憤怒的繆斯

她夢(mèng)想著有一天能與某位藝術(shù)家共譜戀曲，成為他的繆斯女神和靈感源泉，成為另一個(gè)澤爾達(dá)和蒙娜·麗莎，在藝術(shù)的殿堂里留下不朽的形象。但事實(shí)是，美夢(mèng)總會(huì)被無(wú)情的現(xiàn)實(shí)打碎……

When I was a little girl I used to fantasize about the kind of guy I wanted to marry: a musician， filmmaker， writer or painter. I didn’t really care which one I ended up with—I only knew that I wanted to be with someone who could immortalize me in celluloid2)， in stereo， in print. I wanted to be his muse， his inspiration， Zelda to an F. Scott Fitzgerald3). I wanted to move someone to such great depths that a Mona Lisa would spring from his paintbrush.

When I was 24， I met Sam， a tormented， bespectacled4) writer who was， I believed， nothing short of5) brilliant. Sam published in well-respected literary journals， was a veritable encyclopedia of information， could talk film noir6) with the best of them. And yes， OK， he was Jewish. A literate Semite7) who liked movies. What more could a girl ask for?

So Sam and I entered that precarious8) territory known as a relationship. We did all those nauseating9) couple things: walks in the zoo， autumnal strolls through Harvard Square. He was a little more neurotic than I’d bargained for—he suffered from occasional bouts10) of agoraphobia11) and separation anxiety—a little competitive when it came to our respective writing careers， but soon our lives were entwined. We both taught at the same college and we hung out with the same circle of friends.

I even felt close enough to him to talk about my food problem. Like so many women， I was obsessed with food and weight; as I liked to describe it， I was a failed bulimic12)， a failed anorexic13). I’d mastered the binge14) but I couldn’t perfect the purge15). Like so many men， Sam just didn’t get it， and he questioned me endlessly: “How old were you the first time you weighed yourself?” and “What’s your favorite food?” Sam seemed genuinely fascinated by this， and upset by the obvious pain it caused me. He seemed to really want to help me shake “the food thing，” and I appreciated that.

And so I’d answer as honestly as I could， grateful that someone finally cared enough to ask. I’d never spoken about it with anyone before; it was my own private hell. It took a lot for me to talk so openly with Sam， but I trusted him.

With time， though， Sam grew progressively more irritable16) when it came to the food thing. “Why can’t you eat like a normal person?” he’d say， his brown eyes blazing behind his round John Lennon-style glasses. And then， more specifically， “Why can’t you eat with me?” To him， food was something intimate， special， something to share with the people he loved. My relationship with it， of course， was a lot more complicated， and try as I might， I couldn’t just change 16 years of conditioning.

Sam and I had been dating for about a year when he handed me the manila17) envelope.

“My story，” he said， grinning broadly. “It’s done.”

“Great!” I said. He’d been struggling with this piece for months， and I knew he was proud of it. “Should I read it now?”

He nodded. “Sure. I’d like to know what you think.” Off he went to take a shower; I sat down to read.

It began simply enough: a poignant little tale about a husband and wife in the throes of18) marital angst19). They loved each other， but she had these weird problems with food that， he believed， were the source of the couple’s misery. I read on， and slowly my blood began to boil. There， in print， were conversations I’d had with Sam， confessions I’d made about my own dietary struggles. I felt like smashing his computer through the window. No， the character wasn’t me， exactly—she was a tall blond lawyer， which， as of20) this writing， I am not—but she possessed enough of my idiosyncrasies21)， my neuroses， to be a damn good replica22). This wasn’t fiction; this was my life.

I felt violated， betrayed， voiceless—like Emily in Our Town23)， who saw things clearly a little too late. Sam had taken aspects of my life—personal， painful aspects—and condensed them， trivialized them， into 18 pages of prose. I finally understood why members of certain cultures refuse to be photographed: They feel their soul will be stripped from them. That’s how I felt when Sam wrote about me: like my soul， the core of my being， had been mercilessly snatched from me.

I probably should have known better. On our first date， Sam had told me about his previous girlfriend. They didn’t have much in common， he said， but she was very knowledgeable about all things feminine. Their relationship didn’t last， but her insights mysteriously worked their way into a short story of his.

Yes， I probably should have known better， but I honestly never thought he’d use my life as fodder24). When I’d imagined being someone’s muse I thought he’d wax25) poetic about my shoulders， my sense of humor， my patience during the long nights he’d spent “creating.” Instead， Sam had appropriated my most painful and private struggles for his own uses. Part of being in a relationship means opening yourself up， making yourself vulnerable. I thought Sam and I were becoming allies.

“I can’t believe you did this，” I said when Sam came out of the shower. I was so mad my teeth were chattering26). “Why did you have to write about me?”

“It’s not you，” he said. “Maybe she’s got similar traits， but it’s fiction. Don’t you think I have any imagination?”

“Oh， yeah? What about the scene with the Diet Coke27)? What about her thing with the salad dressing28)?”

And then I started crying， violently， terribly.

“I can’t believe you’re reacting like this，” he said. “You laugh about your food problem; you joke about it; how serious can it be? It’s the things we don’t talk about that are most important.”

“Bullshit!” I fumed29). “You asked me to talk about it! You questioned me! I never volunteered any information.”

“I should never have shown you the story，” he said.

“No，” I said. “You should never have written it.”

We broke up soon after， and got back together， and repeated that pattern a few more times， like a flu you can’t quite shake. We pretended to get along， but it was clear that the gap was too wide， torn by my lack of trust and his insistence that he was just being a writer (“Maybe so but all of Truman Capote30)’s friends stopped talking to him after he betrayed them in print，” I pointed out). Every time Sam asked me a question I wondered if he was looking for material for some future story， and I was never able to relax around him again.

Six months later he was offered a job at a newspaper down south and took it. It was unspoken but understood that we were breaking up for good31). Within weeks he found a new girlfriend. I hope she knows what she’s getting into. I’ve never met her， but I expect to read all about her in one of those well-respected literary journals.

It’s been four years since all this happened， but my chest still tightens and a howl forms in my throat whenever I think about it.

Still， I’ve learned some things since Sam and I broke up. For starters32)， musicians travel too much. Painters have dirty fingernails. And filmmakers hide behind cameras. As for writers， well， that’s what I do. I don’t need some guy to immortalize me in print; I’m quite capable of doing that by myself.

還是小女孩時(shí)，我就常?；孟胛乙藿o一個(gè)什么樣的人：音樂(lè)家、電影制片人、作家或者畫(huà)家。我倒并不真的在乎最后和誰(shuí)在一起——我只知道那個(gè)和我在一起的人一定要能夠賦予我不朽的生命，不管是在電影中、在音樂(lè)中，還是在文字中。我要做他的繆斯、他的靈感，我要做F·斯科特·菲茨杰拉德的澤爾達(dá)。我要深深打動(dòng)某人的情懷，讓又一個(gè)蒙娜·麗莎從他的畫(huà)筆下脫穎而出。

24歲的時(shí)候，我遇到了薩姆，一個(gè)痛苦的、戴著眼鏡的作家，一個(gè)在我眼中才華橫溢的人。薩姆在名聲赫赫的文學(xué)雜志上發(fā)表作品，是一個(gè)真正的百科全書(shū)，談?wù)撈鸷谏娪皝?lái)不輸于任何人。對(duì)了，還有，他是個(gè)猶太人，一個(gè)喜愛(ài)電影的閃族才子。一個(gè)女孩子還有什么不滿意的呢？

于是我和薩姆就開(kāi)始了那種被稱之為“戀愛(ài)”的脆弱關(guān)系。我們做了情侶們常做的所有惡俗的事情：在動(dòng)物園里散步；秋天里閑逛著穿過(guò)哈佛廣場(chǎng)。他有點(diǎn)神經(jīng)質(zhì)，這讓我有點(diǎn)吃不消——他有時(shí)會(huì)突發(fā)廣場(chǎng)恐怖癥和分手焦慮癥——我們各自的寫(xiě)作生涯原本還有點(diǎn)競(jìng)爭(zhēng)性，但很快我們的生活就交織在了一起。我們?cè)谕凰鶎W(xué)院教書(shū)，在共同的朋友圈里混。

我甚至覺(jué)得我和他已親密到可以談?wù)撟约猴嬍硢?wèn)題的地步。和許多女性一樣，我也深受飲食與體重問(wèn)題的困擾。我常常喜歡這樣形容自己：想吃卻又不敢吃，不敢吃卻又忍不住想吃。我只擅長(zhǎng)吃進(jìn)去，卻不知如何才能全部排出來(lái)。和許多男人一樣，薩姆總是無(wú)法明白女人的心思，總是不停地追問(wèn)：“你第一次稱體重時(shí)多大年齡？”還老問(wèn)：“你最喜歡吃什么？”對(duì)于吃的問(wèn)題，薩姆似乎真的很感興趣，而對(duì)于這給我?guī)?lái)的顯而易見(jiàn)的痛苦，他則感到心煩意亂。他似乎真心想幫我擺脫“吃的難題”，對(duì)此我很是感激。

所以我也總是盡可能誠(chéng)懇地回答他的問(wèn)題，常常充滿感激地想：終于有人在乎我，肯問(wèn)我這些問(wèn)題了。我以前從未和任何人談?wù)撨^(guò)這些，這是我自己不可告人的傷痛。如此坦率地和薩姆談?wù)撨@一切是需要巨大勇氣的，但我信任他。

可是，漸漸地，在吃的問(wèn)題上，薩姆變得越來(lái)越不耐煩。他會(huì)問(wèn)：“你為什么就不能像個(gè)正常人那樣吃東西呢？”在那副約翰·列儂式的眼鏡后面，他那雙棕色的眼睛像要噴出火來(lái)。接著，問(wèn)題變得更加具體：“你為什么不能和我一起吃呢？”在他看來(lái)，食物是一種體現(xiàn)親密關(guān)系的特別之物，是要和所愛(ài)之人一同分享的。當(dāng)然，我和食物之間的關(guān)系要復(fù)雜得多，雖然我也努力過(guò)，但就是無(wú)法改變自己16年來(lái)形成的習(xí)慣。

在我和薩姆戀愛(ài)大約一年的時(shí)候，他遞給我一個(gè)馬尼拉紙信封。

“我的小說(shuō)，”他笑容滿面地說(shuō)，“寫(xiě)完了?！?/p>

“太棒了！”我說(shuō)。這篇小說(shuō)他辛辛苦苦寫(xiě)了幾個(gè)月，我知道這是他的驕傲?！拔椰F(xiàn)在就可以拜讀嗎？”

他點(diǎn)點(diǎn)頭?！爱?dāng)然。我想知道你的看法?！闭f(shuō)完他就洗澡去了，我坐下來(lái)開(kāi)始讀。

小說(shuō)的開(kāi)頭很簡(jiǎn)單：這是個(gè)筆鋒辛辣的小故事，寫(xiě)的是一對(duì)夫妻在婚姻生活中的痛苦與焦慮。他們彼此相愛(ài)，但妻子在飲食方面有著各種怪癖，丈夫認(rèn)為這就是他們生活痛苦的來(lái)源。我讀著讀著，血漸漸地往上涌，像要沸騰一般。就在那里，白紙黑字地寫(xiě)著我和薩姆曾有的對(duì)話——我向他吐露的關(guān)于我苦苦節(jié)食的心里話。我真想把他的電腦從窗戶扔出去。不是，確切地說(shuō)，小說(shuō)里的這個(gè)人物并不是我——她是個(gè)身材高挑的金發(fā)律師，而我不是，至少在他寫(xiě)這篇小說(shuō)時(shí)我不是這樣的。但她擁有足夠多我的氣質(zhì)、我的神經(jīng)質(zhì)特性，足以證明她是我的復(fù)制品，與我超級(jí)相似。這不是虛構(gòu)的小說(shuō)，而是我真實(shí)的生活。

我感到自己受到了侵犯，遭到了背叛，一時(shí)說(shuō)不出話來(lái)：就像《我們的小鎮(zhèn)》中的艾米莉一樣，徹底看清一切時(shí)，卻為時(shí)已晚。薩姆截取了我生活的片段——隱私的、痛苦的片段——將它們壓縮、簡(jiǎn)化，寫(xiě)成了一篇18頁(yè)的作品。我終于明白了為什么一些文明中的人們拒絕照相：他們覺(jué)得那樣會(huì)把自己的靈魂奪走。薩姆寫(xiě)我的時(shí)候，我的感覺(jué)就是這樣：就像我的靈魂，也是我生命的核心，被無(wú)情地從我身上攫走了。

也許我早就該學(xué)得聰明些。我們第一次約會(huì)時(shí)，薩姆就告訴了我他前女友的事。他說(shuō)，他們沒(méi)有太多共同之處，但是她對(duì)所有與女性有關(guān)的東西都了如指掌。他們的關(guān)系并沒(méi)有持續(xù)多久，但她的種種見(jiàn)解卻神秘地出現(xiàn)在他寫(xiě)的一篇短篇小說(shuō)中。

是的，也許我早就該學(xué)得聰明些，但坦率地說(shuō)，我從來(lái)也沒(méi)有想到過(guò)他會(huì)利用我的生活來(lái)作為素材。當(dāng)我想象成為某人的繆斯時(shí)，我想的是他會(huì)用詩(shī)情畫(huà)意的語(yǔ)言來(lái)描繪我的雙肩、我的幽默感，以及我在他從事“創(chuàng)作”的漫漫長(zhǎng)夜里表現(xiàn)出的耐心?？墒牵_姆卻擅自將我最痛苦、最隱秘的掙扎據(jù)為己“用”。戀愛(ài)就意味著向?qū)Ψ匠ㄩ_(kāi)心扉，毫不設(shè)防，因而很容易受傷。我原以為薩姆和我屬于同一戰(zhàn)壕的戰(zhàn)友。

“我無(wú)法相信你竟然這樣對(duì)我，”我在薩姆淋浴出來(lái)后對(duì)他說(shuō)。我氣得牙齒打顫?！澳銥槭裁雌獙?xiě)我？”

“那不是你，”他說(shuō)，“也許她有些特點(diǎn)和你相似，但那是虛構(gòu)的。難道你認(rèn)為我沒(méi)有想象力嗎？”

“噢，是嗎？那么那個(gè)關(guān)于健怡可樂(lè)的場(chǎng)景是怎么回事？還有那個(gè)色拉醬調(diào)料又是怎么回事？”

接著我就慟哭起來(lái)，直哭得天昏地暗。

“我真想不到你反應(yīng)會(huì)這么激烈，”他說(shuō)，“你的節(jié)食問(wèn)題你自己也打趣過(guò)，你自己也開(kāi)過(guò)玩笑，這有什么大不了的呢？我們沒(méi)有談?wù)撨^(guò)的事情才是最重要的啊。”

“扯淡！”我大怒道，“是你要我說(shuō)的！是你問(wèn)我的！我從來(lái)沒(méi)有主動(dòng)透露過(guò)任何信息?！?/p>

“我真不該給你看我寫(xiě)的東西?！彼f(shuō)。

“是不該，”我說(shuō)，“你根本就不應(yīng)該寫(xiě)?！?/p>

之后不久我們就分手了，但后來(lái)又在一起了，這樣分分合合了好幾次，就像一場(chǎng)反反復(fù)復(fù)的感冒。我們裝出一副和睦融洽的樣子，但顯而易見(jiàn)，我們之間的裂痕太深了：一方面是由于我對(duì)他缺乏信任，另一方面則是因?yàn)樗麍?jiān)稱他只不過(guò)是在寫(xiě)作(“也許你是對(duì)的，但杜魯門·卡波特在白紙黑字中背叛了自己的朋友后，所有的朋友都不再理他了?！蔽蚁蛩赋?。每當(dāng)薩姆問(wèn)我一個(gè)問(wèn)題，我都會(huì)想他是不是在為以后的小說(shuō)尋找素材。在他身邊，我再也無(wú)法放松下來(lái)。

六個(gè)月后，南方一家報(bào)紙給他提供了一份工作，他接受了。我們心照不宣，知道這次我們要永遠(yuǎn)地分開(kāi)了。沒(méi)過(guò)幾個(gè)星期，他就找到了新的女友。但愿她明白她將會(huì)陷入什么樣的處境。我從來(lái)沒(méi)有見(jiàn)過(guò)她，但我想我應(yīng)該能在一家聲名赫赫的文學(xué)雜志上讀到有關(guān)她的種種故事吧。

如今這件事已過(guò)去四年，但只要一想起來(lái)，我的心就禁不住一陣緊縮，嗓子里總?cè)滩蛔∠胍稹?/p>

不過(guò)，自從和薩姆分手后，我也明白了一些東西。首先，音樂(lè)家要經(jīng)常外出旅行，畫(huà)家經(jīng)常弄臟手指頭，電影制片人常常躲在鏡頭后面。而作家呢，我的經(jīng)歷就是教訓(xùn)。我不再需要某人在文字中賦予我永恒的生命——我自己已有足夠的能力做到這一點(diǎn)。

1.pissed-off：憤怒的

2.celluloid [#712;selj#650;l#596;#618;d] n. 影片；[總稱]電影

3.Zelda to an F. Scott Fitzgerald：F·斯科特·菲茨杰拉德(1896～1940)是20世紀(jì)上半葉美國(guó)著名的小說(shuō)家。澤爾達(dá)(1900～1948)是他的妻子，也是其許多小說(shuō)中女主角的原型。

4.bespectacled [b#618;#712;spekt#601;k(#601;)ld] adj. 戴眼鏡的

5.nothing short of：無(wú)異于，幾乎與……一樣，根本不遜于

6.film noir [#716;f#618;lm #712;nwɑ#720;(r)]〈法〉黑色電影，電影界用語(yǔ)，通常用作指代一種特殊風(fēng)格的犯罪電影，往往關(guān)注于性與道德的腐化。

7.Semite [#712;si#720;ma#618;t] n. 閃族人， 閃米特人(包括希伯來(lái)人、阿拉伯人、巴比倫人等，今特指猶太人)

8.precarious

[pr#618;#712;ke#601;ri#601;s] adj. 不牢靠的，不穩(wěn)的

9.nauseating

[#712;n#596;#720;zi#716;e#618;t#618;#331;] adj. 令人惡心的；使人厭惡的

10.bout [ba#650;t] n. (疾病等的)發(fā)作

11.agoraphobia

[#716;aelig;ɡ(#601;)r#601;#712;f#601;#650;bi#601;] n. [心]廣場(chǎng)恐怖癥，又名廣場(chǎng)恐懼癥、恐曠癥、曠野恐懼等，是焦慮癥的一種。特指在公共場(chǎng)合或者開(kāi)闊的地方停留時(shí)的極端恐懼，因?yàn)橐与x這種地方是不可能的或者是會(huì)令人感到尷尬的。

12.bulimic [bju#720;#712;l#618;mik] n. 貪食癥患者，食欲過(guò)盛(或亢進(jìn))癥患者

13.anorexic [#716;aelig;n#601;#712;reks#618;k] n. 厭食者；食欲缺乏的人

14.binge [b#618;nd#658;] n. 狂飲作樂(lè)，尤指大吃大喝

15.purge [p#604;#720;(r)d#658;] n. 催瀉，通便

16.irritable [#712;#618;r#618;t#601;b(#601;)l] adj. 急躁的

17.manila [m#601;#712;n#618;l#601;] n. 馬尼拉紙(一種強(qiáng)韌的淡黃色紙張，用馬尼拉麻或類似樹(shù)木的纖維制成，常用來(lái)做信封)

18.in the throes of sth.：陷入困難的(或痛苦的)境地

19.angst [aelig;#331;st] n. 憂慮；疑懼

20.as of：在……時(shí)

21.idiosyncrasy

[#716;#618;di#601;#650;#712;s#618;#331;kr#601;si] n. (個(gè)人特有的)氣質(zhì)，習(xí)性，癖好

22.replica [#712;repl#618;k#601;] n. 復(fù)制品

23.Emily in Our Town：《我們的小鎮(zhèn)》(Our Town)是美國(guó)劇作家桑頓·懷爾德(Thornton Wilder， 1897～1975)的作品。作者用低入泥土的視角講述了日常生活中周而復(fù)始的小事，用平常的點(diǎn)滴展現(xiàn)了生活中存在的威嚴(yán)與平凡。艾米莉?yàn)樵搫〉呐鹘?。她因難產(chǎn)離世，后來(lái)她的靈魂又回到了曾經(jīng)記錄她笑聲的地方。此時(shí)她才發(fā)現(xiàn)，那些平凡瑣碎、簡(jiǎn)單平淡是如此美好和珍貴，然而活著的人們從來(lái)沒(méi)有認(rèn)識(shí)到生活的真正意義。

24.fodder [#712;f#594;d#601;(r)] n. (創(chuàng)作的)素材

25.wax [waelig;ks] vi. (漸漸)變成，轉(zhuǎn)為

26.chatter [#712;t#643;aelig;t#601;(r)] vi. (牙齒)打顫

27.Diet Coke：健怡可口可樂(lè)，是由可口可樂(lè)公司總部研發(fā)的全新產(chǎn)品，于1995年首先在德國(guó)市場(chǎng)推出。

28.dressing [#712;dres#618;#331;] n. (拌制色拉等用的)調(diào)料

29.fume [fju#720;m] vi. 發(fā)怒；怒氣沖沖地說(shuō)話

30.Truman Capote：杜魯門·卡波特(1924～1984)，美國(guó)著名的小說(shuō)家，其代表作品主要有小說(shuō)《其他的聲音，其他的房間》(Other Voices， Other Rooms)、《蒂凡尼的早餐》(Breakfast at Tiffany’s)和《冷血》(In Cold Blood)等。

31.for good：永久地

32.for starters：首先，起初