后悔有益

I regret everything. Decades-old decisions， things I said， things I didn’t say， opportunities I missed， opportunities I took， recent purchases， non-purchases， returns. I turn all of these things over in my mind and examine them for clues — to what， I’m not sure. All I know is that very little of what I do or fail to do escapes the constant 2）churn of revision. It’s just the way I process experience： 3）sceptically， and 4）in retrospect. It’s like being a time-traveller， only instead of going back to Ancient Rome or the French Revolution， I return again and again to the traumatic sites of my own fateful （or not so fateful） forks in the road. Some people see this as self flagellation； I tend to think of it as a lifelong effort to 5）reconcile the possible with the actual —getting to know the real me. After all， as they say， we’re defined by our choices.

When I was six years old， I pulverised a friend’s brand-new 6）Etch A Sketch. Actually， he wasn’t my friend — our mothers were friends， I didn’t know him all. He was a little bit older than me — maybe seven or eight — and I found him 7）aloof and 8）intimidating. He lived in an enormous modern house made of glass and concrete， with an exterior staircase that led to a balcony overlooking a terrace and pool. We were visiting 9）Lima， where my 10）Peruvian parents were from， before suburban New Jersey， and I felt like a fish out of water — shy， awkward， foreign， weird. At some point， I broke away from the other kids and went up to the balcony to be alone with the Etch A Sketch， which the boy had received for Christmas a few days earlier.

Alone， I was gripped by the sudden urge to balance the Etch A Sketch on the balcony 11）railing. Even as the idea was forming in my mind， I knew that its risks far outweighed its 12）dubious rewards， and that I’d live to regret it. I was still thinking these thoughts as I watched the Etch A Sketch fall through the air and land in one piece with a sickening crunch. When I picked it up， it made a sound like a 13）maraca. The knobs moved but no lines appeared on the screen. I then placed the Etch A Sketch carefully on a nearby chair， went to find my mother， and told her I had a headache and wanted to go home.

Remorse， it seems to me， would have been the more appropriate response to having destroyed my young host’s shiny new present from Santa， but that would have involved a degree of empathy that I’m ashamed to admit I didn’t feel for him. Somewhere deep down， I interpreted his cool 14）self-possession as 15）contemptuous indifference or outright 16）disdain， and in enacting my tiny rebellion， I succeeded only in manifesting my worst fears about myself. In my 17）fit of alienation and insecurity， I’d turned myself into the person I thought he thought I was： The weirdo who broke his new toy. And I’d made sure he’d remember me that way forever.

There’s a particular disdain for regret in US culture. It’s regarded as self-indulgent and irrational — a “useless”feeling. We prefer 18）utilitarian emotions， those we can use as vehicles for transformation， and closure. “Dwelling”， we tend to agree， gets you nowhere. It just leads you around in circles.

In the fall of my senior year of high school， my dad and I flew from Madrid， where we lived， to Boston for college interviews. My dad’s career was going off the rails at the time， but he was feeling hopeful and expansive， so when the airline misplaced his luggage， we headed straight for Brooks Brothers and then went out for lobster. My first college interview， which also happened to be my first interview of any kind， ever， was at Harvard. It hadn’t occurred to me to do anything to prepare for it， much less to try to get a sense of what to expect.

As it happened， the person who interviewed me had been a teacher at my high school in Madrid 20 years earlier. He knew my principal as well as several veteran teachers. We talked about Spain’s transition to democracy after Franco， about the way the country seemed to wake up after a deep 40-year sleep. We talked about dress codes in restaurants and porn on TV. As the interview was ending， I was suddenly struck by the feeling that I’d messed up. I’d frittered away the interview making clever observations about the politics of shorts. And even though the interviewer seemed encouraging， I decided， when it came time to work on the application form， to save my dad the $50 application fee. And neither one of my parents had anything to say about it. Yes， I could have applied and gotten rejected like everyone else. But if I had， I probably wouldn’t have blown my interview 20 years later， when I was a finalist for a fellowship. But I guess I’ll never know that， either.

In a culture that believes winning is everything， that sees success as a totalising， absolute system， happiness and even basic worth are determined by winning. It’s not surprising， then， that people feel they need to deny regret — deny failure — in order to stay in the game. “Great novels，” Landman points out， “are often about regret： about the life-changing consequences of a single bad decision （say， marrying the wrong person， not marrying the right one， or having let love pass you by altogether） over a long period of time.” The point of regret is not to try to change the past， but to shed light on the present. What novels tell us is that regret is instructive. And the first thing regret tells us is that something in the present is wrong. Rather than deny regret， we should embrace 19）ambivalence. We should strive for an ideal— that is， behave as if it’s possible for an absolute ideal to exist — while remembering that it doesn’t， that in fact outcomes are random， and that all possibilities exist simultaneously.

我對什么都感到后悔。后悔這幾十年來做過的決定、我說出口的話、我沒說出口的話、我錯過的機會、我抓住的機會，近期買入的、沒買的、退掉的物品。我在自己的腦海里反復地想著所有的這些事情，想從中找出線索——為了什么，我卻不知道。我所知道的是幾乎沒有什么我做過的或是沒做成的能逃開我的不斷思量。這只不過是我處理親身體驗的方式：以懷疑的態度追溯往事。就像是一個時光旅行者，不過不是回到古羅馬或是法國大革命時期，而是一次又一次地回到令自己痛苦的至關重要（或許也沒那么重要）的分岔路口。有些人將此視之為自我鞭策；而我則傾向于認為那是一場終身努力，用以調和可能與現實，從中了解真正的自我。畢竟，常言道，我們的選擇塑造了我們自身。

在我六歲的時候，我毀掉了一個朋友嶄新的蝕刻素描玩具。實際上，他并不是我的朋友——我們各自的母親互為朋友而已，我壓根不認識他。他年紀比我大一點點——大概七八歲的樣子——而且我發現他為人冷漠，令人生畏。他住在一座由玻璃和混凝土建成的房子里，房子又大又時髦，外面一道樓梯通向陽臺，在上面可以俯瞰平臺和水池。我們當時正在造訪利馬市，這是我的秘魯父母在去到新澤西郊區之前的故鄉，而我在這里卻感覺像是脫水之魚——害羞、尷尬，又是一個古怪的外國人。后來某個時候，我擺脫了其他的孩子，獨自帶著蝕刻素描玩具跑到了陽臺上，玩具是那個男孩幾天前收到的圣誕節禮物。……