刚打开豆瓣，发现一个豆友的邮件，说他要来武汉玩，对武汉的建筑游有什么建议？我读了以后就懵了。从出生到现在，我才发现武汉是那么陌生，我也从来没有激情去发掘她，比如淘有特色的店子，有特色的建筑，有特色的吃的，武汉的历史，我都陌生，营营切切到现在。我困扰起来，拼命在脑子里搜我走过的路——那么重复单调；我看过的东西——那么模糊没有细节。接着我就去汉网上搜，才发现，这是个多么本土的网站啊，那么多好贴，我之前居然都只看个标题。渐渐的，我回忆起一些很朦胧的片断，关于这座城市的。一桥，是的，一定要步行，和不同的朋友，在白天或晚上，晴天或下雨，几乎每年一定去去的；东湖，骑车或者步行，傍晚或深夜，冬天或者夏天，一定要去的；还有无意间路过的小巷子，油熏的古老的墙，养着花儿的窗台，小猫或者小狗，还有外婆家从前的那个小巷子……武汉的味道就是水的味道和油的味道。

后来在QQ上碰到张中杰，他说一路走好的时候，我正在和雷子聊古德寺，忽然毫无征兆的哭出来。我真的好舍不得这边的朋友们，大学的那帮可爱的孩子们，他们的脸就在眼前浮现。想着去年送走强叔，我哭得像个疯子，至今都被他们耻笑，现在这种悲伤又升起来，就像，好了，从此以后，就不会有这样简单的快乐了。这是实话。昨天还背着球拍和默默他们打球，他请客吃饭，唱歌，和他师姐开着玩笑，那么那么单纯和简单。我说明天我请客吃火锅，磅礴说火锅太贵了，我说那我们去豪门盛宴，欢欢说，不要，太贵了，等他下课了再跟我商量去哪里吃。小林说，最好能买2008响的鞭炮，欢送我离开，庆祝大家脱离魔爪。一想到，走了以后就再也不能和大家开心得跟疯子一样，我就难过到极点。明天大家吃饭的时候，但愿我不要哭，破坏最后的愉快气氛……

说到底，我还是极害怕一个人孤零零的。这么大年纪了，连个孩子都不如。我真害怕在火车站和爸妈说再见的时候，唉，我也真是太幼稚……到现在还在哭！！！！

我发现最近我的爱心泛滥，特别是自从前阵子在山上把滚的满身臭水的西西扔进小池塘以后，我便发现看着小动物的眼神真是难受，包括我家那只这几个月生长过于迅速的小乌龟，每天跟超人一样贴着盆儿壁抻着脑袋往外眺望的小眼睛珠子，我简直想把它给放生。而我妈最近又整出一堆平常不进门的东西，比如泥鳅还有鳖……那些小泥鳅翘着小鳍满盆子钻，一撒盐就跟油炸的油花子一样蹦得几尺高，我听到那声音就心如刀绞。还有鳖，在水池子里面缩在角落里面，转着绿豆眼。前几天腿伤，一同学说另一同学会从家里带来若干鳖，就把脚留给我吃。。。今天偏偏还死了棵最不可能死的植物，稀糊糊的汁液从根茎相连的土面流出来，太可怜了。。。虽然没有直接参与杀戮，我觉得我已经最不可赦了。上帝啊，我那儿来的这么博的爱啊！最近一定雌性激素分泌异常。

圆子前几天突然抽痉，提出来了一个我们曾经开过玩笑完全没有当真的计划来，我就应了，现在发现，实施起来真是困难，更难的是开头哪。。。昨晚两人例行散步，却被一个龊男跟踪！真是寒得我无以言表，圆子同志开始唏嘘，要是能有个男朋友多好啊！谈到这种话题，我总是眼前模糊，没有憧憬，我爸给我算过，我命里有孤星，典型婚姻不顺的tag。可怜了我如此泛滥的激素们，只能自己代谢掉，自生自灭，无他。

我只能望着这两个L兴叹，一没钱，二没魅力。想想，从1998年到2004这个跨越一个世纪的6年中，SEX AND THE CITY虏获了多少女孩儿的心啊，这些女人中有追鞋子，追名包，名裙子，名地产的物质女，也有向往纽约中产阶级自由生活，性开放，理智对待爱情的浪漫主义女，也有主题极其强烈的女权主义女，我也是其中之一。但我不得不说，这整整6季电视剧加上今年5月份终极的电影版——太扯了。

最扯的是“4”。4个关系极铁的女人做朋友，不论是剧集还是电影，都在强调咱现在的纽约这样四个四个成双的平方出现的女人越来越多了。我不得不承认，我从来没有同时和大于等于3个的女孩儿玩儿过，即使勉强算上大学寝室的妞，她们也因为某些原因冷战了2年。身边的朋友，最多也是总共3个人能相安无事的呆在一起。而且越到后来，妞们一个个找到郎君，更是不待见我这样的单身户。你看我连3个人都凑不齐，怎么叫4个？除非打麻将。有女人就有矛盾，没有矛盾也是皮笑肉不笑逢场作戏罢了，我只能这么歹毒地想。或者，四个人单纯一点儿，在一起就讨论一类事情：吃穿住行。我想时间久了，在这个小样方里面便会渐渐渗透进竞争元素，于是结果还是一样。友谊在大多数时间里，是两个人的事情。

其次，这两个L是目前以及今后大于等于5年的时间内离我最遥远的东西。远得我都不好意思描述。我们眼睁睁看着Carrie在六年之中，从一开始大头像只能出现在八卦报纸的专栏作家介绍上，到巨大的半裸海报贴在公汽上满Bronx游荡；从爱情空谈到找到Mr.Big；从把积蓄全部用来买鞋子，到请助理帮忙收拾屋子，天啊，人家这一路走来，lables和love多如繁星。再看看我和多如牛毛的我这类的女孩儿，从一开始抓耳挠腮考试，到一脸蜡黄孤老在实验室里，5年就这么飞过去。

不过，好歹Carrie是用自己的脑袋思考的，不像现在太多人只用胸。仅此纪念4个女人的纽约太阳般耀眼的友谊在电视上划上句号。

   转载自 Chemistry 讨论区

 
  
  


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※ 来源:·生命玄机BBS bbs.cst.sh.cn·[FROM: 202.127.16.22]

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What I want to say :

1,  This guy hates Asian grad students.

2, He despises young students majoring science nowadays.

3, and you have to admit that he was telling the truth.

     p4
　　In idle moments,when they were no presshing matters to be dealt with,and when everybody seemed to be sleepy from the heat,she would sit under her acacia tree.It was a dusty place to sit,and the ckickens would occasionally come and peck about her feet,but it was here that Mma Romotswe weould contemplate some of the issues which,in everyday life,may so easily be pushed to one side.
　　Everything,thought Mma Ramotswe,has been something before.Here I am,the only private detective in the whole Botswana,sitting in front of my detective agency.But only a few years ago there was no detective agency,and before that,before there were even any buildings here,there were just the acacia trees,and the riverbed in the distance,and the Kalahari over there,so close.
　　In those days there was no Botswana even,just the Bechuanaland Protectorate,and before that again there was Khama's Country,and lions with the dry wind in their manes.But look ar in now: a detective agency,right here in Gaborone,with me,the fat lady detective,sitting outside and thinking these thoughts about how what is one thing today becomes quite another thing tomorrow.
　　
　　p61
　　The lawyer winced as she spoke."It's easy to lose money in business,"he said."Especially when you don't know anything about what you're doing."He stared at her hard."Especially then,And anyway,can women be detectives?Do you think they can?"
　　"Why not?"said Mma Ramotswe.She had heard that people did not like lawyers,and now she thought she could see why.This man was so certain of himself,so utterly convinced.What had it to do with him what she did?It was her money,her future.And how dare he say that about women,when he didn't even know that his zip was half undone!Should she tell him?
　　"Women are the ones who know what's going on,"she said quietly."They are the ones with eyes.Have you not heard of Agatha Christie?"
　　The lawyer looked taken back."Agatha Christie?Of course I know her.Yes,that is true.A woman sees more than a man sees.That is well-known."
　　"So,"said Mma Ramotswe,"when people see a sign saying NO.1 Ladies' Detective Agency,what will them think?They'll think those ladies will know what's going on.They're the ones."
　　The lawyer stroked his chin."Maybe."
　　"Yes,"said Mma Ramotswe."Maybe."Adding,"Your zip,Rra.I think you may not have noticed..."
　　
　　p63
　　In her heart of hearts,she knew there would be no clients.The whole idea was a ghastly mistake.Nobody wanted a private detective,and certainly nobody would want her.Who was she,after all? Shw was just Precious Ramotswe from Mochudi.She had never been to London or wherever detectives went to find out how to be private detectives.She had never ever been to Johannesburg,What if somebody came in and said "You know Johananesburg of course,"she would have to lie,or just say nothing.
　　Mna Makutsi looked at her,and then looked down at the typewriter keyboard.She opened a drawer,peered inside,and then closed it.At that moment a hen came into the room from the yard outside and pecked at something at the floor.
　　"Get out."Shouted Mma Makutsi,"No chickens in here!"
　　
　　p132
　　The house had been built in 1968,when the town inched out from the shops and the Govenment Buildings,It was on a corner site,which was not always a good thing,as people would sometimes stand on that corner,under the thorn trees that grew there, and spit into her garden,or throw their rubbish over her fence.At first,when she saw them doing that,she would shout from the window,or bang a dustbin lid at them.but they seemed to have no shame,these people,and they just laughed.So she gave up,and the young man who did her garden for her every third day would just pick up the rubbish and put it away.That was the only problem with that house,For the rest,Mma Ramotswe was fiercely proud of it,and daily reflected on her good fortune in being able to buy it when she did,just before house prices went so high that honest people could no longer pay them.
　　
　　p182
　　Mr J.L.B Matekoni nodded.It had been easy to break the windscreen and scatter the fragments of glass about the car.It had been easy to telephone Mr Gotso's house and report that the car had been broken into;but this part was more difficult--this was lying to somebody's face.It's Mma Ramotswe's fault,he thought.I am a simple mechanic.I didn't ask to get involved in these rediculous detective games,I am just too weak.
　　And he was --when it came to Mma Ramotswe.She could ask anything of him,and he would comply.Mr J.LB Matekoni even had a fantasy,unconfessed,guiltily enjoyed in which he helped Mma Ramotswe.They were in the Kalahari together and Mma Ramotswe was threatened by a lion.He called out,drawing the lion's atterntion to him,and the animal turned and snarled.This gave her the chance to escape,while he dispatched the lion with a hunting knife;an innocent enough fantasy,one might have thought,except for one thing:Mma Ramostwe was wearing no clothes.
　　He would have loved to save her,naked or otherwise,from a lion,but this was different.He had even had to make a false report to the police,which had really frightened him,even if they had not even bothered to come round to investigate,He was a criminal now,he supposed,and it was all becouse he was weak.He should have said no.He should have told Mma Romatswe that it was not her job to be a crusader.
　　
　　p212
　　Mma Ramotswe moved forward gingerly,placing each foot carefully and expecting at any moment to hear a hiss from a protesting snake,But nothing moved,and she was soon crouching under a mulberry tree as close as she dared to get to the house,From the shade of the tree she had a good view of the back door and the open kitchen window,yet she could not see into the house itself,as it was of the old colonial style,with wide eaves,which made the interior cool and dark.It was far easier to spy on people who live in modern houses,becouse architects today had forgetten about the sun and put people in goldfish bowls where the whole world could peer in through large unprotected windows,should they so desire.
　　Now what should she do?She could stay where she was in the hope that somebody came out of the back door,but why should they bother to do that?And if they did,then what would she do?
　　Suddenly a window at te back of the house opened and a man leaned out,It was Dr Komoti.
　　"You!You over there!Yes,you,fat lady!What are you doing sitting under out mulberry tree?"
　　Mma Ramotswe experienced a sudden,absurd urge to look over her shoulder ,as if to imply that there was somebody else under the tree.She felt like a schoolgirl caught stealing fruit,or doing some other forbidden act.There was nothing one could say;one just had to own up.
　　
　　p215
　　She knew the railway station slightly.It was a place that she enjoyed visiting,as it reminded her of the old Africa,the days of uncomfortable companionship on crowded trains,of slow journeys across great plains, of the sugarcane you used to eat to while away the time,and of the pitch of the cane you used to spit out of the wide windows.Here you could still see it--or a part of it--here,where the trains that came from the Cape pulled slowly past the platform on their journey up through Botswana to Bulawayo;here,where the Indian stores beside the railway buildings still sold cheap blankets and men't hats with a garish feather tucked into the band.
　　Mma Ramotswe did not want Afica to change.She did not want her people to become like everybody else,soulless,selfish,forgetful of what it means to be an Afircan,or worse still.ashamed fo Afica.She would not be anything but Afican,never,even if somebody came up to her and said"Here is a pill,the very latest thing.Take it and it will make you into an Amecian."She would say no.Never.No thank you.
　　
　　p234
　　The sun went,and it was dark.He sat beside her in the comfortable darkness and they listened,contentedly,to the sounds of Afica settling down for the night.A dog barked somewhere;a car engine raced and then died away;there was a touch of wind,warm dusty wind,redolent of thorn trees.
　　He looked at her in the darkness,at this woman who was everything to him--mother,Africa,wisdom,understanding,good things to eat,pumpkins,chickens,the smell of sweet cattle breath,the white sky across the endless,endless bush,and the giraffe that cried,giving its tears for women to daub on their baskets;O Botswana,my country,my place.
　　Those were his thoughts.But how could he say any of that to her?Any time he tried to tell her what was in his heart,the words which came to him seemed so inadequate.A mechanic cannot be a poet,he thought,that is not how things are.So he simply said:
　　"I am very happy that I fixed your van for you.I would have been sorry if somebody esle had lied to you and said it was not worth fixing.There are people like that in the motor trade."
　　"I know,"said Mma Romatswe."But you are not like that."
　　He said nothing,There were times when you simply had to speak,or you would have your lifetime ahead to regret not speaking.ut every time he had tried to speak to her of what was in his heart,he had failed.He had already asked her to marry him and that had not been a great success.He did not have a great deal of confidence,at least with people;cars were different,of course.
　　"I am very happy sitting here with you..."
　　She turned to him."What did you say?"
　　"I said,please marry me,Mma Ramotswe.I am just Mr J.L.B.Matekoni,that's all,but please marry me and make me happy."
　　"Of course I will,"said Mma Ramotswe.

感谢燕子把这本书从美国带回来。

      Ramotswe女士在博茨瓦纳开了第一家侦探事务所，同时也是第一家女士的侦探事务所。但这本书并不是一本侦探小说，你要知道，简单的叙述，一个fat lady在她的tiny white van里走过博茨瓦纳的每个角落，和邻近的地方帮博茨瓦纳善良淳朴的人们解决生活中的疑团——这是她，她的朋友和她的同胞们对博茨瓦纳的热爱。
　　
　　你读这本轻盈的书，感觉到的是非洲干燥的空气，密密匆匆的灌木，小房子，马克杯里面的茶，南瓜，牛群，清清淡淡的颜色，就像童话一样。是的，这简直就是童话。你不能用“现实”这个词来批评它，它不现实吗？Ramotswe的老爸爸年轻时做矿工的凶险经历，贫困，毒品，谋杀，巫术，以及吐着信子的眼镜蛇，都若有若无地藏在在这本可爱的书的每个角落中。世界的美丽只存在于视之美丽的人的眼中。
　　
　　正是因为这本小说没有花里胡哨的情节，安安静静的，所以闻起来没有商业的味道。

     我最喜欢的电影是<Out Of Africa>，道理就和无数男生最钟爱教父一样。<走出非洲>和这本小说相似的地方就是，若有若无的狮子，非洲美丽到要心脏停止的大草原，回想电影里小滑翔机上两人低头凝视的非洲，电影中的那段音乐就会在耳朵里响起。其次是非洲那些纯朴黝黑的人们，在殖民岁月中不得不改变自己的生活方式，同时捍卫自己的文化。 就如同Mma Ramotswe想的：She would not be anything but Afican,never,even if somebody came up to her and said"Here is a pill,the very latest thing.Take it and it will make you into an Amecian."She would say no.Never.No thank you.

　　

by Vladimir Novokov

On the stairs Natasha ran into her neighbor from across the hall, Baron Wolfe. He was somewhat laboriously ascending the bare wooden steps, caressing the bannister with his hand and whistling softly through his teeth.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry, Natasha?”

“To the drugstore to get a prescription filled. The doctor was just here. Father is better.”

“Ah, that’s good news.”

She flitted past in her rustling raincoat, hatless.

Leaning over the bannister, Wolfe glanced back at her. For an instant he caught sight from overhead of the sleek, girlish part in her hair. Still whistling, he climbed to the top floor, threw his rain-soaked briefcase on the bed, then thoroughly and satisfyingly washed and dried his hands.

Then he knocked on old Khrenov’s door.

Khrenov lived in the room across the hall with his daughter, who slept on a couch, a couch with amazing springs that rolled and swelled like metal tussocks through the flabby plush. There was also a table, unpainted and covered with ink-spotted newspapers. Sick Khrenov, a shrivelled old man in a nightshirt that reached to his heels, creakily darted back into bed and pulled up the sheet just as Wolfe’s large shaved head poked through the door.

“Come in, glad to see you, come on in.”

The old man was breathing with difficulty, and the door of his night table remained half open.

“I hear you’ve almost totally recovered, Alexey Ivanych,” Baron Wolfe said, seating himself by the bed and slapping his knees.

Khrenov offered his yellow, sticky hand and shook his head.

“I don’t know what you’ve been hearing, but I do know perfectly well that I’ll die tomorrow.”

He made a popping sound with his lips.

“Nonsense,” Wolfe merrily interrupted, and extracted from his hip pocket an enormous silver cigar case. “Mind if I smoke?”

He fiddled for a long time with his lighter, clicking its cogged screw. Khrenov half-closed his eyes. His eyelids were bluish, like a frog’s webbing. Graying bristles covered his protruding chin. Without opening his eyes, he said, “That’s how it’ll be. They killed my two sons and heaved me and Natasha out of our natal nest. Now we’re supposed to go and die in a strange city. How stupid, all things considered. . . .”

Wolfe started speaking loudly and distinctly. He spoke of how Khrenov still had a long time to live, thank goodness, and how everyone would be returning to Russia in the spring, together with the storks. And then he proceeded to recount an incident from his past.

“It was back when I was wandering around the Congo,” he was saying, and his large, somewhat corpulent figure swayed slightly. “Ah, the distant Congo, my dear Alexey Ivanych, such distant wilds—you know . . . Imagine a village in the woods, women with pendulous breasts, and the shimmer of water, black as karakul, amid the huts. There, under a gigantic tree—a kiroku—lay orange fruit like rubber balls, and at night there came from inside the trunk what seemed like the sound of the sea. I had a long chat with the local kinglet. Our translator was a Belgian engineer, another curious man. He swore, by the way, that, in 1895, he had seen an ichthyosaur in the swamps not far from Tanganyika. The kinglet was smeared with cobalt, adorned with rings, and blubbery, with a belly like jelly. Here’s what happened—”

Wolfe, relishing his story, smiled and stroked his pale-blue head.

“Natasha is back,” Khrenov quietly and firmly interjected, without raising his eyelids.

Instantly turning pink, Wolfe looked around. A moment later, somewhere far off, the lock of the front door clinked, then steps rustled along the hall. Natasha entered quickly, with radiant eyes.

“How are you, Daddy?”

Wolfe got up and said, with feigned nonchalance, “Your father is perfectly well, and I have no idea why he’s in bed. . . . I’m going to tell him about a certain African sorcerer.”

Natasha smiled at her father and began unwrapping the medicine.

“It’s raining,” she said softly. “The weather is terrible.”

As usually happens when the weather is mentioned, the others looked out the window. That made a bluish-gray vein on Khrenov’s neck contract. Then he threw his head back on the pillow again. With a pout, Natasha counted the drops, and her eyelashes kept time. Her sleek dark hair was beaded with rain, and under her eyes there were adorable blue shadows.

 

II

Back in his room, Wolfe paced for a long time, with a flustered and happy smile, dropping heavily now into an armchair, now onto the edge of the bed. Then, for some reason, he opened a window and peered into the dark, gurgling courtyard below. At last he shrugged one shoulder spasmodically, put on his green hat, and went out.

Old Khrenov, who was sitting slumped on the couch while Natasha straightened his bed for the night, observed indifferently, in a low voice, “Wolfe has gone out to dinner.”

Then he sighed and pulled the blanket more tightly around him.

“Ready,” Natasha said. “Climb back in, Daddy.”

All around there was the wet evening city, the black torrents of the streets, the mobile, shiny cupolas of umbrellas, the blaze of shopwindows trickling down onto the asphalt. Along with the rain the night began to flow, filling the depths of the courtyards, flickering in the eyes of the thin-legged prostitutes, who slowly strolled to and fro at the crowded intersections. And, somewhere above, the circular lights of an advertisement flashed intermittently like a spinning illuminated wheel.

Toward nightfall, Khrenov’s temperature had risen. The thermometer was warm, alive—the column of mercury climbed high on the little red ladder. For a long time he muttered unintelligibly, kept biting his lips and gently shaking his head. Then he fell asleep. Natasha undressed by a candle’s wan flame, and saw her reflection in the murky glass of the window—her pale, thin neck, the dark braid that had fallen across her clavicle. She stood like that, in motionless languor, and suddenly it seemed to her that the room, together with the couch, the table littered with cigarette stubs, the bed on which, with open mouth, a sharp-nosed, sweaty old man slept restlessly—all this started to move, and was now floating, like the deck of a ship, into the black night. She sighed, ran a hand across her warm bare shoulder, and, transported partly by dizziness, lowered herself onto the couch. Then, with a vague smile, she began rolling down and pulling off her old, oft-mended stockings. Once again the room started floating, and she felt as if someone were blowing hot air onto the back of her head. She opened her eyes wide—dark, elongated eyes, whose whites had a bluish sheen. An autumn fly began to circle the candle and, like a buzzing black pea, collided with the wall. Natasha slowly crawled under the blanket and stretched, sensing, like a bystander, the warmth of her own body, her long thighs, and her bare arms thrown back behind her head. She felt too lazy to douse the candle, to shoo away the silken formication that was making her involuntarily compress her knees and shut her eyes. Khrenov gave a deep groan and raised one arm in his sleep. The arm fell back as if it were dead. Natasha lifted herself slightly and blew toward the candle. Multicolored circles started to swim before her eyes.

I feel so wonderful, she thought, laughing into her pillow. She was now lying curled up, and seemed to herself to be incredibly small, and all the thoughts in her head were like warm sparks that were gently scattering and sliding. She was just falling asleep when her torpor was shattered by a deep, frenzied cry.

“Daddy, what’s the matter?”

She fumbled on the table and lit the candle.

Khrenov was sitting up in bed, breathing furiously, his fingers clutching the collar of his shirt. A few minutes earlier, he had awakened and was frozen with horror, having mistaken the luminous dial of the watch lying on a chair nearby for the muzzle of a rifle motionlessly aiming at him. He had awaited the gunshot, not daring to stir, then, losing control, started screaming. Now he looked at his daughter, blinking and smiling a tremulous smile.

“Daddy, calm down, it’s nothing. . . .”

Her naked feet softly shuffling on the floor, she straightened his pillows and touched his brow, which was sticky and cold with sweat. With a deep sigh, and still shaken by spasms, he turned toward the wall and muttered, “All of them, all . . . and me, too. It’s a nightmare. . . . No, you mustn’t.”

He fell asleep as if falling into an abyss.

Natasha lay down again. The couch had become even bumpier, the springs pressed now into her side, now into her shoulder blades, but at last she got comfortable and floated back into the interrupted, incredibly warm dream that she still sensed but no longer remembered. Then, at dawn, she awoke again. Her father was calling to her.

“Natasha, I don’t feel well. Give me some water.”

Slightly unsteady, her somnolence permeated by the light-blue dawn, she moved toward the washbasin, making the pitcher clink. Khrenov drank avidly and deeply. He said, “It will be awful if I never return.”

“Go to sleep, Daddy. Try to get some more sleep.”

Natasha threw on her flannel robe and sat down at the foot of her father’s bed. He repeated the words “This is awful” several times, then gave a frightened smile.

“Natasha, I keep imagining that I am walking through our village. Remember the place by the river, near the sawmill? And it’s hard to walk. You know—all the sawdust. Sawdust and sand. My feet sink in. It tickles. One time, when we travelled abroad . . .” He frowned, struggling to follow the course of his own stumbling thoughts.

Natasha recalled with extraordinary clarity how he had looked then, recalled his fair little beard, his gray suède gloves, his checkered travelling cap that resembled a rubber pouch for a sponge—and suddenly felt that she was about to cry.

“Yes. So that’s that,” Khrenov drawled indifferently, peering into the dawn mist.

“Sleep some more, Daddy. I remember everything.”

He awkwardly took a swallow of water, rubbed his face, and leaned back on the pillows. From the courtyard came a cock’s sweet throbbing cry.

 

III

At about eleven the next morning, Wolfe knocked on the Khrenovs’ door. Some dishes tinkled with fright in the room, and Natasha’s laughter spilled forth. An instant later, she slipped out into the hall, carefully closing the door behind her.

“I’m so glad—Father is a lot better today.”

She was wearing a white blouse and a beige skirt with buttons along the hips. Her elongated, shiny eyes were happy.

“Awfully restless night,” she continued rapidly, “and now he’s cooled down completely. His temperature is normal. He has even decided to get up. They’ve just bathed him.”

“It’s sunny out today,” Wolfe said mysteriously. “I didn’t go to work.”

They were standing in the half-lit hall, leaning against the wall, not knowing what else to talk about.

“You know what, Natasha?” Wolfe suddenly ventured, pushing his broad, soft back away from the wall and thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his wrinkled gray trousers. “Let’s take a trip to the country today. We’ll be back by six. What do you say?”

Natasha stood with one shoulder pressed against the wall, also pushing away slightly.

“How can I leave Father alone? Still, though . . .”

Wolfe suddenly cheered up.

“Natasha, sweetheart, come on—please. Your dad is all right today, isn’t he? And the landlady is nearby in case he needs anything.”

“Yes, that’s true,” Natasha said slowly. “I’ll tell him.”

And, with a flip of her skirt, she turned back into the room.

Fully dressed but without his shirt collar, Khrenov was feebly groping for something on the table.

“Natasha, Natasha, you forgot to buy the papers yesterday. . . .”

Natasha busied herself brewing some tea on the alcohol stove.

“Daddy, today I’d like to take a trip to the country. Wolfe invited me.”

“Of course, darling, you must go,” Khrenov said, and the bluish whites of his eyes filled with tears. “Believe me, I’m better today. If only it weren’t for this ridiculous weakness . . .”

When Natasha had left he again started slowly groping about the room, still searching for something . . . With a soft grunt he tried to move the couch. Then he looked under it—he lay prone on the floor, and stayed there, his head spinning nauseatingly. Slowly, laboriously, he got back on his feet, struggled over to his bed, lay down . . . And again he had the sensation that he was crossing some bridge, that he could hear the sound of a lumber mill, that yellow tree trunks were floating, that his feet were sinking deep into the moist sawdust, that a cool wind was blowing from the river, chilling him through and through. . . .

 

IV

“Yes—all my travels . . . Oh, Natasha, I sometimes felt like a god. I saw the Palace of Shadows in Ceylon and shot at tiny emerald birds in Madagascar. The natives there wear necklaces made of vertebrae, and sing so strangely at night on the seashore, as if they were musical jackals. I lived in a tent not far from Tamatave, where the earth is red, and the sea dark blue. I cannot describe that sea to you.”

Wolfe fell silent, gently tossing a pinecone with his hand. Then he ran his puffy palm down the length of his face and broke out laughing.

“And here I am, penniless, stuck in the most miserable of European cities, sitting in an office day in, day out, like some idler, munching on bread and sausage at night in a truckers’ dive. Yet there was a time . . .”

Natasha was lying on her stomach, elbows widespread, watching the brightly lit tops of the pines as they gently receded into the turquoise heights. As she peered into this sky, luminous round dots circled, shimmered, and scattered in her eyes. Every so often something would flit like a golden spasm from pine to pine. Next to her crossed legs sat Baron Wolfe in his ample gray suit, his shaved head bent, still tossing his dry cone.

Natasha sighed.

“In the Middle Ages,” she said, gazing at the tops of the pines, “they would have burned me at the stake or sanctified me. I sometimes have strange sensations. Like a kind of ecstasy. Then I become almost weightless, I feel I’m floating somewhere, and I understand everything—life, death, everything. . . . Once, when I was about ten, I was sitting in the dining room, drawing something. Then I got tired and started thinking. Suddenly, very rapidly, in came a woman, barefoot, wearing faded blue garments, with a large, heavy belly, and her face was small, thin, and yellow, with extraordinarily gentle, extraordinarily mysterious eyes. . . . Without looking at me, she hurried past and disappeared into the next room. I was not frightened—for some reason, I thought she had come to wash the floors. I never encountered that woman again, but you know who she was? The Virgin Mary . . .”

Wolfe smiled.

“What makes you think that, Natasha?”

“I know. She appeared to me in a dream five years later. She was holding a child, and at her feet there were cherubs propped on their elbows, just like in the Raphael painting, only they were alive. Besides that, I sometimes have other, very little visions. When they took Father away in Moscow and I remained alone in the house, here’s what happened: On the desk there was a small bronze bell like the ones they put on cows in the Tyrol. Suddenly it rose into the air, started tinkling, and then fell. What a marvellous, pure sound.”

Wolfe gave her a strange look, then threw the pinecone far away and spoke in a cold, opaque voice.

“There is something I must tell you, Natasha. You see, I have never been to Africa or to India. It’s all a lie. I am now nearly thirty, but, apart from two or three Russian towns and a dozen villages, and this forlorn country, I have not seen anything. Please forgive me.”

He smiled a melancholy smile. He suddenly felt intolerable pity for the grandiose fantasies that had sustained him since childhood.

The weather was autumnally dry and warm. The pines barely creaked as their gold-hued tops swayed.

“An ant,” Natasha said, getting up and patting her skirt and stockings. “We’ve been sitting on ants.”

“Do you despise me very much?” Wolfe asked.

She laughed. “Don’t be silly. After all, we are even. Everything I told you about my ecstasies and the Virgin Mary and the little bell was fantasy. I thought it all up one day, and after that, naturally, I had the impression that it had really happened. . . .”

“That’s just it,” Wolfe said, beaming.

“Tell me some more about your travels,” Natasha asked, intending no sarcasm.

With a habitual gesture, Wolfe took out his solid cigar case.

“At your service. Once, when I was sailing on a schooner from Borneo to Sumatra . . .”

 

V

A gentle slope descended toward the lake. The posts of the wooden jetty were reflected like gray spirals in the water. Beyond the lake was the same dark pine forest, but here and there one could glimpse a white trunk and the mist of yellow leaves of a birch. On the dark-turquoise water floated glints of clouds, and Natasha suddenly recalled Levitan’s landscapes. She had the impression that they were in Russia, that you could only be in Russia when such torrid happiness constricts your throat, and she was happy that Wolfe was recounting such marvellous nonsense and, with his little noises, launching small flat stones, which magically skidded and skipped along the water. On this weekday there were no people to be seen; only occasional cloudlets of exclamation or laughter were audible, and on the lake there hovered a white wing—a yacht’s sail. They walked for a long time along the shore, ran up the slippery slope, and found a path where the raspberry bushes emitted a whiff of black damp. A little farther, right by the water, there was a café, quite deserted, with nary a waitress or a customer to be seen, as if there were a fire somewhere and they had all run off to look, taking with them their mugs and their plates. Wolfe and Natasha walked around the café, then sat down at an empty table and pretended that they were eating and drinking and an orchestra was playing. And, while they were joking, Natasha suddenly thought she heard the distinct sound of real orange-hued wind music. Then, with a mysterious smile, she gave a start and ran off along the shore. Baron Wolfe ponderously loped after her. “Wait, Natasha—we haven’t paid yet!”

Afterward, they found an apple-green meadow, bordered by sedge, through which the sun made the water gleam like liquid gold, and Natasha, squinting and inflating her nostrils, repeated several times, “My God, how wonderful . . .”

Wolfe felt hurt by the unresponsive echo and fell silent, and, at that airy, sunlit instant beside the wide lake, a certain sadness flew past like a melodious beetle.

Natasha frowned and said, “For some reason, I have a feeling that Father is worse again. Maybe I should not have left him alone.”

Wolfe remembered seeing the old man’s thin legs, glossy with gray bristles, as he hopped back into bed. He thought, And what if he really does die today?

“Don’t say that, Natasha—he’s fine now.”

“I think so, too,” she said, and grew merry again.

Wolfe took off his jacket, and his thickset body in its striped shirt exhaled a gentle aura of heat. He was walking very close to Natasha; she was looking straight ahead, and she liked the feel of this warmth pacing alongside her.

“How I dream, Natasha, how I dream,” he was saying, waving a small, whistling stick. “Am I really lying when I pass off my fantasies as truth? I had a friend who served for three years in Bombay. Bombay? My God! The music of geographical names. That word alone contains something gigantic, bombs of sunlight, drums. Just imagine, Natasha—that friend of mine was incapable of communicating anything, remembered nothing except work-related squabbles, the heat, the fevers, and the wife of some British colonel. Which of us really visited India? . . . It’s obvious—of course, I am the one. Bombay, Singapore . . . I can recall, for instance . . .”

Natasha was walking along the very edge of the water, so that the child-size waves of the lake plashed up to her feet. Somewhere beyond the woods a train passed, as if it were travelling along a musical string, and both of them stopped to listen. The day had become a bit more golden, a bit softer, and the woods on the far side of the lake now had a bluish cast.

Near the train station, Wolfe bought a paper bag of plums, but they turned out to be sour. Seated in the empty wooden compartment of the train, he threw them at intervals out the window, and kept regretting that, in the café, he had not filched some of those cardboard disks you put under beer mugs.

“They soar so beautifully, Natasha, like birds. It’s a joy to watch.”

Natasha was tired; she would shut her eyes tightly, and then again, as she had been in the night, she would be overcome and carried aloft by a feeling of diing lightness.

“When I tell Father about our outing, please don’t interrupt me or correct me. I may well tell him about things we did not see at all. Various little marvels. He’ll understand.”

When they arrived in town, they decided to walk home. Baron Wolfe grew taciturn and grimaced at the ferocious noise of the automobile horns, while Natasha seemed propelled by sails, as if her fatigue sustained her, endowed her with wings and made her weightless, and Wolfe seemed all blue, as blue as the evening. One block short of their house, Wolfe suddenly stopped. Natasha flew past. Then she, too, stopped. She looked around. Raising his shoulders, thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his ample trousers, Wolfe lowered his light-blue head like a bull. Glancing sideways, he said that he loved her. Then, turning rapidly, he walked away and entered a tobacco shop.

Natasha stood for a while, as if suspended in midair, then slowly walked toward the house. This, too, I shall tell Father, she thought, advancing through a blue mist of happiness, amid which the street lamps were coming alight like precious stones. She felt that she was growing weak, that hot, silent billows were coursing along her spine. When she reached the house, she saw her father, in a black jacket, shielding his unbuttoned shirt collar with one hand and swinging his door keys with the other, come out hurriedly, slightly hunched in the evening fog, and head for the newsstand.

“Daddy,” she called, and walked after him. He stopped at the edge of the sidewalk and, tilting his head, glanced at her with his familiar wily smile.

“My little rooster, all gray-haired. You shouldn’t be going out,” Natasha said.

Her father tilted his head the other way, and said very softly, “Dearest, there’s something fabulous in the paper today. Only I forgot to bring money. Could you run upstairs and get it? I’ll wait here.”

She gave the door a push, cross with her father, and at the same time glad that he was so chipper. She ascended the stairs quickly, aerially, as in a dream. She hurried along the hall. He might catch cold standing there waiting for me. . . .

For some reason, the hall light was on. Natasha approached her door and simultaneously heard the susurration of soft speech behind it. She opened the door quickly. A kerosene lamp stood on the table, smoking densely. The landlady, a chambermaid, and some unfamiliar person were blocking the way to the bed. They all turned when Natasha entered, and the landlady, with an exclamation, rushed toward her. . . .

Only then did Natasha notice her father lying on the bed, looking not at all as she had just seen him, but a dead little old man with a waxen nose. ♦

(Circa 1924. Translated, from the Russian, by Dmitri Nabokov.)

结果我和一个女生在外面晃了很久，被我妈的电话骂回去，回家后洗澡，吃几片维B，倒头便睡。

迷蒙之间，我和朋友A在等401，连续两辆过去，车里的人都满到要爆，终于来了一辆空车，我们俩雀跃，上车以后，司机很友善地对我们笑笑，我们投币以后，转身发现，车里居然都是人，当时我汗毛都竖了起来，他们也都朝我们笑。正好有两个前门旁边的座位空着。我头皮发麻地看着这两个位子，刚准备坐上去，和A拉住我，提醒我那个“这个座位是专门留给你的”鬼故事，我转过脸朝她笑笑，忽然看见，迎着我们的车，一辆汽车闪着前灯以极快的速度冲过来，我大叫一声伸手去拉背对迎风玻璃的A，刚刚伸手，两车撞在一起，司机撞在挡风玻璃上，车厢几乎折了，A被玻璃插中背部摔到我的身上，我向后一倒重重地磕在一个阶梯上，然后一片混乱，我们两个都死了。

梦完我死了以后，我才醒，刚好早上8点整。

也许你会问，你怎么知道自己在梦中死了？我要告诉你的是，这个感觉很奇妙，而且我还有好几次经验。第一次是去年夏天，我梦到自己被一个类似鬼的女人（其实她是我小姑）用眼睛送到半空中，然后狠狠地摔下来，我趴在地上，眼睛只能看见地面及地面上30厘米的距离，接着眼睛就有些模糊，意识模糊，再最后就是在梦中的大脑向你宣告：你已经死了。第二次是今年过年，我被歹徒逼到阳台后，无路可逃，我就一了百了从阳台上跳下去，虽然事实上我家住2楼，但在梦里是5楼（看我考虑的多周到，深怕我跳楼不死），就这么跳下去，坠落坠落，然后重重摔在地上，我看见从我的头上，鼻子里流出的汩汩鲜血，然后看见我妈蹲下来生气且鄙视我的眼神，我想张口说什么，就死了。

有谁变态到会梦到自己死了？而且还死了3次！自我分析的结果是，第一次死是焦虑考试，第二次死是焦虑爸爸的手术，那第三次呢？实在没有一个戕害自己的借口，只能总结，上个月看的豪斯第四季最后一集还在某些神经元中放电。可怜的老傻榔私通向全世界人，尤其是华语地区深刻的普及了KARMA这个词，还是早死早超生，梦自己死了，梦着梦着也就觉得没什么了，也不会为之郁郁寡欢了。

晚上很心烦意乱，出门站在楼底下却哪里都不想去，忽然想到了爷爷家，就走过去看看。路口的两家人居然都搬走了，黑洞洞的窗户，包括我原来看书，总在我窗台底下大声讲话的老太婆也搬走了。走到门口竟发现我们的石榴树倒了。这正是石榴花开的好时候，点点红色的花挂在树上，而树低低地压在小灌木上。门上落满了灰，小姑还口口声声说她经常回来看看，除了我在的时候她匆匆忙忙往家搬爷爷家的东西她什么时候回来过？！

开门进去，床上堆着满满的从拿走的柜子倒腾出来的东西，自行车停在香炉前面，香炉落满灰，唯一没有变的是爷爷还在对着我笑。我的书桌上堆着我不要的资料，就连我放在地上的垃圾盒，她们都嫌碍事，给塞进我的柜子，还有空调，空调也拿走了（那是当然的！），剩下的窗上的空隙用面板拦着。电视没了，去年小姑放在茶几上的一整块橘子皮已经干成木片了，却还在那里！

我想大声哭，这个伴随着我艰难的半年时间的房间，成了这个样子，已经被凌辱到没有尊严可言的地步，而这里，无论如何也曾经是她们父亲生活的地方啊！难道这就是“最后”？

我恨这个时节的潮湿沉闷，空气浓稠到要把人窒息。我恨这样的日子，逃也不能逃，留下却肩不起任何的责任。我恨这样的我。

我不知道今年什么时候是春分，可以google一下。但我敢肯定我爸不会去google，大概也不会从书柜的最里层掏出老黄历来查。我都不记得他是什么时候遛西西遛到后山废弃的茶园，花了一个下午的时间，小心翼翼采到了第一捧春分芽。

哦，对，那几天我刚找到工作。接着忙忙碌碌准备复试的材料，匆匆忙忙的走，匆匆忙忙的回来。然后零零星星的和亲戚朋友同学聚餐，天天忙着，忽然觉得无比空虚。空虚地看到爸爸每天下午默默地带着西西出去采茶，会鼻子酸。我提议和爸爸去采茶，他眼睛几乎发光，问，你对采茶感兴趣了？其实不然。

我们走40多分钟到了后山，绕过垃圾堆开始爬山。我总是很惭愧，尤其在山上的笨拙让我自卑，爸爸可以很轻松的走在铺满藤蔓落叶草丛乱石的山路，我不是被绊得跌跌撞撞就是被藤条划破脖子，和他相比，我更像是一个病人——小脑偏瘫的病人。一路上山再一路下山，忽然眼前乱丛丛树木后冒出一片茶园。荒废了很久的茶园，没人管理，茶树快有一个人那么高了，荆棘几乎把茶园给围住。我顿时觉得解脱了，不用继续爬山了！茶树的尖端和分枝间，老叶片的下面都冒出了嫩嫩的牙尖儿，接下来的任务就是把这些尖儿摘下来。很快一个下午就过去了，然后再低调地咬牙切齿着爬山回家。接着是第二天，第三天，以及许多天的下午，虽然仍然不热衷爬山，但是深深喜欢上在茶树间的感觉。我和爸爸总相隔不远，一个人拎着个布袋子，将树尖的小丫掐下来，手指尖会留下酥滑的汁液。有次眼神不济，把一只绿色的小毛毛虫当成茶叶了，于是手指麻了一个礼拜……

清明节的早上，我妈和我被爸爸强制性带到山上，采茶。这个时候的茶叶已经长大厚实了，而不是一个个的小嫩芽。两厘米长的新叶子摘起来很有手感。中午，我们翻过一座小山到了一处水摊子上，那里有个农家菜馆加在水上。野菜，丁小的肉，甚至是汤吃起来都只有一个味道。但在清水黛山，让我想起我们一家人在九寨沟前滚滚白浪的小河前喝啤酒吃山菜的幸福日子。我希望日子就这么停住，永远的停住。妈妈只要有时间就会加入我们的队伍。我们总是开玩笑说，爸爸是妇联的，一行队伍走在路边：一个老头，一个老太婆，一个胖妞，还有一只摇头晃脑的女狗狗……

接着是一阵子暴雨，阴雨，低气压的日子，到了谷雨。爸爸说，茶就只能采这么几天了，我们要抢完谷雨茶！茶叶一下就窜了快10厘米长，但依然娇嫩，轻轻一掐就断了。爸爸跟疯了一样，两眼发光，脸通红，头发都根根竖直，左右手不停的掐茶叶，眼睛还会向四周扫描，找更丰茂的茶树丛，他从来都不叫累，健步如飞，大刀阔斧。他边摘边说，我们就跟蝗虫一样，哈哈！我滴着隐形的汗说，我们确实跟蝗虫一样。在茶园中，我的心平静得就跟天空一样。

从一开始的走去走回，到坐车到公路再走几百米去山边，摘完走回，再到坐车来回，再到隔几天才去一次，最后到他现在说，我们去采茶吧，可下午到了却不胜乏意。我很难过，我也从来不敢问他，还去不去采茶？还好我记得，这个春天我们最后一次采茶的情形，几乎把最隐蔽的茶树给扫光了，最后一次，我脚腕沿着袜子的一圈被毒虫蜇烂了，爸爸右手沿着衬衣被蜇了个毒包。我决定去医院看看，这些包又疼又痒，我问爸爸要不要一起去？他居然比去茶园的热情还高的说一起去。我们一起去医院，就像我小时候他带着我去一样，和前几个月我们带着强忍疼痛的他去医院不一样。回家碰到熟人问爸爸我现在在干吗，他会不厌其烦骄傲的说我如何容易找到一份好工作，又如何接到中科院的通知，我们院有多牛……在考试之前，妈妈说，考上了爸爸的病会好一半。事实上并不是这个样子。

茶叶采回家，爸爸吃完晚饭就把堆在沙发上的叶子按大小简单分类，第二天早上就用他的砂锅，用文火炒茶，渐渐将叶子的水烘干，铺开来晾干。这个简单机械的工作经常要花上一整天。我知道他很希望我能主动说，爸爸，我来试试炒茶吧。但我没有，我甚至在他把茶叶炒好了，殷勤的泡茶都没有做到。若是好茶，他不会用饮水机中的热水，而会用开水壶烧开，浇在褐绿的茶上，在透明的杯子中，它们缓缓浮起来，将水缓慢晕成清澈的青绿。他会把鼻子凑近，深深吸着白白的蒸汽，很陶醉然后向我和妈妈宣布说：太香了！你们也来尝尝！这个时候我们总是很积极凑近也分享，这个清明茶。我把这些茶称为爸爸的茶。爸爸的茶轻轻的色泽，淡淡的香味，当然不能和铁观音比，当然和铁观音不具可比性，当然我对它的热情不会太大。但是盯着电脑看电视，吃多了瓜子，口干舌燥的时候抿上口爸爸的茶算得上享受。

中午，我正在看电视，爸爸在客厅轻声喊我，以至于我只能MUTE掉电视的声音才能听见他说什么，往往这个是他故作神秘的时候就是他SHOW宝贝的时候。他说，小意思小意思，快来喝这个茶。我兴高采烈的跑过去以为他在泡铁观音。他摆出两个小茶盅，一个稍微大一点的带盖的茶杯。他满眼笑意地说揭开杯盖说，这可是极品，今年的春分茶，我们这里很难采到春分茶啊，就只有这么一小捧！他久久的看着清水中的茶芽，粒粒饱满，一芽一叶，芽呼之欲出，叶饱满肉实。春分的时候我在干什么？也许我和他一起去了，我们便能多出一把春分茶了。

爸爸说，龙井就是这样标准的一芽一叶。喝绿茶就应该用这样瓷白的杯子，细细的品，这是品生活。

我说，现在的气候越来越乱套了。

我总是在回避任何有生活这样沉重的话题，我都希望时间永远停在这个春天了，我都希望永远这样过着退休生活了，我都希望永远这样“品生活”了，我还有什么勇气去品味这样的生活呢？在速食年代，我们自己包饺子来；在茶包年代，我们自己采炒品茶。那么如此品味生活，是因为我们时间充裕吗？

我们几乎用开水把这把春分茶最后的一点绿色榨光了，然后他累了，睡觉去了。我也进房间继续看电视，忽然想起茶具还在桌子上没有收。我是个邋遢的人，却完全不能忍受茶具用完了，随意放在桌子上，这样看起来太冷漠，太不识抬举了。我赶紧出去把桌子收拾好，在用抹布擦干桌上的水时，我忽然明白了：

I am a tea person.

昆剧起于明朝，传承600年的兴衰之间，与明清史，近代史都息息相关，清朝的花部盛时，昆剧暗淡颜色却并未消失，以低姿态发源，融合个地方戏之中，可谓百戏之母。可能在戏曲中，昆曲是最为基础，最为深入，最为独特的，各曲种的艺人往往会深修昆曲的身段，而后便可对自己的戏曲的表演运用自如了。这种如源头一般的感召力却是以这种浅唱低吟的谦虚姿态并立，本身就是一种感动。

昆曲不单单是听的，而是融合了折子的内容，演员的表演和唱段。演员的一个身段，一个水袖，一个云手，一个咬字，一种唱腔，都是用这种简单抽象的形式传达了一个复杂的心情，背景和一个故事。这是中国最为典型的水墨情怀，把细琢的文字，罄乐之声，如画的表演融为一体。包容万象却简单独立，璀璨多彩却线条简洁，便是600年前中国人的生活状态了。

白先勇老先生用他的小说把自己印在七八十年代依然年轻的人的心中，却将《牡丹亭》带入我们这些依然年轻的人的视野。我想说的是，在昆曲普及的活动之中，他的声势最为浩大。其实也是等了很多年，看到苏昆的《青春版 牡丹亭》去北京，上海，美国，这次终于来武汉了，理所当然在武汉大学演出。我一得到消息就托Cici要票，终于有幸能亲临现场了！在台下感受台上的情绪，会到一种忘我的境界，也不会顾及台下的嘈杂和闪光灯是多么恼人了。

牡丹亭：如花美眷，似水流年

其实在刚接触昆曲的时候，听的经典唱段，多半是花旦的唱段，乍听小生的唱腔，会很难适应小生的抑扬的唱法，但只要把整本戏听下来，小生却散发出无穷的魅力，倒是觉得他们的唱腔如此得恰如其分，把一种混杂着儒雅，憨实甚至带点狡点的形象立了起来。我很难想象小生的唱腔是怎么发展而来的，与其他家门的唱腔相比有很大的不同。所以我提醒Cici，当柳梦梅出来的时候，唱声“姐姐”，她会受不了的。果然柳郎一开口，观众都轰然而笑。但后来你会发现，观众们从初听觉得可笑，到后来觉得“有趣”，最后到理所当然，仅三本戏便能彻底转变观众的态度，可想而知，小生的魅力是厚积而薄发型的。

我有听过上昆的《牡丹亭》，《青春版 牡丹亭》与之相比，真正体现了“青春”二字。许多昆曲表演艺术家年级都很大了，即使是唱得如何熟稔，也会体现出声音的苍老感，这是很可惜的。杜丽娘也就16岁啊，所以白先勇老先生请张继青老师指导苏昆的年轻人，年轻人唱年轻人，妙趣横生！简单的台美，苏绣的服装，这种生机勃勃却无比认真地表演真的能赢得我们的心。

虽然这次表演票务运作和现场秩序混乱，但是那些七大姑八大嫂，对昆曲毫无概念的学生能够安静坐下来听完戏的，一定会被《牡丹亭》感染，一定会被昆曲的水墨情怀感染的。这样目的也达成了，也算昆曲推广的功德圆满，一个老昆曲艺术家乐呵呵的说，“昆曲是唱给有文化和没文化的人听的。”

我对昆曲的喜爱，并不是类似“小资”那样刻意给自己营造个气氛，给自己立个篱树个牌儿，说自己有多高雅多兴朝，而是真的对传奇的喜爱，对丝竹的喜爱，对唱腔咬字的喜爱，以及对表演的喜爱。这种喜爱之情，用最朦胧的说法就是：好古之心。