A Walker in the City (Excerpt)城市里的漫游者（节选）

【导读】作者艾尔弗雷德·卡津（1915—1998），美国作家和文学评论家，尤以美国文学批评和自传作品著称。卡津出身俄裔犹太移民家庭，生于纽约，卒于纽约。“大萧条”时就读于纽约市立学院，后成为自由书评人。27岁时，他出版了风靡美国的《扎根本土》（On Native Grounds，1924），声名鹊起。该书追溯了美国文学从威廉·迪安·豪威尔斯（William Dean Howells）到威廉·福克纳（William Faulkner）这段时期的美国文学发展。其续篇《生活的光明面》（Bright Book of Life，1973）是对从欧内斯特·海明威（Ernest Hemingway）到诺曼·梅勒（Norman Mailer）作品的评论。此外，卡津发表了很多评论文章。

卡津还写了三部自传性的著作：《城市里的漫游者》（A Walker in the City，1951）、《始自三十年代》（Starting Out in the Thirties，1965）和《纽约犹太人》（New York Jew，1978）。其中，《城市里的漫游者》以抒情的笔调描写了他青年时期在纽约布鲁克林的布朗斯维尔（Brownsville）的经历。卡津身处黑人贫困区，往返于贫困与繁华之间，一种难言的情愫通过朴素的文字直达读者心间。列宁曾经在伦敦图书馆读书，当他看到伦敦东区和西区的巨大对比时，忍不住从牙缝里愤恨地说，这简直是两个世界。卡津在文章里没有这么说，但我们却能感受到那种无言的控诉。距文章写作时的1951年，70多年过去了，岁月沧桑，改变的已经很多，而纽约的贫困区和纸醉金迷的富人区的差别是否已不复存在了呢？

We were of the city， but somehow not in it. Whenever I went off on my favorite walk to Highland Park in the “American” district to the north， on the border of Queens， and climbed the hill to the old reservoir from which I could look straight across to the sky- scrapers of Manhattan， I saw New York as a foreign city. There， brilliant and unreal， the city had its life， as Brownsville was ours. That the two were joined in me I never knew then—not even on those glorious summer nights of my last weeks in high school when， with what an ache， I would come back into Brownsville along Liberty Avenue， and， as soon as I could see blocks ahead of me the Labor Lyceum， the malted milk and Fatima signs over the candy stores， the old women in their housedresses sitting in front of the tenements like priestesses of an ancient cult， knew I was home.

我们属于这个城市，却又莫名置身其外。我最喜欢的散步之旅是前往北部毗邻皇后区（又译昆斯区）的“美国”区高地公园，爬上小山，抵达历史久远的水库，从那里可以一览无余地看到曼哈顿的摩天大楼——每每此时，我看纽约就像看一座陌生的城市。那里五光十色，似梦似幻，有它自己的生活方式，就像布朗斯维尔是我们生活的地方。我当时并未意识到，在我心中这两者已融为一体——即便在我高中最后几周那些明媚的夏夜，我都未意识到。那些夜晚，我怀着某种隐痛，沿着自由大道回到布朗斯维尔，一看到几个街区之外的劳工学会、糖果店上挂着的麦乳精和法蒂玛招牌，还有穿着家居服、像古老宗教的女祭司般坐在廉租公寓前的老太太们，我就知道，我到家了。

We were the end of the line. We were the children of the immigrants who had camped at the city’s back door， in New York’s rawest， remotest， cheapest ghetto， enclosed on one side by the Carnarsie flats and on the other by the hallowed middle-class districts that showed the way to New York.

我们住在街道的尽头。我们是移民的后代，移民一般蜗居在城市的后院，处于纽约最原始、最偏远、最不值钱的贫民区，一边被卡纳西公寓楼堵着，另一边被受人仰视的中产区包围，而那里是去纽约的路。

“New York” was what we put last on our address， but first in thinking of the others around us. They were New York， the Gentiles， America; we were Brownsville—Brunzvil， as the old folks said—the dust of the earth to all Jews with money， and notoriously a place that measured all success by our skill in getting away from it.

“纽约”二字在我们写地址时是最后写上的，但在想到我们周围的人时却是首先想起的。他们是纽约人，是非犹太人，是美国人；而我们是布朗斯维尔人——老人们口中的“布伦自维儿人”——对所有有钱的犹太人来说，我们就是地上的尘埃，大家都知道，谁能成功摆脱这里，谁就是成功者。

So that when poor Jews left， even Negroes， as we said， found it easy to settle on the margins of Brownsville， and with the coming of spring， bands of Gypsies， who would rent empty stores， hang their rugs around them like a desert tent， and bring a dusty and faintly sinister air of carnival into our neighborhood.

因此，贫穷的犹太人离开后，甚至连人称黑鬼的都发现很容易在布朗斯维尔的边缘地带安身；春天一到，还会有成群结队的吉普赛人租用空着的小店铺，在店铺周围挂上挂毯，弄得就像沙漠帐篷，也给当地带来尘土飞扬、透出些许不祥气息的狂欢。

For all those first summer walks into the city， all daily walks across the bridge for years afterward， when I came to leave Brownsville at last， were efforts to understand one single half-hour at dusk， on a dark winter day， the year I was fourteen.

夏日初到时我常常步行进城，而那以后的那些年每天走过大桥，我都在努力理解一个阴沉冬日暮色降临的那半个小时——那年我14岁，终于要离开布朗斯维尔了。

There had been some school excursion that day to City Hall and the courts of lower New York， and looking up at the green dome of the sky as we came into Park Row， I found myself separated from the class， and decided to go it across the bridge alone. I remember holding a little red volume of The World’s Greatest Selected Short Stories in my hand as I started out under the arcade of the Municipal Building.

那天，学校组织了一次去市政厅和纽约下城法院参观的短途游。进入公园大道后，我抬头望着绿色穹顶般的天空，发现自己与班上同学走散了，因此决定独自过桥。我记得，从市政大楼拱廊下出发时，我手里拿着一本小小的红色《世界最佳短篇故事集》。

Suddenly I felt lost and happy as I went up another flight of steps， passed under the arches of the tower， and waited， next to a black barrel. The trolleys clanged and clanged; every angry stalled car below sounded its horn as， they all poked their way along the bridge; the trains crackled and thundered over my right shoulder. A clock across the street showed its lighted face; along the fire escapes of the building were sculptured figures of runners and baseball players， of prize fighters flexing their muscles and wearing their championship belts.

我又爬上一段台阶，穿过高塔的拱门，在一个黑桶旁等候，突然间感觉迷茫但又快活。有轨电车哐啷哐啷驶过；桥下面每一辆熄火等候的小汽车都愤怒地按着喇叭，挤着驶过大桥；火车在我右上方隆隆驶过，发出咣当咣当的响声。街对过一座钟的钟面闪着光亮；大楼太平梯沿线摆放着一些雕像——有跑步运动员、棒球运动员，还有展示自己肌肉、系着冠军腰带的职业拳击手。

But from that platform under the tower the way ahead was strange. Only the electric sign of the Jewish Daily Forward， burning high over the tenements of the East Side， suddenly stilled the riot in my heart as I saw the cables leap up to the tower， saw those great meshed triangles leap up and up， higher and still higher—Lord my Lord， when will they cease to drive me up with them in their flight？  Somewhere below they were roasting coffee， handling spices—the odor was in the pillars， in the battered wooden planks of the promenade under my feet， in the blackness upwelling from the river.

但从高塔下面的平台看去，前面的路却显得奇怪。只有《犹太前进日报》高挂的电光招牌在纽约东区旧式公寓楼上闪耀着，突然平息了我心中的狂潮。当我看到电缆伸向塔顶，看到那些网状的三角形一直向上、越伸越高——我的天啦，它们在拉着我一起飞升，何时才能停止？塔下某处，人们在烘焙咖啡、处理香料——那香味萦绕着根根柱子，渗透进我脚下人行大道上那些磨损了的木板，弥漫在河上涌起的黑暗里。

Never again would I walk Brooklyn Bridge without smelling that coffee， those spices. The trolley car clanged， clanged， clanged taking me home in Brownsville from the bridge.

打那以后，每次走过布鲁克林大桥，我都能闻到那咖啡和那些香料的味道。有轨电车哐啷哐啷驶过大桥，带我回到布朗斯维尔的家。