The truth always hurts

转载：记得当年草上飞  by 刘瑜   http://www.my1510.cn/article.php?id=c543690551f9df94

《新周刊》

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如果让我选一部印象最深刻的纪录片，我会说《49 Up》。如果问我为什么，我会说因为它充分说明了现实比任何虚构作品都要更残酷。

 

确切地说，这不是一部纪录片，而是一系列纪录片。1964年，英国导演Michael Apted开始追拍14个人。这14个人中，有号称自己平时只读《金融时报》的Andrew，有说她根本不想认识任何有色人种的Suzy，有想研究月亮是怎么回事的Nick，有说“女人最大的问题就是她们总是心不在焉”的John……那一年，他们只有7岁。

 

此后，每隔7年，Apted就重访一次这批人，跟踪他们的少年、青年、中年，到2005年第七次跟拍时，他们都已经49岁。下一次追拍节目将在2012年播出，届时他们将56岁。

 

Apted最早决定拍这个纪录片时，初衷是批判英国社会凝固化的阶级：富人的孩子还是富人，穷人的孩子还是穷人。40多年拍下来，这一点的确大致得到确证：象Andrew、John这样的富人孩子基本上一直没有偏离精英“传送带”，从富人区中小学到牛津剑桥，再进入律师媒体之类精英行业；而象 Simon、Jacky这样的底层孩子，从来没有、似乎也没有争取去突破头上的玻璃天花板，一路按部就班经历了辍学、早婚、多子、失业等底层命运。当然也有例外，Nick出生贫苦，但后来成了名校教授，可见命运的手掌里也有漏网之鱼。

 

但这个纪录片看下来，给人最大的冲击完全不是其政治内涵，而是——请允许我使用这个几乎成了陈词滥调的用语——生命的荒诞。片中的每一个人年少时，无论贫富，都意气风发充满幻想，都相信未来是圣诞老人藏在圣诞树下的那个礼物，会在打开的一刹那令人尖叫欢呼。

 

但是，圣诞老人始终没有出现。慢慢地，片中的男人开始挨个秃头，女人开始比赛发胖，关键是，他们的眼睛里再也没有了憧憬和幻想。梦想的浓雾散尽之后，裸露出来的是苍莽时间里有去无回的人。

 

有趣的是，这种微渺感在片中并不因阶层而异。精英阶层固然生活更舒适，但是社会对他们的期望值也更高，所以他们和梦想的相对距离，和底层与梦想的相对距离其实是一样的。Nick到35岁时沦为无家可归的人，在苏格兰荒凉的高原上游荡，镜头前的他明显表现出精神病症状，难以自控地晃动身体，低着头说：关键不是我喜欢干什么，而是我可能干什么。而精英出生的John，大约是这批人里最早慧的。早在14岁时就下定决心要从政，“取消工人罢工权，改用司法裁决”，当另一个孩子问他“那岂不是侵犯了工人的集会自由”时，他咄咄逼人地反驳：“你会把一个抢劫犯关进监狱称为侵犯了他的抢劫权吗？”后来他做了律师，但是始终没能如愿以偿地“进入议会”。40多岁时，他表情温和、脑袋半秃，微笑着说：我现在很喜欢园艺，要是以前你告诉我我会变得热衷花草，我肯定会觉得那是个笑话。

 

无家可归的Nick，和爱上园艺的John，一样让人心酸呢。

 

以前我写过一个网络小说《烟花》，讲的是一个“反高潮”的故事：从故事一开始女主人公就貌似会和某男配角发生一段轰轰烈烈的恋情，但是直到故事结束什么都没有发生。《49 Up》则是一个反高潮的纪录片，并以其反高潮的故事走向暴露着生活的本质。从1964年开始，观众就开始等待那些可爱的孩子会演绎精彩人生，等了40多年，终于等到14个天使慢慢变成了14个nobody。阿甘的妈妈说：人生就象一盒巧克力，你永远也不会知道下一颗尝到的是什么滋味。阿甘的妈妈其实也可以说：人生就像一盒口香糖，嚼着嚼着都一样没有了味道。

 

这样说又似乎不公平。放弃了政治抱负转而热衷园艺的John，在这个过程中变得更柔和；无家可归的Nick在42岁之后竟然成功跻身地方政治，变得更积极。这样的人性成长也可说是收获？事实上到影片最后，这14个人绝大多数都变得比年轻时更可爱，在时光的雕刻下，凿去狂妄，磨出温润。说到底，谁都终将被扔回时间的海底，在那里与其它鱼虾贝壳一同聆听无边寂静，而在这之前，我们能指望的，大约只是心灵成长，祈祷生的优雅可以抚慰它的渺小。

Ode to a nightingale

Ode to a nightingale

by: John Keats

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
‘Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,–
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster’d around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets cover’d up in leaves;
And mid-May’s eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain–
To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam’d to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now ’tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:–Do I wake or sleep?

It’s just a dream

It’s just a dream,

with you in it,

hold me tight,

feel so safe,

feel so warm,

don’t ever let me go.