The Curse of Reading and Forgetting 如何破解遗忘的诅咒

Recently， a colleague mentioned that she had been rereading Richard Hughes’s A High Wind in Jamaica， which is about a group of creepy little kids who become the unwanted wards of sad， listless1） pirates. She praised it， and her recommendation sent me to Amazon. The title was familiar， as was the vibrant cover of the New York Review Books reissue. One cent and $3.99 for shipping， and the book was on its way. A couple of weeks later， I opened to the first page and started reading. By the fifth page， I realized that I had read this novel before， and pretty recently， about three years ago， when another colleague had also praised it and lent me his copy.

The book deconstructs2） the pirate fable—but is still a ripping yarn3） itself—and， as Francine Prose4） notes in her introduction， it is an altogether more sophisticated and subtle version of The Lord of the Flies5）. It is， simply， entirely memorable， which makes the fact that I forgot it so thoroughly all the more difficult to account for.

Looking at my bookshelves， I am aware of another kind of forgetting—the spines look familiar； the names and titles bring to mind perhaps a character name， a turn of plot， often just a mood or feeling—but for the most part， the assembled books， and the hundreds of others that I’ve read and discarded， given away， or returned to libraries， represent a vast catalogue of forgetting.

This forgetting has serious consequences—but it has superficial ones as well， mostly having to do with vanity. It has led， at times， to a discomfiting6） situation， call it the Cocktail Party Trap. Someone mentions a book with some cachet that I’ve read—a lesser-known work of a celebrated writer， say Eliot’s Daniel Deronda， to take an example from my shelf—and I smile knowingly， and maybe add， “It’s wonderful，” or some such thing. Great so far， I’m part of the in-crowd7）—and not lying； I did read it. But then there’s a moment of terror： What if the person summons up a question or comment with any kind of specificity at all？ Basically， what if she aims to do anything other than merely brag about having read Daniel Deronda？ Uh-oh. It’s about cotton production， right？ Maybe blurt something about that. No， wait， that’s Gaskell’s North and South. I must either vaguely agree with what she says， hoping she isn’t somehow putting me on8） or lying herself， or else confess everything， with some version of the conversation killer： “I read that entire novel and now can tell you nothing of any consequence about it.” Or else slink9） away， muttering about needing to refill a drink.

This embarrassing situation raises practical questions that also become ones about identity： Do I really like reading？ Perhaps it is a failure of attention—there are times when I notice my own distraction while reading， and can， in a way， feel myself forgetting. There is a scarier question， one that might seem like asking if one is good at breathing， or walking. Am I actually quite bad at reading after all？

Perhaps， though there is comfort to be had. In April， 2013， on a post by Brad Leithauser about the surprising durability of certain seemingly disposable10） words （involuntary memory， essentially）， a reader left a quotation in the comments， which he attributed to the poet Siegfried Sassoon：“For it is humanly certain that most of us remember very little of what we have read. To open almost any book a second time is to be reminded that we had forgotten well-nigh11） everything that the writer told us. Parting from the narrator and his narrative， we retain only a fading impression； and he， as it were， takes the book away from us and tucks it under his arm.”

If we are cursed to forget much of what we read， there are still charms in the moments of reading a particular book in a particular place. What I remember most about Malamud’s short-story collection The Magic Barrel is the warm sunlight in the coffee shop on the consecutive Friday mornings I read it before high school. That is missing the more important points， but it is something. Reading has many facets， one of which might be the rather indescribable， and naturally fleeting， mix of thought and emotion and sensory manipulations that happen in the moment and then fade. How much of reading， then， is just a kind of narcissism12）—a marker of who you were and what you were thinking when you encountered a text？ Perhaps thinking of that book later， a trace of whatever admixture moved you while reading it will spark out of the brain’s dark places.

Memory， however， is capricious13） and deeply unfair. It is why I can recall nothing about how a cell divides， or very little about “Ode on a Grecian Urn14），” but can sing any number of television theme songs in the shower. The words that researchers use about forgetting are all psychically hurtful for the layperson： interference， confusion， decay—they seem sinister and remind us of all the sad limitations of the human brain， and of an inevitable march toward another kind of forgetting， which comes with age， and what may be final forgetting， which is death.

This may be a minor15） existential drama—and it might simply be resolved with practical application and a renewed sense of studiousness. There is ongoing dispute as to the ways in which memory might be improvable. But certainly there are things that we can do to better remember the books we read—especially the ones that we want to remember.

A simple remedy to forgetfulness is to read novels more than once. A professor I had in college would often， to the point of irony， cite Nabokov16）’s statement that there is no reading， only rereading. Yet he was teaching a class in modern fiction， and assigned books that are generally known as “slim” contemporary classics. They were short， and we were being tested on them—we’d be foolish to read them only once. I read them at least twice， and now remember them. But what about in real life， set loose17） from comprehension examinations and left mostly to our own devices and standards？ Should we reread when there is a nearly endless shelf of books out there to read and a certainly not-endless amount of time in which to do it？ Should I pull out my copy of Eudora Welty’s The Optimist’s Daughter to relearn its charms—or more truthfully， learn them for the first time—or should I accept the loss， and move on？

Part of my suspicion of rereading may come from a false sense of reading as conquest. As we polish off18） some classic text， we may pause a moment to think of ourselves， spear aloft， standing with one foot up on the flank19） of the slain beast. Another monster bagged20）. It would be somehow less heroic， as it were， to bend over and check the thing’s pulse. But that， of course， is the stuff of reading—the going back， the poring over21）， the act of committing something from the experience， whether it be mood or fact， to memory. It is in the postmortem22） where we learn how a book really works. Maybe， then， for a forgetful reader like me， the great task， and the greatest enjoyment， would be to read a single novel over and over again. At some point， then， I would truly and honestly know it.

最近，一位同事提到她在重读理查德·休斯的《牙买加飓风》。该书讲述了一伙忧郁且无精打采的海盗极不情愿地收留看管了一群小屁孩的故事。同事对这本书赞扬一番之后便向我推荐，于是我登录了亚马逊网站。书名我是熟悉的，同样熟悉的还有纽约书评出版社再版图书那醒目抢眼的封面。我花了一美分的书钱外加3.99美元的运费，这本书就邮寄上路了。几周之后，我翻开书的第一页，开始读起来。读到第五页时，我发现自己以前读过这本小说，而且时间并不远，大概三年前吧。那时另外一位同事也说这本书很好，并借给我读。

这本书解构了传统的海盗故事，但其本身仍是一个十分精彩的故事。正如弗朗辛·普罗斯在前言中所指出的那样，它完全就是《蝇王》更为复杂、更为细腻的版本。整个故事读后令人完全难以忘怀，这就更难解释我为什么会把它忘得一干二净了。

看着书架，我想到还有另外一种遗忘：书脊是熟悉的，人名和书名也许会让我想起某个角色的名字、某个情节的变化，更经常的仅仅是某种情绪或感情。但多数情况下，这些装订齐整的书籍，以及数百本我读了就扔到一边的、送人的以及还给图书馆的书籍，构成了一长串遗忘的书单。

这种遗忘有着严重的后果，但有些也是非常肤浅的，多数都和虚荣心有关。有时还会导致某种尴尬的场面，姑且称之为“鸡尾酒会上的陷阱”。某人带着些许优越感提到一本我已读过的书——某位知名作家的某部不太为人所知的作品，以我书架上的书为例，比如艾略特的《丹尼尔的半生缘》。然后我心领神会地笑笑，也许还会加上一句“很精彩”之类的话。直到这一刻，一切都还顺利，我还是“圈内人”，而且我也没有撒谎，我的确读过。但接着恐怖时刻就来了。倘若那人提出一个具体的问题，或者做出某种具体的评价，我该如何应对？尤其是，如果她并不仅仅是想夸耀自己读过《丹尼尔的半生缘》，而是另有目的呢？呃——噢，是关于棉花生产的，对吧？或许我可以这样含糊其辞。不，等一下，那是加斯克尔的《北方与南方》。我要么含糊其辞地同意她说的话，希望她不是想给我下套，也没有瞎掰；要么就坦白一切，放出一句足以终止任何交谈的话——我通读了整部小说，但现在关于它却说不出任何有意义的话；要么就嘀咕着说要把杯子加满，灰溜溜地走开。

这种尴尬场景引发了一些现实问题，同时也是关于身份认同的问题：我真的喜欢读书吗？这也许是因为我注意力不够集中吧，有好几次我注意到自己在读书时走神，而且在一定程度上也能感觉到自己在遗忘。还有一个更为可怕的问题，这个问题就好比在问自己是否擅长呼吸、走路一样，那就是——我是不是实际上很不擅长读书呢？

或许事实的确如此吧，虽然其中也有值得宽慰之处。布拉德·莱特霍伊泽2013年4月发了一篇文章，谈到某些看似看完就忘的词汇却有着惊人的持久性（主要是非自主记忆）。一位读者在评论中引用了诗人西格弗里德·沙逊的一段话：“我们多数人都对读过的东西所记甚少，以人的能力而言，这是肯定的。我们翻开几乎任何一本书再看第二遍时，都会发现我们几乎已经把作者所写的东西忘得一干二净了。离开了叙述者和他所讲述的故事，我们脑海中只剩下一个模糊的印象，就好像叙述者已经将书从我们手中拿走，夹在腋下离开了。”

即使我们注定要忘掉所读之书的大部分内容，但在特定的地点读一本特定的书仍有其独特魅力。就拿马拉默德的短篇小说集《魔桶》来说，我记得最清楚的就是上高中前，每个周五的早上在咖啡店里读书时那温暖的阳光。虽说我没有记住更为重要的东西，但这也自有其意义。阅读有许多层面，其中一面就是那种难以描述、转瞬即逝的感觉，那种思想、情感和各种感官经历糅合在一起的感觉，倏忽即来，倏忽即去。那么，阅读在多大程度上仅仅是一种自恋呢——一种在邂逅某个文本时对你个人、你所思所想的标记？也许，以后回想起这本书时，在你头脑的最深处会冒出一丝火花，想起读书时那令你感动的一点一滴。

然而，记忆是反复无常、极度不公的。正因为如此，我才无法回忆起细胞是如何分裂的，也很难记起《希腊古瓮颂》，但却能在淋浴时唱起许多电视节目主题曲。研究者在描述遗忘时所用的词汇对普通人来说全部是一种精神伤害：干扰、混乱、衰退。这些词似乎都很邪恶，总在提醒我们人类大脑可悲的局限和注定要走向的随年龄增长而来的另一种遗忘，以及终极遗忘——死亡。

遗忘或许是一出令人忧伤的存在主义戏剧，也许可以简单地通过实际应用和一种全新的好学精神加以解决。对于改善记忆的各种方法，人们一直存在争议。但可以肯定的是，我们可以采取一些方法来更好地记住我们所读的书籍，特别是我们想要记住的书籍。

治疗遗忘的一个简单方法就是将小说读上不止一遍。上大学时，有位教授常常引用纳博科夫的话（引用次数多得到了可笑的地步），说只有重读，没有阅读。然而，他教授的课程是现代小说，布置的阅读书目都是所谓“瘦身版”的当代经典。这些作品的篇幅都很短，而且我们还要就其内容进行考试，要是只读一遍那才叫蠢呢。我至少要读上两遍，现在都还能记得那些作品。但在现实生活中，没有了阅读理解考试的约束，多数时候都听凭自己的安排，遵循自己的标准，那又将如何呢？如果我们要读的书排满一书架，几乎望不到头，而能用来读书的时间又肯定有限，我们还应该反复阅读吗？我应该拿出尤多拉·韦尔蒂的《乐观者的女儿》，重新领略其魅力，或者更为坦白地说，首次领略其魅力吗？还是接受现实，失去的就让它失去，然后继续阅读其他书籍呢？

我对反复阅读的怀疑可能部分源自一种错误认识，即把阅读看做征服。当我们走马观花地读完某一经典文本后，我们也许会停下片刻，设想自己高举长矛，一脚踏在被杀死的野兽身上——又捕到了一只怪兽。如果弯下腰去查看野兽的脉搏，则多少显得有些缺乏英雄气概。但阅读其实就是这样，常常要回头查看，仔细研读，将经验（无论是情绪还是事实）转化为记忆。正是这种事后的剖析使我们明白一本书的价值所在。或许，对于像我这样健忘的读者来说，一项重大的任务，同时也是最大的乐趣，就是一遍遍地去读一部小说。然后，读到一定程度，我便能真正地、实实在在地了解它了。

1. listless [?l?stl?s] adj. 倦怠的，无精打采的

2. deconstruct [?di?k?n?str?kt] vt. 解构；拆析

3. yarn [jɑ?（r）n] n.〈口〉旅游轶事；奇闻漫谈

4. Francine Prose：弗朗辛·普罗斯（1947～），美国著名短篇小说家、散文作家，代表作为《忧郁的天使》（Blue Angel）。

5. The Lord of the Flies：《蝇王》，英国作家、诺贝尔文学奖获得者威廉·戈尔丁（William Golding，1911～1993）的代表作

6. discomfit [d?s?k?mf?t] vt. 使困惑；使窘迫

7. in-crowd [??nkra?d] n.〈口〉（熟人结成的）小圈子

8. put on：欺骗；愚弄

9. slink [sl??k] vi. 偷偷摸摸地移动（或行动）

10. disposable [d??sp??z?b（?）l] adj. 用后即丢弃的；一次性的

11. well-nigh [?welna?] adv.〈书〉几乎，差不多

12. narcissism [?nɑ?（r）s??s?z（?）m] n. 自我陶醉；孤芳自赏；自恋

13. capricious [k??pr???s] adj. 变化无常的，变幻莫测的

14. urn [??（r）n] n. 翁；缸

15. minor [?ma?n?（r）] adj. （西方音乐中的小调）悲伤的；忧郁的；哀怨的

16. Nabokov：即弗拉基米尔·纳博科夫（Vladimir Nabokov， 1899～1977），美籍小说家，代表作为《洛丽塔》（Lolita）。

17. set loose：释放

18. polish off：（飞快地）完成（工作等）

19. flank [fl??k] n. 胁腹；（四足动物身体的）侧边

20. bag [b?ɡ] vt. 猎获，捕获

21. pore over：钻研；专心阅读

22. postmortem [?p??s（t）?m??（r）t?m] n. （对失败或不愉快事件的）事后剖析