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  3. Evening Train and the Woman I am worried about the woman. I am afraid she might hurt herself, perhaps has already hurt hersel

Evening Train and the Woman I am worried about the woman. I am afraid she might hurt herself, perhaps has already hurt hersel

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问题    Evening Train and the Woman
   I am worried about the woman. I am afraid she might hurt herself, perhaps has already hurt herself — there’s no way to know which of the return dates stamped on the book of poetry was hers. The book, Denise Levertove’s Evening Train, belongs to the New York City Public Library. I checked it out yesterday and can keep it for three weeks. Ever since my husband and I moved to the city several months ago, I’ve been homesick for my books, the hundreds of volumes stored in my brother’s basement. I miss having them near me, running my hands over their spines, recalling when and where I acquired each one, and out of what need.
   There’s no way to know for certain that the phantom library patron is a woman, but all signs point in that direction. On one page is a red smear that looks like lipstick, and between two other pages, lying like a bookmark, is a long, graying hair. The underlinings, which may or may not have been made by the woman, are in pencil — pale, tentative marks. I study carefully, reverently, the way an archaeologist traces a fossil’s delicate imprint. The rest is dream, conjecture, the making of my story. It’s a weird obsession, I know, studying other readers’ leavings and guessing the lives lived beneath. Even as my reasonable mind is having its way (This makes no sense. How can you assume? The marks could have been made by anyone, for any reason, over any period of time), my other self is leaving on its journey. I’ve always been a hungry reader, what one friend calls a "selfish reader". But is there any other kind? Don’t we all read to answer our own needs to complete the lives we’ve begun, to point us toward some light?
   Some of the underlinings in Evening Train have been partially erased (eraser crumbles have gathered in the center seams), as if the woman reconsidered her first responses or tried to cover her tracks. The markings do not strike me as those of a defiant woman but rather of one who has not only taken her blows but feels she might deserve them. She has underlined " serviceable heart" in one poem; in another, "Grey-haired, I have not grown wiser. " If she exists, I would like to sit with this woman. We seem to have a lot in common. We chose the same book. We both wear red lipstick, and I thought I am not so honest (the graying in my hair is hidden beneath an auburn rinse). I am probably her age or thereabouts.
   And from what she has left behind on the pages of Levertov’s poems, it appears that our hearts have worn down in the same places. This is the part that worries me. Though my heart has mended, for the time being at least, hers seems to be in the very act of breaking. A present-tense pain pulses through each marked up poem, and the further I read, the clearer it becomes what she is considering. I want to reach through the pages and lead her out.
选项
答案 《夜行列车》与那个女人 我为那个女人担心，怕她伤害自己，也许这种伤害已经造成——我无法从诗集上打印的还书日期上判断，哪个是她还书的日子。诗集作者是丹尼斯-莱佛托夫，书名《夜行列车》，是纽约市立图书馆藏书。我昨天借来，可以保留三个星期。我和丈夫几个月前搬到纽约市，一搬过来我就开始想念我的那些藏书了，那些藏在哥哥地下室里的好几百本书。我真想同过去一样，呆在自己的藏书边上，抚摩一本本书的书脊，回想一下每一本书都是什么时候、什么地方买的，出于什么目的买了回来。 无法确认这位不知名的借书人是位女性，但是种种痕迹昭示着此人非女性莫属。一张书页上留下了一个红点，看上去很像口红；两张书页之间，留有一根长长的白发，像书签一般。字里行间留有一些下划线，也许是这个女人留下的，也许不是，是用铅笔划的——我仔细地、虔诚地研究这些淡淡的、即兴划上去的痕迹，就像考古学者研究化石上的细微的痕迹一样。除此之外，就如同梦幻一般了，完全是猜想，是我自己编造的故事了。我知道，研究其他读者留下的痕迹，猜测这些痕迹带给我们的人生故事，这是一种怪异的癖好。即便我的大脑回归理性(这纯粹是胡思乱想。你怎么知道自己猜得对不对呢?书里的痕迹可以是任何人为了任何一个目的在任何一个时间留下的。)，我的另一半还是在继续猜想。我一向是个如饥似渴的读者，有个朋友称我是“自私的读者”。然而，还有不自私的读者吗?难道我们读书不是为了满足自身的需要，将已经开始的人生道路走到底，不是为了替自己找到前进的方向吗? 《夜行列车》里留下的痕迹有些已经擦去(橡皮屑聚集在书缝里)，好像那个女人又有了新的感受，也许是不想让别人知道她的想法。我感到，这些痕迹不像是一个勇于抗争的女人留下的，倒像是一个逆来顺受的女人留下的，而且她觉得她受此打击是命里注定。她在一首诗歌中给“长期饱经苦难的心”划了底线，在另一首诗歌里划出了“双鬓染霜，愚笨依旧”。如果这个女人此时就在我的面前，我真想和她坐下来。我俩有太多的相同之处。我们选读同一本诗集，我们同样选用红色唇膏。我们年纪很可能相仿，在这点上我不太诚实(我的白头发染成了红褐色)。 从她留在诗集里的痕迹，不难看出，似乎我们俩的心都在相同的地方受了伤。这正是我忧虑的事情。我心上的伤痛已经愈合，至少就目前而言是这样，而她心上的伤痛似乎正在加剧。现时折磨着她的伤痛在每一首诗歌中由她留下的痕迹里展示出来，我越读越清晰地感觉到她的内心所思。我真想钻进书页里，将她从痛苦里引领出来。
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