《芒果街上的小屋》 一本優(yōu)美純凈的小書，一本“詩小說”。由幾十個短篇組成，語言清澈如流水，點(diǎn)綴著零落的韻腳和新奇的譬喻，如一首首長歌短調(diào)，各自成韻，又彼此鉤連，匯聚出一個清晰世界，各樣雜沓人生。所有的講述都?xì)w于一個敘述中心：居住在芝加哥拉美移民社區(qū)芒果街上的女孩埃斯佩朗莎。生就對弱的同情心和對美的感覺力，她用清澈的眼打量周圍的世界，用美麗稚嫩的語言講述成長、滄桑、生命的美好與不易和年輕的熱望與夢想，夢想有一所自己的房子，夢想在寫作中追尋自我，獲得自由和幫助別人的能力。

Born Bad （3）

She listened to every book, every poem I read her. one day I read her one of my own. I came very close. I whispered it into the pillow:

I want to be

like the waves on the sea,

like the clouds in the wind,

but I'm me.

One day I'll jump

out of my skin.

I'll shake the sky

like a hundred violins.

That's nice. That's very good, she said in her tired voice. You just remember to keep writing, Esperanza. You must keep writing. It will keep you free, and I said yes, but at that time I didn't know what she meant.

The day we played the game, we didn't know she was going to die. We pretended with our heads thrown back, our arms limp and useless, dangling like the dead. We laughed the way she did. We talked the way she talked, the way blind people talk without moving their head. We imitated the way you had to lift her head a little so she could drink water, she sucked it up slow out of a green tin cup. The water was warm and tasted like metal. Lucy laughed. Rachel too. We took turns being her. We screamed in the weak voice of a parrot for Totchy to come and wash those dishes. It was easy.

We didn't know. She had been dying such a long time, we forgot. Maybe she was ashamed. Maybe she was embarrassed it took so many years. The kids who wanted to be kids instead of washing dishes and ironing their papa's shirts, and the husband who wanted a wife again.

And then she died, my aunt who listened to my poems.

And then we began to dream the dreams.

生辰不吉(3)

她會聽我念給她聽的每一本書，每一首詩。一天我讀了一首自己寫的給她聽。我湊得很近。我對著枕頭輕輕耳語：

我想成為

海里的浪，風(fēng)中的云，

但我還只是小小的我。

有一天我要

跳出自己的身軀

我要搖晃天空

像一百把小提琴。

很好。非常好。她用有氣無力的聲音說。記住你要寫下去，埃斯佩朗莎。你一定要寫下去。那會讓你自由，我說好的，只是那時我還不懂她的意思。

那天我們玩了同樣的游戲。我們不知道她要死了。我們裝作頭往后仰，四肢軟弱無力，像死人的一樣垂掛著。我們學(xué)她的樣子笑。學(xué)她的樣子說話，那種盲人說話的時候不轉(zhuǎn)動頭部的樣子。我們模仿她必須被人托起頭頸才能喝水的樣子。她從一個綠色的錫杯里把水慢慢地吮出來喝掉。水是熱的，味道像金屬。露西笑起來，拉切爾也笑了。我們輪流扮演她。我們像鸚鵡學(xué)舌一樣，用微弱的聲音呼喊托奇過來洗碗。那很容易做到。

可我們不懂。她等待死亡很長時間了。我們忘了。也許她很愧疚。也許她很窘迫：死亡花了這么多年時間。孩子們想要做成孩子，而不是在那里洗碗涮碟，給爸爸熨襯衫。丈夫也想再要一個妻子。

于是她死了。聽我念詩的嬸嬸。

于是我們開始做起了那些夢。