憤怒的繆斯

她夢想著有一天能與某位藝術家共譜戀曲，成為他的繆斯女神和靈感源泉，成為另一個澤爾達和蒙娜·麗莎，在藝術的殿堂里留下不朽的形象。但事實是，美夢總會被無情的現實打碎……

When I was a little girl I used to fantasize about the kind of guy I wanted to marry: a musician， filmmaker， writer or painter. I didn’t really care which one I ended up with—I only knew that I wanted to be with someone who could immortalize me in celluloid2)， in stereo， in print. I wanted to be his muse， his inspiration， Zelda to an F. Scott Fitzgerald3). I wanted to move someone to such great depths that a Mona Lisa would spring from his paintbrush.

When I was 24， I met Sam， a tormented， bespectacled4) writer who was， I believed， nothing short of5) brilliant. Sam published in well-respected literary journals， was a veritable encyclopedia of information， could talk film noir6) with the best of them. And yes， OK， he was Jewish. A literate Semite7) who liked movies. What more could a girl ask for?

So Sam and I entered that precarious8) territory known as a relationship. We did all those nauseating9) couple things: walks in the zoo， autumnal strolls through Harvard Square. He was a little more neurotic than I’d bargained for—he suffered from occasional bouts10) of agoraphobia11) and separation anxiety—a little competitive when it came to our respective writing careers， but soon our lives were entwined. We both taught at the same college and we hung out with the same circle of friends.

I even felt close enough to him to talk about my food problem. Like so many women， I was obsessed with food and weight; as I liked to describe it， I was a failed bulimic12)， a failed anorexic13). I’d mastered the binge14) but I couldn’t perfect the purge15). Like so many men， Sam just didn’t get it， and he questioned me endlessly: “How old were you the first time you weighed yourself?” and “What’s your favorite food?” Sam seemed genuinely fascinated by this， and upset by the obvious pain it caused me. He seemed to really want to help me shake “the food thing，” and I appreciated that.

And so I’d answer as honestly as I could， grateful that someone finally cared enough to ask. I’d never spoken about it with anyone before; it was my own private hell. It took a lot for me to talk so openly with Sam， but I trusted him.

With time， though， Sam grew progressively more irritable16) when it came to the food thing. “Why can’t you eat like a normal person?” he’d say， his brown eyes blazing behind his round John Lennon-style glasses. And then， more specifically， “Why can’t you eat with me?” To him， food was something intimate， special， something to share with the people he loved. My relationship with it， of course， was a lot more complicated， and try as I might， I couldn’t just change 16 years of conditioning.

Sam and I had been dating for about a year when he handed me the manila17) envelope.

“My story，” he said， grinning broadly. “It’s done.”

“Great!” I said. He’d been struggling with this piece for months， and I knew he was proud of it. “Should I read it now?”

He nodded. “Sure. I’d like to know what you think.” Off he went to take a shower; I sat down to read.

It began simply enough: a poignant little tale about a husband and wife in the throes of18) marital angst19). They loved each other， but she had these weird problems with food that， he believed， were the source of the couple’s misery. I read on， and slowly my blood began to boil. There， in print， were conversations I’d had with Sam， confessions I’d made about my own dietary struggles. I felt like smashing his computer through the window. No， the character wasn’t me， exactly—she was a tall blond lawyer， which， as of20) this writing， I am not—but she possessed enough of my idiosyncrasies21)， my neuroses， to be a damn good replica22). This wasn’t fiction; this was my life.

I felt violated， betrayed， voiceless—like Emily in Our Town23)， who saw things clearly a little too late. Sam had taken aspects of my life—personal， painful aspects—and condensed them， trivialized them， into 18 pages of prose. I finally understood why members of certain cultures refuse to be photographed: They feel their soul will be stripped from them. That’s how I felt when Sam wrote about me: like my soul， the core of my being， had been mercilessly snatched from me.

I probably should have known better. On our first date， Sam had told me about his previous girlfriend. They didn’t have much in common， he said， but she was very knowledgeable about all things feminine. Their relationship didn’t last， but her insights mysteriously worked their way into a short story of his.

Yes， I probably should have known better， but I honestly never thought he’d use my life as fodder24). When I’d imagined being someone’s muse I thought he’d wax25) poetic about my shoulders， my sense of humor， my patience during the long nights he’d spent “creating.” Instead， Sam had appropriated my most painful and private struggles for his own uses. Part of being in a relationship means opening yourself up， making yourself vulnerable. I thought Sam and I were becoming allies.

“I can’t believe you did this，” I said when Sam came out of the shower. I was so mad my teeth were chattering26). “Why did you have to write about me?”

“It’s not you，” he said. “Maybe she’s got similar traits， but it’s fiction. Don’t you think I have any imagination?”

“Oh， yeah? What about the scene with the Diet Coke27)? What about her thing with the salad dressing28)?”

And then I started crying， violently， terribly.

“I can’t believe you’re reacting like this，” he said. “You laugh about your food problem; you joke about it; how serious can it be? It’s the things we don’t talk about that are most important.”

“Bullshit!” I fumed29). “You asked me to talk about it! You questioned me! I never volunteered any information.”

“I should never have shown you the story，” he said.

“No，” I said. “You should never have written it.”

We broke up soon after， and got back together， and repeated that pattern a few more times， like a flu you can’t quite shake. We pretended to get along， but it was clear that the gap was too wide， torn by my lack of trust and his insistence that he was just being a writer (“Maybe so but all of Truman Capote30)’s friends stopped talking to him after he betrayed them in print，” I pointed out). Every time Sam asked me a question I wondered if he was looking for material for some future story， and I was never able to relax around him again.

Six months later he was offered a job at a newspaper down south and took it. It was unspoken but understood that we were breaking up for good31). Within weeks he found a new girlfriend. I hope she knows what she’s getting into. I’ve never met her， but I expect to read all about her in one of those well-respected literary journals.

It’s been four years since all this happened， but my chest still tightens and a howl forms in my throat whenever I think about it.

Still， I’ve learned some things since Sam and I broke up. For starters32)， musicians travel too much. Painters have dirty fingernails. And filmmakers hide behind cameras. As for writers， well， that’s what I do. I don’t need some guy to immortalize me in print; I’m quite capable of doing that by myself.

還是小女孩時，我就常常幻想我要嫁給一個什么樣的人：音樂家、電影制片人、作家或者畫家。我倒并不真的在乎最后和誰在一起——我只知道那個和我在一起的人一定要能夠賦予我不朽的生命，不管是在電影中、在音樂中，還是在文字中。我要做他的繆斯、他的靈感，我要做F·斯科特·菲茨杰拉德的澤爾達。我要深深打動某人的情懷，讓又一個蒙娜·麗莎從他的畫筆下脫穎而出。

24歲的時候，我遇到了薩姆，一個痛苦的、戴著眼鏡的作家，一個在我眼中才華橫溢的人。薩姆在名聲赫赫的文學雜志上發表作品，是一個真正的百科全書，談論起黑色電影來不輸于任何人。對了，還有，他是個猶太人，一個喜愛電影的閃族才子。一個女孩子還有什么不滿意的呢？

于是我和薩姆就開始了那種被稱之為“戀愛”的脆弱關系。我們做了情侶們常做的所有惡俗的事情：在動物園里散步；秋天里閑逛著穿過哈佛廣場。他有點神經質，這讓我有點吃不消——他有時會突發廣場恐怖癥和分手焦慮癥——我們各自的寫作生涯原本還有點競爭性，但很快我們的生活就交織在了一起。我們在同一所學院教書，在共同的朋友圈里混。

我甚至覺得我和他已親密到可以談論自己飲食問題的地步。和許多女性一樣，我也深受飲食與體重問題的困擾。我常常喜歡這樣形容自己：想吃卻又不敢吃，不敢吃卻又忍不住想吃。我只擅長吃進去，卻不知如何才能全部排出來。和許多男人一樣，薩姆總是無法明白女人的心思，總是不停地追問：“你第一次稱體重時多大年齡？”還老問：“你最喜歡吃什么？”對于吃的問題，薩姆似乎真的很感興趣，而對于這給我帶來的顯而易見的痛苦，他則感到心煩意亂。他似乎真心想幫我擺脫“吃的難題”，對此我很是感激。

所以我也總是盡可能誠懇地回答他的問題，常常充滿感激地想：終于有人在乎我，肯問我這些問題了。我以前從未和任何人談論過這些，這是我自己不可告人的傷痛。如此坦率地和薩姆談論這一切是需要巨大勇氣的，但我信任他。

可是，漸漸地，在吃的問題上，薩姆變得越來越不耐煩。他會問：“你為什么就不能像個正常人那樣吃東西呢？”在那副約翰·列儂式的眼鏡后面，他那雙棕色的眼睛像要噴出火來。接著，問題變得更加具體：“你為什么不能和我一起吃呢？”在他看來，食物是一種體現親密關系的特別之物，是要和所愛之人一同分享的。當然，我和食物之間的關系要復雜得多，雖然我也努力過，但就是無法改變自己16年來形成的習慣。

在我和薩姆戀愛大約一年的時候，他遞給我一個馬尼拉紙信封。

“我的小說，”他笑容滿面地說，“寫完了。”

“太棒了！”我說。這篇小說他辛辛苦苦寫了幾個月，我知道這是他的驕傲。“我現在就可以拜讀嗎？”

他點點頭。“當然。我想知道你的看法。”說完他就洗澡去了，我坐下來開始讀。

小說的開頭很簡單：這是個筆鋒辛辣的小故事，寫的是一對夫妻在婚姻生活中的痛苦與焦慮。他們彼此相愛，但妻子在飲食方面有著各種怪癖，丈夫認為這就是他們生活痛苦的來源。我讀著讀著，血漸漸地往上涌，像要沸騰一般。就在那里，白紙黑字地寫著我和薩姆曾有的對話——我向他吐露的關于我苦苦節食的心里話。我真想把他的電腦從窗戶扔出去。不是，確切地說，小說里的這個人物并不是我——她是個身材高挑的金發律師，而我不是，至少在他寫這篇小說時我不是這樣的。但她擁有足夠多我的氣質、我的神經質特性，足以證明她是我的復制品，與我超級相似。這不是虛構的小說，而是我真實的生活。

我感到自己受到了侵犯，遭到了背叛，一時說不出話來：就像《我們的小鎮》中的艾米莉一樣，徹底看清一切時，卻為時已晚。薩姆截取了我生活的片段——隱私的、痛苦的片段——將它們壓縮、簡化，寫成了一篇18頁的作品。我終于明白了為什么一些文明中的人們拒絕照相：他們覺得那樣會把自己的靈魂奪走。薩姆寫我的時候，我的感覺就是這樣：就像我的靈魂，也是我生命的核心，被無情地從我身上攫走了。

也許我早就該學得聰明些。我們第一次約會時，薩姆就告訴了我他前女友的事。他說，他們沒有太多共同之處，但是她對所有與女性有關的東西都了如指掌。他們的關系并沒有持續多久，但她的種種見解卻神秘地出現在他寫的一篇短篇小說中。

是的，也許我早就該學得聰明些，但坦率地說，我從來也沒有想到過他會利用我的生活來作為素材。當我想象成為某人的繆斯時，我想的是他會用詩情畫意的語言來描繪我的雙肩、我的幽默感，以及我在他從事“創作”的漫漫長夜里表現出的耐心。可是，薩姆卻擅自將我最痛苦、最隱秘的掙扎據為己“用”。戀愛就意味著向對方敞開心扉，毫不設防，因而很容易受傷。我原以為薩姆和我屬于同一戰壕的戰友。

“我無法相信你竟然這樣對我，”我在薩姆淋浴出來后對他說。我氣得牙齒打顫。“你為什么偏要寫我？”

“那不是你，”他說，“也許她有些特點和你相似，但那是虛構的。難道你認為我沒有想象力嗎？”

“噢，是嗎？那么那個關于健怡可樂的場景是怎么回事？還有那個色拉醬調料又是怎么回事？”

接著我就慟哭起來，直哭得天昏地暗。

“我真想不到你反應會這么激烈，”他說，“你的節食問題你自己也打趣過，你自己也開過玩笑，這有什么大不了的呢？我們沒有談論過的事情才是最重要的啊。”

“扯淡！”我大怒道，“是你要我說的！是你問我的！我從來沒有主動透露過任何信息。”

“我真不該給你看我寫的東西。”他說。

“是不該，”我說，“你根本就不應該寫。”

之后不久我們就分手了，但后來又在一起了，這樣分分合合了好幾次，就像一場反反復復的感冒。我們裝出一副和睦融洽的樣子，但顯而易見，我們之間的裂痕太深了：一方面是由于我對他缺乏信任，另一方面則是因為他堅稱他只不過是在寫作(“也許你是對的，但杜魯門·卡波特在白紙黑字中背叛了自己的朋友后，所有的朋友都不再理他了。”我向他指出)。每當薩姆問我一個問題，我都會想他是不是在為以后的小說尋找素材。在他身邊，我再也無法放松下來。

六個月后，南方一家報紙給他提供了一份工作，他接受了。我們心照不宣，知道這次我們要永遠地分開了。沒過幾個星期，他就找到了新的女友。但愿她明白她將會陷入什么樣的處境。我從來沒有見過她，但我想我應該能在一家聲名赫赫的文學雜志上讀到有關她的種種故事吧。

如今這件事已過去四年，但只要一想起來，我的心就禁不住一陣緊縮，嗓子里總忍不住想要怒吼。

不過，自從和薩姆分手后，我也明白了一些東西。首先，音樂家要經常外出旅行，畫家經常弄臟手指頭，電影制片人常常躲在鏡頭后面。而作家呢，我的經歷就是教訓。我不再需要某人在文字中賦予我永恒的生命——我自己已有足夠的能力做到這一點。

1.pissed-off：憤怒的

2.celluloid [#712;selj#650;l#596;#618;d] n. 影片；[總稱]電影

3.Zelda to an F. Scott Fitzgerald：F·斯科特·菲茨杰拉德(1896～1940)是20世紀上半葉美國著名的小說家。澤爾達(1900～1948)是他的妻子，也是其許多小說中女主角的原型。

4.bespectacled [b#618;#712;spekt#601;k(#601;)ld] adj. 戴眼鏡的

5.nothing short of：無異于，幾乎與……一樣，根本不遜于

6.film noir [#716;f#618;lm #712;nwɑ#720;(r)]〈法〉黑色電影，電影界用語，通常用作指代一種特殊風格的犯罪電影，往往關注于性與道德的腐化。

7.Semite [#712;si#720;ma#618;t] n. 閃族人， 閃米特人(包括希伯來人、阿拉伯人、巴比倫人等，今特指猶太人)

8.precarious

[pr#618;#712;ke#601;ri#601;s] adj. 不牢靠的，不穩的

9.nauseating

[#712;n#596;#720;zi#716;e#618;t#618;#331;] adj. 令人惡心的；使人厭惡的

10.bout [ba#650;t] n. (疾病等的)發作

11.agoraphobia

[#716;aelig;ɡ(#601;)r#601;#712;f#601;#650;bi#601;] n. [心]廣場恐怖癥，又名廣場恐懼癥、恐曠癥、曠野恐懼等，是焦慮癥的一種。特指在公共場合或者開闊的地方停留時的極端恐懼，因為要逃離這種地方是不可能的或者是會令人感到尷尬的。

12.bulimic [bju#720;#712;l#618;mik] n. 貪食癥患者，食欲過盛(或亢進)癥患者

13.anorexic [#716;aelig;n#601;#712;reks#618;k] n. 厭食者；食欲缺乏的人

14.binge [b#618;nd#658;] n. 狂飲作樂，尤指大吃大喝

15.purge [p#604;#720;(r)d#658;] n. 催瀉，通便

16.irritable [#712;#618;r#618;t#601;b(#601;)l] adj. 急躁的

17.manila [m#601;#712;n#618;l#601;] n. 馬尼拉紙(一種強韌的淡黃色紙張，用馬尼拉麻或類似樹木的纖維制成，常用來做信封)

18.in the throes of sth.：陷入困難的(或痛苦的)境地

19.angst [aelig;#331;st] n. 憂慮；疑懼

20.as of：在……時

21.idiosyncrasy

[#716;#618;di#601;#650;#712;s#618;#331;kr#601;si] n. (個人特有的)氣質，習性，癖好

22.replica [#712;repl#618;k#601;] n. 復制品

23.Emily in Our Town：《我們的小鎮》(Our Town)是美國劇作家桑頓·懷爾德(Thornton Wilder， 1897～1975)的作品。作者用低入泥土的視角講述了日常生活中周而復始的小事，用平常的點滴展現了生活中存在的威嚴與平凡。艾米莉為該劇的女主角。她因難產離世，后來她的靈魂又回到了曾經記錄她笑聲的地方。此時她才發現，那些平凡瑣碎、簡單平淡是如此美好和珍貴，然而活著的人們從來沒有認識到生活的真正意義。

24.fodder [#712;f#594;d#601;(r)] n. (創作的)素材

25.wax [waelig;ks] vi. (漸漸)變成，轉為

26.chatter [#712;t#643;aelig;t#601;(r)] vi. (牙齒)打顫

27.Diet Coke：健怡可口可樂，是由可口可樂公司總部研發的全新產品，于1995年首先在德國市場推出。

28.dressing [#712;dres#618;#331;] n. (拌制色拉等用的)調料

29.fume [fju#720;m] vi. 發怒；怒氣沖沖地說話

30.Truman Capote：杜魯門·卡波特(1924～1984)，美國著名的小說家，其代表作品主要有小說《其他的聲音，其他的房間》(Other Voices， Other Rooms)、《蒂凡尼的早餐》(Breakfast at Tiffany’s)和《冷血》(In Cold Blood)等。

31.for good：永久地

32.for starters：首先，起初