IN BETWEEN THE LIVES

To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee

Tue, 07 Dec 2004 23:52:56 +0800

To Kill a Mockingbird (1960)

by Harper Lee

Arrow Books

309 pages

"Shoot all the bluejays you want, if you can hit 'em, but remember it's a sin to kill a mockingbird."

This Pulitzer Prize winner does not evoke deep thoughts. It poses a question, but doesn't give an answer -- because the narrator in the book is an 8-year-old girl. And 8 year olds can't penetrate through the dark side of human nature, which, in this story, is the "irrationality of adult attitudes to race and class".

The story is set in the Deep South in America in the thirties, and goes like this. There's a mysterious family called Radley in Maycomb county, whose members never come out of the house, which triggers all kinds of rumors so horrifying that the "Radley place" is a taboo for every child. Jem and Jean Louise (nicknamed Scout) Finch, children of the lawyer Atticus Finch, don't buy all this and tried to find out about the Radleys with their friend Dill. Bob Ewell, housemaster of a notoriously roguish white family, charged a black man, Tom Robinson, with the rape of his daughter. And Atticus Finch, the most venerable lawyer in Maycomb county, is to defend Robinson. He successfully proves him guiltless and accuses Bob of the evil deed, but out of whatever that produces pressure, the jury, as it has always done, convicts Robinson on the ground of race inferiority. Atticus tries to steam Robinson up, but the latter gives up, and is killed in an attempt of jailbreak. Although Atticus wins respect (as usual), Bob Ewell aims at revenge. He doesn't physically harm Atticus, which leads Atticus to once more believe in the bright side of his nature, but attempts to do harm to John Taylor, the judge, and Tom Robinson's wife. And finally, He attempts to kill the Finch children, who are saved by Arthur Radley, the legendary danger of the town.

The story is written from the perspective of Jean Louise (Scout) Finch, the 8 year old girl who doesn't understand anything of the adult world, namely, unfairness, manners, class, race, ladyship, etc. She only knows and cares about goods and bads, and it is in this way that the innocence and idealism of children form a sharp contrast with the "irrationality" of the adult world, sharper than any justice-injustice confrontation among adults, as with Atticus Finch and the rest of the town, because what a child dares to speak aloud, the adults don't, even though in many cases they know their conscience. During the whole series of events, the children, both Jem and Scout, hurl their father, whenever possible, questions about everything unclarified to them. And their hyper-patient father answers them whatever that can be clarified openly. But there's one thing that defy even such frankness: why are good people always silent when they know what's right and what's wrong?

Fear. Fear of what? It's really difficult to say whether the Maycomb county is hostile to the colored folks or not. The story took place in the South in the 30's, years after the Civil War. White people still hired blacks, and are nice to them if they did well. People treated each other as human beings in equal terms. Then why are white people and black people afraid of each other? Why is there always an air of tension whenever they meet as a group? The fear, and tension as well, is not present between individuals of each race, as Link Deas, Tom Robinson's employer, would break into the trial and pronounce at the court Tom's impeccable integrity.

The fear is generated out of the prejudice the whites have against the blacks. The prejudice is groundless, but it's been acquiesced and reinforced so much that nobody among the whites can afford to break the rule, even after the environment softens. The blacks react by close themselves up. And people growing up unknown to history inherit the prohibition silently, since being singled out of a group while unaccepted by the other is utmost tragic to an individual. For both white people and the black, this is no exception. Thereupon whenever a group confronts another, tension arises, and both groups become headless. But when they themselves are not involved, they always have upright opinions -- Everyone in Maycomb holds Hitler anti-human.

But in the story, there is someone who breaks the rule and is alive despite labeled as another evil of the town. Mr. Raymond has a black wife and children of mixed blood. He lives in his own way, and the price is isolation and that has has to feign drunk as an acceptable way to account for the disgrace. Atticus can't afford the sacrifice, and is somewhat squeezed to the edge of survival when he defends for Tom Robinson. Groundless assailments from the whites are inflicted upon him and his family, but black people can't express their high regard. What he does is holding on to his ideal and sustain as long as he can. In a sense he is Jesus Christ of Maycomb county, sacrificing himself to preach up Truth, and finally win respect from both sides.

The storyline is enriched by a extremely vivid portrait of everyday life in Maycomb, presenting a dozen of major characters with a childish and humorous touch. Languagewise, lots of colloquial speech are used to suit a small town in South America in the 30's. To quote the back cover comment by Truman Capote, the writer has "the liveliest sense of life and the warmest, most authentic humor."

Quotes from the book:

"People in their right minds never take pride in their talents."

"The one thing that doesn't abide by majority rule is a person's conscience."

"Nothing's real scary except in books."

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Music is a Matter of Taste

Mon, 06 Dec 2004 10:17:43 +0800

Handel's Messiah failed me. I sat still as a piece of wood, listening to it without being the slightest moved. Even the two more familiar sections, including the "Haliluyah", failed me.

Or rather, I failed the masterpiece?

I can't help recalling my first experiences with classical music. Beethoven, Bach, Brahms and Mozart all failed to capture me. Their music passed my ear like wind. And even now, 6 years from my first serious touch with classical music, among the four German-Austrian guys, only Brahms has evoked much of my feelings. As to the other three, I can't say I don't enjoy them. But I enjoy them coldly, with my mind three inches away, poised, ready to analyze what this section might do to the next section, or simply treat them as some background sound that only serves to decorate the noiseless surrounding.

Messiah? Masterpiece?
How
?

Don't rage at truth. It's not that I always treat serious music unseriously. There're only a small number of composers that I do not recognize, and I tend to ascribe it to my ill proficiency. Why? Masters and masterpieces have stood hundreds of years of cross-examination and a simple dumb guy like me can do nothing to reverse its greatness therefore it should be me who's dumb enough to be so numb to the Greats as if they're no difference from easy street tunes that should be blamed for denouncing masters and masterpieces. And these small number of composers are mainly German-Austrian and composers before the Romantic era. For them, music is not so much a matter of personal expression than a matter of beauty - beauty of tone, melody, instrument, inner logic, etc. And I don't always buy it.

An example is Beethoven. I often wonder why he asks a bassoon to hop in repetitive octaves in sixteenth notes in so many of his compositions. Then one day I guess perhaps it's his way of expressing joy. And I think it's like this because whenever his bassoon hops like this the music is high. Then is it a dance or something of that kind? I guess so and don't know how to react because this expression of happiness leaves me cold. I can't get how this is an expression of happiness. To me the bassoon sounds like a crippled clown.

Another example is classical symphonies, to be more specific, their endings. To classical symphonies always end abruptly. There's no prolonged last chord, and often a musical phrase as common as anything inside the work would end it. And audience bravo as I am still waiting for the next note. A classmate of mine who doesn't sing once remarked, just identical to my first reaction to Mozart symphonies, that "classical music consists of abrupt turn from ear-bombingly loud moments to ear-straining inaudible moments." And sometimes I wonder, as he does, why they wrote music in this way. Wouldn't the audience be startled or even annoyed?

The only explanation is: we're used to smoothness and melodical beauty that's typical of the Romantic era and the master composers were alien to them. Beethoven felt happy in a different way from how we feel happy. His philosophy of musical beauty is also dramatically different from ours. And to appreciate his music we have to try to recognize his way and walk beside him, to utilize a different set of standards and build it into our hearts, make it as innate as our original set of standards.

This is something like reading. Some prefer Austen's witty, often acerbic writing; some take to E. Bronte's naturalness; some marvel at Hardy's poetic language; some bravo at Maugham's masterful story-telling. But while preferring one type of writing, one needs to absorb and try to appreciate other types, or at least try to understand how the other ways work to create a vivid, capturing presentation. This entails hard work, because it's a matter of conquering not only objective obstacles (of appreciating their music), but also subjective difficulty (of setting up a ready mind.)

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Moments of Bliss (2)

Wed, 01 Dec 2004 00:03:14 +0800

Brahms: Symphony No.1 -- coda (Celibidache/Stuttgart Radio Symphony)

Brahms is a composer who doesn't appeal to young people immediately. His introverted character wraps his music up and buries his emotion in depth. He never tells a story as straightforward as Beethoven, and never composes purely musical works as Mozart does. Therefore people label him a Romantic who confines himself in Classical forms. Among his contemporaries, his supporters marveled at the intricate balance and texture of his music, which is "beauty", they say. His opponents denounced his music rubbish and hypocritical, as remarked Tchaikovsky, whose own exuberantly emotional finale to Symphony No.5 went beyond many musical principles of the day so much that his fellow composer Cui asked him to rewrite it! But Brahms, instead of being either Classical or Romantic, carefully expresses his individuality while safely abiding by aesthetic rules. And he simply didn't compose much that's unbrooding, except the Hungarian Dances maybe, and even his most victorious music is rooted in mysterious coverups and doesn't fly, as if there's always something important that he refuses to say directly.

Symphony No.1 in c minor, op.68, is one of the not so much implicit works of Brahms. The fact that he spent 20 years composing it, trying to get rid of Beethovenian influence, didn't make it less Beethovenian than the rest of his output, and the symphony is one of the most heroic and epic works in history with its thundering opening and marching, triumphant ending. And many conductors treat it as a "warhorse" in name, rushing towards the last note. But Celibidache doesn't, and as in his Beethoven Ninth, the Brahms is vestured in heavenliness.

Celibidache makes it simply by a ritardando. After fighting all the way through, all of a sudden, warhorses stop marching and stand solemnly watching Victory come. The overall effect is like watching a sunrise, not dashing through fighting and killing. It's as if you can well expect the last note of the work, and heading steadily, whole-heartedly, towards the destiny, which is the Victory, the only Victory of your life. I reckon this is more Brahmsian: nothing is overdone, everything under control, perfectly balanced, and through such perfect artistry, transcendental.

Celibidache's music making became increasingly transcendal during his later years. Everything is pure and harmonized: sonority, rhythm, timbre, etc. There's not a single sharp sound in whatever music, be it Bruckner, Shostakovich or Hindemith. Instead, every sound is its place, has its origin and destination. Some say Celibidache turns everything into his own music. Anyway, it is good music.

Brahms: Symphonies
Sergiu Celibidache

Chopin: Mazurka, op.17 No.4 (Fou Ts'ong)

It was in the year 2002, whether in autumn or summer I've forgotten. It was a live concert given by Fou Ts'ong, the prestigious Chinese pianist, son of the much revered author and translator Fou Lei. Basically, I wasn't, and am not, much warm-hearted about recitals, because I'm no player of any instrument and there's not much to watch. But because it was Fou Ts'ong, I went. I sat on the second floor, next to the aisle and my classmate. The seat wasn't capacious enough even for me. But this is a concert hall in Shanghai. Every seat in Shanghai concert halls is narrow to squeeze me in winter. More than half of the concert program I hadn't touched before, featuring Schubert Sonata D845, Chopin mazurkas, and a few Mozarts.

Throughout the whole event, the surroundings were not quiet at all. Fou Ts'ong's piano didn't sound loud also, partly because the program was full of "soft" works, partly because of the buzzing of air conditioners in the background, which ate up the resonance of the bass. It was obvious that many people came for Fou Ts'ong, not the music he played. So went on the concert. Fou Ts'ong warmed up in a short and sweet Mozart, and dashed into the Schubert sonata. It wasn't an easy work among Schubert piano pieces, and I was dazzled by the dexterity of the master's hands. But the music didn't touch upon my heartstring. Thus ended the first part.

The second half was all short pieces, mazurkas, polonaises, etc. So far, I haven't developed enough sense for Chopin mazurkas. Being folk dances, they surely don't dance enough. But just then, a mazurka, which it seemed to me that nobody had paid any attention caught my ear with two downward thirds. I suddenly felt a pang of melancholy, and was as if strolling aimlessly in a dense forest in late autumn; a lucid screen of sunshine peeping through barren treetop, the air tinted with a thin layer of yellow, not enough to melt the solitude. The two downward thirds sounded like a sigh, and the underpinning chords were also going downward. I felt the air around me was turning cooler and cooler and gradually my hearing failed. The two sighs and repetitive chords rang for the rest of the concert, and after that whenever I'm blue, they creep into my mind, ringing from a distance. Now I've been cooled down from the emotional flush, and can well analyse how the music works by reading the score. And the pang of melancholy was as far away as childhood songs. Reasoning is not always a good thing.

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有感于Amy的话和计算机二级的通过

Sat, 27 Nov 2004 01:43:27 +0800

今天先是知道二级过了，笔试优秀，上机合格，于是很开心。回想起自己坐在凳子上气鼓鼓地瞪着书分析程序、咒自己“没有编程思想”的情景；又想起笔试开考半小时之后就交卷，惊得四周倒吸凉气，竟有种复仇的快感。这些努力没有白费。

晚上在BBS上，Fiona出人意料地没有发嗲也没有发愁，很庄重地hi了一声，于是知道有要紧事了。然而她说的事却让我不能平静。她说Amy很想我，说我是她教过的最聪明的学生之一，却只用了一半的功，所以成绩好不起来，该有的作为也没有。她说她给我B-是因为公正，因为我quiz都做得很差。她还很仔细地观察到每个学期我都虎头蛇尾，用功了几个星期就懒惰下来……说着说着，我心乱如麻。思考对不起谁对得起谁已无必要。只是，在决定适意生活、不再追求所谓名利或学术成就之时，尘封已久的“绩点狂人”之梦突然被翻出来，仿佛被揭了伤疤，有些不快，激起了战斗欲，又带些悔意。我不知道该如何面对现在的情况了。直研已定，立志研究的心却不在；读研似乎只为把自己导向市场，成为合格的产品，并与此同时能够舞文弄墨，沾点礼乐诗书，把自己打扮成待发迹的有相当文化的人。然而这一切都被无情地揭穿了。我早就知道，学术也好，研究也好，本来都是向我敞开双臂的。我也早就知道，在我向它们走去的路上，会有重重艰难险阻，使那些高贵的文明成果可见而不可即。然而，我的错误是，我以为我正在绕开艰难险阻向它们走近之时，却是在远离它们；我以为我努力了，于是认定它们就是不可接近的，事情上我并没有努力，反而是凭着最原始的快感原本更为有趣的东西挑挑捡捡。最致命的瓶颈仍在于自己，而我却将其归咎为过多的兴趣和杂乱的事务。而今，当初最不想看的二级也过了，向专业课低头又算什么呢？考二级之前的苦读犹在眼前，而专业课上我又何时苦读过？A也好，B也好，无不是靠着天分轻松得来，但玉不琢，终不成器！这一点，为何直到现在才如此清楚？我不想说眼前的路是否明朗起来，但是一片浑沌却似渐渐散去，轻者浮天，重者落地，中间只有一个自己，土地还得自己开垦。

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不仅仅是恣意——伯恩斯坦的柴五

Thu, 25 Nov 2004 00:05:05 +0800

音乐界似乎也从来容不下自成一体的东西。1800年以前的我不熟，但莫扎特定有不少作品讨不得皇帝的欢心；贝多芬乖张得可以，《以席勒诗〈欢乐颂〉为合唱的d小调第九交响曲》（即俗称《欢乐颂》的）最初面世也不受欢迎；柏辽兹穷困了一生，他那新鲜的乐器法让他的谱子卖不出去；瓦格纳倒是稳稳地奋斗等到了功成名就；马勒和布鲁克纳就没这么幸运。直至近世，指挥界撂倒了切利比达克，倒捧上去一批庸才，待死后再把他们踩于脚底。切氏的录音却追寻者众，那“超长”版的布鲁克纳被无数人奉为珍品，而诸多“标准版”却越来越少人问津。

啥时候轮到伯恩斯坦呢，我想。DG于不久前的近日以廉价版再版伯氏的晚年录音，自然又是少不了对他一番吹捧的。然而评论界早已对他晚年的勃拉姆斯和老柴第五恶评如潮了。对于一个只想演奏自己心中的音乐的、又享有自由录音权的人，这些恶评也许不算什么。（我猜想伯老是不大睬那些乐评的。）不过，对爱乐者来说，那些评论却多是可信可疑之物。信了，买了，听不出好的，亏了，于是不信了，不买了，又恐落下什么宝物；于是信与不信之间，乐商赚钱了，乐评家也赚钱了。

伯氏的勃拉姆斯，我没有听过，无法评论。只是以他的性格和风格，勃拉姆斯的交响曲应该不成问题。第一、第三的英雄性，他老人家应该最喜欢了；第二、第四的平衡性，从他老人家晚年的莫扎特看，应该也拿得下；若说他晚年的录音经常“太炸”，铜管声势过大，那为什么他的舒曼、马勒、肖斯塔科维奇又是众口一辞的好评？尤其是舒曼的交响曲，应属浪漫中较古典优雅一类，铜管不能太强，而伯氏的却张牙舞爪，却依然被誉为典范。于是这套全集怎么不讨人喜欢，我无从知晓。

老柴的第五交响曲，按理说，也应是伯氏的囊中之物。然而诸多乐评却以“恣意”一词结了它的命，称它为“史上最perverse的录音之一”。于是我又不懂了。今日见有下载，于是下之，听之，不知是久未过耳还是怎的，这版柴五却十分称我的心。

速度自然是很慢，但并未到极致，45分钟的曲子拖到了52分钟，慢的段落经常被拉到2倍长，快的段落劲头十足，却并不显得很脱节，至少我听到的是典型的伯氏晚年沉思般的呼吸。某处乐评称这样的快慢搭配显得比例失调，因而整部作品缺乏连续性，简直是瞎掰。为何我听完全曲不觉得有断裂之处？倒是伯氏棒下更慢却更受好评的老柴第六交响曲，有几处呼吸长得让我惊醒，看看碟是不是卡住了。该乐评又称这个录音缺乏节奏动力，我看了更是分特。这部多少以节奏见长的作品、由伯氏这个最擅节奏驱动的指挥家来指挥，反倒会没了节奏感？事实——至少是我今晚的听觉——证明，伯氏演绎的这部作品，该有节奏的部分棱角都十分分明、节拍都十分准确，尤其是容不得半点呼吸上、节奏上差错的终乐章的后半段，更是无懈可击！

整部交响曲听来，也和别的经典演绎（如姆拉文斯基、格吉耶夫的）一样，丝毫未觉得此曲很长；反之，从细节品来，伯氏的弦乐在慢处更是如泣如诉，仿佛听得清一次次的揉弦；老柴的“叹息”声声入耳、又似历历在目，最后越来越尖锐而厚重的铜管（不像卡拉扬，拔尖了嗓门尽唱高调）既铺垫于低处，又加强于高处，老柴的音乐被整个地戏剧化了。伯氏仿佛豁了出去，全然不顾，一鼓作气冲将到底，栩栩然一个神经质的老柴，这怕不是每个人都做得到的。

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Tchaikovsky: Symphony No.5

Romeo and Juliet, fantasy Overture

New York Philharmonic

Leonard Bernstein

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《废都》读后

Wed, 24 Nov 2004 22:43:23 +0800

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废都(1993)

贾平凹

读着《废都》，仿佛亲见一个城市和一群文艺人士的腐化，亲见一个清高作家被一群酒肉朋友抬着进来，又抬着出去，动弹不得，最后也落得像生了蛆一样被慢慢蚕食致死。但这恶心的图景出现在脑海里，我的胃却没有反应。买的旧书书页已经泛黄，封面的塑封也已经斑驳，色调已和青砖一样，上面大大的“废都”两字比10年前偷看父母的盗版书上的多出许多让人心惊胆战的功力来，仿佛生了魔一般。

《废都》的冲击力显然不在“性”上。十几年前，贾平凹以方框和“作者删去xxx字”来掩人耳目，但旁人的想象力却将此书禁了。要依我看，《废都》的书名和里面写的种种颓相都足够有影射意味的，虽未指到具体的人物事件，却怎的使人产生一种隐隐的共鸣，仿佛庄之蝶的命运正实实在在地纠缠着和他相似的、脆弱、优柔、怕事、骨子里却不软弱的人，仿佛那西京城里的群氓就像老太太口里说的精灵恶鬼一样活在四周，一有机会就快乐地吞噬周围的人。老太太的话是全书里最让人毛骨悚然的部分，阴阳不分，满是鬼魂，却又十分准确。我不禁害怕起来，精灵恶鬼、断壁残垣、灰黄色、爬着蛆的不全的尸首一一出现在脑际，仿佛它们就是真的，就将占了这世界似的——废都，“废”这个字凶狠的读音萦绕脑际，硬是最为激奋的音乐都无法将它逐出；而这个干脆利落的书名，又带着怎样的一种颓然和冷漠呢。仅这些后果，就足以禁了这书了。

随机文章：

To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee 2004-12-07

看完了《悟空传》 2004-11-21

[书摘]《英汉口笔译技艺》by 何刚强 2004-09-29

[文摘] College Pressures by W. Zinsser 2004-09-28

《谁杀了古典音乐》 2004-08-27

《城客》：第一本中文互动杂志！

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看完了《悟空传》

Sun, 21 Nov 2004 23:34:26 +0800

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《悟空传》
by 今何在不支持UBB真不好呀

我不知道这样一本不正经的书也能让我如此感动，而且在感动之余几乎立刻陷入对所谓终极问题的思考，当然再思考也是白搭。说它“不正经”，是因为它结构不清，情节混乱，内容上的“后现代”“无厘头”“颠覆性”倒是次要的了。（一次次犀利的对峙、一个个感人的瞬间，伴随着一段段搞笑的对话，真是让人哭笑不得啊。）但是，这样的一本书，它谈到的问题却不少。它谈到了……什么？我说不清楚，尽管我已断断续续地对它思考了两个小时。它什么都谈到了：佛家所说的“空”，欲念，爱，神性，人性，奋斗，人生，看待人生……要将以上问题一个个写过来，是不可能的，也未免无聊。（最近已经不高兴想这些问题了，故有此言。）不过，有些话还是想感叹一下，唐僧一下，以纪念被妖猴一棒子打死的孙悟空。

如果人真的没有“欲念”，真的能成佛成神成仙吗？因为这个问题的不现实性，许多人无法回答，包括我。悟空虽然打遍天下，独孤求败，但舍不下凡间种种，舍不下欲念，因此成不了神，也因此不屑成神，更因此在最后时刻败给了自己。但是他的生活是潇洒而大气的，不像诸神，至少给刻划成极无灵性、四平八稳的不死机器。我立刻想到Voltaire笔下毫无生气的黄金王国El Dorado，里面的人物像Velasquez笔下的贵族一样，冠冕堂皇而呆。而不追求“境界”的悟空及天篷、沙僧诸人，却活得那样真实。放到现在的生活中，我也越来越怀疑所谓的终极追求。小时候说的“共产主义”毫无疑问地早就倒了，于是我陷入一种荒芜，只是以前没有意识到，而现在越来越清楚。于是开始追索，但不曾成功，也不会成功。上课时，曲曲一遍又一遍地说：Life is basically meaningless. It is you who give meaning to life. 听到这话，我们一遍又一遍地笑。我们不知道怎样give meaning to life。如果有一种高高在上的力量，我们也许知道，因为我们的目标、指向——或者说，牵在我们身上的那根线所系的另一端——是明确的；而这种力量被无神论否定之后，我们又如何找那个牵线的点？《悟空传》里，悟空大闹天宫之后那一死，是因为对花果山的憧憬的破灭，（说到底，也是一种俗世的欲念。）杀死悟空的假悟空，最后为何能够心无旁顾地作战，也是因为对花果山的幻想的破灭。仿佛，失去了一个可以寄托的东西，人就会像断了线的风筝一样，飘飘然于世间，没了平衡，没了参照，将不知所终。一切充实自己的活动，到达一定程度之后，都显得没有意义——悟空的破坏欲，是不是也可以认为是因为他战无不胜而别无所求之后的发泄？他并不以自己的功成名就而满足。同样，如果没有peer pressure，我们又会有多少人追求这、追求那，不停地做自己不喜欢的、甚至喜欢的事情？一切这些身外之物，都触不到生命的本质。然而，这本质又是什么呢？假定否定了这些“身外之物”，那么生命的本质就只有时间的推进，正如《等待戈多》所揭示的，如果没有线另一头的牵挂，生命的运动只有停止，因为它无论怎样运动都是无用功，而且，若无另一头的牵挂，它又将如何产生动力？而只有这时，“时间”——这个最终极的……怪物——的脚步才坚定不疑地清晰起来。但是有意思的是，在这样的时刻，我们却只希望时间能快点过去，而不会感叹“真无聊，得找些事情做”。

整部作品给我的另一个感觉，是宿命感。如果古希腊戏剧让我们感到人在神的操纵面前犹如牵线木偶般无力。那在《悟空传》里，这种操纵感就空前地强烈起来——虽然如来佛祖最后失算了。这种宿命感实在是很打击人的信心的，你说，大家活到死，就为了证实一些莫须有的存在物的游戏结果么？写到这里，帕索里尼的《阿拉伯之夜》又出现在脑际……

随机文章：

To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee 2004-12-07

《废都》读后 2004-11-24

[书摘]《英汉口笔译技艺》by 何刚强 2004-09-29

[文摘] College Pressures by W. Zinsser 2004-09-28

《谁杀了古典音乐》 2004-08-27

上海肯德基20年Say Yes-光阴的故事

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Kancheli and the HFLS Accident

Fri, 19 Nov 2004 18:22:02 +0800

Kancheli is innocent. He has nothing to do with the mindblowing accident that fell on three HFLS teachers like the Tunguska Explosion. However, out of mere chance or else, I happened to be listening to Kancheli's ominous Styx when I learned the utter tragedy. For a long moment my mind was empty, I was trying to figure out which was unreal: the ever ongoing, mysterious yet unrelenting choral murmuring of Kancheli's Styx or the plain black words displayed on the blue background in our alumni which told me the bare truth of the car crash in the utmost nonchalant manner. It couldn't be! This is so much more than incidental that I was compelled to be religious, so much as to be, in the next moment, envisioning a black, grinning being seizing us tightly in unpenetratable dark. And after another long moment it took to convince myself both were real, I couldn't help being empty-minded. I didn't know how to respond. I simply replied: stunned.

Basically, these are the facts about the accident I got to know: One teacher of my high school, male, middle-aged, offered to drive two younger teachers, one male, the other female, to somewhere they could have midnight snacks. The young male teacher sat on the assistant seat, the female sat in the back. They didn't fasten their safety belt. Whether the driver fastened his safety belt I haven't known, but he was drunk. And then, during the drive, they crashed into a heavily loaded truck. The young male teacher died instantly, the female severely injured, the driver also injured.

Thus the accident happened, suddenly, unexpectedly, instantaneously. Everyone was left dumbfounded. So was I. The driver was my Chinese teacher, who won our hearts with his unfathomable scope of knowledge, impassioned teaching and seemingly impeccable personality. But he was caught drunk driving, leading to a fatal accident. This is the sort of unbelievable stories whose hard reality would convince only the most hardened strangers. Yet the reality are pushed forward, developing into an awesome wall segregating peace from us, peace of mind, peace of heart, peace of life, the so far undisturbed peace, the ever-flowing peace, cut off.

And Kancheli's Styx crescendoed, forging its existence into my mind. "Styx", it is called, the river across which the souls of dead are ferried, one of the five rivers in Hades. It is a cold place, I figure, because the music is cold and sorry. Kancheli peeped down at it from the earth. I guess he shuddered and felt sorry for the souls that were being ferried into the abysmal dark. The music is sentimental and tentative. It tries to dance – what courage! But rises a wall, and grows so high that we don't see its top. And the dance retreats into precarious steps, and stops. Styx, the untouchable. Don't you hear the wailing Swan of Tuonela? Don't you see the twisted human beings in Hieronymus's Hell? And why did I touch the Styx, right at the lamentable moment!

Times flies on, peace shattered; the Styx has broken onto the earth.

随机文章：

Music is a Matter of Taste 2004-12-06

一些不得不说的话 2004-11-05

[转载] 空无之中，愈见飘逸 2004-10-23

重修，化妆求职照以及其他 2004-10-14

女排！女排！ 2004-08-15

上海肯德基20年Say Yes-光阴的故事

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Moments of Bliss

Tue, 16 Nov 2004 21:46:17 +0800

在这里说这些，不是广告，也不是推荐。而是这种有如神启的时刻实在太少了。

1、勃拉姆斯第一钢琴协奏曲，鲁宾斯坦/梅塔

这是我听的第二个勃拉姆斯第一钢琴协奏曲演奏，是我唯一的此曲录音。很少有人对它评价很高，因为鲁宾斯坦那时已年近90，指力不逮，许多音含糊其辞；虽然梅塔棒下的乐队表现不错，但这个录音只能说是见证了鲁氏老年的衰退。不过，由于我耳力不够，也没读过谱，上述问题基本上没听出来。相反，在雄浑的乐队第一主题刚结束时钢琴的进入却永远印在我脑海里。这是一部年轻人的作品，过于庞大的结构使得曲子本身有着严重的问题，以致勃拉姆斯花了四年才把它写完。年轻人的雄心壮志从极具戏剧性的开头就表现出来。这种开头和许多巨型作品的开头一样，预示着一次艰险复杂的音乐旅程。作曲家像游吟诗人一样作出一段陈词，告诉听众将会有一个很曲折的故事。这种音乐陈词多半有种故作姿态的意味，作曲家若是成功地完成了这部作品，那他离功成名就也不远了；反之，留下一部虎头蛇尾的失败之作，那他还得努力。

Brahms: Piano Concerto No.1
Arthur Rubinstein, piano
Israel Philharmonic Orchestra
Zubin Mehta

Brahms: 4 Ballades, op.10
Julius Katchen

然而在这样一个长达3分钟的巨型开头之后，梅塔放慢了速度。此时，鲁宾斯坦却以一个老人的形象奏出晃晃悠悠犹疑不决的音符。这个第二主题演奏得如此从容不迫，好像一个刚经过战场洗礼的退伍兵，不动声色却带着哀伤，把自己的身世娓娓道来。而其他的诸多版本，比如颇受好评的柯曾/塞尔版，这里的钢琴演奏总是匆匆而过，带着乐队咆哮的余音惊魂不定地开始说话。也许这才是这一段的真谛呢？谁知道……

2、拉赫玛尼诺夫第四钢琴协奏曲，拉赫玛尼诺夫/奥曼迪

拉氏自己演奏的协奏曲听起来很有历史感，因为录音很差。但是这个已经60多年的录音除了展现作曲家“本真”演奏之外，仍有一个乐队细节从一开始就把我拴住了。这个细节印象不如勃一钢协那么深，但每次翻出这个老录音听到这里都会怔一下，不管一边在忙别的什么事情。

这个细节位于第一乐章后半段，是小提琴全奏的第一主题：
. . .. . . . . . ...
0671 | 2 34 5 7 6 | 6 5 0543 |..

这串上行又下行的音阶中，最高潮也是最揪心的音是那个 7 。从理论的角度说，这是因为“极度不稳定”的 7 “需要解决”，上升为高音的 1 ，好像从山巅回到平地一样。从感性的一面说，这个上行音阶好像上升的渴望，在切分音后突然加强，却终止在拖长的终点而不得不收敛起来，好像挨了骂的小孩，或者梦着遥不可及的恋人的相思者。在整个相当模糊的录音里，这一句小提琴的合奏显得特别明亮。而后来听的现代录音里，似乎再也找不到这种感觉了。

Rachmaninov:
Complete Piano Concertos
Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini

Sergei Rachmaninov, piano
The Philadelphia Orchestra
Eugene Ormandy
Leopold Stokowski

3、普罗科菲耶夫第七交响曲

这是普罗科菲耶夫最后一部交响曲，作于他逝世前不久。和他之前的交响曲相比，这部作品要简单和平静许多，以至于他自己都害怕因为太简单而过不了当局的审查。总的来说，我喜欢把它当成普氏在交响曲领域的临终献言，就和肖斯塔科维奇的第十五交响曲一样。在这部作品里，普氏的众多标志性音乐语汇依然清晰可辨，但似乎都成了技巧的应用，好像他在创作时根本不费什么力一样，信手拈来亦成篇。作曲家似乎连音乐里无限的未知空间都不愿意探索了，而只把玩着最常用的把戏。但是，就是在这样一部简单普通的作品里，有一个主题却过耳不忘，挥之不去。我从中听出的，是一生的怀念：
. . . . .. ....
5 - 6 1 | 5 - - 6 | 3 7 6 71 | 5 - - #5 | 6 6 4 34 | 6 - #1234 | ....
` `
从理论的角度说，这个主题里的诸多大跳（比如蓝色的两个音）是它显得格外起伏跌宕的原因，而三个分句间起连接作用的两个音（红色的）使得这个主题从整体上来说有种级进的效果；而此时的背景又极不安分，低音弦乐如滚滚海浪在下面搅着；因而整个主题像层云一样浮在浪上，显得气象万千，让人感叹不已。而所谓“一生的怀念”，恰是因为这个主题在整部显得平淡无奇的交响曲里是极不寻常的一部分。年轻时的不安与躁动以十分简洁的笔调勾勒出来，又非常简洁地收住，淡淡地一笑了之。这种境界，恐怕不是我能体会的。

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Moments of Bliss (2) 2004-12-01

不仅仅是恣意——伯恩斯坦的柴五 2004-11-25

Hans Rott: Symphony 2004-11-09

老柴：第七交响曲 2004-10-11

Britten: 乐团魔术师 2004-10-01

《城客》：第一本中文互动杂志！

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断裂

Mon, 15 Nov 2004 00:12:55 +0800

去了趟嵊泗，才三天时间，回来的时候，记忆就像断了层——11月12日至14日，我在干嘛？

望着校园里熟悉的房屋、进水的球场和寝室里三天没动过的东西，我如果清楚地意识到它们的存在，好像它们在三天前都不存在一样。于是，11月12日之前的那个世界慢慢出现在记忆里，和我所处的环境融合起来。我想起我放钥匙的地方，找到了钥匙，打开了抽屉，拿出电脑，开始灌水。我在系版发了篇标题为back内容为rt的文章，bobby回了篇mission completed，一切都那样自然：生活恢复了。

那么，11月12日至14日，我在干嘛？

这个问题似乎不是身处上海的我能够回答的。记忆仿佛始终和产生它的环境联系在一起，离开了溗泗，我除了印象最深刻的事，便不记得在那里发生过什么（似的），仿佛一定要再踏上冰凉的沙滩，我才能想起我们在沙地上画过乌龟、猪、鲸鱼、船、……。（如果真是这样，不是“仿佛这样”，那我现在在说什么？）原来睹物思人，是这么回事。而现在，上海的环境让脑海里的溗泗变得越来越不真实，变得越来越像梦境。我看着电脑屏幕，它似乎告诉我：你看，这才是真实的吧，那些怎么可能发生呢。我看着同学，他们似乎在用好奇的眼神问我：你干嘛去了？外星回来的？

我意识到：如果我是鱼，那这里就是我的水。而11月12日至14日，我在别处的水里小心翼翼地尝了三天鲜。但是，为什么我在这儿觉得，虽然心落了地，人却没了精神；而在那里，心飘着，人却无忧无虑？

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寂寥 2004-09-21

两本小书 2004-08-19

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