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“Long live the King！”在《写作这回事》面世时，《娱乐周刊》如此大声欢呼道。
美国小说家斯蒂芬·金以恐怖小说著称，几十年来出版的众多畅销书简直可以概括这个小说类型的整个发展历程；有七十几部影视作品或取材或改编自他的小说，难怪《纽约时报》将他誉为“现代惊悚小说大师”。当人们习惯于将他的名字与“恐怖”画上等号时，这本与其过往风格大异其趣的回忆录在2000年出版了：一半是他的生活以及创作回忆录，一半是针对读者常见写作问题的幽默解答与耐心指导，读起来睿智平实、趣味盎然，不管你原本是不是惊悚小说粉，这本充满实用性的回忆录都会让你爱上斯蒂芬·金这个人。
本书在斯蒂芬的人生中其实还具有非常重要的意义：1999年6月19日，斯蒂芬在外出散步时遭遇车祸，生命一度垂危——这本当时还没完成的写作指南书差点成了他的遗作。斯蒂芬在养伤期间忍着剧痛继续创作《写作这回事》，他说：“写作对于我来说好比是一种坚持信念的行动，是面对绝望的挑衅反抗。此书的第二部分就是在这样的精神中写成的。正如我们小时候常说的那样，是我拼着老命写出来的。写作不是人生，但我认为有的时候它是一条重回人生的路径。”
C.V.简历
I was stunned by 1）Mary Karr’s memoir， The Liars’ Club. Not just by its 2）ferocity， its beauty， and by her delightful grasp of the 3）vernacular， but by its totality—she is a woman who remembers everything about her early years.
I’m not that way. I lived an odd， 4）herkyjerky childhood， raised by a single parent who moved around a lot in my earliest years and who—I am not completely sure of this—may have farmed my brother and me out to one of her sisters for awhile because she was economically or emotionally unable to cope with us for a time. Perhaps she was only chasing our father， who piled up all sorts of bills and then did a runout when I was two and my brother David was four. If so， she never succeeded in finding him. My mom， Nellie Ruth Pillsbury King， was one of America’s early liberated women， but not by choice.
Mary Karr presents her childhood in an almost unbroken 5）panorama. Mine is a fogged-out landscape from which occasional memories appear like isolated trees…the kind that look as if they might like to grab and eat you.
What follows are some of those memories， plus 6）assorted 7）snapshots from the somewhat more coherent days of my adolescence and young manhood. This is not an autobiography. It is， rather， a kind of curriculum vitae—my attempt to show how one writer was formed. Not how one writer was made； I don’t believe writers can be made， either by circumstances or by self-will （although I did believe those things once）. The equipment comes with the original package. Yet it is by no means unusual equipment； I believe large numbers of people have at least some talent as writers and storytellers， and that those talents can be strengthened and sharpened. If I didn’t believe that， writing a book like this would be a waste of time.
This is how it was for me， that’s all—a 8）disjointed growth process in which ambition， desire， luck， and a little talent all played a part. Don’t bother trying to read between the lines， and don’t look for a 9）through-line. There are no lines—only snapshots， most out of focus.
My earliest memory is of imagining I was someone else—imagining that I was， in fact， the Ringling Brothers Circus Strongboy. This was at my Aunt Ethelyn and Uncle Oren’s house in Durham， Maine. My aunt remembers this quite clearly， and says I was two and a half or maybe three years old.
I had found a cement 10）cinderblock in a corner of the garage and had managed to pick it up. I carried it slowly across the garage’s smooth cement floor， except in my mind I was dressed in an animal skin 11）singlet （probably a leopard skin） and carrying the cinderblock across the center ring. The vast crowd was silent. A brilliant blue-white spotlight marked my remarkable progress. Their wondering faces told the story： never had they seen such an incredibly strong kid. “And he’s only two！”someone muttered in disbelief.
Unknown to me， wasps had constructed a small nest in the lower half of the cinderblock. One of them， perhaps pissed off at being relocated， flew out and stung me on the ear. The pain was brilliant， like a poisonous inspiration. It was the worst pain I had ever suffered in my short life， but it only held the top spot for a few seconds. When I dropped the cinderblock on one bare foot， mashing all five toes， I forgot all about the wasp. I can’t remember if I was taken to the doctor， and neither can my Aunt Ethelyn （Uncle Oren， to whom the Evil Cinderblock surely belonged， is almost twenty years dead）， but she remembers the sting， the mashed toes， and my reaction. “How you howled， Stephen！” she said.“You were certainly in fine voice that day.”
看了玛丽·卡尔的自传《撒谎者俱乐部》，我很受震动，不仅因为它写得强悍，写得漂亮，语言清新自然，更是因为它很全面——这个女人记得自己早年的一切。
我却不是这样。我的童年过得古怪又跌宕，由单亲妈妈抚养成人。我小时候她老搬家，虽然我不太确定，可我觉得当她在经济上或者精神上无力应付我们兄弟俩的时候，偶尔可能会把我们寄养在她某个姐妹那儿一阵子。也许她只是在追寻我父亲，父亲当初攒下一大堆账单之后离家跑了，当时我两岁，哥哥戴维四岁。如果真是这样，那她从来没有成功找到过父亲。我的妈妈奈丽·露丝·皮尔斯伯里·金是美国最早的妇女解放分子之一，却并非出于自愿。
玛丽·卡尔用几乎毫不间断的大场景展现她的童年。我的童年却是一片雾色弥漫的风景，零星的记忆片段就像孤零零的树木掩映其间……仿佛会一把攫住你，然后把你吃掉的那种树。
接下来就是若干这样的回忆，加上我青少年和年轻时代那些比较连贯的日月里撷取的各种快照。这不是一本自传。它更像是一份简历——我试图告诉大家一个作家是如何长成的，而不是作家是如何造就的；我不认为作家可以造就，不论环境还是个人意志都不能造就一个作家（虽然我确实也曾相信这些东西可以）。这资质是原装原配的。可它并不是什么异乎寻常的资质；我相信许多人都至少具备一定的写作或者讲故事的天分，这种天分是可以在锻炼和磨砺中更上一层楼的。如果不相信这一点，我写这么一本书就是浪费时间。
对我来说事情就是这样，仅此而已——这是一个断断续续的成长历程，其中雄心、欲望、运气，还有一点天分，都起到了作用。别费心去揣摩字里行间是不是另有深意，也不用找什么主线，这里什么线都没有——只有些快照，多半还对焦不准。
我最早的记忆是想象自己是其他人——事实上，我想象自己是玲玲兄弟马戏团里的迷你大力士。那时我住在姨妈艾瑟琳和姨父奥伦位于缅因州德翰姆的家里。我姨妈记得很清楚，她说我当时两岁半，也许三岁。
我在车库角落里找到一块水泥板，搬着它慢慢走过车库平滑的水泥地面，但在我的脑子里，我正身穿一件兽皮背心（很可能是豹皮的），搬着那块水泥板走过舞台。大群的观众鸦雀无声。蓝白双色的追光灯照耀着我了不起的步伐。他们惊诧的表情说明了一切：他们从没见过像我这么强壮的孩子。“他才只有两岁！”有人不可置信地说道。
可我浑然不知马蜂已经在水泥板下面筑起了一个小蜂窝。其中一只马蜂，大约是对被迫迁移感到愤怒，飞出来叮了我耳朵一口。那痛精光四射，简直就像充满毒素的灵光一闪，是我短暂人生中尝过最厉害的痛楚；但就在几秒钟后，新的痛楚记录诞生了。当我把水泥板扔到地上，砸到我一只光脚的五个脚趾时，我把马蜂蜇的那点痛全忘了。我不记得当时有没有去看医生，艾瑟琳姨妈也不记得了（那块水泥板的主人是我姨父奥伦，二十多年前已经辞世），可她仍然记得我被马蜂叮、被砸到脚趾的事，以及我当时的反应。“斯蒂芬！你那一通嚎哟！”她说，“你那天的嗓门可真响亮！”
译文参考自上海译文出版社版本，有改动
张坤 译
文化交流站
Ringling Brothers Circus 玲玲兄弟马戏团
全称为“玲玲兄弟与巴纳姆贝利马戏团”（Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus），成立于1871年，与纽约大苹果马戏团、太阳马戏团合称世界三大马戏团。玲玲马戏团的原则是“养团不如请团”。他们不养演员，只养动物，演员从世界各地挑选和邀请，这样就可以年年更新节目，年年带来新鲜感，因而久盛不衰。2015年3月，玲玲马戏团宣布将在三年内逐渐取消延续上百年的传统大象表演，以应对日渐增多的马戏团动物争议问题。
美国小说家斯蒂芬·金以恐怖小说著称，几十年来出版的众多畅销书简直可以概括这个小说类型的整个发展历程；有七十几部影视作品或取材或改编自他的小说，难怪《纽约时报》将他誉为“现代惊悚小说大师”。当人们习惯于将他的名字与“恐怖”画上等号时，这本与其过往风格大异其趣的回忆录在2000年出版了：一半是他的生活以及创作回忆录，一半是针对读者常见写作问题的幽默解答与耐心指导，读起来睿智平实、趣味盎然，不管你原本是不是惊悚小说粉，这本充满实用性的回忆录都会让你爱上斯蒂芬·金这个人。
本书在斯蒂芬的人生中其实还具有非常重要的意义：1999年6月19日，斯蒂芬在外出散步时遭遇车祸，生命一度垂危——这本当时还没完成的写作指南书差点成了他的遗作。斯蒂芬在养伤期间忍着剧痛继续创作《写作这回事》，他说：“写作对于我来说好比是一种坚持信念的行动，是面对绝望的挑衅反抗。此书的第二部分就是在这样的精神中写成的。正如我们小时候常说的那样，是我拼着老命写出来的。写作不是人生，但我认为有的时候它是一条重回人生的路径。”
C.V.简历
I was stunned by 1）Mary Karr’s memoir， The Liars’ Club. Not just by its 2）ferocity， its beauty， and by her delightful grasp of the 3）vernacular， but by its totality—she is a woman who remembers everything about her early years.
I’m not that way. I lived an odd， 4）herkyjerky childhood， raised by a single parent who moved around a lot in my earliest years and who—I am not completely sure of this—may have farmed my brother and me out to one of her sisters for awhile because she was economically or emotionally unable to cope with us for a time. Perhaps she was only chasing our father， who piled up all sorts of bills and then did a runout when I was two and my brother David was four. If so， she never succeeded in finding him. My mom， Nellie Ruth Pillsbury King， was one of America’s early liberated women， but not by choice.
Mary Karr presents her childhood in an almost unbroken 5）panorama. Mine is a fogged-out landscape from which occasional memories appear like isolated trees…the kind that look as if they might like to grab and eat you.
What follows are some of those memories， plus 6）assorted 7）snapshots from the somewhat more coherent days of my adolescence and young manhood. This is not an autobiography. It is， rather， a kind of curriculum vitae—my attempt to show how one writer was formed. Not how one writer was made； I don’t believe writers can be made， either by circumstances or by self-will （although I did believe those things once）. The equipment comes with the original package. Yet it is by no means unusual equipment； I believe large numbers of people have at least some talent as writers and storytellers， and that those talents can be strengthened and sharpened. If I didn’t believe that， writing a book like this would be a waste of time.
This is how it was for me， that’s all—a 8）disjointed growth process in which ambition， desire， luck， and a little talent all played a part. Don’t bother trying to read between the lines， and don’t look for a 9）through-line. There are no lines—only snapshots， most out of focus.
My earliest memory is of imagining I was someone else—imagining that I was， in fact， the Ringling Brothers Circus Strongboy. This was at my Aunt Ethelyn and Uncle Oren’s house in Durham， Maine. My aunt remembers this quite clearly， and says I was two and a half or maybe three years old.
I had found a cement 10）cinderblock in a corner of the garage and had managed to pick it up. I carried it slowly across the garage’s smooth cement floor， except in my mind I was dressed in an animal skin 11）singlet （probably a leopard skin） and carrying the cinderblock across the center ring. The vast crowd was silent. A brilliant blue-white spotlight marked my remarkable progress. Their wondering faces told the story： never had they seen such an incredibly strong kid. “And he’s only two！”someone muttered in disbelief.
Unknown to me， wasps had constructed a small nest in the lower half of the cinderblock. One of them， perhaps pissed off at being relocated， flew out and stung me on the ear. The pain was brilliant， like a poisonous inspiration. It was the worst pain I had ever suffered in my short life， but it only held the top spot for a few seconds. When I dropped the cinderblock on one bare foot， mashing all five toes， I forgot all about the wasp. I can’t remember if I was taken to the doctor， and neither can my Aunt Ethelyn （Uncle Oren， to whom the Evil Cinderblock surely belonged， is almost twenty years dead）， but she remembers the sting， the mashed toes， and my reaction. “How you howled， Stephen！” she said.“You were certainly in fine voice that day.”
看了玛丽·卡尔的自传《撒谎者俱乐部》，我很受震动，不仅因为它写得强悍，写得漂亮，语言清新自然，更是因为它很全面——这个女人记得自己早年的一切。
我却不是这样。我的童年过得古怪又跌宕，由单亲妈妈抚养成人。我小时候她老搬家，虽然我不太确定，可我觉得当她在经济上或者精神上无力应付我们兄弟俩的时候，偶尔可能会把我们寄养在她某个姐妹那儿一阵子。也许她只是在追寻我父亲，父亲当初攒下一大堆账单之后离家跑了，当时我两岁，哥哥戴维四岁。如果真是这样，那她从来没有成功找到过父亲。我的妈妈奈丽·露丝·皮尔斯伯里·金是美国最早的妇女解放分子之一，却并非出于自愿。
玛丽·卡尔用几乎毫不间断的大场景展现她的童年。我的童年却是一片雾色弥漫的风景，零星的记忆片段就像孤零零的树木掩映其间……仿佛会一把攫住你，然后把你吃掉的那种树。
接下来就是若干这样的回忆，加上我青少年和年轻时代那些比较连贯的日月里撷取的各种快照。这不是一本自传。它更像是一份简历——我试图告诉大家一个作家是如何长成的，而不是作家是如何造就的；我不认为作家可以造就，不论环境还是个人意志都不能造就一个作家（虽然我确实也曾相信这些东西可以）。这资质是原装原配的。可它并不是什么异乎寻常的资质；我相信许多人都至少具备一定的写作或者讲故事的天分，这种天分是可以在锻炼和磨砺中更上一层楼的。如果不相信这一点，我写这么一本书就是浪费时间。
对我来说事情就是这样，仅此而已——这是一个断断续续的成长历程，其中雄心、欲望、运气，还有一点天分，都起到了作用。别费心去揣摩字里行间是不是另有深意，也不用找什么主线，这里什么线都没有——只有些快照，多半还对焦不准。
我最早的记忆是想象自己是其他人——事实上，我想象自己是玲玲兄弟马戏团里的迷你大力士。那时我住在姨妈艾瑟琳和姨父奥伦位于缅因州德翰姆的家里。我姨妈记得很清楚，她说我当时两岁半，也许三岁。
我在车库角落里找到一块水泥板，搬着它慢慢走过车库平滑的水泥地面，但在我的脑子里，我正身穿一件兽皮背心（很可能是豹皮的），搬着那块水泥板走过舞台。大群的观众鸦雀无声。蓝白双色的追光灯照耀着我了不起的步伐。他们惊诧的表情说明了一切：他们从没见过像我这么强壮的孩子。“他才只有两岁！”有人不可置信地说道。
可我浑然不知马蜂已经在水泥板下面筑起了一个小蜂窝。其中一只马蜂，大约是对被迫迁移感到愤怒，飞出来叮了我耳朵一口。那痛精光四射，简直就像充满毒素的灵光一闪，是我短暂人生中尝过最厉害的痛楚；但就在几秒钟后，新的痛楚记录诞生了。当我把水泥板扔到地上，砸到我一只光脚的五个脚趾时，我把马蜂蜇的那点痛全忘了。我不记得当时有没有去看医生，艾瑟琳姨妈也不记得了（那块水泥板的主人是我姨父奥伦，二十多年前已经辞世），可她仍然记得我被马蜂叮、被砸到脚趾的事，以及我当时的反应。“斯蒂芬！你那一通嚎哟！”她说，“你那天的嗓门可真响亮！”
译文参考自上海译文出版社版本，有改动
张坤 译
文化交流站
Ringling Brothers Circus 玲玲兄弟马戏团
全称为“玲玲兄弟与巴纳姆贝利马戏团”（Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus），成立于1871年，与纽约大苹果马戏团、太阳马戏团合称世界三大马戏团。玲玲马戏团的原则是“养团不如请团”。他们不养演员，只养动物，演员从世界各地挑选和邀请，这样就可以年年更新节目，年年带来新鲜感，因而久盛不衰。2015年3月，玲玲马戏团宣布将在三年内逐渐取消延续上百年的传统大象表演，以应对日渐增多的马戏团动物争议问题。