论文部分内容阅读
I find the love letters exactly where I left them： in a folder in an old Hotmail account.1 Years ago， I named that folder “Home.”
I must have weeded those e-mails out of my main inbox on a not-very-busy morning in Harare， Zimbabwe， sitting in front of a clunky desktop computer in the thatched round cottage that was our first home together.2
“Home” is not a big folder. We got married six months after we met. Three of those months we spent mostly together： first in Zimbabwe， where he lived， and then in Paris， where I was working. That didn’t leave much time for writing each other heartfelt missives of love and longing.3
And yet. Quickly I scroll through the subject lines.4 The door to my office is open. I can hear my husband clanking the lid down on a saucepan.5 “Plump Pigeons，”6 reads one of them—oh yes， I remember. “Correction to Clarity.” “Lots of PSes7.”
I used to buy phone cards to call my soon-to-be-husband in Harare every night after my editing shift8 at a French news agency was over. I’d wait my turn in line outside the phone booths near the Sacré-Coeur，9 then tap 263 （the calling code for Zimbabwe）， and hold my breath for the connection.
I think I did most of the talking.
Those “PSes” were things he hadn’t had a chance to say during five-minute， $15 conversations.
He calls now from the kitchen. “What do you put on the potatoes？”
I direct him to the turmeric10 and turn back to my laptop.
There it is， right at the bottom of the list， dated July 28， 2000. The first message he ever sent me. I’d landed in Paris a day earlier， back from the reporting trip that my editor certainly hadn’t intended to become a matchmaking mission.11
I skim through the message， grinning again at the way the man I would marry—whose precise writing I still love—poked fun at his “ponderous prose.”12
Now that I try to count those e-mails， my cursor13 slipping up and down， I see that there are more than 40 of them.
Each one was crafted thoughtfully， every single word weighed before he pressed Send.14 In contrast， my messages to him were news briefs， three- or four-paragraph replies banged out at the end of my shift.15
I did not have a computer in the tiny flat I rented， with its view that stretched out as far as the Tour Montparnasse16. I had to read his messages quickly， reviewing the passages I’d managed to memorize on the metro17 ride home.
There is a wail18 from a bedroom. The wooden beads that our three-year-old daughter is threading have slipped off the string.19 “Mummy is busy，” I hear my husband say. My mother’s love letters are in the bottom of a low chest of drawers20 by her bed.
They are written on thick cream Basildon Bond paper in my father’s strong hand.21 Years ago， Mum must have decided to store them all in one place， just as I did. Hers are tied together， not in a virtual file but with a thin piece of ribbon.22
She keeps them near to the flat burgundy box that holds her jewelry from the 1960s： a glittery brooch， the broken-off buckle from a belt.23
My mother likes to be able to hold her letters. When I started to e-mail her from university， she said she preferred “letters I can take out of my handbag.”
I think about her words now as I stare at my love letters， neatly stacked by date and time in an electronic cupboard.24 Would I prefer them to have been written on paper？
I don’t think so. I might have mislaid them in a move or ruined them with water from a knocked-over cup.25 Online， they are as pristine26 as they were the day they were written.
Still， I’m not taking any chances. I select each message in turn and press Forward27 to send it to another e-mail account. No harm in having backup28 copies.
I close my laptop and get up from the desk. The spinach29 is ready. All I need to do is to mix in a bit of cheese， some stock， and two eggs and then slide the whole thing under the broiler.30
Supper for four. That’s what my husband’s prose， painstakingly tapped out in Times New Roman， has led to.31
“I found Dad’s love letters to me，” I announce a little later， serving spoon32 in hand.
My husband snorts33， secretly pleased. “Did you actually keep those things？”
Sam， age 11， looks up from editing photos of his puppy. He’s not yet at the age of drafting34 love letters. Nor is he far enough into teenagerhood35 to find the idea of his parents having a life before him totally uninteresting.
I look at him. At some point， he， too， will live and love online.
“One day I’ll e-mail you a line or two so you can see it on your screen，” I say.
1. folder： 文件夾；account： 账户。
2. 我肯定是在一个还算清闲的早晨，在我们位于津巴布韦首都哈拉雷的第一个家，一个圆形的小茅草屋里，坐在一台笨重的台式电脑前，把这些邮件从我的主收件箱里移除了。weed out of： 把……清除出去；Harare： 哈拉雷，津巴布韦首都；Zimbabwe： 津巴布韦，非洲南部国家；clunky： 笨重的；thatched： 茅草覆盖的。
3. missive： 信函，信件；longing： 渴望，热望。
4. scroll through： 滚动，滚屏；subject line： 标题行。
5. clank： 使发出叮当声；saucepan：（带盖，有一长柄或两耳的）深煮锅。
6. plump： 丰满的，圆胖的；pigeon： 鸽子。
7. PS： Postscript，附录，附言。 8. shift： 轮班。
9. phone booth： 电话亭；Sacré-Coeur： 圣心大教堂，位于法国巴黎。
10. turmeric： 姜黄根粉（用于制作咖喱粉等佐料和黄色染料）。
11. 就在收到第一封信件的前一天，我刚结束一个采访回到了巴黎，我的主编一定没想到这次采访居然发挥了牵线搭桥的作用。matchmaking： 做媒，牵线搭桥。
12. 我浏览了那条信息，一想到我要嫁的那个人当时嘲笑自己行文冗长乏味的样子，又不禁莞尔，到现在我还是爱他精准的笔触。grin： 露齿而笑，咧嘴笑；poke fun at： 嘲笑，取笑；ponderous： 冗长乏味的； prose： 乏味的话（或文章）。
13. cursor： 光标。
14. craft： 精心制作，这里指遣词造句很用心；weigh： 认真考虑，斟酌。
15. 相比之下，我的回信就像新闻简讯，只有三四段，而且是在当班的最后一刻才匆匆写就的。bang out： 匆匆写出。
16. Tour Montparnasse： 蒙特帕斯大楼，高210米，位于巴黎。
17. metro： 地铁。
18. wail： 恸哭，号啕大哭。
19. bead： 珠子；thread： 穿（针、线等）；slip off： 滑落，松脱； string： 线，细绳。
20. chest of drawers： 衣柜，五斗柜。
21. cream： 奶油色的，米色的； Basildom Bond： 是一种纸的牌子。
22. virtual： 虚拟的；ribbon： 丝带。
23. flat： 扁平的；burgundy： 紫红色； glittery： 闪闪发光的；brooch： 胸针，领针；buckle： 皮带扣。
24. stack： 堆放；cupboard： 橱柜，这里的electronic cupboard 指电脑里的文件夹。
25. 我有可能因搬家再也找不到这些信件， 也可能因不小心打翻一杯水而毁了它们。mislay： 忘记把……放在何处。
26. pristine： 原本的，未被損坏的。
27. Forward： （电子邮箱中的）转发键。
28. backup： 备份的。
29. spinach： 菠菜。
30. stock：（汤等的）原汁，汤料；slide： 使滑动，这里指把原 料倒进……；broiler： 烘烤炉。
31. 这就是我丈夫单调乏味的、用心敲出的新罗马字体情书所带来的结果（如今我们已是四口之家）。painstakingly： 认真地，细心地。
32. serving spoon： 公用匙。
33. snort： 哼着鼻子说或表示。
34. draft： 起草，草拟。
35. teenagerhood： 青少年时期。
I must have weeded those e-mails out of my main inbox on a not-very-busy morning in Harare， Zimbabwe， sitting in front of a clunky desktop computer in the thatched round cottage that was our first home together.2
“Home” is not a big folder. We got married six months after we met. Three of those months we spent mostly together： first in Zimbabwe， where he lived， and then in Paris， where I was working. That didn’t leave much time for writing each other heartfelt missives of love and longing.3
And yet. Quickly I scroll through the subject lines.4 The door to my office is open. I can hear my husband clanking the lid down on a saucepan.5 “Plump Pigeons，”6 reads one of them—oh yes， I remember. “Correction to Clarity.” “Lots of PSes7.”
I used to buy phone cards to call my soon-to-be-husband in Harare every night after my editing shift8 at a French news agency was over. I’d wait my turn in line outside the phone booths near the Sacré-Coeur，9 then tap 263 （the calling code for Zimbabwe）， and hold my breath for the connection.
I think I did most of the talking.
Those “PSes” were things he hadn’t had a chance to say during five-minute， $15 conversations.
He calls now from the kitchen. “What do you put on the potatoes？”
I direct him to the turmeric10 and turn back to my laptop.
There it is， right at the bottom of the list， dated July 28， 2000. The first message he ever sent me. I’d landed in Paris a day earlier， back from the reporting trip that my editor certainly hadn’t intended to become a matchmaking mission.11
I skim through the message， grinning again at the way the man I would marry—whose precise writing I still love—poked fun at his “ponderous prose.”12
Now that I try to count those e-mails， my cursor13 slipping up and down， I see that there are more than 40 of them.
Each one was crafted thoughtfully， every single word weighed before he pressed Send.14 In contrast， my messages to him were news briefs， three- or four-paragraph replies banged out at the end of my shift.15
I did not have a computer in the tiny flat I rented， with its view that stretched out as far as the Tour Montparnasse16. I had to read his messages quickly， reviewing the passages I’d managed to memorize on the metro17 ride home.
There is a wail18 from a bedroom. The wooden beads that our three-year-old daughter is threading have slipped off the string.19 “Mummy is busy，” I hear my husband say. My mother’s love letters are in the bottom of a low chest of drawers20 by her bed.
They are written on thick cream Basildon Bond paper in my father’s strong hand.21 Years ago， Mum must have decided to store them all in one place， just as I did. Hers are tied together， not in a virtual file but with a thin piece of ribbon.22
She keeps them near to the flat burgundy box that holds her jewelry from the 1960s： a glittery brooch， the broken-off buckle from a belt.23
My mother likes to be able to hold her letters. When I started to e-mail her from university， she said she preferred “letters I can take out of my handbag.”
I think about her words now as I stare at my love letters， neatly stacked by date and time in an electronic cupboard.24 Would I prefer them to have been written on paper？
I don’t think so. I might have mislaid them in a move or ruined them with water from a knocked-over cup.25 Online， they are as pristine26 as they were the day they were written.
Still， I’m not taking any chances. I select each message in turn and press Forward27 to send it to another e-mail account. No harm in having backup28 copies.
I close my laptop and get up from the desk. The spinach29 is ready. All I need to do is to mix in a bit of cheese， some stock， and two eggs and then slide the whole thing under the broiler.30
Supper for four. That’s what my husband’s prose， painstakingly tapped out in Times New Roman， has led to.31
“I found Dad’s love letters to me，” I announce a little later， serving spoon32 in hand.
My husband snorts33， secretly pleased. “Did you actually keep those things？”
Sam， age 11， looks up from editing photos of his puppy. He’s not yet at the age of drafting34 love letters. Nor is he far enough into teenagerhood35 to find the idea of his parents having a life before him totally uninteresting.
I look at him. At some point， he， too， will live and love online.
“One day I’ll e-mail you a line or two so you can see it on your screen，” I say.
1. folder： 文件夾；account： 账户。
2. 我肯定是在一个还算清闲的早晨，在我们位于津巴布韦首都哈拉雷的第一个家，一个圆形的小茅草屋里，坐在一台笨重的台式电脑前，把这些邮件从我的主收件箱里移除了。weed out of： 把……清除出去；Harare： 哈拉雷，津巴布韦首都；Zimbabwe： 津巴布韦，非洲南部国家；clunky： 笨重的；thatched： 茅草覆盖的。
3. missive： 信函，信件；longing： 渴望，热望。
4. scroll through： 滚动，滚屏；subject line： 标题行。
5. clank： 使发出叮当声；saucepan：（带盖，有一长柄或两耳的）深煮锅。
6. plump： 丰满的，圆胖的；pigeon： 鸽子。
7. PS： Postscript，附录，附言。 8. shift： 轮班。
9. phone booth： 电话亭；Sacré-Coeur： 圣心大教堂，位于法国巴黎。
10. turmeric： 姜黄根粉（用于制作咖喱粉等佐料和黄色染料）。
11. 就在收到第一封信件的前一天，我刚结束一个采访回到了巴黎，我的主编一定没想到这次采访居然发挥了牵线搭桥的作用。matchmaking： 做媒，牵线搭桥。
12. 我浏览了那条信息，一想到我要嫁的那个人当时嘲笑自己行文冗长乏味的样子，又不禁莞尔，到现在我还是爱他精准的笔触。grin： 露齿而笑，咧嘴笑；poke fun at： 嘲笑，取笑；ponderous： 冗长乏味的； prose： 乏味的话（或文章）。
13. cursor： 光标。
14. craft： 精心制作，这里指遣词造句很用心；weigh： 认真考虑，斟酌。
15. 相比之下，我的回信就像新闻简讯，只有三四段，而且是在当班的最后一刻才匆匆写就的。bang out： 匆匆写出。
16. Tour Montparnasse： 蒙特帕斯大楼，高210米，位于巴黎。
17. metro： 地铁。
18. wail： 恸哭，号啕大哭。
19. bead： 珠子；thread： 穿（针、线等）；slip off： 滑落，松脱； string： 线，细绳。
20. chest of drawers： 衣柜，五斗柜。
21. cream： 奶油色的，米色的； Basildom Bond： 是一种纸的牌子。
22. virtual： 虚拟的；ribbon： 丝带。
23. flat： 扁平的；burgundy： 紫红色； glittery： 闪闪发光的；brooch： 胸针，领针；buckle： 皮带扣。
24. stack： 堆放；cupboard： 橱柜，这里的electronic cupboard 指电脑里的文件夹。
25. 我有可能因搬家再也找不到这些信件， 也可能因不小心打翻一杯水而毁了它们。mislay： 忘记把……放在何处。
26. pristine： 原本的，未被損坏的。
27. Forward： （电子邮箱中的）转发键。
28. backup： 备份的。
29. spinach： 菠菜。
30. stock：（汤等的）原汁，汤料；slide： 使滑动，这里指把原 料倒进……；broiler： 烘烤炉。
31. 这就是我丈夫单调乏味的、用心敲出的新罗马字体情书所带来的结果（如今我们已是四口之家）。painstakingly： 认真地，细心地。
32. serving spoon： 公用匙。
33. snort： 哼着鼻子说或表示。
34. draft： 起草，草拟。
35. teenagerhood： 青少年时期。