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The Sense of an Ending
Julian Barnes
B005E87GLY |
我觉得有kindle的最大好处是可以很方便地读到欧美出版业（特别是英文的）新书。今年年初刚拿到kindle的时候，我就读了去年布克奖的得主Howard Jacobson的《The Finkler Question》。今年的布克奖当然也不能错过，还好我的kindle很及时地赶在今年布克奖公布前复活了。今年的获奖者是朱利安·巴恩斯(Julian Barnes)的小说《终结感》(The Sense of an Ending)。短短的一本书，实体书只有一百五十页，读起来也比较轻松（比起《The Finkler Question》要好读的多）。借用一下Lily写在《上海壹周》上的内容梗概(剧透反白)：
它是一个关于友谊、回忆与悔恨的故事，采用第一人称叙事，分成两部分。在第一部分，主人公Tony简单回忆了自己的一生，从年少时嬉闹的学校生活到大学期间的恋爱、性的萌芽，然后踏上社会，按部就班地结婚生育，几年后离婚，一个人过日子，直至退休。里面写得最生动的是Tony与两个死党Alex、 Colin在学校的经历，三个调皮的男孩如何在课堂上互使眼色、嘲笑别的同学，如何在课下凑到一块，好奇的探讨周围发生的一切、发表高谈阔论。后来，博学深沉的Adrian加入了他们的行列，暗中改变了三人的关系。更戏剧化的是，当Tony与大学女友Veronica分手后，Adrian成了Veronica的下一任男友。接着，当Tony从美国旅行回来，得到的是Adrian自杀的消息。
第二部分，退休后的Tony突然收到一封信，内容是他的前女友Veronica的母亲去世，其遗嘱里留下五百英镑和一些东西给他。Tony与 Veronica的母亲只有过一面之缘，那是两人谈恋爱时，Tony唯一一次去Veronica家拜访，度过了一个不太愉快的周末。Tony从律师口中知悉Veronica母亲留给他的是一本Adrian的日记，可它被扣在Veronica手中，无法拿到。对Tony与另外两个死党而言，Adrian自杀的原因始终是个谜，为此，Tony迫切的想得到这本日记。他想方设法与Veronica取得联系，试图软化她坚决的态度。但是，除了一页让Tony一头雾水的日记复印件外，Veronica给他的不是Adrian的日记本，而是一封Tony自己已忘记的、他写过寄出的信。信里，他刻薄的诅咒他们的恋情会遭报应。时过境迁，Tony对自己当初冲动的恶毒之语懊悔不已。而且报应的确发生了，当Tony目睹报应的结果、自以为解开了整件事的来龙去脉时，结尾却大大出人意外。
至于这个令人超级意外的结局是什么，我还是忍不住要防痴呆反白爆一下料：原来Adrian当初和Veronica的母亲好上了，并且生下一个孩子。这一点我真的是一点也没有想到，我还一度以为书中出现的那个孩子其实是Veronica和主人公Tony当年那一次的结果。但是即使有这么一个让人意想不到的结局，还是让我无法理解，Veronica的母亲为什么要把Adrian的日记留给Tony，而且这样的结局也没有达成我对已死的Adrian的那份期待程度啊。
但是不管怎么说，这真的是一本很好看的书。好看的点就在于作者借主人公对时间的思考和想法，这一点不仅仅表现在主人公在两个部份之间记忆的落差，还表现在主人公不断地抛出的只言片语。用书里面多次引用的Patrick Lagrange的一句话来说：“History is that certainty produced at the point where the imperfections of memory meet the inadequacies of documentation.”这本书似乎也是在用它本身来证明这一点。这些我个人以为还是很有意味的观点在这本书里面层出不穷，几乎就是每两三页就有我想要加highlight的地方。最后随便摘抄几个，就当是回味了，好久没有摘抄了。
We live in time – it holds us and moulds us – but I’ve never felt I understood it very well. And I’m not referring to theories about how it bends and doubles back, or may exist elsewhere in parallel versions. No, I mean ordinary, everyday time, which clocks and watches assure us passes regularly: tick-tock, click-clock. Is there anything more plausible than a second hand? And yet it takes only the smallest pleasure or pain to teach us time’s malleability. Some emotions speed it up, others slow it down; occasionally, it seems to go missing – until the eventual point when it really does go missing, never to return. (L:42)
The history that happens underneath our noses ought to be the clearest, and yet it’s the most deliquescent. We live in time, it bounds us and defines us, and time is supposed to measure history, isn’t it? But if we can’t understand time, can’t grasp its mysteries of pace and progress, what chance do we have with history – even our own small, personal, largely undocumented piece of it? (L:846)
We live with such easy assumptions, don’t we? For instance, that memory equals events plus time. But it’s all much odder than this. Who was it said that memory is what we thought we’d forgotten? And it ought to be obvious to us that time doesn’t act as a fixative, rather as a solvent. But it’s not convenient – it’s not useful – to believe this; it doesn’t help us get on with our lives; so we ignore it. (L:883)
It strikes me that this may be one of the differences between youth and age: when we are young, we invent different futures for ourselves; when we are old, we invent different pasts for others. (L:1155)
The ability to see and examine himself; the ability to make moral decisions and act on them; the mental and physical courage of his suicide. “He took his own life” is the phrase; but Adrian also took charge of his own life, he took command of it, he took it in his hands – and then out of them. How few of us – we that remain – can say that we have done the same? We muddle along, we let life happen to us, we gradually build up a store of memories. There is the question of accumulation, but not in the sense that Adrian meant, just the simple adding up and adding on of life. And as the poet pointed out, there is a difference between addition and increase. (L:1254)
But time… how time first grounds us and then confounds us. We thought we were being mature when we were only being safe. We imagined we were being responsible but were only being cowardly. What we called realism turned out to be a way of avoiding things rather than facing them. Time… give us enough time and out best-supported decisions will seem wobbly, our certainties whimsical. (L:1340)
Does characters develop over time? In novels, of course it does: otherwise there wouldn’t be much of a story. But in life? I sometimes wonder. Our attitudes and opinions change, we develop new habits and eccentricities; but that’s something different, more like decoration. Perhaps character resembles intelligence, except that character peaks a little later: between twenty and thirty, say. And after that, we’re just stuck with what we’ve got. We’re on our own. If so, that would explain a lot of lives, wouldn’t it? And also 0 if this isn’t too grand a word – our tragedy. (L:1478)
The time-deniers say: forty’s nothing, at fifty you’re in your prime, sixty’s the new forty, and so on. I know this muchL that there is objective time, but also subjective time, the kind you wear on the inside of your wrist, next to where the pulse lies. And this personal time, which is the true time, is measured in your relationship to memory. So when this strange thing happened – when these new memories suddenly came upon me – it was as if, for that moment, time had been placed in reverse. As if, for that moment, the rive ran upstream. (L:1743)
My philosopher friend, who gazed on life and decided that any responsible, thinking individual should have the right to reject this gift that had never been asked for – and whose noble gesture reemphasized with each passing decade the compromise had littleness that most lives consist of. “Most lives”: my life. (L:2007)
