后悔有益

I regret everything. Decades-old decisions， things I said， things I didn’t say， opportunities I missed， opportunities I took， recent purchases， non-purchases， returns. I turn all of these things over in my mind and examine them for clues — to what， I’m not sure. All I know is that very little of what I do or fail to do escapes the constant 2）churn of revision. It’s just the way I process experience： 3）sceptically， and 4）in retrospect. It’s like being a time-traveller， only instead of going back to Ancient Rome or the French Revolution， I return again and again to the traumatic sites of my own fateful （or not so fateful） forks in the road. Some people see this as self flagellation； I tend to think of it as a lifelong effort to 5）reconcile the possible with the actual —getting to know the real me. After all， as they say， we’re defined by our choices.

When I was six years old， I pulverised a friend’s brand-new 6）Etch A Sketch. Actually， he wasn’t my friend — our mothers were friends， I didn’t know him all. He was a little bit older than me — maybe seven or eight — and I found him 7）aloof and 8）intimidating. He lived in an enormous modern house made of glass and concrete， with an exterior staircase that led to a balcony overlooking a terrace and pool. We were visiting 9）Lima， where my 10）Peruvian parents were from， before suburban New Jersey， and I felt like a fish out of water — shy， awkward， foreign， weird. At some point， I broke away from the other kids and went up to the balcony to be alone with the Etch A Sketch， which the boy had received for Christmas a few days earlier.

Alone， I was gripped by the sudden urge to balance the Etch A Sketch on the balcony 11）railing. Even as the idea was forming in my mind， I knew that its risks far outweighed its 12）dubious rewards， and that I’d live to regret it. I was still thinking these thoughts as I watched the Etch A Sketch fall through the air and land in one piece with a sickening crunch. When I picked it up， it made a sound like a 13）maraca. The knobs moved but no lines appeared on the screen. I then placed the Etch A Sketch carefully on a nearby chair， went to find my mother， and told her I had a headache and wanted to go home.

Remorse， it seems to me， would have been the more appropriate response to having destroyed my young host’s shiny new present from Santa， but that would have involved a degree of empathy that I’m ashamed to admit I didn’t feel for him. Somewhere deep down， I interpreted his cool 14）self-possession as 15）contemptuous indifference or outright 16）disdain， and in enacting my tiny rebellion， I succeeded only in manifesting my worst fears about myself. In my 17）fit of alienation and insecurity， I’d turned myself into the person I thought he thought I was： The weirdo who broke his new toy. And I’d made sure he’d remember me that way forever.

There’s a particular disdain for regret in US culture. It’s regarded as self-indulgent and irrational — a “useless”feeling. We prefer 18）utilitarian emotions， those we can use as vehicles for transformation， and closure. “Dwelling”， we tend to agree， gets you nowhere. It just leads you around in circles.

In the fall of my senior year of high school， my dad and I flew from Madrid， where we lived， to Boston for college interviews. My dad’s career was going off the rails at the time， but he was feeling hopeful and expansive， so when the airline misplaced his luggage， we headed straight for Brooks Brothers and then went out for lobster. My first college interview， which also happened to be my first interview of any kind， ever， was at Harvard. It hadn’t occurred to me to do anything to prepare for it， much less to try to get a sense of what to expect.

As it happened， the person who interviewed me had been a teacher at my high school in Madrid 20 years earlier. He knew my principal as well as several veteran teachers. We talked about Spain’s transition to democracy after Franco， about the way the country seemed to wake up after a deep 40-year sleep. We talked about dress codes in restaurants and porn on TV. As the interview was ending， I was suddenly struck by the feeling that I’d messed up. I’d frittered away the interview making clever observations about the politics of shorts. And even though the interviewer seemed encouraging， I decided， when it came time to work on the application form， to save my dad the $50 application fee. And neither one of my parents had anything to say about it. Yes， I could have applied and gotten rejected like everyone else. But if I had， I probably wouldn’t have blown my interview 20 years later， when I was a finalist for a fellowship. But I guess I’ll never know that， either.

In a culture that believes winning is everything， that sees success as a totalising， absolute system， happiness and even basic worth are determined by winning. It’s not surprising， then， that people feel they need to deny regret — deny failure — in order to stay in the game. “Great novels，” Landman points out， “are often about regret： about the life-changing consequences of a single bad decision （say， marrying the wrong person， not marrying the right one， or having let love pass you by altogether） over a long period of time.” The point of regret is not to try to change the past， but to shed light on the present. What novels tell us is that regret is instructive. And the first thing regret tells us is that something in the present is wrong. Rather than deny regret， we should embrace 19）ambivalence. We should strive for an ideal— that is， behave as if it’s possible for an absolute ideal to exist — while remembering that it doesn’t， that in fact outcomes are random， and that all possibilities exist simultaneously.

我對(duì)什么都感到后悔。后悔這幾十年來(lái)做過(guò)的決定、我說(shuō)出口的話、我沒(méi)說(shuō)出口的話、我錯(cuò)過(guò)的機(jī)會(huì)、我抓住的機(jī)會(huì)，近期買(mǎi)入的、沒(méi)買(mǎi)的、退掉的物品。我在自己的腦海里反復(fù)地想著所有的這些事情，想從中找出線索——為了什么，我卻不知道。我所知道的是幾乎沒(méi)有什么我做過(guò)的或是沒(méi)做成的能逃開(kāi)我的不斷思量。這只不過(guò)是我處理親身體驗(yàn)的方式：以懷疑的態(tài)度追溯往事。就像是一個(gè)時(shí)光旅行者，不過(guò)不是回到古羅馬或是法國(guó)大革命時(shí)期，而是一次又一次地回到令自己痛苦的至關(guān)重要（或許也沒(méi)那么重要）的分岔路口。有些人將此視之為自我鞭策；而我則傾向于認(rèn)為那是一場(chǎng)終身努力，用以調(diào)和可能與現(xiàn)實(shí)，從中了解真正的自我。畢竟，常言道，我們的選擇塑造了我們自身。

在我六歲的時(shí)候，我毀掉了一個(gè)朋友嶄新的蝕刻素描玩具。實(shí)際上，他并不是我的朋友——我們各自的母親互為朋友而已，我壓根不認(rèn)識(shí)他。他年紀(jì)比我大一點(diǎn)點(diǎn)——大概七八歲的樣子——而且我發(fā)現(xiàn)他為人冷漠，令人生畏。他住在一座由玻璃和混凝土建成的房子里，房子又大又時(shí)髦，外面一道樓梯通向陽(yáng)臺(tái)，在上面可以俯瞰平臺(tái)和水池。我們當(dāng)時(shí)正在造訪利馬市，這是我的秘魯父母在去到新澤西郊區(qū)之前的故鄉(xiāng)，而我在這里卻感覺(jué)像是脫水之魚(yú)——害羞、尷尬，又是一個(gè)古怪的外國(guó)人。后來(lái)某個(gè)時(shí)候，我擺脫了其他的孩子，獨(dú)自帶著蝕刻素描玩具跑到了陽(yáng)臺(tái)上，玩具是那個(gè)男孩幾天前收到的圣誕節(jié)禮物。

我獨(dú)自一人突然陷入了一股沖動(dòng)，我想把那個(gè)蝕刻素描玩具擱放在陽(yáng)臺(tái)欄桿上。其實(shí)當(dāng)這個(gè)主意在我的腦海里成形的時(shí)候，我就知道它所帶來(lái)的風(fēng)險(xiǎn)會(huì)遠(yuǎn)遠(yuǎn)大于其所帶來(lái)的并無(wú)把握的好處，而且我會(huì)因此而后悔。我看著那個(gè)蝕刻素描玩具在空中跌落，發(fā)出令人毛骨悚然的咔嚓一聲，而后完整地掉在地上，我腦子里還在琢磨著那些想法。我把那玩具撿起來(lái)的時(shí)候，它發(fā)出沙錘一樣的聲音。旋鈕還是能動(dòng)，但屏幕上什么線條都不顯示了。而后我把蝕刻素描玩具小心地放在了旁邊的椅子上，去找我的母親，告訴她我頭疼，想回家。

對(duì)我而言，毀掉了招待我們的小主人那亮晶晶的嶄新圣誕禮物，為此感到愧疚才理應(yīng)是更恰當(dāng)?shù)姆磻?yīng)，但是那樣會(huì)牽涉到一定程度的代入感，而我則很慚愧地承認(rèn)自己對(duì)他并沒(méi)有這種感覺(jué)。在內(nèi)心某處，我將他的冷靜沉著理解為冷漠輕蔑或是赤裸裸的蔑視，通過(guò)實(shí)施我的小小反抗，我一直恐懼的、自己那最糟糕的一面也就全然浮現(xiàn)。感覺(jué)被開(kāi)罪，缺乏自信，我于是把自己變成了我覺(jué)得他將我誤以為的那種人——摔破他那新玩具的怪人。而且我確信他會(huì)永遠(yuǎn)記得我那個(gè)樣子。

在美國(guó)文化里，特別鄙視后悔的感覺(jué)。它被看作是自我放縱的、不理性的——一種“無(wú)用”的感覺(jué)。我們更喜歡實(shí)用性的情感，那些可以用作轉(zhuǎn)變手段，為事情畫(huà)上句號(hào)的實(shí)用性情感。我們傾向于同意，呆在過(guò)去的回憶里你哪兒都去不了。它只能讓你原地繞圈子。

在我高中生活的最后一年秋天，父親和我從我們居住的馬德里飛到了波士頓參加大學(xué)面試。當(dāng)時(shí)父親的事業(yè)一日不如一日，但他卻充滿(mǎn)希望，十分豁達(dá)，所以當(dāng)航空公司弄丟了他的行李時(shí)，我們干脆奔去了布魯克斯兄弟店，然后去吃了龍蝦。那次哈佛面試是我的第一次大學(xué)面試，也恰好是我人生中的第一次面試。我根本沒(méi)為那次面試做過(guò)什么準(zhǔn)備，更別提抱有什么期待了。

面試開(kāi)始了，面試官曾于20年前在我就讀的馬德里高中任職教師。他認(rèn)識(shí)我的校長(zhǎng)以及一些任教多年的教師。我們談到了西班牙在佛朗哥獨(dú)裁后過(guò)渡到民主制國(guó)家，似乎在長(zhǎng)達(dá)40年的熟睡后被喚醒。我們談到了餐廳里的著裝規(guī)范和電視上的色情節(jié)目。面談?wù)Y(jié)束時(shí)，我突然覺(jué)得自己搞砸了。我對(duì)短褲政治的油滑評(píng)論廢了這次面試。即使面試官似乎在鼓勵(lì)我，我還是決定，到了填申請(qǐng)表的時(shí)候，幫父親省下50美元的申請(qǐng)費(fèi)不填算了。我的父母對(duì)此沒(méi)有說(shuō)什么。當(dāng)然，我也可以和別人一樣，申請(qǐng)，然后被拒絕。但是如果我當(dāng)時(shí)那樣做了，我可能就不會(huì)在20年后已經(jīng)入圍大學(xué)研究員職位最后競(jìng)爭(zhēng)的時(shí)候浪費(fèi)那個(gè)面試機(jī)會(huì)了。但是我想我也永遠(yuǎn)都不會(huì)知道結(jié)果。

在認(rèn)為獲勝便是一切的文化里，成功被視為一個(gè)凌駕一切的絕對(duì)系統(tǒng)，幸福、甚至連基本的價(jià)值都是由獲勝與否決定。那么，人們會(huì)覺(jué)得他們需要否認(rèn)遺憾——否認(rèn)失敗——以此來(lái)留在游戲之中，這就不足為奇?！皞ゴ蟮男≌f(shuō)，”蘭德曼指出，“常常是與遺憾相關(guān)的主題：關(guān)于一個(gè)糟糕的決定（比如說(shuō)，嫁錯(cuò)人、沒(méi)嫁給正確的對(duì)象、又或是讓愛(ài)情擦肩而過(guò)）在很長(zhǎng)的一段時(shí)間內(nèi)所帶來(lái)的人生改變?！边z憾的要點(diǎn)是不要試圖去改變過(guò)去，而是為目前的一切找到答案。小說(shuō)告訴我們的是，遺憾是有益的。而且，首要的是，后悔能夠告訴我們目前有些事情出錯(cuò)了。比起否定遺憾，我們更應(yīng)當(dāng)擁抱矛盾。我們應(yīng)該為理想而奮斗——即要在行動(dòng)時(shí)做得好像絕對(duì)的完美是存在的一樣——同時(shí)又要記住完美是不存在的，事實(shí)上，事情的結(jié)果是隨機(jī)的，所有的可能性都同時(shí)存在著。