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就像中國(guó)的先賢老子所說(shuō)的那樣：“福兮禍之所伏，福禍福所倚”，我童年輟學(xué)，飽受饑餓、孤獨(dú)、無(wú)書可讀之苦，但我因此也像我們的前輩作家沈從文那樣，及早地開始閱讀社會(huì)人生這本大書。前面所提到的到集市上去聽說(shuō)數(shù)人說(shuō)書，僅僅是這本大書中的一頁(yè)。

Our Taoist master Laozi said it best: “Fortune depends on misfortune. Misfortune is hidden in fortune.” I left school as a child, often went hungry, was constantly lonely, and had no books to read. But for those reasons, like the writer of a previous generation, Shen Congwen, I had an early start on reading the great book of life. My experience of going to the marketplace to listen to a storyteller was but one page of that book.

輟學(xué)之后，我混跡于成人之中，開始了“用耳朵閱讀”的漫長(zhǎng)生涯。二百多年前，我的故鄉(xiāng)曾出了一個(gè)講故事的偉大天才——蒲松齡，我們村里的許多人，包括我，都是他的傳人。我在集體勞動(dòng)的田間地頭，在生產(chǎn)隊(duì)的牛棚馬廄，在我爺爺奶奶的熱炕頭上，甚至在搖搖晃晃地進(jìn)行著的牛車社，聆聽了許許多多神鬼故事，歷史傳奇，逸聞趣事，這些故事都與當(dāng)?shù)氐淖匀画h(huán)境，家庭歷史緊密聯(lián)系在一起，使我產(chǎn)生了強(qiáng)烈的現(xiàn)實(shí)感。

After leaving school, I was thrown uncomfortably into the world of adults, where I embarked on the long journey of learning through listening. Two hundred years ago, one of the great storytellers of all time – Pu Songling – lived near where I grew up, and where many people, me included, carried on the tradition he had perfected. Wherever I happened to be – working the fields with the collective, in production team cowsheds or stables, on my grandparents’ heated kang, even on oxcarts bouncing and swaying down the road, my ears filled with tales of the supernatural, historical romances, and strange and captivating stories, all tied to the natural environment and clan histories, and all of which created a powerful reality in my mind.

我做夢(mèng)也想不到有朝一日這些東西會(huì)成為我的寫作素材，我當(dāng)時(shí)只是一個(gè)迷戀故事的孩子，醉心地聆聽著人們的講述。那時(shí)我是一個(gè)絕對(duì)的有神論者，我相信萬(wàn)物都有靈性，我見到一棵大樹會(huì)肅然起敬。我看到一只鳥會(huì)感到它隨時(shí)會(huì)變化成人，我遇到一個(gè)陌生人，也會(huì)懷疑他是一個(gè)動(dòng)物變化而成。每當(dāng)夜晚我從生產(chǎn)隊(duì)的記工房回家時(shí)，無(wú)邊的恐懼便包圍了我，為了壯膽，我一邊奔跑一邊大聲歌唱。那時(shí)我正處在變聲期，嗓音嘶啞，聲調(diào)難聽，我的歌唱，是對(duì)我的鄉(xiāng)親們的一種折磨。

Even in my wildest dreams, I could not have envisioned a day when all this would be the stuff of my own fiction, for I was just a boy who loved stories, who was infatuated with the tales people around me were telling. Back then I was, without a doubt, a theist, believing that all living creatures were endowed with souls. I’d stop and pay my respects to a towering old tree; if I saw a bird, I was sure it could become human any time it wanted; and I suspected every stranger I met of being a transformed beast. At night, terrible fears accompanied me on my way home after my work points were tallied, so I’d sing at the top of my lungs as I ran to build up a bit of courage. My voice, which was changing at the time, produced scratchy, squeaky songs that grated on the ears of any villager who heard me.

我在故鄉(xiāng)生活了二十一年，期間離家最遠(yuǎn)的是乘火車去了一次青島，還差點(diǎn)迷失在木材廠的巨大木材之間，以至于我母親問(wèn)我去青島看到了什么風(fēng)景時(shí)，我沮喪地告訴她：什么都沒看到，只看到了一堆堆的木頭。但也就是這次青島之行，使我產(chǎn)生了想離開故鄉(xiāng)到外邊去看世界的強(qiáng)烈愿望。

I spent my first twenty-one years in that village, never traveling farther from home than to Qingdao, by train, where I nearly got lost amid the giant stacks of wood in a lumber mill. When my mother asked me what I’d seen in Qingdao, I reported sadly that all I’d seen were stacks of lumber. But that trip to Qingdao planted in me a powerful desire to leave my village and see the world.

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