Less thAn 21 grAms

……

“我作為人，能認識自己嗎？我才剛剛出世，還難以推測會成為什麼人，這就是應當瞭解的。

在被死神的羽翼拂過的人看來，原先重要的事物失去了重要性，另外一些不重要的變得重要了。換句話說，過去甚至不知何為生活。知識的積澱在我們精神上的覆蓋層，如同塗的脂粉一樣裂開，有的地方露出鮮肉，露出遮在裏面的真正的人。

從那時起我打算發現的那個，正是真實的人、“古老的人”、《福音》棄絕的那個人，也正是我周圍的一切：書籍、導師、父母，乃至我本人起初力圖取消的人。在我看來，由於圖層太厚，他更加繁複，難於發現，因而更有價值，更有必要發現。從此我鄙視領過教育的裝扮而有教養的第二位的人。必須搖掉他身上的塗層。

我好比隱跡紙本，我也嘗到辨認真跡的學者的那種快樂：在手稿上晚近添加的文字下面，發現更加珍貴得多的原文。這原文究竟是什麼呢？若想閱讀，不是首先得磨掉後來的載文嗎？

因此，我不再是病弱勤奮的人，也不再恪守先前的拘板狹隘的觀念。這本身不止是康復的問題，還有生命的充實與重新迸發、更為充沛而沸熱的血流，這血流要浸潤我的思想，一個一個浸潤我的思想，要滲透一切，要激發我全身最久遠、敏銳而隱秘的神經，並為之博彩。”

………

“可是，大多數人卻認為對他們自己只有強制，否則不會有任何出息；他們醉心於模仿。人人都要儘量不像自己，人人都挑個楷模來仿效；甚至並不選擇，而是接受現成的楷模。然而我認為，人的身上還另有可觀之處。他們卻不敢，不敢翻過頁面。模仿法則，我稱作畏懼法則。怕自己孤立；根本找不到自我。我十分憎惡這種精神上的廣場恐怖症：這是最大的怯懦。殊不知人總是獨自進行發明創造的。不過，這裏誰又立志發明呢？自身感到的不同于常人之點，恰恰是希罕的，使其人具有價值的東西。”

……

                                                                -------《背德者》   安德列·紀德

據說，好奇心是靈長目動物的共同弱點。

歷經九九八十一周，終於在6月底接到李老師的電話，從他口中得知了《代碼2.0》即將問世的消息。我長舒了一口氣，就好象得知孕婦難產之後最終喜得貴子母子平安。以至於7月16號拆開那送來的樣書之後，除了聞到了一股筆記本燒焦的味道之外，已然沒有其他的感覺。還記得去年這時候，自己蜷坐在圖書館的一個陰暗角落，一邊忍受著筆記本由於長時間使用發熱過度的燒焦的味道，一邊對著英文版狂碼漢字。我一度期盼筆記本燒掉算了，以便給我一個充分的理由從煎熬中解脫出來。但直到完稿那一天，令人遺憾的是，這一幕，始終沒有發生。於是，在同李旭老師的指導和共同努力之下，就有了它。

 《REMIX》的翻譯由於時間上的衝突，只得作罷。雞腿說：“還是寫個啥吧，畢竟可能最後一次啊。”於是，很扭捏地借鑒了醉鋼琴老師的廣告，在一個猥瑣標題的掩護下，戰戰兢兢地貼出了十多年網路生涯的第一張廣告貼。

 買代碼2.0的十二大理由

   1. 封面超級好看，精緻典雅，買回來當藝術品收藏

   2. 封面超級難看，影響市容，買回來糟蹋蹂躪洩憤

   3. 送給未成年人有助於他們培養正確的網路價值觀

   4. 送給成年人有助於他們培養更正確的網路價值觀

   5. 準備選修法學院的網路法或者對網路法興趣盎然

   6. 不準備選修法學院的網路法，也對網路法興趣索然，但期待在明理樓手持此書吸引大量有理想有文化異性的目光

   7. 買過第一版，迫切想知道第二版有哪些新內容

   8. 沒買過第一版，但是流覽GOOGLE新聞已經不能滿足您日益增長的的吹牛需求

   9. 萊斯格老師的粉絲

   10. 李旭老師的粉絲

   11. 《法律與社會》叢書的粉絲

   12. 如果您同時是上述三種粉絲，根據網路法規定，您有買3本的義務。

“各大書店”應該已經有了或者很快會有此書，網上也有了。

http://www.amazon.cn/mn/detailApp?qid=1248693439&ref=SR&sr=13-1&uid=477-5500602-3507514&prodid=bkbk961742

http://product.dangdang.com/product.aspx?product_id=20627819

非誠勿擾！

今天計畫完成任務（按輕重緩急）：

1．修改畢業論文第三部分第二節

2．接著寫完一篇稿件，然後交稿

3．回完所有欠的email

4．看NCAA總決賽

5．去北大蹭李猛的課

6．預習一章Shakespeare's Politics

7．中關村修燒錄機

8．跑步，游泳

9．翻翻錢德勒的小說

今天實際完成任務:

翻翻錢德勒的小說

小一還沒走的時候，我們經常半夜在盥洗間相會，分享彼此那十分鐘刷牙洗臉時間。我刷牙時，倒映在鏡子中的猙獰表情，曾遭到小一不止一次地嘲笑。其實，我那時，肢體上是在刷牙，頭腦裏正在暗暗醞釀明日的美好藍圖。那時的我，就像競選時刻的總統，為明天許下無數豪言壯語，還不停地告訴自己“YES WE CAN！！！”想著想著，頗為得意，胸中腫脹，覺得自己將要成為一個人物，在這種極度亢奮的狀態下，想不猙獰都難。於是，也就有了“今天計畫完成任務”。

再看看“今天實際完成任務”，如果不把它理解成一個黑色幽默的話，那這件事至少還可以有兩種解釋。

解釋一：錢德勒的小說，牛！！！

這話可不是我說的。午夜文庫的裝幀頁上，赫然羅列一堆口出此言的人物，艾略特、加繆、錢鐘書、春上村樹、奧尼爾、奧登......

看錢德勒的小說，很容易讓人沉浸到情節之中隨處飄蕩，這像極了中學時候讀武俠小說的狀態。沒過幾十頁就把自己錯覺成小說裏的偵探馬婁。我一定衣著松垮，一定一身酒氣，牙縫裏殘留著幾根韭菜，胸毛半露，肌肉健壯，一副極端憤世嫉俗，玩世不恭的吊樣。遇到的雇主無論是市井流氓還是萬貫富豪，都表現得不卑不亢。遇到無數脾氣秉性不同但胴體一樣動人的女人，心裏都如一面湖水般波瀾不驚。一定會被狠狠地教訓，頭破了，牙掉了，吐血了，都不要緊，死不了，這才是硬漢。總之就是一個字，酷！

據說，很多美國人深愛錢德勒，甚至生造出錢德勒主義（chandlerism），這幫錢主義分子的日常活動就是搜集錢德勒作品中的名言警句，然後與同好分享。為了延續最近日誌中的轉載風格，我決定冒充一回錢主義分子。

“話說多了會傷害別人，說得太少又傷害自己。”

“神經病老太婆默多克太太問馬婁，‘你不怎麼喜歡我吧，是不是？’馬婁一手握住門柄轉過身來說，‘有人喜歡您嗎？’”

“我又給自己倒了一杯酒，裝好煙斗，坐在椅子上抽煙。沒有人進來找我，沒有人打電話來，沒有任何事情發生，沒有人關心我是死了還是踏上一次長途旅程。”

“他站在那裏的樣子隨隨便便，臉上的表情可以肌肉不動，在一瞬間，從極有禮貌的微笑化為令人不寒而慄的憤怒。”

“我喜歡酒吧開門準備做生意的時候。那個時間屋裏的空氣還涼爽乾淨，樣樣東西都亮晶晶的，酒保最後一次照鏡子，看領帶有沒有歪，頭髮梳得平不平。我喜歡吧台後面整潔的酒瓶、發亮迷人的玻璃杯和那份期待。我喜歡看人黃昏時喝第一杯酒，放在乾淨的墊子上，還在旁邊放一張折好的小餐巾。我喜歡慢慢品嘗。在安靜的酒吧喝晚上第一杯安靜的酒——妙極了。”

“酒精就像愛情。第一個吻神奇，第二個吻親密，第三個吻就變成例行公事了。再下來你會脫姑娘的衣服。”

解釋二：一個畢業生為了逃避寫論文，什麼事都幹得出來。

畢業論文淅淅瀝瀝寫了六個月，終於快要定稿了。六個月來，我慢悠悠地在新圖、老圖、法圖、寢室、食堂、書店、咖啡館之間晃蕩。這六個月來，每當有人問我，“忙什麼呢？”我總是理直氣壯地說，“趕論文呢”。瞧，他們在忙著找工作，申出國，談戀愛，做生意，偷飛機，發射衛星，醫療改革，搶季後賽席位，而我，我忙著“趕論文”。就是靠著這點虛張聲勢的忙碌，我收穫了一種濫竽充數的成就感。不過在這個成就感背後，是閱讀興趣退化的沉痛代價。

寫論文對一個人閱讀興趣的打擊，絕對是毀滅性的。因為，為了契合論文主題，你的閱讀範圍必須局限在非常狹窄的專業領域。比如，如果你研究強姦罪，那麼，你必須花大量時間去閱讀強姦罪方面的書籍。由於關於強姦罪，有幾百本書或論文已經出版，幾百本書或論文正在出版，還有幾百本或論文將要出版，所以你永遠也無法讀完這些作品。而作為一個研究者，你又有義務熟知並跟蹤這些“國內外研究現狀”。這樣，你就會深陷強姦罪的專業漩渦之中不能自拔，為了“引用”而從事的功利性閱讀。由於是功利性閱讀，而且閱讀速度還要跟出版速度賽跑，你不可能細嚼慢嚥地閱讀，往往捧到一本書或一篇文章，就飛快地尋找關鍵字和結論，這樣囫圇吞棗的閱讀能有什麼樂趣可言呢？最後的結果就是，你的閱讀興趣被這種功利性閱讀所強姦。

於是，趁著今天早上，陽光明媚春意盎然，六個月來被畢業論文折磨得死去活來的我，賭氣式地撿起了一本錢德勒的《高窗》（傅惟慈譯），屁顛屁顛地當起了菲力浦·馬婁。

James Joyce 'Araby'

North Richmond Street, being blind, was a quiet street except at the hour when the Christian Brothers' School set the boys free. An uninhabited house of two storeys stood at the blind end, detached from its neighbours in a square ground. The other houses of the street, conscious of decent lives within them, gazed at one another with brown imperturbable faces.

The former tenant of our house, a priest, had died in the back drawing-room. Air, musty from having been long enclosed, hung in all the rooms, and the waste room behind the kitchen was littered with old useless papers. Among these I found a few paper-covered books, the pages of which were curled and damp: The Abbot, by Walter Scott, The Devout Communicant, and The Memoirs of Vidocq. I liked the last best because its leaves were yellow. The wild garden behind the house contained a central apple-tree and a few straggling bushes, under one of which I found the late tenant's rusty bicycle-pump. He had been a very charitable priest; in his will he had left all his money to institutions and the furniture of his house to his sister.

When the short days of winter came, dusk fell before we had well eaten our dinners. When we met in the street the houses had grown sombre. The space of sky above us was the colour of ever-changing violet and towards it the lamps of the street lifted their feeble lanterns. The cold air stung us and we played till our bodies glowed. Our shouts echoed in the silent street. The career of our play brought us through the dark muddy lanes behind the houses, where we ran the gauntlet of the rough tribes from the cottages, to the back doors of the dark dripping gardens where odours arose from the ashpits, to the dark odorous stables where a coachman smoothed and combed the horse or shook music from the buckled harness. When we returned to the street, light from the kitchen windows had filled the areas. If my uncle was seen turning the corner, we hid in the shadow until we had seen him safely housed. Or if Mangan's sister came out on the doorstep to call her brother in to his tea, we watched her from our shadow peer up and down the street. We waited to see whether she would remain or go in and, if she remained, we left our shadow and walked up to Mangan's steps resignedly. She was waiting for us, her figure defined by the light from the half-opened door. Her brother always teased her before he obeyed, and I stood by the railings looking at her. Her dress swung as she moved her body, and the soft rope of her hair tossed from side to side.

Every morning I lay on the floor in the front parlour watching her door. The blind was pulled down to within an inch of the sash so that I could not be seen. When she came out on the doorstep my heart leaped. I ran to the hall, seized my books and followed her. I kept her brown figure always in my eye and, when we came near the point at which our ways diverged, I quickened my pace and passed her. This happened morning after morning. I had never spoken to her, except for a few casual words, and yet her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood.

Her image accompanied me even in places the most hostile to romance. On Saturday evenings when my aunt went marketing I had to go to carry some of the parcels. We walked through the flaring streets, jostled by drunken men and bargaining women, amid the curses of labourers, the shrill litanies of shop-boys who stood on guard by the barrels of pigs' cheeks, the nasal chanting of street-singers, who sang a come-all-you about O'Donovan Rossa, or a ballad about the troubles in our native land. These noises converged in a single sensation of life for me: I imagined that I bore my chalice safely through a throng of foes. Her name sprang to my lips at moments in strange prayers and praises which I myself did not understand. My eyes were often full of tears (I could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out into my bosom. I thought little of the future. I did not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration. But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.

One evening I went into the back drawing-room in which the priest had died. It was a dark rainy evening and there was no sound in the house. Through one of the broken panes I heard the rain impinge upon the earth, the fine incessant needles of water playing in the sodden beds. Some distant lamp or lighted window gleamed below me. I was thankful that I could see so little. All my senses seemed to desire to veil themselves and, feeling that I was about to slip from them, I pressed the palms of my hands together until they trembled, murmuring: 'O love! O love!' many times.

At last she spoke to me. When she addressed the first words to me I was so confused that I did not know what to answer. She asked me was I going to Araby. I forgot whether I answered yes or no. It would be a splendid bazaar; she said she would love to go.

'And why can't you?' I asked.

While she spoke she turned a silver bracelet round and round her wrist. She could not go, she said, because there would be a retreat that week in her convent. Her brother and two other boys were fighting for their caps, and I was alone at the railings. She held one of the spikes, bowing her head towards me. The light from the lamp opposite our door caught the white curve of her neck, lit up her hair that rested there and, falling, lit up the hand upon the railing. It fell over one side of her dress and caught the white border of a petticoat, just visible as she stood at ease.

'It's well for you,' she said.

'If I go,' I said, 'I will bring you something.'

What innumerable follies laid waste my waking and sleeping thoughts after that evening! I wished to annihilate the tedious intervening days. I chafed against the work of school. At night in my bedroom and by day in the classroom her image came between me and the page I strove to read. The syllables of the word Araby were called to me through the silence in which my soul luxuriated and cast an Eastern enchantment over me. I asked for leave to go to the bazaar on Saturday night. My aunt was surprised, and hoped it was not some Freemason affair. I answered few questions in class. I watched my master's face pass from amiability to sternness; he hoped I was not beginning to idle. I could not call my wandering thoughts together. I had hardly any patience with the serious work of life which, now that it stood between me and my desire, seemed to me child's play, ugly monotonous child's play.

On Saturday morning I reminded my uncle that I wished to go to the bazaar in the evening. He was fussing at the hallstand, looking for the hat-brush, and answered me curtly:

'Yes, boy, I know.'

As he was in the hall I could not go into the front parlour and lie at the window. I felt the house in bad humour and walked slowly towards the school. The air was pitilessly raw and already my heart misgave me.

When I came home to dinner my uncle had not yet been home. Still it was early. I sat staring at the clock for some time and, when its ticking began to irritate me, I left the room. I mounted the staircase and gained the upper part of the house. The high, cold, empty, gloomy rooms liberated me and I went from room to room singing. From the front window I saw my companions playing below in the street. Their cries reached me weakened and indistinct and, leaning my forehead against the cool glass, I looked over at the dark house where she lived. I may have stood there for an hour, seeing nothing but the brown-clad figure cast by my imagination, touched discreetly by the lamplight at the curved neck, at the hand upon the railings and at the border below the dress.

When I came downstairs again I found Mrs Mercer sitting at the fire. She was an old, garrulous woman, a pawnbroker's widow, who collected used stamps for some pious purpose. I had to endure the gossip of the tea-table. The meal was prolonged beyond an hour and still my uncle did not come. Mrs Mercer stood up to go: she was sorry she couldn't wait any longer, but it was after eight o'clock and she did not like to be out late, as the night air was bad for her. When she had gone I began to walk up and down the room, clenching my fists. My aunt said:

'I'm afraid you may put off your bazaar for this night of Our Lord.'

At nine o'clock I heard my uncle's latchkey in the hall door. I heard him talking to himself and heard the hallstand rocking when it had received the weight of his overcoat. I could interpret these signs. When he was midway through his dinner I asked him to give me the money to go to the bazaar. He had forgotten.

'The people are in bed and after their first sleep now,' he said.

I did not smile. My aunt said to him energetically:

'Can't you give him the money and let him go? You've kept him late enough as it is.'

My uncle said he was very sorry he had forgotten. He said he believed in the old saying: 'All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.' He asked me where I was going and, when I told him a second time, he asked me did I know The Arab's Farewell to his Steed. When I left the kitchen he was about to recite the opening lines of the piece to my aunt.

I held a florin tightly in my hand as I strode down Buckingham Street towards the station. The sight of the streets thronged with buyers and glaring with gas recalled to me the purpose of my journey. I took my seat in a third-class carriage of a deserted train. After an intolerable delay the train moved out of the station slowly. It crept onward among ruinous houses and over the twinkling river. At Westland Row Station a crowd of people pressed to the carriage doors; but the porters moved them back, saying that it was a special train for the bazaar. I remained alone in the bare carriage. In a few minutes the train drew up beside an improvised wooden platform. I passed out on to the road and saw by the lighted dial of a clock that it was ten minutes to ten. In front of me was a large building which displayed the magical name.

I could not find any sixpenny entrance and, fearing that the bazaar would be closed, I passed in quickly through a turnstile, handing a shilling to a weary-looking man. I found myself in a big hall girded at half its height by a gallery. Nearly all the stalls were closed and the greater part of the hall was in darkness. I recognized a silence like that which pervades a church after a service. I walked into the centre of the bazaar timidly. A few people were gathered about the stalls which were still open. Before a curtain, over which the words Café Chantant were written in coloured lamps, two men were counting money on a salver. I listened to the fall of the coins.

Remembering with difficulty why I had come, I went over to one of the stalls and examined porcelain vases and flowered tea-sets. At the door of the stall a young lady was talking and laughing with two young gentlemen. I remarked their English accents and listened vaguely to their conversation.

'O, I never said such a thing!'

'O, but you did!'

'O, but I didn't!'

'Didn't she say that?'

'Yes. I heard her.'

'O, there's a... fib!'

Observing me, the young lady came over and asked me did I wish to buy anything. The tone of her voice was not encouraging; she seemed to have spoken to me out of a sense of duty. I looked humbly at the great jars that stood like eastern guards at either side of the dark entrance to the stall and murmured:

'No, thank you.'

The young lady changed the position of one of the vases and went back to the two young men. They began to talk of the same subject. Once or twice the young lady glanced at me over her shoulder.

I lingered before her stall, though I knew my stay was useless, to make my interest in her wares seem the more real. Then I turned away slowly and walked down the middle of the bazaar. I allowed the two pennies to fall against the sixpence in my pocket. I heard a voice call from one end of the gallery that the light was out. The upper part of the hall was now completely dark.

Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven and derided by vanity; and my eyes burned with anguish and anger.

Heath Ledger

a gorgeous Australian actor

close to the 1st anniversary of his death

The Ellen Show - Remembering Heath Ledger

她說：什麼是自然？——2008.10.6

他叫盧托克爾伯·渠。

"Every great magic trick consists of three parts or acts. The first part is called "The Pledge". The magician shows you something ordinary: a deck of cards, a bird or a man. He shows you this object. Perhaps he asks you to inspect it to see if it is indeed real, unaltered, normal. But of course... it probably isn't. The second act is called "The Turn". The magician takes the ordinary something and makes it do something extraordinary. Now you're looking for the secret... but you won't find it, because of course you're not really looking. You don't really want to know. You want to be fooled. But you wouldn't clap yet. Because making something disappear isn't enough; you have to bring it back. That's why every magic trick has a third act, the hardest part, the part we call "The Prestige"."

她說：像你這麼大的時候，我也讀傑克倫敦。——2008.10.15

她叫山河入夢人面桃花。

馬丁的魅影還未在腦中抹去。普魯斯特就開始教導我們用觀察兌換回憶，舍邏輯關注直覺。回歸經驗原點我們發現，經驗的表達突然變得遙不可及。經驗同質化的暗礁難以規避。你在寫自己的故事嗎？你確定是你自己的？

她說：門票30，學生不打折。——2008.10.26

她叫沾滿灰塵的藍色大方塊。

搞定SWIRE筆試後，路過這塊無比熟悉的這些地方，她用布魯日鐘樓服務生的堅定語氣，回絕了曾經日夜相伴的朋友。這種感覺很詭異。就好像你的前女友原先可以隨便你摸，可分手之後再摸，就成耍流氓了。

她說：都快淩晨5點了。——2008.10.31

她叫俊男才女和我。

騎行主樓前方，聽著悄無聲息，望著燈火昏明。時光交錯到六個月前。同樣的時間地點，只不過方向發生變化，前者匆忙出發，後者悠閒歸來。一個MATCH POINT都能改變生命軌跡。六個月時間，似乎太長而非太短。

她說：We are not enemies, but friends.——2008.11.6

她叫煽情政治明星。

同樣是林肯的名言，對比一下American History X與她的詮釋方式，就知道她是一位多麼合格的政治煽情家。當她用激昂的聲調甩出一堆“YES WE CAN”的排比句時，台下沸騰的烏合之眾恐怕早已融化在集體的汪洋中，無心分析其細處暗藏的謊言。她恨不得從揮舞一面紅旗，上面用初號加粗字體寫上“CHANGE”大字，以證明自己和當前華盛頓權力集團劃清界限，與經濟危機軍事套牢外交泥沼撇清關係。人民，怎麼會不愛這樣的領袖呢？新左翼時代終於到來。

她說：終於結束了。——2008.11.9

她叫悉心準備而雜亂無章。

最近階段，以抗洪搶險的精神應付比賽上課作業考試面試翻譯接待親友尋覓工作。習慣之後，也體會到這種生活的好處。過上無限吵雜激昂的生活，很難歸到正常人類的人類，沒有時間精力在生活瑣事中煩悶，煩悶還沒上來，人先睡著了。當然，也有壞處。沒時間讀書。即便讀，也是囫圇吞棗，就像食物直接通過管道輸送到胃裏消化後排出，一點也不觸動味覺。有什麼辦法呢？時間和軟海綿裏的水，舊牙膏皮中的膏體，北京公交內的空間一樣，只要用力擠，還是有的。