论文部分内容阅读
The most hateful words I have ever said to another human being were to my mother. I was sixteen at the time. They rose from the storm in my chest and I let them fall in a fury of hailstones1， “I hate you. I wish I were dead...”
I waited for her to collapse, stricken by what I had just said. She was still standing upright, her chin up, her lips stretched in a crazy smile， “Okay, maybe I die, too,” she said between huffs2. “Then I no longer be your mother!” We had many similar exchanges. Sometimes she actually tried to kill herself by running into the street, holding a knife to her throat. She, too, had storms in her chest. And what she aimed at me was as fast and deadly as lightning bolts3.
For days after our arguments, she would not speak to me. She tormented4 me, acted as if she had no feel－ings for me whatsoever. I was lost to her. And because of that, I lost, battle after battle, all of them. The times she criticized me, humiliated me in front of others, forbade me to do this or that without even listening to one good reason why it should be the other way. I swore to myself I would never forget these injustices. I would store them, harden my heart, make myself as impene－trable as she was.
I remember this now, because I am also remem－bering another time, just a couple of years ago. I was forty-six, had become a different person by then, had gone on to become a fiction writer, someone who uses memory and imagination. In fact, I was writing a story about a girl and her mother when the phone rang.
It was my mother, and this surprised me. Had someone helped her make the call? For three years, she had been los－ing her mind through Alzheimer’s disease. Early on, she for－got to lock her door. Then she forgot where she lived. She forgot who many people were and what they had meant to her. Lately, she could no longer remember many of her worries and sorrows.
“Amy-ah,” she said, and she began to speak quickly in Chinese.“ Something is wrong with my mind. I think I’m go－ing crazy.”
I caught my breath. Usually she could barely speak more than two words at a time. “Don’t worry.” I started to say.
“It’s true,” she went on.“ I feel like I can’t remember many things. I can’t remember what I did yesterday. I can’t remember what happened a long time ago, what I did to you...” she spoke as a person might if she were drowning and had bobbed5 to the surface with the force of will to live, only to see how far she had already drifted, how impossibly far she was from the shore.
She spoke frantically6，“I know I did something to hurt you.”
“You didn’t,” I said.“ Really, don’t worry.”
“I did terrible things. But now I can’t remember what...and I just want to tell you... I hope you can forget just as I’ve forgotten.”
I tried to laugh so she would not notice the cracks7 in my voice， “Really, don’t worry.”
“Okay, I just wanted you to know.”
After we hung up, I cried, both happy and sad. I was again the same sixteen-year-old, but the storm in my chest was gone. My mother died six months later. By then she had be－queathed8 me her most healing words, those that are as open and eternal9 as a clear blue sky. Together we knew in our hearts what we should remember, what we can forget.
我对人所说过的怨恨最深的话竟是冲着我的母亲说的。那年我16岁，那些话从我内心的咆哮中迸发出来，化成一阵猛烈的暴雹：“我恨你，我恨不得我死了。”
我期待着她的崩溃，被我的话击垮。她却仍然挺立着，下巴抬得高高的，嘴角咧出一声疯狂的冷笑，“那好，或许我也死了，”她气鼓鼓地说，“那样我就不要再当你的母亲了！”我们有过多次这样的交锋。有时她甚至跑到街上去，用刀比着自己的喉咙要杀死自己，她的内心也有咆哮。她针对我的回应像闪电一样迅疾且致命。
我们每次争吵过后，她好几天都不会理我。她折磨着我，装作对我没有任何感情。我是输给她了。并且由于这个原因，我连连输了，所有的较量都输了。好多次她当着别人的面责难我、奚落我，这也不让做，那也不让做，根本不听我的一点理由。我发誓我永远都要记住这些不公。我要把它们存下来，让我的内心变得强硬，让我自己变得像她一样的铁石心肠。
我回想起这些，是因为我也想起了另一个时候，大概两年以前。那时我四十六岁，比起早年已经大不相同了，我已经成为一个小说家，靠记忆和想像力吃饭的人。实际上，我当时正在写一个女孩跟她母亲的故事，突然电话铃响了。
是母亲打来的，让我吃了一惊。有人在帮她拨电话？三年了，她由于罹患老年痴呆症（阿兹海默氏症）已经神志不清了。早些时候，她记不得关门。后来她连住的地方都记不住。她忘记了对她有意义的许多人。最近她连自己的很多担忧和悲伤都忘了。
“阿美啊，”她说，她的汉语说得很快，“我的脑子有问题了。我感觉我快发疯了。”
我心里一紧，平常她一口气不超过两个字。“别胡思乱想。”我开始说道。
“是真的，”她接着说，“我感觉好像很多事情都记不得了。我记不起曾经做过什么，记不起很久之前做过什么，我对你做过什么……，”她说话的样子就像一个溺水的人凭着求生的意志力挣扎到水面，却只能看到她已经漂走了多远，看到那段远离岸边的无望的距离。
她激动地说：“我知道我做过伤害你的事情。”
“你没有，”我答道，“真的没有，别想了。”
“我做了很坏的事情。但是现在我记不得那是什么了……而我只是想告诉你……希望你能忘记，就像妈妈现在已经忘记了一样。”
我装着笑了起来，她听不出我的哽咽，“别担心，真的没有。”
“好吧，我只是想让你明白。”
挂掉电话，我哭了出来，又是高兴又是难过。我又回到了十六岁，但是我内心的咆哮已经平静了。
母亲于六个月之后去世。在那之前她已把最释怀的话遗留给了我，那些话就像澄澈的蓝天一样开阔和永恒。我们心里都知道，什么是该去记住的，什么是该去忘却的。
I waited for her to collapse, stricken by what I had just said. She was still standing upright, her chin up, her lips stretched in a crazy smile， “Okay, maybe I die, too,” she said between huffs2. “Then I no longer be your mother!” We had many similar exchanges. Sometimes she actually tried to kill herself by running into the street, holding a knife to her throat. She, too, had storms in her chest. And what she aimed at me was as fast and deadly as lightning bolts3.
For days after our arguments, she would not speak to me. She tormented4 me, acted as if she had no feel－ings for me whatsoever. I was lost to her. And because of that, I lost, battle after battle, all of them. The times she criticized me, humiliated me in front of others, forbade me to do this or that without even listening to one good reason why it should be the other way. I swore to myself I would never forget these injustices. I would store them, harden my heart, make myself as impene－trable as she was.
I remember this now, because I am also remem－bering another time, just a couple of years ago. I was forty-six, had become a different person by then, had gone on to become a fiction writer, someone who uses memory and imagination. In fact, I was writing a story about a girl and her mother when the phone rang.
It was my mother, and this surprised me. Had someone helped her make the call? For three years, she had been los－ing her mind through Alzheimer’s disease. Early on, she for－got to lock her door. Then she forgot where she lived. She forgot who many people were and what they had meant to her. Lately, she could no longer remember many of her worries and sorrows.
“Amy-ah,” she said, and she began to speak quickly in Chinese.“ Something is wrong with my mind. I think I’m go－ing crazy.”
I caught my breath. Usually she could barely speak more than two words at a time. “Don’t worry.” I started to say.
“It’s true,” she went on.“ I feel like I can’t remember many things. I can’t remember what I did yesterday. I can’t remember what happened a long time ago, what I did to you...” she spoke as a person might if she were drowning and had bobbed5 to the surface with the force of will to live, only to see how far she had already drifted, how impossibly far she was from the shore.
She spoke frantically6，“I know I did something to hurt you.”
“You didn’t,” I said.“ Really, don’t worry.”
“I did terrible things. But now I can’t remember what...and I just want to tell you... I hope you can forget just as I’ve forgotten.”
I tried to laugh so she would not notice the cracks7 in my voice， “Really, don’t worry.”
“Okay, I just wanted you to know.”
After we hung up, I cried, both happy and sad. I was again the same sixteen-year-old, but the storm in my chest was gone. My mother died six months later. By then she had be－queathed8 me her most healing words, those that are as open and eternal9 as a clear blue sky. Together we knew in our hearts what we should remember, what we can forget.
我对人所说过的怨恨最深的话竟是冲着我的母亲说的。那年我16岁，那些话从我内心的咆哮中迸发出来，化成一阵猛烈的暴雹：“我恨你，我恨不得我死了。”
我期待着她的崩溃，被我的话击垮。她却仍然挺立着，下巴抬得高高的，嘴角咧出一声疯狂的冷笑，“那好，或许我也死了，”她气鼓鼓地说，“那样我就不要再当你的母亲了！”我们有过多次这样的交锋。有时她甚至跑到街上去，用刀比着自己的喉咙要杀死自己，她的内心也有咆哮。她针对我的回应像闪电一样迅疾且致命。
我们每次争吵过后，她好几天都不会理我。她折磨着我，装作对我没有任何感情。我是输给她了。并且由于这个原因，我连连输了，所有的较量都输了。好多次她当着别人的面责难我、奚落我，这也不让做，那也不让做，根本不听我的一点理由。我发誓我永远都要记住这些不公。我要把它们存下来，让我的内心变得强硬，让我自己变得像她一样的铁石心肠。
我回想起这些，是因为我也想起了另一个时候，大概两年以前。那时我四十六岁，比起早年已经大不相同了，我已经成为一个小说家，靠记忆和想像力吃饭的人。实际上，我当时正在写一个女孩跟她母亲的故事，突然电话铃响了。
是母亲打来的，让我吃了一惊。有人在帮她拨电话？三年了，她由于罹患老年痴呆症（阿兹海默氏症）已经神志不清了。早些时候，她记不得关门。后来她连住的地方都记不住。她忘记了对她有意义的许多人。最近她连自己的很多担忧和悲伤都忘了。
“阿美啊，”她说，她的汉语说得很快，“我的脑子有问题了。我感觉我快发疯了。”
我心里一紧，平常她一口气不超过两个字。“别胡思乱想。”我开始说道。
“是真的，”她接着说，“我感觉好像很多事情都记不得了。我记不起曾经做过什么，记不起很久之前做过什么，我对你做过什么……，”她说话的样子就像一个溺水的人凭着求生的意志力挣扎到水面，却只能看到她已经漂走了多远，看到那段远离岸边的无望的距离。
她激动地说：“我知道我做过伤害你的事情。”
“你没有，”我答道，“真的没有，别想了。”
“我做了很坏的事情。但是现在我记不得那是什么了……而我只是想告诉你……希望你能忘记，就像妈妈现在已经忘记了一样。”
我装着笑了起来，她听不出我的哽咽，“别担心，真的没有。”
“好吧，我只是想让你明白。”
挂掉电话，我哭了出来，又是高兴又是难过。我又回到了十六岁，但是我内心的咆哮已经平静了。
母亲于六个月之后去世。在那之前她已把最释怀的话遗留给了我，那些话就像澄澈的蓝天一样开阔和永恒。我们心里都知道，什么是该去记住的，什么是该去忘却的。