Romy's SPACE

II

     我喜欢小说里面有人看书。
     Maugham的Razor’s Edge，我最喜欢的一部小说。是因为我觉得毛姆就是在写我。主人公是美国上层社会人，少年自己跑去参加二战，在法国开飞机。回来，成了英雄。订婚了，未婚妻大户人家，君子好逑。修养了一年半载，大家开始给他各式职位，他不要。聚会的时候你不会注意他，轻描地插几句话，淡写地笑笑。narrator去club，看到他一早坐在那里读Anatomy of Melancholy，正好下午又去，看到他还是坐在那里读，好像姿势也没有变过。
     我读书一般不会超过两三个钟头，时辰一长不耐烦，必换书。所以一般只能在寝室读，四五本书轮着看。就像林语堂说他读书就是随着兴致，读不下去了扔一边，换一本。还有就是我看书慢。有人说他读书可以眼睛一路往下扫，我以前还是羡慕的。后来想，原因不外乎两个，要么他们脑子比我优越太多，我学不来，要么是他们不够爱惜文字。我总愿意相信是第二种情况。可是居然王尔德也是看书飞快的人，而钱钟书说过英文要看的书他总算都看过了。怎么可能呢。我希望两则都是误会。
     又过了一年，主人公还是不做事，周围人都在议论，未婚妻一家忧虑，终于有一天问他：“What do you want to do, Larry?”－“Loaf.”就是无所事事的意思。然后他说给我一年时间，我要去巴黎，学点东西，到时如果我还是无所成，就回来结婚，老实当broker。
     日子到了，未婚妻和家人去欧洲渡假，也是为了接他。他住在一个逼仄简陋的小公寓；他说他就在巴黎各处大学听课，死命看书；他说他不可能回去了，有太多的东西他要见识；他说他想娶她，他们一起去希腊，去印度，日子当然会清贫些……

     奥斯特的这本小说，Moon Palace，在我心目中的地位几乎要和Razor’s Edge相当了。
     这次倒不是因为主人公是我，只是因为写得好到让我不知所措而已。但书开头一个情节着实让我着迷。
     主人公没有父亲，年幼丧母，跟着叔叔。叔叔就留给他几十箱的书，他用这些箱子搭成各种家具，本来寥落的公寓瞬间充实，睡觉吃饭，身下碗底都是千年智慧。
     读到大四，突然什么都不想干了。钱也花完。把自己关在房子里，一箱一箱地读书。他说他对每本书都拿出相同的兴趣，每一句话都花费相同的精力，读完一堆，拿去旧书铺卖掉，维持生计。一千四百多本书，就这样一句一句地读完。到最后，水电被断掉，饭不够吃，累的字都看不清，就用手指着，一词一句地摸下去，他说，我知道我没有读他们，但我触碰到了每个字，也算对他们有个交待了。

     我就想起我去年读Razor’s Edge之后的一大段时光。有很多事该做。大三成绩重要，外推好开始打听了，出国到底怎么回事我没有概念。朋友问我在干吗，我说fucking up my life.我只是躲在书里。你们不要劝我，没有用的。

I

I’ve been making a point of my respect for punctuality, by putting off everything to the last moment before the deadline. Urgency forced me out of dormitory this afternoon. I spent most of it looking for people of whom none to be found, dealing with tasks that did a perfect job evading me.

I ended up in the library reading Paul Auster.

The first time this name meant anything to me was when I came across a remark by Murakami (村上春树), who said ‘to be introduced to Paul Auster is the greatest honour of my life.’ (I’m sure he didn’t say it in such ragged English.) I got my hands on a Paul Auster book in July, after years of hoping that he would miraculously turn out in piles of second-hand books, then I would scream with ecstasy.

This sort of thing happened once actually. I was leafing through DVDs in a store with a friend. Half an hour passed and proved to be a waste of time. Then I recognised a film; I had long ago lost my faith in ever finding it. Then I bursted out English sentences, each with a exclamation point, if not more, assuming that my friend was right behind me. Of course the bastard not there. When I turned around, all I can find is a girl shopping assistant trying her best to stifle laughter, which she hardly succeeded.

Anyway, I paid a visit to Shanghai Library in mid-July and got the City of Glass; and I cursed myself for not going there till then. I read the book in one sitting, stunned. I concurred Murakami on that comment. For a bibliophile, meeting Paul Auster is indeed something different.

My problem with it is: what if I met Paul Auster in say, Junior High. I just don’t think my life would still be the same. Or just make it earlier by one or two years. Probably my college would take on a different complexion. I really think so.

But I’ve got another feeling that all the readings and all the things that happened to me to this point prepared me for this encounter. I would not GET Paul Auster if I were younger or my English were poorer. Just like Sense & Sensibility almost meant nothing to me because that was possibly the first English novel I’ve ever read. Not everyone wrote six equally brilliant novels as Jane Austen did. Otherwise I would be guilty that I spoilt her.

Meeting someone, or in a broader sense – the timing of something happening to you in life, can rarely be right, be it good or bad. It’s the subtlest and trickiest business in the world. Either you haven’t grown into the self proper, or you have already grown out of it. Or it’s only you FEEL you haven’t or FEEL you have. In all of the four cases, you are fucked. That’s pretty much all you can say about love really.