与一个普通城里人到乡下散步，特别是在四、五月份里，不为他的一无所知感到惊奇是不可能的。一个人到乡下散步，不为自己对事事无知吃惊也是不可能的。成千上万的人浑浑噩噩地过了一生，分不出山毛榉和榆树的差别，也听不出画眉和乌鸦的鸣声有什么不同。住在现代城市里的人能够分辨这两种啼声大概是极其罕见的。这倒不是因为我们没有见过这两种鸟，而是由于我们从不去注意它们。我们与小鸟比邻而居，但我们的观察力却极其薄弱，很少人能说出花鸡是否鸣啭亦或杜鹃是什么颜色。有时候我们会像孩童一样争吵不休：杜鹃是不是在飞翔时歌唱，或者栖在树枝上也在歌唱；查浦曼是根据自己的想象，还是凭借对大自然的观察写出诗句：杜鹃在橡树的嫩枝上歌唱，带给人们第一束明媚春光。
　　然而，这种无知也不完全是坏事。从无知中我们就会不断获得发现的喜悦。只要我们本懵懂无知，每年春天大自然的各种现象就会带着清新的露珠呈现在我们眼前。如果我们活了半辈子还从未看见过杜鹃，只知道它是一个飘逸游荡的声音，那么当我们看见它由于做了坏事，急匆匆地从一个树丛逃到另一个树丛，或者当它准备飞落到长满杉树、可能潜伏着复仇的敌人的山坡之前，它像鹰隼一样悬在空中，长尾巴索索抖动着，我们会滋生惊喜的感觉。如果说自然学家在观察鸟类时就没有这种喜悦心情，那会令人感到荒谬。两者的不同之处在于：以恬静和单调工作为职业的自然学家的欣喜是持续不断的；而一个普通人在某天早晨初次见到杜鹃却喜出望外，仿佛天地都焕然一新！
　　对于喜悦之情如何产生，就连自然学家在某种程度上也有赖于其无知，让其得以不断发现新大陆。他可能从书本上吸取了很多的知识，但他还是要亲身去印证每一个绚丽的事物，不然他依旧会感到一知半解。他要亲眼看一下雌杜鹃——罕见的奇观——如何在地上产蛋，然后再把蛋衔到巢中，哺育出一个杀婴犯。他日复一日地用一副望远镜进行观察，为了证实或反驳杜鹃确实是把蛋产在地面上而不是窝里。即使他足够幸运，碰巧看到了这种行踪诡秘的小鸟在产蛋，也还有其他有争议的问题亟待他去克服。譬如说，杜鹃蛋的颜色是否同它所投放在某个巢内的蛋的颜色相同呢？科学家们显然不必为他们失去的无知而悲叹。如果说他们似乎无所不知，那也只是因为我们几乎一无所知。在他们揭露出的每个现象后面，永远都有一个无知的宝库等待被挖掘。他们永远也不会知道赛壬海妖唱给尤利西斯听的是什么歌；在这一点上，他们如同托马斯·布朗爵士。
　　我举了杜鹃的例子来说明普通人的无知，并不是因为我对这种鸟可以发表权威性的议论。不过我曾在某个教区暂住，而那年春天從非洲飞来的杜鹃似乎都聚集在那儿，因此我认识到我自己以及所遇见的人对杜鹃的了解非常之少。但你我的无知决不仅限于杜鹃这一方面。它涉及到宇宙万物，从太阳、月亮直到各种花卉的名字。有一次我听到一个聪明的女人提出这样的问题：新月是不是总在每周的同一天出现？她接着又说这样也好，正因为不知道它什么时候出现在天空的某个方位，它一出现才会带来惊喜。然而我想，哪怕人们把月亮盈亏时间表记得再熟，看到新月出现也难免又惊又喜。春回大地，花开花落，也莫不如此。尽管我们对一年四季草木节令了如指掌，知道樱草总是在三、四月开花，而不是十月，当我们看到一株早开花的樱草，还是照样地高兴。另外，我们知道苹果树先开花，后结果，可是五月一旦到来，果园里一片花海，我们还是会惊奇不已。
　　倘若每年春天重温一遍各类花卉之名，另有一番风味。这就像重读一本印象已经模糊的书一样。蒙田说过，他的记忆力不好，读旧书也总像读新书一样津津有味。我自己的记忆力也很不可靠，漏洞百出。我甚至能拿起《哈姆雷特》和《匹克威克外传》，当做是新作家刚出版的作品来念。自从上次读过以后，这两本书在我脑海里的印象已经模模糊糊了。尤其对一个事事都讲求精确的人来讲，这样的记忆力在某些场合让人伤脑筋。但这是就那些生活除去娱乐尚有重大目标的人而言。如果只讲享受的话，认为记忆力不佳就一定不如记忆力强，还真是大可怀疑。记忆力欠佳的人可以翻来覆去读一辈子普鲁塔克和《一千零一夜》。一些细枝末节当然也可能存留在最坏的记忆力，恰如一群羊钻出篱笆不可能不留下一丝半缕的羊毛。然而羊终归逃出去了，伟大的作家也如此从我们不争气的记忆中消失，所留下的东西微不足道。
　　既然读过的书我们都可以忘得一干二净，那么一年十二个月及每个月的风物，一旦事过境迁就更容易遗忘了。在某个短暂时刻，我可以对自己说，我对五月就像对于乘法表那样熟悉。五月份开什么花，花的形状、开放顺序，这些都考不住我。今天，我还非常肯定金凤花有五瓣（也许是六个吧？上星期我还记得很清楚呢。）。但明年我也许连算术也忘记了，为了不把金凤花同白屈菜弄混，我可能不得不重新温习一遍。我将再一次用一个陌生人的眼光重新观察一下外部世界这个大花园，五彩缤纷的原野会让我目不暇接。那时，我将犹疑不决，认为雨燕（一种像大号小燕子、又是蜂鸟的近亲的黑鸟）从来不在巢中栖息，一到夜间就飞向高空，究竟是科学论断，还是无知妄说？我还会再一次惊奇地发现，会唱歌的是雄性杜鹃，而不是雌性杜鹃。我得重新学习，以免把剪秋罗误认为野天竺葵；还要去重新发现白杨在树木生长中算是早成材还是晚成材。一个外国人有一次问一位英国当代作家，英国最重要的农作物是什么。他毫不犹豫地回答：“稞麦。”在我看来，这是一宗彻头彻尾的无；不过，大大无知的也包括那些没有文化的人。普通人只会使用电话，却无法解释它的工作原理。他把电话、火车、排字机、飞机看做当然之事，正像我们的祖父对《福音》书上记载的奇迹从不怀疑一样。他对日常事物既不深究，也不理解。我们每个人似乎只对很小范围内的某几件事才真正下功夫去了解、弄清楚。大多数人把日常工作以外的知识当做花哨无用的玩意儿。尽管这样，无知还是经常刺激到我们，让我们有所振作。我们有时候会悚然一惊，开始对某一事物进行思索，都会使我们心醉神驰。我们思考的可能是死后的归宿，或者关于某些据说亚里士多德也感到大惑不解的问题，例如“为什么从中午到午夜打喷嚏为吉，而从午夜到正午打喷嚏则为凶？”为求知而陷于无知，这是人们所欣赏的最大乐趣之一。归根结底，无知的极大乐趣在于探索问题的答案。一个人如果失去了这种乐趣，或者把它换成了教条的答案，并以此为乐，那么他的头脑也就开始僵化了。我们羡慕像裘伊特这样勤学好问之人，他到了六十多岁还能坐下来研究心理学。我们大多数人不到他这个年龄就早已失去无知的感觉了。我们甚至还为自己那点儿少得可怜的知识自鸣得意，把与日俱增的年龄看作是培养无所不知的天然学堂。我们忘记了：苏格拉底之所以名垂后世，并非因为他无所不知，而是因为他在七十岁高龄时依然认为自己一无所知。 　　It is impossible to take a walk in the country with an average townsman—especially， perhaps， in April or May—without being amazed at the vast continent of his ignorance. It is impossible to take a walk in the country oneself without being amazed at the vast continent of one’s own ignorance. Thousands of men and women live and die without knowing the difference between a beech and an elm， between the song of a thrush and the song of a blackbird. Probably in a modern city the man who can distinguish between a thrush’s and a blackbird’s song is the exception. It is not that we have not seen the birds. It is simply that we have not noticed them. We have been surrounded by birds all our lives， yet so feeble is our observation that many of us could not tell whether or not the chaffinch sings， or the colour of the cuckoo. We argue like small boys as to whether the cuckoo always sings as he flies or sometimes in the branches of a tree—whether [George] Chapman drew on his fancy or his knowledge of nature in the lines：
　　When in the oak’s green arms the cuckoo sings，
　　And first delights men in the lovely springs.
　　This ignorance， however， is not altogether miserable. Out of it we get the constant pleasure of discovery. Every fact of nature comes to us each spring， if only we are sufficiently ignorant， with the dew still on it. If we have lived half a lifetime without having ever even seen a cuckoo， and know it only as a wandering voice， we are all the more delighted at the spectacle of its runaway flight as it hurries from wood to wood conscious of its crimes， and at the way in which it halts hawk-like in the wind， its long tail quivering， before it dares descend on a hill-side of fir-trees where avenging presences may lurk. It would be absurd to pretend that the naturalist does not also find pleasure in observing the life of the birds， but his is a steady pleasure， almost a sober and plodding occupation， compared to the morning enthusiasm of the man who sees a cuckoo for the first time， and， behold， the world is made new.
　　And， as to that， the happiness even of the naturalist depends in some measure upon his ignorance， which still leaves him new worlds of this kind to conquer. He may have reached the very Z of knowledge in the books， but he still feels half ignorant until he has confirmed each bright particular with his eyes. He wishes with his own eyes to see the female cuckoo—rare spectacle！—as she lays her egg on the ground and takes it in her bill to the nest in which it is destined to breed infanticide. He would sit day after day with a field-glass against his eyes in order personally to endorse or refute the evidence suggesting that the cuckoo does lay on the ground and not in a nest. And， if he is so far fortunate as to discover this most secretive of birds in the very act of laying， there still remain for him other fields to conquer in a multitude of such disputed questions as whether the cuckoo’s egg is always of the same colour as the other eggs in the nest in which she abandons it. Assuredly the men of science have no reason as yet to weep over their lost ignorance. If they seem to know everything， it is only because you and I know almost nothing. There will always be a fortune of ignorance waiting for them under every fact they turn up. They will never know what song the Sirens sang to Ulysses any more than Sir Thomas Browne did. 　　If I have called in the cuckoo to illustrate the ordinary man’s ignorance， it is not because I can speak with authority on that bird. It is simply because， passing the spring in a parish that seemed to have been invaded by all the cuckoos of Africa， I realised how exceedingly little I， or anybody else I met， knew about them. But your and my ignorance is not confined to cuckoos. It dabbles in all created things， from the sun and moon down to the names of the flowers. I once heard a clever lady asking whether the new moon always appears on the same day of the week. She added that perhaps it is better not to know， because， if one does not know when or in what part of the sky to expect it， its appearance is always a pleasant surprise. I fancy， however， the new moon always comes as a surprise even to those who are familiar with her time-tables. And it is the same with the coming in of spring and the waves of the flowers. We are not the less delighted to find an early primrose because we are sufficiently learned in the services of the year to look for it in March or April rather than in October. We know， again， that the blossom precedes and not succeeds the fruit of the apple tree， but this does not lessen our amazement at the beautiful holiday of a May orchard.
　　At the same time there is， perhaps， a special pleasure in re-learning the names of many of the flowers every spring. It is like re-reading a book that one has almost forgotten. Montaigne tells us that he had so bad a memory that he could always read an old book as though he had never read it before. I have myself a capricious and leaking memory. I can read Hamlet itself and The Pickwick Papers as though they were the work of new authors and had come wet from the press， so much of them fades between one reading and another. There are occasions on which a memory of this kind is an affliction， especially if one has a passion for accuracy. But this is only when life has an object beyond entertainment. In respect of mere luxury， it may be doubted whether there is not as much to be said for a bad memory as for a good one. With a bad memory one can go on reading Plutarch and The Arabian Nights all one’s life. Little shreds and tags， it is probable， will stick even in the worst memory， just as a succession of sheep cannot leap through a gap in a hedge without leaving a few wisps of wool on the thorns. But the sheep themselves escape， and the great authors leap in the same way out of an idle memory and leave little enough behind. 　　And， if we can forget books， it is as easy to forget the months and what they showed us， when once they are gone. Just for the moment I tell myself that I know May like the multiplication table and could pass an examination on its flowers， their appearance and their order. Today I can affirm confidently that the buttercup has five petals. （Or is it six？ I knew for certain last week.） But next year I shall probably have forgotten my arithmetic， and may have to learn once more not to confuse the buttercup with the celandine. Once more I shall see the world as a garden through the eyes of a stranger， my breath taken away with surprise by the painted fields. I shall find myself wondering whether it is science or ignorance which affirms that the swift （that black exaggeration of the swallow and yet a kinsman of the humming-bird） never settles even on a nest， but disappears at night into the heights of the air. I shall learn with fresh astonishment that it is the male， and not the female， cuckoo that sings. I may have to learn again not to call the campion a wild geranium， and to rediscover whether the ash comes early or late in the etiquette of the trees. A contemporary English novelist was once asked by a foreigner what was the most important crop in England. He answered without a moment’s hesitation： “Rye.” Ignorance so complete as this seems to me to be touched with magnificence； but the ignorance even of illiterate persons is enormous. The average man who uses a telephone could not explain how a telephone works. He takes for granted the telephone， the railway train， the linotype， the aeroplane， as our grandfathers took for granted the miracles of the gospels. He neither questions nor understands them. It is as though each of us investigated and made his own only a tiny circle of facts. Knowledge outside the day’s work is regarded by most men as a gewgaw. Still we are constantly in reaction against our ignorance. We rouse ourselves at intervals and speculate. We revel in speculations about anything at all—about life after death or about such questions as that which is said to have puzzled Aristotle， “why sneezing from noon to midnight was good， but from night to noon unlucky.” One of the greatest joys known to man is to take such a flight into ignorance in search of knowledge. The great pleasure of ignorance is， after all， the pleasure of asking questions. The man who has lost this pleasure or exchanged it for the pleasure of dogma， which is the pleasure of answering， is already beginning to stiffen. One envies so inquisitive a man as [Benjamin] Jowett， who sat down to the study of physiology in his sixties. Most of us have lost the sense of our ignorance long before that age. We even become vain of our squirrel’s hoard of knowledge and regard increasing age itself as a school of omniscience. We forget that Socrates was famed for wisdom not because he was omniscient but because he realised at the age of seventy that he still knew nothing.
　　參考文献：
　　[1]Robert Lynd， The Pleasures of Ignorance， 1st World Library –Literary Society， 2004
　　【作者简介】宁波，中国土木工程集团有限公司。