AlmostNoMemory

莉迪亞·戴維斯（Lydia Davis） 1947年出生于美國馬薩諸塞州的北安普敦，父親是史密斯學(xué)院的英國文學(xué)教授，母親在哈佛大學(xué)的拉德克里夫研究生院任職。1957年，因其父赴哥倫比亞大學(xué)任教，所以舉家遷至紐約。1965年，她考入巴納德大學(xué)攻讀文學(xué)專業(yè)，結(jié)識了第一任丈夫——作家保羅·奧斯特（Paul Auster）。畢業(yè)后，戴維斯在諾頓出版社擔(dān)任編輯，后隨奧斯特在巴黎游學(xué)三年，兩人返回美國結(jié)婚，又于1981年離婚。戴維斯長期從事法國文學(xué)翻譯，同時(shí)于20世紀(jì)70年代開始撰寫短篇小說，她的第一部短篇小說集《第十三個女人及其他故事》（The Thirteenth Woman and Other Stories）出版于1976年。其后，她又發(fā)表了小說集《瓦西里的生活速寫》（Sketches for a Life of Wassilly）、《幾乎沒有記憶》（Almost No Memory）等。《幾乎沒有記憶》是她最重要的作品之一。

Excerpts1）

The Fish Tank

I stare at four fish in a tank in the supermarket. They are swimming in parallel formation against a small current created by a jet of water， and they are opening and closing their mouths and staring off into the distance with the one eye， each， that I can see. As I watch them through the glass， thinking how fresh they would be to eat， still alive now， and calculating whether I might buy one to cook for dinner， I also see， as though behind or through them， a larger， shadowy form darkening their tank， what there is of me on the glass， their predator2）.

Go Away

When he says， “Go away and don’t come back，” you are hurt by the words even though you know he does not mean what the words say， or rather you think he probably means “Go away” because he is so angry at you he does not want you anywhere near him right now， but you are quite sure he does not want you to stay away， he must want you to come back， either soon or later， depending on how quickly he may grow less angry during the time you are away， how he may remember other less angry feelings he often has for you that may soften his anger now. But though he does mean “Go away，” he does not mean it as much as he means the anger that the words have in them， as he also means the anger in the words “don’t come back.” He means all the anger meant by someone who says such words and means what the words say， that you should not come back， ever， or rather he means most of the anger meant by such a person， for if he meant all the anger he would also mean what the words themselves say， that you should not come back， ever. But， being angry， if he were merely to say， “I’m very angry at you，” you would not be as hurt as you are， or you would not be hurt at all， even though the degree of anger， if it could be measured， might be exactly the same. Or perhaps the degree of anger could not be the same. Or perhaps it could be the same but the anger would have to be of a different kind， a kind that could be shared as a problem， whereas this kind can be told only in these words he does not mean. So it is not the anger in these words that hurts you， but the fact that he chooses to say words to you that mean you should never come back， even though he does not mean what the words say， even though only the words themselves mean what they say.

The Race of the Patient Motorcyclists

In this race， it is not the swiftest who wins， but the slowest. At first it would seem easy to be the slowest of the motorcyclists， but it is not easy， because it is not in the temperament of a motorcyclist to be slow or patient.

The machines line up at the start， each more impressively outfitted and costly than the next， with white leather seats and armrests， with mahogany3） inlays， with pairs of antlers4） on their prows. All these accessories make them so exciting that it is hard not to drive them very fast.

After the starting gun sounds， the racers fire their engines and move off with a great noise， yet gain only inches over the hot， dusty track， their great black boots waddling alongside to steady them. Novices open cans of beer and begin drinking， but seasoned riders know that if they drink they will become too impatient to continue the race. Instead， they listen to radios， watch small portable televisions， and read magazines and light books as they keep an even step going， neither fast enough to lose the race nor slow enough to come to a stop， for， according to the rules， the motorcycles must keep moving forward at all times.

On either side of the track are men called checkers， watching to see that no one violates this rule. Almost always， especially in the case of a very skillful driver， the motion of the machine can be perceived only by watching the lowering forward edges of the tires settle into the dust and the back edges lift out of it. The checkers sit in directors’ chairs， getting up every few minutes to move them along the track.

Though the finish line is only a hundred yards away， by the time the afternoon is half over， the great machines are still clustered together midway down the track. Now， one by one the novices grow impatient， gun their engines with a happy racket， and let their machines wrest them from the still dust of their companions with a whiplike motion that leaves their heads crooked back and their locks of magnificently greasy hair flying straight out behind. In a moment they have flown across the finish line and are out of the race， and in the grayer dust beyond， away from the spectators， and away from the dark， glinting5）， plodding group of more patient motorcyclists， they assume an air of superiority， though in fact， now that no one is looking at them anymore， they feel ashamed that they have not been able to last the race out.

The finish is always a photo finish. The winner is often a veteran， not only of races for the slow but also of races for the swift. It seems simple to him， now， to build a powerful motor， gauge6） the condition and lie of the track， size up his competitors， and harden himself to win a race for the swift. Far more difficult to train himself to patience， steel his nerves to the pace of the slug， the snail， so slow that by comparison the crab moves as a galloping horse and the butterfly a bolt of lightning. To inure himself to look about at the visible world with a wonderful potential for speed between his legs， and yet to advance so slowly that any change in position is almost imperceptible， and the world， too， is unchanging but for the light cast by the traveling sun， which itself seems， by the end of the slow day， to have been shot from a swift bow.

1.英文節(jié)選部分為小說集《幾乎沒有記憶》中的三個短篇：《魚缸》《走開》和《耐心摩托車手賽》。

2.predator [?pred?t?（r）] n. 捕食性動物，食肉動物

3.mahogany [m??h?ɡ?ni] n. （做家具的）紅木，桃花心木

4.antler [??ntl?（r）] n. 鹿角

5.glint [ɡl?nt] vi. 閃爍，閃光

6.gauge [ɡe?d?] vt. 判定，判斷

作品賞析

英美文學(xué)史上第一部英語小說《魯濱遜漂流記》出版于1719年，作者丹尼爾·笛福在其中講述了一則如今早已家喻戶曉的故事：主人公魯濱遜遇到海難，漂流到孤島，歷經(jīng)艱難險(xiǎn)阻，為自己拓展出一片生存空間。迄今為止，英美小說已有三百年的發(fā)展史，誕生了大量主題各異、內(nèi)容不同的名篇。《簡·愛》聚焦19世紀(jì)女性的情感生活，《白鯨》描寫的是壯闊的海上歷險(xiǎn)，《了不起的蓋茨比》描摹紙醉金迷的爵士時(shí)代，《寵兒》是黑奴的血淚史，《指環(huán)王》則令讀者想象飛馳，勾勒出了有別于現(xiàn)實(shí)的奇幻世界。這些小說有一個共同的特點(diǎn)，那就是都有引人入勝的情節(jié)。

可是，當(dāng)我們翻開莉迪亞·戴維斯的小說集《幾乎沒有記憶》，卻發(fā)現(xiàn)許多篇目中情節(jié)奇異地消失了。戴維斯創(chuàng)作的主要是短篇小說，而且這些小說完全符合短篇小說所要求的“短”。有不少篇目不足100個英文單詞，大部分篇目是1000詞以下，最長的篇幅也不超過3000詞。這樣的長度決定了她的小說承載不了過于復(fù)雜的故事情節(jié)。為了簡化內(nèi)容，適應(yīng)篇幅，戴維斯選擇將故事中的某些基本元素省略掉。比如有些篇目沒有主人公，只有景物。有些篇目有主人公，卻未交代主人公叫什么名字，多大年紀(jì)，是男性還是女性，形象稀薄得像個影子。即便有的故事有人物，而且人物之間還有激烈的沖突，但敘述卻會在高潮處戛然而止。

當(dāng)作為小說核心驅(qū)動的故事徹底從文章中消失，我們難免會產(chǎn)生這樣的疑問：該如何對這些短篇進(jìn)行歸類？這些像殘篇、斷章、寓言、格言一樣的短文章，我們還能稱它們是小說嗎？這種疑問對小說傳統(tǒng)審美的沖擊正是戴維斯創(chuàng)作所追求的效果。

戴維斯是典型的學(xué)院派小說家，也就是人們稱為“小說家中的小說家”的那類作家。她出身文學(xué)世家，父親是大學(xué)的文學(xué)教授，母親寫小說。她曾經(jīng)有一段舉案齊眉的婚姻，丈夫是美國當(dāng)代著名小說家保羅·奧斯特。而她自己除了寫小說，同時(shí)也是一位優(yōu)秀的法國文學(xué)翻譯家，翻譯過福樓拜和普羅斯特這樣的法國文學(xué)巨擘的代表作。應(yīng)該說，這些得天獨(dú)厚的條件使她兼具藝術(shù)家的悟性、知識分子的智性以及對文字內(nèi)容和形式的敏感性。她太聰明，以至于不屑于按照傳統(tǒng)形式寫出中規(guī)中矩的篇目。她關(guān)心小說之為藝術(shù)形式的本身，想要用突破故事性、突破敘述框架的寫作來探索小說表達(dá)的極限。如果說19世紀(jì)小說家赫爾曼·麥爾維爾所創(chuàng)作的《白鯨》是英美文學(xué)中史詩級的代表作，它試圖挑戰(zhàn)極限，展示包羅宇宙萬象的恢弘，那么戴維斯的小說則是英美小說創(chuàng)作的另外一種極限：戴維斯選擇在沙粒上進(jìn)行微雕，將所有的力量集中在方寸之間，用高度凝練的結(jié)構(gòu)以及極度精致、準(zhǔn)確的文字試圖達(dá)到“一沙一婆娑”的玲瓏。

戴維斯的藝術(shù)關(guān)注的是吉光片羽。她將目光投注于生活的微觀之處，這種姿態(tài)本身就蘊(yùn)含著倫理與審美追求：它不求全面，不求崇高，捕捉的是瑣碎生活的細(xì)節(jié)中透露的靈光。微小有微小的偉大。好的文學(xué)不以篇幅長短為標(biāo)準(zhǔn)，只問是否能夠引領(lǐng)讀者將想象世界的光引入現(xiàn)實(shí)世界，在兩者重合的時(shí)刻，讓讀者體會到更深層的含義。戴維斯的小說就提供了這種想象與現(xiàn)實(shí)的奇妙疊合，如英文節(jié)選中的《魚缸》一篇。我們很多人都有過在超市的魚類區(qū)看魚缸里的魚的經(jīng)歷。而戴維斯則用105個英文單詞寫出了它的戲劇性：魚缸內(nèi)的魚與魚缸外的敘述者間的微妙關(guān)系。魚對命運(yùn)的無知、敘述者把魚變成一道菜的打算、魚在水中的悠游、人在魚的命運(yùn)前方投下的陰影等細(xì)節(jié)構(gòu)成了這篇小說。小說初讀起來有點(diǎn)荒誕的喜劇性，生活中司空見慣的細(xì)節(jié)若放大了看，就像在哈哈鏡里變了形；讀完后卻也令人心生悲涼，因它所指涉的是生與死的大命題，帶著無能為力的宿命感。

當(dāng)小說不再以情節(jié)的回轉(zhuǎn)作為主要的焦點(diǎn)，時(shí)間與地點(diǎn)被虛化，讀者捕捉到的是作者想傳達(dá)的思想，而經(jīng)過戴維斯的筆，我們才會發(fā)現(xiàn)，原來思想這么富有戲劇性。不是嗎？或許當(dāng)我們看到風(fēng)馳電掣的摩托車賽，會想到：為什么不舉辦一場比賽，看看誰的車開得慢？而戴維斯就以這個念頭為素材，寫出了《耐心摩托車手賽》，比賽的贏家需要“讓自己習(xí)慣于閑適地看著周圍的世界”。或許當(dāng)我們聽到深夜里樓上的鄰居在說話，會突然想到：如果我們住在樓上，樓下的鄰居會怎么看我們？戴維斯就以這個念頭為架構(gòu)，寫出了《從樓下，作為一個鄰居》，以旁觀者的目光審查自我。或許我們和心愛的人吵架，對方會在氣頭上說出傷人的話：“滾！別再回來。”戴維斯就想象人們爭吵后的心理活動，寫出了《走開》，描摹出吵架后的憤怒與受傷、不甘與原諒等交織在一起的復(fù)雜情感。

在一次接受采訪時(shí)，戴維斯曾經(jīng)講過她創(chuàng)作靈感的由來：“我日復(fù)一日的生活的大部分是很平常的，也就是說我做家務(wù)、打掃、燒飯、打理花園、照顧寵物，諸如此類。但當(dāng)我做家務(wù)時(shí)，我的頭腦并不停止工作。因此，許多故事出自我在這些十分平常的時(shí)間里的想法。如果我覺得想法有趣，那就有了足夠的理由將它們寫下來。”沒有人計(jì)算過一個人一天可以有多少一閃即逝的念頭。受某個場景觸發(fā)，念頭升起，但隨后注意力被別的事情所占據(jù)，念頭沒有痕跡地消失。戴維斯是高妙的捕手：她將這些看似無聊、細(xì)看有趣、細(xì)想含義無盡的念頭一一黏住，放在筆端，讓它們顯現(xiàn)。于是，她筆下的世界顯得既切近，又有趣。從某種角度上說，她似乎在對我們說：看，我們都是小說家，生活處處是故事，世界細(xì)看多奇妙。