姜姜不白对《Eat Pray Love》的笔记(2)

姜姜不白 (也无风雨也无晴。)

在读 Eat Pray Love

Eat Pray Love
  • 书名: Eat Pray Love
  • 作者: Elizabeth Gilbert
  • 页数: 384
  • 出版社: Avon
  • 出版年: 2007-11-1
  • 1-9

    True wisdom gives the only possible answer at any given moment. In desperate love, we always invent the characters of our partners, demanding that they be what we need of them, and then feeling devastated when they refuse to perform the role we created in the first place. Addiction is the hallmark of every infatuation迷恋-based love story. It all begins when the object of your adoration bestows放置,使用,授予 upon you a heady兴奋的顽固的, hallucinogenic 引起幻觉的dose 剂量of something you never even dared to admit that you wanted—an emotional speed-ball, perhaps, of thunderous雷鸣般的 极大的 love and roiling 定期的周而复始的excitement. Soon you start craving 恳求渴望that intense attention, with the hungry obsession痴迷着魔 of any junkie瘾君子. When the drug is withheld扣留抑制, you promptly turn sick, crazy and depleted耗尽的废弃的 (not to mention resentful愤恨的不满的 of the dealer who encouraged this addiction in the first place but who now refuses to pony up 付账 交出 the good stuff anymore—despite the fact that you know he has it hidden somewhere, goddamn it, because he used to give it to you for free). Next stage finds you skinny 极瘦的不足的and shaking in a corner, certain only that you would sell your soul or rob your neighbors just to have that thing even one more time. Meanwhile, the object of your adoration has now become repulsed 厌烦 拒绝by you. He looks at you like you’re someone he’s never met before, much less someone he once loved with high passion. The irony is, you can hardly blame him. I mean, check yourself out. You’re a pathetic 无用的;差劲的;令人生厌的 | 招人怜悯的,可怜的 mess, unrecognizable even to your own eyes. So that’s it. You have now reached infatuation’s final destination—the complete and merciless残忍的 devaluation 下降 跌落of self. The fact that I can even write calmly about this today is mighty evidence of time’s healing powers, because I didn’t take it well as it was happening. “I want to have a lasting experience of God,” I told him. “Sometimes I feel like I understand the divinity 神性of this world, but then I lose it because I get distracted by my petty 琐碎的desires and fears. I want to be with God all the time. But I don’t want to be a monk僧侣 修道士, or totally give up worldly pleasures. I guess what I want to learn is how to live in this world and enjoy its delights, but also devote myself to God.” “To find the balance you want,” Ketut spoke through his translator, “this is what you must become. You must keep your feet grounded so firmly on the earth that it’s like you have four legs, instead of two. That way, you can stay in the world. But you must stop looking at the world through your head. You must look through your heart, instead. That way, you will know God.” You only have one problem in your life. You worry too much. Always you get too emotional, too nervous. If I promise you that you will never have any reason in your life to ever worry about anything, will you believe me?” The great Sufi poet and philosopher Rumi once advised his students to write down the three things they most wanted in life. If any item on the list clashes 冲突 with any other item, Rumi warned, you are destined for unhappiness. Better to live a life of single-pointed focus, he taught. Meanwhile, David and I had broken up again. This time, it seemed, for good. Or maybe not—we couldn’t totally let go of it. Often I was still overcome with a desire to sacrifice everything for the love of him. Other times, I had the quite opposite instinct—to put as many continents and oceans as possible between me and this guy, in the hope of finding peace and happiness. Because—who knows?—God might want me to be facing that particular challenge for a reason. Instead, I feel more comfortable praying for the courage to face whatever occurs in my life with equanimity平和 镇静, no matter how things turn out.

    2017-03-29 01:13:03 回应
  • 10-20

    Dante writes that God is not merely a blinding vision of glorious light, but that He is, most of all, l’amor che move il sole e l’altre stelle . . . “The love that moves the sun and the other stars.” 16 Depression and Loneliness track me down after about ten days in Italy. I am walking through the Villa Borghese one evening after a happy day spent in school, and the sun is set-ting gold over St. Peter’s Basilica. I am feeling contented in this romantic scene, even if I am all by myself, while everyone else in the park is either fondling a lover or playing with a laugh-ing child. But I stop to lean against a balustrade and watch the sunset, and I get to thinking a little too much, and then my thinking turns to brooding, and that’s when they catch up with me. They come upon me all silent and menacing like Pinkerton Detectives, and they flank me—Depression on my left, Loneliness on my right. They don’t need to show me their badges. I know these guys very well. We’ve been playing a cat-and-mouse game for years now. Though I admit that I am surprised to meet them in this elegant Italian garden at dusk. This is no place they belong. I say to them, “How did you find me here? Who told you I had come to Rome?” Depression, always the wise guy, says, “What—you’re not happy to see us?” “Go away,” I tell him. Loneliness, the more sensitive cop, says, “I’m sorry, ma’am. But I might have to tail you the whole time you’re traveling. It’s my assignment.” “I’d really rather you didn’t,” I tell him, and he shrugs almost apologetically, but only moves closer. Then they frisk me. They empty my pockets of any joy I had been carrying there. Depres-sion even confiscates my identity; but he always does that. Then Loneliness starts interrogat-ing me, which I dread because it always goes on for hours. He’s polite but relentless, and he always trips me up eventually. He asks if I have any reason to be happy that I know of. He asks why I am all by myself tonight, yet again. He asks (though we’ve been through this line of questioning hundreds of times already) why I can’t keep a relationship going, why I ruined my marriage, why I messed things up with David, why I messed things up with every man I’ve ever been with. He asks me where I was the night I turned thirty, and why things have gone so sour since then. He asks why I can’t get my act together, and why I’m not at home living in a nice house and raising nice children like any respectable woman my age should be. He asks why, exactly, I think I deserve a vacation in Rome when I’ve made such a rubble of my life. He asks me why I think that running away to Italy like a college kid will make me happy. He asks where I think I’ll end up in my old age, if I keep living this way. I walk back home, hoping to shake them, but they keep following me, these two goons. Depression has a firm hand on my shoulder and Loneliness harangues me with his interroga-tion. I don’t even bother eating dinner; I don’t want them watching me. I don’t want to let them up the stairs to my apartment, either, but I know Depression, and he’s got a billy club, so there’s no stopping him from coming in if he decides that he wants to. “It’s not fair for you to come here,” I tell Depression. “I paid you off already. I served my time back in New York.” But he just gives me that dark smile, settles into my favorite chair, puts his feet on my ta-ble and lights a cigar, filling the place with his awful smoke. Loneliness watches and sighs, then climbs into my bed and pulls the covers over himself, fully dressed, shoes and all. He’s going to make me sleep with him again tonight, I just know it. The image of my pain mirrored back at me through her visible fear for my life is still one of the scariest memories for me out of all those scary years. this was the real gift, because when you cannot sleep, you cannot get yourself out of the ditch—there’s not a chance. But I don’t want Depression or Loneliness around, either, so I don’t know what to do, and I’m spiraling in panic, like I always spiral when I don’t know what to do. What I write in my journal tonight is that I am weak and full of fear. I explain that Depression and Loneliness have shown up, and I’m scared they will never leave. I say that I don’t want to take the drugs anymore, but I’m frightened I will have to. I’m terrified that I will never really pull my life together. In response, somewhere from within me, rises a now-familiar presence, offering me all the certainties I have always wished another person would say to me when I was troubled. This is what I find myself writing to myself on the page: I’m here. I love you. I don’t care if you need to stay up crying all night long, I will stay with you. If you need the medication again, go ahead and take it—I will love you through that, as well. If you don’t need the medication, I will love you, too. There’s nothing you can ever do to lose my love. I will protect you until you die, and after your death I will still protect you. I am stronger than Depression and I am braver than Loneliness and nothing will ever exhaust me. I find myself writing this com-forting reminder at the bottom of the page: Never forget that once upon a time, in an unguarded moment, you recognized yourself as a friend.

    2017-04-12 05:51:19 回应

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