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玛格丽特·阿特伍德:《传记》  

2007-06-30 09:05:54|  分类: 默认分类 |  标签: |举报 |字号 订阅

  下载LOFTER 我的照片书  |

传记

为什么渴望看到传记呢?如果这是一种渴望的话。或者毋宁说它是控制欲。或者我们只是想掌管生活,无论是谁的生活。

如果配上照片,那就更好了。照片中人没有别的机会——挑起这一张,丢掉那一张。至于这些传记的传主,她们有过机会,但大多数都被错失了。她们本该见到树林中的摄影师,她们本不该张开嘴巴咀嚼食物,她们本不该穿着没有肩带的上衣,她们本不该打哈欠,她们本不该哈哈大笑:被抓拍下来的、令人兴味全消的假牙。原来她就长这副样子啊,我们说,将这张快照和当年的热恋联系起来。她的脸像吃了一半的比萨饼,原来在她前面打哈欠那人就是他啊?在他眼里,除了像廉价的午餐之外,她的形象是什么样的呢?他已经开始秃顶啦!这有什么值得大惊小怪的呢

我正在写我自己的传记。我不是说我正在把生平经历拼起来,不是的,我正在把它分开。这主要是一个如何编辑的问题。如果你们希望我平铺直叙,应该早点说出来;从前我还记得所有的事,也更愿意把它们说出来。当时我还没有发现剪刀和火柴的各种好处。

我出生,要是在从前,我会这么开头。但是剪掉,剪掉,省略了母亲和父亲、在风中飘扬的白色纸绳,祖父和祖母也是多余的,可以去掉。我度过了童年。这句话也就够了。再见,那些污秽的小裙子;再见,那些令我如此苦恼的磨脚的鞋子;再见,那些被拇指擦掉的眼泪和结痂的膝盖,还有那已然模糊的忧伤。

青少年时期,连同它那在海边晒黑的皮肤,它的萎靡消沉、悲伤情史、春思秋兴,也统统可以抛弃。在那些小巷摩擦着陌生的皮衣,像吸食了毒品似的粗重地喘息着,到底是什么样的感觉?我无法忆起。

一旦动了笔,写作就会变得很好玩。有这么多的自由空间敞开。撕掉,揉碎,付诸一炬,扔出窗户。我出生,我长大,我学习,我恋爱,我结婚,我生育,我言说,我写作,如今全都成为过去。我去,我看,我做。永别了,那些历史悠久的倾颓塔楼;永别了,那些冰山和战争纪念碑,所有那些眼睛向上的青年人的石像、充满了病菌的冒险航行、不尽如人意的酒店、朝里开和朝外开的房门。永别了,那些朋友和恋人,你们已从视线中溜走、消失或变得模糊:我知道你们曾经陪我做过头发,跟我开过玩笑,但我业已全然忘却。和你们一道逝去的,还有我那些柔软的绒布玩具猫、狗、马和老鼠:你们曾经有几十个那么多,全都是我的所爱,但你们都叫些什么名字呢?

如今,我总算写出了一些东西了,我变得越来越欢快。我一路走来,摆脱了那些剪贴簿、相册、日记和杂志,摆脱了空间和时间。只剩下一段话,只剩下一两个句子,只剩下一声呢喃。

我出生。

我活。



Life Stories

Why the hunger for these? If it is a hunger.Maybe it’s more like bossiness. Maybe we just want to be in charge, ofthe life, no matter who lived it.

It helps if there are photos.No more choices for the people in them — pick this one, dump that one.The livers of the lives in question had their chances, most of whichthey blew. They should have spotted the photographer in the bushes,they ­shouldn’t have chewed with their mouths open, they ­shouldn’thave worn the strapless top, they ­shouldn’t have yawned, they­shouldn’t have laughed: so unattractive, the candid denture. So that’s what she looked like, we say, connecting the snapshot to the year of the torrid affair. Facelike a half-­eaten pizza, and is that him, gaping down her front? Whatdid he see in her, besides cheap lunch? He was already going bald. Whatwas all the fuss about?

I’m working on my own life story. I­don’t mean I’m putting it together; no, I’m taking it apart. It’smostly a question of editing. If you’d wanted the narrative line youshould have asked earlier, when I still knew everything and was morethan willing to tell. That was before I discovered the virtues ofscissors, the virtues of matches.

I was born
, I wouldhave begun, once. But snip, snip, away go mother and father, whiteribbons of paper blown by the wind, with grandparents tossed out forgood measure. I spent my childhood. Enough of that as well.Goodbye dirty little dresses, goodbye scuffed shoes that caused me suchanguish, goodbye well-­thumbed tears and scabby knees, and sadness wornat the edges.

Adolescence can be discarded too, with its saltytanned skin, its fecklessness and bad romance and leakages of seasonalblood. What was it like to breathe so heavily, as if drugged, whilerubbing up against strange leather coats in alleyways? I ­can’tremember.

Once you get started it’s fun. So much free space opens up. Rip, crumple, up in flames, out the window. I was born, I grew up, I studied, I loved, I married, I procreated, I said, I wrote, all gone now. I went, I saw, I did.Farewell crumbling turrets of historic interest, farewell icebergs andwar monuments, all those young stone men with eyes upturned, and riskyvoyages teeming with germs, and dubious hotels, and doorways openingboth in and out. Farewell friends and lovers, you’ve slipped from view,erased, defaced: I know you once had hairdos and told jokes, but I­can’t recall them. Into the ground with you, my tender fur-­brainedcats and dogs, and horses and mice as well: I adored you, dozens ofyou, but what were your names?

I’m getting somewhere now, I’mfeeling lighter. I’m coming unstuck from scrapbooks, from albums, fromdiaries and journals, from space, from time. Only a paragraph left,only a sentence or two, only a whisper.

I was born.
I was.
I.
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