大学英语4泛读翻译第八课

What shall we talk about, you and I, who are getting our first degrees from

Queen’s today? The problem is a little easier than is usually the case, because

we are both going into new jobs. I have been an author for many years, and I

intend to go on being o

ne. But being an author isn’t a job—

it is a state of mind;

also, it is not a gainful occupation except in a rather restricted sense. I have

been earning my living as a journalist for twenty years, and now I am giving up

that sort of work to take a different sort of job in a university. I shall be very

green at it, and I expect I shall do a lot of things the wrong way. Perhaps I shall

be a failure, but I have failed at several things already, and somehow I have

lived

through

it.

Failure

at

a

specific

task

is

always

disagreeable

and

sometimes

it

is

humiliating.

But

there

is

only

one

kind

of

failure

that

really

breaks the spirit, and that is failure in the art of life itself. That is the failure that

one does well to fear.

What is it like, this failure in the art of life? It is the failure which manifests

itself in a loss of interest in really important things. It does not come suddenly,

there is nothing dramatic about it, and thus it works with a dreadful advantage;

it creeps upon us, and once it has us in its grip, it is hard for us to recognize

what ails us.

It is not for nothing that this failure was reckoned by medieval theologians

as one of the Seven Deadly Sins. I suppose you know what they were. Wrath,

Gluttony, Envy, Avarice, and Lechery are not very hard to recognize and are

perilously easy to justify, by one means or another. Pride is an extremely subtle

sin

because

it

is

so

clever

at

disguising

itself

as

something

else,

and

those

astute men St. Ambrose and St. Augustine thought it the most dangerous of all

the sins. But it is the seventh which I think is particularly prevalent in our day;

medieval theologians called it Sloth.

Sloth is not really a suitable name for it now, because the word has come

to mean a sluggishness and inactivity which is chiefly physical. But the sloth

the theologians meant, the sloth which can damn you in this world and perhaps

in the next, is spiritual. There was a better name, a Latin name, for it; it was

also called Accidie, and it meant intellectual and spiritual torpor, indifference,

and lethargy.

To be guilty of Acedia it is not necessary to be physically sluggish at all.

You can be as busy as a bee. You can fill your days with activity, bustling from

meeting to meeting, sitting on committees, running from one party to another in

a

perfect

whirlwind

of

movement.

But

if,

meanwhile,

your

feelings

and

sensibilities

are

withering,

if

your

relationships

with

people

near

to

you

are

becoming more and more superficial, if you are losing touch even with yourself,

it is Acedia which has claimed you for its own.

How can it be recognized? Anatole France said that the great danger of

increasing age was that the feelings atrophied, and we mistook the sensation

for

the

growth

of

wisdom.

It

is

true

that

as

one

grows

older,

one’s

sense

of

proportion may become greater, and things which troubled us or wounded us

deeply

in

our

youth

seem

less

significant.

But

that

is

a

different

thing

from

feeling nothing deeply, and leaping to the conclusion that therefore nothing is

really

very

important.

As

one

grows

older,

one

learns

how

to

spare

oneself

many kinds of unnecessary pain, but one is in great danger if one ceases to

feel

pain

of

any

kind.

If

you

cannot

feel

pain

at

some

of

the

harsh

circumstances of life, it is very likely that you have ceased to feel joy at some

of

the

satisfactions

and

delights

of

life. When

that

happens,

one

lives

at

all

times under a mental and spiritual cloud; it is always wet weather in the soul.

That

is

Acedia,

and

it

was

called

a

Deadly

Sin

because

it

dimmed

and

discouraged the spirit, and at last killed it.

I am sure that all of you know some people who have yielded to Acedia.

They

are

the

dampers,

the

wet

blankets

of

life.

Unfortunately

some

of

them

have a great attraction for the young. Their chronic lack of enthusiasm looks so

much

like

sophistication.

They

are

often

clever

people,

who

are

adept

at

putting a chilly finger on the weak spot in whatever attracts their friends. They

seldom

make

mistakes,

because

they

never

put

themselves

in

a

position

where they are not complete masters of the situation. They take a sly pleasure

in the failure of others, and they are always ready to say ‘I told you so’. They

have made just one great

—

indeed monstrous

—

mistake: they have died to joy

and pain, and thus to feeling.

The opposites of these people are not, of course, those who allow every

enthusiasm to run away with them, whose hearts always rule their heads, who

go

a-whoring

after everything

that

is new.

They

are,

on

the

contrary,

people

who

take

pains

to

keep

their

common

sense

in

repair,

and

who

keep

their

intelligence bright, but who also make daily efforts to meet experience with a

fresh

vision,

and

to

give

to

everything

that

comes

their

way

the

measure

of

feeling, of emotion, of charity and understanding

—

yes, and also of pain

—

that

it needs in order to understand it.

Because you are university people, I assume that you are people in whom

mind is more prominent and better trained than is feeling. If you had not had

some intellectual bias

—

even of quite a mild sort

—

it is unlikely that you would

be here today to receive a degree. Therefore you must take special care that,

in the years ahead of you, feeling is not neglected.

The temptation to neglect feeling is strong. You see

—

I say this knowing

that it is blasphemy within university walls

—

it is really very much easier to think

sensibly than it is to feel sensibly. We all know what messes people get into

when they feel too much and think too little; but those people do not compel my

pity so much as the hundreds of thousands whose lives are cast in a mould of

midget tragedy because they think a good deal, in a strangulated, ill- nourished

fashion, but hardly feel at all. These are the victims of Acedia.

Therefore I charge you, whether you are struggling under the burden of a

mighty

intellect,

or

perhaps

just

shuffling

along

with

a

pretty

well-trained

mediocre brain, to take pains not to lose your capacity to feel.

How is it to be done? I have some practical advice for you in this struggle,

which

is

one

of

the

great

battles

of

life.

Take

some

time

every

day

—

every

day

—

to examine what you have been doing in the light of feeling, rather than

of intelligence. It may be before you fall asleep at night; it may be while you are

walking

to

your

work;

it

may

be

at

any

time

when

you

can

withdraw

your

attention

from

external

matters:

that

is

the

time

to

ask

yourself

—

What

do

I

really feel about all this? Not, what should I feel about it, what does the world

expect me to feel, but what do I truly feel about it? You must be honest with

yourself, because self- deception is one of the commonest roads to Acedia.

Now

it

may

happen

that

you

will

find

that

you

are

committed

to

some

course of action which you do not like

—

which you may positively hate. And yet,

for good reasons, it may be necessary to continue with it. We all have to do

things we detest, at one time or another, because we are not free to consult

our own wishes only. But if you know the truth, you are protected from Acedia.

Nor is it only the detestable things that should be carefully examined. You

must look clearly at the things which make your life happy and enviable, and

you must give yourself up to a grateful contemplation of them. Never take such

things for granted. I have seen many a promising marriage shrivel and dry up

because

one

or

both

of

the

parties

to

it

assumed

that

happiness

was

something

that

came

by

right,

and

could

never

be

diminished.

Consciously

summoning up, and consciously enjoying, the good things that life brings us is

a

way

of

preserving

them.

It

is

not

in

their

nature

to

last

forever;

they

will

change, and if you cherish them gratefully, the change is much more likely to

be

a

change for the

better than

if

you

accept

them

as

gifts

which

a

grateful

providence has showered upon you as a recognition of your magnanimity in

condescending to inhabit the earth.

I have never been able to make up my mind which it is that people fear to

feel most

—

pain or joy. Life will bring you both. You will not be able to escape

the pain completely, though Acedia will dull it a little. But unfortunately it lies in

your power to reject the joy utterly. Because we are afraid that exultation may

betray

us

into

some

actions,

some

words,

which

may

make

us

look

a

little

foolish to people who are not sharing our experience, we very often stifle our