鷹

英國劍橋大學自然學家海倫·麥克唐納所寫的回憶錄《鷹》可以說是2014年英國出版界的一本“奇書”。它不光享受著書評界一致的好評，幾乎得到了所有媒體的盛贊，被多家媒體如《衛報》、《經濟學人》等列入年度好書榜，還獲得大眾的認可，成為暢銷書。它不光摘得了塞繆爾·約翰遜獎（Samuel Johnson Prize，英國最知名的非小說類寫作獎之一），還奪下了英國久負盛名的的文學獎——科斯塔圖書獎（Costa Book Prize）。科斯塔獎評委主席甚至稱這本書為“當代經典”。

《鷹》一半是作者自身悲慘境遇的回憶錄，一半是一名自然主義者的個人日記。作品以作者父親的死亡開篇。在他去世后，沉浸在悲慟中的海倫花了800英鎊買下一只獵鷹梅布爾，并在劍橋的家里開始對它進行訓練。她訓鷹的潛在目的是在這種猛禽的本能世界里逃遁，忘記父親、忘記悲哀，也忘記工作。但作為一個自然學家，她似乎擁有鷹一般銳利的視覺，可準確地呈現出雄鷹的所見所感。作為一個作家，她還創造了一些新詞匯，把讀者帶入一種全新的體驗。“當我寫完最后一句時，我感到我一直背負的一個包袱卸了下來，書中描繪的主人公最終消失了，” 海倫說，“仿佛是跟爸爸及過去的我告別，所以是一種情感宣泄，我一開始沒料到會如此。”

海倫·麥克唐納是詩人、歷史學家、博物學家、插畫家和劍橋大學講師，從小就對鳥類十分熱愛，大學畢業之后開始為一個海灣國家組織養鷹。她還著有作品《隼》（Falcon）。

Part 1

Chapter 1 Patience

Forty-five minutes north-east of Cambridge is a landscape I’ve come to love very much indeed. It’s where wet 1）fen gives way to 2）parched sand. It’s a land of twisted pine trees， burned-out cars， shotgunpeppered road signs and US Air Force bases. In spring it’s a riot of noise： constant plane traffic， gas-guns over pea fields， 3）wood-larks and jet engines. It’s called the Brecklands—the broken lands—and it’s where I ended up that morning， seven years ago， in early spring， on a trip I hadn’t planned at all. At five in the morning I’d been staring at a square of streetlight on the ceiling， listening to a couple of late party-leavers chatting on the pavement outside. I felt odd： overtired， 4）overwrought， unpleasantly like my brain had been removed and my skull stuffed with something like microwaved 5）aluminium foil， dinted， charred and shorting with sparks.

Nnngh. Must get out， I thought， throwing back the covers. Out！ I pulled on jeans， boots and a jumper， 6）scalded my mouth with burned coffee， and it was only when my frozen， ancient Volkswagen and I were halfway down the A14 that I worked out where I was going， and why. Out there， beyond the foggy windscreen and white lines， was the forest. The broken forest. That’s where I was headed. To see 7）goshawks.

I knew it would be hard. Goshawks are hard. Have you ever seen a hawk catch a bird in your back garden？ I’ve not， but I know it’s happened. But maybe you have： maybe you’ve glanced out of the window and seen there， on the lawn， a bloody great hawk murdering a pigeon， or a 8）blackbird， or a 9）magpie， and it looks the hugest， most impres sive piece of wildness you’ve ever seen.

Birds of deep woodland， not gardens， they’re the birdwatchers’ dark 10）grail. You might spend a week in a forest full of 11）gosses and never see one， just traces of their presence. Looking for goshawks is like looking for grace： it comes， but not often， and you don’t get to say when or how. But you have a slightly better chance on still， clear mornings in early spring， because that’s when goshawks 12）eschew their world under the trees to court each other in the open sky. That was what I was hoping to see.

I slammed the rusting door， and set off with my 13）binoculars through a forest washed 14）pewter with frost. Pieces of this place had disappeared since I was last here. I found squares of wrecked ground； clear-cut， broken acres with torn roots and drying needles strewn in the sand. Clearings. That’s what I needed. Slowly my brain righted itself into spaces unused for months. For so long I’d been living in libraries and college rooms， frowning at screens， marking essays， chasing down academic references. This was a different kind of hunt. Here， I was a different animal. Have you ever watched a deer walk ing out from cover？ They step， stop， and stay， motionless， nose to the air， looking and smelling. A nervous twitch might run down their 15）flanks. And then， reassured that all is safe， they ankle their way out of the brush to 16）graze. That morn ing， I felt like the deer. Not that I was sniffing the air， or standing in fear—but like the deer， I was in the grip of very old and emotional ways of moving through a landscape， experiencing forms of attention and 17）deportment beyond conscious control. Something inside me ordered me how and where to step without me knowing much about it. It might be a million years of evolution， it might be 18）intuition， but on my goshawk hunt I feel tense when I’m walking or standing in sunlight， find myself unconsciously edging towards broken light， or slipping into the narrow， cold shad ows along the wide breaks between pine stands. I 19）flinch if I hear a jay calling， or a crow’s rolling， angry 20）alarum. Both of these things could mean either “Warning， human！” or “Warn ing， goshawk！” And that morning I was trying to find one by hiding the other. Those old ghostly intuitions that have tied 21）sinew and soul together for millennia had taken over， were doing their thing， making me feel uncomfortable in bright sunlight， uneasy on the wrong side of a ridge， somehow required to walk over the back of a bleached rise of grasses to get to something on the other side： which turned out to be a pond. Small birds rose up in clouds from the pond’s edge： 22）chaffinches， 23）bramblings， a flock of long-tailed 24）tits that caught in willow branches like animated cotton buds.

第一部分

第一章 耐心

劍橋市東北方45分鐘車程外有一個地方，對此地我真是越來越愛。……