1

Forty－five minutes north－east of Cambridge is a landscape I＇ve come to love very much indeed．It＇s where wet fen ${}^1$${}^1$^(1){ }^{1} gives way to parched sand．It＇s a land of twisted pine trees，burned－out cars， shotgun－peppered road signs and US Air Force bases．There are ghosts here：houses crumble inside numbered blocks of pine forestry．There are spaces built for air delivered nukes inside grassy tumuli ${}^2$${}^2$^(2){ }^{2} behind twelve－foot fences，tattoo parlours and US Air Force golf courses．In spring it＇s a riot of noise：constant plane traffic，gas－guns over pea fields，woodlarks and jet engines．It＇s called the Brecklands－the broken lands－and it＇s where I ended up that morning，seven years ago，in early spring，on a trip I hadn＇t planned at all．At five in the morning I＇d been staring at a square of
剑桥东北四十五分钟车程处，有一片我非常喜爱的风景。这里是湿润的沼泽地转变为干燥沙地的地方。这里是扭曲的松树、烧毁的汽车、弹孔遍布的路标和美国空军基地的土地。这里有幽灵：房屋在编号的松树林区内坍塌。这里有为空投核弹而建的空间，隐藏在十二英尺高的围栏后面的草地土丘中，还有纹身店和美国空军高尔夫球场。春天，这里是一片喧嚣：不断的飞机交通，豌豆田上空的气枪声，林鹨和喷气发动机的轰鸣声。这里被称为布雷克兰——破碎之地——七年前的那个早春早晨，我意外地来到了这里。凌晨五点，我正凝视着一块方形的土地

streetlight on the ceiling，listening to a couple of late party－leavers chatting on the pavement outside．I felt odd：overtired，overwrought，unpleasantly like my brain had been removed and my skull stuffed with something like microwaved aluminium foil，dinted，charred and shorting with sparks．Nnngh．Must get out，I thought，throwing back the covers．Out！I pulled on jeans，boots and a jumper，scalded my mouth with burned coffee，and it was only when my frozen，ancient Volkswagen and I were halfway down the A14 ${}^3$${}^3$^(3){ }^{3} that I worked out where I was going，and why．Out there，beyond the foggy windscreen and white lines，was the forest．The broken forest．That＇s where I was headed．To see goshawks．${}^4$${}^4$^(4){ }^{4}
天花板上的路灯，听着外面人行道上几个深夜离开的派对客人在聊天。我感觉很奇怪：过度疲惫，情绪紧张，不舒服得像我的大脑被取出，头骨里塞满了像微波炉加热过的铝箔，凹陷、烧焦，还带着火花短路。嗯呐。一定得出去，我想，掀开被子。出去！我穿上牛仔裤、靴子和毛衣，喝了口烫嘴的烧焦咖啡，直到我和我那辆冰冷、老旧的大众车开到 A14 公路半路上，我才想明白我要去哪儿，为什么。透过雾蒙蒙的挡风玻璃和白色车道线外，是森林。那片破碎的森林。那就是我的目的地。去看苍鹰

I knew it would be hard．Goshawks are hard．Have you ever seen a hawk catch a bird in your back garden？I＇ve not，but I know it＇s happened．I＇ve found evidence．Out on the patio flagstones， sometimes，tiny fragments：a little，insect－like songbird leg，with a foot clenched tight where the sinews have pulled it；or－even more gruesomely－a disarticulated beak，${}^5$${}^5$^(5){ }^{5} a house－sparrow ${}^6$${}^6$^(6){ }^{6} beak top，or bottom，a little conical bead of blushed gunmetal，slightly translucent，with a few faint maxillary feathers adhering to it．But maybe you have：maybe you＇ve glanced out of the window and seen there，on the lawn，a bloody great hawk murdering a pigeon， 7 or a blackbird，${}^8$${}^8$^(8){ }^{8} or a magpie，${}^9$${}^9$^(9){ }^{9} and it looks the hugest，most impressive piece of wildness you＇ve ever seen，like someone＇s tipped a snow leopard into your kitchen and you find it eating the cat．I＇ve had people rush up to me in the supermarket，or in the library，and say，eyes huge，I saw a hawk catch a bird in my back garden this morning！And I＇m just about to open my mouth and say，Sparrowhawk！10 and they say，＇I looked in the bird book．It was a goshawk？＇But it never is；the books don＇t work．When it＇s fighting a pigeon on your lawn a hawk becomes much larger than life，and bird－book illustrations never match the memory．Here＇s the sparrowhawk．It＇s grey，with a black and white barred front，yellow eyes and a long tail．Next to it is the goshawk．This one is also grey，with a black and white barred front，
我知道这会很难。苍鹰很难见。你有没有见过一只鹰在你后花园抓鸟？我没见过，但我知道这事发生过。我找到了证据。在露台的石板上，有时会有微小的碎片：一只小小的、像昆虫一样的鸣禽腿，脚紧紧握着，肌腱拉紧了；或者——更令人毛骨悚然的是——一只脱节的喙， ${}^5$${}^5$^(5){ }^{5} 一只家麻雀 ${}^6$${}^6$^(6){ }^{6} 的喙顶端或底部，一个小小的锥形珠子，带着淡淡的枪金属色，略微半透明，附着着几根淡淡的上颚羽毛。但也许你见过：也许你瞥了一眼窗外，看到草坪上有一只血淋淋的大鹰正在杀死一只鸽子，7 或者一只黑鸟， ${}^8$${}^8$^(8){ }^{8} 或者一只喜鹊， ${}^9$${}^9$^(9){ }^{9} ，看起来是你见过的最大、最令人印象深刻的野性场面，就像有人把一只雪豹扔进你的厨房，你发现它正在吃猫。我曾有人在超市或图书馆冲上来，眼睛瞪得大大的，说：“我今天早上在我后花园看到一只鹰抓鸟了！”我正要开口说，“是雀鹰！”10，他们却说，“我查了鸟类书，是苍鹰？”“但事实从来不是这样；书上的描述根本不管用。当它在你的草坪上和鸽子搏斗时，鹰隼看起来比现实大得多，而鸟类书上的插图永远无法与记忆中的形象相匹配。这是雀鹰。它是灰色的，胸前有黑白相间的横纹，黄色的眼睛和长尾巴。旁边的是苍鹰。这只也是灰色的，胸前有黑白相间的横纹，

yellow eyes and a long tail．You think，Hmm．You read the description．Sparrowhawk：twelve to sixteen inches long．Goshawk：nineteen to twenty－four inches．There．It was huge．It must be a goshawk．They look identical．Goshawks are bigger，that＇s all．Just bigger．
黄色的眼睛和长尾巴。你会想，嗯。你读了描述。雀鹰：长十二到十六英寸。苍鹰：十九到二十四英寸。就是这样。它很大。一定是苍鹰。它们看起来一模一样。苍鹰只是更大，仅此而已。”

No．In real life，goshawks resemble sparrowhawks the way leopards resemble housecats． Bigger，yes．But bulkier，bloodier，deadlier，scarier and much，much harder to see．Birds of deep woodland，not gardens，they＇re the birdwatchers＇dark grail．${}^{11}$${}^{11}$^(11){ }^{11} You might spend a week in a forest full of gosses ${}^{12}$${}^{12}$^(12){ }^{12} and never see one，just traces of their presence．A sudden hush，followed by the calls of terrified woodland birds，and a sense of something moving just beyond vision．Perhaps you＇ll find a half－eaten pigeon sprawled in a burst of white feathers on the forest floor．Or you might be lucky：walking in a foggy ride at dawn you＇ll turn your head and catch a split－second glimpse of a bird hurtling past and away，huge taloned ${}^{13}$${}^{13}$^(13){ }^{13} feet held loosely clenched，eyes set on a distant target．A split second that stamps the image indelibly on your brain and leaves you hungry for more．Looking for goshawks is like looking for grace：${}^{14}$${}^{14}$^(14){ }^{14} it comes，but not often，and you don＇t get to say when or how．But you have a slightly better chance on still，clear mornings in early spring，because that＇s when goshawks eschew ${}^{15}$${}^{15}$^(15){ }^{15} their world under the trees to court ${}^{16}$${}^{16}$^(16){ }^{16} each other in the open sky．That was what I was hoping to see．
不。在现实生活中，苍鹰和雀鹰的相似之处，就像豹子和家猫的相似之处一样。体型更大，是的。但更壮硕、更血腥、更致命、更可怕，而且难以察觉得多。它们是深林中的鸟类，不是花园里的，它们是观鸟者心中的黑暗圣杯。你可能会在一片满是小鸟的森林里待上一周，却从未见过一只苍鹰，只能发现它们存在的痕迹。突然的寂静，紧接着是受惊的林鸟的鸣叫声，以及一种有什么东西正超出视线范围移动的感觉。也许你会在森林地面上发现一只被啄食一半的鸽子，散落着一团白色羽毛。或者你可能幸运：黎明时分在雾气弥漫的小径上行走，转头间捕捉到一只鸟飞速掠过的瞬间，巨大的爪子松松地握着，眼睛盯着远方的目标。那一瞬间的画面深深印在你的脑海里，让你渴望更多。寻找苍鹰就像寻找优雅：它会出现，但不常见，你无法决定何时或如何出现。但在早春的宁静晴朗的早晨，你的机会稍微大一些，因为那时苍鹰会离开树下的世界，在开阔的天空中求偶。这正是我希望看到的

I slammed the rusting door，and set off with my binoculars ${}^{17}$${}^{17}$^(17){ }^{17} through a forest washed pewter with frost．Pieces of this place had disappeared since I was last here．I found squares of wrecked ground； clear－cut，broken acres with torn roots and drying needles ${}^{18}$${}^{18}$^(18){ }^{18} strewn in the sand．Clearings．That＇s what I needed．Slowly my brain righted itself into spaces unused for months．For so long I＇d been living in libraries and college rooms，frowning at screens，marking essays，chasing down academic
我猛地关上生锈的门，带着望远镜穿过一片被霜洗涤成铅灰色的森林。自从我上次来这里，这地方的一些部分已经消失了。我发现了一些被破坏的地块；被清理过的、破碎的几英亩土地，根部被撕裂，干枯的针叶散落在沙地上。空地。那正是我需要的。慢慢地，我的大脑恢复了运转，进入了几个月未曾使用的空间。长久以来，我一直生活在图书馆和大学教室里，皱着眉头盯着屏幕，批改论文，追踪学术资料

references．This was a different kind of hunt．Here I was a different animal．Have you ever watched a deer walking out from cover？They step，stop，and stay，motionless，nose to the air，looking and smelling．A nervous twitch might run down their flanks．And then，reassured that all is safe，they ankle their way out of the brush to graze．That morning，I felt like the deer．Not that I was sniffing the air，or standing in fear－but like the deer，I was in the grip of very old and emotional ways of moving through a landscape，experiencing forms of attention and deportment beyond conscious control．Something inside me ordered me how and where to step without me knowing much about it．It might be a million years of evolution，it might be intuition，but on my goshawk hunt I feel tense when I＇m walking or standing in sunlight，find myself unconsciously edging towards broken light，or slipping into the narrow，cold shadows along the wide breaks between pine stands．I flinch if I hear a jay ${}^{19}$${}^{19}$^(19){ }^{19} calling，or a crow＇s rolling，angry alarum．${}^{20}$${}^{20}$^(20){ }^{20} Both of these things could mean either Warning，human！or Warning，goshawk！And that morning I was trying to find one by hiding the other．Those old ghostly intuitions that have tied sinew ${}^{21}$${}^{21}$^(21){ }^{21} and soul together for millennia had taken over，were doing their thing，making me feel uncomfortable in bright sunlight，uneasy on the wrong side of a ridge，somehow required to walk over the back of a bleached rise of grasses to get to something on the other side：which turned out to be a pond．Small birds rose up in clouds from the pond＇s edge：chaffinches，${}^{22}$${}^{22}$^(22){ }^{22} bramblings，${}^{23}$${}^{23}$^(23){ }^{23} a flock of long－tailed tits ${}^{24}$${}^{24}$^(24){ }^{24} that caught in willow branches like animated cotton buds．
参考文献。这是一种不同的狩猎方式。在这里，我是另一种动物。你有没有看过一只鹿从掩蔽处走出来？它们一步步走，停下来，保持静止，鼻子朝向空气，观察和嗅闻。它们的侧腹可能会有紧张的抽动。然后，在确认一切安全后，它们踝关节灵活地走出灌木丛去觅食。那天早晨，我感觉自己就像那只鹿。不是说我在嗅空气，或是站着害怕——但像鹿一样，我被一种非常古老且情感化的方式所控制，在穿越景观时体验着超出意识控制的注意力和举止。内心有某种东西指挥我如何以及在哪里迈步，而我对此知之甚少。可能是百万年的进化，也可能是直觉，但在我的苍鹰狩猎中，当我走路或站在阳光下时会感到紧张，发现自己无意识地靠近斑驳的光影，或滑入松树林间宽阔空隙中狭窄、寒冷的阴影里。如果我听到松鸦的叫声，或者乌鸦那种滚动的、愤怒的警报声，我会惊跳。这两种声音都可能意味着“警告，人类！”或者“警告，苍鹰！”那天早晨，我试图通过隐藏另一个来找到一个。那些古老的幽灵般的直觉，千百年来将筋骨 ${}^{21}$${}^{21}$^(21){ }^{21} 和灵魂紧紧相连，已经占据了我的意识，开始发挥作用，让我在明亮的阳光下感到不舒服，在山脊的错误一侧感到不安，不知为何必须穿过一片被晒白的草地背面，去到另一边的某个地方：结果那是一个池塘。小鸟们从池塘边缘成群结队地飞起：山雀 ${}^{22}$${}^{22}$^(22){ }^{22} 、斑鸫 ${}^{23}$${}^{23}$^(23){ }^{23} ，还有一群长尾山雀 ${}^{24}$${}^{24}$^(24){ }^{24} ，它们像活泼的棉花棒一样被困在柳树枝上。

The pond was a bomb crater，one of a line dropped by a German bomber over Lakenheath in the war．It was a watery anomaly，${}^{25}$${}^{25}$^(25){ }^{25} a pond in dunes，surrounded by thick tussocks of sand sedge ${}^{26}$${}^{26}$^(26){ }^{26} many，many miles from the sea．I shook my head．It was odd．But then，it＇s very odd indeed here， and walking the forest you come across all sorts of things you don＇t expect．Great tracts of reindeer
这个池塘是一个炸弹坑，是战争期间德国轰炸机在莱肯希斯上空投下的一排炸弹中的一个。它是一个水域异常 ${}^{25}$${}^{25}$^(25){ }^{25} ，沙丘中的池塘，被厚厚的沙莎草丛 ${}^{26}$${}^{26}$^(26){ }^{26} 包围，距离大海有很远很远的距离。我摇了摇头。这很奇怪。但这里确实非常奇怪，走在森林里，你会遇到各种意想不到的事物。大片的驯鹿

19 "jay": 松鸦
20 "alarum": an archaic spelling of "alarm" 警报
21 "sinew":肌腱
22 "chaffinch": 苍头燕雀
23 "bramblings": 燕雀
24 "long-tailed tits": 被长尾山雀
25 "anomaly": something that deviates from the norm 反常的事物
26 "sand sedge": 莎草

moss，${}^{27}$${}^{27}$^(27){ }^{27} for example：tiny stars and florets and inklings of an ancient flora growing on exhausted land．Crisp underfoot in summer，the stuff is like a patch of the arctic fallen into the world in the wrong place．Everywhere，there are bony shoulders and blades of flint．On wet mornings you can pick up shards knocked from flint cores by Neolithic craftsmen，tiny flakes of stone glowing in thin coats of cold water．This region was the centre of the flint industry in Neolithic times．And later，it became famous for rabbits farmed for meat and felt．${}^{28}$${}^{28}$^(28){ }^{28} Giant，enclosed warrens ${}^{29}$${}^{29}$^(29){ }^{29} hedged by thornbanks once ranged right across the sandy landscape，giving their names to places here－ Wangford Warren，Lakenheath Warren－and eventually，the rabbits brought disaster．Their close grazing，in concert with that of sheep，reduced the short sward ${}^{30}$${}^{30}$^(30){ }^{30} to a thin crust of roots over sand． Where the grazing was worst，sand blew into drifts and moved across the land．In 1688 strong south－westerly winds raised the broken ground to the sky．A vast yellow cloud obscured the sun． Tonnes of land shifted，moved，dropped．Brandon was encircled by sand；Santon Downham was engulfed，its river choked entirely．When the winds stopped，dunes stretched for miles between Brandon and Barton Mills．The area became famed for its atrociously bad travel：soft dunes， scorching in summer and infested with highwaymen ${}^{31}$${}^{31}$^(31){ }^{31} at night．Our very own Arabia deserta．${}^{32}$${}^{32}$^(32){ }^{32} John Evelyn ${}^{33}$${}^{33}$^(33){ }^{33} described them as the＇Travelling Sands＇that＇so damag＇d the country，rouling from place to place，like the Sands in the Deserts of Lybia，quite overwhelmed some gentlemen＇s whole estates＇． 34
苔藓，例如 ${}^{27}$${}^{27}$^(27){ }^{27} ：微小的星状体和小花，以及在贫瘠土地上生长的古老植物的迹象。夏天踩上去清脆，这些东西就像北极的一块土地错落地落在了这里。到处都是瘦骨嶙峋的肩膀和燧石片。在潮湿的早晨，你可以捡到新石器时代工匠从燧石核上敲下的碎片，薄薄的冷水覆盖下，石片闪着微光。这个地区在新石器时代是燧石工业的中心。后来，这里因养殖兔子以供肉类和毡制品而闻名。 ${}^{28}$${}^{28}$^(28){ }^{28} 巨大的封闭兔穴 ${}^{29}$${}^{29}$^(29){ }^{29} 被荆棘篱笆围绕，曾经遍布这片沙质土地，给这里的地方命名——王福德兔穴、莱肯希斯兔穴——最终，兔子带来了灾难。它们与羊群一起的密集啃食，使短草地 ${}^{30}$${}^{30}$^(30){ }^{30} 变成了覆盖在沙上的一层薄薄的根壳。在最严重的啃食区，沙子被风吹成沙丘，横扫大地。1688 年，强劲的西南风将破碎的土地吹向天空。一片巨大的黄色云雾遮蔽了太阳。数吨土地移动、转移、下沉。布兰登被沙子包围；桑顿唐纳姆被吞没，河流完全被堵塞。当风起时.. 停止了，沙丘在布兰登和巴顿米尔斯之间绵延数英里。该地区因极其糟糕的交通而闻名：松软的沙丘，夏季酷热，夜晚则有土匪出没。我们自己的阿拉伯沙漠。约翰·埃夫林形容它们为“流动的沙子”，这些沙子“严重破坏了乡村”，像利比亚沙漠中的沙子一样，从一个地方滚到另一个地方，“完全淹没了一些绅士的整个庄园”。34

Here I was，standing in Evelyn＇s Travelling Sands．Most of the dunes are hidden by pines－ the forest was planted here in the 1920s to give us timber for future wars－and the highwaymen long gone．But it still feels dangerous，half－buried，damaged．I love it because of all the places I know in England，it feels to me the wildest．It＇s not an untouched wilderness like a mountaintop，but a ramshackle wildness in which people and the land have conspired to strangeness．It＇s rich with the
我站在埃夫林所说的流动沙丘中。大部分沙丘被松树掩盖——这片森林是在 1920 年代种植的，为未来的战争提供木材——而土匪早已消失。但这里依然感觉危险，半埋在地下，受损严重。我喜欢这里，因为在我所知道的英格兰所有地方中，这里给我的感觉最为荒野。它不像山顶那样是未经触碰的荒原，而是一种破败的荒野，人和土地共同造就了这种奇异。这里充满了..

sense of an alternative countryside history；not just the grand，leisured dreams of landed estates，but a history of industry，forestry，disaster，commerce and work．I couldn＇t think of a more perfect place to find goshawks．They fit this strange Breckland landscape to perfection，because their history is just as human．
另一种乡村历史的意义；不仅仅是庄园的宏伟悠闲梦想，而是工业、林业、灾难、商业和劳动的历史。我想不到有比这里更完美的地方去发现苍鹰。它们与这片奇异的布雷克兰景观完美契合，因为它们的历史同样充满人情味

It＇s a fascinating story．Goshawks once bred across the British Isles．＇There are divers Sorts and Sizes of Goshawks，＇wrote Richard Blome in 1618，＇which are different in Goodness，force and hardiness according to the several Countries where they are Bred；but no place affords so good as those of Moscovy，Norway，and the North of Ireland，especially in the County of Tyrone．${}^{35}$${}^{35}$^(35){ }^{35} But the qualities of goshawks were forgotten with the advent of Land Enclosure，${}^{36}$${}^{36}$^(36){ }^{36} which limited the ability of ordinary folk to fly hawks，and the advent of accurate firearms that made shooting，rather than falconry，${}^{37}$${}^{37}$^(37){ }^{37} high fashion．Goshawks became vermin，not hunting companions．Their persecution by gamekeepers was the final straw ${}^{38}$${}^{38}$^(38){ }^{38} for a goshawk population already struggling from habitat loss． By the late nineteenth century British goshawks were extinct．I have a photograph of the stuffed remains of one of the last birds to be shot；a black－and－white snapshot of a bird from a Scottish estate，draggled，stuffed and glassy－eyed．They were gone．
这是一个引人入胜的故事。苍鹰曾经在整个不列颠群岛繁殖。1618 年，理查德·布洛姆写道：“苍鹰有各种不同的种类和大小，根据它们繁殖的不同国家，其优良程度、力量和耐力各异；但没有哪个地方的苍鹰比莫斯科、挪威和北爱尔兰，尤其是泰隆郡的苍鹰更好。” ${}^{35}$${}^{35}$^(35){ }^{35} 但随着土地圈占的出现， ${}^{36}$${}^{36}$^(36){ }^{36} 苍鹰的优良品质被遗忘了，土地圈占限制了普通人放飞猎鹰的能力；同时，精确火器的出现使得射击而非猎鹰术成为时尚， ${}^{37}$${}^{37}$^(37){ }^{37} 苍鹰从狩猎伙伴变成了害兽。猎场管理员对它们的迫害成为压垮苍鹰种群的最后一根稻草， ${}^{38}$${}^{38}$^(38){ }^{38} 这时的苍鹰种群已经因栖息地丧失而苦苦挣扎。到了十九世纪末，英国的苍鹰已经灭绝。我有一张照片，是最后几只被射杀的苍鹰之一的标本；这是一张黑白快照，拍摄于苏格兰某庄园，鸟儿蓬头垢面，被填充后眼神呆滞。它们已经消失了

But in the 1960s and 1970s，falconers started a quiet，unofficial scheme to bring them back． The British Falconers＇Club worked out that for the cost of importing a goshawk from the Continent for falconry，you could afford to bring in a second bird and release it．Buy one，set one free．It wasn＇t a hard thing to do with a bird as self－reliant and predatory as a gos．You just found a forest and opened the box．Likeminded falconers started doing this all over Britain．The hawks came from Sweden，Germany and Finland：most were huge，pale，taiga forest ${}^{39}$${}^{39}$^(39){ }^{39} gosses．Some were released on purpose．Some were simply lost．They survived，found each other and bred，secretly and successfully．Today their descendants number around four hundred and fifty pairs．Elusive， spectacular，utterly at home，the fact of these British goshawks makes me happy．Their existence
但在 20 世纪 60 年代和 70 年代，猎鹰师们开始了一项悄无声息的非官方计划，试图让它们重返自然。英国猎鹰师俱乐部算了一笔账，发现以进口一只大陆的苍鹰用于猎鹰术的费用，完全可以负担得起带来第二只鸟并将其放归自然。买一只，放一只。对于像苍鹰这样自立且具有捕食性的鸟来说，这并不难。你只需找到一片森林，打开箱子。志同道合的猎鹰师们开始在英国各地这样做。这些鹰来自瑞典、德国和芬兰：大多数是巨大的、苍白的、生活在泰加林的苍鹰。有些是故意放归的，有些则是意外走失的。它们存活下来，彼此相遇并繁殖，秘密而成功。如今，它们的后代大约有四百五十对。它们神秘、壮观，完全适应了这里的环境，这些英国苍鹰的存在让我感到欣慰。它们的存在

gives the lie to ${}^{40}$${}^{40}$^(40){ }^{40} the thought that the wild is always something untouched by human hearts and hands．The wild can be human work．
揭穿了那种认为野外总是未经人类心灵和双手触及的想法。野外也可以是人类的成果

It was eight thirty exactly．I was looking down at a little sprig of mahonia ${}^{41}$${}^{41}$^(41){ }^{41} growing out of the turf， its oxblood leaves like buffed pigskin．I glanced up．And then I saw my goshawks．There they were． A pair，soaring above the canopy in the rapidly warming air．There was a flat，hot hand of sun on the back of my neck，but I smelt ice in my nose，seeing those goshawks soaring．I smelt ice and bracken 42 stems and pine resin．Goshawk cocktail．They were on the soar．Goshawks in the air are a complicated grey colour．Not slate grey，nor pigeon grey．But a kind of raincloud grey，and despite their distance，I could see the big powder－puff of white undertail feathers，fanned out，with the thick，blunt tail behind it，and that superb bend and curve of the secondaries ${}^{43}$${}^{43}$^(43){ }^{43} of a soaring goshawk that makes them utterly unlike sparrowhawks．And they were being mobbed by crows，and they just didn＇t care，like，whatever．A crow barrelled down on the male and he sort of raised one wing to let the crow past．Crow was not stupid，and didn＇t dip below the hawk for long．These goshawks weren＇t fully displaying：there was none of the skydiving I＇d read about in books．But they were loving the space between each other，and carving it into all sorts of beautiful concentric chords and distances．A couple of flaps，and the male，the tiercel，${}^{44}$${}^{44}$^(44){ }^{44} would be above the female，and then he＇d drift north of her，and then slip down，fast，like a knife－cut，a smooth calligraphic scrawl underneath her，and she＇d dip a wing，and then they＇d soar up again．They were above a stand of pines，right there．And then they were gone．One minute my pair of goshawks was describing lines from physics textbooks in the sky，and then nothing at all．I don＇t remember looking down，or away．Perhaps I blinked．Perhaps it was as simple as that．And in that tiny black gap which the brain disguises they＇d dived into the wood．
正好是八点三十分。我低头看着一株从草地里长出来的小枝马悬（mahonia），它那血红色的叶子像擦亮的猪皮。我抬头一看。然后我看到了我的苍鹰。它们在那里。一对，在迅速升温的空气中翱翔于树冠之上。阳光像一只平坦而炽热的手按在我的脖子后面，但我鼻子里闻到了冰凉的气息，看着那些苍鹰翱翔。我闻到了冰凉、蕨类植物的茎和松脂。苍鹰鸡尾酒。它们正在盘旋。苍鹰在空中呈现出复杂的灰色。不是板岩灰，也不是鸽灰。而是一种雨云灰，尽管它们距离较远，我仍能看到那大团白色的尾下羽毛，像粉扑一样展开，后面是厚实而钝的尾巴，还有那盘旋苍鹰次级飞羽的绝妙弯曲，使它们完全不同于雀鹰。它们正被乌鸦骚扰，但它们根本不在意，仿佛“随便吧”。一只乌鸦俯冲向雄鹰，雄鹰似乎抬起一只翅膀让乌鸦通过。乌鸦不傻，也没在鹰下方停留太久。这些苍鹰并没有完全展开：没有我在书中读到的那种跳伞式展示。但它们喜欢彼此之间的空间，且… 将它雕刻成各种美丽的同心弦和距离。几下拍打，雄鸟，也就是小隼， ${}^{44}$${}^{44}$^(44){ }^{44} 会飞到雌鸟上方，然后他会漂移到她的北边，再迅速滑落，就像一刀切下去一样，在她下面划出一条流畅的书法般的线条，她会轻轻地低下翅膀，然后他们又会一起高高飞起。他们就在一片松树林上方，就在那里。然后他们消失了。刚才我的那对大隼还在天空中描绘着物理教科书里的线条，转眼间却什么都没有了。我不记得自己有没有往下看，或者转移视线。也许我眨了眨眼。也许事情就是这么简单。在大脑掩饰的那个微小黑色缝隙里，他们已经潜入了树林。

I sat down，tired and content．The goshawks were gone，the sky blank．Time passed．The wavelength of the light around me shortened．The day built itself．A sparrowhawk，light as a toy of
我坐下来，疲惫而满足。大隼已经消失，天空一片空白。时间流逝。环绕我的光波长变短。白昼逐渐展开。一只轻盈如玩具的雀鹰，

balsa－wood ${}^{45}$${}^{45}$^(45){ }^{45} and doped tissue－paper，zipped past at knee－level，kiting up over a bank of brambles and away into the trees．I watched it go，lost in recollection．This memory was candescent， irresistible．The air reeked of pine resin and the pitchy vinegar of wood ants．I felt my small－girl fingers hooked through plastic chain－link and the weight of a pair of East German binoculars around my neck．I was bored．I was nine．Dad was standing next to me．We were looking for sparrowhawks．They nested nearby，and that July afternoon we were hoping for the kind of sighting they＇d sometimes give us：a submarine ripple through the tops of the pines as one swept in and away；a glimpse of a yellow eye；a barred chest against moving needles，or a quick silhouette stamped black against the Surrey sky．For a while it had been exciting to stare into the darkness between the trees and the blood－orange and black where the sun slapped crazy－paving shadows across pines．But when you are nine，waiting is hard．I kicked at the base of the fence with my wellingtoned ${}^{46}$${}^{46}$^(46){ }^{46} feet．Squirmed and fidgeted．Let out a sigh．Hung off the fence with my fingers．And then my dad looked at me，half exasperated，half amused，and explained something．He explained patience．He said it was the most important thing of all to remember，this：that when you wanted to see something very badly，sometimes you had to stay still，stay in the same place，remember how much you wanted to see it，and be patient．＇When I＇m at work，taking photographs for the paper，＇he said，＇sometimes I＇ve got to sit in the car for hours to get the picture I want．I can＇t get up to get a cup of tea or even go to the loo．I just have to be patient．If you want to see hawks you have to be patient too．＇He was grave and serious，not annoyed；what he was doing was communicating a grown－up Truth，but I nodded sulkily and stared at the ground．It sounded like a lecture，not advice， and I didn＇t understand the point of what he was trying to say．
轻木 ${}^{45}$${}^{45}$^(45){ }^{45} 和涂了药的薄纸，在膝盖高度呼啸而过，掠过一丛黑莓丛，飞进树林。我看着它飞走，陷入回忆。这段记忆炽热而不可抗拒。空气中弥漫着松脂的气味和木蚁的浓烈醋味。我感觉到小女孩的手指勾住塑料链环，脖子上挂着一副东德望远镜的重量。我感到无聊。我九岁。爸爸站在我旁边。我们在找雀鹰。它们就在附近筑巢，那年七月的下午，我们希望能看到它们偶尔给我们的那种景象：一只雀鹰掠过松树顶，像潜艇掀起的涟漪；一只黄色的眼睛一闪而过；带有条纹的胸膛在摇曳的松针间显现，或是一个快速的黑色剪影映在萨里郡的天空中。曾几何时，凝视树间的黑暗和阳光在松树上投下的血橙色与黑色斑驳影子，令人兴奋。但九岁时，等待是件难事。我用穿着雨靴的脚踢着栅栏底部。扭动不安，坐立不安。叹了口气。用手指挂在栅栏上。然后爸爸看着我，半是无奈，半是好笑，解释道 某件事。他解释了耐心。他说最重要的是要记住这一点：当你非常想看到某样东西时，有时你必须保持静止，待在同一个地方，记住你有多想看到它，并且要有耐心。“当我工作时，为报纸拍照，”他说，“有时我得在车里坐几个小时才能拍到我想要的照片。我不能起来去喝杯茶，甚至不能去厕所。我只能耐心等待。如果你想看到鹰，也必须有耐心。”他表情严肃认真，不是生气；他所做的是传达一个成熟的真理，但我闷闷不乐地点了点头，盯着地面看。听起来像是在讲课，而不是给建议，我不明白他想表达的重点

You learn．Today，I thought，not nine years old and not bored，I was patient and the hawks came．I got up slowly，legs a little numb from so long motionless，and found I was holding a small clump of reindeer moss in one hand，a little piece of that branching，pale green－grey lichen that can survive just about anything the world throws at it．It is patience made manifest．Keep reindeer moss in the dark，freeze it，dry it to a crisp，it won＇t die．It goes dormant and waits for things to improve． Impressive stuff．I weighed the little twiggy sphere in my hand．Hardly there at all．And on a sudden impulse，I stowed this little stolen memento of the time I saw the hawks in my inside jacket pocket and went home．I put it on a shelf near the phone．Three weeks later，it was the reindeer moss I was looking at when my mother called and told me my father was dead．
你学到了。今天，我想，我还不到九岁，也不觉得无聊，我很有耐心，鹰群来了。我慢慢站起来，腿因为长时间一动不动有些麻木，发现手里握着一小团驯鹿地衣，那种分枝状的、淡绿色带灰色的地衣，几乎能在世界上任何环境下生存。它是耐心的体现。把驯鹿地衣放在黑暗中，冷冻它，烘干到脆，它都不会死。它会进入休眠，等待环境好转。真是令人印象深刻的东西。我掂量着手中的这小团枝状球体，几乎感觉不到它的重量。突然一时冲动，我把这小小的、偷来的纪念品——那次看到鹰群时的标记，藏进了内衣口袋，回了家。我把它放在电话旁的架子上。三周后，当我母亲打电话告诉我父亲去世时，我正看着那团驯鹿地衣。

I was about to leave the house when the phone rang. I picked it up. Hop-skippity, doorkeys in my hand. ‘Hello?’ A pause. My mother. She only had to say one sentence. It was this: ‘I had a phone call from St Thomas’ Hospital.’ Then I knew. I knew that my father had died. I knew he was dead because that was the sentence she said after the pause and she used a voice I’d never heard before to say it. Dead. I was on the floor. My legs broke, buckled, and I was sitting on the carpet, phone pressed against my right ear, listening to my mother and staring at that little ball of reindeer moss on the bookshelf, impossibly light, a buoyant tangle of hard grey stems with sharp, dusty tips and quiet spaces that were air in between them and Mum was saying there was nothing they could do at the hospital, it was his heart, I think, nothing could be done, you don’t have to come back tonight, don’t come back, it’s a long way, and it’s late, and it’s such a long drive and you don’t need to come back - and of course this was nonsense; neither of us knew what the hell could or should be done or what this was except both of us and my brother, too, all of us were clinging to a world already gone.
我正准备离开家，电话铃响了。我接起电话。手里拿着钥匙，蹦蹦跳跳的。“喂？”停顿了一下。是我妈妈。她只说了一句话。那句话是：“我接到了圣托马斯医院的电话。”然后我明白了。我知道我父亲去世了。我知道他死了，因为那是她停顿后说的那句话，她用我从未听过的声音说出来。死了。我瘫坐在地板上。我的腿断了，弯曲了，我坐在地毯上，电话贴着右耳，听着妈妈说话，盯着书架上那团驯鹿苔藓，那轻得不可思议的球状物，是一团充满弹性的灰色硬茎，尖锐而带尘土的顶端，中间有安静的空气间隙。妈妈说医院那边无能为力，应该是心脏的问题，我想，没什么能做的，你今晚不用回来了，不用回来了，路远，天也晚了，路程很长，你不需要回来——当然这都是废话；我们谁也不知道到底能做什么或应该做什么，或者这到底是什么，只有我们和我弟弟，我们都紧紧抓住一个已经消逝的世界。

I put down the phone. The keys were still in my hand. In that world already gone I was going for dinner with Christina, my Australian philosopher friend, who’d been there all along, sitting on the sofa when the phone rang. Her white face stared at me. I told her what had happened. And insisted we still go to the restaurant because we’d booked a table, of course we should go, and we did go, and we ordered, and the food came and I didn’t eat it. The waiter was upset, wanted to know if anything was wrong. Well.
我放下了电话。钥匙还握在手中。在那个已经消逝的世界里，我正准备和我的澳大利亚哲学家朋友克里斯蒂娜去吃晚饭，她一直在那里，电话响起时正坐在沙发上。她那张苍白的脸盯着我看。我告诉她发生了什么事，并坚持我们还是去餐厅，因为我们已经订了桌子，当然应该去。于是我们去了，点了菜，食物端上来了，但我没有吃。服务员很不高兴，想知道是不是哪里出了问题。嗯。

I think Christina told him. I can’t remember her doing so, but he did something quite extraordinary. He disappeared, then reappeared at the table with an expression of anxious concern, and a double chocolate brownie with ice-cream and a sprig of mint stuck in the top, on the house, dusted with cocoa powder and icing sugar. On a black plate. I stared at it. That is ridiculous, I thought. Then, What is it? I pulled the mint out of the ice-cream, held it up, looked at its two small leaves and its tiny cut stem smeared with chocolate, and thought, This isn’t going to grow again. Touched and bewildered that a waiter had thought that free cake and ice-cream would comfort me, I looked at the cut end of the mint. It reminded me of something. I groped for what it could be. And then I was back three days ago, back in Hampshire, out in the garden on a bright March weekend, wincing because I saw Dad had a nasty cut on his forearm. You hurt yourself! I said. Oh,
我想是 Christina 告诉了他。我记不清她有没有这么做过，但他做了一件相当特别的事。他消失了，然后带着焦虑关切的表情重新出现在桌旁，端来一份双层巧克力布朗尼，配着冰淇淋和一枝薄荷叶插在上面，店里请客，撒了可可粉和糖霜。放在一个黑色的盘子里。我盯着它看。我心想，这太荒谬了。然后，我问，这是什么？我从冰淇淋里拔出薄荷叶，举起来，看着它的两片小叶子和沾满巧克力的细小切断的茎，心想，这不会再长出来了。感动又困惑，一个服务员竟然以为免费蛋糕和冰淇淋能安慰我，我看着薄荷的切断处。它让我想起了什么。我努力回忆那可能是什么。然后我回到了三天前，回到了汉普郡，那个明媚的三月周末，在花园里，我皱着眉头，因为我看到爸爸的前臂上有一道难看的伤口。我说，你受伤了！哦，
that，he said，threading another spring onto the trampoline ${}^{47}$${}^{47}$^(47){ }^{47} we were building for my niece．Did that the other day．Can＇t remember how．On something or other．It＇ll be all right though．It＇ll be healed soon，it＇s healing fine．That was when the old world leaned in，whispered farewells and was gone．I ran into the night．I had to drive back to Hampshire．I had to go now．Because the cut would not．It would not heal．
他说着，把另一根弹簧穿到我们正在为我侄女搭建的蹦床上。前几天做的。记不清怎么做的了。什么东西上的。没关系的。会好的，很快就会愈合，正在愈合得很好。那时旧世界倾身而来，低声道别，然后消失了。我冲进了夜色。我得开车回汉普郡。我现在必须走。因为伤口不会。它不会愈合

Here＇s a word．Bereavement．Or，Bereaved．Bereft．It＇s from the Old English bereafian， meaning＇to deprive of，take away，seize，rob＇．Robbed．Seized．It happens to everyone．But you feel it alone．Shocking loss isn＇t to be shared，no matter how hard you try．＇Imagine，＇I said，back then，to some friends，in an earnest attempt to explain，＇imagine your whole family is in a room．Yes，all of them．All the people you love．So then what happens is someone comes into the room and punches you all in the stomach．Each one of you．Really hard．So you＇re all on the floor．Right？So the thing is，you all share the same kind of pain，exactly the same，but you＇re too busy experiencing total agony to feel anything other than completely alone．That＇s what it＇s like！＇I finished my little speech in triumph，convinced that I＇d hit upon the perfect way to explain how it felt．I was puzzled by the pitying，horrified faces，because it didn＇t strike me at all that an example that put my friends＇ families in rooms and had them beaten might carry the tang of total lunacy．
这里有一个词。丧亲。或者，丧失。失去。它来自古英语 bereafian，意思是“剥夺，夺走，抢夺，抢劫”。被抢劫。被夺走。这种事发生在每个人身上。但你会感到孤独。震惊的失去是无法分享的，无论你多么努力尝试。“想象一下，”我当时对一些朋友说，真诚地试图解释，“想象你的全家都在一个房间里。是的，所有人。你爱的人全都在。然后发生的是，有人走进房间，狠狠地一拳打在你们每个人的肚子上。每个人。非常用力。所以你们都倒在地上。对吧？问题是，你们都感受到同样的痛苦，完全一样，但你们太忙于经历彻底的痛苦，以至于除了感到完全孤独之外，什么也感觉不到。就是这种感觉！”我得意地结束了我的小演讲，确信我找到了完美的方式来解释那种感觉。我对朋友们那种充满怜悯和惊恐的表情感到困惑，因为我根本没意识到，把朋友们的家人放在房间里然后让他们挨打的例子，可能带有彻底疯狂的意味

I can＇t，even now，arrange it in the right order．The memories are like heavy blocks of glass．I can put them down in different places but they don＇t make a story．One day we were walking from Waterloo to the hospital under clouds．Breathing seemed an act of discipline．Mum turned to me， her face tight，and said，＇There＇ll be a time when all this seems like a bad dream．＇His glasses， carefully folded，placed in my mum＇s outstretched hand．His coat．An envelope．His watch．His shoes．And when we left，clutching a plastic bag with his belongings，the clouds were still there，a frieze of motionless cumulus over the Thames ${}^{48}$${}^{48}$^(48){ }^{48} flat as a matte painting on glass．At Waterloo Bridge we leant over Portland stone ${}^{49}$${}^{49}$^(49){ }^{49} and looked at the water below．I smiled for the first time， then，I think，since the phone call．Partly because the water was sliding down to the sea and this simple physics still made sense when the rest of the world didn＇t．And partly because a decade before，Dad had invented a gloriously eccentric weekend side－project．He＇d decided to photograph every single bridge over the Thames．I went with him，sometimes，on Saturday mornings，driving
即使现在，我也无法把它们按正确的顺序排列。这些记忆就像沉重的玻璃块。我可以把它们放在不同的地方，但它们并不能组成一个故事。一天，我们从滑铁卢走到医院，天空阴沉。呼吸似乎成了一种纪律行为。妈妈转向我，脸色紧绷，说：“总有一天，这一切都会像一场噩梦。”他的眼镜，小心地折叠着，放在我妈妈伸出的手中。他的外套。一封信封。他的手表。他的鞋子。当我们离开时，紧握着装有他物品的塑料袋，云依旧在那里，泰晤士河上空那一排静止的积云，平得像玻璃上的哑光画。在滑铁卢桥上，我们倚着波特兰石，看着下面的水。我那时第一次笑了，我想，自从那个电话之后第一次笑。部分原因是水正流向大海，这简单的物理现象在世界其他一切都不合理时依然成立。部分原因是十年前，爸爸发明了一个极其古怪的周末副业。他决定拍摄泰晤士河上每一座桥。我有时会陪他去，周六早晨，开车去

up into the Cotswolds．My dad had been my dad，but also my friend，and a partner in crime when it came to quests like this．From the grassy source near Cirencester ${}^{50}$${}^{50}$^(50){ }^{50} we walked and explored， followed a wormy，muddy stream，trespassed to take photos of planks over it，got shouted at by farmers，menaced by cattle，pored over maps in fierce concentration．It took a year．He did it，in the end．Every single bridge．Somewhere in the files of slides back at my mum＇s house is a complete photographic record of ways to cross the Thames from source to sea．
一路走进科茨沃尔德。我的爸爸一直是我的爸爸，同时也是我的朋友，在像这样的探险中更是我的同伙。从靠近锡伦塞斯特的草地水源 ${}^{50}$${}^{50}$^(50){ }^{50} 出发，我们一路行走和探索，沿着一条多虫、泥泞的小溪，擅自进入拍摄横跨溪流的木板桥，被农民喊叫，被牛群威胁，专注地研究地图。这花了一年时间。最终，他完成了。每一座桥梁。在我妈妈家的幻灯片文件中，藏着一套完整的泰晤士河从源头到入海口的过河方式的照片记录

On another day，the panic was that we might not find his car．He＇d parked it somewhere near Battersea Bridge and，of course，had never returned．We looked for it for hours，increasingly desperate，searching back streets and side streets and cul－de－sacs ${}^{51}$${}^{51}$^(51){ }^{51} to no avail，widening our search to streets miles from anywhere we knew the car could possibly be．As the day drew on，we understood that even if we found it，Dad＇s blue Peugeot with his press pass ${}^{52}$${}^{52}$^(52){ }^{52} tucked in the sun－visor and his cameras in the boot，our search would still have been hopeless．Of course it had been towed away．I found the number，called the compound and said to the man on the phone that the owner of the vehicle couldn＇t collect it because he was dead．He was my father．That he didn＇t mean to leave the car there but he died．That he really didn＇t mean to leave it．Lunatic sentences，deadpan，cut from rock．I didn＇t understand his embarrassed silence．He said，＇Sorry，oh God．I＇m so sorry＇，but he could have said anything at all and it would have signified nothing．We had to take Dad＇s death certificate to the compound to avoid the towing fee．This also signified nothing．
在另一天，恐慌是因为我们找不到他的车。他把车停在巴特西桥附近，当然，从那以后就再也没回来过。我们找了几个小时，越来越绝望，搜遍了后街、小巷和死胡同 ${}^{51}$${}^{51}$^(51){ }^{51} ，一无所获，搜索范围扩大到离我们所知车可能所在地点几英里远的街道。随着时间推移，我们明白即使找到了，爸爸那辆蓝色的标致车，车内遮阳板夹着他的记者证 ${}^{52}$${}^{52}$^(52){ }^{52} ，后备箱里放着他的相机，我们的寻找依然毫无意义。当然，车已经被拖走了。我找到了号码，打电话到停车场，对电话那头的人说车主不能来取车，因为他已经去世了。他是我的父亲。我说他并不是故意把车停在那里，但他死了。他真的不是故意留下车的。这些话听起来疯狂，面无表情，像是从岩石上刻下的。我不理解他尴尬的沉默。他说：“抱歉，天哪，我真的很抱歉”，但他说什么都无关紧要。我们必须拿着爸爸的死亡证明去停车场，才能免除拖车费。这同样毫无意义

After the funeral I went back to Cambridge．I didn＇t sleep．I drove around a lot．I stared at the sun going down and the sun coming up，and the sun in between．I watched the pigeons spreading their tails and courting each other in stately pavanes ${}^{53}$${}^{53}$^(53){ }^{53} on the lawn outside my house．Planes still landed，cars still drove，people still shopped and talked and worked．None of these things made any sense at all．For weeks I felt I was made of dully burning metal．That＇s what it was like；so much so that I was convinced，despite all evidence to the contrary，that if you＇d put me on a bed or a chair I would have burned right through．
葬礼结束后，我回到了剑桥。我没睡觉，开车到处转悠。我盯着太阳落下，又盯着太阳升起，还有太阳在两者之间的样子。我看着鸽子们在我家外面的草坪上展开尾巴，优雅地跳着求偶舞蹈。飞机依旧降落，汽车依旧行驶，人们依旧购物、交谈和工作。这一切都毫无意义。几个星期来，我感觉自己像是由缓慢燃烧的金属组成。就是那种感觉；以至于我坚信，尽管所有证据都相反，如果你把我放在床上或椅子上，我会直接烧穿它们

It was about this time a kind of madness drifted in．Looking back，I think I was never truly mad． More mad north－north－west．I could tell a hawk from a handsaw ${}^{54}$${}^{54}$^(54){ }^{54} always，but sometimes it was striking to me how similar they were．I knew I wasn＇t mad mad because I＇d seen people in the grip of psychosis before，and that was madness as obvious as the taste of blood in the mouth．The kind of madness I had was different．It was quiet，and very，very dangerous．It was a madness designed to keep me sane．My mind struggled to build across the gap，make a new and inhabitable world．The problem was that it had nothing to work with．There was no partner，no children，no home．No nine－ to－five job either．So it grabbed anything it could．It was desperate，and it read off the world wrong． I began to notice curious connections between things．Things of no import burst into extraordinary significance．I read my horoscope and believed it．Auguries．${}^{55}$${}^{55}$^(55){ }^{55} Huge bouts of déjà vu．${}^{56}$${}^{56}$^(56){ }^{56} Coincidences．Memories of things that hadn＇t happened yet．Time didn＇t run forwards any more．It was a solid thing you could press yourself against and feel it push back；a thick fluid，half－air，half－ glass，that flowed both ways and sent ripples of recollection forwards and new events backwards so that new things I encountered，then，seemed souvenirs from the distant past．Sometimes，a few times，I felt my father must be sitting near me as I sat on a train or in a café．This was comforting．It all was．Because these were the normal madnesses of grief．I learned this from books．I bought books on grieving，on loss and bereavement．They spilled over my desk in tottering piles．Like a good academic，I thought books were for answers．Was it reassuring to be told that everyone sees ghosts？That everyone stops eating？Or can＇t stop eating？Or that grief comes in stages that can be numbered and pinned like beetles in boxes？I read that after denial comes grief．Or anger．Or guilt．I remember worrying about which stage I was at．I wanted to taxonomise the process，order it，make it sensible．But there was no sense，and I didn＇t recognise any of these emotions at all．
大约在那个时候，一种疯狂开始悄然袭来。回想起来，我觉得自己从未真正疯狂过。更像是向北偏西的疯狂。我总能分辨出鹰和手锯 ${}^{54}$${}^{54}$^(54){ }^{54} ，但有时它们的相似之处令我震惊。我知道自己不是那种彻底疯狂，因为我见过被精神病折磨的人，那种疯狂明显得就像嘴里尝到血的味道。我所经历的疯狂不同。它是安静的，非常，非常危险。那是一种为了让我保持理智而设计的疯狂。我的大脑努力跨越鸿沟，构建一个新的、可居住的世界。问题是它无所依托。没有伴侣，没有孩子，没有家。也没有朝九晚五的工作。所以它抓住了任何能抓住的东西。它很绝望，错误地解读了这个世界。 我开始注意到事物之间奇怪的联系。无关紧要的事物突然变得意义非凡。我读了星座运势并相信了它。预兆 ${}^{55}$${}^{55}$^(55){ }^{55} 。强烈的既视感 ${}^{56}$${}^{56}$^(56){ }^{56} 。巧合。记忆中那些尚未发生的事情。时间不再向前流动。它成了一种你可以靠着感受到反作用力的坚实存在；一种半空气半玻璃的浓稠流体，双向流动，向前传递回忆，向后带来新事件，使我遇到的新事物看起来像是来自遥远过去的纪念品。有时，几次，我感觉父亲一定坐在我身边，无论我是在火车上还是咖啡馆里。这让我感到安慰。一切都是如此。因为这些都是悲伤中正常的疯狂。我从书中学到了这一点。我买了关于悲伤、失落和丧亲的书。它们堆满了我的书桌，摇摇欲坠。像个好学者一样，我以为书是用来寻找答案的。被告知每个人都会看到鬼魂，这难道令人安心吗？大家都停止吃东西了吗？还是根本停不下来？还是说悲伤是分阶段的，可以像把甲虫钉在盒子里那样被编号和固定？我读到过，否认之后是悲伤。或者是愤怒。或者是内疚。我记得当时担心自己处于哪个阶段。我想给这个过程分类，整理它，让它变得有条理，有意义。但根本没有意义，我一点也不认得这些情绪。

Weeks passed．The season changed．The leaves came，the mornings filled with light，the swifts returned，screaming past my Cambridge house through the skies of early summer and I began to think I was doing fine．Normal grief，they call it．That＇s what this was．An uneventful，slow climb back into life after loss．It＇ll be healed soon．I still break into a wry smile thinking of how blithely I
几周过去了。季节变了。树叶长出来了，清晨充满了光，雨燕回来了，尖叫着掠过我剑桥的房子，穿过初夏的天空，我开始觉得自己还好。他们称之为正常的悲伤。这就是它。失去后的平淡无奇、缓慢的重返生活的过程。很快就会痊愈的。我仍然会苦笑着想起自己当时是多么轻率地认为自己…

believed this，because I was so terribly wrong．Unseen need was motoring out through me．I was ravenous for material，for love，for anything to stop the loss，and my mind had no compunction in attempting to recruit anyone，anything，to assist．In June I fell in love，predictably and devastatingly， with a man who ran a mile when he worked out how broken I was．His disappearance rendered me practically insensible．Though I can＇t even bring his face to mind now，and though I know not only why he ran，but know that in principle he could have been anyone，I still have a red dress that I will never wear again．That＇s how it goes．
我曾相信这一点，因为我当时错得离谱。看不见的需求正从我体内涌出。我渴望物质，渴望爱，渴望任何能阻止失落的东西，而我的心智毫无顾忌地试图招募任何人、任何事来帮忙。六月，我如预料般且惨烈地爱上了一个男人，当他发现我有多破碎时，他立刻逃之夭夭。他的消失让我几乎失去知觉。虽然现在我甚至想不起他的脸，虽然我知道他为何逃开，也知道原则上他可以是任何人，但我仍然有一件红色连衣裙，再也不会穿了。事情就是这样

Then the world itself started to grieve．The skies broke and it rained and rained．The news was full of inundations and drowned cities；lost villages at the bottom of lakes；flash floods spilling over the M4 motorway ${}^{57}$${}^{57}$^(57){ }^{57} to strand holiday traffic；kayaks on town streets in Berkshire；rising sea levels； the discovery that the English Channel ${}^{58}$${}^{58}$^(58){ }^{58} was carved out by the bursting of a giant superlake millions of years ago．And the rain continued，burying the streets in half an inch of bubbling water， breaking shop canopies，making the River Cam ${}^{59}$${}^{59}$^(59){ }^{59} a café－au－lait ${}^{60}$${}^{60}$^(60){ }^{60} surge，thick with broken branches and sodden undergrowth．My city was apocalyptic．＇I don＇t see the weather as odd at all，＇I remember saying to a friend under a café awning while the rain struck the pavement behind our chairs with such violence that we sipped coffee in cold mist．
然后整个世界开始悲伤。天空破裂，雨水倾盆而下。新闻充斥着洪水淹没和城市被淹的报道；湖底失落的村庄；M4 高速公路上突发的山洪使假日交通陷入困境；伯克郡城镇街道上的皮划艇；海平面上升；发现英吉利海峡是数百万年前一个巨型超级湖泊爆发形成的。雨水持续不断，街道被半英寸的气泡水覆盖，商店的遮阳篷被打破，剑桥河变成了咖啡色的激流，夹杂着断枝和湿透的灌木。我所在的城市如同末日景象。“我一点也不觉得这天气奇怪，”我记得在一家咖啡馆的遮阳篷下对朋友说，雨水猛烈地打在我们椅子后面的路面上，我们在冷雾中啜饮着咖啡

As the rain fell and the waters rose and I struggled to keep my head above them，something new began．I＇d wake up frowning．I＇d dreamed of hawks，again．I started dreaming of hawks all the time．Here＇s another word：raptor，meaning＇bird of prey＇．From the Latin raptor，meaning＇robber，＇ from rapere，meaning＇seize＇．Rob．Seize．The hawks were goshawks，and one in particular．A few years earlier，I＇d worked at a bird－of－prey centre right at the edge of England before it tips into Wales；a land of red earth，coal workings，wet forest and wild goshawks．This one，an adult female， had hit a fence while hunting and knocked herself out．Someone had picked her up，unconscious， put her in a cardboard box and brought her to us．Was anything broken？Was she damaged？We congregated in a darkened room with the box on the table and the boss reached her gloved left hand inside．A short scuffle，and then out into the gloom，her grey crest raised and her barred chest
随着雨水落下，水位上涨，我努力让头保持在水面上时，某种新的东西开始出现。我醒来时皱着眉头，又梦见了鹰。我开始一直梦见鹰。这里有另一个词：raptor，意思是“猛禽”。来自拉丁语 raptor，意为“抢夺者”，源自 rapere，意为“抓取”。抢夺。抓取。那些鹰是苍鹰，尤其是一只。几年前，我曾在英格兰边缘一个猛禽中心工作，那里正好是英格兰向威尔士过渡的地方；那是一片红土、煤矿、湿润森林和野生苍鹰的土地。这只成年雌鹰在狩猎时撞上了栅栏，昏迷不醒。有人把她捡起，放进纸箱，带到了我们这里。有什么骨折吗？她受伤了吗？我们聚集在一个昏暗的房间里，纸箱放在桌上，老板伸出戴着手套的左手进去。短暂的挣扎后，她走出阴暗处，灰色的冠羽竖起，胸部有条纹

feathers puffed up into a meringue ${}^{61}$${}^{61}$^(61){ }^{61} of aggression and fear，came a huge old female goshawk．Old because her feet were gnarled and dusty，her eyes a deep，fiery orange，and she was beautiful． Beautiful like a granite cliff or a thunder－cloud．She completely filled the room．She had a massive back of sun－bleached grey feathers，was as muscled as a pit bull，${}^{62}$${}^{62}$^(62){ }^{62} and intimidating as hell，even to staff who spent their days tending eagles．So wild and spooky and reptilian．Carefully，we fanned her great，broad wings as she snaked her neck round to stare at us，unblinking．We ran our fingers along the narrow bones of her wings and shoulders to check nothing was broken，along bones light as pipes，hollow，each with cantilevered internal struts of bone like the inside of an aeroplane wing． We checked her collarbone，her thick，scaled legs and toes and inch－long black talons．Her vision seemed fine too：we held a finger in front of each hot eye in turn．Snap，snap，her beak went．Then she turned her head to stare right at me．Locked her eyes on mine down her curved black beak， black pupils fixed．Then，right then，it occurred to me that this goshawk was bigger than me and more important．And much，much older：a dinosaur pulled from the Forest of Dean．${}^{63}$${}^{63}$^(63){ }^{63} There was a distinct，prehistoric scent to her feathers；it caught in my nose，peppery，rusty as storm－rain．
羽毛蓬松如蛋白霜般膨胀，充满了侵略和恐惧，一只巨大的老雌性苍鹰出现了。老，是因为她的脚爪粗糙而布满尘土，眼睛呈深沉的火橙色，她非常美丽。美得像花岗岩悬崖或雷云。她完全占据了整个房间。她背部覆盖着一层被阳光漂白的灰色羽毛，肌肉发达如比特犬，令人望而生畏，即使是那些整天照料鹰的工作人员也感到害怕。如此野性、神秘且带有爬行动物的气息。我们小心翼翼地扇动她那宽大而强壮的翅膀，她扭动脖子盯着我们，目光一动不动。我们用手指沿着她翅膀和肩膀狭窄的骨骼轻轻摸索，检查是否有骨折，那些骨头轻如管子，空心，内部有如飞机机翼内部的悬臂式骨架。我们检查了她的锁骨、厚实的鳞状腿和脚趾，以及长达一英寸的黑色爪子。她的视力似乎也很好：我们轮流在她炽热的眼前晃动手指。她的喙“啪嗒啪嗒”地开合。然后她转头直直盯着我。她的眼睛透过弯曲的黑色喙锁定了我的目光，黑色瞳孔凝视着。就在那一刻，我意识到这只苍鹰比我更大、更重要。并且年纪远远更大：一只 一只从迪恩森林里被捕获的恐龙。 ${}^{63}$${}^{63}$^(63){ }^{63} 她的羽毛带有一种明显的史前气息；那气味钻进我的鼻子，辛辣，生锈，像暴风雨后的雨水。

Nothing was wrong with her at all．We took her outside and let her go．She opened her wings and in a second was gone．She disappeared over a hedge slant－wise into nothing．It was as if she＇d found a rent ${}^{64}$${}^{64}$^(64){ }^{64} in the damp Gloucestershire air and slipped through it．That was the moment I kept replaying，over and over．That was the recurring dream．From then on，the hawk was inevitable．
她一点问题都没有。我们把她带到外面放飞。她张开翅膀，转眼就飞走了。她斜着穿过篱笆，消失在虚无中。仿佛她找到了格洛斯特郡潮湿空气中的一个裂缝，悄然穿了过去。那一刻我不断回放，一遍又一遍。那是反复出现的梦。从那时起，鹰隼便不可避免。

There is no good way to say this - when the police arrive, they inevitably preface the bad news with that sentence, as though their presence had not been ominous enough. The first time I heard the line, I knew already what was about to be conveyed. Nevertheless, I paid attention to how the news was delivered: the detective insisted that I take a seat first. I sat down at the dinner table, and he moved another chair to the right distance and sat down himself. No doubt he was following protocol, and yet the sentence-there is no good way to say this-struck me as both accurate and effective. It must be a sentence that, though nearly a cliché, is not often used in daily conversation; its precision has stayed with me.
没有什么好说的——当警察到来时，他们总是以这句话开头传达坏消息，仿佛他们的出现还不够令人不安。第一次听到这句话时，我已经知道接下来要传达的内容了。尽管如此，我还是注意了消息是如何传达的：侦探坚持让我先坐下。我坐在餐桌旁，他又把另一把椅子挪到合适的距离，自己坐了下来。毫无疑问，他是在遵守程序，但那句话——没有什么好说的——让我觉得既准确又有效。这句话虽然几乎成了陈词滥调，却并不常在日常对话中使用；它的精准让我印象深刻。

The second time, having guessed the news about to be delivered, I did not give the sentence a moment’s thought. I did not wait for the detective to ask me to sit down, either. I indicated a chair
第二次，猜到即将传达的消息后，我没有多想那句话。我也没有等侦探让我坐下，而是示意了一把椅子
where my husband should sit and took the other chair in the living room．My heart already began to feel that sensation for which there is no name．Call it aching，call it wrenching，call it shattering，but they are all wrong words，useless in their familiarity．This time，the four policemen all stood．
我本该让丈夫坐的地方，却自己坐了客厅的另一把椅子。我的心已经开始感受到那种无以名状的感觉。叫它痛苦，叫它撕裂，叫它粉碎，都不对，这些熟悉的词汇都无济于事。这一次，四个警察都站了起来。

There is no good way to state these facts，which must be acknowledged before I go on with this book．My husband and I had two children and lost them both：Vincent in 2017，at sixteen， James in 2024，at nineteen．Both chose suicide，and both died not far from home；James near Princeton Station，Vincent near Princeton Junction．
没有什么好办法来陈述这些事实，但在我继续写这本书之前，必须承认这些事实。我的丈夫和我有两个孩子，都失去了他们：文森特于 2017 年，年仅十六岁，詹姆斯于 2024 年，年仅十九岁。两人都选择了自杀，且都死在离家不远的地方；詹姆斯死在普林斯顿车站附近，文森特死在普林斯顿交汇处附近

The detectives in charge of the two cases belonged to two agencies－one associated with Amtrak ${}^{65}$${}^{65}$^(65){ }^{65} and the other with New Jersey Transit．${}^{66}$${}^{66}$^(66){ }^{66} As I type these facts，I come to a sudden realization，which was not available to me a few months earlier，or even yesterday．The facts would explain the confusion of the New Jersey Transit detective when he told me，on his second visit，that he couldn＇t locate Vincent＇s record in the files．He had an uneasy demeanor，perhaps feeling defeated by his inability to find Vincent or feeling the discomfort of having to face us again．On his first visit，he did all he could to avoid any reference to suicide，repeating the words＂we can＇t say more at the moment＂and＂active investigation＂and＂the crime scene．＂Despite his fumbling，I already knew that James had died from suicide．I was the one to tell him that James＇s brother had died of suicide near Princeton Junction a little over six years ago．
负责这两个案件的侦探分别来自两个机构——一个隶属于 Amtrak，另一个隶属于新泽西交通局。当我敲下这些事实时，我突然意识到一个几个月前甚至昨天都未曾察觉的真相。这些事实可以解释新泽西交通局侦探在第二次来访时告诉我，他在档案中找不到 Vincent 的记录时的困惑。他表现得不安，或许是因为无法找到 Vincent 而感到挫败，或是因为不得不再次面对我们而感到不适。在他第一次来访时，他尽力避免提及自杀，反复说着“我们目前不能多说”、“正在积极调查”和“犯罪现场”。尽管他支支吾吾，我已经知道 James 是自杀身亡的。是我告诉他，James 的兄弟大约六年前在普林斯顿交汇处附近自杀身亡

My friend Elizabeth，who had arrived from Austin，Texas，just in time to be with us before the detective＇s scheduled visit，shook her head afterward．＂Not quite competent，is he？＂she said，and I agreed．I then told her about the other detective，who，on his second visit，had told us that he had worked for Amtrak for over twenty years，and every time he visited a family left by suicide，he would go home and hug his two children，even after they had outgrown the age to be hugged．It＇s an awkward truth that I cannot help observing and noticing things even in the most terrible moments．
我的朋友伊丽莎白刚从德克萨斯州奥斯汀赶来，正好赶在侦探预定来访之前和我们在一起，事后她摇了摇头。“他不太称职，是吧？”她说，我也同意。然后我告诉她另一个侦探的事，那位侦探在第二次来访时告诉我们，他在 Amtrak 工作了二十多年，每次他去探访自杀家庭时，回家后都会抱抱他的两个孩子，即使他们已经不再适合被抱了。这是一个尴尬的事实，即使在最糟糕的时刻，我也忍不住去观察和注意一些事情。

It was the seventh day after James＇s death，and the New Jersey Transit detective was visiting a second time to return James＇s backpack，just as the Amtrak detective had come back to return Vincent＇s phone．A case involving life and death never miraculously closes itself at the time of the pronounced death．
这是詹姆斯去世后的第七天，新泽西交通局的侦探第二次来访，归还詹姆斯的背包，就像 Amtrak 的侦探回来归还文森特的手机一样。涉及生死的案件，从宣布死亡的那一刻起，绝不会奇迹般地自行结案。

Objects don＇t die．Their journeys in this physical world，up to a certain point，are parallel to the trajectories of the humans to whom the objects belong．Then comes the moment when the
物品不会死去。它们在这个物质世界中的旅程，在某种程度上，与拥有这些物品的人类的轨迹是平行的。然后到了那个时刻，..

separation happens. Vincent’s phone became a phone, James’s backpack, a backpack. They became objective objects, left behind in strangers’ hands.
分离发生了。文森特的手机变成了一部手机，詹姆斯的背包变成了一个背包。它们变成了客观的物品，被遗留在陌生人手中。

Few objects speak. The phone and the backpack were reticent, so they could do little to illuminate the last moments of my children’s lives.
很少有物品会诉说。手机和背包沉默寡言，因此它们几乎无法揭示我孩子们生命最后时刻的情况。

Many objects outlive people-this thought has often occurred to me when I see in a museum an eighteenth-century pianoforte ${}^{67}$${}^{67}$^(67){ }^{67} or a twelfth-century sword or a bowl from 500 BCE. All of Vincent’s belongings and all of James’s belongings have outlived them; not a single item has left our care. There are Vincent’s many paintings hung around the house. There is James’s collection of pocket watches on a shelf. Everywhere I turn in the house there are objects: their meanings reside in the memories connected to them; the memories limn ${}^{68}$${}^{68}$^(68){ }^{68} the voids, which cannot be filled by the objects.
许多物品比人活得更久——当我在博物馆看到一架十八世纪的钢琴 ${}^{67}$${}^{67}$^(67){ }^{67} ，或一把十二世纪的剑，或一只公元前 500 年的碗时，这个想法常常浮现在我脑海。文森特的所有物品和詹姆斯的所有物品都比他们活得久；没有一件物品离开过我们的照料。文森特的许多画作挂满了房子。詹姆斯的怀表收藏摆放在架子上。无论我走到房子的哪个角落，都会看到物品：它们的意义存在于与之相关的记忆中；这些记忆描绘出空白，而这些空白是物品无法填补的。

Vincent’s copy of Les Misérables, with a bust of Victor Hugo placed on top of it; a circle of blue and white farm animals from Delft next to a cluster of origami animals James had folded; a giant stuffed lamb bought on a drive through west Ireland, which James named Marmalade and called his emotional support animal during a prolonged trip (he often felt anxious when he had to leave home); a doorstop in the shape of a quietly amused elephant, bought in Kilkenny, which has been sitting next to James’s computer for years; another doorstop, an owl with a startled expression, which Vincent picked up in an Edinburgh shop for James; forty-seven stuffed penguins of all shapes and colors, from different cities and countries, sitting in the middle of which is a crystal penguin brought by Vincent’s childhood friend to his memorial service.
文森特的《悲惨世界》副本，上面放着维克多·雨果的半身像；一圈来自代尔夫特的蓝白色农场动物，旁边是一堆詹姆斯折叠的折纸动物；一只巨大的毛绒羊羔，是在爱尔兰西部自驾游时买的，詹姆斯给它取名为“橘子酱”，并在一次长时间旅行中称它为他的情感支持动物（他离家时常感到焦虑）；一个形状像安静微笑的大象的门挡，是在基尔肯尼买的，多年来一直放在詹姆斯的电脑旁；另一个门挡，是一只表情惊讶的猫头鹰，是文森特在爱丁堡的一家商店为詹姆斯买的；四十七只各种形状和颜色的毛绒企鹅，来自不同的城市和国家，中间放着一只水晶企鹅，是文森特的童年朋友带到他的追悼会上的。

Sometimes, walking around the house, among the objects I study closely or only glance at, I recite Richard II’s woeful words to myself. And yet I am not that dethroned king, our house is not a museum or a shrine, and our past is not merely a happy dream. I am not awakened, as I have stayed
有时，走在屋子里，环顾那些我仔细研究或只是瞥一眼的物品时，我会默念理查二世那悲怆的话语。然而，我并非那个被废黜的国王，我们的家不是博物馆或圣地，我们的过去也不仅仅是一个美好的梦。我并未被唤醒，因为我一直保持清醒；

awake; I have been attentive and alert throughout all those years as the mother of my children. The necessity I face has no need of that adjective, “grim.” Necessity —my necessity —is an extremity: any adjective is an irrelevance when it comes to extremity.
我一直是警觉而专注的，作为我孩子们的母亲，这些年里始终如此。我所面对的必然不需要那个形容词“严酷”。必然——我的必然——是一种极端：当谈及极端时，任何形容词都是无关紧要的。

When the New Jersey Transit detective expressed his surprise at not being able to find Vincent’s record, I only nodded as though to say such things were expected: life is a muddle, bureaucratically, factually, metaphorically. I was eager for him to leave so my husband and I could have the backpack to ourselves.
当新泽西交通局的侦探对找不到文森特的记录表示惊讶时，我只是点头，仿佛在说这类事情是意料之中的：生活在官僚、事实和隐喻上都是一团糟。我急切地希望他离开，好让我和丈夫能独自拥有那个背包。

But sometimes - just sometimes - things make a little more sense upon revisiting. I wouldn’t have solved that small mystery about the police agencies had I not started this book for James. “The book for James”–for months I have been talking about it with my friends Brigid and Elizabeth, calling it “the book for James,” just as once I was writing “the book for Vincent.”
但有时——仅仅是有时——重新审视后事情会更有意义。如果不是为了詹姆斯而开始写这本书，我不会解开那个关于警察机构的小谜团。“为詹姆斯写的书”——几个月来我一直和朋友布里吉德和伊丽莎白谈论它，称之为“为詹姆斯写的书”，就像我曾经写过“为文森特写的书”一样。

Inevitably there comes that moment when the book-which takes up one’s time, energy, mental space, even life-becomes a book. And then it’s no more than an object, bearing a title, going on its own journey, parting ways with its author. This has happened to every book I’ve written, including the one for Vincent.
不可避免地，会有那么一刻，这本书——占据了一个人的时间、精力、精神空间，甚至生命——变成了一本书。然后它不过是一个物件，有了一个标题，开始自己的旅程，与作者分道扬镳。这种情况发生在我写的每一本书上，包括那本为文森特写的书。

That earlier book-“the book for Vincent”-arrived without any conscious planning. One night, I was reading an Ivy Compton-Burnett novel, in which a character addresses her mother as “Mother dear.” Mother dear—a phrase sounding archaic and yet ever lively and present—Vincent used to jokingly call me that when he wanted my attention. So the book arrived, opening with that phrase.
那本早先的书——“为文森特写的书”——是在没有任何刻意计划的情况下诞生的。一天晚上，我正在读艾薇·康普顿-伯内特的一部小说，里面有个角色称呼她的母亲为“亲爱的母亲”。“亲爱的母亲”——这个听起来古老却又生动鲜活的词组——文森特曾经开玩笑地用这个称呼我，当他想引起我的注意时。所以这本书就这样诞生了，以这个词组开篇。

Vincent died at the end of September; by the end of November, I knew the book was finished. This time, I was conscious that I hadn’t written a single word for James in that time frame. I kept telling Brigid that I knew the book was there; only, I couldn’t find a way to write it.
文森特在九月底去世；到了十一月底，我知道这本书已经完成了。这一次，我清楚地意识到，在那段时间里我一句关于詹姆斯的话都没写。我不断告诉布里吉德，我知道这本书存在；只是，我找不到写它的方法。

Those who knew Vincent all knew that he would have loved the book for Vincent. He would have been proud and amused; he would have found fault with some of the sentences; he would have added a few adjectives and adverbs where I’d insisted on keeping sentences unadorned. The book, in which a mother and a dead child continue their conversation across the border of life and death, was as much written for Vincent as it was written by Vincent.
所有认识文森特的人都知道，他一定会喜欢这本书，为文森特而写。他会感到骄傲和好笑；他会挑剔某些句子；他会在我坚持保持句子简洁的地方加上一些形容词和副词。这本书中，一位母亲和已故的孩子在生死边界继续对话，既是为文森特而写，也可说是由文森特所写。

But in life James resisted metaphor and evaded attention. If Bartleby ${}^{70}$${}^{70}$^(70){ }^{70} and Hamlet could merge into a singular being, James might have occupied that space with some comfort. (“Seems, madam? Nay, it is; I know not ‘seems’” 71 and “I would prefer not to.”)
但在生活中，詹姆斯抗拒隐喻，回避关注。如果巴特比 ${}^{70}$${}^{70}$^(70){ }^{70} 和哈姆雷特能融合成一个独特的存在，詹姆斯或许能在那个空间中感到些许安慰。（“看起来，夫人？不，那就是；我不知道‘看起来’是什么”71 页，以及“我宁愿不做。”）

Brigid, quoting the opening line of a novel I had written some years ago-“Posterity, take notice!”–explained my difficulty to myself. A mother writes a book after her child’s death, and that book could become a child’s request for attention. James, Brigid said, is the antithesis of attention. It would be nearly impossible to write for James, she said; it feels as though you have to learn a new alphabet before you can write anything this time.
布里吉德引用了我几年前写的一部小说的开头一句话——“后人，请注意！”——向我解释了我的困境。一位母亲在孩子去世后写了一本书，而那本书可能成为孩子对关注的请求。布里吉德说，詹姆斯正好相反，他是注意力的反面。她说，为詹姆斯写作几乎是不可能的；感觉这次你必须先学会一套新的字母表，才能写出任何东西。

Learning a new alphabet-for weeks and months I’ve held on to that notion. James was a different child than Vincent, and James’s death left us in a different place than Vincent’s death. And yet a new alphabet can only be symbolic, as I have but this old language to work with. Words tend to take on a flabbiness or a staleness after a catastrophe, but if one has to live with the extremity of losing two children, an imperfect and ineffective language is but a minor misfortune.
学习一套新的字母表——几个星期几个月来我一直坚持这个想法。詹姆斯和文森特是不同的孩子，詹姆斯的去世让我们处于与文森特去世时不同的境地。然而，新的字母表只能是象征性的，因为我只能用这套旧语言来表达。灾难之后，文字往往显得松散或陈旧，但如果必须承受失去两个孩子的极端痛苦，那么一种不完美且无效的语言也只是一个小小的不幸。

There is no good way to say this: words fall short.
没有什么好办法来说这件事：言语总是显得苍白无力。
And yet these two clichés speak an irrefutable truth. Anything I write for James is bound to be a partial failure. Sooner or later there will come the moment when my understanding parts ways with his essence. I can ask questions-answerable or unanswerable-but it is likely that by the end of the book I will have failed to find the right questions, just as I will have failed to pinpoint the exact moment when James’s contemplation of suicide shifted from Vincent’s to his own.
然而，这两个陈词滥调却道出了一个无可辩驳的真理。我为詹姆斯所写的任何东西注定都是部分失败的。迟早会有那么一刻，我的理解将与他的本质分道扬镳。我可以提出可回答或不可回答的问题——但很可能在书的结尾，我未能找到正确的问题，就像我未能准确指出詹姆斯对自杀的思考何时从文森特转向他自己一样。

A few weeks after James died, I wrote to Jane, a colleague who works in theater: “Our life seems to have entered the realm of Shakespearean dramas or Greek tragedies.” And she replied: “Your losses are indeed epic and unfathomably hard; no language of mine can meet that.”
詹姆斯去世几周后，我写信给在剧院工作的同事简：“我们的生活似乎进入了莎士比亚戏剧或希腊悲剧的领域。”她回复道：“你的失去确实是史诗般的、难以理解的；我的任何语言都无法表达。”

And yet life is still to be lived, inside tragedies, outside tragedies, and despite tragedies. Writing this book is a way to separate myself from that strange realm while simultaneously settling myself permanently into that realm.
然而，生活仍需继续，无论是在悲剧之中，还是在悲剧之外，亦或尽管有悲剧。写这本书是一种方式，让我既能与那个奇异领域保持距离，同时又能永久地安顿于那个领域。

One can write about facts feelingly, one can write about feelings matter-of-factly, but one should never evade facts. So here I am, in a dire place, which few parents live in (at least in a contemporary setting, where life is not ravished by man-made or natural disasters). I’ve decided to write this book starting with a single established fact: I am in an abyss.
人们可以感情丰富地书写事实，也可以平淡无奇地书写感情，但绝不应逃避事实。所以我在这里，处于一个极其糟糕的境地，极少有父母会经历（至少在当代社会，生活未被人为或自然灾害摧残的情况下）。我决定从一个确凿的事实开始写这本书：我正处于深渊之中。

We-my husband and I-are in an abyss. But I shall keep his part to a minimum in this book. He is the only other person who has experienced these losses; losses for which people use the adjectives “unimaginable” or “unfathomable” to describe them. But my husband is a private person, and I believe in Marianne Moore’s ${}^{72}$${}^{72}$^(72){ }^{72} words: “The deepest feeling always shows itself in silence; / not in silence, but restraint.”
我们——我和我的丈夫——正处于深渊之中。但在这本书里，我会尽量少提及他的部分。他是唯一一个经历过这些失去的人；人们用“难以想象”或“不可测度”这样的形容词来描述这些失去。但我的丈夫是个内向的人，我相信玛丽安·摩尔的 ${}^{72}$${}^{72}$^(72){ }^{72} 话语：“最深的感情总是在沉默中显现；/ 不是沉默，而是克制。”

So, here’s the fact: I am in an abyss. I did not stray into the abyss. I did not fall into the abyss. I was not bullied or persecuted by others and thrown into the abyss. Rather, inexplicably and stunningly, I simply am in an abyss.
所以，事实是：我正处于深渊之中。我不是误入深渊。我不是跌入深渊。我没有被他人欺凌或迫害后被扔进深渊。相反，莫名其妙且令人震惊的是，我就是处于深渊之中。

I am not lost. The feeling of being lost-a disorientation akin to despair-occurred briefly after Vincent died. I remember, after dropping off James at school, driving under a leaden sky, thinking that there was nowhere for us to go.
我并没有迷失。那种迷失的感觉——一种类似绝望的迷惘——是在文森特去世后短暂出现的。我记得，在送詹姆斯去学校后，天空阴沉沉的，我开车时想着，我们无处可去。

But that thought of having nowhere to go, just as the statement that no one would surprise me after Vincent died, was an expression of hyperbole, which is unavoidable in anguish: feelings, unexamined, present themselves as thoughts; even, facts.
但那种无处可去的想法，就像文森特去世后我说“没人会让我感到惊讶”一样，都是夸张的表达，这是痛苦中不可避免的：未经审视的情感会表现为思想，甚至是事实。

This time I have been careful not to mistake feelings as thoughts or facts. My feelings: stunned, but not lost. My thought: I am found in an abyss.
这一次我小心翼翼，不把情感误当成思想或事实。我的感受是：震惊，但并未迷失。我的想法是：我在深渊中被发现。

Some people (especially in China) make a fuss about my using the word “die” when I talk about the deaths in my life, equating this linguistic decision to coldheartedness or evil.
有些人（尤其是在中国）对我谈论生命中的死亡时使用“死”这个词大惊小怪，把这种语言选择等同于冷酷无情或邪恶。

Indeed there are euphemisms one could use. The word “euphemism” coming from Greek euphemismós and meaning the substitution of an auspicious word for an inauspicious one, may imply sensitivity, but it may also imply cowardice. It is the latter, rather than the former, that puts people in the mood to censor and demonize.
确实，有些委婉语是可以使用的。“委婉语”一词来源于希腊语 euphemismós，意指用吉祥的词语替代不吉利的词语，这可能暗示着敏感，但也可能暗示着懦弱。正是后者，而非前者，使人们产生审查和妖魔化的心态。

Death, particularly suicide, cannot be softened or sugarcoated. After Vincent died, a couple of mothers asked me if they could tell their children-Vincent’s peers-that he had died in an
死亡，尤其是自杀，是无法被软化或美化的。文森特去世后，有几位母亲问我是否可以告诉她们的孩子——文森特的同龄人——说他是死于一场

accident. That they preferred to lie to their children, even though the truth would surely reach those children through their friends, baffled me. I explained to the mothers that their proposal seemed to me a disrespect of their own children and a violation of Vincent’s memory. Not calling a fact by its name can be the beginning of cruelty and injustice.
意外。她们宁愿对孩子撒谎，尽管真相肯定会通过孩子们的朋友传到他们耳中，这让我感到困惑。我向这些母亲解释说，她们的提议在我看来是不尊重自己的孩子，也是对文森特记忆的亵渎。不称事实本来的名称，可能是残酷和不公的开始。

A few days after James’s death, I told my friend Elizabeth, half-jokingly, that I would write a self-help book about radical acceptance. Radical acceptance was what sustained me then. The questions of whys and hows and wherefores or the wishful thinking of what-ifs: these questions naturally arise after any catastrophe, as they did after Vincent’s death. But this time it feels to me that those questions, which function as a series of counterarguments against a fact, are useless; even, a violation of James’s essence.
詹姆斯去世几天后，我半开玩笑地对朋友伊丽莎白说，我会写一本关于激进接纳的自助书。激进接纳是当时支撑我的力量。为什么、如何、缘由这些问题，或者对“如果当初……”的美好幻想：这些问题在任何灾难之后都会自然出现，文森特去世后也是如此。但这一次，我觉得这些问题，作为对事实的一系列反驳，是无用的；甚至，是对詹姆斯本质的亵渎。

Those questions easily slip into the realm of alternatives. In writing fiction, one works with alternatives. “What E. M. Forster has called the ‘flat’ character has no alternatives at all”–Elizabeth Bowen said in her essay on novel writing. But in life, death does not come with an alternative.
这些问题很容易滑入“替代方案”的领域。在写小说时，人们会处理各种可能性。伊丽莎白·鲍恩在她关于小说写作的文章中说：“E·M·福斯特所称的‘扁平’人物根本没有任何替代可能。”但在生活中，死亡没有替代方案。

My only grasp of the situation-then as well as now-is to accept that James, like Vincent, chose death, and James, particularly, chose the same way to die as Vincent. Reality, which can be conveyed in many ways, is better spoken of in the most straightforward language.
我对当时以及现在的唯一理解是接受詹姆斯，像文森特一样，选择了死亡，尤其是詹姆斯选择了与文森特相同的死法。现实可以用多种方式表达，但最好用最直接的语言来说。

Elizabeth listened to my proposed self-help book and replied that most people would throw it across the room before finishing page 1. People would not want to read a book about radical acceptance, Elizabeth said; they would rather not imagine themselves in situations that require the practice of radical acceptance.
伊丽莎白听了我提议的自助书后回答说，大多数人在读完第一页之前就会把书扔到房间的另一边。伊丽莎白说，人们不想读关于激进接纳的书；他们宁愿不去想象自己处于需要实践激进接纳的情境中。

So, dear readers: if a mother using the word “died” or “death” offends your sensibilities (a journalist from China featured my word choice in a profile of me, which led to disapproval among Chinese readers); if you believe that “love” is a magic word that will make everything all right (as did one of my readers, who confronted me on a book tour, asking me how I could have attempted suicide if I had ever loved my children); if you think I’ve erred by not putting my life in the loving hands of thy god (as an ex-friend of mine believes, telling me after Vincent’s death that he was sent by God and taken away by God so there was no reason for me to feel too sad); if you think suicide is too depressing a subject; if the fact that all things insoluble in life remain insoluble is too bleak for you; and if you prefer that radical acceptance remain a foreign concept to you, this is a good time for you to stop reading.
所以，亲爱的读者们：如果一个母亲使用“去世”或“死亡”这样的词语会冒犯到你的感情（有一位来自中国的记者在介绍我的文章中提到了我的用词选择，结果引起了中国读者的不满）；如果你认为“爱”是一个神奇的词语，能让一切都变得美好（就像我在一次书籍巡回演讲中遇到的一位读者，他质问我，如果我曾经爱过我的孩子，怎么会尝试自杀）；如果你认为我犯了错误，没有把我的生命交托给你的神（正如我一位前朋友所认为的，他在文森特去世后告诉我，文森特是被上帝派来又被上帝带走的，所以我没有理由感到太难过）；如果你觉得自杀是一个过于令人沮丧的话题；如果你觉得生活中所有无法解决的事情依然无法解决，这个事实对你来说太过悲观；如果你更愿意让激进的接受成为一个对你来说陌生的概念，那么现在是你停止阅读的好时机。

This book is about life’s extremities, about facts and logic, written from a particularly abysmal place where no parent would want to be. This book will neither ask the questions you may want me to ask nor provide the closure you may expect the book to offer.
这本书讲述的是生命的极端状态，关于事实和逻辑，写自一个没有父母愿意身处的极度深渊之地。这本书既不会提出你可能希望我提出的问题，也不会提供你可能期待的结局。

I’ve always refused to use the word “grieving” and I’ve rarely used the word “mourning”-for reasons I shall explain later. This is not a book about grieving or mourning.
我一直拒绝使用“悲痛”这个词，也很少使用“哀悼”这个词——原因我稍后会解释。这不是一本关于悲痛或哀悼的书。

This book will not provide a neat narrative arc, which some readers may hanker for: from hardship to triumph, from incomprehension to newly gained perception and wisdom, from suffering to transcendence. This book will not provide the easy satisfaction of fulfillment, inspiration, and transformation.
这本书不会提供一个整齐的叙事弧线，有些读者可能会渴望这样的弧线：从艰难到胜利，从不理解到新获得的洞察和智慧，从痛苦到超越。这本书不会带来成就感、启发和转变的轻松满足。

I’ve in the past quoted Montaigne: 73 “To philosophize is to learn to die.” And I now know there are other variations:
我过去曾引用蒙田的话：“哲学就是学会死亡。”我现在知道还有其他变体：

To philosophize is to learn to live with deaths.
哲学就是学会与死亡共存。
To philosophize is to learn to live with those deaths until one dies.
哲学就是学会与那些死亡共处，直到自己也死去。
To philosophize is what one can do while living in an abyss-not lost, but found.
哲学是在深渊中生活时所能做的事——不是迷失，而是被发现。

That Friday, after the police left, the phone calls came in. I’ve learned the necessity of changing behavior after a sudden death. I never pick up phone calls from unknown numbers, but in those next few days they were the only calls I would pick up: death would bring strangers into our world, while friends would be put on hold. All those calls from unknown numbers were priorities because they were about James—no, not about James, but about the practical matters after his death.
那个星期五，警察离开后，电话开始响起。我学会了在突发死亡后必须改变行为。我从不接陌生号码的电话，但在接下来的几天里，那些电话成了我唯一会接的：死亡会让陌生人进入我们的世界，而朋友们则被搁置一旁。所有那些来自陌生号码的电话都是优先的，因为它们关乎詹姆斯——不，准确说是关于他去世后的实际事务。

My husband and I were stunned, astonished, shocked, or any of the words one uses in such a situation. The truth was, we, like Brigid and my therapist (and my husband’s therapist), could not immediately do anything with this fact. It was ushering in a new reality, which we could neither enter nor ignore. James, ahead of us, was already in that new reality.
我和丈夫震惊、惊愕、震撼，或者用任何在这种情况下会用到的词语来形容。事实是，我们和布里吉德、我的治疗师（还有我丈夫的治疗师）一样，无法立刻对这个事实做出任何反应。这预示着一个新的现实的到来，而我们既无法进入，也无法忽视。詹姆斯，比我们先一步，已经身处那个新现实中。

I remember, after taking a phone call from the university, sitting down next to my husband, who had not moved from the end of the sofa for hours that evening, and saying in a quiet voice, heard only by myself, “Shit.”
我记得，在接完大学的一个电话后，坐到丈夫身边，那天晚上他几个小时都没从沙发一端挪开，我轻声说了一句，只有自己听见：“该死。”

I don’t swear, I don’t scream out in pain, I don’t smash plates or bowls, I don’t bang doors or punch walls. I have always known that I can keep my body still and my mind clear, a skill that I must have mastered from being the daughter of my mother, who had done all the screaming and
我不骂人，不痛苦地尖叫，不砸盘子或碗，不砰地关门或拳打墙壁。我一直知道自己能保持身体静止、头脑清醒，这种技能我一定是从母亲那里学来的，因为她在我成长过程中做了所有的尖叫、

banging and crying and swearing when I was growing up．A few days after James died，I remembered once again my mother＇s wrath when she whipped my shoulders and back with a metal pencil box or a broomstick，not because I had done anything unforgivable，but because she was angry．The longer she beat me，the angrier she became，because I was neither crying nor trying to escape her beating．＂I just don＇t believe I can＇t make you cry，＂she would swear，hitting out of a blind rage．I would sit in the chair，wooden－faced and dry－eyed，knowing that other than exhausting herself，there was nothing she could do to claim victory over me．
砰击、哭泣和咒骂。詹姆斯去世几天后，我再次想起母亲愤怒时用金属铅笔盒或扫帚棍抽打我肩膀和背部的情景，不是因为我做了什么不可原谅的事，而是因为她生气。她打得越久，越生气，因为我既不哭也不试图逃脱她的毒打。“我真不敢相信我让你哭不出来，”她会咒骂着，盲目地挥打。我会坐在椅子上，面无表情，眼睛干涩，知道除了让她自己筋疲力尽外，她无论如何都无法战胜我。

Life has stunned me，but I prefer not to give life the pleasure of boasting that it has defeated me，just as 1 did not give my mother the satisfaction of knowing that her beating could break me and bring tears to my eyes．
生活让我震惊，但我宁愿不让生活有炫耀击败我的快感，就像我没有让母亲因她的毒打能打垮我、让我流泪而感到满足一样。

So when I sat down next to my husband and said＂Shit，＂that unfamiliar word was life at an extremity，to which I responded with my own extremity．Sometimes I wonder if that might have been the worst moment in my life，though，as Edgar said in King Lear，＂And worse I may be yet． The worst is not／So long as we can say＇This is the worst．＇＂
所以当我坐在丈夫身边说“该死”时，那陌生的词汇代表着生命的极限，而我以自己的极限作出回应。有时我会想，那或许是我生命中最糟糕的时刻，尽管如此，正如埃德加在《李尔王》中所说：“更糟的事可能还会发生。最坏的还不是／只要我们还能说‘这是最坏的’。”

A few years ago，a young woman spent two days with me for a profile for The New York Times，and for that interview（as for all the other interviews），I made it clear that I would not answer questions about my husband and James．After James＇s death，in a message to me，she referred to that instinct of mine to respect James＇s privacy and to protect him．Once again，the thought occurred to me that a mother can do all things humanly possible for a child and cannot keep him alive．
几年前，一位年轻女子为了《纽约时报》的人物专访与我共度了两天，在那次采访中（以及所有其他采访中），我都明确表示不会回答关于我丈夫和詹姆斯的问题。詹姆斯去世后，她在给我的一条信息中提到了我尊重詹姆斯隐私并保护他的本能。那一刻，我再次想到，母亲可以为孩子做所有人力所能及的事，却无法让他活着。

Parents die，and children go on living．It is statistically sound to say that this is the case for the majority of the population．
父母会去世，孩子们继续生活。从统计学上讲，这对大多数人来说是成立的。

But sometimes children die before their parents．
但有时孩子会先于父母去世
Children die，and parents go on living．Those parents go on living because they do not have many options：they either live or follow their children down to Hades．${}^{74}$${}^{74}$^(74){ }^{74}
孩子们死去，父母继续生活。那些父母之所以继续生活，是因为他们没有太多选择：要么活着，要么跟随他们的孩子们下到冥府。 ${}^{74}$${}^{74}$^(74){ }^{74}

Children die，and parents go on living．Those parents go on living because death，though a hard，hard thing，is not always the hardest thing．Both my children chose a hard thing．We are left with the hardest：to live after their deaths．
孩子们死去，父母继续生活。那些父母之所以继续生活，是因为死亡，虽然是件艰难的事，却并不总是最艰难的事。我的两个孩子都选择了艰难的道路。我们剩下的，是最艰难的：在他们去世后继续活着。

Sometimes a young writer or a writing student tells me how hard they find writing is．Writing is so hard，they say，with a whine or else self－glorification in their voice．That always puts me in a
有时，一个年轻作家或写作学生会告诉我他们觉得写作有多难。他们说写作很难，声音中带着抱怨或自我夸耀。这总是让我

suspicious mood．If you complain about writing being hard－I sometimes want to say to them－ then you must have understood very little about life．
产生怀疑的情绪。如果你抱怨写作很难——我有时想对他们说——那么你一定对生活了解得很少

Writing is hard，but living is harder．Writing is optional．Living，too，is optional，though its demands make writing seem idyllic．
写作很难，但生活更难。写作是可选择的。生活也是可选择的，尽管它的要求让写作显得如诗如画。

A few weeks after James died，I was home alone and heard a vehicle pull into the driveway． Then I heard a car door open and close，then men talking．My thought at that instant was that the police were here again，this time telling me that my husband had died．
詹姆斯去世几周后，我独自在家，听到一辆车开进车道。然后我听到车门开关的声音，还有男人们的谈话。那一刻我的想法是，警察又来了，这次是告诉我丈夫去世了。

It was a deliveryman who was loudly chatting with another man on speakerphone．
原来是一个送货员，他正在用免提电话大声和另一个男人聊天。
When Vincent and James were in elementary school，the mother of three of their school friends died from suicide．The three boys were eight，six，and four years old．A few days after，they were at their grandmother＇s when she picked up a phone call．＂Oh no，＂she exclaimed when the person on the other end said something．
当文森特和詹姆斯还在小学时，他们三个同学的母亲自杀了。那三个男孩分别是八岁、六岁和四岁。几天后，他们在祖母家时，祖母接了一个电话。“哦不，”当电话那头说了些什么时，她惊呼道

All three boys perked up and asked in unison，＂Is Daddy dead？＂
三个男孩都兴奋起来，异口同声地问：“爸爸死了吗？”
Dying is hard．Living is harder．Even harder is living on when life is fractured by timeless deaths．It takes an instant for death to become a fact，a single point in a time line，which eclipses all things in the past and eliminates any possibility for the future．Death is like Euclid＇s definition of the point in geometry：＂A point is that which has no part．＂75
死亡很难。生活更难。当生活被无尽的死亡撕裂时，继续活下去更难。死亡在瞬间成为事实，成为时间线上的一个点，遮蔽了过去的一切，消除了未来的任何可能。死亡就像欧几里得对几何中点的定义：“点是没有部分的东西。”75

Living，on the other hand，is not about a single point．There is not a single point in time or space that can become life itself．
而生活则不是关于某一个点。没有任何一个时间或空间的点能成为生命本身。

Children die，and parents go on living．Those parents go on living because that＇s the only way for them to go on loving their children，whose deaths easily turn them into a news story one day and gossip the next day，and then，eventually，statistics．
孩子们死去，父母继续生活。那些父母之所以继续生活，是因为这是他们继续爱孩子的唯一方式。孩子的死亡很容易让他们成为某一天的新闻，第二天的八卦，最终变成统计数字

Children die，and parents go on living，except they go on living in a different way than they did before．It＇s like living with＂a new knowledge of reality，＂I wrote to my friend Deborah a couple of weeks after James＇s death，quoting the last line of the last poem of the collected poems of Wallace Stevens，titled＂Not Ideas About the Thing but the Thing Itself．＂
孩子们死去，父母继续生活，只是他们以不同于以往的方式生活。我在詹姆斯去世几周后写信给我的朋友黛博拉时这样说，引用了华莱士·史蒂文斯诗集最后一首诗《不是关于事物的想法，而是事物本身》的最后一句。

A mother gives birth to a firstborn，and blunders through the baby＇s infanthood．Then she gives birth to another baby．The second time things are somewhat familiar，less daunting，and yet just as many things can go wrong．
母亲生下第一个孩子，笨拙地度过婴儿期。然后她又生了另一个孩子。第二次时，事情有些熟悉，不那么令人生畏，但同样有许多事情可能出错

Losing a child for the second time，I knew some things to be important：sleep，hydration， small and frequent snacks，daily exercise．Get out of bed at the regular time and never ruminate while lying in bed．Make the effort to brew good coffee in the morning．Read－one act of Shakespeare is good enough，so is a page of Euclid＇s geometry，a chapter of Henry James＇s biography，or one poem from Wallace Stevens＇s collection．Write－there is no reason to stop working and there is also no reason to strive for regular working hours．Anything that prevents agitation or rumination is good for the mind．And，most important of all，for me：radical acceptance． The death of a child realigns time and space．If an abyss is where I shall be for the rest of my life， the abyss is my habitat．One should not waste energy fighting one＇s habitat．
第二次失去孩子后，我知道一些事情很重要：睡眠、补水、小而频繁的零食、每日锻炼。按时起床，绝不要躺在床上反复思考。早晨努力泡一杯好咖啡。阅读——一出莎士比亚的戏剧就足够了，欧几里得几何的一页也行，亨利·詹姆斯传记的一章亦可，或者华莱士·史蒂文斯诗集中的一首诗。写作——没有理由停止工作，也没有理由追求固定的工作时间。任何能防止焦躁或反复思考的事情对心灵都有好处。最重要的是，对我来说：彻底接受。孩子的去世重新调整了时间和空间。如果深渊是我余生所在之地，那么深渊就是我的栖息地。人不应浪费精力去抗拒自己的栖息地

I have only this abyss，which is my life．And an inevitable part of existing in this abyss is exhaustion，which the second time I learned to accept without protest．My friend Edmund told me that after his Swiss lover died，he felt like one of those women hauling heavy laundry out of a river， all day long，never ending．It seems a beloved＇s death makes one a Sisyphus， 76 too．After James died，flowers arrived in front of our door．The flowers deserved attention，but I had to turn myself inside out to find the energy needed for that attention：to cut open the packaging，to trim a bouquet of peonies，to place them in a vase．（Here＇s a small thing I＇ve learned：if one is to send flowers as a gesture of condolence，better to ensure the flowers arrive already arranged in a vase．）
我只有这无底深渊，那就是我的生命。而存在于这深渊中不可避免的一部分是疲惫，我第二次学会了无怨无悔地接受它。我的朋友埃德蒙告诉我，在他的瑞士恋人去世后，他感觉自己就像那些整天从河里拉沉重洗衣的女人，永无止境。似乎所爱之人的死亡也让人变成了西西弗斯。詹姆斯去世后，鲜花送到了我们家门口。鲜花值得关注，但我必须竭尽全力才能找到关注它们所需的精力：拆开包装，修剪一束牡丹，把它们插进花瓶。（这里有个小经验：如果要送花表示慰问，最好确保花已经插好放在花瓶里再送。）

In that exhaustion，still there is some living to do．What was beyond my capacity I would not aspire to accomplish，so 1 asked my agents and Brigid to help me cancel travel and public events for the next few months．What was within my capacity I would not shy away from，as work is as essential as breathing and sleeping．I was at the beginning of a nearly yearlong process of judging a prize，and I decided to remain on the judging panel，a decision my intuition told me was the right one and one that the experience itself has confirmed：the reading has offered a structure for my days，and the monthly meetings with the other judges have taken place in a realm that is independent of my personal life．
在那种疲惫中，仍然有一些生活要继续。超出我能力范围的事情，我不会妄图完成，所以我请我的代理人和布里吉德帮我取消接下来几个月的旅行和公开活动。能力范围内的事情我不会回避，因为工作和呼吸、睡眠一样重要。我正处于一个近一年的评奖过程的开始阶段，我决定继续留在评审团中，这个决定是我的直觉告诉我正确的，经历本身也证实了这一点：阅读工作为我的日子提供了结构，每月与其他评委的会议发生在一个独立于我个人生活的领域。

And there was a novel-in-progress that I had been working on for several months. “On the way here I wondered if you would have to take some time off from it,” Brigid said the day after James died, when I told her that I intended to keep working on the novel. “And knowing you, of course you would not.”
还有一部我已经写了几个月的小说正在进行中。“来这里的路上我在想你是否需要暂停写作，”詹姆斯去世后的第二天，布里吉德说，当时我告诉她我打算继续写这部小说。“认识你，当然不会。”

I did not stop writing or take time off from teaching when Vincent died. Writing, teaching, gardening, grocery shopping, cooking, doing laundry-all these activities are time-bound, and they do not compete with my children, who are timeless now. There is no rush, as I will have every single day, for the rest of my life, to think about Vincent and James, outside time, outside the many activities of everyday life.
文森特去世时，我没有停止写作，也没有暂停教学。写作、教学、园艺、买菜、做饭、洗衣——所有这些活动都有时间限制，它们不会与我的孩子们竞争，因为他们现在是超越时间的。没有什么急迫感，因为在我余生的每一天，我都可以在时间之外、在日常生活的各种活动之外，思考文森特和詹姆斯。

And this, among other reasons, is why I am against the word “grief,” which in contemporary culture seems to indicate a process that has an end point: the sooner you get there, the sooner you prove yourself to be a good sport at living, and the less awkward people around you will feel. Sometimes people ask me where I am in the grieving process, and I wonder whether they understand anything at all about losing someone. How lonely the dead would feel if the living were to stand up from death’s shadow, clap their hands, dust their pants, and say to themselves and to the world, I am done with my grieving; from this point on it’s life as usual, business as usual.
这也是我反对“悲伤”一词的原因之一，在当代文化中，这个词似乎意味着一个有终点的过程：你越快走到终点，就越能证明自己是个乐观面对生活的人，周围的人也会感觉不那么尴尬。有时人们会问我处于悲伤过程的哪个阶段，我不禁怀疑他们是否真正理解失去亲人的感受。如果活着的人能从死亡的阴影中站起来，拍手、拍去裤子上的灰尘，对自己和世界说：“我已经结束了我的悲伤；从现在起，一切照旧，生活照常”，那么死去的人会感到多么孤独啊。

I don’t want an end point to my sorrow. The death of a child is not a heat wave or a snowstorm, nor an obstacle race to rush through and win, nor an acute or chronic illness to recover from. What is grief but a word, a shortcut, a simplification of something much larger than that word?
我不希望我的悲伤有终点。孩子的死亡不是一场热浪或暴风雪，也不是一场需要冲刺并赢得的障碍赛，更不是一场可以康复的急性或慢性疾病。悲伤不过是一个词，是一个捷径，是对远比这个词更庞大事物的简化。

Thinking about my children is like air, like time. Thinking about them will only end when I reach the end of my life.
想念我的孩子就像空气，像时间。对他们的思念只有在我生命的尽头才会停止。

The only passage in which grief appears in its truest meaning is from King John, ${}^{77}$${}^{77}$^(77){ }^{77} when Constance speaks eloquently of a grief that is called madness by others in the play.
悲伤以其最真实的含义出现的唯一一段，是《约翰王》中， ${}^{77}$${}^{77}$^(77){ }^{77} 康斯坦斯慷慨陈词，谈及一种被剧中其他人称为疯狂的悲痛。

Grief fills the room up of my absent child,
悲伤充满了我缺席孩子的房间，
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me,
躺在床上，和我来回踱步，
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
摆出他那迷人的样子，重复他的话语，
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
让我想起他所有优雅的部分，
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form;
用他的身形填满那空荡的衣服；
Then, have I reason to be fond of grief?
那么，我有理由喜欢悲伤吗？
${}^{77}$${}^{77}$^(77){ }^{77} King John is a play by William Shakespeare about the reign of John, King of England from 1199 to 1216.
${}^{77}$${}^{77}$^(77){ }^{77} 《约翰王》是威廉·莎士比亚创作的一部戏剧，讲述了 1199 年至 1216 年英格兰国王约翰的统治时期。

Fare you well．Had you such a loss as I，
祝你安好。若你遭遇我这样的损失，
I could give better comfort than you do．
我能给予比你更多的安慰。
I will not keep this form upon my head
我不会让这副表情挂在脸上
When there is such disorder in my wit．
当我的心智如此混乱时。

Have I reason to be fond of grief？Yes，as much as a mother has reason to love her children． Alas，few people use the word＂grief＂these days as compellingly as Constance．For that reason，I prefer that in the abyss that is my habitat，grief is not given a place by design．If it decides to grow there，it will grow like a volunteer rose campion ${}^{78}$${}^{78}$^(78){ }^{78} or a sweet violet ${}^{79}$${}^{79}$^(79){ }^{79} or a columbine．${}^{80}$${}^{80}$^(80){ }^{80}
我有理由喜欢悲伤吗？有，就像母亲有理由爱她的孩子一样。唉，如今很少有人能像康斯坦斯那样深刻地使用“悲伤”这个词。正因为如此，我更愿意在我所处的深渊中，悲伤不被刻意留有一席之地。如果它决定在那里生长，它会像自生的玫瑰石竹 ${}^{78}$${}^{78}$^(78){ }^{78} 、香紫罗兰 ${}^{79}$${}^{79}$^(79){ }^{79} 或耬斗菜 ${}^{80}$${}^{80}$^(80){ }^{80} 一样生长。

78 ＂rose campion＂：毛剪秋罗
79 ＂sweet violet＂：香堇菜
80 ＂columbine＂：耬斗菜  80 “耬斗菜”：columbine