從街角數(shù)起的第二棵樹

E.B.懷特（1899-1985），全名為埃爾文·布魯克斯·懷特（Elwyn Brooks White），是美國當(dāng)代著名散文家、評論家，以散文聞名于世，其文風(fēng)冷峻清麗，辛辣幽默，自成一格。懷特在《紐約客》創(chuàng)刊之初就成為該雜志的專職撰稿人，在接下來的11年里為《紐約客》創(chuàng)作了大量文章，為這本影響深遠(yuǎn)的雜志奠定了基本的文風(fēng)。懷特分別于1971年和1978年，獲得了美國 “國家文學(xué)獎?wù)隆焙汀捌绽咛貏e文藝獎”。

《從街角數(shù)起的第二棵樹》是懷特于1954年創(chuàng)作的一部短篇小說。特雷克斯勒是一位精神病人，他每周都會去復(fù)診，故事就發(fā)生在他和醫(yī)生之間。特雷克斯勒是一個四十歲的中年人，正處于生活壓力最大的時候。他腦海中總會出現(xiàn)一些異想天開的想法，連看到一本醫(yī)學(xué)書的名字都會感到可怕，因為他會想象出各種身體不適的癥狀。故事高潮發(fā)生在他第五次復(fù)診時，醫(yī)生問他：“你想要什么？”他不知道自己想要什么，而當(dāng)他知道醫(yī)生想要的是廂房、錢、空閑的時間時，卻在心里嘲笑他。其實，醫(yī)生想要的東西不就是我們“正常人”想要的嗎？讀完這篇小說，我迷惑了：到底是誰有??？

本期黃金書屋節(jié)選自小說的高潮部分。小說以特雷克斯勒為第一人稱敘述，作為一個精神病人，他說的很多話似乎很難理解，但那大概就是作者想要表達(dá)的東西。很多時候，故事當(dāng)中隱晦的意義需要我們在生活中慢慢領(lǐng)悟。

It was on the fifth visit， about halfway through， that the doctor turned to Trexler and said suddenly，“What do you want？” He gave the word “want”special emphasis.

“I don’t know，” replied Trexler uneasily. “I guess nobody knows the answer to that one.”

“Sure they do，” replied the doctor.

“Do you know what you want？” asked Trexler narrowly.

“Certainly，” said the doctor.

Trexler noticed that， at this point， the doctor’s chair slid slightly backward， away from him. Trexler 1）stifled a small internal smile.“Scared as a rabbit，”he said to himself.“L o o k a t h i m 2）scoot.”“What do you want？” continued Trexler， pressing his advantage， pressing it hard. The doctor glided back another inch away from his inquisitor.“I want a wing on the small house I own in Westport. I want more money， and more leisure to do the things I want to do.”

Trexler was just about to say “And what are those things you want to do， Doctor？” when he caught himself. “Better not go too far，” he mused. “Better not lose possession of the ball.” “And， besides，” he thought，“what the hell goes on here anyway？ Me paying 15 bucks a throw for these 3）séances， and then doing the work myself， asking the questions， weighing the answers. So he wants a new wing. There’s a fine piece of 4）theatrical 5）gauze for you. A new wing.”

He stepped into the street， turned west toward Madison， and thought of the doctor， all alone there， after hours， in that desolate hall， a man who worked longer hours than his secretary. “Poor， scared， overworked bastard” thought Trexler， “And that new wing.”

It was an evening of clearing weather， the park showing green and desirable in the distance， the last daylight applying a high lacquer to the brick and brownstone walls and giving the street scene a 6）luminous and 7）intoxicating splendor. Trexler meditated， as he walked， on what he wanted. “What do you want？” he heard again.

Trexler knew what he wanted， and what， in general， all men wanted， and he was glad， in a way， that it was both inexpressible and unattainable， and that it wasn’t a“wing.” He was satisfied to remember that it was deep， formless， enduring and impossible of fulfillment， and that it made men sick， and that， when you 8）sauntered along Third Avenue and looked through the doorways into the dim saloons， you could sometimes pick out from the 9）unregenerate ranks the ones who had not forgotten， gazing steadily into the bottoms of the glasses on the long chance that they could get another little peek at it. Trexler found himself renewed by the rememberance that what he wanted was at once great and 10）microscopic， and that， although it borrowed from the nature of large deeds and of youthful love and of old songs and early 11）intimations， it was not any one of these things， and that it had not been isolated or pinned down， and that a man who attempted to define it， in the privacy of a doctor’s office， would fall flat on his face.

Trexler felt invigorated. Suddenly his sickness seemed health， his dizziness stability. A small tree， rising between him and the light， stood there， saturated with the evening， each gilt-edged leaf perfectly drunk with excellence and delicacy. Trexler’s spine registered an ever-so-slight 12）tremor as it picked up this natural disturbance in the lovely scene. “I want the second tree from the corner just as it stands.” he said， answering an imaginary question from an imaginary physician. And he felt a slow pride in realizing that what he wanted none could 13）bestow， and that what he had none could take away. He felt content to be sick， unembarrassed at being afraid， and， in the jungle of his fear， he glimpsed， as he had so often glimpsed them before， the flashy tail feathers of the bird， courage.

那是在第五次就診時，差不多進(jìn)行了一半，醫(yī)生突然對特雷克斯勒說：“你想要什么？”他特別強(qiáng)調(diào)了“想要”這個詞?！?br>