今天整理旧电脑，翻出前些年写的故事和诗，有些都不记得写过。贴一个玩玩，庆祝新年吧。
1
从表面上看，艾塔城居民的工作就是每日与迷路做斗争。艾塔的面积过于庞大，道路的结构过于复杂，因此寻找合适的路径以安全抵达目的地就成了居民的首要目标。为了这个目标，市长呼吁大家牺牲时间的概念：尝试捷径的后果是可怕的，不如呆在已知的道路上，根据数以百计的路灯路牌，缓慢而正确地挪动脚步。上下班、买菜、甚至约会都无比困难，好在谁也不会为迟到而斥责别人。
在艾塔城，每条道路都分出成百上千的岔道，道路是那么地密集，连房屋都失去落脚之地：但这恰好赋予它们无与伦比的轻巧之美。作为一个外来者，我常常惊叹于艾塔城紫色的透明琉璃，金黄的薄如蝉翼的门窗，小巷上空偶然出现的微翘的阳台，以及雪白的墙顶伸出的几枝火红月季。它们像是道路的无足轻重的附属品，是随机出现，并将随机消失的。然而一个模范的艾塔城居民无暇消受这一切。他们的全部精力，都集中在前方道路微妙的曲率上，甚至对迎面迷人的微笑、多情的眼神也不以为意。市民手册里这样说，在驻足的片刻，一定要保持静止。即使稍稍转动身体，也可能走上一条错误的道路，在这个伟大的城市里失去方向。
你也许会问，如果艾塔城的居民都呆在家里，问题不就解决了么？他们会大叫着说，那是绝对不行的⋯⋯实际上，大部分艾塔城的居民都肩负着一个使命：找到自己的家人并与他们团聚。数百年来，数不清的人在城里迷路，永远与家庭失去了联系。刚开始时，迷路的恐惧紧紧压制着艾塔城的居民：出门寻找亲人，成功的可能性微乎其微。可是随着迷路的人越来越多，出门的禁忌反而减轻了。一个流动的社会建立了起来。人们尽管仍谨小慎微，但一旦确信迷路，他们就放弃回家的念头，坦然地接受命运。这时，所有艾塔城居民的大门都向他敞开，他可以称素不相识的男人为兄弟，也可以仅凭着相互的爱慕，与美丽的女人结合⋯⋯在无数事件同时发生的夜晚，他们感到来自整个艾塔城的热情。
尽管艾塔市的市长竭力塑造城市的现代形象，这个数目庞大的寻亲团体，已不可逆转地成为艾塔城的主体。他们抛弃了原有的生活方式。工厂、学校、甚至商店，都逐渐被废弃了。人们自愿（或者被迫）重新开始了自给自足的生活。他们把道路挖开，种上粮食、蔬菜和水果。他们埋掉了钱币。夜间停留时，他们劳作、享乐并交换物品；白天，他们则继续流浪和无止尽的搜寻。
与艾塔城今天的原始居民成为对比，艾塔城的创立者，其实是一群伟大的政治家、艺术家和科学家。他们根据心中的理想，精心设计了一个地上乐园。她可以避免外敌的入侵，城里的居民也永远不必离开。他们最初的设想是，精巧复杂的理性将推动着艾塔城，使她变成地上最井井有条、最现代化、最伟大的城市。然而对激情和自由的向往，不可阻挡地推翻了他们的计划。
2
在太平洋南部浩瀚的蓝色海域里，散布着一连串精巧的岛屿。关于这些岛屿的形成，科学家有很多种说法，但是哪一种都无法让人信服。不管是海底火山的喷发，还是珊瑚礁的日积月累，寻常的解释无法说明这些岛屿的奇特形状：比如，一个叫做帕姆的岛屿，就有着棕榈树的轮廓。去过帕姆的朋友，无不津津乐道于大自然的鬼斧神工。岛的主要部分是长条形的粗壮树干，上面修建着理想的飞机跑道。从岛的一端伸出去的十几条细长弯曲的半岛，像是棕榈树的叶子。上面的住宅和宾馆，前后临水，海风宜人，人们可以隔着狭窄的海湾，在两个半岛的沙滩上互相呼喊，挥手致意。树干和树叶连接的地方，是商店、赌场、剧院和餐馆，它是帕姆岛的中心，数以千计的游客每天在这里挥金如土。出于方便居民的考虑，半岛和半岛之间也有渡船相连。
这些岛的形状千奇百怪，从飞机上看，它们就像散落在蓝丝绒上的奇趣饼干：海豚、袋鼠、狮子、水母⋯⋯（除了动物，那里甚至还有唯妙唯肖的澳大利亚版图。）细心的地理学家发现，它们的形状其实在不断变化：每个成型的岛屿都在不断完善着自己的轮廓，向它们心中的理想模型靠近。拿帕姆岛为例。二十年前，帕姆的半岛只有四五条，半岛的海岸线也是光滑的，一点儿也不像棕榈树的叶子。可是近些年来半岛的数目在逐渐增加，海岸线也变得蜿蜒曲折，形成叶子边缘的锯齿状。这些变化并不是纯美学的，它们有着实际的好处。增加的半岛提供了新的住宅区域，多变的海岸线则吸引了更多寻求刺激的游客。
这种变化并不希奇。一百年前的世界地图上，人们还无法用肉眼观察到这些岛屿的图例。但它们并不是不存在的：当技术齐备的时代来临，它们便从纯粹的想像，逐渐转移到海上。科学家们无法解释岛屿的形成，那是因为当他们熟睡的时候，岛上的人们，正偷偷把成千上万的沙袋扔到海里去⋯⋯每个夜晚，岛上的居民以精密的计划和冷酷的决心，躲过一切探询的目光：他们依靠模仿上帝的造物，在自己的世界里成为上帝。
3
安达露城的居民热爱旅行⋯⋯每年三月，当漫长的冬夜慢慢变短，橘红色的太阳不再终日徘徊于地平线上的时候，安达露人就会从他们传统的泥屋中走出来。他们把全部的家当放进鹿皮旅行包，三五结伴，开始漫长的旅程。这种旅行一直要持续到九月底。太阳沿着螺旋线上升又下降，终于又重新回到地平线上。这其间，整整六个月。“我们有大把的时间”，一个安达露人打着哈欠对我说。
正因为如此，他们对旅行持一种奇特的态度：一方面出于天性，仿佛非此不可，另一方面又似乎漫不经心、满不在乎。他们知道时间宽裕，步行起来总是不慌不忙，觉得累了，便立刻停步休息。我曾跟一对年轻夫妇待过一个星期，那可说是一个现代背包者的恶梦：即使我厚着脸皮百般催促，我们依然一而再再而三地错过火车、渡轮，有一夜甚至不得不步行十几公里才找到一家旅店。而他们新到一处，既不四处观望、拍照留念，也不与当地人交流攀谈，只私下里小声嘀咕，看起来行迹可疑。
安达露是这样一座巨大却不可见的城⋯⋯如果你把每个安达露人的所在和他们的轨迹标注在地图上，你将会看到一张巨大无比的网，每一座被废弃或新修建的泥屋正是安达露的地标。安达露人有时显得面目模糊，那是因为他们把所有精力，都集中在旅行本身上⋯⋯从北方荒野的某个点开始，这张流动不拘的网慢慢扩展，终于达到今天壮观而又难以觉察的规模。
到了九月，安达露人便在旅行中（任意的）停靠站驻扎下来。他们靠方言辨认兄弟；靠祖传的手艺搭建起结实保暖的泥屋。在随后的六个月里，他们尽可能地足不出户，即使在没有极夜的地方也是一样⋯⋯语言和建筑：在永恒变动的版图上，是这两点将安达露连接成一座完整的城市。
4
Like all the cities whose names fall short of reality, Sulamé is definitely not a city floating on the sea. In the city of Sulamé, one may easily find multiple counterexamples to every of her beautiful legends. If you imagine her as a slender, swift yacht, you will be shocked at the sight of a gigantic ocean vessel. Her famous rose garden is a swamp filled with flies and rotten weeds when the tide is low. On her once crowded streets the marketplace has long gone; delicate china and fine tapestry have been replaced by grotesque boulders engraved with inconceivable patterns. In the city of Sulamé, function has detached itself from form. You can hardly tell a school from a wine house, or a theatre from a mortuary. Ornament is considered redundant. Pleasure is totally forbidden.
It is not because those legends are false. Sulamé was once exactly what you would like to imagine: a glorious city hidden somewhere in the immense ocean, basked in warm sunbeams and bright starlights. All expectations were met, each was in his proper place and the ultimate aesthetic need had been satisfied.
The fall of Sulamé is hard to understand, as her people were known for their creativity and diligence. I have to come to this cruel conclusion: Sulamé was dead at the moment it was born. No more needed to be done so nothing was done ever since. Those imbued with boredom had to direct their talent against her legends, and they did that at all cost. Others who were less desperate gradually exiled themselves to a state of asceticism. In this process of self-destruction the whole city found a new source of unspeakable pleasures.
Sulamé was created perfect, but she has spent the whole life de-perfecting herself. Wish granted, now she is stranded and abandoned, lying quietly on the seabed. Her people have achieved another kind of wonder: for every imagination they created the opposite. Ironically, Sulamé’s lost descendants who are unaware of her history, are still working hard around the world, trying to create new Sulamés according to her past image.
5
When I traveled to the eastern part of the Great Plain Carpa was the city that caught my eye. The moon just climbed up the mountain and was drenching the city with its cool silver light. Street lamps were slowly lighting up, giving out gentle glows as if responding to the sacred call from above.
I had already heard of Carpa and its romantic nature: of its broad-shouldered men and bright-eyed girls, of the love stories that come off the bookshelves and take place in its streets, of the people who worship the name of love, write about it, sing to it, and teach it to the young every and each day. That night, I heard numerous whispers from afar, sweet and low, whenever the mountain breeze glided down from its highly elevated existence.
In the city of Carpa you see nothing but the beautiful. “The young in one another’s arms”… They fully devote themselves to the great mission of love, and then, they forget about the rest of the world…
I fully believe the groundless legend that Carpa is sitting on top of a dormant volcano… Although geologists have assured them again and again, the people of Carpa still genuinely believe that everyday could be their doomsday. No time should be wasted on dull daily routines… As this anxiety could as well have led to destruction, I am glad their craving for a splendid life has overcome the fear of an unfulfilled one. It’s a blessing that they stayed, and that love is the way they decided to live their life to its full.
6
There are certain cities I visited but never wrote about because something tragic happened there. I wish I could turn back time, just to remove them from my memories. There are also cities that I failed to mention, not because I didn’t want to but because I couldn’t: I tried, but never managed to get there.
KWn falls into the second category. As we drove down the bridge that connected the chain of islands on the southern sea I had a hunch, or nightmare, that we could never go back to where we were before… KWn was like the last pearl on this necklace, but the necklace itself, seemed end-less from the beginning. “The meaningless plunging of water and the wind”, monotonic, deep blue, memorizing with its curves and soft gestures. Scenery was changing at an unnoticeable pace: only some occasional cumuli or entrapped surfers proved our progress. They were obviously the unwelcome intruders in this perfect periodical seascape.
We had high hope. Those white sandy beaches, palm trees in high winds, and sensual pleasures of the nights… But the journey was prolonged. It often took a whole day before we saw a new island, and the names of the islands started to repeat themselves. It was an annoying nomenclature: all those names began with a “KW“, followed by a random number. I was so convinced and confused at one point that I began write the names down. It turned out to be just another illusion of mine.
All local residents were happy and sad at the same time. The sun would set the whole room on fire twice a day, from the eastern and western horizon, as this strip of land was the only frontière between the two immense oceans. These fun-loving, well-educated people had searched for sunshine and beaches in early days when those were their only dream. Now they had it, forever, only at the price of mortality: their life would always remain a perfectly monotonic, periodical seascape. Once given, it could never, ever be changed again.
7
Most phone calls K and I ever made were centered on his star-crossed career. He moved around the world so frequently that every little success he achieved at one place was overwhelmed by the frustration of having to start all over again at another. I once met him in a Parisian café where he proudly gave me his address on the back of a napkin. “This is my first house. It will be my last.” He was grinning with confidence. I sent him a postcard from Madrid a week later, only to be informed that he had sold his house in a hurry, and that my post card was forwarded to his new residence: he was driving well on his way to Kathmandu.
K quit a while ago following my advice, though he would not admit it. “It’s more of a cultural consideration than a medical condition,” he explained to me in his Soucal mansion during one of our afternoon sessions. It was just like an old friends’ chat. K offered me tea in a delicate porcelain cup while he himself pouring milk from a silver pot. The children were playing on the lawn; the sun was shining in from the grand French window. For a moment I was surprised that he had children or the time to actually have them… His face was bronze in the dusk, like an ancient statue. “At one point I swear I was thinking in ten languages at the same time. I didn’t even know which tongue I was using. Damn, was I talking after all?”
I couldn’t tell if K appreciated my professional judgement. But as a friend, I knew he was not happy. His heart had been feeding on those transient, mesmerizing visions for so long that he could no longer survive in a city without wheels or wings. In Soucal, everything was still: all he could do was to sit there waiting for his mailman, or death, to come.
The Invisible Cities
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mirrorflower
- Posts: 1263
- Joined: 2008-11-04 17:26
Re: The Invisible Cities
半夜一起来玩猜谜游戏笑嘻嘻 wrote:你的读书笔记和游记的codec 好神奇。请详解一二。
卡尔维诺，迪拜棕榈岛，驶向拜占庭，Key West，Rufus Wainwright "California"
Violent delights.
Re: The Invisible Cities
是，不过我从来没去过庞贝。simonsun wrote:Pompeii?
没看出哪个是 Sailing to Byzantium 嘛。
此喵已死，有事烧纸
Re: The Invisible Cities
只是第一段的一句：the young in one another's arms
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees,
—Those dying generations—at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.
Violent delights.
Re: The Invisible Cities
刚看到5我头一个想到是巴西。那里的人都太美了。不过后来看到谜语，carpa跟cappadocia有关系吗？很喜欢4。Sulamé是哪里？
He looked like a small panther, and he moved like a patch of night.
Re: The Invisible Cities
其实是及时行乐carpe diem变过来。Sulame是法语在海上sur la mer。april wrote:刚看到5我头一个想到是巴西。那里的人都太美了。不过后来看到谜语，carpa跟cappadocia有关系吗？很喜欢4。Sulamé是哪里？
解释一遍之后就觉得这些trick很无聊啦
Last edited by simonsun on 2017-01-08 0:12, edited 1 time in total.
Violent delights.
Re: The Invisible Cities
Key West 那个也很好看，虽然我没去过。佛罗里达本来就是一直伸出去很远很远，再加一堆小岛就更远了，可以想象那种出去就回不来的感觉。
此喵已死，有事烧纸
Re: The Invisible Cities
嗯。还有一首Stevens的诗。
The Idea of Order at Key West
BY WALLACE STEVENS
She sang beyond the genius of the sea.
The water never formed to mind or voice,
Like a body wholly body, fluttering
Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion
Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry,
That was not ours although we understood,
Inhuman, of the veritable ocean.
The sea was not a mask. No more was she.
The song and water were not medleyed sound
Even if what she sang was what she heard,
Since what she sang was uttered word by word.
It may be that in all her phrases stirred
The grinding water and the gasping wind;
But it was she and not the sea we heard.
For she was the maker of the song she sang.
The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured sea
Was merely a place by which she walked to sing.
Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knew
It was the spirit that we sought and knew
That we should ask this often as she sang.
If it was only the dark voice of the sea
That rose, or even colored by many waves;
If it was only the outer voice of sky
And cloud, of the sunken coral water-walled,
However clear, it would have been deep air,
The heaving speech of air, a summer sound
Repeated in a summer without end
And sound alone. But it was more than that,
More even than her voice, and ours, among
The meaningless plungings of water and the wind,
Theatrical distances, bronze shadows heaped
On high horizons, mountainous atmospheres
Of sky and sea.
It was her voice that made
The sky acutest at its vanishing.
She measured to the hour its solitude.
She was the single artificer of the world
In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea,
Whatever self it had, became the self
That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we,
As we beheld her striding there alone,
Knew that there never was a world for her
Except the one she sang and, singing, made.
Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know,
Why, when the singing ended and we turned
Toward the town, tell why the glassy lights,
The lights in the fishing boats at anchor there,
As the night descended, tilting in the air,
Mastered the night and portioned out the sea,
Fixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles,
Arranging, deepening, enchanting night.
Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon,
The maker’s rage to order words of the sea,
Words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred,
And of ourselves and of our origins,
In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds.
Violent delights.
Re: The Invisible Cities
这诗真好！想起宫崎骏波妞里的一些画面来。。。
He looked like a small panther, and he moved like a patch of night.