CD机坏掉了？据说你们考前不应该check这个的？

坏掉了还要让我们接着听？我们考不好肯定和你们没关系吧？any complaints must be made before leaving this building? 然后你们就可以堂而皇之翻脸不认账了？

试音带都没有，把正式带的instruction放了20遍？于是我们听了20遍"turn to Page 1"但是我们一旦turn to Page 1就会被你们警告处分了？

再说你连个备用CD机都没有？粲然一笑告诉我们说等别的班考完了再借？哪条哪款里写着we are supposed to 忍受半个多小时的闹剧之后直接进入reading section并且等待着你去借那破CD机？

 

堂堂北语。。。！！！ 

                                          君问花期未有期

 

 

原本不想写的。写不出。

悲伤是一种柔软的东西，而柔软都是能够被写的。

死却不行。

抗拒被写，抗拒描述，抗拒一切形式的飞舞。

是太硬了，如骨鲠在喉，压迫了所有将至的语言。

语言，又远远不止是语言；它何曾介意过你存在。

 

 

凄凄鸣笛，响彻长空。一人一丧钟，一生一哀号，那么我们哭得究竟是太多，还是太少？所有那些来不及祭奠的尸体，所有那些来不及蚀刻的墓碑，纵然留不下一个痕迹，至少也该发出片刻的声响——或者静默——我这一滴眼泪正在为谁所感受？

其实死者从不感受，而生者也不过是在哭着自己；所谓死者的尊严和生者的怀念，向来是个谎言。

 

 

诚然，死者长已矣，生者多少当愧。而究其生者，其实，不过，也只是将死而暂时未死之人。

诚然，亲戚或余悲，他人早晚当歌。而思其死者，毕竟，终究，不屑久久居留于我们的思念。夜夜床前灯，年年坟上土，听那反复的哭号已经日渐空洞——你真的感到他吗？他还在吗？又还能在多久？

忝列生者，我们所能够，或应该，供奉的唯一的尊敬，大概只能是我们的惶恐。富足或贫贱，高尚或卑劣，年轻或老迈，不，死和生本就是一样的没有道理。任何控制感都是错觉。再次套用那个辛酸的比喻，生命是一袭华美袍子，纵横沟壑，包容无数恼人虱子；有人欣欣然赏着袍子看不见虱子，有人戚戚然数着虱子却忘了袍子。其实呢，也许明天，一把火烧起来，袍子不见了，虱子也不再是你的。

人，应该活得丰富、努力、审慎。死得安静、温顺、沉默。时时刻刻不忘自己是个过客。

当我不再能够飞扬的时候，也别再告诉他们说我来过。开过。

 

 

迟迟暮春，每每觉得悲凉又可笑：为什么，凭什么去伤那些春花，它们今朝谢了明年又会再开。而人生——独独，偏偏，只有这人生是向前走着不能回来，而且——谁又能记得谁开过？

开尽晚秋，开不到你蓦然回首。算尽机关，算不到你何时经过。

这风，这水，这人海。

茫茫然。四顾。只见海。不得人。

眼看着我的，心都想着别人，而我心想的，并不在我开的时候路过。男人，女人，最亲切的陌生人，我们眼神相交，我们身形相错，这第一眼，这最后一眼，这唯一的一眼。你会因为这唯一，这偶然，这错过以后就不会再来，从而就更加记得，并且时时回顾？不，你不会，你会倍加飞速地遗忘。

人生何处不相逢，人生何处不离席。可是你的心，我的意，难道就能痛在同一根琴弦？

 

 

我究竟是格外柔软，还是太过沉静？其实我哪里都不属于，甚至不属于悲伤。

无需骗我了，无需假意的安慰。你们和我都不一样，曾经握着的手都要摸索向不同的方向。对于那些已然超越的，我们非怀念，即轻蔑；对于那些业已看破的，我们非怜爱，即悲悯。我们以为我们有的选择，其实所有选择也是错觉。

而关于过去，又有哪一种过去，它会在乎你原不原谅？它不仅苟活，而且生长。如纤纤女子，肃穆不语，眼神却流泻无端的媚惑；朱唇轻启，掀了寥寥烟雾，正喷吐在你脸上呢。她自己是早已无情无欲无所求，却每每动荡你微薄的心海，不费吹灰。

每个字，每句话，每一种感天动地和每一场惊世骇俗，其实是，只能是，当事者太把自己当回事。吊死者，死者并不知觉；儆生者，生者又何曾在意；撷春花，春花不识故人；咏夕阳，夕阳仍兀自西下。

 

 

以前常常说，我和你们不一样，因为我太害怕长大。害怕变老。很多年过去了，哭喊着挣扎着走到了彼岸，才发现这边也并没有人说的“长大”。从来没有谁成功地长大。成熟只是虚伪的孩子们所发明的另一张脸，更加厚颜无耻的欺骗。

我们并没有做什么新的决定，生活只是日复一日教会我们逐渐领悟所有早已存在的命定；我们并没有铸造什么新的故事，你争我夺你哭我笑又有什么值得炫耀。同一个游戏，只是现在流通着不一样的筹码，以至温柔的更温柔，残酷的也显得更加残酷。下一个转角并没有新的把戏。

人生如长夜，有人闭着眼睛睡去，有人则一夜睁眼看星星；那所谓“永远不老去”的希望，大概就是我早已选择好的，自己变老的方式吧。

 

 

那老死的孩子啊，他眼睛里正逐渐黯淡的光亮，映出遥远天边的下一个黎明。他曾经如此害怕错过的黎明，让他一夜无梦；而下一刻就要来临的天明，将要剥夺他所有的曾经。

 

 

All those gone and to be gone

Coming back to Dorian Gray (3)

 

 

This story begins with a chat, as we’ve said above, between our handsome Lord and beautiful boy, with his rose-white unspoiled youth; and it ends up, some twenty years later, with another chat between the two.

 

I always recall vividly, as well as painfully, of that night, the last one when they were sitting together, and the thought of the very words of Lord Henry used to make me cry.

 

I want music tonight, said he. With a glance we all know that the man speaking is nobody else but Oscar Wilde he himself. Far too obvious, and unbelievably sincere. Through the whole life he mocked, he disdained, he lied to himself; but there was sadness, sheer sadness, as well as self-pity, in every enviably clever word he uttered.

 

I have sorrows, Dorian, of my own, that even you know nothing of, said he. The prince of paradox, the god of cynicism, Lord Henry owned the power of shattering every sensitive dream and breaking every heart, when he finally admitted: the tragedy of old age is not that one is old, but that one is young.

 

Oh, the old, wild, stubborn boy, I could almost see his watery eyes and I hear his low, melodic voice. Had he ever been happy? And what would he do, weep for a while, or try to tell another joke, when Dorian Gray finally parted with him? Maybe he could do both? But what I’m really wondering is whether he would feel, to any extent, a bit lonely, when he lost his one and only faithful companion.

 

Have I said that all lives are transient and fragile? No, it is only the beautiful ones. Believe it or not, ugliness lives long and, when it does perish, you find no trace to follow and not a single clue to mourn over. But those beautiful faces are born to fade, and sensitive hearts to suffer. Too strong an emotion tends to lead to too short a life.

 

Thus Lord Henry cried: to cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the soul. Among all whimsically paradoxical sentences uttered by Henry, this is the only one frequently referred back to. The powerful spell, the charming curse. It called upon a fresh dawn, it opened up a new life, and it embodied the deepest sorrows to come, for the ever-young boy.

 

But what about the sadness of life? Where should we deposit them? All roads terminate at the same point, argued Henry, so just give up thinking and try to live today a little more. Admittedly forgiveness is untrustworthy (after all, who owns a soul noble enough to take this responsibility and sentence me?) and forgetfulness is, on the other hand, a cheap and efficient self-help remedy for us all. There would be no peace for a sensitive heart which is, at the same time, slow to forget. Well, of course all this could be easily dismissed as shallow self-excusing, but, the fact is, you know clearly that every reason is an excuse. 

 

The Picture of Dorian Gray is, as many of the other favorite books of mine, an atypical story, since it actually has no story line at all. In and between the lines there are but metaphors. Loads of. It is somewhat strange that all writers I love seem not to be so good at telling stories. They enjoy symbols and ideals better. Sometimes I even doubt if there did exist, once, such a picture. Maybe it was just an illusion of Dorian, and the anxiety of being in, and being wasting, his own grand youth had long before driven him crazy. Well, who knows, placebos can turn to be real drugs, and they actually light you up, as long as you have faith in them.

 

Henry had also said, on the same night, that Dorian was the type of what the age was searching for, and what it was afraid it had found. Dose it mean that freedom could easily corrupt the soul, and an exemption from one’s conscience is sure to do him harm? And can we interpret this as humans being bad in nature? And then, what about age, the other secret force pushing the picture to its horrible decay? Is it a separate cause? Or maybe crime is just one of the many changeable masks of it?

 

Dorian gray had, however, managed to deal with the dark side peacefully, and even analyze it calmly, after recovering from the first fits of shocking. In a certain sense he was forced to face the corruption of soul mush more frequently than most of us (only he got no punishments from it), and he handled this generally reasonably, and occasionally scornfully. But again you know that any rationality shown in a matter of life or death, heaven or hell, especially when all is quite relevant to oneself, does not differ much from scornfulness. As Dorian had proved for us, keeping a little distance away is always the most reliable way to make us good audience, and honest judges.

 

But, will there be hope? Can there be someone as somber, delicate, and clever, but a little less cynical? I doubt so. This happy prince, caring angel, it must be quite selfish, too quiet and content to care to change, or destroy. After all, what would you think of doing, after finding yourself in a perfect happy state? Just sitting back and savoring that feeling, for ever, I guess. We pursue and we proceed, only because there are dissatisfactions in our life. Dissatisfactions are, similar to punishments and condemnations, just blessings in disguise.

 

Ah, are we heading towards where we started from? Yes, I am a radical advocator of dialectics, voting for balance in every living thing. Balance! That’s the eternal key word, especially for those dangerously in love. Always prepare to find another beauty to worship, another idea to ponder over, and another reason to stay a little longer. Love is a vicious pitfall filled with wild passions and unquenchable desires, with which you have to fight using various carefully designed balances. Balance hatred with tolerance, balance weariness with curiosity, and balance loving someone madly with loving yourself discreetly. It offers security. Physiological love is something we needn’t learn, and psychological love is something we can’t. What we can train ourselves with is just skills.

 

Music! The piece of music Henry had demanded, and Dorian had played, on that final night! Fill the space, fill the hearts! Fill every inch of fearful blank, which reminds me of the ticking of time! Think nothing of the love to share, and tears to shed! Days are to elapse, and youth to decay! But give me your hand, while the music is played, and away we dance.

 

 

回忆里的安全感

 

 

一直觉得，天还不够阴，心情也正模糊，所以再三推迟着写这篇文章的日子。

是的，满满一池事情，然而没有心情。只摆荡，只摇曳，缺乏一个足够强大的力量给它个方向。

 

现在好了，心情来了，很优美。正皎皎，正痛在深的最无言处。

寂寞，寂寞不因为没人懂，而因为不想懂。我所有的最美丽的比喻，最为才华横溢的想象力，都奉献给这个纵横古今的命题了。固执得骇人，却又善变得可怕。

我说过寂寞似午后的钢琴曲，最末那几个零落音符。凭栏雨。

我说过寂寞似暗夜的脚步声，一直远去，一直响，从现实走到了梦境。西窗灯。

而今却觉得寂寞更像一道造型优雅的疮疤，开放在身体的最私密处；虽则四下无人自己也常常怨恋着把玩，他人碰到可就觉出了痛楚。如此不可多得的痛楚。

而我，我知道自己应该小口地啜饮。

写字的心要是宁静的，才可以去扮演各种真实或者假想的角色。才可以让人哭，让人笑，而不至于损伤了自己。我告诉自己要宁静，可是现在竟没有那个力气。

于是这篇文章将会很难看，因为放进了太多我自己。

 

语言这东西，我不能说不了解它的神奇。可是依然日复一日继续着伤到，被它那无所不在的趾高气昂的微笑。

这东西有征服一切的力量，皆源于它内在的无良。其实，这世上有很多事情是骗不来的：让我们侧耳倾听的这首曲子，让我们潸然泪下的这副画面，一盘好吃的菜，几个散在的微笑。可是我们偏偏无心去听，去看，去体验真相也体验身处其中的那个自己；我们偏就更愿意相信语言。只有语言，只有语言，那么情真意切地骗着，那么欢天喜地地接受。

是啊，真奇怪，我竟然开始恨起我这形影不离的侣伴了。它曾经给我穿上漂亮的衣裳，它在我眼睛里点亮阳光。我们有过怎样欢乐的时辰，心跳声音甚至犹在耳畔；可是我竟如此厌弃了它，短短的一夜之间。

请，给一个哭泣的音调。

请，给一个忏悔的祷告。

给一个思念的颜色给一个忧伤的味道，给一个剥夺了语言的空间——让我，在有生之年，演一次我自己。

 

听不出假话的人，想必他从来也听不懂真话；那么人类生出语言来要做什么用，本来想做什么用。没有眼睛的人有没有梦，没有来过的人知不知疼痛？没有语言的世界和思想大约并不能用语言去构想。

可我还是常常会去想：如果只有很少的人会说话，他们会不会，出于惴惴的尊敬和珍惜，相对比较少地欺骗？如果只有很少的头脑去思想，他们会不会，少编纂一些堂皇的道理而多给我们一点存在的安全感？如果每一种情绪和感官的体验，由于没有了语言，再不需要被差别或者归类，它们是不是更真实地游弋于记忆？如果看到了就欢喜，转身了就忘记，什么也不能被保留同时什么也不会被篡改，人生会不会比现在更自在？

自在。我来了你去了，我停了你走了，我笑着看那一切我说不出来的，我的时光我的命，时光的湖恰似一面明镜，澄着我盈盈的自在。

自，在。兀自地存在，嚣张着欢喜。

 

有人长大了，他们就睡了。

有人一直是孩子，终于就飞了。

那些比我高大的，笑着把我原谅了。那些被我超越的，哭着被我原谅了。我以为爱是须臾即逝的恨将要漫天飞扬的，可是居然都静静渗漏过去了。

只有居留停逗于我们眼前的，才是那些真正可以为我们所认识的。

当然，其实只是自以为认识。

 

他说你跟我走，我说我们无处可去。

他说我陪你等，我说我们无事可做。

他说你不识好歹，我说对不起，我只是不认识你。

 

他以为，我们都曾在生命的某个阶段以为，是人生就能写成故事，是故事就总该有个结局。

于是他，以及我们所有人，在等待故事的过程中浪费着生命，又在等待结局的心情里浪费了故事。

在某个转角遇到，牵起了手，走过不长不短的青春。大部分时候迎着阳光，偶尔穿过几片雨云。草地上开着黄色的小花朵，树丛间鸟儿在唱歌。我追，你跑，我笑，你闹。很勇敢，勇敢得就像明天还有很多；很坚定，坚定得就像明天只剩一个。走到了结尾我们就抱一抱，傻傻地在眼泪里笑。

也想。也美好。我何尝不知道。却不能够因为谋求今天的心安而肆意涂抹昨天的样子。

 

那些我自己都想不起了的我自己，不知谁还抱着。恨着。

那个我自己也找不着了的我自己，不知又走到了哪里。是不是停过。

爱过总是好的，至少好过从没遇过。睁开眼睛看看这世界也是好的，至少好过从没来过。并非每个人都像我这么想这是值得悲伤的，但也还是好过所有人都不这么想。

 

昨夜睡梦，惊闻我家老猫在床头絮语。我太累了，没有力气。竟然再不愿望着听懂。