鹅之书

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• “我是认真的，”我说，“我相信我们不需要丈夫或孩子，对吗？” “你有远大的梦想。”她说。 我摇头。我告诉她，写书的游戏是她想出来的，我只是遵循她，我会做她想要我做的事。 “我指的不是那个，”她说，“你认为做每件事都有一定原因，不管我们做什么，均会对日后有用。你认为今天发生的每件事会带来美好的前景。” “我是那样想的吗？”我说。很多时候我需要她来向我道明我心中的想法。 “大多数人是那么想的。”她说。她的话里难得不含恶意。法比耶娜没有生病。她鲜少感到疲劳。但她的声音有点令我想到一个疲惫或患病的人。 “我像大多数人吗？” “像大多数人没什么不对。但我自己，”她说，“我做事情时心里并无宏大的目标。” “那样的话，是为了什么呢？” 法比耶娜看着我，仿佛在看一只受伤、将被拧断脖子的鸟。在我的一生里，没有其他人在看我时带着这种温柔的怜惜。“我相信你不明白。”她说。 “那么讲给我听，”我恳求道，“我不明白的是什么？” “你的问题是，”她说，“你不多想，你也不敏感，所以你容易获得快乐和满足。” “我不多想，因为你都替我想好了。”我说。 “一点没错，”法比耶娜说，“我不介意代我们俩思考，可你能为我做什么呢？” 我不是一直在做你叫我做的每一件事吗？我心想。她从口袋里掏出一把折叠刀。“闭上眼睛。”她说。我照做，我感觉到她抓起我的左臂，把我的袖子捋到手肘处。“别睁开眼。”她说。 (查看原文)

  羣青 1赞 2025-10-15 14:52:33

• I decided to write a story about a gardener. She was an old woman, blind, wrinkled, who looked like a witch and was dreaded by her neighbors. But she was not a witch, she reasoned with herself. She did, though, have hands that could hear things just as well as her ears. She knew that on a warm day, the dirt buzzed, and on a cold day, the dirt shivered, heaving tiny sighing sounds. A healthy root could sing a song, a dead root cracked at the first note and could never find the right pitch again. Buds and petals and new leaves all had their own ways of talking, screaming, laughing, or groaning. Once a day the villagers surrounded her shack and called out her name, asking her to leave because they did not want a witch among them. But what was so extraordinary about a blind person who could ... (查看原文)

  Incertus 2022-11-06 23:53:09

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