Yann Tiersen
L'échec lyricsArtist: Yann Tiersen lyrics
Album: L'Absente
Year: 2001


J'aimerais voir notre échec.
Face à Face un beau jour,
Détailler sa personne,
En cerner les contours.

Et dans l'ambiance un peu crue
D'une ville en été,
Lentement m'éloigner,
Pour ne plus le croiser

Me mouvoir dans la foule,
Bienveillante ou hostile,
Plaisanter pour une fois,
Dans un supermarché.

Et les bras pleins de courses
Sentir qu'on a enfin quitté le périmètre
De son ombre portée.

Reviendra le matin où la mine légère,
On mangeait des tartines,
La fenêtre entrouverte.

On allait se laver,
Bien plus tard en riant du retard
Qu'on avait pris sur les autres gens.

Et le pas nonchalant,
Le sourire bien en place,
On ira sûrs de nous,
Dans les rues familières,

Vers un point de la ville,
Un endroit inconnu,
Retrouver là notre échec,
Et son ombre portée

 

求翻译！！！！！！！！！！！！！！！！！！！！！！！！！

法语就白提了。

德语什么时候再开始啊？现在只能看懂简单句子鸟……

PS：Brave John我再次对不起你。自从毕业论文放你鸽子，现在我干脆连phoneme,morpheme,lexeme都分不清了。

希望自己能够真心精心下来读书、研究。

I don't expect I can accomplish anything in my graduate days.

如果自己能在这段时间里受到良好的系统的科研训练、打好科研的理论和技术基础，同时保持一颗活跃而开放的心，最后能够举一而反三，就足够了。

Ideas and accomplishments，那是博士阶段该做的事。

 

Introducing Sociology
A Review of Eyes Wide Shut

by Tim Kreider

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©2000 by the Regents of the University of California. Reprinted from "Film Quarterly" Vol. 53, no. 3, by permission of the University of California Press.

---

"So... do you... do you suppose we should... talk about money?"

-Dr. William ("Bill") Harford

Critical disappointment with Eyes Wide Shut was almost unanimous, and the complaint was always the same: not sexy. The national reviewers sounded like a bunch of middle-school kids who'd snuck in to see it and slunk out three hours later feeling horny, frustrated, and ripped off. Kubrick was old and out of touch with today's jaded sensibilities, they said. The film's sexual mores and taboos, transplanted straight out of Arthur Schnitzler's fin-de-siecle Vienna--jealousy over dreams and fantasies, guilt-ridden visits to prostitutes, a strained discussion of an HIV test that echoes the old social terror of syphilis--seemed quaint and naive by the standards of the sordid year 1999. One last time Stanley Kubrick had flouted genre expectations, and once again, as throughout his career, critics could only see what wasn't there.

The backlash against the film is now generally blamed on its cynical, miscalculated ad campaign. But why anyone who'd seen Kubrick's previous films believed the hype and actually expected it to be what Entertainment Weekly breathlessly anticipated as "the sexiest movie ever," is still not clear. The most erotic scenes he ever filmed were the bomber refueling in Dr. Strangelove and the spaceliner docking in 2001. He mocks any prurient suspense in the very fist shot of this movie; without prelude, Nicole Kidman, her back to the camera, shrugs off her dress and kicks it aside, standing matter-of-factly bare-assed before us for a moment before the screen goes black like a peepshow door sliding shut. (You can almost hear the director's Bronx-accented voice: "You came to see a big-time movie star get naked? Here ya go. All right, show's over. Can we get serious now?) The main title then appears like a rebuke, telling us that we're not really seeing what we're staring at. In other words, Eyes Wide Shut is not going to be about sex.

The real pornography in this film is in its lingering depiction of the shameless, naked wealth of millennial Manhattan, and of its obscene effect on society and the human soul. National reviewers' myopic focus on sex, and the shallow psychologies of the film's central couple, the Harfords, at the expense of every other element of the film-the trappings of stupendous wealth, its references to fin-de-siecle Europe and other imperial periods, its Christmastime setting, even the sum Dr. Harford spends on a single night out-says more about the blindness of the elites to their own surroundings than it does about Kubrick's inadequacies as a pornographer. For those with their eyes open, there are plenty of money shots.

There is a moment in Eyes Wide Shut, as Bill Harford is lying to his wife over a cellphone from a prostitute's apartment, when we see a textbook in the foreground titled Introducing Sociology. The book's title is a dry caption to the action onscreen (like the slogan PEACE IS OUR PROFESSION looming over the battle at Burpelson Air Force Base in Dr. Strangelove), telling us that prostitution is the basic, defining transaction of our society. It is also, more importantly, a key to understanding the film, suggesting that we ought to interpret it sociologically--not as most reviewers insisted on doing, psychologically.

Michiko Kakutani of the New York Times tells us that Kubrick "never paid much attention to the psychology of characters, much less relationships between men and women," and in fact "spent his career ignoring (or avoiding) the inner lives of people, their private dreams and frustrations." [1] Unable to imagine what other subjects there could be, she, like so many critics before her, shrugs him off as obsessed with mere technique. She is, first of all, wrong; Kubrick examines his characters' inner lives through imagery, not dialogue; as he said, "scenes of people talking about themselves are often very dull." [2] (It could be argued that almost all of this film takes place inside Bill Harford's head.) Secondly, and more importantly, she misses the point: Kubrick's films are never only about individuals (sometimes, as in the case of 2001, they hardly contain any); they are always about Man, about civilization and history. Even The Shining is not just about a family, as Bill Blakemore showed in his article "The Family of Man," but about the massacre of the American Indians and the recurrent murderousness of Western civilization. [3]

Reviewers complained that the Harfords were ciphers, uncomplicated and dull; these reactions recall the befuddlement of critics who complained that the computer in 2001 was more human than the astronauts, but could only attribute it (just four years after the unforgettable performances of Dr. Strangelove) to human error. The Harfords may seem as naive and sheltered as the Victorians in, say, Galsworthy's Forsyte Saga, but to wish that the characters had been more complex or self-aware misses the point. To understand a film by this most thoughtful and painstaking of filmmakers, we should assume that this characterization is deliberate--that their shallowness and repression is the point. Think of Bill in the back of the cab, his face a sullen mask as he tortures himself by running the same black-and-white stag film of Alice's imagined infidelity over and over in his head. (Anyone who doubts that it is the character, rather than the actor, who lacks depth and expressiveness should watch Cruise in Magnolia.) Or of Alice giggling in her sleep, clearly relishing her dream about betraying and humiliating her husband, only to wake up in tears, saying that she had "a horrible dream"; her repression is complete and instantaneous. (She's like Jack Torrance in The Shining waking up shouting from "the most terrible nightmare I ever had," about chopping up his family, about twelve hours before he actually tries to do it.) The itensely staged vacuity of the Harford's inner lives should tell us to look elsewhere for the film's real focus.

One place to look is not at them but around them, at the places where they live and the things they own. Most of the film's sets, even the New York street scenes, were constructed on sound stages and backlots, just like the Overlook Hotel, which was as central to The Shining as its actors. Precision of visual detail is as integral to the meaning of Eyes Wide Shut as is the use of gorgeous faces famous from the covers of glossy check-out-aisle magazines to play a conspicuously attractive high-society couple (not unlike his choice of handsome, bland-faced Ryan O'Neill to play eighteenth-century social climber Redmond Barry.) Even the street sets (criticized by the uniquely provincial New York press as "inaccurate") are expressionistic, with newspaper headlines (LUCKY TO BE ALIVE) and neon signs (EROS) foreshadowing and commenting on the action. In Kubrick's work, nothing is incidental.

Stephen Hunter of the Washington Post mentions that the Harfords' apartment "must have cost $7 million," but only to make fun of Kubrick's apparent disconnection from contemporary America. [4] But the meticulously rendered setting of the film, the luxurious apartments and sumptuous mansions, are meant to raise eyebrows. Kubrick and his collaborator, Frederic Raphael, discussed exactly how much money a New York doctor like Bill Harford must earn per year. [5] The Harfords' standard of living raises questions about their money, and where it comes from--from Bill's sparsely scheduled private practice, or the sorts of under-the-table services we see rendered upstairs at the party? Dr. Harford is on call to that class of person who can afford not to wait in emergency rooms or die in hospitals--people like his friend Victor Ziegler, whose name denotes him as one of the world's winners. Bill uncomfortably tries to compliment the prostitute Domino's apartment by calling it "cozy" (and her use of the standard joke "maid's day off" to excuse the leftovers and mess only draws further awkward attention to the class gulf between them), but his own place looks cramped and cluttered compared to Victor's. Ziegler's house is reminiscent of the Overlook Hotel, with its vast ballrooms and grand staircases, its mirrors and gilt, its bedroom-sized bathrooms. And even Ziegler's place seems modest compared to the opulent Moorish palace of Somerton, where the secret orgy takes place (in Schnitzler's novella it is "a one-story villa in a modest Empire style." [6]) To some extent, the fact that no critics recognized this as deliberate is excusable; we've all learned to overlook the fantastic affluence of the sets and wardrobe in most movies and TV shows, just as black audiences had, for decades, to try to ignore the oppressive whiteness of everyone onscreen. But make no mistake: this is not a film about the "private dreams and frustrations" of what Victor condescendingly calls "ordinary people"; it is about really rich people, the kind that Lord Wendover in Barry Lyndon and Mr. Ullman in The Shining call "all the best people." And it shows us that these people are empty and amoral, using their social inferiors as thoughtlessly as if they were possessions, ultimately more concerned with social transgressions like infidelity than with crimes like murder--just as the film's audience is more interested in the sex it was supposed to be all about than the killing that is at its core.

There's no reason to assume we're expected to like Bill and Alice Harford (in fact, Kubrick once told Michael Herr he wanted to make a film about doctors because "everyone hates doctors." [7]) They don't, like typical Hollywood villains, literally slather or speak with foreign accents. The Harfords are what we think of, uncritically, as "nice" people--that is to say, attractive and well-educated, a couple who collect art and listen to Shostakovitch. But evil among our elites is more often a matter of willful ignorance and passivity--of blindness--than of any deliberate cruelty. And Kubrick emphasizes that culture and erudition have nothing to do with goodness or depth of character; in this film they have more to do with the exhibitionistic display of imperial wealth.

The paintings that cover the Harfords' walls from floor to ceiling (painted by Kubrick's wife Christiane) almost all depict flowers or food, making explicit the function of art in their environment as mere décor-art for consumption. Most of them probably come from Alice's defunct gallery, which brokered paintings like any other commodity. (Helena, the Harfords' daughter, helps her mother gift-wrap a massive collection of paintings by Van Gogh--the icon of an artist who died in obscurity but whose reproductions on calendars, ties, and coffee mugs now make quick millions for the canny marketers in the museum industry.) The Harfords aren't the only art--lovers in the film; the apartment of Bill's patient Lou Nathanson is decorated with even more expensive objets d'art (and his bedroom, like the hall outside the Harford's apartment, is wallpapered with imperial French fluers-de-lis); Victor Ziegler has a famous collection, including antique china arrayed in glass cases, a soaring winged statue of Cupid and Psyche in his stairwell, and, reputedly, a gallery of Renaissance bronzes upstairs; and the house in Somerton is hung with tapestries and oil portraits of stern patriarchs, and decorated in appropriated historical styles from Medieval to Moorish to Venetian to Louis XIV. Like the trashed mansion of the renowned playwright and pedophile Clare Quilty in Lolita, these people's houses are tastefully stacked with the plundered treasures of the world.

The film's elegant, antique appointments, its opening waltz, and its cast full of European characters (Sandor Szavost, the models Gayle and Nuala, the Nathansons, Milich, the maitre d' at the Sonata Café) all blur the distinction between Millennial Manhattan and fin-de-siecle Vienna, another corrupt and decadent high culture on the brink of an abyss. In the champagne haze of Victor's party the 1990s and 1890s become one, just as the '70s and the '20s merged in one evening at the Overlook Hotel. But the comparison is not only to the European capitals of the Gilded Age; a broad sweep of references establishes America's continuity with a number of previous imperial periods. Sandor Szavost, Alice's would-be seducer, inquires whether she has read Ovid's Art of Love, a reference fraught with sly implications. Art of Love is a satiric guide to the etiquette of adultery, set among the elite classes of Augustus's Rome, full of advice about bribing servants, buying gifts, and avoiding gold-diggers. (Szavost's drinking from Alice's glass is a move lifted right out of Ovid's pick-up manual.) And the fact that Ovid was an exile from his own center of empire further links him to the expatriate Hungarian. Szavost's extraordinary skill at the Viennese waltz, and his offer to show her Ziegler's collection of sculptures, extend the instances of imperially--sponsored high art from the Latin poetry of Rome to the ballroom dance of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and the plastic arts of the renaissance, bringing them all up to date in New York's glittering, art-encrusted façade.

While Alice resists Szavost's courtly come-ons, her husband is called away to the scene of a less polished assignation, where Kubrick shows us what lies behind that façade: unadorned exploitation and death. Behind the scenes at Ziegler's party, in an upstairs bathroom, Bill Harford finds the same thing Jack Torrance finds in room 237 of the Overlook, and that Private Joker confronts at the end of Full Metal Jacket: a woman's body. Banal dance music echoes from downstairs as we see the call girl Mandy sprawled naked in a narcotic stupor, while Victor hurriedly pulls up his pants, his use of her having been interrupted by an overdose. (Or has it?) After Bill brings her around, Victor impresses upon him that this near-scandal has to be kept "just between us"--but Kubrick, our own contemporary American artist-in-exile, in his own bitter Art of Love, tells all. With every detail and allusion he exposes the base, exploitative impulses behind imperial high culture: the erudite Szavost uses the classics, ballroom dance, and Renaissance sculpture as so many lines and props to seduce another man's wife, while Victor, looking distractedly down at Mandy as she lies naked and twitching, is framed by a painted nude. Asked about Alex's fondness for Ludwig Van in A Clockwork Orange, Kubrick answered, "I think this suggests the failure of culture to have any morally refining effect on society. Many top Nazis were cultured and sophisticated men, but it didn't do them, or anyone else, much good." [8] This point is reprised overtly in Eyes Wide Shut when we hear the title of a Beethoven opera used as the password to an orgy.

As omnipresent as the art in the film's backgrounds are its Christmas decorations. It isn't incidental that the story is set at Christmastime; Schnitzler's book, which the script follows closely in most other particulars, is not (it takes place "just before the end of carnival period"). [9] Stanley Kubrick seems to have gotten seriously into the Yuletide spirit in his last film. Hardly an interior in the film (except the Satanic orgy) is without a baubled Christmas tree. Almost every set is suffused with the dreamlike, hazy glow of colored lights and tinsel. In the film's first scene, the Harfords' daughter Helena wants to stay up to watch The Nutcracker on TV. And its denouement takes place in the toy section of a decidedly upscale department store, where they've taken Helena Christmas shopping. Eyes Wide Shut, though it was released in summer, was the   Christmas movie of 1999.

There is a chain of allusions to the Judeo-Christian fall-and-redemption myth throughout the film: Alice's allegorical dream about being "naked," "terrified," and "ashamed," and fucking "in a beautiful garden," the Harford's Edenic apartment crammed with plants and paintings of gardens, the two temptresses at Ziegler's party, twined and undulating like serpents, practically molting out of their glittering skintight gowns, the picture of an apple with a single vaginal slice cut from it on the wall of the prostitute's kitchen, and the self-sacrificial "redemption" ritual at the orgy. This all seems like unexpectedly old-world symbolism coming from a famously atheistic director whose films all take place in a modern, Godless universe. (The most memorable Christian imagery in Kubrick's previous films are Alex's ceramic chorus line of can-canning Christs and his Hollywood-epic daydream about being a centurion who gets to flog Him in A Clockwork Orange. And in that film it's clear that Christianity is just a less effective version of the sadistic, Skinnerian Ludovico treatment.) But these Biblical references only serve to show us how bankrupt the Christian ethic is in America by the end of the second millennium A.D., how completely it's been coopted and undermined by commerce. As Ziegler angrily tells Bill in their final confrontation, "That whole play-acted 'take me' phony sacrifice had absolutely nothing to do with her real death!" No, her death had more to do with the cult of secrecy and power at the heart of wealth--in other words, just business.

In Eyes Wide Shut, much as in the real world circa 1999, Christmas is less a religious observance than an annual orgy of consumerism, the ecstatic climax of the retail year. MERRY CHRISTMAS banners hang in places of business alongside signs reading NO CHECKS ACCEPTED and THANK YOU FOR YOUR CUSTOM. Rows of Christmas cards are on display in Bill's office below a not particularly merry sign saying, "Payment is expected at the time of treatment unless other arrangements have previously been made." These juxtapositions undercut the supposed significance of the holiday and reveal the real nature of the season, its ostensible warmth and sentimentality belied by the bottom line. Even Milich, the Scroogelike owner of Rainbow Costumes, calls holiday greetings to the two men who have just come to "another arrangement" concerning the use of his daughter. The whole movie is brimming over with the spirit of the season. The equation of Christmas with crass desire is made explicit by the song heard in the Gillespie Diner: "I Want a Boy for Christmas." The Nutcracker is the story of a little girl whose toy comes to life and turns into a handsome prince, which the Harfords' daughter Helena wants to stay up to watch. "Christmas shopping" with Helena turns out to mean letting her run around picking out items she wants exclusively for herself.

The Harfords themselves (like most of the film's reviewers) don't really see their surrounding mise-en-scène--their wealth, their art, the ubiquitous Christmas glitz. They're preoccupied instead with their own petty lusts and jealousies. But again and again Kubrick visually links his characters to their settings, indicting them as part of the rarefied world in which they live and move, through which his relentless Steadicam tracks them like an omniscient presence. At Ziegler's ball, the starburst pattern of lights on the walls is echoed by the lace edging of Alice's gown and by the blue stelliform ribbon on Szavost's lapel. Bill is haunted wherever he goes by the colors blue and gold, the color of the wallpaper outside his apartment. Domino first appears in a black-and-white striped fur coat, a pattern repeated in the zebra skin stool at her dresser and the coat of the plush tiger on her bed. These people are as much commodities as the art and décor-that is, everyone can be bought.

Alice's obvious resentment of her husband, which she only expresses when she's dreaming or drugged, is motivated by her unconscious recognition that she is a kept woman. We know Bill's supporting her, her art gallery having gone broke. She tells Szavost that she's looking for a job, but we don't see her looking; mostly we see her being looked at. Alice's role as a voyeuristic object is defined by her first breathtaking appearance and by her first onscreen line: "How do I look?" (And it rankles her that her husband doesn't see her anymore--he tells her that her hair looks "perfect" without even looking, and asks her the babysitter's name about twenty seconds after she's told him.) Everyone she encounters in the first fifteen minutes of the film compliments her appearance; Bill dutifully tells her she always looks beautiful, the babysitter exclaims, "You look amazing, Mrs. Harford," and she's also flattered by such admirers of beauty as Victor Ziegler and Sandor Szavost. Ziegler tells her she looks "absolutely stunning--and I don't say that to all the women." "Oh, yes he does," retorts his wife--a joke that resonates unfunnily when we find out who "all the women" associated with Ziegler are.

Being beautiful is Alice's job, as much as it is the former beauty queen and call girl Mandy's or the hooker Domino's. During the quotidian-life-of-the-Harfords montage, in which her husband examines patients at the office, we only see Alice tending to her toilette: brushing her daughter's hair, regally hooking on a brassiere, applying deodorant in front of the bathroom mirror. Hers is the daytime regimen of a courtesan (or an actress), devoted to the rigorous maintenance of her looks. She's associated, more than any other character, with mirrors; we see her giving herself a critical once-over before leaving the party, and look of frank self-assessment in the medicine cabinet when she decides to get stoned. Her expression in the mirror as she watches her husband making love to her (the film's iconic image) begins as bemusement, giving way to fondness and arousal, but in the last seconds before the fade-out it becomes something more ambiguous, distracted and self-conscious; this is her moment of clearest self-recognition, an uncomfortable glimpse of what she really is.

Alice's real status is unmistakably suggested: the wife as prostitute. She's identified with the hooker Mandy through a series of parallels: they're both tall redheads with a taste for numbing drugs, we first see them both in bathrooms, and Mandy's last night "being fucked by hundreds of men" is distortedly echoed in Alice's dream. Alice is also associated with the streetwalker Domino by the purple of her sheets and Domino's dress, and by their conspicuous dressing-table mirrors (the essential accoutrement of anyone who lives by her looks). Mandy and Domino are connected, as in dream-associations, by the identical consonants of their names, just as Alice is connected with Domino's roommate Sally (their names being aural anagrams). When Domino disappears, she's replaced by Sally the next day, just as in dream-logic one person may turn into another yet remain the same. In a sense, there is only one woman in the film. Lee Siegel sees the various prostitutes that Bill meets as different incarnations of his wife, the woman he's really seeking all along. [10] But the similarities between them are more revealing (if less romantic) when read the other way--as insinuating that Alice is just another, higher-class whore. When we last see her in the film, in that toy store, she's surrounded by shelves full of stuffed tigers like the one on Domino's bed. (Kubrick also used tiger and leopard-print patterns in Lolita as a code to connote Charlotte Haze's predatory sexuality.) Even in this scene, as she delivers the film's ostensible moral, Alice is visually linked to a doomed hooker.

She's also grooming her daughter Helena (named after the most beautiful woman in history) to become a high-ticket item like herself. During the montage of their day at home, we see Helena alongside her mother in almost every shot, holding the brush while her mother gathers her hair into a ponytail, brushing her teeth at the mirror, learning to groom herself. When we overhear her doing word problems with her mother, she's learning how to calculate which boy has more money than the other. We hear her reading a bedtime story aloud, reciting the line, "...before me when I jump into my bed." In this film, a line about "jumping into bed" can't be innocent. Her mother silently mouths it along with her, echoing and coaching her. At Bill's office, we see a photo of Helena in a purple dress, like the one worn by the girl her father paid for sex the night before.

Like his wife, Bill Harford is defined by his first line: "Honey, have you seen my wallet?" She is a possession; he is a buyer. ("Doctor Bill," as both his wife and Domino call him, is a pun, like Jack D. Ripper or Private Joker.) He flashes his credentials and hands out fifty- and hundred-dollar bills to charm, bribe, or intimidate cabbies, clerks, receptionists, and hookers--all members of the vast, compliant service economy on whom the enormous disparities of wealth in America are founded. Including (unconsummated) prostitution, costume rental, assorted bribes, and cab fare, his tab for a single illicit night out totals over seven hundred dollars. He does not seem fazed by the expenditure. His asking Domino "Should we talk about money?" his repeated insistence on paying her for services not quite rendered, his extended haggling with Milich and the cab driver--all these conversations about cash are too frequent, drawn-out, and conspicuous to be included in the interest of verisimilitude. They do not occur in the novel. Doctor Bill is nothing if not a conspicuous consumer; he even tears a hundred-dollar-bill in half with a smirk.

Bill's nocturnal journey into illicit sexuality is, more importantly, a journey into invisible strata of wealth and power. Money is the subtext of sex from the very first temptation of Bill; the two models who flirtatiously draw him away from his wife at Ziegler's ball invite him enigmatically to follow them "Where the rainbow ends." At that moment he's called away, saying to them, "To be continued...?" After he's gone, the two models exchange a cryptic, conspiratorial look. The exchange foreshadows Bill's finding himself at Rainbow Costume rentals--"to be continued," indeed. We never find out exactly what the models meant, but everyone knows what lies at the end of the rainbow.

The colorful arc of Bill's adventure does lead to the pot of gold, Somerton, the innermost sanctum of the ultrawealthy where the secret orgy is held. The orgy scenes in particular were singled out by reviewers for disappointment and derision. Listen to the groans of critical blueballs: David Denby called it "the most pompous orgy in the history of film." [11] "More ludicrous than provocative," said Michiko Kakutani, "more voyeuristic than scary." [12] "Whose idea of an orgy is this," demanded Stephen Hunter, "the Catholic Church's?" [13] Again they misunderstood Kubrick's artistic intentions, which are clearly not sensual. When Bill passes through the ornate portal past a beckoning golden-masked doorman, we should understand that we are entering the realm of myth and nightmare. This sequence is the clearest condemnation, in allegorical dream imagery, of elite society as corrupt, exploitative, and depraved--what they used to call, in a simpler time, evil. The pre-orgiastic rites are overtly Satanic, a Black Mass complete with a high priest gowned in crimson, droning organ and backward-masked Latin liturgy. What we see enacted is a ceremony in which faceless, interchangeable female bodies are doled out, fucked, and exchanged among black-cloaked figures, culminating in the ritual mass rape and sacrificial murder of a woman.

The haunted ambiance here recalls that of the film's other big exclusive party, Zieglers; the opulent surroundings, the mannered, leaden dialogue, the camera afloat like the disembodied point of view in a dream. A ballroom full of naked, masked couples dancing to "Strangers in the Night" recalls not only Ziegler's party but the Overlook Hotel, whose ghosts also danced and coupled in costume. (Remember the quick, surreal zoom shot in The Shining of someone in a bestial costume fellating tuxedoed millionaire Horace Derwent in an upstairs room?) The two occasions, the party and the orgy, are conclusively linked in the back room of Rainbow Fashions, a sort of antechamber to Somerton, where we see a row of masked and costumed mannequins posed in front of the same cascade of glittering white lights that hung from the walls at Ziegler's.

The orgy makes the metaphor of sexual objectification visually literal. The prostitutes wear masks that render them anonymous and identical. Their nude bodies are unnaturally perfect, smooth and immaculate as mannequins, lit under a chilling white spotlight and photographed with that Kubrickian detachment that somehow desaturates them of any real eroticism. The ritualistic kisses exchanged are spooky and sterile, the sculpted white lips of one mask touching another's. The sex consists of static tableaux of spectators posed around mechanically rutting participants. A masked and tuxedoed valet on all fours serves as a platform for a fucking couple, a piece of human furniture like the tables at the Korova Milk Bar in A Clockwork Orange. One might remember, with a shudder, the Lugosian-toned Szavost inviting Alice to have casual sex upstairs, among the sculptures.

The masks worn by the revelers (Venetian--an allusion to another mercantile empire) serve a similar symbolic purpose: the transformation of the wearer into a soulless object. They certainly aren't expressive of ecstatic self-annihilation, as some critics suggested; they're creepy as hell. We see a bird with a scythe-like beak, a cubist face fractured in half, contorted grimaces and leers, a frozen howl, painted tears, blindly gazing eyes. These revelers have "lost themselves" not in erotic abandon but in the same way that the recruits in Full Metal Jacket lose their Selves, along with their hair and their names. The utterly still, silent shots of staring masks at Bill's "trial" are images of empty-eyed dehumanization, faces of death. Note that when Ziegler first sees Bill enter the ceremonial hall, even though they are both masked, he gives him a knowing nod. He recognizes him. Here the guests at Ziegler's party are unmasked for what they really are.

Masks and mannequins are a recurring motif in Kubrick's work: think of the fight with mannequin's limbs in Killer's Kiss, the anthropomorphic furniture at the Korova, the grotesque masks worn in The Killing and A Clockwork Orange. In Eyes Wide Shut we see them not only at the orgy but throughout the film, always as harbingers of death. A stone Greek mask keeps vigil by Lou Nathanson's deathbed. African masks gaze down, like the masked spectators silently watching the sex acts at Somerton, at the bed where Bill has his interrupted trick with the HIV+ hooker Domino. A "domino" is itself a kind of mask.

They also serve as metaphors for women being treated like possessions. Costumed mannequins surround Bill and Milich in the back room at Rainbow Costumes. "Like life, eh?" says Milich, just before he catches his daughter consorting with two men in wigs and livid makeup. Milich's daughter, for all the coquettish depravity at play in her face, looks somehow as eerily inanimate as the Grady twins in The Shining--her skin is smooth and white as the mannequins in the back room, her painted lips and glittering eyes flawless as a china doll's. In a carefully composed shot in the scene when Bill returns his costume, we see Milich and his daughter paired on the right side of the frame opposite Bill and one of the mannequins (seen through the door to the back room) paired on the left. "If Doctor Harford should ever need anything else," says Milich, hugging his daughter close beside the cash register, "Anything at all... it needn't be a costume." The line only reinforces the visual equation of the girl with the store's more legitimate merchandise. And the three times we see Mandy her face is always a mask: in Ziegler's bedroom, her eyes are lit to look like empty black holes in her face; at the orgy she is literally masked; and on the slab at the morgue her face is slack and white, here eyes wide open but sightless.

Although Bill doesn't actually fuck or kill anyone himself, he is implicated in the exploitation and deaths of all of the women he encounters. (Like the sign over the Sonata Café says... "The customer is always wrong.") He didn't give Domino HIV, but she contracted it servicing someone like him. Milich alternates with hilarious aplomb between berating the men he's caught with his daughter--"Will you please to be quiet! Can't you see I am trying to serve a customer?"--and unctuous apologies to Harford, conflating the two exchanges. (After all, Bill isn't just paying for a costume but for the illicit opportunity it affords.) And does it really make a difference whether Mandy was ceremonially executed by some evil cabal or only allowed to O.D. after being gang-banged again? Given Kubrick's penchant for blackly humorous literalism (think of "Gentlemen, you can't fight in here--this is the War Room!" or "I said, I'm not gonna hurt you--I'm just going to bash your brains in"), when Ziegler explains that Mandy wasn't murdered, "she got her brains fucked out," the contradiction should be obvious.

Bill learns about Mandy's overdose in a café whose walls are covered with antique portraits of women, while Mozart's Requiem plays. The setting and the music make the moment timeless, universal. Kubrick's last three films form a sort of thematic trilogy about our culture's hatred of the female. In The Shining, Jack Torrance despises his wife and child and tries to murder them, just as the previous "caretaker" murdered his wife and daughters. (We also hear, on a TV news bulletin, about a woman who's "disappeared while on a hunting trip with her husband.") In Full Metal Jacket, the institutionalized misogyny of the Marine Corps is pervasive, and the absence of women (we see only two hookers and a sniper) is so conspicuous it becomes a haunting presence. The film's climax is the execution of a fifteen-year-old girl. The requiem in the Sonata Café isn't just for Mandy but for all the anonymous, expendable women used and disposed of by men of Harford's class throughout the ages.

For all his flaunting of his money and professional rank, Bill Harford is ultimately put back in his place as a member of the serving class. Recall how he's summoned away from Ziegler's party in the same polite but perfunctory manner as his friend Nick, the pianist; like him, Bill is just hired help, the party doctor, called upon to repair (if possible) and cover up (if necessary) human messes like Mandy. When he goes to his patient Lou Nathanson's apartment, he's met by their housemaid, Rosa, who's also dressed in black with a white collar, in a perfectly symmetrical entry hall where every object is in a matched pair. The shot makes the doctor and the maid doubles; they're equals here. When Bill tries to infiltrate the orgy, he's given away by telltale class markers--he shows up in a taxi rather than a limo, and has a costume rental slip in his pocket. His real status at Somerton, as an outsider and intruder, is spelled out for him the next day when he returns to the estate, only to be dismissed with a terse typed note handed him through the bars of the front gate by a tight-lipped servant. (This isn't the only time we see Bill through bars--he has to bribe his way past the grated door at Milich's.) When Ziegler finally calls him onto the carpet for his transgressions, he chuckles at Bill's refusal of a case of 25-year-old Scotch (Bill drinks Bud from the can), not just because this extravagance would be a trifle to him, but because Bill's pretense of integrity is an empty gesture--he's already been bought. Bill may be able to buy, bribe, and command his own social inferiors, and he may own Alice, but he's Ziegler's man.

Although Ziegler has a credible explanation for everything that's happened--Harford's harassment, Nick Nightingale's beating, Mandy's death--we don't ever really know whether he's telling the truth or lying to cover up Mandy's murder. The script carefully withholds any conclusive evidence that would let us feel comfortably certain either way. But Ziegler does have suspiciously privileged access to details of the case: "The door was locked from the inside, the police are happy, end of story! [dismissive lip fart.]" He also claims to be dropping his façade and coming clean a few too many times to be believed: "I have to be completely frank," "Bill, please--no games," and finally, "All right, Bill, let's... let's... let's cut the bullshit, all right?" And notice how he introduces his explanation: "Suppose  I were to tell you..." [emphasis mine]. He's not being "frank"; he's offering Bill an escape, a plausible, face-saving explanation for the girl's death to assuage his unexpectedly agitated conscience. (And it's one of the few things that Bill has a hard time buying--watch the way his hand adheres to his cheek and slowly slides off his face as he rises to his feet and walks dazedly across the room, trying to absorb the incredible coincidence Ziegler's asking him to swallow.) Ziegler's "no games" plea notwithstanding, this entire conversation is a game--a gentlemanly back-and-forth of challenges and evasions over a question of life and death, throughout which the two opponents circle each other uneasily around a blood-red billiards table.

When Bill persists in his inquiries, Ziegler loses his temper and resorts to intimidation and threats. He reminds him of their respective ranks as master and man: "You've been way out of your depth for the last twenty-four hours," he growls. Of his fellow revelers at Somerton, he says, "Who do you think those people were? Those were not ordinary people there. If I told you their names--I'm not going to tell you their names, but if I did, you might not sleep so well." In other words, they're "all the best people," the sorts of supremely wealthy and powerful men who can buy and sell "ordinary" men like Bill and Nick Nightingale, and fuck or kill women like Mandy and Domino. The "you might not sleep so well" is also a veiled warning, and it isn't Ziegler's last. His final word of advice--"Life goes on. It always does... until it doesn't. But you know that, don't you, Bill?"--proffered with an avuncular, unpleasantly proprietary rub of the shoulders, sounds like a reassurance but masks a threat. (We immediately cut from this to a less friendly warning, the mask placed on Bill's pillow.) Bill's expression, in the foreground, is by now so tight and working with suppressed and conflicting feelings that it's hard to read, but one of those feelings is clearly fear for his life--he looks as though he might burst into tears or hysterical laughter, and when Victor claps those patronizing hands on his shoulders, he flinches. In the end, he chooses to accept Victor's explanation not because there's any evidence to confirm it, but because it's a convenient excuse to back down from the dangers of further investigation. He finally understands that he, too, no less than a hooker or a hired piano player, is expendable.

So the questions remain: did Mandy just O.D., or was she murdered? Was Bill's jeweled mask left on his pillow by Alice as an accusation, or by Ziegler's friends as a third and last warning, a death threat like the horse's head in the bed in The Godfather? These are crucial questions, ones that Kubrick deliberately leaves unanswered. And yet most reviewers didn't even seem to notice that they were questions, instead automatically projecting their own interpretations onto the story--most assuming that Ziegler was providing redundant exposition, that Mandy's death was the coincidence Ziegler claimed it to be, and that Alice put the mask there herself. (Dream Story does not even include the character of Ziegler, or any final confrontation with a member of the secret society, and it also makes it clear that it was the protagonist's wife who placed the mask on the bed.) But Kubrick bends over so far backward to preserve these ambiguities that they become glaring, demanding of us that we, like Bill, consciously decide what we're going to believe. Bill's reaction when he sees the mask in his bed could be interpreted either as shame and relief at having his lies exposed, or as the terrified realization that his wife and daughter could have been murdered in their sleep. When Alice wakes up to Bill's sobbing, her expression doesn't betray whether she's startled to see the mask beside her or already knows it's there. When we cut to her the next morning, her eyes swollen and red-rimmed with weeping, we don't know whether she's crying because her husband almost cheated on her or because he's endangered their family. And the final dialogue between Bill and Alice is so vague and allusive ("What should we do?" "Maybe we should be grateful,") that it could as easily refer to Mandy's murder and the implied threat to their lives as to Bill's indiscretions. If we choose to believe the former, then the Harfords aren't just reconciling over their imagined and attempted infidelities; they're agreeing to cover up a crime, to be accomplices after the fact to a homicide.

This is the film's final test--a projection test, like the ambiguous cartoons with blank word balloons shown to Alex at the end of A Clockwork Orange to determine whether his conditioning has been broken. His lascivious and violent interpretations of the images proves that it has. But has ours? The open-ended narrative forces us to ask ourselves what we're really seeing; is Eyes Wide Shut a movie about marriage, sex, and jealousy, or about money, whores, and murder? Before you make up your own mind, consider this: has there ever been a Stanley Kubrick film in which someone didn't get killed?

In the film's upbeat but dissonant denouement, the Harfords have taken their daughter Helena Christmas shopping, but they respond to her wishes only politely, distracted by their own inner children. Like many reviewers, they're still wrapped up in psychology and sex, missing the sociological implications of what's onscreen. But, as in so much of Kubrick's work, the dialogue is misdirection; the real story is being told visually. As poor Helena flits anxiously from one display to the next (already an avid little consumer) every item she fondles associates her with the women who have been exploited and destroyed by her father's circle. Helena's Christmas list includes a blue baby carriage (like the blue stroller seen twice outside Domino's apartment), an oversized teddy bear (next to a rack of tigers like the one on Domino's bed) and a Barbie doll (reminiscent of Milich's daughter) dressed in a diaphanous angel costume just like the one Helena herself wore in the film's first scene. She herself has already become a doll, a thing to be dressed up with cute costumes and accessories. Another toy, conspicuously displayed under a red ring of lights, is called "The Magic Circle"; the name is an allusion to the ring of ritual prostitutes at the orgy, and the bright red color of the box recalls the carpet on which they genuflected to the high priest, as well as the felt of the pool table over which Bill made his own bargain with the devil. The subplot with Milich and his daughter is clearly echoed here, in another place of business, as the Harfords also casually pimp their own little angel out to the world of commerce.

ALICE: And, you know, there is something very important we have to do as soon as possible.

BILL: What's that?

ALICE: Fuck.

As Eyes Wide Shut closes, this final exchange between Bill and Alice suggests that all the dark adventures they've confessed ("whether they were real or only dreams"), and all the crimes in which they are complicit, have occasioned nothing more than another kinky turn-on, no more enlightening than the flirtations at the ball that inflamed their lovemaking when they got home. For all their incoherent talk about being "awake" now, their eyes are still wide shut. Reconciled, they plan to forget all this unpleasantness soon in the blissful oblivion of orgasm. (Try keeping your eyes open during orgasm.) Maybe, in the end, it is a film about sexual obsession after all; about sex as an all-consuming distraction from the ugly realities of wealth and power all around us. Maybe the customer is always wrong.

Certainly a subtler psychological reading of the film than has yet been attempted would be possible. But to focus exclusively on the Harford's unexamined inner lives is to remain willfully blind to the profoundly visual filmic world that Stanley Kubrick devoted a career's labors to creating. The slice of that world he tried to show us in his last--and, he believed, his best--work, the capital of the global American empire at the end of the American Century, is one in which the wealthy, powerful, and privileged use the rest of us like throwaway products, covering up their crimes with pretty pictures, shiny surfaces, and murder, ultimately dooming their own children to lives of servitude and whoredom. The feel-good ending intimates, in Kubrick's very last word on this (or any) subject, that the Harfords' daughter is, just as they've resigned themselves to being, fucked.

---

Acknowledgements: The seven hundred hours I spent in conversation with Rob Content about this film were invaluable in developing my argument. Bart Taylor of Giotto Perspectives pointed out some of the Christian imagery in the film to me. I am also indebted to Boyd White, guitarist and singer for The Sores, and to Ann Martin, editor of Film Quarterly, for their editorial acumen. Thanks to the University of California Press for permission to re-print this article.

Biographical Information: Tim Kreider is a cartoonist. His work can be seen at WWW.THEPAINCOMICS.COM and in the Baltimore City Paper.

---

Notes:

[1] Kakutani, Michiko. "A Connoisseur of Cool Tries to Raise the Temperature." The New York Times, 18 July 1999. p. 22. &Nbsp; back

[2] Ciment, Michel. "Second Interview" in Kubrick. Translated from the French by Gilbert Adair. New York: Holt, Reinhart, and Winston, 1980, p. 171. &Nbsp; back

[3] Blakemore, Bill. "The Family of Man." San Francisco Chronicle Syndicate, 29 July 1987.   back

[4] Hunter, Stephen. "The Lust Picture Show: Stanley Kubrick Stumbled with his Eyes Wide Shut." The Washington Post, 16 July 1999, p. C5. &Nbsp; back

[5] Raphael, Frederic. Eyes Wide Shut: A Memoir of Stanley Kubrick. &Nbsp; back

[6] Schnitzler, Arthur. Dream Story. Translated from the German by Otto P. Schinnerer. Los Angeles: Sun & Moon Press, 1995, p. 128. &Nbsp; back

[7] Herr, Michael. Kubrick. New York: Grove Press, 2000, p. 13 &Nbsp; back

[8] Ciment, Michel. "First Interview" in Kubrick, p. 163. &Nbsp; back

[9] Schnitzler, Dream Story, p. 4. &Nbsp; back

[10] Siegel, Lee. "Eyes Wide Shut: What the Critics Failed to See in Kubrick's Last Film." Harper's Magazine, October 1999, vol. 299, #1793, p. 76 - 83. &Nbsp; back

[11] Denby, David. "Last Waltz." The New Yorker, 26 July 1999, p. 84. &Nbsp; back

[12] The ever-perceptive Ms. Kakutani, p. 22. &Nbsp; back

[13] That dimwit Hunter, p. C5. &Nbsp; back

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小说是对现实生活的一种隐喻，而这种隐喻机制是建构的，即这种机制建立以后，并不代表其功能就以固定不变。

隐喻是从源域到目标域的投射，这一基本结构是不变的，但是由于每个解读隐喻——对隐喻进行接吗转译的人的世界只是和经验背景不同，每个人对隐喻的理解也不同。或者可以这样认为，隐喻是一种函数，其主体和喻体间的投射关系构架为映射，源域为定义域，目标域为函数域。定义域的取值区间分别为主体以及附带于其上的社会共同文化心理，但同时个人经验也有相当的比重。因此，作为由作者构建、有读者计算的函数，产出的目标域又带有极强的个人主义色彩。因此，隐喻的效果是建构的，个人的阐释得到针对个人的不同意义。

推及小说，可以认为作者在写的过程中赋予了自我，每一部小说都有自我表达、自我追求和自我实现的成分；对于读者，每个读者在解读小说的过程中，尝试通过转译作者的文字码得到作者意图的表达的同时，有时在解读自我、构建自我，在解读作者呈现的社会的过程中又构建了一个崭新的世界。

也就是说，不存在绝对同意的阅读感受和小说实现，又如不存在绝对真理；只存在大众观感和作者意图的交集。可以得到的最大交集可视作小说真正本原的估计，又如无穷的相对真理可以无限逼近绝对真理。

很多年前的一个晚上，我已经记不得具体的日期。

但那确实对我很重要的一个夜晚，纵使它已经过去了很多年。

那同样也是一个秋季，但是时间要比眼前稍早一些。我想那时的晚上应该比现在黑的纯粹，星星比钻石璀璨，蜿蜒无尽的公路有一整条路的路灯给它镶上了金色的边。

那个晚上，那个人我一生也无法忘怀。

纵然他已基本从我的生命中消失。

纵然我手中徒然的拥有他那即将也是早晚会废弃的地址。

可是我向往他。纵然，他不爱我。

我想我是如此的向往他，以至于很多年来我又爱过了很多人，很多人也爱过了我，可是我还是对他念念不忘。

我爱过一个黄头发卷卷的男生。他说一口漂亮的英文，他总是笑着直盯着我的眼睛。在我们在梧桐树下相倚着喁语的时候，在我等待他每个周日晚上九点必至的电话到来的时候，在他有一天不辞而别干净利落去了法国，留下我遭受被遗弃的伤害流下眼泪的时候，我心里向往的却是他。

一个黑黑瘦瘦带着窄边眼镜的男生爱过我。他送给我精致的鱼形镂空花瓶和VEROMODA的粗线帽，他在雪地中突然强硬地将我抱起来打转，我们一起在圣诞节前吃火锅再吵吵闹闹，每一刻，我心里依然向往他。

有一个忧郁的男生一直爱我，这我知道。我也非常在乎他。我时常想这个世界灭亡了吧我放弃了所有也不能放弃他。我在心情不好的时候一定想到他，而他总是不管下多大的雨离得有多远第一时间体贴地来到我身旁。他画一手好画，正准备去菲律宾开画展。他向我推荐好听的音乐，那些零落细腻的歌词是我总找不到表达不好的词句。可是，我最最向往的还是他。

现在，我有一个很好的爱人，清俊潇洒，是个摇滚诗人，他有星星般明亮的笑容和湖水般幽深的眼睛。我总是沉溺在他睫毛的浓密阴影里陶醉的不能自拔。他的声音如同降落在花园草坪上的雨，我听了心情就像花开。可每当我软绵绵的闭上眼睛迎接他的亲吻，我心里向往的人儿——仍是他。

我经常回忆他一个人独来独往的样子，穿着一件淡蓝色的衬衣，低着头，退开了人群，一个人在秋日里空下慢慢踱着，手抄在口袋里。凉风吹过，掀动他的衣角，像一朵水仙看着水中的倒影凋零自己的花瓣；像一朵丁香在秋风中潇洒地飘落。

我经常会想起他措不及防的笑容。他措不及防的笑了，温和得像山间的溪流洒满金色的阳光，刹那间眼前阳光般明亮温暖。

昨天下午当我得知自己被扔在中关村一街的时候，我的眼泪真的要留下来。

并不是任何人的问题，只不过是我自己的问题而已。

 

三四点的中关村雾蒙蒙的，太阳很遥远。奇怪的是，中关村西和中关村南那一个角如此喧闹，而中关村东这一侧的桥就那么萧条。灰蒙蒙的，我就迎着阳光站着，不知道往哪里去。站在站牌下，我找了好久的站牌，而我刚刚得知，那个目的地已经取消。

取消，我迎着风提着电脑踩着高跟靴的脚开始痛，我不知道去哪里，然后眼泪就要留下来。

 

只不过这样一个关口，而似乎所有郁结在潜意识里的不满意就要喷薄而出。莫名。

不知道是因为茫然，还是因为寂寞；抑或孤独无助。

 

我掏出电话来，不知道该打给谁。

很久很久以前，我所有的第一反应就是你。但是现在，你已经不在这里。

脑海里不停不停地响起eels的selective memory:

    If I lay my head on I will see you in my dream

    Putting on that polka dress

    And sitting by the stream

        ……

        I wish I could remember

        But my selective memory

        Won’t let me

   就仿佛，我所有的言语已经没有了出口。

   而这样的生活，我们都要继续。我想我的内心是不够强大，所以我才永远这样，生活不断出现break point。而你呢，我以前从来没有考虑过你，你够不够强大？ 有没有人，让你取暖？

我从来没有问过；而现在我再也没有机会问。

生活是如此忙碌。而我会在某个凛冽的冬夜想起你，想起我们的过去，想起安妮问你和Dab还好吗？想起我们身在异乡，什么时候能再在一起，只有我们在一起；想起那些夏天的夜晚，我们在外面游荡到11点，和你在一起我就永远有安全感；想起那几通电话；想起那些夕阳的街头，傍晚的海边，音乐和书店，想起那些话语，所有的记忆，以及歇斯底里后的安心……而你，有没有，想起过我？

不能再想下去。

有谁知道我在拥挤得连影子都无处可逃的街口，静静默默悄悄地把你思念。

 

（想给leo打电话的念头一闪而过。因为是长途，而且此时的leo没法接电话。）

 

于是，最后，我还是打给了hp。这个好人。我不想再把他变成第二个。在这个陌生的城市里，他永远都是如此，ready to help。

原来hp可以是harry potter，可以是电脑打印机，可以是hope, 也可以是help.

HELP!!!

Lady 和bird 最后的呼喊。我要不要喊，我喊了又有没有意义？

 

打给他，我不知道他有没有听出我走调的声音。他不问我我的反反复复到底是怎么回事，只是告诉我没有问题，哪里最方便就到哪里。

 

走进清华那一瞬间的清静真是令人感动啊。如今我开始对这里产生依恋。我不知道我这种依恋和hp对她的依恋有没有相似之处。他说他最好永远不要离开这里。我也想。这里似乎是这个浮华的城里唯一的贞静。

我每每都会惊讶这里怎么会有那么少的人。坐在hp的单车上听他说他最喜欢冬天，喜欢这里那朦胧的树影。我最喜欢冬天光秃秃的树杈指向恬淡的天。

听他讲绘画，讲印象派的光影，讲一个学艺术的人的生命内省。然后觉得又看到另一个不同的世界。这也是我喜欢和不同的人交流的最大原因，可以采用不同的角度解读这个世界。可是，就像hp所说的，我们都是内向的人，怎么才能一下子获得大量的深层次的交流？

Hp真是一个踏实的人。从不多问。而我正好也不想讲。我不想一不小心把他变成了第二个。而他的踏实，就像他给我的一杯热牛奶，简单却足够温暖。

而你是一杯清咖啡，微苦，却是清醒的依恋。

 

差点对hp说，今夜，我不想回去。

昨天晚上又看了一遍乌木的所有的日志。应该是第二遍看了吧。可是总觉得又读到了新的东西。

人生真是奇妙。我不断地试图扩大自己的生活圈，却发现，兜兜转转，圈在一起的还是我们那几个人。

也许社会学中的6人原则真是至金真理。

 

关于乌木、空城和我之间的关系，也已历经十几年。从小学开始。乌木晚来了一年。

真正好起来，却是五六年级的事。

而从小学到现在我不断联络的人，也只有他俩。或许是因为我是一个退缩的人吧。

很多是不曾为系就难以为继。

 

乌木现在的GF是我生命中的重要她人。Her existence shapes my life.

某种程度上说，乌木和她的过去有着不同情况的复杂。而我亦在懵懂中见证了一些，并把那些经历掺进了我生命的情绪。

我只是不知道，他和她对此知不知道。

 

我看过乌木小时候的聪颖、倔强和顽皮；也在发生了那件事后，与他一别三年再度相遇，感觉到的深沉、思考和成长、

所以再别三年之后，我在短信里对他说，把她放到他的手上，我十分放心。虽然这样我颇有一种以她的什么人自居的自大嫌疑，但是不知为什么，即使我从来没有真正走进过她，我总有种感觉：我可以感受到她的敏感和忧郁。或许我只是强加了自己的想法，但就像我初中时和她初时时就有的感觉：我们在生活的内向体悟中主定有一个阶段相似，无论过去还是现在。

 

空城给乌木留言说：从不知道你是这样一个细腻而长情的人。我在读过他充满隐约指代的日志后，对这个结论又意外又不意外。意外的反而是她对自己的而剖析：自己的不配拥有爱情。是因为自己对爱情的不尊重和抛弃而遭受了爱情的报复。

所以，她在2007年5月6日的凌晨默默地读完了他所有的日志，每一篇都留了言。尽管她知道自己有时可能不是他文中的“她”；即使她没有得到他对每篇必踩的人的感谢；即使他说他已经熬不住了要睡去；即使她说：我知道这里你已不会再来。

 

Silent love. Loving quietly.

 

他的日志多是守候和等待。殊不知，你也会成为别人默默守候的人。

太多的时候，自己也是这样一个角色。默默地关注那些曾经对自己有着特别意义的人。

不留痕迹。

生活之流，静静地奔腾。我隔岸守望，寻找那些在时光中不曾变化的寄托。

 

乌木在日志中谈及了他们，以及他所知的他们后来的变化。于是是夜我彻夜梦寐，只是因为对你们的思念。

但是，我现在又有了这样一种“相见不如怀念”的胆怯。想当初，我们的innocence，哪种未曾分化的简单快乐。我是如此地害怕成长，害怕时间的流逝把我们带向那个庸人自扰的地方：在纷杂熙攘的世事中，我们回首却触不见那份默默的爱。

多么希望，我们现在依然未定形态——永远indefinite，这样我们就可以随时分享永不日蚀的回忆和情感，无忧无虑。

Memory，多么美好，可以让我在黑夜里面对自己，默默地一遍又一遍，口齿噙香。

 

这份默默，不知道有没有人也会在碌碌中片刻闲暇，怅想，给予一点点回应。

 

在繁盛与无味交替中，我感觉到我的思念。如果你在身边，是不是春天永远不会落败，抑或我可以和你一起淡看四季流转起落云烟。

 

 

 

关于清华

今天是清华心理学系复建的日子。有个仪式。清华心理学专业终于成了系，和Berkeley大学共建。

解放前清华就有了心理学专业，解放后被并入了北大。

现在就像上世界八十年代清华大学中文系恢复招生一样。（最初的几届清华中文系的学生还要上公共课——物理学。）

 

暮色中的清华大礼堂十分美丽。但我更喜欢旁边的一栋小楼，红色的砖墙上爬满红色的爬墙虎，不同的色度在金红的夕阳中如此瑰丽。

小礼堂前有一片草坪，依然青葱。近处有一群麻雀在低头啄食，在这一天结束前在为自己的冬天储备点食粮。不远处有一只喜鹊在和自己身高相当的草丛中无声地蹦来跳去。有母亲推着自己的小婴儿。暮色为这一切涂上了一层粗粒子的印象。感觉，这一刻被放大。

暮色朦胧，如此娴静。

 

Hope说，他最喜欢从外界一进清华那一瞬的宁谧。

 

关于秋天

北京似乎也有明朗的蓝天。或许之前是我的刻板印象。而我呼伦贝尔的同学说她家那里的天每天都是这么蓝，比这更蓝。

金秋十月，我喜欢看金黄的杨树叶、银杏树叶在干燥的风中翩然落下，或是悠然打转。仍未退色的草上就多了这么一群明艳活泼的蝴蝶。

没有去香山。但我依然感觉到在北京的某些角落或者瞬间，秋天还依然保持着自己的宁静。

但是，总是觉得这样的秋天少了什么。

没有秋意；没有熟悉的气息。

不知道青岛现在是怎样的天凉好个秋。

——是不凉。

没有习惯的一入秋就沉浸其中的清寂。

也没有随之唤醒的回忆。

 

关于柿子树

住的地方的一大片院子里有好几棵柿子树。

柿子是我喜欢的水果之一。

第一次见到很是欢喜。它们挂在枝头像一个个沉甸甸的小灯笼，睡得香甜。

由于自然的过程，以及像师兄师姐说的那样“学校没有组织及时采摘”，它们在枝头就开始长白点，或是坠落在地上摔烂。

过了几天看到有人爬树摘柿子。然后我就怀疑院门口推车卖的柿子就是这样来的。

据说，这片荒园马上要被清空，盖教育科学学院。

其实我的第一反应是，可惜了这些柿子。说不定今年是最后一年见到它们。

我的第二反应是，为什么可惜了这些柿子？难道一定被人吃了才不可惜？

千万年来，它们一直是这样生而复落。

没有被打扰，怡然自得。

真正可惜了的是这些花草树木。

 

关于日子

听着lady&bird的blue sky，我走在住处附近的一条小巷里。不时有落叶飘零，无声地消没于装点着路面的点点秋色里。在西三环这样一个大背景下，有这样的僻静是不容易的。更难得的是，这条窄窄的小路竟还有些起伏和曲弯，在这样四平八稳的北京城是不多见的。

其实，我住的地方亦很僻静。可以听见乌鸦的叫声，在古代，它们是吉祥的瑞鸟。住的地方以及周围是现在难得低层——砖房，沾满时光的灰尘，以及生活喧嚣的安详。

可以在破落的墙壁上看到彩色的涂鸦——不明含义的字母和图案。也有简单的表白。也有办证的号码。Junk，Funk，Fuck，Rock。

平时喜欢听小孩子和上了年纪的人讲京片子，偷偷地乐。

 

校本部很小很绿很幽静，走进去就不见天日。仿佛温润如旧。

长长的爬藤垂在旧门的两旁，我在想可以把它们结成一个想心事用的秋千。

下雨天就在草地的水洼和石阶间轻捷地走。

 

经年的岁月里，有些情感可以如此自然舒适。经过growing pains，成长亦这样美丽。

不经意间，有谁知道我在偷偷把你思念。

 

一个人在外，我只想过一场真真切切的生活。

(PNS and my friends! PNS and my friends！This is Tiare, there is a extremely long life overall flash quotes about two weeks in Beijing.)

 

On the dormitory

 

“我真知道我错了，原来青大的宿舍条件不要太好啊！”

——Tiare

破败的五六十年代砖房宿舍，住在坟圈子一样的草丛里，旁边是西三环据说现如今每平方近二万的教师公寓，这不知道三环上怎么还能有这样的房子。06年的拆迁通知早已经泛黄，但是我们的宿舍还是不肯退出历史，以实际捍卫“白堆子”这个地名。

宿舍里面八步见长，四步见宽（实际使用面积，我实在不能把床底下橱底下的地方也算上）。钢铁结构的床，一握乱晃，爬上去上下床一起吱吱响，同样的铁床板（不是通常的木头的），上床的翻个身下床的就会醒。三张土黄色老式办公桌，六个摞在一起的铁柜子，两个才有本科时E楼的一个大——这种房间竟然是五个人的配置（我庆幸自己来得晚，自己宿舍只有四个人，还有一个人常去和男朋友住基本不回来，可以说是三人间），简直比青大A楼的宿舍还要落后。真不知道当初大学刚入学的时候怎么看着A楼那锈迹斑斑的床流露出复读的念头来！

不久，就开始有别的宿舍的人过来赞美我们的宿舍：说有铁柜子呀，“我们的是一个只有一个门的大衣橱，里面六个格，连私人的东西都没法锁起来”；说好整洁啊，是“一点生活气氛都没有”的婉语吧！天晓得这是因为我们基本都不愿在宿舍待，根本没正经打扫过一次；说有贴墙纸啊，天，都黄渍斑斑了！

至于室外的厕所、洗漱间和走廊，简直陋不可睹。后来，又到过清华（立马心理平衡了，但是美院的人就是生活有情趣呀）、北理、北师的宿舍，固然比白堆子好上数倍，但是地方都蛮窄，可见北京果然住房紧张。而且大家（本科京外的学生）都对研究生宿舍并不太认同，觉得不如自己科宿舍条件好，总之忠告各位青大的学生，好好珍惜自己的宿舍生活。

 

On the new postgraduate life in CNU

 

“It is what it is.”

——Tiare

入学以来，大多数的时间都是一个人度过，自己的生活仿佛向渡边的那个方向滑去（为什么不能像爱美丽那样怡然自得呢？。每天似乎都在忙，但是都是碌碌无为，不知把时间荒废在什么样的细碎抑或突发的事件里。听听北京电台的pop hits和英文频道，洗衣服，走路上学。我住的地方离我上课的校区要步行30—40分钟，不好意思还没有直达车，我又不会骑自行车——在大北京里又是怪人一枚，大家都打量我诧异说“不会骑自行车？！”听我是青岛人就原谅说“你腿很长啊，学骑车应该很快”。其实我即缺天赋又缺兴趣，在宿舍区看见一好老的老奶奶弓着腰骑着一小车悠哉游哉去吃饭，觉得自己怎么连个老太太都不如。

目前课程不多。我由两个老师带，一个是搞记忆的郭老师，一个是他的博士外院的王老师。于是在郭老师的脑电实验室里认识师兄师姐的时候，他们都说“我知道你呀”，但是下一句一般是“那你算外院的研究生还是心理系的研究生呢？”我自己也迷茫中，整个实验室都是跟郭老师搞记忆的，就我一个人在跟王老师搞语言，怎么都觉得怪怪的。因为要熟悉实验技术，搞语言又离不开眼动，也就常跑眼动的实验室，结果竟然还有人问出来“丁老师是不是也合带你？”天，我没有那么强啦。

Anyway，I like my labmates。小肖老师，笑笑得像哥哥；讲相声一样的律元师兄；还有其他师兄师姐以及三位科班出身的同门，thank YOU for helping me a lot.希望自己足够努力，不要辜负这一切。

 

On my numerous mysteries

 

“‘上帝欲使人灭亡，必先使人疯狂’是不是个伪命题？”

——Tiare

听夏卡说，阿毛自称研究生生活以来已经遇到了八千多个麻烦。还好，他解决了其中的三分之一。我倒没有那么夸张，但我不知道问题好有多少待解决：问题日新月异，让我对每一天都充满了“期待”：我无须为自己安排什么，troubles are always on the way.

丁老师指定的cognitive psychology后面的glossary里problem的注释第一句：a person who has some goal of which on simple and direct means are known is said to face a problem.我的生活中的问题就像这个定义这样把简单复杂化，七弯八扭。

本来就晚来了一周，很多事情都比大家慢半拍，但是很多事也不用这样搞笑：第一次Tupperware的杯子也会漏水，热水全洒在包里，只好跑回实验室用给被试吹头发用的吹风机去吹包包和书；图书馆借书证里我的权限是竟是本科生，但是在注册中心那里我已经是硕士了，两边扯皮于是两头跑；刚买了手机卡充了一百块钱，结果被告知学校马上要发内有五十块钱的手机卡；我的联想本本不爱我，在莫名发脾气丢掉D盘盘符加上一个傻维修人员让我的个人私爱损失的所剩无几——大学时代和好友一起旅游游玩的照片啊，毕业前夕和舍友们一起的发飙照啊，谁还有一份赶快发给我啊~~。后知后觉的使用恢复软件好不容易抢救了最后的零零星星心情略缓，就开始盘算第二天做什么，突然它又翻“蓝眼”向我报错，不肯进系统。提了本去找宏图三胞北京售后，没想到他们说我改了初装系统，要是再给我装系统的话要收我150元人民币！那还不如我自己装呢！冷笑一声坐车回了实验室（其实心里沮丧的很，因为担心是硬盘有问题）。好在有实验室的小肖老师帮忙，但是装过的xp下怎么也装不好无线网卡的驱动，而且还有一个未知设备驱动也有问题。不过这不算什么，不知道为什么用装机软件导不出我C盘的资料，而当时犯傻了把我当志愿者时候的照片全都拷在C盘“我的文档”里，而且相机上还没有留备份！我的汗立马下来了，想用easy recovery回复我sd卡上的内容，但是很诡异的是在easy recovery里读不出我sd卡的所有内存，只能回复寥寥几张照片，而且效果还不好！想用usb线把我的相机直接连到电脑上，通过显示“可移动磁盘”的方式使easy recovery读出sd卡全部内存，但是发现我的nikon貌似不支持“usb设备”这种方式，连上了电脑之后只显示“照相机和摄像设备”，easy recovery干脆找不到这个不是以硬盘形式存在的设备了!

此时我才真的想大哭一场，为什么所有的珍贵回忆都会丢光！可是volunteering这个经历真的是太宝贵了!怎么能这么样就丢了啊!那一天我基本什么也没干，就上网整照片恢复软件了。从网上下了n个一一去试，都有easy recovery的毛病（这是为什么！我的sd卡在“我的电脑”里就显示全部的内存啊！），最后一个是finaldata，那个时候已经绝望了，心想是不是十一花钱去中关村找专业人士恢复，没想到柳暗花明，finaldata可以读出我那个非usb设备连接方式的相机里的sd卡的全部内存！简直不敢相信问题最终可以解决了——当然，问题不会这么simply and directly解决的，因为我下的这个是个演示版，只能浏览恢复成功（而且效果很好！）的照片却不能把它们导出。那只好在上网找有没有破解版了。但是当时上网极为不便，我又害怕再出现什么意外，干脆一张张把图抓下来先存个底再说！就这样又忙活了大半天把我那近二百张珍贵照片抓了下来。

挨到传说中的十一只为终于到了网络帐户开通的日子。兴奋的屁颠屁颠回去插网线，没想屏幕下角的小红叉还是固执在那里。试来试去就是不好，没办法抱着本子和网线去别人宿舍试试看是不是自己出了问题，结果在其他人宿舍一切运行正常。于是大郁闷！怎么偏偏自己宿舍网口有问题！（但事后证明，这个问题是个伪问题！）

隔了两天想去实验室上网，大中午步行N就到了学校，发现由于放假电梯不开。只好爬上七楼的实验室，但不知为什么自己的钥匙却开不开实验室的门！抓狂！试来试去只好放弃，萎靡地爬下七楼。

和舍友闷了七天终于盼到了第一个工作日，死活打通了网络中心的电话，跟人坚持就是有问题（人家在那边监控认为没问题）。挂了电话跟舍友说“要不咱们再试试吧”，这会用舍友的网线一试，竟然连上网络了！原来我的网线还是有问题啊！结果连累舍友三天没有上网不说，还把人家维护人员忽悠了。于是自己一个人在一边郁闷：这是什么事儿啊？为什么在别人的宿舍网线就好用在自己宿舍就不好用呢？这也是一种水土不服吗？

 

On my PNS

 

"I am missing you all a lot these days, my PNS！I’ve been dreaming back to be with you many times: Lisa, Hanson, Lady Di, Jelly, Maggie, Jody and Jonathan! Sometimes I wish there would be a regatta held in Qingdao every year so I’ll see you all every summer…."

                                                                                                      ——Tiare

 

PS: I’m really considering changing my English name from Lynn to Tiare….

ps.ps: We volunteers are really not alone here in BJ. Every volunteer seems enjoy wearing our uniform everyday everywhere (not as in QD) so that I will meet different people in dear blue or red ,very often,feeling really involved and proud.

 

Anyway, 终于得以上网，仿佛终于得以呼吸（addicted??）。看看同学们朋友们的grad days，无论国内的国外的，仿佛都有一种说不明白的综合征：才明白自己并不孤独。

自己羡慕的人的生活状态里，发现这种欢喜来他们自对生活衷心的热情和感谢。

希望自己亦如此。

 

 

结果：IAS型

 

非常喜欢阴雨的天气。让我感到宁静。

 

夜里习习的凉风，趁着安逸，擦痛了我内心深处的什么。

 

没有完全闲下来，可是内心深处总是若有所失，貌似一如既往的生活已经悄悄地物是人非。

 

仿佛是害怕被牵绊。

因为自己总是那样一个人，对某些少量的人和事一旦认真，就是难以放下。生怕这份小心翼翼由于时间中那些不可抗拒而rotten。

所以不敢轻易倾注。害怕破损；也害怕打扰——打扰与被打扰。

最近两周，有些事尘埃落定。

 

京城杨絮满天，从不知道北京的春天除了沙尘暴又添了这一毛病。又不是江南。

说到江南，渐渐觉到江南的好。大二时和晓庆去了一趟，正是当下时节，暮春初夏，真真莺飞草长、明媚烂漫的好时节。非常喜欢杭州，无锡也不错（但可能后来去得时候不对，对苏州并没有留下想象中的好印象）。在西子湖畔的一日，还有鼋头渚细雨蒙蒙的氤氲，让我打心里明白了“秀”字——山清水秀，流丽婉转。花草刚好，色彩明艳。似乎“秀”字就是为了江南景致而造，而“秀”字又不能尽其好。

四年后又到北京，承蒙哥哥嫂子的周全照顾，又吃又喝又玩，但总觉得除了时尚去处，北京的好风景大都仿制南方的建筑和景致，甚至最后一晚去吃夜宵，吃的都是江南色彩的小吃。实话说，我也非常喜欢江南的精巧小食。

但是，没有分量也没有勇气去考浙大，虽然从江南回来后，我认真考虑南方的学校来着。

 

复试是一场有趣的经历，见到了那些老师们，网页上的不活动的姓名文字突然变成了活生生的人。益发印证了自己的想法，大学里教课的老师还是非常和蔼可亲的，比较能装的还是那帮行政的人。丁锦红看上去比照片的感觉还要好，还主动朝我风度翩翩的一笑，不过专业面试时没分到他那一组，据说那一组的李新旺老师很挑剔。给我面试的郭春彦一直在追问我的计算机水平，还问我是不是第一年考，不知道是什么意思；我报的张钦老师竟然是温暖如中学老师的女老师，与我所想的完全不同。复试从笔试到面试自己都表现得非常一般，只有英语面试让我最后爽了一点，放段音频让复述一个英文心理学故事，还没等我讲到结尾那老师就说“好了，你不用说了”。

复试平淡的成为了过去式。

 

如今回忆起考研的整个过程，觉得蛮好，也许是因为这是我从小到大第一次真正努力地争取一件事。没有觉得累，天昏地暗，煎熬，或者不堪回首。投入地做自己想做的事，本来就没有那么痛苦。

在这里，我最要由衷感谢和祝愿的是Ocean。

 

************

在京一周，天气热得犹如青岛的六月，三环上尘土飞扬，满是莫名其妙的嘈杂而躁乱的人和车。自己背着大包走在路上，打量周围陌生的景物，却又有一种生活自主的跃跃然。

大一夏天和Di一起来北京的时候就觉得自己不会喜欢市中心，五道口中关村那里觉得还不错。其实，只是觉得那里人相对于三环内人比较少，而且高楼林立，有点像青岛的东部，只不过顺着平直的道路在尽头看不到海。

这一次来，对五道口的特殊感受又多一种，因为HP，因为清华。

HP是leo的铁哥们，早有耳闻的清华美院的一个不像搞艺术的人。自己一直向往画画的人，比如Ayy和他的好友李欣、马思赜，嘘嘘，calyu，等等，或者说这些人的独到反过来更加深了我对Art的情结。

和HP在短信里说过几句话，只是觉得好玩儿。但是当真我站在五道口的车站等待一个素未谋面的男生，我还发短信跟leo说突然觉得很窘，直到一个看上去蛮深沉的人叫我上他的单车带我去清华，我才知道更窘的事情在这里。（啊啊，我从没有过被人用单车带的经验啊。）

印象中Leo有对我说过HP并不是一个善谈的人，但是当我坐在他的单车后座和他闲聊时暗暗松了口气：还好还好，不然一路挖空心思找话说才是最最窘的事。若真是那样，那就是我的冒失应得的苦头。

春天的清华不再是印象中那个偌大空旷怎么也找不到出口让人丧气的炙热场景了，春天的魔力和一个真正的清华人领着自己触摸清华的生活，我终于明白狸猫同学，还有leo为什么死活要考清华了——清华为什么没有心理所啊？莫名其妙有个教育所收高等教育方向的心理学研究生，完全不是清华的风格嘛。清华应该借助自己生命科学、自动化、计算机等理工科的积累搞基础心理才是！

下午被带去了PKU，看到了心向往之很久的心理学系的小楼。HP说要不要下车进去看看。心里的感觉复杂，有些东西是机缘也只注定。

但是，还是非常感谢HP，周到，丰富的谈话。心里很欣赏他对周围和自己中肯的评价；要知道，这个年纪这个年代还能并且还在对自己进行这样质朴地元认知的人真是不多，至少我是这么感觉，

 

************

PKU是一个恶狠狠的名字，从初中时开始向往她的自由和开放。但是看着她高处不胜寒的几个名额，不知道自己深浅的我还是临阵脱逃，选择了一所名不见经传的学校。最后考研出来的分数意外的好（当然专业课能更高更好，但是自己也就这个水平了，要是能更有把握我想我早就义无反顾地直奔PKU了），虽然阿毛直截了当的“批评”我，但是经过了这四年，我想我早就变成了一个存在主义者：存在即合理；事情发生就一定有它的意义。

 

一个平淡的存在主义者，在QQ上看到夏卡的个性签名，他说他的大学是个坑，进去了“青春摔折了，其他安然无恙”。深有同感，我似乎也跌进了自己挖的一个坑里，在那里仰面朝天回忆和未来似乎都如梦幻。JW在发短信通知我可以查考研分数了的时候，我“凶恶”地将他顶了回去，后来他说他记忆中那个“乐观”的我不见了。虽然我本质上是个乐观主义的人，但是我从不认为我是一个表现得积极乐天的人。但是，我承认，过去的漫漫四年，我生命中某些重要的东西已经丧失了。

其实，虽然高中的时候交往不多，但是心里还是蛮欣赏夏卡的，有着看似简单却独特的思想。他的个性签名总是在某些恰当的时刻触动或提醒我，比如他引用过的《双城记》开篇的那段辉煌文字。

 

意识到自己的丧失是在公交车上，给leo发短信说自己突然害怕一个人在一个陌生而复杂的城市里生活。leo说，那不正是你想要的吗？

当然是自己想要的，否则自己怎么会逆流而上。但是，那一瞬间非常悲哀，自己连好奇和锐气都丧失了，青春就在这一刻丧失了自己的光华。

四年，本应是最为创造性和飞扬的四年。被打磨了，有没有冷淬？徒有一种漠然而模糊的旧痕累累。

当然，意外而有意义的是遇到了leo；还有，我终于在挪威的森林里玲子和Ocean的帮助下，学会了我最欠缺的东西。

 

去年深秋考研的时候就对人说，自己大学四年来最为遗憾的有三件事：没有读自己想要读的书；没有恣意飞扬而热血沸腾地和志同道合的人作想做的事；没有尽到一个英语专业学生的本分。

关于第二点我不知道我有没有表达好我想表达的意思。我只是想说，我很想体会那种纯粹、单纯而不计后果和代价地为一个理想或心愿或幻想什么的付出和追求，那种尽情释放后的心情，那种共鸣后的疲惫和满足。曾有那么一瞬间我以为我好像触到了这一切。

难以找到差不多的人，或者说，我自己的局限性制约了我可能渗透的这一切。Ayy在进大学不久之后就对我说他在试图建立一个属于自己的小圈子，当时我并不能明白这一点；而现在我是理解了，但是我并不是一个像他那样有自己的向心力的人——能吸引相近的人，没有可吸引的人仍可以保持自己的定力独立行走。

少有纯粹的精神激荡，也许是我太理想主义。

生活在别处，一种错位的感觉。

 

如今，要奔赴向一个未知的生活。走异路，逃异地，寻求别样的人生。希望我还能拾起蒙尘的灵气和锐气，向那个拐了弯迟了到的路途进取。

村上的书，反反复复读过的只有两本，《挪威的森林》和《海边的卡夫卡》。用村上的语言说，不是我选择了去读它们，而是它们选择了我。

在读完了《海》之后，我就直觉到两者之间的联系。当然，其中的许多联系是显而易见的：包括那些村上所有的小说中都独有的符号，哲思而跳跃的语言，隐藏的情绪，隐喻似的意象，对细节的不厌其烦地描画，对此就不一一列举了。我直觉到的是这两部小说上主题上的相似，而这，又是吸引我反反复复去读而不能参透的。

只想先列举一些明显的有关联的意象。

袒露身体的少女

在《挪》中，渡边第一次去阿美寮看望直子，夜晚，他从梦中醒来，看见了恍若梦游的身穿蓝色睡衣的直子，与他的面前脱尽所有衣服，在月光下向她展露“令人不胜怜爱”身体，倏尔离去。渡边莫名其妙，而第二天直子对一切茫然无知。

在《海》中，田村卡夫卡在图书馆期间“梦见了幽灵”。是夜，他看见宛如十五岁的佐伯的少女，身着白衬衣和蓝裙子（又是蓝色的），亦无意识地静静地出现在他的面前。同样有月光，从本应拉上窗帘的窗户外照进房间。只不过，这位美丽少女后来又再次出现，在他面前褪尽衣衫，和他同床共枕。

性别歧异的人

在《海》中，性别歧异的人当指大岛——性同一障碍者兼同性恋者兼血友病患者——貌似绝代青年但基因上实为女性。除了上述缺陷，大岛委实完美，似乎一切都能漂亮从容的迎刃而解，但当我读到大岛发现佐伯已死、心里异常干渴地觉得“自己还是需要这个人的”的时候，突然想到，小说其实一直忽略了（不知是有意还是无意）大岛对这一切前前后后感受，如果把这一切以大岛的视角写出来，会是什么样呢？

《挪》中的性别歧异人或许有些勉强，我认为是石田玲子。玲子曾是个天才的钢琴少女，但是她的外貌上确实相当中性，而且她一度受到同性恋倾向自我怀疑的困扰（因而导致二度精神病发）。

我一直想不明白，为什么村上要为玲子设计那样一段情节呢？那样一段被十三岁少女诱惑的“惊世骇俗”的一千多字呢？但是我要感谢玲子的那一段自我分析的话，让我明白了多年来我一直在自我反省却一直无法准确把握的症结。也许，这才是《挪威的森林》的真正的引人之处（而不仅仅是语言），只有你真正而且的确对青春、对成长有着细腻的反省和体味，才能与小说产生共鸣——虽然形式上可能千差万别，但是其中所蕴含的感悟是心意相通的。或者，用《海边的卡夫卡》中引用并加以引申一段颇为重要的黑格尔的关于“自我意识”的定义：人可以通过将自己投射在作为媒介的客体上来主动地更深刻地理解自己。人们就是在相互交换相互投射自己与客体的过程中来主动确立自我意识的。我们通过对小说中相似的主体、主题的共鸣和理解更加深刻地把握对我们自身生活的理解和感悟，这就是小说的魅力，这就是小说的隐喻功能。不得不说，村上的确有非常的化实为虚、化虚为实的语言功力，而我们能读到这些，林少华功不可没。

能够通过《海》中的话来interpret《挪》的精神，这或许反映了村上在构思着这两部小说时无意识地不断探讨同样的主题，只不过通过不断思考、经历和提炼，后者在主题上更加纵深和扩展。或者说，作为一个小说家，他的一生不断的通过小说来建构隐喻，只是想不断达到他一生不断企图完美表达、阐释、追求的同一个主旨。小说家们的小说们都是共有一个关键字的体系。

自给自足、自得其所的一段孤独生活

     村上的小说中一直在玩味孤独，这两部小说也是如此，只不过阐述方式又是相通的。

《海》中，田村卡夫卡被大岛带到深山老林中一处小木屋，里面有一应俱全的生活用品，完全足够一个人自给自足的生活。《挪》中的渡边是通过另一种方式来选择这样的一段孤独生活的，他独租了一处住所，在校外独住。像村上小说中的所有主人公一样，两人并未因此感到苦恼，而是感到适得其所，自得其乐，并在其中自省，仿佛那才是他们应当过的生活。实际上，直子他们在阿美寮过的也是这样一种生活。似乎，村上对这种孤独、自给自足、自得其乐的生活情有独钟而且对其赋予了深意。在《寻羊冒险记》中，鼠和“我”也都在大雪封山的林场草原中度过了一段独处的生活。同样的物质上的丰富，同样的自省。同样的对故事的发展中起着重大的突破作用。

彼此依存的青梅竹马、终止的人生

《挪》中的青梅竹马是直子和木月，《海》中的青梅竹马是佐伯和甲村家的长子。两对恋人都是浑然天成的，用《海》中大岛的话说就是在所有“男男、女女和男女”在被神一劈两半后寻寻觅觅对方的过程中，罕有而恰好地有那么一对男女彼此降生对了地方，不用再去费劲的寻找另一半。

这两对恋人都是彼此依存的，彼此知根知底，心心相印，一同成长，形影不离，和外界、和其他人疏离。仿佛发展下去是相当完美切合的一对，但是，就像直子所说的那样，这样子不能长久，是要付出代价的。代价就是，在两对恋人中的男方死掉之后，女方已经不会再和外界接触和交往了，或者说，女方不知道该怎样将真实的自我在向外界坦诚的敞开。结果就是，作为在世上遗留下来的女方的人生中止了。直子永远无法再向前迈出一步，拘囿在自己不健全的世界，直到自杀；佐伯中断了自己和过往的联系，前去不知名的地方和不知名的人过了一段自己都莫明其妙的生活，再度归来时，她已可以幻化出“活灵”，日复一日地等待入口石的再度开启和关闭，直到预言应验，佐伯死去。那幻化为“活灵”的无名少女永远地留在了森林中。

 

除此之外，还有几点较小的相似之处，如少年与年长女性的关系（渡边和玲子、田村卡夫卡和佐伯）、重要他人的死（自杀）（直子姐姐和恋人木月的自杀、铺垫和开启了直子人生的悲剧，甲村家长子的以外丧命中止了佐伯的人生）、几近完美却不幸的女性（如《挪》中的初美、直子的姐姐、《海》中少女时期的佐伯——无一不是才貌出众却最终香消玉殒）。

其实，两部小说的似曾相识在字里行间隐隐萦绕，可以随手拈来，应该不是主观的牵强。

 

以上，只是讨论了了《挪威来的森林》和《海边的卡夫卡》其中一条主线——田村卡夫卡的经历之间的相似之处，而对于《海》中另一条主线——中田的奇异经历——没有比对。而那一段也是耐人寻味的，它反映了村上长篇小说中惯用的双主线、双时空的叙述方式，这两条线是相互辉映、相互映衬、相互渗透的。从这儿也看出，《挪威的森林》就像村上在其后记中所说的那样，的确是一部具有特别意义的小说，因为它不同于其他长篇小说，从头至尾只是围绕一个故事一条主线在讲述。

这仅仅是我个人在读村上小说不由自主产生的比对。

假期已经过去一周半，案头有大堆计划——年年岁岁话相似，岁岁年年人照旧——我已对我的大脑的使不上劲儿进行思考极度鄙视。
做为电驴的驴友，在考研成绩、找工作、专业八级的夹缝中苟且偷生，我心安理得地“只索取、不奉献”，有空就挂，下Nature看，还有《银河系漫游指南》。也看北野武的《菊次郎的夏天》。
本来是要坑Leo替我到书城买《高级听力教程》，结果发现了贾德的《纸牌的秘密》《玛雅》，毫不含糊地厚着脸皮拿下，心想上海科技出版社的那本好书《魔镜——埃舍尔的不可能的世界》怎么还不再版啊。（现在心里又拉扯上了当初高二暑假欢仔给看的《白夹竹桃》，由于机缘没能买到上海译文出版社的唯一一版而一直耿耿于怀——天啦，Leo不要打我，我没有想每本书都让你帮我买啊！）
还买了《海边的卡夫卡》。

这是我手里村上的第三本书。虽然高中的时候村上风靡的紧，但那时的我完全不能理解，无论Like、Ayy同学怎样影响，整个高中三年只在一节阅读课上看了四十分钟的《世界尽头与冷酷仙境》，共72页。
第一本落入我手中的村上的书是高中最后一个生日也是离高考前相当近的一个生日的礼物，孙硕送的，《去中国的小船》。上了大学后，乱翻着看，喜欢《绿色悉尼大街》，还有《她埋在土中的小狗》。后者的名字我和Leo百念不厌（念：叨念&寻思）。
第二本是“大名鼎鼎”的《挪威的森林》。最初的原因，是因为大一的夏天和Di往北京窜，在来来往往的火车上断断续续地读，便一发不可收拾，真是“看了又看”，但绝不是为了林少华教授所说的其中的某一千多字。最后的结果是，我，Di，Leo，人手一本。
从这本书我也开始深深为林教授倾倒——相较于村上而言，大概是因为他不显得那么遥远——但我怎么也想不明白这样一位至少是对流行文化某些层面有所影响的人物竟会住在QDU隔壁，海大冷冷清清的浮山校区（不过别这么说，海大文科还有王蒙，杨自俭）。大二时的某一个清早，我下了227在青大一路上狂奔，眼看第一节的精读就要迟到，一张只在照片上看过的脸从身边飘过，它的身体正在一边走一边做晨练的扩胸运动，我的脖子就随着它转，眼睛在喊：林教授，给我签个名儿！可惜，萍水相逢而已。
后来，林教授从海大跨越他所言的“鸡犬相闻、老死不相往来的”的相隔一径（窃对两校现状的这一评价甚为赞同），做客QDU讲村上。Di早有准备，拿着《挪》就找林教授签名，我和Leo在一旁郁闷地看着。林教授欣然就笔：词章之乐。不好意思，本人粗鄙，这四个字好半天才看出来。虽据说林教授这一讲座内容不新鲜，但是人家好几张打印稿在手，决非口语化的阐述，还是让人敬佩其认真精神。有时我就异想天开，要是我是学日语的多好啊，那我谁的研究生都不考，就考林少华的！不过知情人都知道这是不可能的，无论川端康成、村上春树、大江健三郎，还是小野丽莎（她基本不唱日语）、久石让、哆拉A梦、柯南、野原新之助，统统都没有激励我学好我的二外日语，日语B不幸考了班里最后一名——不过，成绩并不代表一切，我只不过是不像一些人那样精通“考试”而已。
第三本书就是《海边的卡夫卡》，在最终得到它之前，我一看过几遍，还经Di引荐到青大之声和韩语系的阿伦就其及《天使爱美丽》、杨提尔森侃了一个钟头。电波在偌大校园里播放，包括我自己都没有留意。在此细细重读《海边的卡夫卡》，才发现“词章之乐”在这本书里已出现过。
前面七七八八地扯了一堆零碎，本不过是想讲讲我和村上小说的“渊源”，为下面的的铺铺路，却发现真想讲的要留到下一回，其中我喜欢的小说中让我不断求索不得其解的关联。

<DIV>
<P>自从上周五和一帮好友打麻将我狗屎运无敌好到我自己都不能相信，赢到手软——这可是从未有过的事——我就觉得有点不大妙。果然，当天晚上因错误估计严重性，晚走了十分钟，于是在台东这个找死的地方在周五晚上六点这个找死的时间找死地要打车去那个找死的佳世客，我在那条大马路上左窜右跳整整十五分钟，没车点我（也没车撞到我），于是我只好跳上一辆232，光荣地迟到约15分钟到达我兼职的学校。待神定气闲后，算算发现若以开始我就打谱坐公交，说不定时间刚刚好，心里狂郁闷。待我翻到助教守则发现我迟到的时间非常暧昧，搞不好要罚掉工资，我又像在等打车时欲哭无泪——真是验证二句话：“时间就是金钱”&amp;“一寸光阴一寸金啊”。</P>
<P>事隔一天，我又坐在TA manager面前再一次欲哭无泪：他们竟然有半年搞错我的课时费！要是少给我还好了，偏偏又是多给我！于是从这个月开始扣。我像前一天一样无话可说，心想这两个月可是用钱的时候，怎么这个时候给我上这一出啊！反正无论怎样，我下个月时肯定领不到钱了。</P>
<P>又是事隔一天，我做在TAXI副驾驶的位子上，心随着计价器数字的跳动而加速——谁能告诉我从佳世客打到海大鱼山校区是要20块钱吗？！比我从青大打到新二中还贵！我下了车才开始怀疑，是不是我一不小心上了传说中的青岛豪华TAXI ?罢罢罢，为了奶奶的生日，就像前两天为了开心，花钱不就是为了找乐——“千金一笑”嘛！（真是再一次验证，我不过是个可怜的自嘲的穷人。）</P>
<P align=center>再一次事隔一天，我放松了一晚踩在高跟鞋上一天了的双腿和双脚，坐在电脑前，想要舒舒服服上上网，放松一下心情。当我打开四天没有时间看的邮箱，惊的我的眼珠都要跳出来：我上周二发的一封争取一个面试机会的邮件被回复了！我的确成功了，但又失败了。我成功的争取到了，失败地错过了面试时间，原因就是我积极地表态，却“放弃地”没有及时查邮件。这倒不是一个影响未来饭碗的面试，只不过是我很想参加的一个活动。但是我心里还是那叫一个后悔啊！要知道，在那个计划中的（现在已经流产了）面试时间，我正在棋牌室里快乐地搓麻。我于事无补地回了一封邮件，问有无可能再给我一次机会，不过我已彻底放弃。也许有人觉得这很无聊，但是我平凡的人生还是需要付出这样别人看来根本用不着的努力的。</P>
<P>这就是最近的背运的我，所有的事情完美的构成了一个苯环似的结构。希望这意味着终结。现在我背上还有专八、毕业论文、找工作、等待考研成绩等一系列大山，我可不希望在分崩离析地山体滑坡了。尽管我还是毫无头绪，但是我还是希望自己的生活能长我在自己的手中。本质上说，我的内心深处还是一个乐观多过悲观一点点的人。</P>
<P>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; 晚上睡觉前好好祈祷认真忏悔，然后给自己找块红布挂挂，期待2008否极泰来。</P></DIV>

在一个淡淡的冬日，我结束了考研。在我走出考场的那一瞬间，我并没有在当天上午还在设想的兴奋心情，也许是因为并没有多么出色的发挥？

只是想说说我所在的那个考场。

 

在我放弃了PKU退而求其次之后，我并没有真的料想过我真的会回来考试。“回来考试”指的是回二中考试。二中，我短短的人生中三次重大考试都是在那儿考的。一个让人又爱又恨的地方。

同位monkey说我这是主场作战值得庆贺，谁知道这个地方被背负了太多？很多的时候，我只想静静默默地溜回来，游荡在哪些熟悉的场所，仿佛透明一般，而并不寻找什么过去的人儿。

今年寒假本来想和哪一个谁一块儿偷偷回来凭吊一番，但是我还是通过这样一种方式和亲爱的二中遭遇。

依然记得，七年前第一次从321上跳下来，抬眼望见那座土黄色的学校，映衬着背后开山后植被凋零的荒山，益发显得风尘仆仆，一个念头跳入脑海：“这学校怎么这么土啊？”

七年后，一同在这个考场的同学考试的同学从taxi里出来就对我说：你们这高中看上去比QDU还好啊。我抽着嘴笑笑，心想第一回看见A楼那斑驳的床，我抱着枕头连复读的心都有了。

向那个大门迈进，冷冷清清的是向那251阶（这个数字是我和狸猫同学在高中军训结束前一天晚上统计的）阶梯可劲儿的攀登的沉默不语的重重背影，就想起了四年前的夏天rainBOW 姐姐站在其中的某阶上，温恭和善地给同样攀登的人群打气的样子，谓之曰“送考”。其实，有点冒傻气。当然，如今亦如此。

等待考试大楼第一次开封的考生等待区，当仁不让还是升国旗的小广场，好像七年前我和稹突然在同样在等候的人群中发现了阔别三年的张腾宇？只是，这一次等待的时候，心情平静多了，毕竟这么多年来，心理上积淀的老茧还是厚了一些，元认知的自知之明还是有了一些。

在引导考生进入考场的路上，不小心看到了辛磊那颗益发饱满的头，白刚勋的笑脸，然后心下叹息：这些年来，自己的身份还是没有变，可怜。

自己的考场在高三（4）班，515。然后就经过了508，一个自己在里面耗费一年半的逼仄小屋，现在换名宣传部工作室。

发现现在每个班门口都有自己班级介绍，有班主任的照片和寄语。于是排队上厕所的时候看了看，自己所在班的班主任是马颖梅，好像那个高一给我们带过一节课的清秀女老师吧！讲话动不动就“啊……”。顺便溜一眼隔壁班的，竟然是周锋！阿飘也是毕业班的班主任啦！遥想当年他的逸事……，真是尽在不言中。晚上给同位发短信，他评论说着“他应该找着老婆了吧”。应该是这样的，只是应该再也看不到他的九分裤了吧。

只是，时光如水，当年一如我们一样青葱的小年青，俨然已被浇灌成中坚骨干。

顺便说一下，二中现在的厕所是如诗如画，虽然没有万达影城的自动冲水功能，但是绝对比得上肯德基麦当劳的，美中不足的是却少挂东西的钩钩，“智者千虑必有一失”啊。再就是让我同学郁闷的是，为什么每一层楼没有数字表明是几楼，弄得她已经两次上错楼。要知道，并不是每层楼都有“宏志书吧”之类的标识，而要练到见到它就条件反射并不是一日之功。

中午在一小饭馆里休息，看到了有一个店叫“午山烧烤”，然后又想谣传的邹悦老公开的网吧还在不在。中午趴在桌子上睡觉的时候，旁边的一个包间在和五吆六。怎么也睡不着，然后想当初七年前中考时的中午和稹怎么不睡觉呢？（结果在下午的政治考试中迷糊过去了，那个时候考政治还开卷啊~）就是在那个时候认识了初中同校三年却不认识的武奎，然后又从高中一直同校到现在，成为了舍友晓宇的男朋友。只是四年前高考试的中午是怎么度过的呢？在高中宿舍里休息？谁能补全我的孔孔洞洞空空洞洞满是漏洞的记忆？My selective memory won’t let me ……

下午随着人流上楼的时候，瞅见了王嬤，热心地在喊：“另一侧也有楼梯可以上啊。”没来的及和她打招呼。这也是我害怕回二中考试的地方，要是一不小心遇到认识的老师呢？——真是你也无语我也无话。王嬤身边站着个小男孩，是她的孩子吧。真是岁月蹉跎啊，当初她是我们高一的时候生的孩子吧，现在都这么大了。昌丽姐脸上也有了风霜的痕迹，颧骨益发突出了。（我高考理综的化学真是考得无颜以对啊。）

下午坐进考场轻松多了，因为考英语。乱翻由于考试被白纸盖住了的孩子们的墙上园地，一个用厚纸衬起来的类似墙报的东西，有一面墙，孩子们可以在上面随便别上写有自己言论的纸条。有一张纸条上写着“我志愿加入‘崛起’派，好好学习，好好考试……”，然后后来又一个人用红笔把其中的错字勾了出来，加上了评语。不禁莞尔，然后为这种调皮鬼灵的亲密无间所温暖。似曾相识。当初有哪六个聒噪，买来斑斓的彩纸报了宿舍的床棂？

傍晚走出校门，有看到了阎……（我记不得他的名字了），我们高一的历史老师，就是老“牛小青马宏超”那位，从小车里钻出来。走得时候，如同过去的四年，又去挤了一趟321，一班曾想永远不要再登上的车。

第二天早上来的时候看见了程志；我怀疑给我见最后一场的老师我认识，我相信他也对我也有印象，可我怎么也想不起他是谁了；手酸地写到十一点半，不想再看不尽人意的考卷，快速地冲出校门，没有回头。

一厢情愿地想在考试后在二种的校园里四处走走，是不现实的。

 

啰啰嗦嗦地说了这么多，只是因为细节翻腾记忆泛滥。其实二中还是那个二中，周边倒是有了人烟。只是很想从中性色彩用一下这个词的字面意思：“物是人非”。这就是最大的改变。

上海一九四三。

聊以自慰。

 

抑或某天从QDU滚蛋后，也会有这种“无病呻吟”。

 

                See Me Fall

            Right here coming to life 在这儿  气息回转
            No one to blame           没人责备

            Right now up and about    就现在  恹恹徘徊
            A minute of fame          一分钟的自许

 

            I've been staying alive   我存活着 已
            So many days              这多许日子
            No fear, happy or wise    没有恐惧，欢乐或者领悟
            All through the way       一路如此 

 

            But I thought there was something 但 我曾认为
            In life to live for               生命中 有什么可以为之而活 

 

            But if you hear me fall           但 如果你听见我的坠落
            If you hear me fall               听见我的坠落
            If you see me walk upon a bridge  看见我在桥上走过
            Then don't recall                 然后  不再回忆

            But if you hear me fall           但 如果你听见我的坠落
            If you hear me fall               听见我的坠落
            If you see me walk upon a bridge  看见我在桥上走过
            You've seen it all                你已统统看见

 

            Right here coming to life         在这儿  气息回转
            Nothing to blame                  没人责备
            I've been up and about            我一直  恹恹徘徊
            under the rain                    独立雨中

            But I thought there was something 但 我曾认为
            in life to live for               生命中 有什么可以为之而活
            Yes I thought you were something  是的 我曾认为
            in life to live for               生命中 我可以为你而活

 

           
            But if you hear me fall           但 如果你听见我的坠落
            If you hear me fall               听见我的坠落
            If you see me walk upon a bridge  看见我在桥上走过
            Then don't recall                 然后  不再回忆

            But if you hear me fall           但 如果你听见我的坠落
            If you hear me fall               听见我的坠落
            If you see me walk upon a bridge  看见我在桥上走过
            You've seen it all                你已统统看见

我的07年的暑假终于到来了；再考完了9门之后；在上学期考了10门这学期又考了9门之后。

我已彻底厌倦——从小到大考试无数，第一次厌倦到情绪要崩溃。

每晚早早睡去，不再熬夜，把自己平时没怎么学的科目的命运交给自己平时杂七杂八的积累。

结果，让我高兴的事linguisitics考试中让填空影响linguisitics的social factors，我靠自己平时在传播、跨文化上的积累，7个空写对了5个——我想这些并不难想到，只是要把那些写成相对应的英文因该不会是件容易的事。而我相信很多人如果不看书他们是根本填不上的。

我知道自己每本都回过，但是我还只给自己在心里打了不及格。

 

我的暑假就这样仓皇的来了。

天气终于好了一点，开始放晴，我今天开始要到学校去上自习。

其实我喜欢湿淋淋的阴翳天气。

 

ayy在一种前看过我一次后就去北京新东方了，一个月后才能回来；dab早就去德国了，他说他9月初才能回来；di8月就要去美国了；annie在考试结束前告诉我她8月份也要去北京，于是我终于“爆发”——“你们都走了，留我一个人在青岛受罪吗！！”

 

明天小贺回香港，也需要去看看他。

嘘嘘八月才要回来，听同位说他们很多人今夏都不会来——真不知道，他们要带在成都热死吗~~~

当我果真把学士帽抛向空中，我心中大喊着：“这一切终于结束了！”时，这一切，就真的这样结束了。

结束了，我心里有如释重负——终于可以全力投入到当前最想做的事情中去了，可是，我心中又有一点点惆怅，看着身边那二十几个同样穿着租来的学士服、熟悉又陌生的面孔。

答辩完结了，我开始写这些文字。也许早就应该记下这段经历，但是，两年的断断续续的生活，怎能在一篇文章中复原。

 

毕业设计！论文！答辩！

两年前的那个夏天的下午，我怀揣近三千元现金，小心翼翼地跑到西四502，问里面的老师：“这个，我们毕业的时候还要做毕业设计吗？”得到“不做，只是毕业论文”的答案，联想到前天晚上在网上看到北京大学   教授欢迎有计算机应用背景的报考他的心理学研究生，我在西四前的长凳上再次想了半个小时，决定到信息工程学院读这个计算机科学与技术第二学位。

只不过是想给自己一个改变的机会。

 

当到了这个学期，我们得到了我们将会“有幸”和信息工程学院03级毕业生一同毕业设计一视同仁的消息后，我想只有兵来将挡、水来土掩了。

选老师、选课题、老师再选我们，这使我想到了这是一个一对多、多对多的数量关系。

在被谷艺老师、刘存良老师“拒绝”，我“幸运”的落到了我的第四志愿——他——那里。选谷老师和他的选题，是因为我对数据库感兴趣，而古老师又教过我们两个学期人也很好；刘老师则是因为他第一学期叫我们的时候给我们留下了十分通融我们的印象，他的那个选题我倒是不是很感兴趣，只是觉得他人好就想跟他。可是，这两个老师都太抢手了，我们第二学位班的人没有一个人有幸得到他们的青眼。

他，也教过我们一年。也是因为我对他的选题涉及数据库，就勉为其难地选了他——因为我谨记同学们之间的教导：一定要找个了解的老师！我对他也不甚了解，就觉得他教的时间挺长，加之他又涉及数据库，于是我就在最后一个志愿里添了他。但是因为老想找个认识的老师就没有仔细看看那长长的选题列表，当我后来的得知还有不认识的老师做Powerpoint课件研究而不必作设计的选题时，我着实懊恼了好一阵。

但能选到他做导师还是“幸运”的，总比那些调到不认识的老师做着很纳闷的选题的同学好多了，而且，后来的事实证明他的确是个很好的人。

 

做设计的过程无比痛苦，大概是因为我这个人的个性吧。本身知识就不牢靠，不会的东西很多，很多都要从头开始，现实逼着自己天天想这些事怎么办，后来变成了每天睁开眼就不由自主地想这些事怎么办，我那一个半月陷入了慢性应激状态。当然，别的很多人都没有我这么痛苦，包括很多本专业的人都是悠悠然的做，并没有什么好担心的。但是我总是觉得不放心，这大概就是我性格太过小心的一面。

在经历了有两个周天天往家跑、在校图书馆翻遍了能借得能翻得能看懂的关于XML、ASP、数据库的书、在导师手把手甚至亲自操刀的指导后，我的毕业设计论文和程序终于完成了。而这时，我已经到了已经不想再开电脑不想在开网页以开网页就想它是怎么写的程度了。

 

我的毕业课题是基于XML的ASP留言簿设计（我可不像网博客上贴我的源代码和效果图，我觉得我的东西太“呆”了——尽管小磊哥哥安慰过我“很多本专业的毕业生做得还没有我的难”）。老题目，带我的导师的几年前的学生就已经做过这个题目了。在毕业设计的前一天，我在长长的答辩顺序表上看到了同组答辩的还有徐宁同学的时候，看到他的课题是关于XML的JAVA应用时，我就开始希望上帝保佑能出岔子让我们俩遇不上，以免让他看到我的糗样。

我的答辩时间是安排在2007年6月12日下午，导师让我上午去看看流程。答辩前倒也没有什么太紧张的，因为关于答辩的道听途说已经证实它只不过是一个让人难堪的过场，动真格的没有。我打定主意一切实话实说，不会就是不会，一定不不懂装懂，大不了糗十分钟（指要不要在徐宁同学面前……那样的话解释就要大费口舌了……）。

于是，当我就点准时出现在西四教五楼的时候，我感觉我就像是一个去看热闹的乡巴佬，尤其在我看到我们那零零落落站着的第二学位的十几个同班同学时，这感觉更增强了，还田加上了一种“一切赶快结束吧最好能今儿上午都搞定”的心情（我本来还想中午回去洗个头在准备准备精神焕发的答辩）。

一看是找不到导师和毕业论文，我就在多个答辩教室里流窜。但当我看到王佳博士问的天书一般的密码学问题，看到一个做手机游戏开发课题的学生在回答不出导师细枝末节问题的尴尬，我的心里也开始没底起来——这可不是昨天晚上小磊哥哥跟我说的问问“这个程序全都是你写的吗”“介绍一下你的课题”这么简单。虽然我已经把论文和程序又看了一遍，但是我对我那点底可没有信心。

“嘀”，小磊哥哥短信告诉我在哪个教室，于是我灰溜溜地从后门钻了进去。一进教室，就感到我导师所在的这个组和别的教室气氛大不一样。计算机都是围成一圈一圈的，同学们就坐在这些电脑边，就像幼儿园做游戏似的；讲台上的答辩的同学声音也不知为什么那么清楚，就好像用了胸麦似的。四个老师——其实主要是三个，旁边那个貌似研究生、踩一双黑布鞋、长得又有一点像程路的人，从头到尾都没开过口，一个劲儿的用GOOGLE EARTH看白宫。我的导师清爽的在那里坐着，基本不主动问问题，顶多就是补充一下；还有一位看上去精干又有幽默感的老师，零星提一些刁钻问题，但从没有让同学下不来台；最后的“主问”老师是一位温柔书香的女老师，有着软软的嗓音和幼儿园老师一样的耐心，她的口头语是“我觉得……”“我不太懂，可是……”“你能不能……”，还时不时地笑笑。整个教室笼罩在百叶窗造成的淡绿色的氛围下，很怡人，我也放松下来。

正当我打算回去洗头的时候，我的导师对我们说，今天上午进行得比较快，很有可能最后能答完他带的学生。我听了倒没有什么感觉，仿佛在接受一个既定的程序一样。

终于到我的时候（其实我前面还有一个人，但他竟然带了个大不开的PPT来），已经十一点了，下面观看的学生寥寥无几，只剩下三五个没答辩的。我走上台去，用毫无感情的语速把我早上来之前说了好几遍的“台词”快速背了出来——知道下面的老师希望我不要耽误他们吃饭和中午休息，他们下午还有一场——当然，我没忘记清楚的先说明我是第二学位的。

下面是我的提问的原因重现：

（三个老师互相看了一会儿，女老师照“惯例”率先发问）

女老师（温柔）：“我想知道……你的分页技术是怎么设计的……”

我（微笑）：“对不起，我没有设计分页。这是我设计中的一个缺陷……今年毕业设计时间比较紧，我没来得及设计……”

女老师（笑）：“哦……你知道分页在留言簿设计中是很重要的……”

男老师（不是我导师，抢过话头）：“我想问问你，你的非法留言怎么办，总不能让管理员一条一条的删吧？”

我（再微笑）：“哦，这也是我设计中的一个缺陷，我考虑到了，我会回去改进的……”（说完类似的这句话，我明显底气不足，开始发窘）

（三个老师又互相看了一会儿，那位还在玩游戏，我在台上扮无辜）

女老师（温柔）：“我想可以了，就这样吧。”

一切就是这样结束的。我马上就去参加临时决定的在西门门口的“伪毕业照”活动中。