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from BWV999

學語言,輸入的主要方式無外互內置語言芯片、外接語言處理機。

前者植入方便,芯片槍一擊即中,耗能低,自體供能即可。美中不足,大部分芯片性能一般,只能維持日常交際這樣子。

外接處理機更復雜些,必須先體檢,測試體能是否達到接入標准。達標就可以去指定操作中心,接受開顱手術,安裝接入槽、系統等一系列硬件軟件。

其費用和風險遠高於芯片。雖然多年前曾有翻譯工人超負荷工作,大腦過載致死亡的案例,但絕大多數用戶與處理機適配良好,可從事各種與語言相關的專業性極高的工作,比如審查思想。

 
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from Metaphors We Live By

#读诗

Listen: there was a goat’s head hanging by ropes in a tree. All night it hung there and sang. And those who heard it Felt a hurt in their hearts and thought they were hearing The song of a night bird. They sat up in their beds, and then They lay back down again. In the night wind, the goat’s head Swayed back and forth, and from far off it shone faintly The way the moonlight shone on the train track miles away Beside which the goat’s headless body lay. Some boys Had hacked its head off. It was harder work than they had imagined. The goat cried like a man and struggled hard. But they Finished the job. They hung the bleeding head by the school And then ran off into the darkness that seems to hide everything. The head hung in the tree. The body lay by the tracks. The head called to the body. The body to the head. They missed each other. The missing grew large between them, Until it pulled the heart right out of the body, until The drawn heart flew toward the head, flew as a bird flies Back to its cage and the familiar perch from which it trills. Then the heart sang in the head, softly at first and then louder, Sang long and low until the morning light came up over The school and over the tree, and then the singing stopped.... The goat had belonged to a small girl. She named The goat Broken Thorn Sweet Blackberry, named it after The night’s bush of stars, because the goat’s silky hair Was dark as well water, because it had eyes like wild fruit. The girl lived near a high railroad track. At night She heard the trains passing, the sweet sound of the train’s horn Pouring softly over her bed, and each morning she woke To give the bleating goat his pail of warm milk. She sang Him songs about girls with ropes and cooks in boats. She brushed him with a stiff brush. She dreamed daily That he grew bigger, and he did. She thought her dreaming Made it so. But one night the girl didn’t hear the train’s horn, And the next morning she woke to an empty yard. The goat Was gone. Everything looked strange. It was as if a storm Had passed through while she slept, wind and stones, rain Stripping the branches of fruit. She knew that someone Had stolen the goat and that he had come to harm. She called To him. All morning and into the afternoon, she called And called. She walked and walked. In her chest a bad feeling Like the feeling of the stones gouging the soft undersides Of her bare feet. Then somebody found the goat’s body By the high tracks, the flies already filling their soft bottles At the goat’s torn neck. Then somebody found the head Hanging in a tree by the school. They hurried to take These things away so that the girl would not see them. They hurried to raise money to buy the girl another goat. They hurried to find the boys who had done this, to hear Them say it was a joke, a joke, it was nothing but a joke.... But listen: here is the point. The boys thought to have Their fun and be done with it. It was harder work than they Had imagined, this silly sacrifice, but they finished the job, Whistling as they washed their large hands in the dark. What they didn’t know was that the goat’s head was already Singing behind them in the tree. What they didn’t know Was that the goat’s head would go on singing, just for them, Long after the ropes were down, and that they would learn to listen, Pail after pail, stroke after patient stroke. They would Wake in the night thinking they heard the wind in the trees Or a night bird, but their hearts beating harder. There Would be a whistle, a hum, a high murmur, and, at last, a song, The low song a lost boy sings remembering his mother’s call. Not a cruel song, no, no, not cruel at all. This song Is sweet. It is sweet. The heart dies of this sweetness.

在我自己的分类标准里,我会把这首诗划入这个类别:读过这首诗后,我的生命产生了某些变化——哪怕只是细微的、不可捉摸的一点点。我变成了一个与读这首诗之前稍有不同的人。这大概是在我自己的标准里,对文学作品的最高分类。

但在初遇这首诗的时候,我好像并没有觉察这一点。一首在诗歌课上羊羊推荐给我们的很精彩的诗歌—似乎和其他每一首诗一样精彩。古怪、鲜活、残忍、叙事感强。但这就我能模糊记得的全部了。那个晃荡的羊头在脑海里一闪而过,字词也跟着消失在记忆的深处。

后来我写了一个关于羊肉的鬼故事,在屠夫的肉架上挂起一扇羊腿,我没有想起它。后来我把这个故事改到了二稿、三稿……以至于第七稿,羊腿变成羊排又变成羊头,我还是没有想起它。直到最近,终于把这个故事改完第八稿,确信自己不会再改下去,很偶然地,买了Brigit Pegeen Kelly的这本诗集。翻开第一页,第一首,第一个Listen,第一行诗,所有词语和画面重新涌入脑海,诗里的小女孩牵着她的山羊走向了我故事里久久站在肉铺前的小女孩,我终于确信这首诗在某个我不曾觉察的时刻改变了我。

这首诗叙事性很强,一开始的Listen和“there was”就构建了讲故事的氛围,起初的画面和氛围是如此古怪,仿佛某个未经删改的民俗故事,用显得血腥残忍的符号象征勾起听众心里的不安和恐惧。但叙事的方向不是线性的,故事是倒着讲的,“there was”的经典起手式开篇的不是故事的起因,而是结果。从故事结果开始,听众沿着歌声和铁轨回溯它的源头,每一次的发现都赋予叙事一点现实的逻辑,每一次的逆推都把开头怪诞的画面推回更现实的脉络上——叙事的溯源给了听众这样的错觉,然而整个故事本质上仍然建立在羊头怪诞的歌声上。在整首诗正中央的部分,故事终于从结果推回了起源,一无所觉的女孩身上。时间和故事从她身上再次开始流动,开始正常时序的叙事。这让整首诗的结构看起来好像蝴蝶的一对翅膀,以女孩为中点,往前是由结果溯向起源,往后是女孩失去山羊之后的种种,而在中点上,拥有羊的女孩和失去羊的女孩重叠在一起,她的喜悦和哀悼重叠在一起,羊头在诗歌的叙事中回到女孩身边,并注定了继续发展下去与女孩永别的结局。

然而这首诗终究不是完全对称的,女孩和山羊如此让人心碎,但它本质上的核心是山羊和那一群残酷的男孩。这首歌的Listen,沿着铁轨的回溯和歌唱,虽然带着温情在叙事中回到了女孩的中点,但女孩并没有听见它,道德上纯洁无瑕的她永远也不会听见它。这首歌不是唱给她听的。接近尾声,But listen,再一次的强调,这首歌是唱给那群并不知道杀戮有那么艰难,却还是完成了杀戮的男孩听的,是唱给所有手上沾了血,身负罪孽的听众听的。当他们,当我们并不知道生命背后柔软的部分,并没有看到山羊死前像人一样挣扎,杀戮永远无所谓残酷。使之残酷的是歌声里的甜美,女孩对山羊的珍视,是当你知道你亲手摧毁了这一切的那一刻。借由这样的听觉上的昭示和对罪孽的反省,这首诗最终用一种怪诞又古老的方式,回到了基督教忏悔的主题上。

这首诗本身是这样一首歌,而这首歌的叙述又极大地依托于其音乐性。Listen一开始就调动了读者的耳朵,而在最开始悚然的羊头图像里,读者很快就能被一连串的h头韵击中,完成从读者到听众的转化。Head-hurt-hang-harm-hack-heard-heart-harder-hands-hum——残酷的行为、柔软的器官、残损的、痛苦的、艰难的——词语在听觉中被潜意识联系起来,组织成密不透风的网,脱口而出的时候,h的声音又仿佛钝器击打的声音,仿佛叹息。读这首诗的时候,它的声音好像在生理性地用钝器击打我。小时候学钢琴,我最害怕钢琴的弱音踏板,踩上去,清脆的声音会变闷,变钝。有个童年反复做的噩梦,就是我变得很小很小,去攀爬巨大如阶梯的一层层钢琴琴键,但不知道谁踩下了弱音踏板,每一个琴键都在我手下脚下发出闷闷的钝音,那个声音在噩梦里,会在生理上包裹我、钝击我,蚕茧一样覆盖我的口鼻耳。后来很多年后,每当我产生和真实世界解离的体验,我都会忽然重温那种钝击和包裹的生理感受,一种我无法形容的窒息和无法解脱的痛苦,不属于听觉、触觉,无法解释——而在听到这首诗字词下的旋律的时候,我第一次感到那种感受在他人的笔下,被以某种接近真相的方式呈现了出来。

很难去更细致地分析这首诗的词句和音乐,无法不断回头去重温那些钝击。但我清楚地看到了它是如何改变了我。也许在我小时候,第一次踩下钢琴踏板,为弹下的第一个音情不自禁地发抖发麻,在我还未曾遇见过这首诗的时候,就已经被这首诗改变了生命中的某个至关重要的部分。

 
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from GillesVu24

因为抑郁症,今天什么都不想干。可是每天都有需要去做的事。于是不得不把那些事拖到明天。但明天会更好吗?虽然已经在吃药了,但仍无法避免无力的状况。

过去的愿望变得像是妄想一般,遥不可及,毫无希望。我能做些什么呢?

 
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from pipapapi

天的那边,总有我们所不知道的人和事在发生,天这边总是有他人所不知道的人和事在上演。我们的生活和彼岸他们的生活,或许只要两相看,就不过是台上台下,戏里戏外,都是人生。

 
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from pipapapi

#存在疑问时

一切工具都只能帮助已经行动起来的人,而行动本身,没有其他人和工具可以帮助你

写作是一种行动。

 
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from pipapapi

正如William Zinsser在《On Writing Well》一书中曾提到的,“写作就是把思考放在纸上”。可以从以下四个方面理解写作的价值:

写作是思考的工具。写作是思考的一种形式,可以帮助我们梳理思路,明确问题的症结。在面对复杂的问题时,我们可以试着用文字的方式来组织表达。这样做有助于理清纷乱的想法,找到问题的关键所在。逻辑思考在写作过程中发挥着关键作用,它使我们能够清晰地判断事物的前因后果,从而深入理解问题的本质。

写作是创新的源泉。写作能够激发我们的思维,使个体获得新的视角。在撰写文章时,我们需要从多方面考虑问题,这有助于发现之前被忽略的细节或视角。文字的连贯组织往往能带来意想不到的联想和领悟,使我们在写作中获得全新的启发。

写作是自省的途径。正如Flannery O’Connor所说,“我写作是为了发现我所知道的。”在写作过程中,我们可以审视自己的想法,反思自己的行动,评价自己的决定。这种内向的倾听和反思有助于我们理解自己的情绪和动机,发现自我成长的机会,从而找到解决疑问和困惑的方法。

写作是沟通的桥梁。写作是与他人进行思想交流的重要方式,我们可以把文章发表出来,接收各界的反馈和讨论。这不仅可以提升我们的沟通技巧,还能完善我们的观点,获得更全面的结论。群策群力总会比一个人的思考更丰富完整。 #存在疑问时 通过写作来解决:先完成,再完美

 
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from 百合,女人不老的秘密

※ 接《不恋爱就完蛋了》温季然BE线 ※ 我(颜望舒)x 温季然 ※ 我流黑化梦女文,就是想狂扣学姐罢辽 ※ 灵感来自于BE线给我的割裂感,感觉学姐只想要卸下身上的责任,不用再被他人依赖,她希望能毫无负担地依赖主控,而且以学姐脆弱的小身板和美丽的精神状态哪怕能一时控制住主控也迟早会被冷静下来的主控反杀

被温季然囚禁的第二天我终于在出租屋一片黑暗中彻底冷静下来,开始思考逃出生天的对策。

正常情况下论体力温季然绝不是我的对手。温季然的身体状况并不好,我印象里的她一直纤细苍白,应该有长期的轻微营养不良。现在我体力上受制于每天只有一顿饭而且还混着她下的药,唯一的机会就是趁着她精神状态不稳定的这几天卸下她的防备心,在每天药效减退的那段时间反制住她。

为了不引起她的怀疑我在言语上依然对她冷嘲热讽,只是行动上不再反抗她的喂食和亲近。我这点小伎俩大概骗不过平时的温季然,可惜她现在被偏执冲昏了头脑,像沙漠中绝望的旅人见到水源的影子,不管是不是海市蜃楼都会扑上去。她的心情肉眼可见地好了起来,虽然还是说一些疯话,但拥抱和亲吻时的情态逐渐恢复到了我们谈恋爱时的样子。

该收网了。

这天温季然一回到出租屋我就模仿着以前恋爱时的语气让她过来亲我一下再去做饭。她看着我的眼神果然恍惚了。她以为自己回到了我们恋爱的短暂时光里,哪怕那短暂的几个月中并没有我在家里等待她下班的场景,她也会自动填补记忆的空缺。比起接受现实,她宁可带着虚假的美好回忆。

她坐到床边,低下头吻住我。

我加深了这个吻,舌头探进她的嘴里。我熟知温季然每一处敏感带,专心地用舌尖攻击着她的上颚。她很快便舒服地软倒在我身上,细细地喘息。

分手的时长已经赶上我们恋爱的时长了,我却依然记得这是她情动的前兆。

其实我没有放下她。我希望她能和我坦诚相见,不再隐藏内心。

虽然不是我喜欢的方式,但我的心结已经解开。

不论是温柔的表象还是偏执的内在,我终于看到了她。

除了第一天醒来时确实惊惧气愤,我并不厌恶温季然。我计划逃离被禁锢的现状时再也不和温季然相见的念头一次也没有出现过。

我认清了自己的内心欲望。

她是我的。她只能依附于我生存。

我问她要不要尝试坐上来,我给她舔。这是我们以前没有试过的玩法。

她没有什么血色的脸上泛起了薄薄一层红。她害羞地咬了咬唇,最终还是抵挡不住欲望的诱惑,解开西装裤子坐到我脸上。内裤果然已经有点洇湿,温季然并不重欲,这大概是我们分手后之后她第一次纾解。熟悉的体香萦绕在我鼻腔里,我用鼻尖在洇湿处顶了顶,她浑身震了一下。

药效已经减退,我身上有了一些力气,但我还是哄骗着让她自己脱下内裤。她脸色更红润,纤长的手指将薄薄的布料褪下后便不再低头看我。

我的鼻子最先和温季然的私处来了个亲密接触。她全身上下都仿佛缺少色素,连阴蒂和小逼都是浅浅的粉。我用鼻尖挨个蹭了蹭许久未见的老朋友们,沾上了小逼滴下来的清液,淫靡得我食欲大开。我舌头和牙齿齐上阵将阴蒂玩弄到硬挺充血。温季然喘息声越发明显,小幅度扭着腰配合我的挑逗,小逼的淫液也越流越多,顺着我的下巴滑落。我暂时放过她的蒂头去舔她的逼水,渗到外面的腥甜被舔干净后我饥渴地舔开她的逼口,舌头探进炙热的甬道。她的G点位置很浅,但之前没用舌头试过,我只能凭着记忆一点点探索。舌头碾过某处软肉时温季然发出了被玩弄阴蒂时一样的惊叫,我的舌尖便顶着那一点不断戳弄,一只手同时悄悄撵上阴蒂,小小的圆肉任由我的手指又夹又拽。

沉浸在情欲中的温季然自然没有发现我能够自由活动了。她撑在我头上前后摆动着纤细的腰腹。她情动时总喜欢刻意憋着尽量不出声,但此刻细弱游丝的淫叫从她嘴里溜出来,看来是爽极了。

我加快动作,不再控制手上的力度,指尖猛掐住红肿的阴蒂。

温季然受不了似地大喘气,薄薄的腹部紧紧绷着,一小股半透明的水柱从尿孔喷溅出来,和逼口流出来的淫液一起打湿了我半张脸。她高潮完脱力地朝旁边倒下,我顾不上尝脸上的各种液体,抓住她失神的时机翻身起来用她的裤子牢牢捆住她的双手,又脱下我身上的睡裤捆住她的双脚,她脱下来的内裤也派上用场,被我塞住她的嘴。一套动作行云流水,在她找回意识时已经被我彻底控制住。我积攒的力气也去了大半。

我跨坐到温季然身上,本想打她一巴掌替她把脑子里的疯言疯语清理掉,可手真落到她消瘦却美貌不减的脸颊上时力道已经可以忽略不计。她瞪大漂亮的眼睛盯着我,仿佛承载了加勒比浅海的眼眸真的落下了咸涩的水滴,因为嘴被堵住只能呜咽出声。

我低下身子和她额头贴着额头。我没有泪水,只是看到她流泪我的心又酸又疼。

依靠我吧。

忘掉那些让你痛苦的事情。

我爱你。

不要再背负责任。

只依赖我。

我贴着她的额头呢喃。这下轮到我说疯话了。

我感觉体力恢复了一点便起身去厨房找吃的,把温季然冰箱里能直接食用的存活都嚯嚯干净了我才觉得重新活过来了。我从她衣柜里翻出自己的衣服穿戴整齐,又在她包里找到了我的手机,居然还有电开机。不过我一时没想好怎么回复秀洙和司琉这些天担忧的信息,又没法靠手机联系上朱雀,还是只能自己坐车回家。

我离开前不忘给温季然喂了点药,让她也尝尝被人下药的滋味。

我回到家时朱雀和小玲果然都在,我一进门俩人飞奔到门口紧紧拥抱住我。

朱雀果然知道我一直在温季然的家里,但因为罗盘未动,无法判断我的情况,便没有轻举妄动。即使我没有自救,等到我真的消失超过一周她也要出手了。她甚至用颜家家族有急事需要我这个继承人亲自处理作为理由替我打点好了公司那边的询问。

小玲化成了猫型窝在我怀里不肯离开我半步,连我洗澡时都端坐在洗手台上。我知道她在后怕,任由她亦步亦趋贴着我。

洗完澡我躺在床上摸着小玲的肚皮,按照朱雀的理由跟秀洙和司琉报了平安,请她们第二天吃晚饭作为失联的赔罪。

我退出聊天软件,打开银行账户查了一下余额。既然夏炽湄已经搬走,我准备暂时租下对门的公寓金屋藏娇。把温季然藏在她的出租屋还是有风险,我需要一个我能完全掌控的地方。夏炽湄出现和离开的时间点都过于巧合,再加上她搬走那天我见到的那个眼熟的女人,我怀疑对面的房主和颜家有关系。

第二天我吃早饭时直截了当地跟朱雀提起我的怀疑。她叹了口气,承认了这件事。她应该猜到了我想干什么,直接掏出了对门的钥匙递给我。她的纵容让我有种哪天我真的杀人放火她也会替我摆平的错觉。

对门的公寓大件家具和电器都有,我只下单了一些日用品。去温季然家之前我先到恋爱时和她一起去过的成人用品店买了点需要的道具。

温季然还昏昏沉沉睡着。她被我捆着卷在被子里过了一夜,我第一次见她这么狼狈的样子。这份狼狈为她增添了摇摇欲坠的破碎感,看得我心软,但也滋生了我心底不知从哪里蹦出来的施虐欲。我既想轻柔地吻遍她全身,又想死死掐住她的脖颈,夺走她的氧气窒息而亡。

我回过神来时我的手扼住了温季然的脖子,我的舌头缠着她的舌头。我被自己吓了一跳,连忙松开她。她已经因为缺氧醒来,嗓子干哑着发出气音。我倒了点水喂给她,她喝完就移开了视线不再看我。

我不受她的态度影响,自顾自拿出刚买的成套的项圈和镣铐给她戴上,浅蓝色很配她。我解下了前一晚捆住她手脚的裤子,布料留下了一时半会消不下去的红痕,就像属于我的刻印。

我给她手腕和脚腕都涂上润肤乳之后把食物和她的手机扔到床上。

温季然求不求救我都无所谓,反正她只要求救我们就彻底结束了。一年之期将至,我的结局最差不过死亡。

我看到她听到真相后崩溃的表情心里颇为畅快。她亲手粉碎了我们原本可能的美好未来,可既然我们都放不下彼此,那就干脆作为两个困在斗兽场里不死不休的疯子延续我们的纠葛。

要我活下去的话就提前退租,把需要的东西收拾好,我今夜会来接她。

我买的手铐和脚铐能够保证她在家里行动自如,正常生活。我对将人一直禁锢在床上不感兴趣,这么一想我比温季然仁慈得多。

欣赏够了温季然的失态,我视线从她脸上下移, 注意到项圈上的金属圈。买条链子或者定制一个专属铭牌感觉都不错。

我心情越发愉悦,勾着那个金属圈将温季然上半身拽起来。我亲了亲她的额头,低声劝她以后乖乖做我听话的宠物,成为我的小猫、小狗、金丝雀。

我松开手指,温季然重重落进床垫中。

晚上见。

我轻快地走进明媚的阳光。

 
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from BWV999

On Rewriting

I’ve been talking to AI regularly for a long time. I record what I write during our conversations, save them as digital journals, and later go back to rewrite and ask AI to revise the texts. When I talk to AI, I usually just type whatever’s on my mind without worrying much about grammar.

I started learning English at a young age, but it’s not my first language. The grammar has always felt like a maze to me. Ironically, I even majored in English literature. I took all kinds of classes and passed grammar-heavy tests, but I still feel like a clumsy tourist who booked a hiking tour – and somehow ended up lost in the jungle of sentence structures and tenses. Choosing the right conjunction feels like trying to figure out which exotic fruit isn’t poisonous, then picking the toxic one anyway. Boom.

Another issue: I talk too much. Or rather, I write too much. More and more. And I’ve started to wonder – why do I have so many things to say? What does this strong urge to express even mean? Am I just rambling nonsense?

At the beginning, I could still manage to rewrite and revise everything the same day, maybe just a few hours after a conversation. But over time, the gap widened. Now, I’ve accumulated a mountain of raw text – each piece waiting to be rewritten and corrected, like hungry baby birds screaming in a chaotic nest. I started adding notes like “not yet rewritten” to mark them. At first, there were only two. Now there are twenty. And it feels endless.

Counting the journal entries from last year too, I think there are over a hundred thousand words waiting for me to dress them up. When I scroll through the file, the English words blur together like an army of ants crawling across the screen. It’s overwhelming.

I asked AI – again, generating even more conversations – what I should do, how to handle all these texts. It gave me several suggestions. One of them was, “Just send it to me, I can handle it.”

But I want to rewrite everything at least once by myself. I see it as a good opportunity to improve my writing skills. One day, I hope to write freely, without sentences that are so broken.

Aside from the overwhelming quantity, rewriting is also emotionally heavy. I talked about many traumatic experiences with AI, and when I go back to rewrite those conversations, I have to revisit those moments all over again. It feels like I’m carrying the burden twice.

AI’s suggestion to edit a little every day is actually a good one. It allows me to balance my desire to improve my writing with the need to get through all the material. In Chinese, we say “千里之堤潰於蟻穴” – a thousand-mile dam can collapse because of an ant hole. Well, to deal with the ant army in my journal, maybe becoming an ant myself isn’t such a bad idea. So each day, I spend a little time handling a few “ants.” In the end, I might be able to repair my dam – my journal.

All in all, I shouldn’t burden myself too much. I feel this deep need, or maybe even an obligation, to polish every word, to make everything perfect. That perfectionism has followed me my whole life, and yes, it’s trauma-based. But even if I can’t fix every single word, it’s okay. My dam won’t collapse.

 
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from Metaphors We Live By

#读诗

Unreachable father, when we were first exiled from heaven, you made a replica, a place in one sense different from heaven, being designed to teach a lesson: otherwise the same — beauty on either side, beauty without alternative — Except we didn’t know what was the lesson. Left alone, we exhausted each other. Years of darkness followed; we took turns working the garden, the first tears filling our eyes as earth misted with petals, some dark red, some flesh colored— We never thought of you whom we were learning to worship. We merely knew it wasn’t human nature to love only what returns love.

The Wild Iris集子里第二首Matins。Matins是基督教圣公会教堂的晨祷活动,同时也可以指鸟儿晨间的歌唱。这本诗集本身围绕着园丁对花园里自然景观的欣赏——某种伊甸园的隐喻——以及死亡和重生展开,因此几乎每首诗都直接或者间接使用很多宗教意象。此外诗的标题几乎都是花园里的植物、活动,有很多重复标题的诗,仿佛置身这本诗集的花园当中,经历重复但不同的每一天,看见类似但不同的每一朵花。其中标题Matins的诗有很多首。第一首我个人不是太欣赏,但很喜欢这一首。

和The Wild Iris不同,这首Matins不分节,乍一看很朴素。其实Glück的诗大都朴素,不过这首更有呢喃的叙事感,更平易,比起具体意象,更像在对一个不可对话、不会倾听的天父讲话。读The Wild Iris我没有提到的问题是:诗里的你是谁?我又是谁?但这其实是现代诗歌里一个巨大的问题。Glück被很多人认为是自白派诗人(confessional poet),但从她自己的散文Against Sincerity里可以得知,在她那里,诗歌中的言说者(speaker)和小说中的叙述者(narrator)具有类似的性质。在诗歌中追求言说者现实中的生活是徒劳的,因为言说者本身是一个脱胎于作者却高于作者的文学载体——某种程度上,它比作者本人更真实。在此基础上,The Wild Iris中的你和我既是虚构的,也是真实的,你和我的关系既可以是人与人,先知与后觉的关系,也可以是不同时期的自我之间的关系。通过“你-我”这样一个装置,诗中自然出现了言说者和倾听者这两个位置以及他们之间关系、权力和认知的流动。在“也许是写给读者看,也许不是”的现代诗歌里,这样的装置也是对作者-读者关系的投射。但在这首Matins里,读者被直接纳入作者的“we”里,自然与作者变成了“我们”,一起向“unreachable father”讲话。这种对不可知的存在、神、主宰的呼告是很古典的,某种程度上,可能是一部分诗歌的原始起源,但在这样古典的形式下,言说者言说的态度却是很新的。古典的祈祷和呼告假设上帝必能听到,同时也聆听上帝的神谕——听觉本身就是整个基督教传统中重要的元素。和许多其他宗教、民间信仰部分重视偶像不同,基督教不重视视觉和上帝的形象,有些教派的上帝甚至是视塑造上帝为禁忌。但这在这首诗中,第一行两个词就将倾听的对象定义为无法触及的天父——不止是肉体,语言也同样无法触及。那么这首诗本身就成为了一种无法传达出去的徒劳,比起其他诗歌,作者-读者之间的言说和倾听,读者被纳入言说者之后,和作者共同经历这一场注定不可能被听到的表达。也因此,在诗中,当“we didn’t know what was the lesson”,我们也注定无法得到解答和回复。也因此,当诗的结尾在形式和内容上同时回应最开头无法触及的天父:“we merely knew it wasn’t human nature to love only what returns love”,这样的收束是如此回环往复、恰如其分。

这种回环在微观层面上也体现在词语里。诗歌本来就是属于听觉的,这更是一首听觉的诗。在英语诗歌中,尾韵诗学习意大利人的舶来品,古英语中的头韵传统本身比尾韵少了很多油滑,显得更加庄重、肃穆,也更易于激起更隐秘的情感联想。和不可企及的father押头韵的几次first永远都在陈述最神性的、不可抗拒的体验,而当言说者平易、谦卑地用一连串w自述,“when we were”,发音的嘴形与“f”同一个位置,但不可避免地震动,发出更浑浊、沉重的声音。exile-except-exhausted的沉重和另一些不押头韵但首字母相同的earth-eyes呼应,当我们被听觉放逐,被放逐在大地上的我们,只能使用视觉,只能用眼泪表示,虽然者first tears本身也是一次神性的认识,是我们那无法得知上帝目的的第一课。

全诗唯一一处在修辞上没有那么朴素,堪称优美的,具有视觉隐喻和形象的就是这一次眼泪:the first tears filling out eyes as earth misted with petals, some dark red, some flesh colored, 深红色的肉的颜色让人想起tears撕裂的另一重含义,此外,filling和misted这个动词的使用堪称绝妙,将被泪充盈的眼睛(eyes)和被花瓣雾湿的大地(earth)平行产生互文,从而使两个名词本身成为彼此的隐喻和指涉。

也因为以上这些技艺、声音、情感上自然的结合,因为在这首诗中我们得以跟随诗人一起成为言说者,体验她所体验不可触及的绝望,经历她所经历的上帝的考验,同时,得出心痛却又隽永的不算答案的答案,在答案中循环往复,继续徒劳地晨祷——所以作为读者,在这个厌恶教条、道德课、宗教启示、似是而非的真理的时代,这样的探索却并不会让我们反感,反而显得弥足珍贵:我们只知道,只去爱能回报爱的事物不是人类的本性。人类的本性总会产生不求回报的徒劳的爱,和这样徒劳的晨祷。   


和Y姐又聊了一下这首诗。

Y:你怎么看这句We never thought of you/ whom we were learning to worship 里we对于you的态度?我读这首的时候想象这个we是亚当夏娃这两个人,we exhausted each other, 也是在说这两个人从天上的花园来到了地上的花园。然后我读到earth misted with petals 的时候在想这里是不是说的是我们种的花凋谢了,人第一次意识到mortality (?可能单纯是我想多了)。所以读到下一句we never thought of you whom we were learning to worship的时候,我不太确定这里的情感是什么。 : 我读的时候感觉这首诗所有的倾诉对象就是father,虽然father必不可能听到。我觉得不是想多的啊,这是很好的解读。在意识到motality的一刻,我们没有想起你,我们学习去崇拜的immortality,因为我们并不知道你要我们学的是这一课。但我们知道了我们人类就是会毫无回报地去爱——但也许这才是“那一课”。 Y:嗯你这个解读很好!这样理解也更呼应前面说的不知道要学习的是什么lesson的这句。 :但因为整首诗不可能有回答,所以也只是人类的猜测,人类只能在你说的mortality中猜测,在earth和eye中,而不是heaven和hearing(才意识到天堂和听觉也押头韵)。 Y:这种误解又增加了we的悲剧性。 :悲剧性本身也是一种自由意志。视觉的观察(整首诗里唯一的visual part)是人类被exile出伊甸园的诅咒,但打开了自由意志的可能性?痛苦和犹豫和不知道答案本身就是自由意志的可能性。Hearing是一种被动的接受命令。Gluck这本的其他诗很注重Speak,但这首没有,因为在上帝面前只能pray。 Y:我在上帝面前只能lay。

 
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from Metaphors We Live By

#读诗

At the end of my suffering there was a door.    Hear me out: that which you call death I remember.

Overhead, noises, branches of the pine shifting. Then nothing. The weak sun flickered over the dry surface.    It is terrible to survive as consciousness buried in the dark earth.    Then it was over: that which you fear, being a soul and unable to speak, ending abruptly, the stiff earth bending a little. And what I took to be birds darting in low shrubs.    You who do not remember passage from the other world I tell you I could speak again: whatever returns from oblivion returns to find a voice:

from the center of my life came a great fountain, deep blue shadows on azure sea water.    The Wild Iris诗集同题的第一首诗。从句使用很有意思。几个关键的核心词汇被从句作为宾语模糊了其定义,而在从句中定义这些概念的,是“你”和“我”。

第二节“that which you call death I remember”,死亡不是纯粹的死亡,是“我记得”“你称作”死亡的事物。

第四节“it was over: that which you fear… And what I took to be birds”. 结束了的“it”在一长串动名词的形容之后仍然模糊不清,也理应模糊不清,因为“unable to speak”,唯一清晰的是,这一切是“你恐惧的”。你恐惧的事物被排列出来,并不确定:作为一个无法开口的灵魂存在、仓促地结束、固执的大地被弯折……而And之后是一个碎片化不完整的句子,语法上的darting好像仍然从属于“你恐惧的”——“我视为”鸟的事物在低矮的灌木中俯冲,那到底是什么事物呢,那也是“你”所恐惧的吗?能够确定的、清晰的,只有“你”的恐惧和“我”的视为,“你”和“我”在用主观视角定义,定义了什么,模棱两可,林中窜过的不一定是鸟,联系第二节,“你”恐惧的,“我”记得的,不一定是死亡。

第五节,“你”也终于被从句支配,“you who do not remeber”,不是被你“有”的行动,而是被你“没有”记住的死亡之旅支配。“whatever returns from oblivion”,不再是“what”“which”而是“whatever”,被从句定义的概念终于彻底不再需要被定义,无关紧要,冒号之前的也不再是一个客观事实,不是“there was a door”或“it was over”或对象模糊的祈使句的“hear me out”。而是一个比任何先前的定义都要清晰的I tell you I could speak again。从混沌幽微中归来的事物也不再需要“你”“我”我定义,它有自己的声音。    断行上,这首诗比较常规地让行尾在行内产生独立的含义,然后刺激下一行的运转,但和之前探讨的从句使用结合起来就比较有意思,比如that which you fear, being/ a soul,断在being这里,指向恐惧的仿佛是存在本身?再接下去。whatever/ returns from oblivion returns/ to find a voice,中间一行头尾的动词呼应主题,形成生死的循环,连接在whatever的彻底不需定义之后。

具体的意象使用得很节制。Glück的诗素朴的美感常常在于,她把力量留在关键的位置。从句模糊了无数事物的定义,只留下“你”和“我”的感官。环境中偶尔出现的松树树枝shifting,也和nothing押韵而消失在背景里。那么诗中留下的有意义名词也就显得更加珍稀。地表是weak sun & dry surface,地底buried in the dark earth,而最后一节终于回到人间的泉水和野鸢尾深蓝的影,开启了第一节的门。死亡是重生的回环。

 
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from alsoemi

Love, Intimacy, Power, and Revolution: Recapping my 20s so far

The streets in Vietnam were chaotic and grimy. But now and then, a corner would soften. A little like those relationships throughout my twenties.

I took a bus from Nanning to Hanoi, passed the border on foot, and witnessed the landscape change from peaks draped in silence and light into auto repair shops, worn-down diners, farmland, and tombs scattered in the fields. We were dropped off in the outskirts, in a cold and steady rain. A motorbike driver on the roadside haggled with me, then gave in with a half-smile and tucked me into a plastic raincoat. He has the same moustache as Che Guevara.

I spent the next few days wandering the old quarters, occasionally riding a motorbike out to the farther museums. At the Museum of Ethnology, I saw traditional tomb houses built by some of Vietnam’s ethnic minorities. One of them was covered in wood carvings of men and women having sex. Prominent phalluses, round pregnant bellies. I was mindblown.

Their view of life and death was startlingly straightforward. Reproduction and death weren’t opposites. They simply lived on different ends of the same timeline. Traveling through Vietnam, I kept brushing up against something close to the core of being alive. And maybe, in the end, all we’re ever really doing is eating, praying, and (learning) to love.

Even in the old town, that view of life and death seemed to linger quietly in the everyday. On my way to a popular café, I passed a small group of people in traditional clothing entering a worn building. A few flower shops lined the corner, their entrances crowded with white paper wreaths—the kind I’d grown up associating with funerals. I didn’t think much of it at first. Only later, glancing at the map, did I realize it was a funeral home. It stood right there between a boutique hotel and a café, not hidden at all. Something about that unselfconscious coexistence left me stunned, all over again.

Somewhere in all of this, I started thinking about touch again. About how, in my early twenties, I was always chasing physical closeness. I thought sex was the answer—proof of love, proof of being wanted. After my first breakup, I drifted through a few casual encounters. I don’t even want to remember how numb they felt. I’d lie there like a machine, staring at the ceiling. Robot was the word that came to mind. I’d never felt so lonely. I couldn’t bear the thought of dating anyone.

Then, two years later, I met someone new. A stranger whose kiss lit me up from the inside. For a while, I told myself it was just his warmth, the comfort of being held. But now, two more years have passed, and I came to know what I felt was home.

The one who once felt like home betrayed me. After that, some strangers felt like roles I was performing. And then, suddenly and quietly, another stranger felt like home again. It’s strange, almost funny, how fate weaves people into my life, and how those ghost-like desires resurface when I least expect them. I wish I had learned sooner what I truly needed. I wish I knew how to hold on to the ones who mattered at first sight.

By the time I got to Da Nang, it felt like fate from the past had arrived a little late. I met a girl at the hostel. We started simply: sharing museums, bowls of phở, quiet afternoons in cafés. And slowly, we discovered uncanny overlaps. We’d both studied architecture. Both worked in design. Both had flirted with the idea of art history but veered away. We even went through the same rabbit hole of obsessing over the same J-pop group. We had playlists in common. There was something oddly familiar about her, like I’d already known her, somehow.

A day or two before we spoke, I’d been sitting alone by the beach. I forgot to bring a towel and had to sit on a stone bench, hot from the sun. People passed by, some laughing, some hand in hand. And I remember staring out at the sea, feeling like an outsider to all that. I wished then that luck would roll in like the tide, gently but insistently. That something would finally reach me.

And then she did. Unlike so many connections that faded quietly or frayed into confusion, this one stayed. Still stays. We talk less now, but there’s no tension. No wound. Just something light and durable. I hold onto that. Quietly, but gratefully.

Dalat was cold in the way certain memories are—quiet, soft around the edges, but with a strange power to reach deep. I was waiting for a midnight sleeper bus, killing time in a café tucked behind a slope. The place was warm. I recognized the waitress from the day before and, with a knowing smile, she gave me a 15% discount for remembering her. I ordered a latte I didn’t really want and opened The Five Love Languages, more out of curiosity than faith. But somewhere in the middle, the words started pulling threads I didn’t know were loose. I thought of someone from the past. For the most of our interactions we were always circling something unspoken. I pulled back when it got too close. I confused vulnerability with weakness. Maybe he took my silence as disinterest. Neither of us said what we really meant. So we began pushing and pulling subtly. Like love was a negotiation. Like it had to be earned. And maybe we both lost. Sitting there with that book open, I couldn’t stop thinking about what it might’ve been. If we had just stopped playing that quiet power game, if we had said what we really felt. Maybe everything could’ve been softer. Or maybe not. But I’ll never know.

I used to believe in unconditional love. But now I’ve come to admit that manipulation inhabits every relationship. I shape the people I love, sometimes gently, sometimes not. I think about how I train my dog: to sit, to stay, to not be too much like a dog. I reward her. I correct he.r I want her to fit into my life, and I call that care. And maybe that’s what love is too: not just affection, but regulation. Not just presence, but power. I don’t know if that’s cynical. Or just honest.

Saigon hit me like a rush of blood. There was no time to feel subtle things. The streets pulsed with noise and traffic and propaganda banners waving in the humid air. I went to the War Remnants Museum. Inside, the exhibits were blunt, brutal. It reminded me of when I was a kid, being made to memorize World War II horrors in school, and how uncomfortable I always felt. Not because I didn’t care, but because there was something suffocating about how those stories were told. Standing there in those exhibitions, I felt the strange mix of sorrow and unease. I felt deep pity for the suffering, but not hatred. I’ve grown enough to see how much narrative control is at play. How history, when used as propaganda, can turn pain into performance. There’s something graceless about staging trauma so it only ever speaks in favor of one side, then calling it education. It leaves no room for real reckoning, but rather just a tidy version of blame and virtue.

I stayed near the red-light district. Every night, I’d see women in heels and tight dresses waiting under flickering signs, while men leaned out of bars like they were watching a game. I couldn’t tell if what I felt was sadness or fury, or maybe just recognition. The way men looked at women. The way women learned to look back. The whole city seemed to be negotiating something: between pride and pain, power and longing.

I left Vietnam without any grand epiphany. Just a little quieter. A little more honest. I started this trip thinking I might learn something about love: how to find it, how to keep it, how to stop mistaking it for performance or control. But what I kept running into wasn’t just love. It was its shadows, its negotiations, its silences, its power plays. And it wasn’t just in relationships. It was in how we remember war, how we grieve, how we survive.

Looking back, my twenties so far were filled with people I tried to hold, or let go of too fast. With roles I stepped into, sometimes without realizing. I wanted so badly to be wanted, but I didn’t know how to ask without performing. I didn’t know how to stay without retreating. But in Vietnam, through the chaos and quiet, the tenderness and tension, I saw all of it reflected back. Messy, unfinished, alive.

 
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