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Shoes can tell you a lot about a person. Winston was a firm believer in this， being someone who looked at many shoes himself. Although he had grown up hearing that eyes were “the windows to the soul”， he was always quite confused by this expression. Eyes were simply holes in one’s head that allowed them to see. Winston couldn’t find anything remotely1 revealing about them， just a sense of awkwardness2 when he had been caught staring into someone else’s for too long. On the other hand， staring at someone’s shoes rarely ever became a socially uncomfortable interaction3. Most people hardly noticed a small man in the corner intently4 watching their feet， and Winston liked it that way.
High school queen， skateboarder， bored businessman， tired housewife， Winston was able to fit most people into basic categories5 such as these simply by the brand， color， and condition of whatever was on their feet. Not to toot his own horn6， but Winston felt that he had figured just about everybody out. At this point， the world couldn’t surprise him anymore， he believed that he had seen it all.
Winston was seated in his regular spot， a bench in the back corner of the Alewife train station， watching the usuals pass by. A pack of polished7， black loafers8 shuffled9 past after getting off the 7 o’clock train， a pair of Louboutins clacked10 against the dusty floor tiles， two pairs of scruffy11 Converse shifted as they waited on the platform. All of this left a clear impression on Winston. He noted that a pair of knee-length boots were missing among the group， as well as several Nike sneakers. He sighed， a bit bored with the predictability12 of the station， the way the same people always stood on the same platform and waited for the same train to take them away at the same time every day. This order was ordinarily calming to him， but today he felt different.
That’s when he noticed something different. Two bare feet walked past， making an unfamiliar slapping sound as they made contact with the floor. Strange. Winston looked closer， studying the leathery skin and the overgrown toenails with great interest. In all his years sitting at the train station， he had seen many strange feet， but at least those people had enough sense to cover them in flip-flops13 or sandals14. This stranger before him did not seem to obey the social rules， sticking his bare feet out for all to see. Their nakedness troubled Winston. He wondered what kind of a man couldn’t afford to buy himself shoes. A dangerous man， perhaps. A man who was of questionable intelligence. An unpredictable， rash man with a temper. Certainly not the kind of man Winston wanted to be anywhere near. He shifted over on the bench and curled in on himself， turning his eyes downward and his shoulders in toward his body to prevent any possible social interactions. The man， however， took the space made free by Winston’s shrinking.
“Sorry， it has been a rough day，” the shoeless person offered apologetically， placing a plastic bag down in the small remaining stretch of bench separating them. “A really rough day.” He seemed to be speaking to no one in particular. “I had to sell my shoes， had to sell them away. Can you believe that？” He scuffed his bare feet against the station’s dingy15 floor tiles.
“It’s my little girl’s birthday. She’s seven. I can barely believe it，” he shook his head. “Said all she wanted this year was a birthday cake. A real one， with sprinkles16 and frosting17 and her name spelled out nice and pretty on the top. So that’s what I went and got her.”
He gestured to the bag. Winston peeked18 through the clear cellophane19 case to see the cake. It was a small， white circle， with the name “Amelia” written in fancy cursive20 frosting on the top. “It sure is pretty， isn’t it？” the man said， noticing Winston’s interest. “I just had to get it for her. But I had to sell my shoes for it...it was worth it， of course.” He seemed to think this over for a while. “Still， that’s not a decision that any parent should have to make， it just isn’t.”
There was a crack in his voice like he was about to cry and Winston did something he rarely ever did. He looked up and met the stranger’s eyes. They were kind eyes， sad， sweet and beautiful eyes， sharply contrasting his bare and dirty feet. Winston stared at them， not allowing himself to pull away.
While staring at the man， a sense of shame washed over Winston. He was ashamed that he had judged the man， ashamed that he had assumed this stranger was a bad person simply for his lack of footwear， when in fact this man beside him was a more generous person than Winston had ever been. Slowly， Winston reached down and took off his dirty， white sneakers one at a time， exposing his socked feet to the harsh cold of the station. He picked up the shoes and handed them to the stranger beside him.
（英語原文选自：teenink.com）
鞋子能告诉你关于一个人的很多事情。温斯顿对此深信不疑，因为他自己看过很多鞋子。虽然他从小就听人说眼睛是“心灵的窗户”，但他总是对这种说法感到困惑不解。眼睛只是人脑袋上能让人看见东西的洞。温斯顿无法从中发现任何一点点关于他们的内在，只会有当被发现盯着别人看太久时的尴尬。另一方面，盯着别人的鞋子看几乎不会成为社交上令人不舒服的举动。大多数人几乎没有注意到角落里有个小个子男人在专心地看着他们的脚，而温斯顿喜欢这样做。
高中女王、滑板手、无聊的商人、疲劳的家庭主妇，温斯顿能够把大多数人简单地按照他们脚上东西的品牌、颜色和状况，归入这些基本的类别。不是自吹自擂，但温斯顿觉得他几乎把每个人都弄明白了。在这一点上，世界上再也没有什么能给他惊喜了，他相信他已经看过形形色色的人了。 温斯顿正坐在他常坐的地方——埃尔威夫火车站背角處的一张长凳上，看着普通人从他身边经过。一双擦亮的黑色休闲皮鞋从7点钟的火车上下来后拖着脚步走过，一双鲁布托高跟鞋在尘土飞扬的地砖上哒哒作响，两双邋遢的匡威鞋移来移去，在月台上等待。所有这些都给温斯顿留下了清晰的印象。他注意到一双及膝的长靴和几双耐克运动鞋都不见了。他叹了口气，有点厌倦了车站的可预测性。每天同一时间，同样的人们总是站在同一个站台上，等待同一列火车载着他们离开。这样一成不变的情况通常让他一片平静，但今天他感到有点不同。
就在那个时候，他注意到了一些不同的东西。两只光着的脚走过，在接触地板时发出一种陌生的拍打声。很奇怪。温斯顿看得更仔细了，饶有兴趣地研究着那双脚粗糙的皮肤和长得过长的脚趾甲。在他坐在火车站的所有时光里，他看到过许多奇怪的脚，但至少那些人有足够的理智，穿上了人字拖或凉鞋。而他面前的这个陌生人似乎没有遵守社会规则，赤脚出来让所有人看到。裸露的脚使温斯顿感到困扰。他想知道什么样的人才会买不起鞋，也许是个危险的人，要么就是智力有问题的人，或者是一个脾气暴躁，不可捉摸的莽汉。当然，他肯定不是温斯顿乐意接近的那种人。
他在长凳上转过身，蜷缩着身子，眼睛向下看，缩着肩膀，防止产生任何可能的人际交流。然而，这个人却占用了温斯顿缩着身体空出来的空间。
“对不起，今天真是糟糕，”那个没穿鞋的人抱歉地说，同时把一个塑料袋放在隔开他们俩的剩下的一小段长凳上。“真是糟糕透顶的一天。”他看起来像是没有特意对着某个人说话。“我不得不卖掉我的鞋，不得不卖，你能相信吗？”他光着脚蹭着车站肮脏的地砖。
“今天是我小女儿的生日。她七岁了。我简直不敢相信。”他摇摇头，“她说今年只想要一个生日蛋糕，一个真的蛋糕，上面有彩色糖粒和糖霜，上面漂亮地拼写着她的名字。所以这就是我去买给她的。”
他指着袋子。温斯顿透过透明的玻璃纸盒子窥探着蛋糕。这是一个白色的小圆圈形状的蛋糕，上面用糖霜写着花体的名字“阿米莉亚”。“真的很漂亮，不是吗？”那人说，他注意到温斯顿产生了兴趣。“我必须给她买。但我不得不卖掉我的鞋……当然，这是值得的。”他似乎考虑了一会儿，“尽管如此，但这不是任何父母都必须做的决定，不是必须的。”
他的声音沙哑，像是就要哭了。温斯顿做了一件他很少会去做的事。他抬起头来看向这位陌生人的眼睛。那是一双善良的眼睛，悲伤、温柔而美丽的眼睛，与他光着的脏脚形成了鲜明的对比。温斯顿盯着那双眼睛，不让自己的视线移开。
在盯着那个人看的时候，一种羞耻感涌上了温斯顿的心头。他为自己对这个人之前的评价感到羞愧，为自己仅仅因为对方没穿鞋子就认为这位陌生人是个坏人而感到羞愧，而事实上，身边的这个人比温斯顿以前见过的所有人都要更加慷慨大方。温斯顿慢慢地伸手，将他脏兮兮的白色运动鞋一只一只地脱了下来，把他那双穿了袜子的脚暴露在车站刺骨的寒气中。他捡起鞋子，递给了身旁的这位陌生人。
High school queen， skateboarder， bored businessman， tired housewife， Winston was able to fit most people into basic categories5 such as these simply by the brand， color， and condition of whatever was on their feet. Not to toot his own horn6， but Winston felt that he had figured just about everybody out. At this point， the world couldn’t surprise him anymore， he believed that he had seen it all.
Winston was seated in his regular spot， a bench in the back corner of the Alewife train station， watching the usuals pass by. A pack of polished7， black loafers8 shuffled9 past after getting off the 7 o’clock train， a pair of Louboutins clacked10 against the dusty floor tiles， two pairs of scruffy11 Converse shifted as they waited on the platform. All of this left a clear impression on Winston. He noted that a pair of knee-length boots were missing among the group， as well as several Nike sneakers. He sighed， a bit bored with the predictability12 of the station， the way the same people always stood on the same platform and waited for the same train to take them away at the same time every day. This order was ordinarily calming to him， but today he felt different.
That’s when he noticed something different. Two bare feet walked past， making an unfamiliar slapping sound as they made contact with the floor. Strange. Winston looked closer， studying the leathery skin and the overgrown toenails with great interest. In all his years sitting at the train station， he had seen many strange feet， but at least those people had enough sense to cover them in flip-flops13 or sandals14. This stranger before him did not seem to obey the social rules， sticking his bare feet out for all to see. Their nakedness troubled Winston. He wondered what kind of a man couldn’t afford to buy himself shoes. A dangerous man， perhaps. A man who was of questionable intelligence. An unpredictable， rash man with a temper. Certainly not the kind of man Winston wanted to be anywhere near. He shifted over on the bench and curled in on himself， turning his eyes downward and his shoulders in toward his body to prevent any possible social interactions. The man， however， took the space made free by Winston’s shrinking.
“Sorry， it has been a rough day，” the shoeless person offered apologetically， placing a plastic bag down in the small remaining stretch of bench separating them. “A really rough day.” He seemed to be speaking to no one in particular. “I had to sell my shoes， had to sell them away. Can you believe that？” He scuffed his bare feet against the station’s dingy15 floor tiles.
“It’s my little girl’s birthday. She’s seven. I can barely believe it，” he shook his head. “Said all she wanted this year was a birthday cake. A real one， with sprinkles16 and frosting17 and her name spelled out nice and pretty on the top. So that’s what I went and got her.”
He gestured to the bag. Winston peeked18 through the clear cellophane19 case to see the cake. It was a small， white circle， with the name “Amelia” written in fancy cursive20 frosting on the top. “It sure is pretty， isn’t it？” the man said， noticing Winston’s interest. “I just had to get it for her. But I had to sell my shoes for it...it was worth it， of course.” He seemed to think this over for a while. “Still， that’s not a decision that any parent should have to make， it just isn’t.”
There was a crack in his voice like he was about to cry and Winston did something he rarely ever did. He looked up and met the stranger’s eyes. They were kind eyes， sad， sweet and beautiful eyes， sharply contrasting his bare and dirty feet. Winston stared at them， not allowing himself to pull away.
While staring at the man， a sense of shame washed over Winston. He was ashamed that he had judged the man， ashamed that he had assumed this stranger was a bad person simply for his lack of footwear， when in fact this man beside him was a more generous person than Winston had ever been. Slowly， Winston reached down and took off his dirty， white sneakers one at a time， exposing his socked feet to the harsh cold of the station. He picked up the shoes and handed them to the stranger beside him.
（英語原文选自：teenink.com）
鞋子能告诉你关于一个人的很多事情。温斯顿对此深信不疑，因为他自己看过很多鞋子。虽然他从小就听人说眼睛是“心灵的窗户”，但他总是对这种说法感到困惑不解。眼睛只是人脑袋上能让人看见东西的洞。温斯顿无法从中发现任何一点点关于他们的内在，只会有当被发现盯着别人看太久时的尴尬。另一方面，盯着别人的鞋子看几乎不会成为社交上令人不舒服的举动。大多数人几乎没有注意到角落里有个小个子男人在专心地看着他们的脚，而温斯顿喜欢这样做。
高中女王、滑板手、无聊的商人、疲劳的家庭主妇，温斯顿能够把大多数人简单地按照他们脚上东西的品牌、颜色和状况，归入这些基本的类别。不是自吹自擂，但温斯顿觉得他几乎把每个人都弄明白了。在这一点上，世界上再也没有什么能给他惊喜了，他相信他已经看过形形色色的人了。 温斯顿正坐在他常坐的地方——埃尔威夫火车站背角處的一张长凳上，看着普通人从他身边经过。一双擦亮的黑色休闲皮鞋从7点钟的火车上下来后拖着脚步走过，一双鲁布托高跟鞋在尘土飞扬的地砖上哒哒作响，两双邋遢的匡威鞋移来移去，在月台上等待。所有这些都给温斯顿留下了清晰的印象。他注意到一双及膝的长靴和几双耐克运动鞋都不见了。他叹了口气，有点厌倦了车站的可预测性。每天同一时间，同样的人们总是站在同一个站台上，等待同一列火车载着他们离开。这样一成不变的情况通常让他一片平静，但今天他感到有点不同。
就在那个时候，他注意到了一些不同的东西。两只光着的脚走过，在接触地板时发出一种陌生的拍打声。很奇怪。温斯顿看得更仔细了，饶有兴趣地研究着那双脚粗糙的皮肤和长得过长的脚趾甲。在他坐在火车站的所有时光里，他看到过许多奇怪的脚，但至少那些人有足够的理智，穿上了人字拖或凉鞋。而他面前的这个陌生人似乎没有遵守社会规则，赤脚出来让所有人看到。裸露的脚使温斯顿感到困扰。他想知道什么样的人才会买不起鞋，也许是个危险的人，要么就是智力有问题的人，或者是一个脾气暴躁，不可捉摸的莽汉。当然，他肯定不是温斯顿乐意接近的那种人。
他在长凳上转过身，蜷缩着身子，眼睛向下看，缩着肩膀，防止产生任何可能的人际交流。然而，这个人却占用了温斯顿缩着身体空出来的空间。
“对不起，今天真是糟糕，”那个没穿鞋的人抱歉地说，同时把一个塑料袋放在隔开他们俩的剩下的一小段长凳上。“真是糟糕透顶的一天。”他看起来像是没有特意对着某个人说话。“我不得不卖掉我的鞋，不得不卖，你能相信吗？”他光着脚蹭着车站肮脏的地砖。
“今天是我小女儿的生日。她七岁了。我简直不敢相信。”他摇摇头，“她说今年只想要一个生日蛋糕，一个真的蛋糕，上面有彩色糖粒和糖霜，上面漂亮地拼写着她的名字。所以这就是我去买给她的。”
他指着袋子。温斯顿透过透明的玻璃纸盒子窥探着蛋糕。这是一个白色的小圆圈形状的蛋糕，上面用糖霜写着花体的名字“阿米莉亚”。“真的很漂亮，不是吗？”那人说，他注意到温斯顿产生了兴趣。“我必须给她买。但我不得不卖掉我的鞋……当然，这是值得的。”他似乎考虑了一会儿，“尽管如此，但这不是任何父母都必须做的决定，不是必须的。”
他的声音沙哑，像是就要哭了。温斯顿做了一件他很少会去做的事。他抬起头来看向这位陌生人的眼睛。那是一双善良的眼睛，悲伤、温柔而美丽的眼睛，与他光着的脏脚形成了鲜明的对比。温斯顿盯着那双眼睛，不让自己的视线移开。
在盯着那个人看的时候，一种羞耻感涌上了温斯顿的心头。他为自己对这个人之前的评价感到羞愧，为自己仅仅因为对方没穿鞋子就认为这位陌生人是个坏人而感到羞愧，而事实上，身边的这个人比温斯顿以前见过的所有人都要更加慷慨大方。温斯顿慢慢地伸手，将他脏兮兮的白色运动鞋一只一只地脱了下来，把他那双穿了袜子的脚暴露在车站刺骨的寒气中。他捡起鞋子，递给了身旁的这位陌生人。