The Book of Sand——俯仰终宇宙

豪尔赫·路易斯·博尔赫斯（Jorge Luis Borges， 1899～1986）是阿根廷最著名的诗人和小说家。他出生于布宜诺斯艾利斯，童年随父母游历欧洲，所接受到的是国际化教育，成年后长期在图书馆工作，1955年还曾担任过阿根廷国家图书馆馆长。因此，他非常博学，精通多国语言，并且深受欧洲文学传统的熏陶。博尔赫斯早年主要从事诗歌创作，中年后开始撰写短篇小说，是20世纪最伟大的短篇小说家之一。他的主要作品有诗集《布宜诺斯艾利斯的激情》（Fervor of Buenos Aires）、《面前的月亮》（Moon Across the Way），短篇小说集《小径分岔的花园》（The Garden of Forking Paths）、《阿莱夫》（The Aleph）、《布罗迪医生的报告》（Dr. Brodie’s Report）、《沙之书》（The Book of Sand）等。博尔赫斯的作品意境瑰丽，主要关注的是死亡与永恒、真实与梦境、存在与虚无等思辨性的主题。《沙之书》是博尔赫斯发表于1975年的一篇著名的短篇小说，比较充分地体现了其小说创作的主要特色。

I live alone in a fourth-floor apartment on Belgrano Street， in Buenos Aires. Late one evening， a few months back， I heard a knock at my door. I opened it and a stranger stood there. He was a tall man， with nondescript features—or perhaps it was my myopia2） that made them seem that way. Dressed in gray and carrying a gray suitcase in his hand， he had an unassuming look about him. I saw at once that he was a foreigner. At first， he struck me as old； only later did I realize that I had been misled by his thin blond hair， which was， in a Scandinavian sort of way， almost white. During the course of our conversation， which was not to last an hour， I found out that he came from the Orkneys.

I invited him in， pointing to a chair. He paused awhile before speaking. A kind of gloom emanated3） from him—as it does now from me.

“I sell Bibles，” he said.

Somewhat pedantically4）， I replied， “In this house are several English Bibles. It’s not exactly Bibles I stand in need of.”

After a few moments of silence， he said， “I don’t only sell Bibles. I can show you a holy book I came across on the outskirts of Bikaner5）. It may interest you.”

He opened the suitcase and laid the book on a table. It was an octavo6） volume， bound in cloth. There was no doubt that it had passed through many hands. Examining it， I was surprised by its unusual weight. On the spine were the words “Holy Writ7）” and， below them， “Bombay8）.”

“Nineteenth century， probably，” I remarked.

“I don’t know，” he said. “I’ve never found out.”

I opened the book at random. The script9） was strange to me. The pages， which were worn and typographically10） poor， were laid out in double columns， as in a Bible. The text was closely printed， and it was ordered in versicles11）. In the upper corners of the pages were Arabic numbers. I noticed that one left-hand page bore the number （let us say） 40，514 and the facing right-hand page 999. I turned the leaf； it was numbered with eight digits. It also bore a small illustration， like the kind used in dictionaries—an anchor drawn with pen and ink， as if by a schoolboy’s clumsy hand.

It was at this point that the stranger said， “Look at the illustration closely. You’ll never see it again.”

I noted my place and closed the book. At once， I reopened it. Page by page， in vain， I looked for the illustration of the anchor. “It seems to be a version of Scriptures in some Indian language， is it not？” I said to hide my dismay.

“No，” he replied. Then， as if confiding a secret， he lowered his voice. “I acquired the book in a town out on the plain in exchange for a handful of rupees12） and a Bible. Its owner did not know how to read. I suspect that he saw the Book of Books as a talisman13）. He was of the lowest caste14）； nobody but other untouchables15） could tread his shadow without contamination. He told me his book was called the Book of Sand， because neither the book nor the sand has any beginning or end.”

The stranger asked me to find the first page.

I lay my left hand on the cover and， trying to put my thumb on the flyleaf16）. I opened the book. It was useless. Every time I tried， a number of pages came between the cover and my thumb. It was as if they kept growing from the book.

“Now find the last page.”

Again I failed. In a voice that was not mine， I barely managed to stammer， “This can’t be.”

Still speaking in a low voice， the stranger said， “It can’t be， but it is. The number of pages in this book is no more or less than infinite. None is the first page， none the last. I don’t know why they’re numbered in this arbitrary way. Perhaps to suggest that the terms of an infinite series admit any number.”

While we spoke， I kept exploring the infinite book. With feigned indifference， I asked， “Do you intend to offer this curiosity to the British Museum？”

“No. I’m offering it to you，” he said， and he stipulated a rather high sum for the book.

I answered， in all truthfulness， that such a sum was out of my reach， and I began thinking. After a minute or two， I came up with a scheme.

“I propose a swap，” I said. “You got this book for a handful of rupees and a copy of the Bible. I’ll offer you the amount of my pension check， which I’ve just collected， and my black-letter Wiclif Bible17）. I inherited it from my ancestors.”

“A black-letter Wiclif！” he murmured.

I went to my bedroom and brought him the money and the book. He turned the leaves and studied the title page with all the fervor of a true bibliophile18）.

“It’s a deal，” he said.

It amazed me that he did not haggle. Only later was I to realize that he had entered my house with his mind made up to sell the book. Without counting the money， he put it away.

We talked about India， about Orkney， and about the Norwegian jarls19） who once ruled it. It was night when the man left. I have not seen him again， nor do I know his name.

I showed no one my treasure. To the luck of owning it was added the fear of having it stolen， and then the misgiving that it might not truly be infinite. These twin preoccupations intensified my old misanthropy20）. I had only a few friends left； I now stopped seeing even them. A prisoner of the book， I almost never went out anymore. After studying its frayed spine and covers with a magnifying glass， I rejected the possibility of a contrivance of any sort. The small illustrations， I verified， came two thousand pages apart. I set about listing them alphabetically in a notebook， which I was not long in filling up. Never once was an illustration repeated. At night， in the meager intervals my insomnia granted， I dreamed of the book.

Summer came and went， and I realized that the book was monstrous. What good did it do me to think that I， who looked upon the volume with my eyes， who held it in my hands， was any less monstrous？ I felt that the book was a nightmarish object， an obscene thing that affronted21） and tainted reality itself.

I thought of fire， but I feared that the burning of an infinite book might likewise prove infinite and suffocate the planet with smoke. Somewhere I recalled reading that the best place to hide a leaf is in a forest. Before retirement， I worked on Mexico Street， at the Argentine National Library， which contains nine hundred thousand volumes. I knew that to the right of the entrance a curved staircase leads down into the basement， where books and maps and periodicals are kept. One day I went there and， slipping past a member of the staff and trying not to notice at what height or distance from the door， I lost the Book of Sand on one of the basement’s musty shelves.

小时候，我特别爱看闲书。因为当你打开书页时，就可以像《西游记》里的孙悟空一样一个筋斗翻十万八千里，也可以随《格列夫游记》里的主人公到神奇的大人国、小人国游历，可谓上天入地下海无所不能。每一本书都为我们展示出一个不同的世界。房间是小的，有了书，一下子就变大了，大到可以容纳热带雨林与冰雪极地，可以容纳浩瀚海洋和无边宇宙。在这里，你既可以见到秦皇汉武，也可以见到灰姑娘与白雪公主。然而，我爸妈的书架上理工科书籍居多，我最爱看的小说却很少，所以我只能向同学和朋友借。对于借来读的书，我恨不得它们都是无限长、无限厚，最好总也读不完，章章都精彩。我想这应该不是我个人的特例，很多爱书之人大概都做过这样的白日梦吧。而博尔赫斯在短篇小说《沙之书》中就描写了一本这样的魔书。

在《沙之书》中，主人公静坐家中，听到一阵敲门声，开门去看，是一位推销《圣经》的书商。主人公告知对方自己家里藏有各种版本的《圣经》，并不需要买书。推销员于是神神秘秘地推销起另外一本书。这本书看起来很不起眼，“书页磨损得很旧，印刷粗糙，像《圣经》一样，每页两栏。版面分段，排得很挤。每页上角有阿拉伯数字。”可是推销员却宣称这本书是一本有魔力的书，是他某一次机缘巧合从一个印度人手中买来的。这本书的特点是你永远也不可能读完它。推销员说把书卖给他的那个印度人称此书为“沙之书”，“因为那本书像沙一样，无始无终”。

主人公随手翻了翻，果然立即发现了这本书的神奇之处。书的外观和一般的书籍没有不同，拿在手里却非常重。书的页码不是连号：上一页是40，514页，下一页就可能是999页。而且，每一页书只能翻阅一次，进入下一页后，再返回前一页，就会发现它的内容已经发生了变化。此外，这本书找不到第一页，“我把左手按在封面上，大拇指几乎贴着食指去揭书页。白费劲：封面和手之间总是有好几页，仿佛是从书里冒出来的。”同样的道理，这本书也找不到最后一页。

主人公立即着了迷，倾囊而出，用刚领到的退休金和稀有的祖传《圣经》版本和书商交换，成了这本书的主人。自此，他足不出户，每天留在家里研读这本神奇的书，临摹其中的插图，用放大镜检索书脊和封面，连睡梦里也是如此。可是，这本书虽然给主人公带来了神奇的体验，却也使他走火入魔，逐渐侵占了他的人生。主人公本就是个孤僻的人，没有几个朋友，自从得到了这本书，因为害怕他人觊觎，他便对书的存在守口如瓶，也和朋友断绝了来往，本就性格孤僻的他变得更加孤立。他不再出门，天天躲在房间里孜孜不倦地研读。书籍吸收了他的血肉生命，把他和现实的人生隔断。终于有一天，他领悟到了这种变化的可怕之处：“我领悟到那本书是个可怕的怪物。我把自己也设想成一个怪物：睁着铜铃大眼盯着它，伸出带爪的十指拨弄它，但是无济于事。我觉得它是一切烦恼的根源。”

书是人类文明最具有魔性的发明之一。打开书页，里面的文字和图像就能自动构建出有别于现实世界的虚拟空间，令人流连忘返，乐不思蜀。佛教有“须弥藏芥子，芥子纳须弥”（编注：芥为蔬菜，子如粟粒，喻极为微小。须弥山指帝释天、四大天王等的居所，喻极为巨大）的说法。英国浪漫主义诗人威廉·布莱克在长诗《天真的预兆》（Auguries of Innocence）的开篇也曾写过“一沙一世界，一花一天堂”的诗句。主人公所拥有的这本神奇的书，每一张书页都可以看做是隐藏着独立宇宙的一粒芥子或收纳着独立世界的一颗沙粒。而这本书的书页偏偏又如恒河里的沙子，怎么数也数不尽。从某种意义上说，主人公捧在手里的不是一本书，而是一座无限大的图书馆。主人公曾是一名图书馆馆员，不难理解他为何会如此喜欢这本书。值得警惕的是，书中的世界固然美，却非常容易令人迷失。在小说《沙之书》中，为了得到这本书，推销商用《圣经》去和印度人交换。为了得到这本书，主人公用稀世珍版的《圣经》去和推销商交换。代表西方信仰体系与道德体系的《圣经》被置换为这样一本书，这显然是一个有关代价的隐喻：来敲门的应该是魔鬼撒旦吧，他召唤主人公交出《圣经》，放弃道德，放弃信仰，放弃与人类社会的联系，而作为对主人公的报答，他允许主人公进入无穷无尽的书的世界。

晋朝诗人陶渊明曾经写过《读十三首》，其中第一首中写到了读书的乐趣：“孟夏草木长，绕屋树扶疏。众鸟欣有托，吾亦爱吾庐。既耕亦已种，时还读我书。穷巷隔深辙，颇回故人车。欢言酌春酒，摘我园中蔬。微雨从东来，好风与之俱。泛览《周王传》，流观《山海图》。俯仰终宇宙，不乐复何如。”可是在博尔赫斯的《沙之书》中，主人公在书中世界里“俯仰终宇宙”后，体会到的却是闷闷不乐之情。《沙之书》可以被视为陶渊明诗的反面。主人公读书，不曾寄居于天地之间，不曾感受到“孟夏草木长，绕屋树扶疏”以及“微雨从东来，好风与之俱”的自然之美，而是将自己封闭在远离自然的孤立的房间中。读书时，他有着苦行僧的执着，却缺少“既耕亦已种，时还读我书”的惬意，更缺乏“欢言酌春酒，摘我园中蔬”的温暖友情的照耀。在《沙之书》中，主人公迷失在书的宇宙中，忘记了自己还拥有另外一个宇宙——这个真实的可触摸的世界。所幸博尔赫斯笔下的主人公是一位明智之人。他及时停步，把“沙之书”送到了图书馆，让这本魔书和图书馆中的九十万册藏书一起待在书架上，缄默地守护着它的扉页里那个神奇的变动不居的无穷无尽的世界。

书的世界，人的世界——这是两个平行的宇宙，我们每个读书人都是在这两个世界里来回出入的旅人。当你在这两个世界里自由穿行时，请谨记：千万别迷路，要让书中的旅行成为平凡的现实生活的补充，实现“俯仰终宇宙，不乐复何如”。当然，这需要你懂得何时该在书中的世界里沉醉，何时该从书中的世界里走出。

1. 节选为小说全文，略有删节。

2. myopia [ma????pi?] n. [医]近视

3. emanate [?em?ne?t] vi. 发出；散发

4. pedantically [p??d?nt?kli] adv. 卖弄学问地

5. Bikaner：比卡内尔，印度西北部城市

6. octavo [?k?te?v??] n. 八开本

7. Holy Writ：至高无上的权威著作

8. Bombay：孟买，印度西部港口城市

9. script [skr?pt] n. 笔迹；手写体

10. typographically [?ta?p??ɡr?f?k（?）li] adv. 印刷地

11. versicle [?v??s?k（?）l] n. 短诗；短句

12. rupee [?ru??pi?] n. 卢比（印度货币单位）

13. talisman [?t?l?zm?n] n. 护身符

14. caste [kɑ?st] n. （印度社会中的）种姓

15. untouchable [?n?t?t??b（?）l] n. （印度）被剥夺种姓者

16. flyleaf [?fla??li?f] n. 扉页

17. Wiclif Bible：威克里夫版《圣经》。约翰·威克里夫（John Wiclif， c. 1320～1384），欧洲宗教改革的先驱。为了人们能读懂《圣经》译本，他与朋友合译了英文版《圣经》。

18. bibliophile [?b?bli??fa?l] n. 藏书家；爱书的人

19. jarl [jɑ?l] n. （古代斯堪的纳维亚地位仅次于国王的）王公

20. misanthropy [m?s??nθr?pi] n. 厌世

21. affront [??fr?nt] vt. 有意冒犯；公开侮辱