高中英语趣味阅读 美文9(中英双语)

英语美文欣赏

9

Not Talking About It

尽在不言中

When I read a book from my mother’s shelves, it’s not unusual to come across

a

gap

in

the

text.

A

paragraph,

or

maybe

just

a

sentence,

has

been

sliced

out,

leaving a window in its place, with words from the next page peeping through. The

chopped up page looks like a nearly complete jigsaw puzzle waiting for its missing

piece.

But

the

piece

isn’t

lost,

and

I

always

know

where

to

find

it.

Dozens

of

quotations, clipped from newspapers, magazines

—

and books

—

plaster one wall of

my mother’s kitchen. What means the most to my mother in her books she excises

and displays.

当我翻看妈妈书架上的书时，< /p>

常常会发现其中的文字缺了一部分。

其中的

一个段落，

或可能只是一个句子，

被剪了下来，

在原来的位置上留下了一扇窗

户，

让后一页上的文字 探头探脑地露了出来。

被挖掉一块的那一页看上去就像

是一幅几 乎就要完成的拼图作品，

等待着缺失的那一块拼图。

但那一块拼 图并

没有丢，而且我总是知道在哪儿能找到它。在我妈妈的厨房里，从报纸上、杂

志上——还有书上——剪下的纸片贴满了一面墙。

在她的书里，

那些她最喜欢

的句子和段落都被她剪了下来，贴在墙上。

I’ve

never

told

her,

but

those

literary

amputations

appall

me.

I

know

Ann

Patchett and Dorothy Sayers, and Somerset Maugham would fume alongside me,

their careful prose severed from its rightful place. She picks extracts that startle me,

too: “Put your worst foot forward, because then if people can still stand you, you

can

be

yourself.”

Sometimes

I

stand

reading

the

wall

of

quotations,

holding

a

scissors-victim

novel

in

my

hand,

puzzling

over

what

draws

my

mother

to

these

particular words.

我从未当面和她说过，

但她对文学作品的这种

“ 截肢手术”

的确让我感到

震惊。我知道，安?帕契特、多萝西? 塞耶斯和萨默塞特?毛姆也在我身旁气得

冒烟呢，

怎么能把这些 他们呕心沥血写出来的文字就这样从它们原来的位置上

“截肢”了呢！她挑出来的那些段 落也着实吓了我一跳，比如：

“以你最糟糕

的一面示人，因为如 果那样人们也能容忍你的话，你就能做真正的自己了。

”

有时候 ，我会站在那儿读墙上那些书摘，手里拿着一本备受剪刀“迫害”的小

说，

心里充满困惑，

不知道到底是什么驱使妈妈剪下了这样一些稀奇古怪的句

子。

My own quotation collection is more hidden and delicate. I copy favorite lines

into a spiral-bound journal-a Christmas present from my mother, actually

—

in soft,

gray No. 2 pencil. This means my books remain whole. The labor required makes

selection a cutthroat process: Do I really love these two pages of On Chesil Beach

1

enough to transcribe them, word by finger-cramping word? (The answer was yes,

the pages were that exquisite.)

我也摘录和收藏文字，

不过我的收藏更为隐秘和精致。

我会用灰色的二号

软芯铅笔把我最喜欢的句子摘抄到一个活页日记本里——事实上，

这还是我妈

妈送我的一份圣诞礼物呢。

也就 是说，

我的书都是完整的。

但因为摘抄需要工

< br>夫，

因此选择哪些文字摘抄就成了一个痛苦的过程：

我是 不是真的喜欢

《在切

瑟尔海滩上》里的这两页文字？喜欢到我愿 意一个字一个字地把它们抄下来，

直抄到手指头都抽筋？（答案为“是”

，因为这两页文字写得实在太美了。

）

My mother doesn’t know any of this. She doesn’t know I prefer copying out to

cutting out. I’ve never told

her that I compile quotations at all. < /p>

我妈妈一点也不知道这件事。

她不知道与剪贴相比，

我更喜欢抄录。

我压

根就没告诉过她我也收集自己喜 欢的文字。

There’s nothing very shocking about that; for all our chatting, we don’t have

the

words

to

begin

certain

conversations.

My

mother

and

I

talk

on

the

phone

at

least onc

e a week, and in some ways, we are each other’s most dedicated listener.

She

tells

me

about

teaching

English

to

the

leathery

Russian

ladies

at

the

library

where she volunteers; I tell her about job applications, cover letters, and a grant I’d

like

to

win.

We

talk

about

my

siblings,

her

siblings,

the

president,

and

Philip

Seymour Hoffman movies. We make each other laugh so hard that I choke and she

cries.

But

what

we

don’t

say

could

fill

up

rooms.

Fights

with

my

father.

Small

failures in school. Anything, really, that pierces us.

其实这一 点没什么值得大惊小怪的；

尽管我们总是聊天，

但对于某些特定

的话题，我们总是不知道该怎么开口。妈妈和我一个星期至少会通一次电话，

,

我们是对方最专心的听众。她会 告诉我她在图书馆做志愿者

教那些强悍的俄罗斯妇女英语时发生的事；

< br>而我会和她谈谈我找工作的事、

我

的求职信，

我们会聊我的兄弟姐妹、

< br>她的兄弟

姐妹、总统，还有菲利普?塞默?霍夫曼的电影。我们常常逗得对方大笑 ，笑得

我喘不过气来，

笑得她眼泪都流出来了。

但我们不聊的东西也很多，

多得几个

房间都装不下。< /p>

譬如她和我爸吵架了，

又譬如我在学校遇到一些小挫折了。

事

实上，所有让我们伤心的事，我们都避而不谈。

I like to say that my mother has never told me “I love you.” There’s something

reassuring in its self-pitying simplicity

—

as if the three- word absence explains who

I

am

and

wins

me

sympathy-so

I

carry

it

with

me,

like

a

label

on

my

back.

I

synthesize our cumbersome relationship with an easy shorthand: my mother never

said “I love you”. The last time my mother almost spoke the words was two years

ago, when she called to tell me that a friend had been hospitalized.

我常常说，妈妈从来 没和我说过“我爱你”

。这句有点自怜的简单话语听

起来颇有些 自我安慰的味道——仿佛这三个字的缺失就为我为什么成为现在

的我提供了借口，

还为我赢得了同情——于是，

我总是把这句话挂在嘴边，

就

1

像把它贴在背上当标签一样。

对于我和妈妈之间的这种微妙关系，

我总是简单

地用一句“谁让她从来不说‘我爱你’

” 来总结。上一次妈妈差点说出这几个

字是在两年前，当时她给我打电话，告诉我她有个朋 友住院了。

I said, “I love you, Mom.” She said, “Thank you.” I haven’t said it since, but

I’ve thought about it, and I’ve wondered why my mother doesn’t. A couple of years

ago, I found a poem by Robert Hershon called “Sentimental Moment or Why Did

the

Baguette

Cross

the

Road?”

that

supplied

words

for

the

blank

spaces

I

try

to

understand in our conversations:

我对她说：

“ 我爱你，

妈妈。

”

< br>而她说

:

“谢谢。

”