿佛微微動了一下，似乎感覺到了她的嘴唇上的唇膏的濕氣。她的嘴唇離我的耳朵非常近，並且停在了那裏。然後我聽見我的耳邊那嘴唇在說：“你啊，根本不懂得什麽是愛情。”我感覺到她的嘴唇聚攏，似乎對著我的耳朵輕輕一吹。我使勁一晃肩膀，像打了一個激靈，那對嘴唇一下離開升向高空，那兩隻小手也蜷縮著離開了我的肩頭。我感覺到範夜在笑，然後聽到高跟鞋的有韻律的嗒嗒聲，一下一下，漸漸遠去，不久消失在辦公室的門外。“你一定是失戀了。”我的確失戀了。那天下班後仍然坐在公司裏。失戀很痛。我的女友脾氣特大。經常會為一些小事大發脾氣。我們的愛戀中充滿了小事，缺乏重大事件，極度缺乏。我的脾氣也很大。但每次爭吵之後，總是我，要認錯服輸，反複勸她不要再生氣。她卻總是對我說：我沒有生氣。真的，我沒有生氣。說時還總要把搭在眼前的一縷頭發一甩。她每甩一次，我就是一顫。我覺得這時才是對我們的關係的真正的傷害的開始。我記得小的時候有一位李叔叔。那時我很小，記憶中李叔叔好像經曆了許多不幸的事。他經常來我家和我爸喝酒。喝酒時述說往事，那些傷害他的往事，我都一點也不記得了，可能當時也根本沒有理解，但我記得我爸勸他忘掉那些事情時，他總是說：哥開心。真的，哥現在每天特開心。一說就是一晚上。並且，他每說一次就歎一口氣。而我在一旁心裏就是咯噔的一下。但是沒有人知道。那時已是下班時間，外麵的天色變得昏黑，公司裏的燈都亮了，人們在紛紛往外走。我聽見耳邊範夜的聲音，如潮濕的風吹動梅雨，她正用雙手輕輕按在我的肩頭，像雨滴打落在我肩頭的兩朵花瓣，在我白色襯衫上染下兩片淡紅色的印記洗也洗不掉。“你一定是失戀了。”在夜店的腳步聲徹底消失之後，在所有的聲音消失之後，公司裏安靜下來，這時我看見旁邊的桌子上有一本詩集。
我們所有的人
詩集是英文的，翻開了用一個本子壓著。我從畢業之後就再也沒有讀過英文。而上一次讀一首詩是什麽時候？可能還是在高中。轉眼大學畢業已經許多年，仿佛大學的時光非常非常遙遠了。我突然想到一條河，前方遠處是黑色的森林，身後是一個小村莊，一群長著彎彎牛角的水牛正在渡河，和應該如果結束一場生活，以及結束一場遊戲和結束一場生活的不同和相同的地方。那本書是許芸芸的。許芸芸是大學畢業剛分來的女孩子。平時話不多，總愛埋頭看書。和我靠在椅子裏拿著書看不同，許芸芸總是爬在桌子上雙肘支住身體低著頭看皺著眉，仿佛對身外的一切都不管不顧，“埋頭”一詞說許芸芸看書時的樣子是再恰當不過了。第一次看到許芸芸讀詩時，我吃了一驚，當時隨口做出了一個輕佻的評論。但現在當我探身小心的抽出那本詩集時，我的心中竟有一絲恐懼，我的手竟輕輕的在顫抖。我拿過那本書，我已經很久沒有拿過一本書了。那本書很厚，但拿著很輕，比通常的中文書輕許多。我看了看翻開的那一頁，是一首叫檸檬什麽的詩，Lemonade。我的英語不好，那個單詞我也不認識，應該是和檸檬有關。而那首詩讀來不像是詩，有些像是一篇小說，或者散文什麽的。很長，嘮嘮叨叨的。那首詩我讀的模模糊糊的。應該如何結束一場遊戲和生活？那時老大早已經離去，現在正開著他的軍綠色的牧馬人在回家的路上，一路開開停停；夜店坐在她的那款經典的兩門的mini cooper裏，發動了車子，她穿著一條時尚的裙子，嘴唇塗著一層鮮紅的柔軟的口紅，正將車開出地下車庫，小心的探頭看著將車開進主路；我的那輛白色的本田停在空曠的地下停車場幽幽的燈光下。那首印在淡褐色草紙上的詩寫的是一個美國的小鎮。鎮上的有一個叫吉米的中年男人給詩的作者打一隻巨大的書櫃。是那種通到屋頂的大書櫃，環繞所有的牆。那個詩的作者家裏有許多的書。而這個故事就在其中的一本裏。吉米的兒子不久前在河裏淹死了。幾天之後，吉米看著人們用機器把兒子打撈上來，淌著水放在岸邊的一塊石頭上。但是吉米好像是一個非常樂觀、堅強的男人，在為作者幹活時一點也看不出悲傷。可是，後來作者又接觸到了吉米的父親、母親和他的妻子，才漸漸發現真實的情況並非如此。那個男人的兒子的死，對他的打擊非常大。吉米陷入深深的自責。他總是看到人們用機器把兒子從水中打撈上來放在那塊平坦的大石頭，而且還總是翻來覆去的思考為什麽這件事情會發生。他不停的和自己的妻子討論。首先，和他有關。是他同意讓兒子去買一個叫檸檬什麽的東西。這個東西其實並不是他們非要不可的。而這個叫檸檬什麽的東西又與一係列的生產、加工和運輸的人有關，與這個超市有關，與檸檬的種植、采收有關，甚至與最早的人類發現檸檬這種植物有關。這樣一來，人類的每一個悲劇就幾乎和每一個人都有關，而且和人類整個的曆史有關。而每一個人的每一天的生活，所做的每一件事情，也都會與某一件悲劇有關。每一個人每一天都在製造著悲劇。
這時我翻過書看到那個作者的名字叫：雷蒙德·卡佛，那本詩集的名字叫：All of Us。“這些和我翻譯卡佛有關係嗎？我是否可以說這是在翻譯卡佛？我是否可以這樣寫一部小說或者寫這樣的一部小說？”我看著坐在我對麵的那個男人。而直到那時，直到外麵的天已經完全漆黑，公司的大樓裏燈火通明，但已空無一人，除了在某一間屋子裏的“我”，或許，另一間或兩間屋子裏還會一個或另一個沒有回家的人，街上汽車亮著車燈穿梭不息，無數的行人正匆匆走在回家的路上的時候，是否會有某個人偶然讀完了這首詩叫卡佛的人寫的Lemonade的詩，而恰恰就是在這時，雖然仍然不知道這個Lemonade是什麽意思，但他忽然明白了，這一切所有的一切其實都是關於—個關於檸檬的故事。
立
2018-05-01
附：
網上並找不到卡佛的這兩個作品。我輸入並放到這裏，今後人們就可以從網上找到了。我輸入的很認真，但輸入後並沒有再次核查，因為有可能存在輸入錯誤。如果真是這樣，那我也是很高興的。
Some Prose on Poetry
Years age – it would have been 1956 or 1957 – when I was a teenager, married, earning my living a a delivery boy for a pharmacist in Yakinma, a small town in eastern Washington, I drove with a prescription to a house in the upscale part of town. I was invited inside by an alert but very elderly man wearing a cardigan sweater. He asked me to please wait in his living room while he found his checkbook.
There were a lot of books in that living room. Books were everywhere, in fact, on the coffee table and end tables, on the floor next to the sofa – every available surface had become the resting place for books. There was even a little library over against one wall of the room. (I’d never seen a personal library before; rows and rows of books arranged on built-in shelves in someone’s private residence.) While I waited, eyes moving around, I noticed on his coffee table a magazine with a singular and, for me, startling name on its cover: Poetry. I was astounded, and, I picked it up. It was my first glimpse of a “little magazine,” not to say a poetry magazine, and I was dumbstruck. Maybe I was greedy: I picked up a book, too, something called The Little Review Anthology, edited by Margaret Anderson. (I should add that it was a mystery to me then just what “edited by” meant.) I fanned the pages of the magazine and, taking still more liberty, began to leaf through the pages of the book. There were lots of poems in the book, but also prose pieces and what looked like remarks or even pages of commentary on each of the selections. What on earth was all this? I wondered. I’d never before seen a book like it –not, of course, a magazine like Poetry. I looked from one to the other of these publications, and secretly coveted each of them.
When the old gentleman had finished writing out his check, he said, as if reading my heart, “ Take that book with you, sonny. You might find something in there you’ll like. Are you interested in poetry? Why don’t you take the magazine too? Maybe you’ll write something yourself someday. If you do, you’ll need to know where to send it.”
Where to send it. Something – I didn’t know just what, but I felt something momentous happening. I was eighteen or nineteen years old, obsessed with the need to “write something,” and by then I’d made a few clumsy attempts at poems. But it had never really occurred to me that there might be a place where one actually sent these efforts in hopes they would be read and even just possibly – incredibly, or so it seemed – considered for publication. But right there in my hand was visible proof that there were responsible people somewhere out in the great world who produced, sweet Jesus, a monthly magazine of poetry. I was staggered. I felt, as I’ve said, in the presence of revelation. I thanked the old gentleman several times over, and left his house. I took his check to my boss, the pharmacist, and I took Poetry and The Little Review book home with me. And to began an education.
Of course, I can’t recall the names of any of the contributors to that issue of the magazine. Most likely there were a few distinguished older poets alongside new, “unknown” poets, much the same situation that exists within the magazine today. Naturally, I hadn’t heard of anyone in those days – or read anything either, for that matter, modern, contemporary or otherwise, I do remember I noted the magazine had been founded in 1912 by a woman named Harriet Monroe. I remember the date because that was the year my father had been born. Later that night, bleary from reading, I had the distinct feeling my life was in the process of being altered in some significant and even, forgive me, magnificent way.
In the anthology, as I recall, there was serious talk about “modernism” in literature, and the role played in advancing modernism by a man bearing the strange name of Ezra Pound. Some of his poems, letters and lists of rules – the do’s and don’t’s for writing – had been included in the anthology. I was told that, early in the life of Poetry, this Ezra Pound had served as foreign editor for the magazine – the work of a large number of new poets to Monroe’s magazine, as well as to The Little Review, of course, he was, as everyone knows, a tireless editor and promoter – poets with names like H. D., T. S. Eliot, James Joyce, Richard Aldington, to cite only a handful. There was discussion and analysis of poetry movements; imagism, I remember, was one of these movements. I learned that, in addition to The Little Review, Poetry was one of the magazines hospitable to imagist writing. By then I was reeling. I don’t see how I could have slept much that night.
This was back in 1956 or 1957, as I’ve said. So what excuse is there for the fact that it took me twenty-eight years or more to finally send off some work to Poetry? None. The amazing thing, the crucial factor, is that when I did send something, in 1984, the magazine was still around, still alive and well, and edited, as always, by responsible people whose goal it was to keep this unique enterprise running and in sound order. And one of those people wrote to me in his capacity as editor, praising my poems, and telling me the magazine would publish six of them in due course.
Did I feel proud and good about this? Of course I did. And I believe thanks are due in part to that anonymous and lovely old gentlemen who gave me his copy of the magazine. Who was he? He would have to be long dead now and the contents of his little library dispersed to wherever small, eccentric, but probably not in the end very valuable collections go – the second-hand bookstores. I’d get back to him about what I thought. I didn’t do that, of course. Too many other things intervened; it was a promise easily given and broken the moment the door closed behind me. I never saw him again, and I don’t know his name. I can only say this encounter really happened, and in much the way I’ve described. I was just a pup then, but nothing can explain, or explain away, such a moment; the moment when the very thing I needed most in my life – call it a polestar – was casually, generously given to me. Nothing remotely approaching that moment has happened since.
(By Raymond ·Carver)
Lemonade
When he came to my house months ago to measure
my walls for bookcases, Jim Sears didn’t look like a man
who’d lose his only child to the high waters
of the Elwha River. He was bushy-haired, confident,
cracking his knuckles, alive with energy, as we
discussed tiers, and brackets, and this oak stain
compared to that. But it’s a small town, this town,
a small world here. Six months later, after the bookcases
have been built, delivered and installed, Jim’s
father, a Mr Howard Sears, who is “covering for his son”
comes to paint our house. He tells me – “How’s Jim?” -
that his son lose Jim Jr in the river last spring.
Jim blames himself, “He can’t get over it,
neither,” Mr Sears adds. “ Maybe he’s gone on to lose
his mind a little too,” he adds, pulling on the bill
of his Sherwin – Williams cap.
Jim had to stand and watch as the helicopter
grappled with, then lifted, his son’s body from the river
with tongs. “They used like a big pair of kitchen tongs
for it, if you can imagine. Attached to a cable. But God always
takes the sweetest ones, don’t He?” Mr Sears says. He has
His own mysterious purposes.” “What do you think about it?”
I want to know, “I don’t want to think,” he says. “We
can’t ask or question His ways. It’s not for us to know.
I just know He taken him home now, the little one.”
He goes on to tell me Jim Sr’s wife took him to thirteen foreign
countries in Europe in hopes it’d help him get over it. But
it didn’t. He couldn’t. “Mission unaccomplished,” Howard says.
Jim’s come down with Parkinson’s disease. What next?
He’s home from Europe now, but still blames himself
for sending Jim Jr back to the car that morning to look for
that thermos of lemonade. They didn’t need any lemonade
that day! Lord, lord, what was he thinking of, Jim Sr has said
a hundred – no, a thousand – times now, and to anyone who will
still listen. If only he hadn’t made lemonade in the first
place that morning! What could he have been thinking about?
Further, if they hadn’t shopped the night before at Safeway, and
if that bin of yellowy lemonade hadn’t stood next to where they
kept the oranges, apples, grapefruit and bananas.
That’s what Jim Sr had really wanted to buy, some oranges
and apples, not lemons for lemonade, forget lemonade, he hated
lemons – at least now the did – but Jim Jr, he liked lemonade,
always had. He wanted lemonade.
“Let’s look at it this way,” Jim Sr would say, “those lemons
had to come from someplace, didn’t they? The Imperial Valley,
probably, or else over near Sacramento, they raise lemons
there, right?” They had to be planted and irrigated and
watched over and then pitched into sacks by field workers and
weighted and then dumped into boxes and shipped by rail or
truck to this god-forsaken place where a man can’t do anything
but lose his children! Those boxes would’ve been off-loaded
from the truck by boys not much older than Jim Jr himself
Then they had to be uncrated and poured all yellow and
lemony-smelling out of their crates by those boys, and washed
living and breathing, big as you please. Then they were carried
into the store and placed in that bin under that eye-catching sign
that said Have You Had Fresh Lemonade Lately? As Jim Sr’s
reckoning went, it harks all the way back to first causes, back to
on earth, and there hadn’t been any Safeway store, well, Jim would
still have his son, right? And Howard Sears would still have his
grandson, sure. You see, there were a lot of people involved
in this tragedy. There were the farmers and the pickers of lemons,
the truck drivers, the big Safeway store. . .Jim Sr, too, he was ready
to assume his share of responsibility, of course. He was the most
guilty of all. But he was still in his nosedive, Howard Sears
told me. Still, he had to pull out of this somehow and go on.
Everybody’s heart was broken, right. Even so.
Not long ago Jim Sr’s wife got him started in a little
wood-carving class here in town. Now he’s trying to whittle bears
and seals, owls, eagles, seagulls, anything, but
he can’t stick to any one creature long enough to finish
the job, is Mr Sears’s assessment. The trouble is, Howard Sears
goes on, every time Jim Sr looks up from his lather, or his
carving knife, he sees his son breaking out of the water downriver,
and rising up – being reeled in, so to speak – beginning to turning and swinging
upriver, accompanied by the roar and whap-whap of
the chopper blades. Jim Jr passing now over the searchers who
line the bank of the river. His arms are stretched out from his sides,
and drops of water fly out from him. He passes overhead once more,
closer now, and then returns a minute later to be deposited, ever
so gently laid down, directly at the feet of his father. A man
who, having seen everything now – his dead son rise from the river
in the grip of metal pinchers and turn and turn in circles flying
above the tree line – would like nothing more now than
to just die. But dying is for the sweetest ones. And he remembers
sweetness. When life was sweet, and sweetly
he was given that other lifetime.
(By Raymond ·Carver)
我好
羨慕
你
呀
我好，羨慕，你，，，，呀，