哲学的自杀

我总是在连续几日不分黑夜白昼的实验之后，走上阳台去抽烟。

没有力气，于是也没有情绪。

当你分不清黑夜和白昼的时候，很多别的存在也不再那么泾渭分明了。

所以我就闭上眼睛，真正相信起来，相信自己已逃离开了这世界。我觉得这个城市的尘土和风有了海浪的气息，我觉得脚下的霓虹像山谷里面湿漉漉的眼睛。我知道我这一根烟，一段温暖，燃在一切的时空，只是我不能将它一一分辨。

是的，谁能一一分辨呢，每根烟都有它自己的故事——和什么人一同抽起，用着什么样的火机，其时闲谈着什么样的话题——而岁月竟是它们唯一的标签。

为什么我们不自杀？

不，我不是说我们应该自杀，我只是说我们应该思考我们为什么不自杀——如果我们能够，并且愿望思考的话。

现在的世人，你们太热衷于怀疑和鄙视了，好像恨总要显得比爱坚强一样。可是你们为什么不思考自杀的问题呢，不包纳自杀的怀疑的学说显得多么虚伪啊！难道有哪一种怀疑的尽头不指向我们存在的无意义吗！

无知、无德、不懂感恩的孩子们，你们用不屑的嘲笑吞噬这世界所有的意义。真的吗，真的如你们所说的这样吗，所有爱、崇敬、正直和希望都是无所谓的吗，你们不为着任何的美好而活吗，那你们真的需要回答我这问题了，是什么支撑你们苟活于这浊世呢！为什么不干脆告别了这一切无所谓的呢！

需得承认，曾几何时我也像你们一样。学着无所谓，学着玩世不恭和插科打诨，学着披挂温顺而和蔼的面具，混同在贱众的队伍里，跟着他们一起鄙视我的大爱――而且还生怕自己的刻薄话说得不比他人那样漂亮呢！

为什么你们愿意恨呢，因为自觉出爱的不永恒。是的，我要承认你们的聪明，不能自欺欺人地拥抱所谓爱的永恒。

如果恨，愤懑，或者诅咒，能够长长久久活下去，久过爱情的轮回、你们的生死，它也真不失为一种浪漫。然而却不足以依赖。

真的，如果爱不过是种耻辱的依赖，恨又何尝不是呢？难道太过依赖着爱就暴露我们灵魂的脆弱，而依赖着恨的就尽是些命运的勇士们么？

依赖——允许我动用一个既冷静又动情的，既科学又文艺的，对于依赖的定义——在开始的开始，用了它会开心；在最后的最后，不用它会难过。戒不掉的并不是毒瘾，而是我们这可鄙的趋利避害的人性。

而我们思考，不是为了不受伤害，不是为了去听凭这广布的人性的摆布。亿万个脑细胞，不可计数的联结和发放，总有一些能够，而且应该，令我为我，而不再混同于众生。

所以，为什么我们不自杀？

解决这个问题，在此之前不存在别的可能性，没有别的问题可思考——难道哲学家们天生喜欢思考这个问题吗，怎奈它挡在其它所有问题的前面呢！

我也有我的爱，我的愿望。

我愿活得满，长得茂盛。长成一棵树，或者一墙的蔓藤。

身在心，而心在土；不能离开我的所在，却要极尽我的可能。

每个我呀，也都是我。我是向着美的，向着爱，可是那卑微的肉欲的挣扎的苦痛的不也都是我吗，也是这创造了神圣思想的我的身体所一并创造的呀；而我这身体的每一面，完美的或者残缺的面，不也都是拜那至善至美的神所赐吗，不也都因着同一个真理而堂皇地存在着吗？柏拉图呀，不要唾弃鄙视这给你一切的你的身体吧，不要如此迫不及待地摆脱掉它，就像尼采挥一挥手想要赶开生养哺育他的大众——蠢笨、愚钝也是这世界的一部分呀，也是你自己的一部分，否则你要向着谁举起你思想的尖刀，对着谁去播洒你超人的微笑呢？

我就是一棵树，我需得先接受，否则超越也不过是妄念。我爱我曾经的每一片落叶，如同我爱这蓬勃的身体里面喷张的血脉。

我永远不要站在此地而想着彼岸，又虚弱地安慰自己说不知者不痛。不，我要痛，我宁愿痛，痛也是这人生中预留的一味；我要走，我要生长，我要看看彼岸的样子——是的，我强过一颗沙砾，一只虫，并不因为我对世界有更多的意义，而只因世界对我有更多的意义，就如同到与不到彼岸并不改变彼岸的风景，却颠倒我内心的声色。

我永远不要住在苍白生活等美丽的故事，那是可悲的缺乏想象力的表现。你们不能送给我的故事，由我讲给你们听吧；我也要用你们未曾学会的爱去爱你们。我显得孤独，却不因为寂寞，我只是不偷盗虚妄的希望填充自我的空白；我看上去沉静，却不因为冷漠，我正在我的头脑中活过所有的春秋与风霜。

如果说我有什么欲求，我想要一座充满黑暗的大房子。点思想做烛光，放文字和音乐在里面跳舞。

我不知道，我只是那么想。

实际上，我没那么尽情地活过，我想那么活一定很美，美的就像是死了。

对，我觉得痛苦的时候人才最清醒不过，洞见前生来世所有虚妄；而美的感觉却让人分不清死活，不在乎地狱或天堂。

我不知道，可是我的所谓尽情，却真的是一种安详。

当思想成了唯一的欲望，怎样的风霜也就都成了安详。

且让我停顿居留于如此这样的角落，观赏片刻。让夏夜的风抖落我裙上的灰，让谁人的眼泪灭了我的烟蒂，而我就这么一直观赏，这灯，这光，这人生的大戏——心不在焉，却又全力以赴，我已演过几多的轮回；倾情投入，然后粉身碎骨，我已演过那么久，我演得那样用力。

戏子，戏子，对酒当歌吧，对饮这苦涩的做戏的酒，相互优雅地唱歌吧；戏子，戏子，曲终人散吧，杯空了曲也就该终了，曲终了你们就毅然四散吧。

而我现在只想看着了。

永恒，如果真有一种永恒的话，它一定活在时空之外——其实它也活在这个“活“字，这个描述它的句子之外。就像我在你们之外。

Ending of Endlessness

All in all Oscar Wilde has written nine fairy tales, which were published separately in two collections, namely ‘A House of Pomegranates’ and ‘The Happy Prince and Other Tales’. These tales, written in 19^th century English in its purest and noblest form, and designed with all his willful delicacy, gained him great reputation.

‘A House of Pomegranates’ is composed of four stories, all of which are, comparatively speaking, a little more depressive and obscure than ‘The Happy Prince’ ones. Among these four I like ‘The Birthday of the Infanta’ best, and often feel lost at ‘The Fisherman and his Soul’.

The first story, ‘The Young King’, sounds perfectly like a traditional fairy story with a traditional happy ending, except that it discusses a lot about poverty and death, the insatiable desires of the rich and the irrevocable tragedy of the poor. The young king, brought up as a common country lad and then all of a sudden confronted with all his fortunes and powers, once lost his belief in pursuing the beauties and wonders of life, and then his dreams instructed him that beauties were shameful if they were drenched with tears of the poor. Indeed, hearts aching for beauties go astray easily, but I shall always perceive it as a test rather than a curse.

And in this story the lines touch me most are, surprisingly, the reproaches from the stranger, who jumped out of the jesting crowd and made a claim (with the perfect paradoxical tone of Oscar) that “to toil for a hard master is bitter, but to have no master to toil for is more bitter still”; and the hypocritical sermons from the Bishop, who excused himself with the exclaim that “is not He who made misery wiser than thou art?” Why be, why not be? Why have, why have not? Why all these pains, sorrows, losses and misunderstandings? Alas, the tragedy of life is not that we can not think, and dare not to face the answers, but that there won’t be any answers to be found at all!

‘The Birthday of the Infanta’ tells us about a dwarf who, when accidentally bumping into a mirror, made a fatal discovery about himself—his ugliness and his hopelessness—and thus cried himself to death, for the love he would never get and the laughs he had always got. The little dwarf was pathetic, mainly because of his all-time not-knowing (through his life) and all-of-sudden knowing (towards his death). Why, the little dwarf was pathetic because he embodied all the pains of our own life—not knowing who we are; struggling to find out who we are; taught by tough lessons of life, over and over again, until finally realizing in tears who we actually are—and merely are. All these pains were designed perfectly beforehand, hidden between the lines, and yet we are not meant to decipher them until we come to the end of the journey. Ay, this journey, the one and only journey, which comes for no reason and leads to nowhere! There are flowers on the road, but they mock at us for our uncomeliness; there are birds singing in the sky, but they always depart us before a song is finished; there are even princes and princesses—yes there are, why not—but they always turn out to be no better than a bubble of childish fantasy.

By the way, the end of this story is impressive, quite impressive, crashing with it the last remains of tenderness in one’s heart. Hearing that the dwarf could never get up and dance for her, since his heart had been broken, the beautiful infanta ‘frowned, and her dainty rose-leaf lips curled in pretty disdain. “For the future let those who come to play with me have no hearts,” she cried, and she ran out into the garden.’

Then, ‘The Star-Child’. The star-child was of noble birth (actually a prince, it turned out to be), and with awesome beauty; yet he was somewhat wicked, too proud to have sympathy in any other living things. Thus he was put to a test, and he went through it—with great difficulty, of course—and was finally approved by his parents, who crowned him as the new king. This was truly a story with a morality, which didn’t leave for me much to say.

Now, ‘The Fisherman and His Soul’. I do not want to (and I’m not able to) analyze its whole set of complicated metaphors, with all the historical and religious subtleties seemingly involved. Simply put, it is a story about the struggle between a man’s heart and soul, when he fell in love with someone that wasn’t supposed to be loved. Oscar seemed to believe that it was the heart that helped to prevent the soul’s corruption, but I know the majority tend to think just the opposite. Hence, at the beginning of the story, the Priest educated our young fisherman that it was an evil thing to love at the price of one’s soul, since souls were priceless. And hence, at the end of the story, the Priest was educated by those “strange flowers” growing on the lonely grave, which were “strange to look at, and of curious beauty”, and made him feel glad without knowing why.

See, fairy tales. That’s the very reason for their long-time existence: creating endings, mysteriously beautiful endings, for all the losses in reality that cannot be compensated in any other ways.

Ay, fairy tales. We need fairy tales, because reality sucks. Here nothing changes; here nothing stays. Here everybody has a predetermined role, but nobody plays it wisely. Think about Oscar Wilde himself—it isn’t hard to picture him in his cold, conservative upper-class society—another corrupted man, ill-disposed writer, sipping the best wine, smoking the best tobacco, sharing the best seat in theatre and driving out with dozens of handsome young boys, while messing up his own family life, and thus making all those who love him heartbroken, gone with whom was his painfully gained reputation.

Similarly, both ‘The Happy Prince’ and ‘The Nightingale and the Rose’, the two main tales that Oscar was famous for, are sad stories—sad because of the out-of-tune purity and kindness of their chief characters—but the former ended more beautifully (and thus less strongly) than the later. 

The swallow who, out of innocent love and respect, companied the Happy Prince to the end of the days, has always been my favorite. Also I love the nightingale, of course, but she was, you know, too romantic (and correspondingly dramatic) to be true. In other words, the swallow was more like we common people—common enough to be pathetic—and yet, within his last few seconds in this world, life suddenly burst into a brilliant blossom; and the nightingale, on the other hand, tended to resemble an opera queen, who came to the stage to die nobly.

In the end, the swallow tarried around too long to escape the winter, and join his folks in Egypt, the holiday destination he was never destined to make.

‘“Goodbye, dear prince!” he murmured, “will you let me kiss your hand?”

“I am glad that you are going to Egypt at last, little swallow,” said the prince, “you have stayed too long here; but you must kiss me on the lips, for I love you.”  

“It is not to Egypt that I am going,” said the swallow. “I am going to the House of Death. Death is the brother of Sleep, is he not?”’

That was really a sad scene; even seeing the Happy Prince, once shiny and glorified and now shabby from head to toe, standing lonely at the square in his own country couldn’t make one feel any sadder. There were days when I somewhat loathed the prince, for it was his fault, it seemed to me, that the swallow died a poor death. Selfish he was. But then is there any love that isn’t labeled with obstinacy and selfishness? Why, the prince did love the little swallow, and hence it was fortunate for the swallow to meet this doomed prince.

There are people born soft, and there are also others trained to be so. The Happy Prince obviously belonged to the former, and that’s why I should say he was doomed to be a tragedy. As to the swallow, sure enough, he was the latter, and it was love that trained him this way. He knew not the good and the evil, he knew not pains, he knew not all those sorrows filling the prince’s heart and wetting his eyes, but he did feel sure about his love, and thus he stayed. Love makes one soft, and share noble tears. That’s exactly the reason why, in the end, God said that “in my garden of Paradise this little bird shall sing for evermore, and in my city of gold the Happy Prince shall praise me.”

Now we turn to “The Nightingale and the Rose”. Both are frequently used characters in fairy tales. People say roses are of romantic personality, always. Ardent, proud, and of everlasting liveliness. Nightingales are, on the other hand, tragically kind-hearted—guess so melodic a voice combined with so tiny and insignificant a body automatically creates a sense of pity in us. Over this bird I have spread so many words of love, and flowers of mourning, and over that cold, silent, senseless body I have almost cried my heart out, that nowadays I more or less doubt if anyone could really understand my complexes about her.

“Love is better than life”, thus she cried. And thus she believed. But as a matter of fact there wasn’t, and never will be, anything that is more precious than life because life, this cheap, vulgar, pathetic life, is all that we really have. It is a touching scene to die for something that one cares, but our nightingale died for an illusion of her own, namely that love defeats life in meaningfulness. Admittedly the best part of this tale is the end, where the red rose, stained with the pure, sacred blood of the nightingale, was thrown into the gutter. And into the gutter also was that so called ‘true lover’, who decided at last that philosophy books were a lot more trustworthy than love.

Nay, I don’t detest the student in any sense. The dead are dead, completely and helplessly. Yet for the living life has to be continued—and, after a while, to be enjoyed once again. We live this life because we can bear this life (and, by bearing it, most of us mean that we manage to find some little secrets of pleasure in it), and thanks to this simple-minded robustness we human beings gather enough guts to live on this destined-to-perish life.

But I do feel sorry for the bird. He who dies for the beauty in life dies nobly (all other sacrifices are little better than mere imprudence), and roses bloom in his glory long after his light of life fades away.

As for “The Devoted Friend’, I’ve already scribbled something about it before. And I need not reemphasize my complicated hatred combined with pity towards those who hurt others without realizing it themselves. And I’m sure that among those who shed truthful tears for our little Hans there are some big Hughs, but again they don’t realize it themselves. There are flowers in their life that they steal with lies, there are friends in their life that they make use of without shame, and there are promised wheelbarrows that never come true and there are shabby lanterns that they wouldn’t share with. This cannot be helped. All I want to mention is that—words kill. Deeds kill many, indeed; but words kill a lot more, and in a bitterer way—especially beautiful words. So kind folks, be sure you watch out for beautiful words.

And “The Remarkable Rocket”, what should I say about him? Surprisingly I don’t find him—with all his arrogance and ignorance—funny. Not at all. But pathetic he wasn’t, either. In fact he died before hard experience of life shattered every piece of his dream (as it has done to so many of us), and that was indeed something we could call luckiness. There has to be some time in life, I say some time, that we need to believe that “something is different because of me”—some people cry for me, and others laugh when thinking of me, and that’s really a comforting thing—even hatred and resentment might strengthen my sense of existence.

Finally we come to the tale of “The Selfish Giant”. A beautifully written one, and also said to be Oscar Wilde’s favorite one. Through out the history of fairy tales giants do not have so good a reputation, and “rough”, “evil”, “simple-minded” are the words most frequently referred when tales talk about them. Yet Wilde described a rough figure with a tender heart, who put on for us a play of pure beauty, and grand splendor. And, above all, this story has a charming manner unraveled by all the others: it is simple. Its design is simple, and simple is its implications. The giant hated the children—the giant loved the children—a child kissed the giant—the giant missed the child—and, after many years passed, when the child finally returned to the garden, and revealed himself as God, saying to the old giant that “You let me play once in your garden, to-day you shall come with me to my garden, which is Paradise”, oh lo, you’ll find your face drenched with hot tears without knowing why!

This is the end of stories; this is the end of this essay.

Prince, my dear, dear prince, too fragile to touch and too dignified to kiss on, you shall always be my shadow of dream. Catch me by the hand, and lead me to the end. Point for me the end, oh lo, where is the end? ‘And then, the prince and the princess lived together, happily’, thus written the fairy tales. Oh pray, this is not the end, but merely a beginning of the end, or an end of the beginning. The true end, the end of the end, is where everybody dies.

Should we die, at this overwhelming moment, with our love singing aloud at its peak of ecstasy? Or should we live, for another thousand of years, till there is no one to share our memories with? Neither, my dear, dear prince, we shall do neither, and we go nowhere, since in your misty eyes I could linger and to your soft touch I will surrender, for ever.

（自知写得过长了，没耐心看的千万别跟自己较劲）

公子

江南春，三月雨。

公子你将要经过。

你……没事么？

我看着你走出来，转身，漫然关上了车门。

左脚……有点痛。我扬起脸来淡淡地冲你笑。我知道空气里有清秀可人的初春气息，我知道阳光和树影在我脸上交织出了优雅美丽的弧线，我知道这一刻一切是刚刚好。

哦？还能走么？你轻轻松松说着，点起了一根烟。

这时候我发现你的目光停在了我的脸上，久久。一如几个世代的守候。

然后轻轻笑开了，那笑容是耀眼地明亮。

一下子，散尽我千百年的寒雨冷泪。

上车。你温柔地向我伸出手。

为了握住这双手我经历了怎样的时光，那望也望不穿说也说不尽的伤心的时光啊。

而你竟然都不知道。

是的，我知道，你不知道。

江南春，三月雨。

公子你恰恰停留。

殷殷，你找什么？

你从后面轻轻，轻轻抱住了我，不期待而又无比亲切地。你的头温柔靠在我的肩膀上。

找这种烟。说着我从风衣口袋里拿出我的烟。

白色烟盒红色的字。纤细烟雾淡淡的香。

茶花？你若有所思玩弄这看上去很古老的烟盒。第一次看到。

嗯，在我们家那边很常见的。这烟。我撕开烟盒，小心地抽出一支。

与君初相识，犹如故人归。

你喃喃叨念着烟盒上面的两行诗句。出神。

那么简单平白，却又那么惊心动魄，不是么？我打开火机，点燃了烟并深深吸了一口。

每一口都像是第一口的味道。

殷殷，你知道吗。你的手轻柔抚摸着我的头发。我第一次见你的时候就有这样的感觉。

我知道，我当然知道。

是的，我知道，你不知道。

在我心里是世世代代辛辛苦苦的轮回，在你眼里只是若有似无的一个梦。

忧伤，和快乐一样安详。因为它是不真实的。

你，很喜欢这烟？

我从你雾样的眼神里了解到你也并非什么都不记得，不是吗。

你只是不记得你记得。

不知道呢。我笑笑。我只抽过这一种。

江南春，三月雨。

公子你偏偏多情。

殷殷，你爱我吗。

你和我并排躺在沙发上。你的手揽着我的腰你的唇轻轻吻在我额头上。

爱。我紧紧咬着嘴唇，眼泪却还是流下来。

爱，爱。

浸润了太多的眼泪，包裹了太多的忧郁，背负了太多淡薄得让人不忍逼视的希望。

最残忍，就是这些希望。

红颜每多薄命

公子多情

怜悯歌衫带泪痕

痴心渐化浓情……

这歌，叫什么名字？

公子多情。我转过脸来望着天花板。很老的一首歌了。

你，很喜欢这歌？

曾经吧。我笑笑。已经很难重新喜欢上什么东西了，只能怀念着以前喜欢过什么。

江南春，三月雨。

公子你漾我春心。

殷殷，你真漂亮。你的手温婉而细腻地拂过我的眉眼、我的嘴唇、我的脸颊。

一切都那么自然，那么美。你闭上眼睛，然后再睁开。我们以前是不是见过？

以，前？以何，为前？

我也不知道。你沉醉地看着我的脸。我总是觉得我们以前就认得。

很久，很久以前了。你补充道。

嗯。我伤感地点头。我想你是对的。

你听过这首词吗？

绿杨芳草长亭路，年少抛人容易去。楼头残梦五更钟，花底离愁三月雨。

无情不似多情苦，一寸还成千万缕。天涯地角有穷时，只有相思无尽处。

我浅浅低吟。在我的声音里时光柔软地陷落。

没有——谁的？

晏殊的。晏殊的玉楼春。美么？

不美。你的声音淡淡地苦涩。我觉得凄厉。

凄，厉？

当永恒的情爱被昭然碾碎于纷繁的俗世磨灭于动荡的人心，你要它怎么能够，

不凄凉，不尖厉？

你，喜欢这词？

也许吧。我笑笑。你经过生活，生活就给你刻下印记，我们每个人都是背负着这些印记前行。

江南春，三月雨。

公子你枉我痴情。

以上那些，都不存在。

那都是我的记忆。

现在让我们回到现实来。

快睁开眼看看这须臾即逝的现实，在它变成记忆之前。

我想着过去，每一个过去。无数的时空里面无数个有你的过去。

我的眼泪就这么大滴，大滴地落下来。最伤心的泪总是最安静。

我看着现在，每一个现在。纠缠着你我的命运的绳索曲折延伸到所有的现在。

你的鲜血就这么大滴，大滴地落下来。最美丽的生命总是最短暂。

要痛苦而不要放手，要毁灭而不要遗忘。

这是我的决定，过去现在以及未来。

这是我的决定，从心被你掏空的那一刻开始。

公子你不记得那一刻，春心年少，妄作承诺；公子你不记得那一刻，红颜薄命，为君损折。

公子你不记得，你不会记得，那一晚夜凉如水。毒药是淡淡的甜。

曾经那么爱你，那么。

爱得没有一丝保留，终于用尽了所有力气。

一辈子的力气。以及下辈子或者下下辈子。

于是再不能跳出这悲伤的轮回，永恒的寂灭。

如果生命是一场倒叙，睁眼的时候就看到了寂灭，

谁会有兴趣活下去。

你会吗。

可我就这么活了过来，轮回过来。

重复着寻找你，我的爱，重复着将你毁灭。

虽则杀死你，却不能杀死爱。

即令杀死爱，却不能杀死恨。

心有情，即是爱，心无情，自然空留恨。

真正能够永恒的，不是你也不是我，不是爱也不是恨，只是某一颗记得的心。

哪有什么前生，公子，哪有什么来世，

殷殷从来就不存在。

存在的只是你打碎的承诺，我拾捡不起的心。

有时候我也真的怀疑，一切所谓回忆大概并不存在。

回忆，和爱情一样，大概只发生在怨念的女人心里。

有时候我也想，也希望，或者爱你爱到再没有一点点恨，或者恨你恨到再不剩一点点爱。

岂非都是解脱。

让这长长的长长的生命和爱恨，这无从消耗的想念，一转身就成了白纸。

消失，消失，不过都是白纸。

可是谁想要解脱，难道有谁担当得起解脱。

把恨忘了，把你放掉，我还能剩下些什么。

于是重复着寻找你，我的爱，重复着将你毁灭。

虽则杀死你，却不能杀死爱。

即令杀死爱，却不能杀死恨。

江南春，三月雨。

公子你将要经过。

小姐……你知道卫城路怎么走？

你的目光停在了我脸上，久久。一如多少春秋的从前。