Ian+Crouch

Recently， a colleague mentioned that she had been rereading Richard Hughess A High Wind in Jamaica， which is about a group of creepy little kids who become the unwanted wards of sad， listless1） pirates. She praised it， and her recommendation sent me to Amazon. The title was familiar， as was the vibrant cover of the New York Review Books reissue. One cent and $3.99 for shipping， and the book was on its way. A couple of weeks later， I opened to the first page and started reading. By the fifth page， I realized that I had read this novel before， and pretty recently， about three years ago， when another colleague had also praised it and lent me his copy.

The book deconstructs2） the pirate fable—but is still a ripping yarn3） itself—and， as Francine Prose4） notes in her introduction， it is an altogether more sophisticated and subtle version of The Lord of the Flies5）. It is， simply， entirely memorable， which makes the fact that I forgot it so thoroughly all the more difficult to account for.

Looking at my bookshelves， I am aware of another kind of forgetting—the spines look familiar； the names and titles bring to mind perhaps a character name， a turn of plot， often just a mood or feeling—but for the most part， the assembled books， and the hundreds of others that Ive read and discarded， given away， or returned to libraries， represent a vast catalogue of forgetting.

This forgetting has serious consequences—but it has superficial ones as well， mostly having to do with vanity. It has led， at times， to a discomfiting6） situation， call it the Cocktail Party Trap. Someone mentions a book with some cachet that Ive read—a lesser-known work of a celebrated writer， say Eliots Daniel Deronda， to take an example from my shelf—and I smile knowingly， and maybe add， “Its wonderful，” or some such thing. Great so far， Im part of the in-crowd7）—and not lying； I did read it. But then theres a moment of terror： What if the person summons up a question or comment with any kind of specificity at all？ Basically， what if she aims to do anything other than merely brag about having read Daniel Deronda？ Uh-oh. Its about cotton production， right？ Maybe blurt something about that. No， wait， thats Gaskells North and South. I must either vaguely agree with what she says， hoping she isnt somehow putting me on8） or lying herself， or else confess everything， with some version of the conversation killer： “I read that entire novel and now can tell you nothing of any consequence about it.” Or else slink9） away， muttering about needing to refill a drink.

This embarrassing situation raises practical questions that also become ones about identity： Do I really like reading？ Perhaps it is a failure of attention—there are times when I notice my own distraction while reading， and can， in a way， feel myself forgetting. There is a scarier question， one that might seem like asking if one is good at breathing， or walking. Am I actually quite bad at reading after all？

Perhaps， though there is comfort to be had. In April， 2013， on a post by Brad Leithauser about the surprising durability of certain seemingly disposable10） words （involuntary memory， essentially）， a reader left a quotation in the comments， which he attributed to the poet Siegfried Sassoon：“For it is humanly certain that most of us remember very little of what we have read. To open almost any book a second time is to be reminded that we had forgotten well-nigh11） everything that the writer told us. Parting from the narrator and his narrative， we retain only a fading impression； and he， as it were， takes the book away from us and tucks it under his arm.”

If we are cursed to forget much of what we read， there are still charms in the moments of reading a particular book in a particular place. What I remember most about Malamuds short-story collection The Magic Barrel is the warm sunlight in the coffee shop on the consecutive Friday mornings I read it before high school. That is missing the more important points， but it is something. Reading has many facets， one of which might be the rather indescribable， and naturally fleeting， mix of thought and emotion and sensory manipulations that happen in the moment and then fade. How much of reading， then， is just a kind of narcissism12）—a marker of who you were and what you were thinking when you encountered a text？ Perhaps thinking of that book later， a trace of whatever admixture moved you while reading it will spark out of the brains dark places.

Memory， however， is capricious13） and deeply unfair. It is why I can recall nothing about how a cell divides， or very little about “Ode on a Grecian Urn14），” but can sing any number of television theme songs in the shower. The words that researchers use about forgetting are all psychically hurtful for the layperson： interference， confusion， decay—they seem sinister and remind us of all the sad limitations of the human brain， and of an inevitable march toward another kind of forgetting， which comes with age， and what may be final forgetting， which is death.

This may be a minor15） existential drama—and it might simply be resolved with practical application and a renewed sense of studiousness. There is ongoing dispute as to the ways in which memory might be improvable. But certainly there are things that we can do to better remember the books we read—especially the ones that we want to remember.

A simple remedy to forgetfulness is to read novels more than once. A professor I had in college would often， to the point of irony， cite Nabokov16）s statement that there is no reading， only rereading. Yet he was teaching a class in modern fiction， and assigned books that are generally known as “slim” contemporary classics. They were short， and we were being tested on them—wed be foolish to read them only once. I read them at least twice， and now remember them. But what about in real life， set loose17） from comprehension examinations and left mostly to our own devices and standards？ Should we reread when there is a nearly endless shelf of books out there to read and a certainly not-endless amount of time in which to do it？ Should I pull out my copy of Eudora Weltys The Optimists Daughter to relearn its charms—or more truthfully， learn them for the first time—or should I accept the loss， and move on？

Part of my suspicion of rereading may come from a false sense of reading as conquest. As we polish off18） some classic text， we may pause a moment to think of ourselves， spear aloft， standing with one foot up on the flank19） of the slain beast. Another monster bagged20）. It would be somehow less heroic， as it were， to bend over and check the things pulse. But that， of course， is the stuff of reading—the going back， the poring over21）， the act of committing something from the experience， whether it be mood or fact， to memory. It is in the postmortem22） where we learn how a book really works. Maybe， then， for a forgetful reader like me， the great task， and the greatest enjoyment， would be to read a single novel over and over again. At some point， then， I would truly and honestly know it.

最近，一位同事提到她在重讀理查德·休斯的《牙買(mǎi)加颶風(fēng)》。該書(shū)講述了一伙憂郁且無(wú)精打采的海盜極不情愿地收留看管了一群小屁孩的故事。同事對(duì)這本書(shū)贊揚(yáng)一番之后便向我推薦，于是我登錄了亞馬遜網(wǎng)站。書(shū)名我是熟悉的，同樣熟悉的還有紐約書(shū)評(píng)出版社再版圖書(shū)那醒目搶眼的封面。我花了一美分的書(shū)錢(qián)外加3.99美元的運(yùn)費(fèi)，這本書(shū)就郵寄上路了。幾周之后，我翻開(kāi)書(shū)的第一頁(yè)，開(kāi)始讀起來(lái)。讀到第五頁(yè)時(shí)，我發(fā)現(xiàn)自己以前讀過(guò)這本小說(shuō)，而且時(shí)間并不遠(yuǎn)，大概三年前吧。那時(shí)另外一位同事也說(shuō)這本書(shū)很好，并借給我讀。

這本書(shū)解構(gòu)了傳統(tǒng)的海盜故事，但其本身仍是一個(gè)十分精彩的故事。正如弗朗辛·普羅斯在前言中所指出的那樣，它完全就是《蠅王》更為復(fù)雜、更為細(xì)膩的版本。整個(gè)故事讀后令人完全難以忘懷，這就更難解釋我為什么會(huì)把它忘得一干二凈了。

看著書(shū)架，我想到還有另外一種遺忘：書(shū)脊是熟悉的，人名和書(shū)名也許會(huì)讓我想起某個(gè)角色的名字、某個(gè)情節(jié)的變化，更經(jīng)常的僅僅是某種情緒或感情。但多數(shù)情況下，這些裝訂齊整的書(shū)籍，以及數(shù)百本我讀了就扔到一邊的、送人的以及還給圖書(shū)館的書(shū)籍，構(gòu)成了一長(zhǎng)串遺忘的書(shū)單。

這種遺忘有著嚴(yán)重的后果，但有些也是非常膚淺的，多數(shù)都和虛榮心有關(guān)。有時(shí)還會(huì)導(dǎo)致某種尷尬的場(chǎng)面，姑且稱之為“雞尾酒會(huì)上的陷阱”。某人帶著些許優(yōu)越感提到一本我已讀過(guò)的書(shū)——某位知名作家的某部不太為人所知的作品，以我書(shū)架上的書(shū)為例，比如艾略特的《丹尼爾的半生緣》。然后我心領(lǐng)神會(huì)地笑笑，也許還會(huì)加上一句“很精彩”之類的話。直到這一刻，一切都還順利，我還是“圈內(nèi)人”，而且我也沒(méi)有撒謊，我的確讀過(guò)。但接著恐怖時(shí)刻就來(lái)了。倘若那人提出一個(gè)具體的問(wèn)題，或者做出某種具體的評(píng)價(jià)，我該如何應(yīng)對(duì)？尤其是，如果她并不僅僅是想夸耀自己讀過(guò)《丹尼爾的半生緣》，而是另有目的呢？呃——噢，是關(guān)于棉花生產(chǎn)的，對(duì)吧？或許我可以這樣含糊其辭。不，等一下，那是加斯克爾的《北方與南方》。我要么含糊其辭地同意她說(shuō)的話，希望她不是想給我下套，也沒(méi)有瞎掰；要么就坦白一切，放出一句足以終止任何交談的話——我通讀了整部小說(shuō)，但現(xiàn)在關(guān)于它卻說(shuō)不出任何有意義的話；要么就嘀咕著說(shuō)要把杯子加滿，灰溜溜地走開(kāi)。

這種尷尬場(chǎng)景引發(fā)了一些現(xiàn)實(shí)問(wèn)題，同時(shí)也是關(guān)于身份認(rèn)同的問(wèn)題：我真的喜歡讀書(shū)嗎？這也許是因?yàn)槲易⒁饬Σ粔蚣邪?，有好幾次我注意到自己在讀書(shū)時(shí)走神，而且在一定程度上也能感覺(jué)到自己在遺忘。還有一個(gè)更為可怕的問(wèn)題，這個(gè)問(wèn)題就好比在問(wèn)自己是否擅長(zhǎng)呼吸、走路一樣，那就是——我是不是實(shí)際上很不擅長(zhǎng)讀書(shū)呢？

或許事實(shí)的確如此吧，雖然其中也有值得寬慰之處。布拉德·萊特霍伊澤2013年4月發(fā)了一篇文章，談到某些看似看完就忘的詞匯卻有著驚人的持久性（主要是非自主記憶）。一位讀者在評(píng)論中引用了詩(shī)人西格弗里德·沙遜的一段話：“我們多數(shù)人都對(duì)讀過(guò)的東西所記甚少，以人的能力而言，這是肯定的。我們翻開(kāi)幾乎任何一本書(shū)再看第二遍時(shí)，都會(huì)發(fā)現(xiàn)我們幾乎已經(jīng)把作者所寫(xiě)的東西忘得一干二凈了。離開(kāi)了敘述者和他所講述的故事，我們腦海中只剩下一個(gè)模糊的印象，就好像敘述者已經(jīng)將書(shū)從我們手中拿走，夾在腋下離開(kāi)了?！?/p>

即使我們注定要忘掉所讀之書(shū)的大部分內(nèi)容，但在特定的地點(diǎn)讀一本特定的書(shū)仍有其獨(dú)特魅力。就拿馬拉默德的短篇小說(shuō)集《魔桶》來(lái)說(shuō)，我記得最清楚的就是上高中前，每個(gè)周五的早上在咖啡店里讀書(shū)時(shí)那溫暖的陽(yáng)光。雖說(shuō)我沒(méi)有記住更為重要的東西，但這也自有其意義。閱讀有許多層面，其中一面就是那種難以描述、轉(zhuǎn)瞬即逝的感覺(jué)，那種思想、情感和各種感官經(jīng)歷糅合在一起的感覺(jué)，倏忽即來(lái)，倏忽即去。那么，閱讀在多大程度上僅僅是一種自戀呢——一種在邂逅某個(gè)文本時(shí)對(duì)你個(gè)人、你所思所想的標(biāo)記？也許，以后回想起這本書(shū)時(shí)，在你頭腦的最深處會(huì)冒出一絲火花，想起讀書(shū)時(shí)那令你感動(dòng)的一點(diǎn)一滴。

然而，記憶是反復(fù)無(wú)常、極度不公的。正因?yàn)槿绱?，我才無(wú)法回憶起細(xì)胞是如何分裂的，也很難記起《希臘古甕頌》，但卻能在淋浴時(shí)唱起許多電視節(jié)目主題曲。研究者在描述遺忘時(shí)所用的詞匯對(duì)普通人來(lái)說(shuō)全部是一種精神傷害：干擾、混亂、衰退。這些詞似乎都很邪惡，總在提醒我們?nèi)祟惔竽X可悲的局限和注定要走向的隨年齡增長(zhǎng)而來(lái)的另一種遺忘，以及終極遺忘——死亡。

遺忘或許是一出令人憂傷的存在主義戲劇，也許可以簡(jiǎn)單地通過(guò)實(shí)際應(yīng)用和一種全新的好學(xué)精神加以解決。對(duì)于改善記憶的各種方法，人們一直存在爭(zhēng)議。但可以肯定的是，我們可以采取一些方法來(lái)更好地記住我們所讀的書(shū)籍，特別是我們想要記住的書(shū)籍。

治療遺忘的一個(gè)簡(jiǎn)單方法就是將小說(shuō)讀上不止一遍。上大學(xué)時(shí)，有位教授常常引用納博科夫的話（引用次數(shù)多得到了可笑的地步），說(shuō)只有重讀，沒(méi)有閱讀。然而，他教授的課程是現(xiàn)代小說(shuō)，布置的閱讀書(shū)目都是所謂“瘦身版”的當(dāng)代經(jīng)典。這些作品的篇幅都很短，而且我們還要就其內(nèi)容進(jìn)行考試，要是只讀一遍那才叫蠢呢。我至少要讀上兩遍，現(xiàn)在都還能記得那些作品。但在現(xiàn)實(shí)生活中，沒(méi)有了閱讀理解考試的約束，多數(shù)時(shí)候都聽(tīng)?wèi){自己的安排，遵循自己的標(biāo)準(zhǔn)，那又將如何呢？如果我們要讀的書(shū)排滿一書(shū)架，幾乎望不到頭，而能用來(lái)讀書(shū)的時(shí)間又肯定有限，我們還應(yīng)該反復(fù)閱讀嗎？我應(yīng)該拿出尤多拉·韋爾蒂的《樂(lè)觀者的女兒》，重新領(lǐng)略其魅力，或者更為坦白地說(shuō)，首次領(lǐng)略其魅力嗎？還是接受現(xiàn)實(shí)，失去的就讓它失去，然后繼續(xù)閱讀其他書(shū)籍呢？

我對(duì)反復(fù)閱讀的懷疑可能部分源自一種錯(cuò)誤認(rèn)識(shí)，即把閱讀看做征服。當(dāng)我們走馬觀花地讀完某一經(jīng)典文本后，我們也許會(huì)停下片刻，設(shè)想自己高舉長(zhǎng)矛，一腳踏在被殺死的野獸身上——又捕到了一只怪獸。如果彎下腰去查看野獸的脈搏，則多少顯得有些缺乏英雄氣概。但閱讀其實(shí)就是這樣，常常要回頭查看，仔細(xì)研讀，將經(jīng)驗(yàn)（無(wú)論是情緒還是事實(shí)）轉(zhuǎn)化為記憶。正是這種事后的剖析使我們明白一本書(shū)的價(jià)值所在?；蛟S，對(duì)于像我這樣健忘的讀者來(lái)說(shuō)，一項(xiàng)重大的任務(wù)，同時(shí)也是最大的樂(lè)趣，就是一遍遍地去讀一部小說(shuō)。然后，讀到一定程度，我便能真正地、實(shí)實(shí)在在地了解它了。

1. listless [?l?stl?s] adj. 倦怠的，無(wú)精打采的

2. deconstruct [?di?k?n?str?kt] vt. 解構(gòu)；拆析

3. yarn [jɑ?（r）n] n.〈口〉旅游軼事；奇聞漫談

4. Francine Prose：弗朗辛·普羅斯（1947～），美國(guó)著名短篇小說(shuō)家、散文作家，代表作為《憂郁的天使》（Blue Angel）。

5. The Lord of the Flies：《蠅王》，英國(guó)作家、諾貝爾文學(xué)獎(jiǎng)獲得者威廉·戈?duì)柖。╓illiam Golding，1911～1993）的代表作

6. discomfit [d?s?k?mf?t] vt. 使困惑；使窘迫

7. in-crowd [??nkra?d] n.〈口〉（熟人結(jié)成的）小圈子

8. put on：欺騙；愚弄

9. slink [sl??k] vi. 偷偷摸摸地移動(dòng)（或行動(dòng)）

10. disposable [d??sp??z?b（?）l] adj. 用后即丟棄的；一次性的

11. well-nigh [?welna?] adv.〈書(shū)〉幾乎，差不多

12. narcissism [?nɑ?（r）s??s?z（?）m] n. 自我陶醉；孤芳自賞；自戀

13. capricious [k??pr???s] adj. 變化無(wú)常的，變幻莫測(cè)的

14. urn [??（r）n] n. 翁；缸

15. minor [?ma?n?（r）] adj. （西方音樂(lè)中的小調(diào)）悲傷的；憂郁的；哀怨的

16. Nabokov：即弗拉基米爾·納博科夫（Vladimir Nabokov， 1899～1977），美籍小說(shuō)家，代表作為《洛麗塔》（Lolita）。

17. set loose：釋放

18. polish off：（飛快地）完成（工作等）

19. flank [fl??k] n. 脅腹；（四足動(dòng)物身體的）側(cè)邊

20. bag [b?ɡ] vt. 獵獲，捕獲

21. pore over：鉆研；專心閱讀

22. postmortem [?p??s（t）?m??（r）t?m] n. （對(duì)失敗或不愉快事件的）事后剖析