約翰·辛普森

My interview at the dictionary was in June， at the beginning of the long hot summer of 1976， and Hilary and I took the train up3 from the earnest red brick of Reading to the medieval grandeur of Oxford to see if I could be settled into steady employment and the salary-earning classes. We arrived at the railway station and made our way to the Oxford University Press offices in Walton Street—to what I later came to regard as the epicentre of dictionary-making in the Western world. From here I was on my own. Hilary decided to look around the local shops， confidently but naively expecting me to reappear—elated or dejected—about thirty minutes later.

You and I would think epicentre was a good classical word， maybe arising in English around 1660， with the birth of the new， empirical sciences and the Renaissance affection for ancient words. But its not; we know it entered into the English language considerably later than that （1880）. Scientists typically reach4 for classical words—or just broken twigs of classical words—when creating a new term， in a tradition of pan-European scientific enquiry that reaches up to the present day. The immediate predecessor of epicentre in English was epicentrum （1874）， used in the same sense （“the point above the centre，” especially in seismology）. Maybe epicentrum looks barbaric to us， but thats the word the German scientist Karl von Seebach invented in 1873， in German but from Greek elements， for his new word in the new science of seismology （itself from Greek elements： the study of earthquakes）. We just made the new word look English， by changing epicentrum to epicentre. Try not to make assumptions about the origin and usage of words; there may be more of a story to it， especially when it is in the hands of white-coated scientists.

The front of the Oxford University Press was imposing5， especially to someone whose only experience of Oxford until then derived from regular trips over the county border from where I lived in Gloucestershire， as part of a school sports team. The massive black wrought-iron gates set between thick stone columns were designed to exclude and yet—by offering a passing glimpse on to a college-style lawn and quadrangle， with a towering copper beech tree leaning over an idle pond—to incite wonder and fascination. The building itself looked classically eighteenth century， as was intended when it was built in the early nineteenth century to house under one collective roof the University Presss editorial staff and print workers， who were previously scattered elsewhere in Oxford. I was， needless to say， suitably impressed.

The University Press porter6 let me into the grand quadrangle， or “quad.” Before I had a chance to reach the sumptuous lawn， I was directed off to one side—you didnt get to experience the full splendour of the place unless you deserved it—where I found the Personnel Department and my recent correspondent， the Colonel.

The Colonel was the human face of the Personnel Department at OUP in those days： he was a delightful military chap—“（retd）” of course—and something of a leftover from the days when old soldiers ruled Personnel. He was almost certainly modelled closely on7 the character actor Wilfrid Hyde-White， Colonel Pickering of My Fair Lady： quite short， dapper， balding， chatty， and charmingly military in tenor. We shook hands， and then he sank into his seat behind a substantial desk while I was directed towards an easy chair designed principally to make you feel that you werent the most important person in the room. We talked about the magnificent history of the University Press， as seen through the eyes of the Personnel Department， and we wondered jointly how easy I might find it moving from Reading to Oxford， should I be fortunate enough to be offered the opportunity. The distance between the two places is about twenty-five miles， but I discovered much later that there were people in Oxford who thought civilisation ended just a few hundred feet outside the old city walls， where the barbarian hordes were dug in for the foreseeable future. Others are said to believe that “the sun rises over Wadham [College] and sets over Worcester.” Worcester College， that is： there wouldnt be much point in referring to the City of Worcester here.

Once we had exhausted all possible areas of conversation， he took me on a little walk round to the dictionary department. In those days most of the University Press operated out of a single large block of buildings tucked away amongst the terraces of Jericho—an area of Oxford by the canal， made famous as Beersheba in Jude the Obscure. The dictionary occupied two small terraced houses， No. 40 and No. 41 Walton Crescent， on the edge of the main site. Its offices were very close to the centre of the University Presss publishing control rooms， and so the Colonel and I did not have far to walk. I was taken through the corridor-snaking interior of the University Press and debouched at No. 40 Walton Crescent.

According to its entry in the OED， the verb to debouch entered English in the mid-eighteenth century from French. Its not a particularly common word these days， but this again illustrates how we pluck out and make use of words from different layers of the contemporary language—archaic， historical， geographically distant， upper-class， or whatever. French words had been storming into English since at least the days of the Norman Conquest in 1066， but debouch apparently had seen no need to seek asylum here until quite late in the day， around the year 1740. It derives directly from the French word déboucher， “to unblock， uncork—let run out freely.” Its quite unrelated to the word debauch （which originally meant “to lead from the straight and narrow， or from the path of virtue”）， also borrowed from French， but several centuries earlier. A river can debouch into the sea， after having been pent up by its banks; a military force can debouch into open country after marching under cover of a forest; I was debouched unceremoniously by my guide in front of the dictionary department.

No. 40 Walton Crescent was the nerve centre of the OED in those days. The Colonel chattered away as he led me up to a room on the first floor， where he introduced me to the departmental secretary， and then left me to await my interview with the OEDs chief. I was told that my waiting room was the departmental library. There was a central table around which editors would sit while consulting the weighty books arrayed on shelves throughout the room; and right in the centre of the table was a book-rest displaying the latest texts that had been voraciously consumed （it was carefully explained to me by my guide） by the dictionarys stable of “readers”—that is， the people who volunteered to make their way steadily through countless works of literature， hunting down words and expressions which they wrote out on index cards and sent to Oxford for possible inclusion in the dictionary. The Collected Letters of George Bernard Shaw had made its appearance there that week， along with several other books and magazines whose titles I forget.

The possibility of a group of OED readers scattered around the world， whose sole objective in life was to collect extracts from books such as Shaws Letters， exclusively for the files of the dictionary， was an entrancing prospect. I envisaged these troops of readers being asked to read the latest prize-winning novels， or a run of racy tabloid newspapers， just looking out for new words. Who were these people？ How did they land a job like that？ Did anyone ever meet them？ But this was just something to mull over. I didnt need to think out all the implications just yet.

Though I did not realise it at the time， I was at that very moment the object of all-consuming attention to numerous dictionary editors， keen to spot what their potential new colleague might look like. I affected8 nonchalance9 as I investigated the contents of the library， but I was left to await my fate.

詞典部約我面試是在6月，1976年那個漫長炎熱的夏季剛剛開始，希拉麗和我乘坐火車，從雷丁莊重的紅磚樓來到牛津堂皇的中世紀(jì)建筑，看看我能否謀取一份穩(wěn)定的工作，躋身工薪階層。我們順利抵達牛津火車站，一路找到坐落于沃爾頓大街的牛津大學(xué)出版社辦事處——我后來開始將這里視為西方世界詞典編纂的中樞（epicentre）。到了這兒，我得一個人行動了。希拉麗決定在當(dāng)?shù)氐纳痰贽D(zhuǎn)一轉(zhuǎn)，充滿信心卻也是過于天真地預(yù)計，大約30分鐘后我就會重新出現(xiàn)：無論是錄用，還是被拒。

你我往往都會認(rèn)為，epicentre（震中;中樞）是古典詞語的一個極佳個例，或許于1660年前后在英語中出現(xiàn)，伴隨新的實驗科學(xué)和文藝復(fù)興引發(fā)的喜好古詞之風(fēng)而產(chǎn)生。實際卻并非如此。我們知道它進入英語相當(dāng)晚（1880）。造新詞時，科學(xué)家典型的做法是借助于古典詞語——或者從這些詞上折取一些小枝杈。這是泛歐洲科學(xué)研究的一個傳統(tǒng)，一直延續(xù)至今。在英語中，epicentre的最直接前身是epicentrum（1874），意思相同（“中心之上的那個點”，尤用于地震學(xué)，指“震中”）。epicentrum這個詞看上去或許有些“荒蠻”，但它是德國科學(xué)家卡爾·馮希巴赫1873年創(chuàng)造的，是德語，卻源自希臘語，專為地震學(xué)（seismology本身也源自希臘語，意思是研究地震的學(xué)問）這門新科學(xué)而造。把epicentrum變成epicentre，只是為了讓這個新詞看上去更像英語。不要試圖憑空去猜測單詞的詞源和用法：單詞背后的故事可能更多，尤其是出自身穿白大褂的科學(xué)家之手時。

牛津大學(xué)出版社的門面很壯觀，尤其對我這樣的人而言——此前，我對牛津的體驗只存在于跟隨學(xué)校運動隊從格洛斯特郡出發(fā)的定期跨郡之旅中。兩個粗大的石柱間，安裝著兩扇厚實的黑鑄鐵大柵欄門，此種設(shè)計原本為了隔絕，卻也引發(fā)了人們的好奇和迷戀——透過柵欄向內(nèi)匆匆一瞥，能夠看到大學(xué)風(fēng)格的草坪和四方院建筑，還有一棵高聳入云的紫葉山毛櫸，側(cè)身掩映著一塘閑水。出版社大樓本身看上去就是典型的18世紀(jì)建筑，建于19世紀(jì)初，意在將出版社全體編輯人員和印刷工人匯集在同一個屋檐下，此前他們在牛津各處辦公。不用說，大樓給我留下了深刻印象。

大學(xué)出版社的門衛(wèi)放我進入了宏大的四方院。還沒來得及走到奢華的草坪，我就被領(lǐng)著轉(zhuǎn)向一側(cè)——要想充分領(lǐng)略這里的富麗堂皇，得有資格才行——我被帶到人事部，見到了近期與我通信的“上?！?。

那時，“上?！笔浅霭嫔缛耸虏康男麄鞔匀耍核且晃豢鞓返能娙耍?dāng)然是“退伍的”，是那個老兵統(tǒng)治人事的年代所遺留下來的。他幾乎與性格演員威爾弗里德·海德-懷特——就是電影《窈窕淑女》中的那位皮克林上校——別無二致：身材矮小、衣冠楚楚、謝頂、健談，外加迷人的軍人風(fēng)范。我們握過手，他就坐到了辦公桌后面的座椅里，辦公桌寬大厚實，而我則按照指示坐上一張輕便椅——這椅子主要就是為了讓你體會到，在這個房間里你不是那個最重要的人。我們談到出版社的輝煌歷史，當(dāng)然是透過人事部的眼睛來回顧的;還一起想弄明白，如果我有幸得到這份工作，從雷丁搬到牛津大概是多簡單的事。兩地之間大約相距25英里，然而很久之后我發(fā)現(xiàn)，在牛津有一些人認(rèn)為，走出牛津老城城墻幾百英尺，文明就止步了：在可預(yù)見的未來，那里還一直會由蠻族把守。據(jù)說，還有些人認(rèn)為，“太陽在瓦德漢[學(xué)院]升起，在伍斯特沉落”。這里的伍斯特指伍斯特學(xué)院，不是指伍斯特市，否則沒什么意義。

我們談完了各種可能的話題后，他便領(lǐng)我去詞典部轉(zhuǎn)轉(zhuǎn)。那時候，大學(xué)出版社的絕大部分機構(gòu)都在一大片獨立的建筑群內(nèi)，隱身于耶利哥的排房之中。耶利哥是牛津靠運河的一個區(qū)域，以《無名的裘德》中的比爾謝巴聞名。詞典部占據(jù)了兩棟小排屋——沃爾頓新月街40號和41號，在出版社主址最靠邊的位置。詞典部的辦公室離大學(xué)出版社出版控制辦公室的中心很近，所以我和“上?！庇貌恢叨噙h。我被帶著穿過大學(xué)出版社內(nèi)部的蜿蜒走廊，沃爾頓新月街40號豁然出現(xiàn)（debouch）。

依據(jù)《牛津英語詞典》中的詞條，動詞to debouch在18世紀(jì)中從法語進入英語。如今，它不是個特別通用的單詞，但它再一次向我們展示，我們?nèi)绾螐漠?dāng)代語言的不同層面挑揀詞語來使用——廢棄的、歷史的、遙遠的、上流階層的，等等。至少從1066年諾曼征服的年代開始，法語詞就一直洶涌而入，但是很顯然debouch不需要在這里尋求避難，直到更晚些時候，大約是1740年。它直接派生于法語詞déboucher，意思是“解除障礙、拔去塞子——讓自由跑出”。有一個詞跟它長相相近卻毫不相干，debauch（最初意指“使品行不端或道德淪喪”），也借自法語，但要早好幾個世紀(jì)。受堤岸約束的河流可以在擺脫堤岸后流入（debouch）大海;在樹林掩護下行進的部隊可以在穿過樹林后進入（debouch）開闊地;我被向?qū)仆坏貛У搅耍╠ebouch）詞典部。

沃爾頓新月街40號是當(dāng)時《牛津英語詞典》的神經(jīng)中樞?！吧闲！币贿呧┼┎恍莸卣f著，一邊帶我來到二樓的一個房間，把我介紹給詞典部的秘書，然后就轉(zhuǎn)身走了，剩下我一個人等待詞典主編面試。我被告知，等候室是詞典部的圖書館。整間屋子排滿了書架，上面擱著厚重的圖書，屋子正中擺放著一張大桌子，供編輯們查閱資料時圍坐。桌子中央是一個看書架，展示最近的閱讀文本，這些文本已經(jīng)由詞典招募的固定“閱讀者”狼吞虎咽般地完成通讀（我的向?qū)槲以敿毥忉屃耍?。“閱讀者”指的是那些志愿者，他們持續(xù)不斷地通篇閱讀數(shù)不清的文學(xué)作品，捕捉那些單詞和表達式，將它們謄抄到索引卡片上，發(fā)送給牛津備用，有些可能會被收錄。那個星期，看書架上擺放的是蕭伯納的《書信集》，另外還有幾本書和雜志，名字我記不得了。

《牛津英語詞典》的“閱讀者”群體可能散布世界各地，他們此生的唯一目標(biāo)就是從蕭伯納《書信集》之類的書籍中收集摘錄，作為資料專供詞典編纂，這一境況令人著迷。我想象著一群群“閱讀者”受命閱讀最新獲獎的小說或一系列生動有趣的特色小報，目的就是找出新詞。這都是些什么人？他們怎么找到這樣一份工作的？有誰跟他們見過面嗎？但這是要好好研究的事。我還大可不必去思考那種種結(jié)果。

當(dāng)時我沒有意識到，但就在那一刻，我是眾多詞典編輯關(guān)注的對象，他們急切地想要瞧瞧可能入職的新同事長什么樣。我裝作若無其事的樣子，翻看著圖書館的資料，但實際卻只能忐忑地等候命運的發(fā)落。? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?□