傷痛

心與心之間不是只能通過和諧結合在一起，通過傷痛反而能更深地交融。疼痛與疼痛，脆弱與脆弱，讓彼此的心相連。每一份寧靜之中，總隱沒著悲痛的呼號；每一份寬恕背後，總有鮮血灑落大地；每一次接納，也總要經歷沉痛的失去。這才是真正的和諧深處存在的東西。

《沒有色彩的多崎作和他的巡禮之年》 ，村上春樹／著，賴明珠／譯

沙風暴

有時候所謂命運這東西，就像不斷改變前進方向的區域沙風暴一樣。你想要避開他而改變腳步。結果，風暴也好像在配合你似的改變腳步。你再一次改變腳步。於是風暴也同樣地再度改變腳步。好幾次又好幾次，簡直就像黎明前死神所跳得不祥舞步一樣，不斷地重複又重複。你要問為什麼嗎？因為那風暴並不是從某個遠方吹來的與你無關的「什麼」。換句話說，那就是你自己。那就是你心中的「什麼」。

所以要說你能夠做的，只有放棄掙扎，往那風暴中筆直踏步進去，把眼睛和耳朵緊緊遮住讓沙子進不去，一步一步穿過去就是了。那裡面可能既沒有太陽、沒有月亮、沒有方向、有時甚至連正常的時間都沒有。那裡只有粉碎的骨頭般細細白白的沙子在高空中飛舞著而已。要想像這樣的沙風暴。

＊     ＊     ＊

而且當然，你是要實際穿過那東西的。那激烈的沙風暴。形而上的象徵性的沙風暴。不過雖然是形而上的象徵性的，那東西卻同時也想千把剃刀般會銳利地割裂肉身。無數的人將會浴血其中，你自己也可能會流血。溫暖而鮮紅的血。你的雙手將沾滿血跡。那既是你的血，也是其他人的血。

而且當那沙風暴結束時，你可能還不太能理解，自己是如何穿過那風暴活下來的。不，甚至不太清楚那風暴是否真的已經走掉了。不過只有一件事你可以確定。那就是從那風暴走出來的你，已經不是踏進去時的你了。對，這就是沙風暴這東西的意思。

《海邊的卡夫卡》，村上春樹／著，賴明珠／譯

難過

不過我並不責怪你。我想喜歡上什麼人，那也是沒辦法的。既然喜歡上了，就是喜歡上了。你雖然有我但一定還不滿足，這點我也能理解。過去我們一直相處得很好，你也一直待我很好。我跟妳一起生活覺得非常幸福，而且現在都覺得你是喜歡我的。不過我終究不是一個十全十美的女人。這一點我多少也知道。我想有一天這種事遲早一定會發生。這也沒辦法。所以你喜歡上別的女人，我並不怪你。說真的，也沒有生氣。雖然很不可思議，但並不怎麼生氣，我只是難過而已。只是非常難過而已。以前雖然想像過如果發生這種事一定很難過吧，但事實上遠比想像中難過得多。

《國境之南．太陽之西》，村上春樹／著，賴明珠／譯

沙灘

我看到躺在病床上的你，手腳續漸縮小，皮膚枯竭，然後一小塊一小塊地脫落。好像植物般漸漸萎縮、枯乾。氧氣罩內一深一淺的霧氣，每一下的呼吸都既深且長。瞇成一線的眼睛，眼角滲著睙水。你用僅餘的力氣，像在打摩斯密碼般的握著我的手。然後我看到你躺在病床上的軀體。雙眼緊閉，口卻張得很大，彷彿在渴求著生命的最後一口空氣。我凝視著你的臉龐，好像看到你還在輕輕的呼吸。但我知道那是錯覺，就像從前我在每一個軀體上看過的錯覺一樣。

我看到她的眼淚從眼角沿著深深的皺紋滑落。沒有嚎哭，只是默默地掉淚。每當淚水快要流下臉頰的時候，她便用小手帕抺掉。看著她蒼老而細小的背影，我想起沙灘上的那個用沙堆砌成的城堡。當海浪捲上沙灘的時候，城堡的一部份都會被帶回海裡去。一次又一次，直至城堡完全消失為止。

小房間

我們都繼續在失去各種重要東西。重要的機會或可能性，無法挽回的感情。那些都是活著的含意之一。不過在我們的腦子裡，我想大概是在腦子裡，有把這些東西當作記憶留下來的小房間。一定是像圖書館的書架一樣的房間。而我們為了知道自己心的正確所在，就不得不繼續製作這房間的索引卡。也有必要勤快的打掃，換新空氣，換花瓶的水。換句話說，你永遠要在你自己的圖書館裡活下去。

 《海邊的卡夫卡》，村上春樹／著

傷口

一個傷口存在著，而現在，我明白這個傷口是多麼深。寫作並沒有如我想像的那樣治癒我，反而使得這個傷口繼續裂開。有時，我甚至覺得它的疼痛集中在我的右手，彷彿每次我一拿起筆，將它壓在紙上，我的手便被扯裂。因此，這些話並沒有將我父親掩埋起來，反而使他繼續活著，而且比以往更鮮活。我不只看到他以前的樣子，也看到他現在的樣子，以及未來的樣子。每一天，他在那兒，侵入我的思緒，沒有預先通知便悄悄溜入我的腦海：他躺在地下的棺材裡，身體仍然原封不動，指甲和毛髮則繼續增長。我覺得，如果我想了解任何事情，我必須滲入這個黑暗的意象，必須進入完全黑暗的地裡。


《一位隱形人的畫像》，保羅．奧斯特／著

As the world forget you.

What was once before you - an exciting, mysterious future - is now behind you. Lived; understood; disappointing. You realize you are not special. You have struggled into existence, and are now slipping silently out of it. This is everyone's experience. Every single one. The specifics hardly matter. Everyone's everyone. So you are Adele, Hazel, Claire, Olive. You are Ellen. All her meager sadnesses are yours; all her loneliness; the gray, straw-like hair; her red raw hands. It's yours. It is time for you to understand this.

Walk.

As the people who adore you stop adoring you; as they die; as they move on; as you shed them; as you shed your beauty; your youth; as the world forgets you; as you recognize your transience; as you begin to lose your characteristics one by one; as you learn there is no-one watching you, and there never was, you think only about driving - not coming from any place; not arriving any place. Just driving, counting off time. Now you are here, at 7:43. Now you are here, at 7:44. Now you are...

Gone.

Well, fuck everybody. Amen.

Everything is more complicated than you think.

You only see a tenth of what is true. There are a million little strings attached to every choice you make; you can destroy your life every time you choose.

But maybe you won't know for twenty years. And you may never ever trace it to its source. And you only get one chance to play it out.

Just try and figure out your own divorce. And they say there is no fate, but there is: it's what you create. And even though the world goes on for eons and eons, you are only here for a fraction of a fraction of a second. Most of your time is spent being dead or not yet born.

But while alive, you wait in vain, wasting years, for a phone call or a letter or a look from someone or something to make it all right. And it never comes or it seems to but it doesn't really. And so you spend your time in vague regret or vaguer hope that something good will come along. Something to make you feel connected, something to make you feel whole, something to make you feel loved.

And the truth is I feel so angry, and the truth is I feel so fucking sad, and the truth is I've felt so fucking hurt for so fucking long and for just as long I've been pretending I'm OK, just to get along, just for, I don't know why, maybe because no one wants to hear about my misery, because they have their own.

Well, fuck everybody. Amen.

- Synecdoche, New York

Let go

Ｋ：

首先，祝妳生日快樂。
就如上一年我在信中所說，
今年我一定會親口對妳說的。

最近，我覺得自己非常冥頑不靈。
原因我想大概是朋友Ｍ最近總是在勸誡我 "let go"。

我不明白，一個人如果對另一個人有愛，
如何可以 "let go"？
可能在她的世界，"let go" 就是不去想、不放在心上，
告訴自己會找到一個更好寄託。
又可能是，她從來都沒有愛過。

不過，這些我都不能說誰對誰錯，
可能她所認識的愛才稱得上是真摯誠懇，
而我認識的愛只是一種沈溺。

那些深深地刻劃著我生命的事情，
過了很久，我都不能 "let go" 。
我總是想著那些生活的細碎，
那些存在於一刻的美好。

可是，我並沒有想過要重新經歷過這些事，
因為我知道，一切都回不去了。
我只是哀傷而已。

我不是刻意去想起那些往事，
只是記憶總是會在我最不為意的一刻，
無意識地衝破那道圍牆。
每一次圍牆倒下，我便要重新再築起，
再倒下，再築起，
我每天的心力就花在築圍牆之上。

彷彿像西西弗斯，
又或者是一個不能讓破舊堤壩倒塌的工人。
或許，我該像朋友Ｍ那樣，
乾脆把那道堤壩摧毀，讓一切流空。

呀，Ｋ，還有，
和Ｐ的相遇令我了解到自己的鎖碎，
了解到原來世界上有一種親密，
是如此輕易的一閃即逝的時候，
我好像有所頓悟。

就像過往每次當我被撕裂之時，
我總是有所頓悟。
但最後那頓悟卻在往後的悲傷，
彰顯著自己的渺小。

我們都如此渺小。

Somewhere maybe someday. Maybe somewhere far away.

I'm just a little person.
One person in a sea.
Of many little people.
Who are not aware of me.
I do my little job.
And live my little life.
Eat my little meals.
Miss my little kid and wife.
And somewhere maybe someday.
Maybe somewhere far away.
I'll find a second little person.
Who will look at me and say.
I know you.
You're the one I've waited for.
Let's have some fun.
Life is precious.
Every minute.
And more precious with you in it.
So let's have some fun.
We'll take a road trip.
Way out West.
You're the one.
I like the best.
I'm glad I found you.
Like hanging round you.
You're the one.
I like the best.
Somewhere maybe someday.
Maybe somewhere far away.
Somewhere maybe someday.
Maybe somewhere far away.
Somewhere maybe someday.
Maybe somewhere far away.
I'll meet a second little person.
And we'll go out and play.