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Then one spring Saturday two years later, I entered a bookstore in Philadelphia and asked a young woman on a ladder where I might find the Shakespeare sonnets1 I needed for an English class.
She looked down and told me where to find the poetry section. I thanked her, found the volume2 and left the store.
At the end of my English class a few weeks later, I walked into the hall and saw the bookstore clerk leaving a nearby classroom. I remembered her wheat-colored hair, her warm voice and intelligent green eyes.
She saw me and smiled in recognition3.
“The girl on the ladder,” I said when I reached each other.
“The Shakespeare sonnets.”
“Do you always remember the books people ask you about?”
“If the people are memorable.”
I smiled at that.
We were both heading for other classes, but ex－changed names before parting.
I ran into Susan often after that, and we usually said hello or joked and then went on our way. Some－times we met behind the campus library and sat in the shade of the sycamore4 trees, talking and loafing. If she failed to show, that was all right. We were just friend passing time, and I preferred it that way. After the an－guish5 of Jayne, I was wary6 of opening up to anyone.
One afternoon, however, our talk found its way to our parents.
“You would like my mother, I think,” I said, “but my father’s dead since I was 11.” I had not intended to mention something that I rarely divulged7, even to close friends, and I nearly wished I had keep silent about it.
Susan touched my arm.
“It’s been a while,” I said.
“I’m still sorry.” A darkness crept into her usually bright eyes. “I lost mine at the end of high school.”
It was my turn to say that I was sorry.
We sat some long minutes in the slow afternoon, muted8 by these thoughts. But I learned then, it was one of Susan’s virtues not to allow the wounds that come with life to crowd out the joys, and we were soon talking of more cheerful matters. A few weeks later we began to date.
That summer I went to the shore for the final time as a college student. Once a place for adventure and wild excitement, it now seemed little more than a place where I had a guaranteed9 job. I felt older, wiser, cer－tainly less naive. And there was a sense of things com－ing to an end—my youths and the things of youth that we must shed to live stable, responsible lives. This trip was also different in that Susan would occasionally visit on weekends.
Some nights a pathway of moonlight lay across the water, connecting the shore to the horizon. “It’s as though we could walk on it,” I said once.
“Where would it take us?”
“Wherever we want, I like to think.”
“Where would you go?”
“I don’t know, but I’d want you to come along.”
“Gladly.”
We hold each other as the night deepen and cooled. It was here, as the waves crashed in the dark－ness, that I let Susan fully into those guarded places where I’d cloistered10 my sensitive injuries. She was delicate with them, and as she revealed to me her own secret fears and wishes, I knew what true love was.
After Susan had boarded the bus back to Philadel－phia and I was alone, I often wrote to her. She has gath－ered those letters, yellowing and in a cursive11 that has changed over the years, in a purse of pink silk at the bottom of an heirloom12 dresser we received from her mother after we married. I have Susan’s letters, too, that I keep in a shoe box. When I read them, I am re－mained why I wanted to spend my life with her.
Susan and I rose early in Stone Harbor the fol－lowing morning and went to the beach to “greet the o－cean”, as my wife always says. We walked the several blocks in the still cool air and the special hush that comes with morning by the sea.
“It’s so lovely ,” Susan said, clutching13 my hand, and I agreed.
Overhead the gulls wheeled and cried as we walked barefoot in the cool, wet sand. After a dis－tance, we stopped, and I sat with my back close to a dune, white Susan kept to the shoreline, staring out to sea or looking about for interesting shells or stones. Often she turned and looked at me , the bright early morning sun framing14 her back.
First love, I thought, may cut and mark us the deepest, but love that lasts and grows does so because it joins and nurtures what is dearest, finest and no－blest in two people. And because it understands and forgives what is less so.
First love may register in the blood with dizzy－ing15 effect, but the love that endures take up resi－dence in the soul. In this way, love becomes some－thing far more powerful than bone and flesh. It com－pletes us, giving us the wholeness we need to navi－gate16 safely through life.
I could have watched my wife for hours as the waves broke and advanced toward her bare feet. In a world sometimes marred by hurt and anguish, I felt profoundly grateful that the sun had risen for me on such a love. I could feel it now flowing from me to her and back to me again, joined everywhere, complete, like the seas, and a harbor17 against all tempest18.
两年以后的一个星期六，我走进了费城的一家书店，向站在梯子上的一位年轻姑娘询问，在哪儿可以找到我上英语课需要的莎士比亚的十四行诗。
那位姑娘朝下看了看，告诉我在哪儿可以找到诗歌专柜。我向她道了谢，找到了那本诗集，就离开了书店。
几周后，我的英语课临近结束，走进门厅后，我看见那位书店职员正从附近的一个教室走出来。我记得她那淡黄色的头发、热情的声音和一双碧绿的慧眼。
她看见了我，也认出了我，并报以微微的一笑。
“梯子上的姑娘，”我们两人走近时，我如是说。
“莎士比亚十四行诗。”
“你总能记住人们向你询问过的书吗？”
“如果询问的人令人难忘的话。”
听到这话，我不禁笑了。
我们都要去上别的课。分别前，我们互通了姓名。
从那以后，我经常碰到苏珊。我们一般都互相道声"你好"，或者开句玩笑，然后继续走各自的路。有时，我们在学校图书馆后面相遇，便会坐在梧桐树的树荫下聊天，悠闲地消磨时光。如果她没有露面，那也没什么。我们只不过是在一起消磨时间的朋友，何况我喜欢这样。经历过杰恩那次痛苦之后，我不敢再轻易向别人敞开心扉。
然而，有一天下午，我们的谈话渐渐涉及双方的父母。
"我想你会喜欢我母亲的，"我说道，"可是我父亲在我11岁时就去世了。"我并不是有意提到这些几乎从来不向任何人透漏的事情，哪怕是对亲密的朋友们。我有点后悔没保持缄默。
苏珊抚摸着我的肩膀。
"已经过去很长时间了，"我说。
"我还是感到难过。"她那双总是明亮的眼睛流露出一阵忧伤。"我读完中学时，也失去了父亲。"
该轮到我说难过了。
那天下午过得很慢，那些回忆使得我们默默地坐了良久。但就在那时，我发现了苏珊的一个优点：不让生活中的酸痛将欢乐排挤掉。我们很快谈起了愉快的事。几周后，我们开始约会。
那年夏天，我又去了海滨，那是我大学时代最后一次去海滨。那里一度是我经历奇遇与疯狂刺激的地方，现在看来只不过是一个我曾经有过一份有保障的工作的地方。我感到自己更成熟、更明智，当然也不那么天真了。我有一种事情到了该了结的时候的感觉--我们必须摆脱青春以及伴随青春的一切，过一种稳定、负责任的生活。这次旅行还有一点不同，苏珊有时在周末来看我。
有些夜晚，月光倾斜在水面上，使海岸与地平线相连。
“看起来好像我们可以在上面行走，”有一次我这样说。
“它会把我们带到哪儿呢？”
“我更愿意认为它能带我们去我们想去的任何地方。”
“你想去哪儿？”
“我不知道，不过，我要你跟我一起去。”
“非常乐意。”
夜深了，天气也凉了，我们相互拥抱着。就是在这里，听着黑暗中波涛的吼鸣，我让苏珊完全进入了我隐藏自己敏感伤痛的防护区。对于我的伤痛，苏珊表示出温柔与体贴。当她向我吐露她自己隐藏在内心的恐惧与愿望时，我领悟到什么才是真爱。
苏珊乘公共汽车回到费城以后，留下我独自一人。我经常写信给她。她一直把那些信保存在一只粉红色丝绸手提包里。手提包则放在我们结婚时她母亲送给她的祖传衣柜的底部。现在那些信已经陈旧的发黄了，信中的草体字迹也因年深日久变了模样。我也有苏珊的信，我把它们珍藏在一个鞋盒里。每当我读起那些信时，便会想起，我当初为什么想和她度过我的一生。
到石港的第二天，我和苏珊早早起床，到海滩去“向大海请安”———我的妻子老爱这样说。我们在静止清凉的空气中和特别的寂静中步行经过几个街区，这份寂静是海边的清晨所特有的。
“太美了，”苏珊握紧我的手说道。我表示赞同。
我们赤脚走在凉爽而潮湿的沙滩上，海鸥在我们的上空翱翔、鸣叫。走了一段，我们便停下来。我紧靠一堆沙丘坐下，苏珊则靠近岸边，一会儿凝望大海，一会在四周寻找有趣的贝壳或石子。她不时地转过身来看我。清晨明亮的阳光勾勒出她背部的轮廓。
我认为，初恋可能会最深地刺痛我们，并给我们留下印迹。而持久的、日益发展的爱情能做到这一点是因为它将两人最珍贵、最美好、最高尚的东西连接在一起，并给予滋养。还因为它能理解和原谅一些逊色的东西。
初恋可能会浸入血液，令人头晕目眩；而永恒的爱情则在灵魂深处找到归宿。因此，这种爱具有血肉之躯远远不及的力量。它使我们成为完整的人，给予我们一种整体感，使我们得以平安度过一生。
当浪花涌向她一双赤脚而溅碎时，我能够一连几个小时注视着我的妻子。在这样一个有时被创伤和痛苦损坏了的世界，我深深地感谢上苍，让一轮红日在爱的上空为我而冉冉升起。我现在能感觉到这爱正从我的身上流向她，又从她的身上流回到我这里，把我们所有的一切都连接起来，使之成为一个整体，犹如连成一片的汪洋大海，以及一个可以躲避一切暴风雨的港湾。
She looked down and told me where to find the poetry section. I thanked her, found the volume2 and left the store.
At the end of my English class a few weeks later, I walked into the hall and saw the bookstore clerk leaving a nearby classroom. I remembered her wheat-colored hair, her warm voice and intelligent green eyes.
She saw me and smiled in recognition3.
“The girl on the ladder,” I said when I reached each other.
“The Shakespeare sonnets.”
“Do you always remember the books people ask you about?”
“If the people are memorable.”
I smiled at that.
We were both heading for other classes, but ex－changed names before parting.
I ran into Susan often after that, and we usually said hello or joked and then went on our way. Some－times we met behind the campus library and sat in the shade of the sycamore4 trees, talking and loafing. If she failed to show, that was all right. We were just friend passing time, and I preferred it that way. After the an－guish5 of Jayne, I was wary6 of opening up to anyone.
One afternoon, however, our talk found its way to our parents.
“You would like my mother, I think,” I said, “but my father’s dead since I was 11.” I had not intended to mention something that I rarely divulged7, even to close friends, and I nearly wished I had keep silent about it.
Susan touched my arm.
“It’s been a while,” I said.
“I’m still sorry.” A darkness crept into her usually bright eyes. “I lost mine at the end of high school.”
It was my turn to say that I was sorry.
We sat some long minutes in the slow afternoon, muted8 by these thoughts. But I learned then, it was one of Susan’s virtues not to allow the wounds that come with life to crowd out the joys, and we were soon talking of more cheerful matters. A few weeks later we began to date.
That summer I went to the shore for the final time as a college student. Once a place for adventure and wild excitement, it now seemed little more than a place where I had a guaranteed9 job. I felt older, wiser, cer－tainly less naive. And there was a sense of things com－ing to an end—my youths and the things of youth that we must shed to live stable, responsible lives. This trip was also different in that Susan would occasionally visit on weekends.
Some nights a pathway of moonlight lay across the water, connecting the shore to the horizon. “It’s as though we could walk on it,” I said once.
“Where would it take us?”
“Wherever we want, I like to think.”
“Where would you go?”
“I don’t know, but I’d want you to come along.”
“Gladly.”
We hold each other as the night deepen and cooled. It was here, as the waves crashed in the dark－ness, that I let Susan fully into those guarded places where I’d cloistered10 my sensitive injuries. She was delicate with them, and as she revealed to me her own secret fears and wishes, I knew what true love was.
After Susan had boarded the bus back to Philadel－phia and I was alone, I often wrote to her. She has gath－ered those letters, yellowing and in a cursive11 that has changed over the years, in a purse of pink silk at the bottom of an heirloom12 dresser we received from her mother after we married. I have Susan’s letters, too, that I keep in a shoe box. When I read them, I am re－mained why I wanted to spend my life with her.
Susan and I rose early in Stone Harbor the fol－lowing morning and went to the beach to “greet the o－cean”, as my wife always says. We walked the several blocks in the still cool air and the special hush that comes with morning by the sea.
“It’s so lovely ,” Susan said, clutching13 my hand, and I agreed.
Overhead the gulls wheeled and cried as we walked barefoot in the cool, wet sand. After a dis－tance, we stopped, and I sat with my back close to a dune, white Susan kept to the shoreline, staring out to sea or looking about for interesting shells or stones. Often she turned and looked at me , the bright early morning sun framing14 her back.
First love, I thought, may cut and mark us the deepest, but love that lasts and grows does so because it joins and nurtures what is dearest, finest and no－blest in two people. And because it understands and forgives what is less so.
First love may register in the blood with dizzy－ing15 effect, but the love that endures take up resi－dence in the soul. In this way, love becomes some－thing far more powerful than bone and flesh. It com－pletes us, giving us the wholeness we need to navi－gate16 safely through life.
I could have watched my wife for hours as the waves broke and advanced toward her bare feet. In a world sometimes marred by hurt and anguish, I felt profoundly grateful that the sun had risen for me on such a love. I could feel it now flowing from me to her and back to me again, joined everywhere, complete, like the seas, and a harbor17 against all tempest18.
两年以后的一个星期六，我走进了费城的一家书店，向站在梯子上的一位年轻姑娘询问，在哪儿可以找到我上英语课需要的莎士比亚的十四行诗。
那位姑娘朝下看了看，告诉我在哪儿可以找到诗歌专柜。我向她道了谢，找到了那本诗集，就离开了书店。
几周后，我的英语课临近结束，走进门厅后，我看见那位书店职员正从附近的一个教室走出来。我记得她那淡黄色的头发、热情的声音和一双碧绿的慧眼。
她看见了我，也认出了我，并报以微微的一笑。
“梯子上的姑娘，”我们两人走近时，我如是说。
“莎士比亚十四行诗。”
“你总能记住人们向你询问过的书吗？”
“如果询问的人令人难忘的话。”
听到这话，我不禁笑了。
我们都要去上别的课。分别前，我们互通了姓名。
从那以后，我经常碰到苏珊。我们一般都互相道声"你好"，或者开句玩笑，然后继续走各自的路。有时，我们在学校图书馆后面相遇，便会坐在梧桐树的树荫下聊天，悠闲地消磨时光。如果她没有露面，那也没什么。我们只不过是在一起消磨时间的朋友，何况我喜欢这样。经历过杰恩那次痛苦之后，我不敢再轻易向别人敞开心扉。
然而，有一天下午，我们的谈话渐渐涉及双方的父母。
"我想你会喜欢我母亲的，"我说道，"可是我父亲在我11岁时就去世了。"我并不是有意提到这些几乎从来不向任何人透漏的事情，哪怕是对亲密的朋友们。我有点后悔没保持缄默。
苏珊抚摸着我的肩膀。
"已经过去很长时间了，"我说。
"我还是感到难过。"她那双总是明亮的眼睛流露出一阵忧伤。"我读完中学时，也失去了父亲。"
该轮到我说难过了。
那天下午过得很慢，那些回忆使得我们默默地坐了良久。但就在那时，我发现了苏珊的一个优点：不让生活中的酸痛将欢乐排挤掉。我们很快谈起了愉快的事。几周后，我们开始约会。
那年夏天，我又去了海滨，那是我大学时代最后一次去海滨。那里一度是我经历奇遇与疯狂刺激的地方，现在看来只不过是一个我曾经有过一份有保障的工作的地方。我感到自己更成熟、更明智，当然也不那么天真了。我有一种事情到了该了结的时候的感觉--我们必须摆脱青春以及伴随青春的一切，过一种稳定、负责任的生活。这次旅行还有一点不同，苏珊有时在周末来看我。
有些夜晚，月光倾斜在水面上，使海岸与地平线相连。
“看起来好像我们可以在上面行走，”有一次我这样说。
“它会把我们带到哪儿呢？”
“我更愿意认为它能带我们去我们想去的任何地方。”
“你想去哪儿？”
“我不知道，不过，我要你跟我一起去。”
“非常乐意。”
夜深了，天气也凉了，我们相互拥抱着。就是在这里，听着黑暗中波涛的吼鸣，我让苏珊完全进入了我隐藏自己敏感伤痛的防护区。对于我的伤痛，苏珊表示出温柔与体贴。当她向我吐露她自己隐藏在内心的恐惧与愿望时，我领悟到什么才是真爱。
苏珊乘公共汽车回到费城以后，留下我独自一人。我经常写信给她。她一直把那些信保存在一只粉红色丝绸手提包里。手提包则放在我们结婚时她母亲送给她的祖传衣柜的底部。现在那些信已经陈旧的发黄了，信中的草体字迹也因年深日久变了模样。我也有苏珊的信，我把它们珍藏在一个鞋盒里。每当我读起那些信时，便会想起，我当初为什么想和她度过我的一生。
到石港的第二天，我和苏珊早早起床，到海滩去“向大海请安”———我的妻子老爱这样说。我们在静止清凉的空气中和特别的寂静中步行经过几个街区，这份寂静是海边的清晨所特有的。
“太美了，”苏珊握紧我的手说道。我表示赞同。
我们赤脚走在凉爽而潮湿的沙滩上，海鸥在我们的上空翱翔、鸣叫。走了一段，我们便停下来。我紧靠一堆沙丘坐下，苏珊则靠近岸边，一会儿凝望大海，一会在四周寻找有趣的贝壳或石子。她不时地转过身来看我。清晨明亮的阳光勾勒出她背部的轮廓。
我认为，初恋可能会最深地刺痛我们，并给我们留下印迹。而持久的、日益发展的爱情能做到这一点是因为它将两人最珍贵、最美好、最高尚的东西连接在一起，并给予滋养。还因为它能理解和原谅一些逊色的东西。
初恋可能会浸入血液，令人头晕目眩；而永恒的爱情则在灵魂深处找到归宿。因此，这种爱具有血肉之躯远远不及的力量。它使我们成为完整的人，给予我们一种整体感，使我们得以平安度过一生。
当浪花涌向她一双赤脚而溅碎时，我能够一连几个小时注视着我的妻子。在这样一个有时被创伤和痛苦损坏了的世界，我深深地感谢上苍，让一轮红日在爱的上空为我而冉冉升起。我现在能感觉到这爱正从我的身上流向她，又从她的身上流回到我这里，把我们所有的一切都连接起来，使之成为一个整体，犹如连成一片的汪洋大海，以及一个可以躲避一切暴风雨的港湾。