启罗米突对《毛澤東的中國及其後》的笔记(9)

启罗米突
启罗米突 (艳照古称多慷慨悲歌之士)

读过 毛澤東的中國及其後

毛澤東的中國及其後
  • 书名: 毛澤東的中國及其後
  • 作者: Maurice Meisner/none
  • 副标题: 中華人民共和國史
  • 页数: 560
  • 出版社: 香港中文大學出版社
  • 出版年: 2005-03-30
  • 第464页

    赵紫阳和李光耀还成了好基友了

    2014-01-08 02:29:55 回应
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  • 第393页
    在毛时代终结时,中国处在一个由官僚支配社会的历史迷雾王国里,它既不是资本主义也不是社会主义。由于缺乏一个更好的词来形容,故且称中国为“后资本主义”或简单地称为“后革命社会”。毛的中国不是资本主义社会,因为它巳经废除了资本主义的基本前提,即废除了生产数据的私有制;它也不是真正的社会主义,因为劳动群众,即工农大众,没有权力支配产品和他们的生产条件,也没有支配国家的手段,国家作为社会经济和政治的管理者,日益凌驾于劳动群众之上。毛政权成功地完成了资产阶级的民主革命任务,但它没有能够实现它宣称的“向社会主义过渡”的任务。在毛时代结束之际,中国彷佛      徘徊在两个世界之间,      一个已经死亡,      另一个又无力诞生。[19]
    引自第393页

    Stanzas from the Grande Chartreuse BY MATTHEW ARNOLD Through Alpine meadows soft-suffused With rain, where thick the crocus blows, Past the dark forges long disused, The mule-track from Saint Laurent goes. The bridge is cross'd, and slow we ride, Through forest, up the mountain-side. The autumnal evening darkens round, The wind is up, and drives the rain; While, hark! far down, with strangled sound Doth the Dead Guier's stream complain, Where that wet smoke, among the woods, Over his boiling cauldron broods. Swift rush the spectral vapours white Past limestone scars with ragged pines, Showing—then blotting from our sight!— Halt—through the cloud-drift something shines! High in the valley, wet and drear, The huts of Courrerie appear. Strike leftward! cries our guide; and higher Mounts up the stony forest-way. At last the encircling trees retire; Look! through the showery twilight grey What pointed roofs are these advance?— A palace of the Kings of France? Approach, for what we seek is here! Alight, and sparely sup, and wait For rest in this outbuilding near; Then cross the sward and reach that gate. Knock; pass the wicket! Thou art come To the Carthusians' world-famed home. The silent courts, where night and day Into their stone-carved basins cold The splashing icy fountains play— The humid corridors behold! Where, ghostlike in the deepening night, Cowl'd forms brush by in gleaming white. The chapel, where no organ's peal Invests the stern and naked prayer— With penitential cries they kneel And wrestle; rising then, with bare And white uplifted faces stand, Passing the Host from hand to hand; Each takes, and then his visage wan Is buried in his cowl once more. The cells!—the suffering Son of Man Upon the wall—the knee-worn floor— And where they sleep, that wooden bed, Which shall their coffin be, when dead! The library, where tract and tome Not to feed priestly pride are there, To hymn the conquering march of Rome, Nor yet to amuse, as ours are! They paint of souls the inner strife, Their drops of blood, their death in life. The garden, overgrown—yet mild, See, fragrant herbs are flowering there! Strong children of the Alpine wild Whose culture is the brethren's care; Of human tasks their only one, And cheerful works beneath the sun. Those halls, too, destined to contain Each its own pilgrim-host of old, From England, Germany, or Spain— All are before me! I behold The House, the Brotherhood austere! —And what am I, that I am here? For rigorous teachers seized my youth, And purged its faith, and trimm'd its fire, Show'd me the high, white star of Truth, There bade me gaze, and there aspire. Even now their whispers pierce the gloom: What dost thou in this living tomb? Forgive me, masters of the mind! At whose behest I long ago So much unlearnt, so much resign'd— I come not here to be your foe! I seek these anchorites, not in ruth, To curse and to deny your truth; Not as their friend, or child, I speak! But as, on some far northern strand, Thinking of his own Gods, a Greek In pity and mournful awe might stand Before some fallen Runic stone— For both were faiths, and both are gone. Wandering between two worlds, one dead, The other powerless to be born, ( 马修•阿诺德(Matthew Arnold, 1822-1888)敏锐地捕捉到时代的脉搏,在《写于雄伟的卡尔特寺院的诗章》(Stanzas from the Grande Chartreuse)中揭示了人们的处境:“彷徨在两个世界之间,一个已经死去,另一个无力诞生。”) With nowhere yet to rest my head, Like these, on earth I wait forlorn. Their faith, my tears, the world deride— I come to shed them at their side. Oh, hide me in your gloom profound, Ye solemn seats of holy pain! Take me, cowl'd forms, and fence me round, Till I possess my soul again; Till free my thoughts before me roll, Not chafed by hourly false control! For the world cries your faith is now But a dead time's exploded dream; My melancholy, sciolists say, Is a pass'd mode, an outworn theme— As if the world had ever had A faith, or sciolists been sad! Ah, if it be pass'd, take away, At least, the restlessness, the pain; Be man henceforth no more a prey To these out-dated stings again! The nobleness of grief is gone Ah, leave us not the fret alone! But—if you cannot give us ease— Last of the race of them who grieve Here leave us to die out with these Last of the people who believe! Silent, while years engrave the brow; Silent—the best are silent now. Achilles ponders in his tent, The kings of modern thought are dumb, Silent they are though not content, And wait to see the future come. They have the grief men had of yore, But they contend and cry no more. Our fathers water'd with their tears This sea of time whereon we sail, Their voices were in all men's ears We pass'd within their puissant hail. Still the same ocean round us raves, But we stand mute, and watch the waves. For what avail'd it, all the noise And outcry of the former men?— Say, have their sons achieved more joys, Say, is life lighter now than then? The sufferers died, they left their pain— The pangs which tortured them remain. What helps it now, that Byron bore, With haughty scorn which mock'd the smart, Through Europe to the Ætolian shore The pageant of his bleeding heart? That thousands counted every groan, And Europe made his woe her own? What boots it, Shelley! that the breeze Carried thy lovely wail away, Musical through Italian trees Which fringe thy soft blue Spezzian bay? Inheritors of thy distress Have restless hearts one throb the less? Or are we easier, to have read, O Obermann! the sad, stern page, Which tells us how thou hidd'st thy head From the fierce tempest of thine age In the lone brakes of Fontainebleau, Or chalets near the Alpine snow? Ye slumber in your silent grave!— The world, which for an idle day Grace to your mood of sadness gave, Long since hath flung her weeds away. The eternal trifler breaks your spell; But we—we learned your lore too well! Years hence, perhaps, may dawn an age, More fortunate, alas! than we, Which without hardness will be sage, And gay without frivolity. Sons of the world, oh, speed those years; But, while we wait, allow our tears! Allow them! We admire with awe The exulting thunder of your race; You give the universe your law, You triumph over time and space! Your pride of life, your tireless powers, We laud them, but they are not ours. We are like children rear'd in shade Beneath some old-world abbey wall, Forgotten in a forest-glade, And secret from the eyes of all. Deep, deep the greenwood round them waves, Their abbey, and its close of graves! But, where the road runs near the stream, Oft through the trees they catch a glance Of passing troops in the sun's beam— Pennon, and plume, and flashing lance! Forth to the world those soldiers fare, To life, to cities, and to war! And through the wood, another way, Faint bugle-notes from far are borne, Where hunters gather, staghounds bay, Round some fair forest-lodge at morn. Gay dames are there, in sylvan green; Laughter and cries—those notes between! The banners flashing through the trees Make their blood dance and chain their eyes; That bugle-music on the breeze Arrests them with a charm'd surprise. Banner by turns and bugle woo: Ye shy recluses, follow too! O children, what do ye reply?— "Action and pleasure, will ye roam Through these secluded dells to cry And call us?—but too late ye come! Too late for us your call ye blow, Whose bent was taken long ago. "Long since we pace this shadow'd nave; We watch those yellow tapers shine, Emblems of hope over the grave, In the high altar's depth divine; The organ carries to our ear Its accents of another sphere. "Fenced early in this cloistral round Of reverie, of shade, of prayer, How should we grow in other ground? How can we flower in foreign air? —Pass, banners, pass, and bugles, cease; And leave our desert to its peace!"

    2014-01-08 04:09:09 回应
  • 第404页
    2014-01-08 04:18:23 回应

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