夏 日 的 谜 思

    在《华尔街日报》周末版上看到 The Myth of Summer 这篇文章时，觉得题目非常浪漫和诗意，就先入为主的认定这一定是一篇记述迷人夏天的优美散文。读过之后才发现，作者笔下的夏天与我预期中的印象是完全不同的。

　

    Richard Ford 虽然在文中花了不少的笔墨描述缅因夏天的美丽和惬意 － 清凉的海风吹过寂静的海湾，小镇上缓慢悠闲的生活节奏，街上陌生人之间轻松温馨的谈话，夏季远道而来海边度假的游客，在夏日的阳光下在海边独自垂钓，蓝天下飞机拖着像云带一样的尾烟悄悄的滑过，海边人家迎接客人时传来的欢声笑语。。。。。但是，在他不疾不徐的笔调背后，Richard Ford 所描述的远远不是一个可以把人“迷死”（myth）的夏天。相反，他眼中的夏天充满了谜思（myth），抑郁和困惑。

　

    对于夏天的期盼，对于夏天到来之后稍纵即逝的忧虑，夏季花开花落带来的伤感，由邻居家里房子扩建引起的一连串欲说还休的烦恼，看到邮局门前向阵亡士兵致意的下半旗联想到令人厌恶的战争，遥遥无期弄得人心绪不宁的总统竞选，以及对童年时代欢乐夏日的怀念。。。。。。等等，所有这些在作者的笔下都显得如此的沉重，郁闷和压抑，成了一个个难以解开的心结。对于 Richard Ford 来说，好像明丽的夏日带来的不是活力，激情和欢欣，不是拥抱夏天的渴望，而更多的是悸动，不安和倦怠，是一种难以言及的情感躁动与心灵挣扎。外界自然季节的交替和景物的变换，在他那里唤起的是一种完全不同的心理感受。这种微妙细腻的感受是极其个体的，鲜活的和独特的，因而是值得读者珍视和玩味的。

　

    境由心生，心随意动。人们对于外界的心理感受从来都不是简单的像照镜子似的直射反映。相反，它是一种通过 intellectual prism 折射的结果，是一种被人们心中已有的认知框架（文化背景，知识结构，政治与道德观念，性格甚至某一特定条件下的心情）“过滤”过的主观反映。无论是自然，社会，人生，概莫能外。正因为如此，在很多情况下，同样的自然景观和外界变化，在不同的人那里所引起的是不同的感受，甚至同一个人面对同一个景观，在不同的心境下也会有迥然不同的感触。

　

    如此，Richard Ford 在这里所描述的是一个在某种程度上被“异化”了的夏天，当然，正像每个人心中都有一个自己的夏天一样，这个被异化了的夏天只是作为一种纯粹自我的东西存在于他个人的心目中，而外界那个自在自为的客观存在的夏天对他来说是不存在的。换句话说，他所看到的，只是那个他作为一个单独的个体才能够感受到的夏天。由此出发，作者眼里的夏天是一个让人难以集中精力的季节，是一个缺乏欢乐的“肤浅季节”，是一个充满了各种压力让人不能够宽容的季节，并且暗示他甚至更喜欢“漫长和具有单调色彩的冬季”，因为冬天不会像夏天一样让他感到自己是一个宿命论者。

　

    与其说作者在这篇文章里所要表达的是对于夏日的厌倦和焦虑，不如说他要表达的是一种挥之不去的怀旧情结和对于孩提时代夏天的深深的眷恋。异化是对正常状态的否定，是对理想目标的偏离。对于作者来说，他之所以不喜欢夏天甚至表达了对夏天某种程度上的厌倦，只是因为他心目中有一个完美理想的夏天：那是一个懒洋洋让人昏昏欲睡可以忘掉一切的夏天，一个自己愿意怎样就怎样充满了欢乐的夏天，一个只有在童年时代才会有的夏天，一个随时间的流逝而消失却永远不会失而复得的夏天。。。。。。。

　

    中国古人有“智者乐山，仁者乐水”的说法，表明了不同的性格和文化背景决定了人们会对大自然的爱好作不同的取舍。除此以外，年龄会不会也是一个因素呢？读完这篇文章后，我第一个莫明其妙的想法是，"How old is he?"

　

　

---

　

The Myth of Summer

June in Maine begins with noble ambitions and the promise of a summer idyll. But this is a shallow season, one that does not live up to its billing.

By RICHARD FORD
June 14, 2008; Page W1
Wall Street Journal

　

My neighbors are enlarging their guest house this summer. It sits quite close to our property line, so that from inside I can regularly hear the sounds of construction -- the whine of saws cutting flagstone, the clatter of lumber being unloaded, the pop of the nail guns, the low comforting music of a radio played softly in a pickup truck. All this is entirely agreeable with me. Here, on the coast of Maine, summer comes late and is quickly gone, and the few warm days and weeks we're allotted are as much the fix-up season as the longed-for time of childhood, the blissful season of indolence. I have my own sparse list of things to do -- storm windows to re-glaze, a porch step to patch, some fresh pea gravel for the drive. Nothing as grand as a new guest house, but I have yet to get much done.

　

Peter Marlow/Magnum Photos

Still, my wife and I have come to feel the need to install some foliage between ourselves and our neighbors. Their new cottage is somewhat larger than the old one. Their kids have kids now; more room's needed. It is not a bone of contention. However, what we can now see of their property presents a somewhat larger and imposing aspect, frames the landscape slightly differently. Some form of "protection planting" has seemed like the best idea -- though we truly need no protection from our neighbors. I suspect we are on different sides politically, but they have been our friends and should still be once the summer's over.

　

So, today, the local landscaping people -- Conley's -- have delivered onto our driveway what we feel will be enough new planting to produce the desired effects. A few shiny rhododendrons, six new hemlocks and a good-sized Norway spruce, all of which we have found strategic places for between our ground and theirs. We are all "on ledge" here, and much of what appears to be diggable soil is really only the soft duff of years' accumulation. Therefore planting something with the expectation that it will "take" and grow is largely a matter of luck, against which planning is not much good.

　

When I walk outside at 10 and into the bright, breezy sunshine (which in Maine always contains a bracing if occasionally ominous seam of chill), I find that the Conley's men -- two large, amiable, untalkative fellows in dirty T-shirts and work gloves -- have delivered the entire load of greenery to the gravel driveway, all the individual trees and bushes lying on their sides, their root balls swaddled in burlap, each item with a red-and-white SOLD tag attached to a limb to show that all here is now ours.

　

Only to my surprise -- dismay being too strong a word -- the big Norway spruce which has arrived is half again the size of the tree we have asked for. When I show it to my wife, who tends to trust that most things will work out well, she agrees with me, and in a jovial way tells the Conley's men who have struggled the tree to its current location a few feet from where we mean to site it, that this is a tree one could easily stand on the White House lawn at Christmas, and should be, she believes, replaced with something smaller.

　

We all four of us stand for a while then and look at the grand and bounteous spruce, resting on its side like a slumberous giant soon to awake and cause trouble. "It's lucky we noticed it now," my wife says, seeing the good side of things. The Conley's men are patient good men. One walks down toward the presumed ground where the tree would grow, on the side of a small woodsy hill sloping to our neighbors. He stands and deliberates a moment, looks back at the tree, then again at the ground. Then he nods. "It's pretty big," he says. "It would take a lot of loam for sure." "I think you're right," my wife says confidently. "Something smaller definitely would be better. I'm just happy we noticed it in time." "Yes," he says. His name, I believe, is Freeman. "Yes, it's lucky we caught it now. We'll just put it on the truck and take it back."

　

From where I stand I can see down through the trees and across the property line to our neighbors' new summer cottage, which is all but finished, with most of the work going on inside. The sounds of hammers and saws scarcely interrupt the quiet that the breeze has brought in from the south and off the bay that provides our house and our neighbors' house their lovely views. One man there, a young carpenter wearing a carpenter's apron and holding a claw hammer, has stopped to watch the goings-on here on our side. He waves his hammer at me in a gesture meant to be genial. I wave back. We all know what we know. I decide I might take a walk now, then later think about lunch.

　

SEASONAL VIEWS

　

The Wall Street Journal asked photographers to submit some of their favorite images of summer, along with a few words about them.

Stephen Shore
Yosemite National Park - 1979

My walk takes me down past the general store and past our local lobster shack to the Post Office. It is a small village we live in. Fewer than 400 most of the year. Though because it is a seaside town, there are more people now that it's summer. Their cars are on the road and in the grocery store lot. Massachusetts and New Jersey and Pennsylvania plates. They are not the best drivers in the world, or always friendly. But I welcome them. They are as much a part of things here as I am, and a democratic side of me thinks they should have their shot at a good life, too. As well, their presence means that our few restaurants -- dark through the snowy months -- are open now, their lights burning merrily into the summer evenings. Even the grocery stocks more fruit and better vegetables when the summer people arrive. Though it is worth noting that to live in a place where other people come just for pleasure has the odd effect of making me feel transient, while the visitors seem more fixed and permanent in their lives, coming as they do from more conventional homes far away. It is as if I am always waiting for them and am here at their discretion.

　

At the Post Office I see that the flag is out but seems to be at half mast. Possibly another Maine soldier has died -- in Iraq, or else Afghanistan. Two people are standing on the Post Office steps, talking quietly. When I pass them -- they are strangers to me -- I pick it up that they are not talking about the war or even the election, but about our chances to see 80 today, and the bad bridge traffic in Wiscassett, and how far north we really are here. Summer is, of course, the season at odds with seriousness (winter being gravity's more natural ally). And here in the breezy sunlight, the war and the endless dismaying election -- the one that must somehow save us all -- seem far away, almost illusory, like the clouds we stare at until we think they're mountains. Of course, the war pronounces on us all. Some precious glee we seek is absent, the season less substantial, less likeable. But for now it seems right enough to wear a campaign button, display a bumper sticker, to lower the flag in public places, and wait for the fall. To do more could make us all feel bad about everything.

　

　

Sylvia Plachy
New York - 1966

Romance was in the air that hot summer of 1966, when I looked out the window of our first apartment and watched for the promise of the future.

There is no mail for me, today -- only catalogs and a few bills -- and I leave them in the box for later. I speak to the postmistress about the increased clientele she's seeing for the summer, about the high-school kids graduating then scattering, and about motorcycles, an enthusiasm we share. We are both Harley riders. There is a rally next month to support a charity. I'm considering joining in -- though I haven't before -- which seems to please her. And then I start for home again.

　

Truthfully, I find summer a hard time to concentrate, and a hard season to concentrate on -- as if I were one of those flies that buzz around the warm sunlit windows in late August. I sense change in everything, long before the season's fully on us. Every flower I think will be gone by tomorrow. I note a dry yellowing in the pale birch leaves even as the sunlight's shot through them. The cold sea here offers only a small window for pleasurable swimming, but I most often miss it. My wife is amused by me and hints that I may be a fatalist in things, owing to a Presbyterian past. I remind her that I do not feel this way in the long monochrome winter, the standard-bearer season here, when all the pressure feels gone off and I can somehow relent. But now, when we revel that the summer light falls through the trees in a truly "different" way, and my wife keeps her hopeful account of each day's lengthening hours, I can only sense that this is a shallow season, one that does not live up to its billing, though perhaps I simply do not use it well. Still, I cannot help wondering: was there ever a summer that made us sleepy and forgetful and settled in the precise way we want and need? Only in childhood, possibly. Though childhood, I seem to recall, had its own concerns.

　

Sometimes, since distraction comes so easily, I go down to the dock, climb into my skiff and row a ways to where I know the stripers lie, off the granite point that frames our little harbor here. I take my rod and a pack of frozen mackerel, and I anchor there and fish. I am not in any way a boater, and the ocean in fact always scares me. But I have caught a fish here once -- years ago -- and could again, I choose to believe. Resting at anchor, however, is a good place just to be still and to do one thing and only one. And as I fish, I watch the sleek contrails of the passenger jets passing silently over on their way to Boston and New York. They come from Europe. I watch the ospreys who nest on Perch Island high atop their white spruce. Our sense of a plausible summer depends much on their diligent success at nest-building and procreation, and on their chicks fledging in late August. I watch a power boat bounce noisily across the bay, headed apparently nowhere. I watch a lobsterman working among his bright buoys in the distance. And I hear voices -- from the shore -- some laughter, guests arriving, car doors slamming. "We thought you'd never get here," someone says. "But now you are. Come inside. Come inside. We're so happy...." It is enough. I've caught what I came for, and can now row home again.

　

　

Mary Ellen Mark
Brighton, England - 1965

I took this when I first started to discover the world and photograph it. England is full of funny and eccentric people. That day, there were many of them at the beach. I also took a picture of a woman with a parrot on her shoulder. As I took her picture, the parrot bit her nose.

At home, a medium-sized John Deere tractor has appeared in the driveway -- a number 855 -- a backhoe and front loader attached on opposite ends. It is green like no other green, its springing deer medallion shiny in what has become hazier sunlight. A more modest Norway spruce has also arrived, ready for planting and protection duties. The Conley's men are opening a hole for it, using the toothed bucket of the backhoe, and have already torn through earth and roots to reveal the hard flat pan of rock, half a foot below. I venture down the little hillside that ends at our neighbors' new guest house, and stand as close as I can to the digging, as the bucket scrapes the revealed rock surface and leaves white scars. I want to gain a feel for the bucket's power and its canny precision, and am secretly happy to have a need for such an implement at my own house. The Conley's men are maestros at this digging business. One gives direction from beside the hole, while the other sits and calmly operates the levers. Neither speaks to me, though it is clear I would like to be of use, to assist in making something happen better. But I'm not needed. One of them says to me, or perhaps to no one -- it is Freeman in his clean NRA T-shirt -- "It's not really soil here. It's duff. It won't hold much. We'll have to put in loam and mound it up for anything to grow." "Yes," I say and think of the sentence, "We are putting in the Norway." I run this line over in my head. It is a sentence Vonnegut might've written, full of sad, appealing irony, meant to do no one harm. The Conley's men have done this many times, with no one's help. In an hour or less the tree will be in, all loamed and mounded and ready for life and a future longer than mine. And then they will be gone.

　

Early in the morning, long before the workmen arrive next door, I wake in the gray light to the sound of the lobsterman, hauling traps a quarter mile out on the bay. I go to the window, entirely naked, just to watch him at his duties. He is a single-hander, a seasonal fisherman, wenching his traps up in the furred light, barely visible to me, but visible enough. His radio is playing out across the still, metallic water. I can hear, by some strange chance, a Red Sox score from the night just past. 8-3. A late-night loss in Oakland. I stand and watch, hear the motor-grind of his wench, the clatter of the heavy basket down onto the deck, the deep gurgling thrust of his smoky engine as his boat comes about then motors on. My legs grow cold, my hands, my feet. The dog in our room makes a whimper from some dream he's having. My wife stirs in the bed behind me, aware even in her sleep that I'm away. It is summer now. Summer of course is a variable time, different in whatever place you are at this hour. Though what could it be, I wonder, whatever could it possibly be, that any of us are disguising, are mimicking, are seeking shelter from in a too-brief season when shelter's of no avail? Too hard, I think. No answers are forthcoming as the new day wanders up. Summer is a different time. Not much a season for reckoning.

　

Richard Ford, a winner of the Pulitzer Prize, is the author of six novels and three collections of stories. His most recent novel is "The Lay of the Land."

/>