評論
打印
“What do I do with it?” I wanted to know.
“You write down things that happened to you that day.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Because maybe they’re interesting and you want to remember them.”
“What would I write?”
“Well, you’d write something like ‘Today I saw a woman with purple hair crossing Montague Street.’ ”
“我要它做什么？”我想知道。
“你可以寫下你每天經歷的。”
“為什么我要這么做？”
“也許他們都很有趣，而以后你會想要記得這些。”
“我該怎么寫？”
“你可以這樣寫‘今天我看見一個紫色頭發的女人穿過了蒙塔古街。’”
I still remember the way she said that sentence: Today I saw a woman with purple hair crossing Montague Street. It is one of those memories that I carry around, and always will, like the shard of a shell that falls out of a bag you took to the beach for a long summer.
我一直記得她說的那句話的形式：今天我看見一個一個紫色頭發的女人穿過了蒙塔古街。這是我時刻并將一直攜帶，就像是掛在我的包上那一枚在某個漫長的夏天到海灘上拾到的貝殼。
I hadn’t seen a woman with purple hair crossing Montague Street, of course. But in that sentence was my mother’s sense that one might want to capture the extraordinary, her grasp of children’s love of the absurd, her striking physical presence—in my memory, she was leaning toward me, backlit, her black hair falling forward—and her intuition that my seriousness needed to be leavened with playfulness.
當然，我沒有真正看到過穿過蒙塔古街的紫發女人。那句話是我母親編出來引起我不同尋常注意的，她明白孩子們的好奇心一定不會忽視紫發女人這樣惹人注目的存在——在我的記憶中，她站在我的斜前方，背著光，黑色的頭發披在前面——她直覺我的當真需要由嬉鬧中慢慢來發酵養成。
