英文小說連載《朗讀者The Reader》Part 2 Chapter 12

　　I DECIDED TO speak to my father. Not because we were particularly close. My father was undemonstrative， and could neither share his feelings with us children nor deal with the feelings we had for him. For a long time I believed there must be a wealth of undiscovered treasure behind that uncommunicative manner， but later I wondered if there was anything behind it at all. Perhaps he had been full of emotions as a boy and a young man， and by giving them no outlet had allowed them over the years to wither and die.

　　But it was because of the distance between us that I sought him out now. I wanted to talk to the philosopher who had written about Kant and Hegel， and who had， as I knew， occupied himself with moral issues. He should be well positioned to explore my problem in the abstract and， unlike my friends， to avoid getting trapped in the inadequacies of my examples.

　　When we children wanted to speak to our father， he gave us appointments just like his students. He worked at home and only went to the university to give his lectures and seminars. Colleagues and students who wished to speak to him came to see him at home. I remember lines of students leaning against the wall in the corridor and waiting their turn， some reading， some looking at the views of cities hanging in the corridor， others staring into space， all of them silent except for an embarrassed greeting when we children went down the corridor and said hello. We ourselves didn’t have to wait in the hall when our father had made an appointment with us. But we too had to be at his door at the appointed time and knock to be admitted.

　　I knew two of my father’s studies. The windows in the first one， in which Hanna had run her fingers along the books， looked out onto the streets and houses. The windows in the second looked out over the plain along the Rhine. The house we moved to in the early 1960s， and where my parents stayed after we had grown up， was on the big hill above the city. In both places， the windows did not open the room to the world beyond， but framed and hung the world in it like a picture. My father’s study was a capsule in which books， papers， thoughts， and pipe and cigar smoke had created their own force field， different from that of the outside world.

　　My father allowed me to present my problem in its abstract form and with my examples. “It has to do with the trial， doesn’t it？” But he shook his head to show that he didn’t expect an answer， or want to press me or hear anything that I wasn’t ready to tell him of my own accord. Then he sat， head to one side， hands gripping the arms of his chair， and thought. He didn’t look at me. I studied him， his gray hair， his face， carelessly shaven as always， the deep lines between his eyes and from his nostrils to the corners of his mouth. I waited.

　　When he answered， he went all the way back to beginnings. He instructed me about the individual， about freedom and dignity， about the human being as subject and the fact that one may not turn him into an object. “Don’t you remember how furious you would get as a little boy when Mama knew better what was good for you？ Even how far one can act like this with children is a real problem. It is a philosophical problem， but philosophy does not concern itself with children. It leaves them to pedagogy， where they’re not in very good hands. Philosophy has forgotten about children.” He smiled at me. “Forgotten them forever， not just sometimes， the way I forget about you.”

　　“But . . .”

　　“But with adults I see absolutely no justification for setting other people’s views of what is good for them above their own ideas of what is good for themselves.”

　　“Not even if they themselves are happy about it later？”

　　He shook his head. “We’re not talking about happiness， we’re talking about dignity and freedom. Even as a little boy， you knew the difference. It was no comfort to you that your mother was always right.”

　　Today I like thinking back on that conversation with my father. I had forgotten it until after his death， when I began to search the depths of my memory for happy encounters and shared activities and experiences with him. When I found it， I was both amazed and delighted. Originally I was confused by my father’s mixing of abstraction and concreteness. But eventually I sorted out what he had said to mean that I did not have to speak to the judge， that indeed I had no right to speak to him， and was relieved.

　　My father saw my relief. “That’s how you like your philosophy？”

　　“Well， I didn’t know if one had to act in the circumstances I described， and I wasn’t really happy with the idea that one must， and if one really isn’t allowed to do anything at all， I find that . . .” I didn’t know what to say. A relief？ A comfort？ Appealing？ That didn’t sound like morality and responsibility. “I think that’s good” would have sounded moral and responsible， but I couldn’t say I thought it was good， that I thought it was any more than a relief.

　　“Appealing？” my father suggested.

　　I nodded and shrugged my shoulders.

　　“No， your problem has no appealing solution. Of course one must act if the situation as you describe it is one of accrued or inherited responsibility. If one knows what is good for another person who in turn is blind to it， then one must try to open his eyes. One has to leave him the last word， but one must talk to him， to him and not to someone else behind his back.”

　　Talk to Hanna？ What would I say to her？ That I had seen through her lifelong lie？ That she was in the process of sacrificing her whole life to this silly lie？ That the lie wasn’t worth the sacrifice？ That that was why she should fight not to remain in prison any longer than she had to， because there was so much she could still do with her life afterwards？ Could I deprive her of her lifelong lie， without opening some vision of a future to her？ I had no idea what that might be， nor did I know how to face her and say that after what she had done it was right that her short- and medium-term future would be prison. I didn’t know how to face her and say anything at all. I didn’t know how to face her.

　　I asked my father： “And what if you can’t talk to him？”

　　He looked at me doubtfully， and I knew myself that the question was beside the point. There was nothing more to moralize about. I just had to make a decision.

　　“I haven’t been able to help you.” My father stood up and so did I. “No， you don’t have to go， it’s just that my back hurts.” He stood bent over， with his hands pressed against his kidneys. “I can’t say that I’m sorry I can’t help you. As a philosopher， I mean， which is how you were addressing me. As your father， I find the experience of not being able to help my children almost unbearable.”

　　I waited， but he didn’t say anything else. I thought he was making it easy on himself； I knew when he could have taken care of us more and how he could have helped us more. Then I thought that perhaps he realized this himself and really found it difficult to bear. But either way I had nothing to say to him. I was embarrassed， and had the feeling he was embarrassed too.

　　“Well then . . .”

　　“You can come any time.” My father looked at me.

　　I didn’t believe him， and nodded.

　　我決定和我父親談談，不是因為我們彼此之間無話不談。我父親是個沉默寡言的人，他既不能把他的感情告訴我們這些孩子，又不能接收我們帶給他的感情。在很長的一段時間里，我猜想在這種互不通氣的行為背后蘊藏著豐富的、沒有發(fā)掘的寶藏。但是后來我懷疑那兒是否真的有什么東西。也許他年輕時有過豐富的感情，但是沒有表達出來，天長日久這種感情就變得枯萎，就自消自滅了。

　　然而，正是由于我們之間存在著距離我才找他談。我找的談話對象是一位哲學家，他寫過有關康德和黑格爾的書，而且我知道書中寫的是有關道德問題。他也應該有能力就我的問題和我進行抽象的探討，而不是像我的朋友們那樣只舉些空洞的例子。

　　如果我們這些孩子想和父親談話的話，他像對待他的學生一樣與我們預約時間。他在家里工作，只是在有他的講座和研討課時才去大學。想要和他談話的同事和學生都到家里來。我還記得學生們排著長隊靠在走廊的墻上等著，有的閱讀點什么，有的觀賞掛在走廊里的城市風景圖，也有的同學呆呆地東張西望。他們都沉默不語，直到我們這些孩子打著招呼穿過走廊時才回以一個尷尬的問候。我們與父親約談當然不必在走廊里等候，但是，我們也要在約定好的時間去談，敲門后讓進去時才能進去。

　　我見過父親的兩個書房。第一個書房，也就是漢娜用手指巡摸書脊的那間，它的窗戶面向街道，對面有房屋。第二個書房的窗戶面向萊茵平原。我們六十年代初搬進的那座房子坐落在山坡上面，面向城市。當我們這些孩子長大以后我的父母仍舊住在那兒。這處房子的窗戶和那處房子的窗戶一樣不是外凸式的，而是內(nèi)凸式的，仿佛是掛在房間里的一幅畫。在我父親的書房里，書籍、紙張、思想、煙斗和香煙冒出的煙相互交織在一起，足使外來的人產(chǎn)生各種各樣的壓抑感。我對它們既熟悉又陌生。

　　我父親讓我把問題全盤兜出，包括抽象描述和舉例說明。"與法庭審判有關，對嗎？"但是他搖著頭向我示意，他并不期待得到回答，也不想逼迫我和不想知道我自己不想說出的事情。這之后，他坐著沉思起來，頭側向一邊，兩手扶著椅子的扶手。他沒有看著我，我卻仔細地打量著他，他的滿頭銀發(fā)，他的總是刮得很糟糕的胡腮以及他那從鼻梁延伸到嘴角和兩眼之間的清晰的皺紋。我等著。

　　當他講話時，他先把話題拉得很遠。他教導我如何對待人、自由和尊嚴；他教導我把人當做主體對待，不允許把人當做客體來對待。"你還記得你小時候媽媽教你學好時你是如何大發(fā)雷霆的嗎？把孩子放任到什么程度，這的的確確是個問題。這是個哲學問題，但是哲學不探討孩子問題，哲學把孩子們交給了教育學，可孩子們在教育學那兒也沒有受到很好的照顧。哲學把孩子們遺忘了。"他看著我笑著，"把他們永遠忘記了，不是偶爾把他們忘記了，就像我偶爾把你們忘記了一樣。"

　　"但是…"

　　"但是在成人身上，我也絕對看不出有什么理由可以把別人認為對他們有好處的東西置于他們自己認為是好的東西之上。"

　　"'如果他們后來對此感到很幸福的話，這樣做也不行嗎？"

　　他搖著頭說："我們談論的不是幸福而是尊嚴和自由。當你還是個小孩子時就已經(jīng)知道它們的區(qū)別了。你媽媽總有理，這并沒有讓你從中得到安慰。"

　　現(xiàn)在我很愿意回想和父親的那次談話。我已經(jīng)把它忘記了，直到他去世后，我才開始在沉睡的記憶中尋找我與他的美好會面和美好的經(jīng)歷及美好的感受。當我找到它時，我驚奇不已地思考著它，它使我非常幸福。當時，父親把抽象的東西和形象逼真的事情混合在一起，這使我最初感到很困惑，但是，我最終還是按他所說的去做了，我不必去找審判長談話，我根本不允許自己找他談話。我感到如釋重負。

　　我的父親看著我說："你這樣喜歡哲學嗎？"

　　"還可以。我不知道人們在我描述的上述情況下是否應該采取行動。如果人們必須采取行動卻又不允許行動的話，我想，對此我會感到非常不幸�，F(xiàn)在我感到……"我不知道說什么好。感到輕松？感到安慰？感到愉快？這聽上去不道德和不負責任。我現(xiàn)在感覺不錯，這聽上去既道德又負責任，但我不能說我感覺不錯，而且感到比卸下重負還好。

　　"感覺不錯嗎？"我父親試探著問。

　　我點點頭，聳聳肩。

　　"不，你的問題不會有愉快的解決辦法。當然了，如果你所描述的情況是一種責任重大的情況的話，人們就必須要采取行動。如果一個人知道怎樣做對其他人有好處，但他卻閉上了眼睛，視而不見，這時，人們就必須努力讓他睜開眼睛，正視此事。人們必須讓他本人做最后的決定，但是人們必須和他談，和他本人談，而不是在他背后和其他什么人談。"

　　和漢娜談？我該和她說什么呢？說我識破了她的生活謊言？說她正在為這個愚蠢的謊言而犧牲她的整個一生？說為了這個謊言而犧牲不值得？說她應該爭取盡量減少蹲監(jiān)獄的年限，以便在出獄之后能開始更多的生活？到底該說什么呢？說到什么程度？她應該怎樣重新開始她的生活呢？我不為她展示一個生活遠景就能讓她拋棄她的生活謊言嗎？我不知道什么是她的生活遠景，我也不知道我該如何面對她和該說什么，說她在做了那些事情后，她生活的近期和中期遠景就是該坐牢？我不知道該如何面對她，也不知道到底該說些什么。我真的不知道該怎樣面對她。

　　我問我父親："如果人們不能跟他交談的話，那該怎么辦呢？"

　　他懷疑地看著我，我自己也知道這個問題已經(jīng)離題了。這不存在什么道德問題，而是我必須做出決定的問題。

　　"我無法幫助你。"我父親說著站了起來，我也站了起來。"不，你不必走，我只是背痛。"他彎曲地站著，雙手壓著腰。"我不能說，不能幫助你，我感到遺憾，我的意思是說，當你把我作為哲學家向我求教時。作為一名父親，我不能幫助自己的孩子，這簡直令我無法忍受。"

　　我等著，但是他不再往下說了。我發(fā)現(xiàn)他把這事看得無足輕重。我知道，他什么時候應該對我們多加關心和他怎樣才能更多地幫助我們。隨后我又想，他自己也許也清楚這個，而且的確感到難以承受，但是，無論如何我都不能對他說什么了。我感到很尷尬，而且覺得他也很尷尬。

　　"好吧，以后……

　　"你以后可以隨時來。"父親看著我說。

　　我不相信他的話，可我還是點點頭。