文/摄影：黑子
I wrote this down, not to remember but to forget……我写下这个, 并不是为了记住, 而是为了忘却......黑子
A writer"s journey in life
As we read through books, whether it"s a novel, or a collection of poems, or a number of essays on different topics, we often fail to realize what the writer has actually lived through, how profound the living experience has been to them individually, of what he or she had to encounter or struggle with.We only tasted a tiny fragment of what they had tasted, or worse yet, swallowed. I would say no matter what we as a reader can claim we know, we hardly do.
And that makes me think of the topic I want to have a few words, above all, to myself. As I had lived the experience once or twice in my own life, and have done my tiny share of someone who writes.
We read Robert Frost and Paul Celan. We read Joseph Brodsky, Mary Oliver, Anne Sexton, and Sylvia Plath. We read William Faulkner, Ernest Hemingway, and all the rest. We read people we are familiar with, and we read people we hardly encountered in our deepest imaginable conscience. They all tell us stories, stories we either already knew by own experience or by what we have read before. Worse yet, there are things we have never heard or even thought of. We are then presented a few choices. We can try hard to dig in and put ourselves "in their shoes and walk a mile", as they often said. Or we can walk away completely and pretend it has never happened. If we are lucky, we would come away more or less satisfied in the sense we have lived through the experience by reading and, survived. Through reading stories, we know a few things about mountain climbing, fishing in the sea, surviving a snowstorm, etc.. We can now claim we know a thing or two about suffering, but do we？In the most direct and inescapable way?
The answer is clear: we hardly do.We might have smelled the smell, maybe, but we were never in the same war zone as the writers.
This brings me to this, as a reader, what is our utmost responsibility in response to a writer"s struggle in their tales?
Many years ago I left my country, the only country I was somewhat familiar with, or lack thereof, I knew no other place on earth. It was a place somewhat coherent to me at the time. I never thought I would one day pack up my stuff, abandon my language, and leave. I came a few thousand miles away in New York City on one spring day, not knowing a soul in the city, or how the people there spoke.New York in that early spring was still muddy, dirty, and full of black snows. And it was at that time one of my closest friends in China was dying from stomach cancer in a hospital. When I left, she was healthy and smiley, for all I remembered.Through the bus window the morning I left my hometown, she handed me a bag of ripe oranges and said, "Come back soon. Don"t pretend you have forgotten this city that fed you with abundant fruits and seafood." She wore that big and lovely smile on her face, as she always did. I did not know what was happening until two months after I arrived in New York, and living in a tiny basement apartment without heat in that chilly April.My 6-day-a-week work schedule in a restaurant left me exhausted all of the time like never before. Everyday from before sunrise to the time long after sunset, I washed dishes in this filthy kitchen under a bare dim light bulb, dangling right above my head. All around me, people spoke not English but Cantonese which was almost harder for me to understand. I lived like a dog, only I was also trying to save for my college, which a dog would never do.Many lonely nights I would just lay in the dark, without blinking, or I was staring at my 6-feet low ceiling, pretending it was a sky full of stars.
It was then that I received this crumbled and half tore letter one day. When I opened the envelope, the letter fell on the floor with two badly faded pictures of my friend, one with her standing by a stone bridge that was equally faded, with a nicely built pagoda behind her, and the other with her sitting by her then six-year-old son.On both, she smiled. Until this day, I thought about those smiles, they still made me cry. How brave she would have to be to put up those smiles while dying? In the letter she told me it wasn"t going to be long now. She was in a constant pain that distracted her from focusing, all the time, including the moment she wrote this letter, she said.She wasn"t sure if by the time the letter reached me across the Pacific, she would still be alive.
I rushed to a subway nearby and purchased a code to dial her in the hospital she stayed. That was the practice for someone who needed to call home in a rush before the internet existed, that one would purchase a code from some stranger on the subway for a few dollars and used it as soon as you were able to until the time for a valid code expired.If you were lucky, the code was good and you could connect to someone far away for a few minutes. If not, you would start over. The one who sold you the code would never stand still to see you through connecting the phone.
On this night, I dialed and the phone rang.There was someone on the other end answered it, with a halfway asleep voice. She asked me to hold on. After a long pause, my friend"s hushed voice came to line but she said little. She was too weak to speak now but she smiled, I could see that clearly in my head. In between there were a few labored coughing sounds. We didn"t exchange much before the phone was disconnected. Before that, I rushed to tell her I would call again, soon, very soon. The next night I got off my shift and went back to the same subway to call, she was gone.They told me it happened after my phone call last night, or even before it all ended. I don"t remember the details they told me now.
Her smile was the only thing that was left.
For many years, I tried to write about this, and each time, I failed.I simply could not describe, even to my own satisfaction, what we had gone through and how I felt under that fainting light in the subway, deep below the surface of a monsterous city. I do vaguely remember the many trains flew by and crowds of people got on and took off. And then the platform was empty again, with seemingly the only ghosts left in the air, either comforting me or distracting me.For some odd reason, I remember a few faces I saw in that short duration, even so many years later today. Some are so vivid they still stare right at me, like a nightmare I would never be able to wake up from. Obviously, these strangers don"t mean a thing to me for I never knew who they were and what they did at that hour on that particular station. They represented a total randomness of a city I didn"t know a single person I could call and talk to.
And so, for those who were able to record what they had experienced, I call them lucky ones, or conversely, deeply unlucky ones, for they suffered the suffering and lived to tell us how it supposed to feel, and to remember. They must have themselves lived with the memories as a curse. For me, I"d rather forget. Or better still, they were just some bad dreams that never happened in life. I don"t have the courage to carry on or to stomach those occurrences, nor would I claim they should become the material I would one day use to tell about my life. What I knowis so profound for me to forever suffer, and yet, it is so personal to never carry to tell others the full extent of what it is to me. After all, what do I know about what she knew? Hardly any.
As I went on for all these years to finally have my own five-year-old son, I realized what must be a terrible burden for her at that time to consider a strategy not only to prepare herself at her young age to die but also to plan for her even younger son to survive. I know now it"s never possible, I don"t think.
While I am reading many great books, I am reminded how incredible and brave it must be for the writers to hold inside their sorrow and suffering for that long period of time to tell us the things they had witnessed and lived through. I am grateful for that. One can say maybe that was the only way they themselves would have to do in order to possibly continue to survive, by writing, by telling us a world they had cried for. That may all be true but we still owe them a great debt for sharing with us. In the end, no one is able to cry in the darkest night all by themselves to be saved. In doing what the writers did, they had invited us, the readers, to be part of their journey to suffer the suffering, and to hope at the end of the journey, we join in and be finally okay.
作家的人生旅程
当我们阅读书籍时，无论是小说，诗歌，还是关于不同主题的散文，我们往往不能意识到作者实际上经历了什么，他们的生活阅历有多深刻，他们遇到过什么样的困境，他们如何挣扎和解脱。我们只是品尝了他们生活中的一小丁点，对他们来说，更糟糕的不仅只是品尝，而是对整个悲痛的被迫吞咽。我甚至可以说，无论读者如何宣称了解了什么，我们其实对作者所经历的懂得很少。
这让我想到了我想谈的话题，最重要的是，提醒我自己。因为我曾不只一次地经历过这种痛楚，并尝试过作为写作者的滋味。
我们读罗伯特·弗罗斯特和保罗·策兰。我们读约瑟夫·布罗茨基，玛丽·奥列弗，安·塞克斯顿，和西尔维亚·普拉斯。我们读威廉姆·福克纳，欧内斯特·海明威和其他所有人。我们阅读了我们熟悉的那些，也读了我们用自身最深刻的想象力才能理解的故事。他们都告诉我们某种经验，要么是我们经历过的，或是我们读过并明白的，但最难的是，那些我们从未听过也无法想象的。阅读之后我们赋予了一些选择。正如他们常说的那样，我们可以努力让自己“穿上别人的鞋子走一程(作者为我们提供的)路"。我们也可以放弃，假设书里写的从未发生过，也无须感性地理解。如果幸运的话，我们或多或少地通过阅读感觉“活过了”，并幸存下来。通过看书，我们明白了一些关于登山的事，关于出海捕鱼，或幸存于一场风雪，等等。我们也因此可以声称明白了一两件关于痛苦的事，但我们是否真的有那种直接和无可避免的感触呢？
明显的答案是，我们很难做到。我们闻到了战火的气味，但我们从来没有进入战区。
这让我想到，对于一个在故事中挣扎的作家，我们作为读者的最大责任该是什么呢？
许多年前，我离开了我祖先的国度，它是我在当时唯一感觉似曾熟悉并可以理解的地方。之前我从未想过有一天我会收拾行装，包括语言，然后离开。我在春天来到千英里之外的纽约，一个无人相识也无人可以交谈的陌生城市。早春的纽约一片泥泞，肮脏，到处堆满黑色的雪。 就在那时，我中国的一位最亲密的朋友在医院里正因胃癌而死去。当我离开时，她健康而且满面笑容。我记得离开家乡的清晨，她从我坐的长途车的窗口，递给我一袋熟透的橘子，她说：“早点回来。别装着你已经忘记了这个给了你水果和海鲜的城市。”她脸上带着她那一如既往的可爱的笑容。我到达纽约后两个月才知道发生了什么事，当时我住在一个没有暖气的小地下室的公寓里。每周在餐馆工作6天，从未有过的疲劳。日出之前上班，天黑很久以后才回来。一种狗一样的生活, 除了我仍需要尽量攒钱上学。那些寂寞的夜晚，我不睁眼地躺在暗中，忘了天空的存在，哪怕在我六尺高的天花板上给个星空，我也不屑一顾。
就在这样的日子里，我收到一封破旧半开的信件，当我打开它时，我朋友的两张褪色照片落到了地上，一张是她站在一座同样褪色的石桥前，还有一座漂亮的宝塔在她身后，另一张是她坐着，身边站着她六岁的儿子。两个人都笑了。直到今天，我想到了那些微笑，它们仍让我哭泣。在死亡的日子里她该有多大的勇气才能保持了那个微笑呢？在信中，她告诉我时间不多了，她一直忍受着痛苦，一阵阵疼痛让她无法专心，包括她写这封信的那一刻。她不确定当这封信到达太平洋彼岸时，她是否仍还活着。
我匆忙地进入附近的地铁，买了一个号码，在她住的医院给她打电话。在互联网之前，想打电话回家便只能如此，你在地铁上向陌生人用几美元买个号码，并尽快在号码被查封之前对话完毕。如果你幸运的话，号码有效，你可以与对方连接上几分钟。但如果不幸运，号码已被查封，你便重头开始。卖给你代码的人更是不会停滞不前，等你打通电话才走。
在那一夜，我拨通电话，铃声响着。对方有个半醒的女人回答了我，并让我等着。我只有耐心，别无选择。过了一会儿，我的朋友终于拿起话筒，她因为虚弱说得很少，但她笑了，在脑海里我看到了她的笑容，还有从她一两声惨淡的咳嗽之间。我们没有交换太多的语言，在电话断掉之前，我告诉她我很快就会再打电话。第二天晚上，当从饭店回来并挤进同一个地铁站台，但她已离开了，医院的护士告诉我那是昨晚的事了，甚至是在我放下话筒之前。我不记得具体她是如何告诉我的了。
她的笑容成了唯一幸存的所有。
多年来，我试着写下这个记忆，但每次都归终失败。哪怕只是为了满足我自己，我也无法描述那场经历，以及我当时在那个深藏于怪物城市的地表之下的昏暗灯光中的感觉。我依旧记得站台上列车来回飞过，人群上上下下。然后平台又空无一人，空气中似乎只有鬼怪的遗存，似乎安慰我，又似乎分散着我的注意力。奇怪的是，在这么多年之后的今天，我仍然记得在那一小段时间里看到过的某些面孔。它们栩栩如生，盯视着我，就像一场永久无法醒来的噩梦。显然，这些陌生人的面孔对我来说并不意味着什么，我从来不认识他们，以及为何他们在那个时间存在于那个特定的站台。他们只代表了任意的一个城市而已，在那里我不识一人，更无人可以打个电话，谈论话题。
因此，对于那些能够记录他们经历过的人，我一把他们称为幸运者，或者相反，非常不幸的人，因为他们遭受了痛苦，并告诉我们应该如何感受，应该如何保留记忆。那些记忆该是他们永恒的诅咒吧。对我来说，我宁愿忘却。或者更好地，它们只是从未真实发生过的噩梦而已。我没有勇气携带它们，也没有消化这些记忆的肠胃，我不在乎这些将成为我有朝一日用来讲述我们生活的材料。我所经历的将永恒地折磨我，同时，它们只属于我。毕竟，我对她所感受的一切真有多少的理解呢？也许很少。
只有当我过了这么多年并最终有了自己刚满5岁的儿子后，我才开始意识到当时她该是承受了怎样的重担，不仅只是接受自己年纪轻轻而面临死亡的挑战，而且要为她更加幼小的儿子的生活做好安排。我现在明白了，那是不可能的。我敢肯定。
当我读着众多好书的时候，我便会想起作家们的美妙和勇气，他们长时间地忍受悲伤和痛苦，直到可以用语言告诉我们他们目睹过的经历和感受。我为此万分感激。有人说，写作也许是作家们为了自身的继续生存而必具的唯一手段，他们用写作，告知我们他们为之哭泣的那个世界。当然这是可能的，但我们仍然欠一个他们与我们分享的巨额债务。到头来，没有人能够在黑暗的夜晚独自哭泣而得到拯救。作者们用他们拥有的智慧和手段，邀请我们，做为读者，与他们共同遭受一次苦难的旅程，并希望在旅程结束的终点，我们可以加入行列，并肩同熬。
-05-01
作者简介:黑子，原籍福州，现定居美国，兴趣诗歌和诗歌翻译。作品散见于《诗刊》，《北京诗刊》，《中外诗人》，《WePoetry》，《昆仑文学》，《华人头条》等刊物。“黑子的世界”感激你的关注和停留。
** 此平台属黑子个人创作平台。如无备注，所有的文字及摄影均黑子本人原作。**
