经典英语散文阅读精选汇总

阅读英语美文会给大家带来与众不同的感受，多读英语也有利于提升我们的英语能力，小编整理了一些英文散文，下面小编就和大家分享，来欣赏一下吧。

英语散文：The Blanket(一条毛毯)

The Blanket

By Floyd Dell

Petey hadn’t really believed that Dad would be doing It — sending Granddad away. “Away” was what they were calling it.Not until now could he believe it of his father.

But here was the blanket that Dad had bought for Granddad, and in the morning he’d be going away. This was the last evening they’d be having together. Dad was off seeing that girl he was to marry. He would not be back till late, so Petey and Granddad could sit up and talk.

It was a fine September night, with a silver moon riding high. They washed up the supper dishes and then took their chairs out onto the porch. “I’ll get my fiddle,” said the old man, “and play you some of the old tunes.”

But instead of the fiddle he brought out the blanket. It was a big double blanket, red with black stripes.

“Now, isn’t that a fine blanket!” said the old man, smoothing it over his knees. “And isn’t your father a kind man to be giving the old fellow a blanket like that to go away with? It cost something, it did—look at the wool of it! There’ll be few blankets there the equal of this one!”

It was like Granddad to be saying that. He was trying to make it easier. He had pretended all along that he wanted to go away to the great brick building—the government place. There he’d be with so many other old fellows, having the best of everything. . . . But Petey hadn’t believed Dad would really do it, not until this night when he brought home the blanket.

“Oh, yes, it’s a fine blanket,” said Petey. He got up and went into the house. He wasn’t the kind to cry and, besides, he was too old for that. He’d just gone in to fetch Granddad’s fiddle.

The blanket slid to the floor as the old man took the fiddle and stood up. He tuned up for a minute, and then said, “This is one you’ll like to remember.”

Petey sat and looked out over the gully. Dad would marry that girl. Yes, that girl who had kissed Petey and fussed over him, saying she’d try to be a good mother to him, and all. . . .

The tune stopped suddenly. Granddad said, “It’s a fine girl your father’s going to marry. He’ll be feeling young again with a pretty wife like that. And what would an old fellow like me be doing around their house, getting in the way? An old nuisance, what with my talks of aches and pains. It’s best that I go away, like I’m doing. One more tune or two, and then we’ll be going to sleep. I’ll pack up my blanket in the morning.”

They didn’t hear the two people coming down the path. Dad had one arm around the girl, whose bright face was like a doll’s. But they heard her when she laughed, right close by the porch. Dad didn’t say anything, but the girl came forward and spoke to Granddad prettily: “I won’t be here when you leave in the morning, so I came over to say good-bye.”

“It’s kind of you,” said Granddad, with his eyes cast down. Then, seeing the blanket at his feet, he stooped to pick it up. “And will you look at this,” he said. “The fine blanket my son has given me to go away with.”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s a fine blanket.” She felt the wool and repeated in surprise, “A fine blanket—I’ll say it is!” She turned to Dad and said to him coldly, “That blanket really cost something.”

Dad cleared his throat and said, “I wanted him to have the best. . . .”

“It’s double, too,” she said, as if accusing Dad.

“Yes,” said Granddad, “it’s double—a fine blanket for an old fellow to be going away with.”

17 The boy went suddenly into the house. He was looking for something. He could hear that girl scolding Dad. She realized how much of Dad’s money—her money, really—had gone for the blanket. Dad became angry in his slow way. And now she was suddenly going away in a huff. . . .

As Petey came out, she turned and called back, “All the same, he doesn’t need a double blanket!” And she ran off up the path.

Dad was looking after her as if he wasn’t sure what he ought to do.

“Oh, she’s right,” Petey said. “Here, Dad”—and he held out a pair of scissors. “Cut the blanket in two.”

Both of them stared at the boy, startled. “Cut it in two, I tell you, Dad!” he cried out. “And keep the other half.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” said Granddad gently. “I don’t need so much of a blanket.”

“Yes,” the boy said harshly, “a single blanket’s enough for an old man when he’s sent away. We’ll save the other half, Dad. It’ll come in handy later.”

“Now what do you mean by that?” asked Dad.

“I mean,” said the boy slowly, “that I’ll give it to you, Dad— when you’re old and I’m sending you—away.”

There was a silence. Then Dad went over to Granddad and stood before him, not speaking. But Granddad understood. He put out a hand and laid it on Dad’s shoulder. And he heard Granddad whisper, “It’s all right, son. I knew you didn’t mean it. . . .” And then Petey cried.

But it didn’t matter—because they were all crying together.

【中文译文】：

一床双人毛毯

(美) 弗罗伊德•戴尔

晴朗的九月的夜晚，银色的月光洒落在溪谷上。此时，十一岁的彼得没有观赏月亮，也没感觉到微微的凉风吹进厨房。他的思绪全在厨房桌上那条红黑相间的毛毯上。那是爸爸送给爷爷的离别礼物。他们说爷爷要走。他们是这么说的。

彼得不相信爸爸真会把爷爷送走。可是现在离别礼物都买好了。爸爸今天晚上买的。今晚是他和爷爷在一起的最后一个晚上了。

吃完晚饭，爷孙俩一块洗碗碟，爸爸走了，和那个就要与他成亲的女人一起走的，不会马上回来。洗完碗碟，爷孙走出屋子，坐在月光下。

“我去拿口琴来给你吹几支老曲子。”爷爷说。一会儿，爷爷从屋里出来了，拿来的不是口琴，而是那床毛毯。

那是条大大的双人毛毯。“这毛毯多好!”老人轻抚着膝头的毛毯说，“你爸真孝，给我这老家伙带这么床高级毛毯走。你看这毛，一定很贵的。以后冬天晚上不会冷了。那里不会有这么好的毛毯的。”

爷爷总这么说，为了避免难堪，他一直装着很想去政府办的养老院的样子，想象着，离开温暖的家和朋友，去哪个地方与许多其他老人一起共度晚年。可彼得从没想到爸爸真会把爷爷送走，直到今晚看到爸爸带回这床毛毯。

“是床好毛毯，”彼得搭讪着走进小屋。他不是个好哭的孩子，况且，他已早过了好哭鼻子的年龄了。他是进屋给爷爷拿口琴的。

爷爷接琴时毛毯滑落到地上。最后一个晚上了，爷孙俩谁也没说话。爷爷吹了一会儿，然后说，“你会记住这支曲子。”

月儿高高挂在天边，微风轻轻地吹过溪谷。最后一次了，彼得想，以后再也听不到爷爷吹口琴了，爸爸也要从这搬走，住进新居了。若把爷爷一个人撇下，美好的夜晚自己独坐廊下，还有什么意思!

音乐停了，有那么一会儿工夫，爷孙俩谁也没说话。过了一会儿，爷爷说，“这只曲子欢快点。彼得坐在那怔怔地望着远方。爸爸要娶那个姑娘了。是的，那个姑娘亲过他了，还发誓要对他好，做个好妈妈。

爷爷突然停下来，“这曲子不好，跳舞还凑合。“怔了一会儿，又说，”你爸要娶的姑娘不错。有个这么漂亮的妻子他会变年轻的。我又何必在这碍事，我一会儿这 病一会儿那疼，招人嫌呢。况且他们还会有孩子。我可不想整夜听孩子哭闹。不，不!还是走为上策呀!好，再吹两支曲子我们就.觉，睡到明天早晨，带上毛 毯走人。你看这支怎么样?调子有些悲，倒很合适这样的夜晚呢。“

他们没有听到爸爸和那个瓷美人正沿溪谷的小道走来，直到走近门廊，爷孙俩才听到她的笑声，琴声嘎然而止。爸爸一声没吭，姑娘走到爷爷跟前恭敬地说：“明天早晨不能来送您，我现在来跟您告别的。“

“谢谢了，“爷爷说。低头看着脚边的毛毯，爷爷弯腰拾起来，“你看，”爷爷局促地说，“这是儿子送我的离别礼物。多好的毛毯!”

“是不错。”她摸了一下毛毯，“好高级呀!”她转向爸爸，冷冷地说，“一定花了不少钱吧。”

爸爸支吾着说，“我想给他一床的毛毯。”“哼，还是双人的呢。”姑娘没完地纠缠毛毯的事。

“是的，”老人说，“是床双人毛毯。一床一个老家伙即将带走的毛毯。”彼得转身跑进屋。他听到那姑娘还在唠叨毛毯的昂贵，爸爸开始慢慢动怒。姑娘走了，彼得出屋时她正回头冲爸爸喊“甭解释，他根本用不着双人毛毯。”爸爸看着她，脸上有种奇怪的表情。

“她说得对，爸爸，”彼得说，“爷爷用不着双人毛毯。爸爸，给!”彼得递给爸爸一把剪刀，“把毛毯剪成两块。”

“好主意，”爷爷温和地说，“我用不着这么大的毛毯。”

“是的，”彼得说，“老人家送走时给床单人毛毯就不错了。我们还能留下一半，以后迟早总有用处。”

“你这是什么意思?”爸爸问。

“我是说，”彼得慢腾腾地说，“等你老了，我送你走时给你这一半。”

大家都沉默了。好半天，爸爸走到爷爷面前呆呆地，没有一句话。爷爷望着儿子喃喃地说：“没关系，孩子，我知道你不是这么想的……我知道……”这时，彼得哭了。

但没什么，因为爷爷，爸爸都哭了，哭成了一团……

英语散文：Promise of Bluebirds(蓝知更鸟的希望)

Promise of Bluebirds

The Pennsylvania-landscape was in severe wintry garb as our car sped westover the interstate Ul The season was wrong, butI couldn't get bluebirds outof my head.

Only three weeks before, at Christmas, Dad had given me a nesting box he'dmade: He had a special feeling for the brilliant creatures, and each spring heeagerly awaited their return. Now I wondered, will he ever see one again?

It was a heart attack. Dad's third.

When I got to the hospital at 2 a.m., he was losing the fight. As the familyhovered at his bedside, he drifted in and out of consciousness.

Once he looked up at.Mom sitting beside the bed holding his hand. "Theywant me to let go," he said, ':but I can't. I don't want to."Mom patted his arm. "Just hold on to me," she murmured.

The next morning the cardiologist met us in the waiting room. "He's stillfighting,"the doaor said. "I've never seen such strengthMy youngest brother was only five when Ileft home 30 years ago. Relation-ships between my brothers- and sisters had become -frayed because of dis-tance and commitments to our own families. But Dad needed his childrennow, so we stayed at the hospital. During the long vigil, we reminisced aboutour years at home.

A miner, Dad had not had an easy life. He and Mom raised six kids at a timewhen coal miners eamed as little as 25 cents a ton, and he loaded nine tonsa day. Even now, I'm sure we don't know most of the sacrifices they madefor us.

I remembered Dad's hard hat, its carbide lamp showing a fine pall of coaldust. Dad's graygreen eyes seemed large and wise as an owl's in his black-ened face. They often sparkled with devilment when they met yours inconversation. .

Each evening he came home, eager to take up his crosscut saw or clawhammer. Dad could chock a piece of walnut on his lathe and deffly tum outa beautiful salad bowl for Mom. He could build a cherry fold-top desk withfine, dovetailed drawers as easily as he could fashion a fishing-line threaderout of an old ballpoint pen.

Dad bought our plain, two-story house from the coal company and immedi~ately began to remodel it. Our house was the first on the hill to have anindoor bathroom and hot water. He spent one summer digging out the clay-filled foundation to install a coal furnace. We children no longer shivered inour bed-rooms on cold winter mornings.

We loved to watch him work. When Dad needed something, we ran to getit. If we called it a "thingamabob he would say, "That's a nail set" (thetool for sinking the head of a nail below the surface of the wood). "It has aname. Use it."Dad carried a spirit of craftsmanship into every job and expeaed the samefrom all six children. Each job had its claim on your best efforts. And evertool had its name. Those were his principles, and we lived by them just aSDad did.

His playful spirit would set us to giggling-like the time he was buildingfireplace in the back yard. He sent us to look for the "stone-bender" he needeto make the comer stones fit more evenly. "Guess I'll have to bend theiamyself," he said when we retumed empty-handed. We saw the sparkle in.bijeyes, and knew we'd been had.

Sitting in the hospitalwaitting room, I thought back to an afteon in Dad'sworkshop several years ago..He was retired by then, but he kept busy building beautiful furniture, now for his children's homes. A volunteer naturalist,I was eager to tell him about the help bluebirds needed.

When the early settlers had cleared forests for farmland, I explained, blueLbirds flourished, nesting in fence-posts and orchard trees. But their habitatwas disappearing, and now the birds needed nesting boxesDad listened as-I spoke, his hands gently moving a finegrained sand-paperover a piece of oak. I asked him if he would like to build a box. He said hewould think about it.

Several weeks later he invited me into his workshop. There, on his workbench,sat three well-crafted bluebird nesting boxes. "Think the birds willlike themT'

he asked.

"As much as I do,"I replied, hugging him. Dad put up the boxes, and thenext spring bluebirds nested in his yard. He was hooked.

Dad became quite an expert on the species. Bluebirds, he would say, areharbingers of hope and triumph, renowned for family loyalty. A pair willhave two or three broods a year, the earlier young sometimes helping to feedthe later nestlings.

The presence of his children must have boosted Dad's spirits after his attackbecause he grew stronger and left the hospital on Valentine's Day WhenI visited my parents at the end of March, Dad was confined to the downstairs.

But I noticed that he paused longer and longer at the windows facing theback yard. I knew what he was hoping to see. And one day a bright flash ofcolor circled the nesting box closest to our house.

"Well, it's about time the rascals showed, don't you think?" Dad said.

Sporting a resplendent blue head, back, wings and tail, a male bluebird sanghis courtship song so passionately that we dubbed him "Caruso," after theItalian tenor. A female appeared, but rejected the nesting box. Caruso foundanother in the field below the yard. He circled the new box, singing feverishly.

She remained aloof on a distant perch.

Dad was walking more and more each day as the love story unfolded. Icould see strength coming back into his wiry frame.

One day Caruso battled a rival for the female's attentions. Then she foughtan even more vehement battle with another female. Afterward she resumedher haughty. stance while he fervently continued with his rapturous repertoire.

Suddenly one exquisite morning, when the sky mirrored Caruso's courtingraiment, she flew back to the box nearest the house and inspected itthoroughly. Caruso hovered nearby and sang blissfully as she finally acceptedhim.

Shortly thereafter she proceeded to lay one egg a day until there were six.

Caruso fluttered outside, defending the nest while she incubated.

Dad was now well enough to go outside, but he still couldn't reach the back-yard. He asked us to check inside the nesting box once a day. When we'dreturn, the questions came. "Is she on the nest?" he asked. "Have the eggshatched? Did you see that showboat what's-his-name?""Caruso, Dad," I replied. "He has a name, you know." Dad's sly grin re:

flected the devilment that had returned to his eyes.

When the eggs hatched, we marveled at the herculean efforts Caruso andhis mate expended to capture insects for their brood. Nestlings must be fedevery 20 minutes.

Near the end of May, the fledglings left the nest. By then Dad was able towalk to the fields beyond and see what other bluebird news there might be.

Mom and I would watch him from the kitchen window. "He gave some-thing to those bluebirds," she said quietly one day. "Now they've given itback."

蓝知更鸟的希望

我们的汽车奔驰西行越过州界，宾夕法尼亚州一派严冬景象，时令不正常，可是我对蓝知更鸟一直不能忘怀。

就在三周前圣诞节那天，爸爸把他自己制作的一个鸟巢箱给了我。他对这些色彩鲜艳的小生灵怀有特殊的感情，每年春天他都热切地期待它们归来。现在，我不知道他是否还能再见到一只。

心脏病发作，这是爸爸第三次犯病了。

凌晨两点我到了医院，他浑身瘫软无力，家人守候在床边，他时而失去知觉，时而神志清醒。

有一次，他抬头望着坐在床边握着他手的妈妈说：“他们想要我松手，可是我不能松，我不想松。”

妈妈拍着他胳膊低声说：“攥住我吧。”

第二天早晨，心病学专家?候诊室遇见我们，这位大夫说：“他仍在搏斗，我从来没有见过意志这样坚强的。”

30年前我离开家的时候，最小的弟弟才五岁。后来因为我们居住相距甚远，而且都忙于自己的小家庭，所以兄弟姊妹之间的关系不够亲近。但是如今爸爸需要他的孩子们，因此我们来到医院，在长时间守夜期间，我们回忆起在家时的岁月。

爸爸，一名矿工，以前没有过安逸的生活。他和妈妈养育六个小孩，而当时煤矿工人收入非常低，生产一吨煤炭只挣25美分，他一天要挖九吨。就是现在，我肯定我们也不知道他们为我们做出了多少牺牲。

我记得爸爸质地很硬的帽子，帽子上燃烧碳化物的照明灯上覆盖着一层细细的煤炭粉末。在爸爸黝黑的面庞上，一双灰绿的眼睛像猫头鹰的眼睛一样，显得很大而充满智慧。在交谈时与你的目光相遇，他眼睛里经常闪耀着恶作剧的神情。

每天傍晚他回到家，就饶有兴致地拿起横切锯或爪形拔钉锤。他能在车床上卡上一块胡桃木，熟练地给妈妈制作一个漂亮的盛色拉的碗。他能利用旧圆珠笔制作钓鱼穿线用具，同样能毫不费力地制作带有精巧楔形榫抽屉的樱桃木的、桌面可折叠书桌。

爸爸从煤炭公司买了一所简易两层楼住宅，然后立即进行改造。

我们这所住宅是小山上第一家设有室内浴室和使用热水的，他用了一个夏季的时间挖掘全都是粘土的地基，装起了煤炉，冬天寒冷的早晨，我们孩子们在卧室里再也不冻得发抖了。

我们喜欢看着他干活，爸爸需要什么东西，我们跑着去取，如果我们把那件东西叫作“某东西”，他总说：“那是敲钉子的工具(把钉子楔进木头里的工具)”，“它有个名字，叫它的名字。”

爸爸干什么活儿都讲究技艺，而且希望所有六个孩子也同样做。

每一件活儿都要求你尽努力，并且每件工具都有名称。这些是他的原则，正如爸爸按照这些原则办事一样，我们也按照这些原则办事。

他爱开玩笑的态度常使我们咯咯发笑。像那一次，他在后院修建壁炉，派我们去寻找他所需要的所谓石头折弯机，以便把边角石块砌得更平稳。我们空手而回，他说：“看来我只得自己把石头弄弯喽。”我们看到他眼睛里闪耀的神色，于是知道我们受骗了。

我坐在医院候诊室里，回想起几年前在爸爸车间里的一个下午，那时他已经退休，但是还不断地忙着制造漂亮家具，是给他几个孩子家里制作的,作为一个自愿研究动物的人，我迫切地要把蓝知更鸟需要的帮助告诉他.

我解释道，早来的移民砍伐森林开垦农田的时候，1蓝知更鸟就成群结认地在篱笆桩和果园树上筑巢，但是它们酣栖息衄越来越少，如今，蓝知更鸟急切需我沈话时爸爸着，向手接住二张细粒沙纸在二块栎来上轻轻地摩擦，我问他是否愿意制作巢箱，他说他愿意考虑。

几个星期后，他邀请我到车间去，在工作台上放着三个制作精巧的蓝知更鸟巢箱。“你认为鸟儿喜欢它们吗?”他问道。 …“像我一样，非常喜欢。”我紧紧拥抱着他回答说。爸爸支架起巢箱，于是第二年春天蓝知更鸟便在他院里落了户，而他也迷上了蓝知更鸟。

爸爸成了这种鸟的行家里手，他常说蓝知更鸟是希望和成功的预言者，它们家族成员的忠诚出了名，一对蓝知更鸟一年下两三窝蛋，早孵出的幼鸟有时帮助喂后来出壳的雏鸟。

爸爸犯病后他的孩子们都来了，这一定提高了他的情绪，所以他精力刚刚恢复就在情人节那天出院了。我于三月底去看望父母，爸爸被安置在楼下，可是我注意到，他在窗前向后院伫立的时间越来越长了。我知道他盼望看到什么。一天，有个色彩鲜明闪亮的东西，在紧靠我们房屋的巢箱周围盘旋。

“喔，大概坏家伙们该露面了，你认为是不?”爸爸说。

一只雄蓝知更鸟炫耀着华丽蓝色的头、背、翅膀和尾巴，唱着求爱的歌，他唱得那样充满感情，我们仿照意大利男高音歌手的名字给他起了绰号叫“卡鲁索”。出来了一只雌鸟，但是她拒不进入巢箱。卡鲁索发现另一只雌鸟在院子下方田地里，于是他围绕着那个新巢箱狂热地唱歌，可是她远远地停在栖木上。

随着爱情故事的展开，爸爸一天天越来越能走路了，我看到他瘦长结实的身体逐渐强健起来。

有一天，卡鲁索为了吸引雌鸟的注意和一个对手交战。她却同另一只雌鸟进行更加激烈的战斗。后来，他使出浑身解数，继续热情地进行吸引对方的狂喜表演，她却恢复了傲慢的姿态。

突然，一个气候宜人的上午，天空中映出卡鲁索求爱的衣饰，她飞回离房屋最近的巢箱，并且进行了彻底检查。由于她终于接受了他的要求，卡鲁索在附近翩翩飞舞，极其快乐地唱着歌。

此后不久，她开始一天下一个蛋，直到下了六个，她孵蛋时卡鲁索在外边振翅保护巢箱。

这时爸爸已经恢复到能走出房门，但是还不能走到后院。他要求我们一天检查一次巢箱，我们回来时他提出许多问题，他问道：“她在窝里吗?”“蛋孵化了吗?…‘你们看见那个叫什?名字的家伙表演了吗?”

卡鲁索，爸爸，”我回答说，“你知道，他有名字。”爸爸满脸滑稽地咧着嘴笑，他的眼睛里又表现出爱开玩笑的神情。

小鸟出壳后，卡鲁索和他的配偶付出极其巨大的努力为幼鸟捉虫，我们对此感到惊奇，幼鸟每20分钟必须喂一次。

将近五月底，刚会飞的小鸟离开巢箱，那时爸爸能够走到田野里更远的地方，去看看其他蓝知更鸟可能有什么新闻了。我和妈妈常从厨房窗口望着他。“他给了那些蓝知更鸟一些东西，”有一天她轻轻地说，“现在他们已经回报。”

英语美文：尽在不言中

When I read a book from my mother’s shelves, it’s not unusual to come across a gap in the text. A paragraph, or maybe just a sentence, has been sliced out, leaving a window in its place, with words from the next page peeping through. The chopped up page looks like a nearly complete jigsaw puzzle waiting for its missing piece. But the piece isn’t lost, and I always know where to find it. Dozens of quotations, clipped from newspapers, magazines—and books—plaster one wall of my mother’s kitchen. What means the most to my mother in her books she excises and displays.

当我翻看妈妈书架上的书时，常常会发现其中的文字缺了一部分。其中的一个段落，或可能只是一个句子，被剪了下来，在原来的位置上留下了一扇窗户，让后一页上的文字探头探脑地露了出来。被挖掉一块的那一页看上去就像是一幅几乎就要完成的拼图作品，等待着缺失的那一块拼图。但那一块拼图并没有丢，而且我总是知道在哪儿能找到它。在我妈妈的厨房里，从报纸上、杂志上——还有书上——剪下的纸片贴满了一面墙。在她的书里，那些她最喜欢的句子和段落都被她剪了下来，贴在墙上。

I’ve never told her, but those literary amputations appall me. I know Ann Patchett and Dorothy Sayers, and Somerset Maugham would fume alongside me, their careful prose severed from its rightful place. She picks extracts that startle me, too: “Put your worst foot forward, because then if people can still stand you, you can be yourself.” Sometimes I stand reading the wall of quotations, holding a scissors-victim novel in my hand, puzzling over what draws my mother to these particular words.

我从未当面和她说过，但她对文学作品的这种“截肢手术”的确让我感到震惊。我知道，安•帕契特、多萝西•塞耶斯和萨默塞特•毛姆也在我身旁气得冒烟呢，怎么能把这些他们呕心沥血写出来的文字就这样从它们原来的位置上“截肢”了呢!她挑出来的那些段落也着实吓了我一跳，比如：“以你最糟糕的一面示人，因为如果那样人们也能容忍你的话，你就能做真正的自己了。”有时候，我会站在那儿读墙上那些书摘，手里拿着一本备受剪刀“.的小说，心里充满困惑，不知道到底是什么驱使妈妈剪下了这样一些稀奇古怪的句子。

My own quotation collection is more hidden and delicate. I copy favorite lines into a spiral-bound journal-a Christmas present from my mother, actually—in soft, gray No. 2 pencil. This means my books remain whole. The labor required makes selection a cutthroat process: Do I really love these two pages of On Chesil Beach enough to transc ribe them, word by finger-cramping word? (The answer was yes, the pages were that exquisite.)

我也摘录和收藏文字，不过我的收藏更为隐秘和精致。我会用灰色的二号软芯铅笔把我最喜欢的句子摘抄到一个活页日记本里——事实上，这还是我妈妈送我的一份圣诞礼物呢。也就是说，我的书都是完整的。但因为摘抄需要工夫，因此选择哪些文字摘抄就成了一个痛苦的过程：我是不是真的喜欢《在切瑟尔海滩上》里的这两页文字?喜欢到我愿意一个字一个字地把它们抄下来，直抄到手指头都抽筋?(答案为“是”，因为这两页文字写得实在太美了。)

My mother doesn’t know any of this. She doesn’t know I prefer copying out to cutting out. I’ve never told her that I compile quotations at all.

我妈妈一点也不知道这件事。她不知道与剪贴相比，我更喜欢抄录。我压根就没告诉过她我也收集自己喜欢的文字。

There’s nothing very shocking about that; for all our chatting, we don’t have the words to begin certain conversations. My mother and I talk on the phone at least once a week, and in some ways, we are each other’s most dedicated listener. She tells me about teaching English to the leathery Russian ladies at the library where she volunteers; I tell her about job applications, cover letters, and a grant I’d like to win. We talk about my siblings, her siblings, the president, and Philip Seymour Hoffman movies. We make each other laugh so hard that I choke and she cries. But what we don’t say could fill up rooms. Fights with my father. Small failures in school. Anything, really, that pierces us.

其实这一点没什么值得大惊小怪的;尽管我们总是聊天，但对于某些特定的话题，我们总是不知道该怎么开口。妈妈和我一个星期至少会通一次电话，从某些方面来说,我们是对方最专心的听众。她会告诉我她在图书馆做志愿者教那些强悍的俄罗斯妇女英语时发生的事;而我会和她谈谈我找工作的事、我的求职信，还有我想要争取的补助什么的。我们会聊我的兄弟姐妹、她的兄弟姐妹、总统，还有菲利普•塞默•霍夫曼的电影。我们常常逗得对方大笑，笑得我喘不过气来，笑得她眼泪都流出来了。但我们不聊的东西也很多，多得几个房间都装不下。譬如她和我爸吵架了，又譬如我在学校遇到一些小挫折了。事实上，所有让我们伤心的事，我们都避而不谈。

I like to say that my mother has never told me “I love you.” There’s something reassuring in its self-pitying simplicity—as if the three-word absence explains who I am and wins me sympathy-so I carry it with me, like a label on my back. I synthesize our cumbersome relationship with an easy shorthand: my mother never said “I love you”. The last time my mother almost spoke the words was two years ago, when she called to tell me that a friend had been hospitalized.

我常常说，妈妈从来没和我说过“我爱你”。这句有点自怜的简单话语听起来颇有些自我安慰的味道——仿佛这三个字的缺失就为我为什么成为现在的我提供了借口，还为我赢得了同情——于是，我总是把这句话挂在嘴边，就像把它贴在背上当标签一样。对于我和妈妈之间的这种微妙关系，我总是简单地用一句“谁让她从来不说‘我爱你’”来总结。上一次妈妈差点说出这几个字是在两年前，当时她给我打电话，告诉我她有个朋友住院了。

I said, “I love you, Mom.” She said, “Thank you.” I haven’t said it since, but I’ve thought about it, and I’ve wondered why my mother doesn’t. A couple of years ago, I found a poem by Robert Hershon called “Sentimental Moment or Why Did the Baguette Cross the Road?” that supplied words for the blank spaces I try to understand in our conversations:

我对她说：“我爱你，妈妈。” 而她说:“谢谢。” 这件事后来我再没提过，但却始终在我的脑海里盘旋不去，我一直想知道为什么我妈妈从来不说这几个字。几年前，我读到罗伯特•赫尔希写的一首诗，诗名叫《感伤的时刻或面包为什么要过马路?》，这首诗填补了我和妈妈的对话中许多我不能理解的空白：

Don’t fill up on bread. I say absent-mindedly. The servings here are huge. My son, whose hair may be receding a bit, says: Did you really just say that to me? What he doesn’t knowis that when we’re walking together, when we get to the curb. I sometimes start to reachfor his hand.

别用面包把肚子塞满了。我心不在焉地说。这儿的菜量大得很，我的儿子，我那发线已开始后退少许的儿子，对我说：你怎么会跟我说这样的话? 他不知道的是当我们一起散步时，当我们走到马路边时，我有时会不自觉地伸出手想要去牵他的手。

It’s a humble poem, small in scope, not the stuff of epic heartbreak, yet poignant. After copying it down in my quotation journal, my wrist smudging the pencil into a gray haze as I wrote, I opened an e-mail I had begun to my mother, and added a posts cript: “This poem made me think of you,” with the 13 lines cut and pasted below. My mother doesn’t read poetry—or at least, she doesn’t tell me that she reads poetry-and I felt nervous clicking, “Send” .

这是一首朴实无华的小诗，篇幅不长，不是动人心魄的宏伟诗篇，但读了却让人感到有点心酸。我把它抄在了我的书摘日记本里，写的时候，手腕把灰色的铅笔字迹都蹭模糊了。然后，我打开一封写给妈妈的电子邮件，信已经开了头，我在后面加上了附言：“这首诗让我想起了你。”然后，我在电脑上把这首13行诗剪切下来，粘贴在了邮件下面。我妈妈从来不读诗——或至少她从没告诉过我她读诗——所以，点下“发送”键时，我感到心中隐隐的紧张和不安。

She never mentioned the poem. But the next time I went home for vacation, I noticed something new in the kitchen. Not on her quotation wall, but across the room, fixed to an antique magnetic board: Robert Hershon’s poem, printed on a sc rap of white paper in the old-fashioned font of a typewriter. The board hung above the radiator, where we drape wet rags and mittens dripping with snow, in the warmest spot in the kitchen. The poem still hangs there. Neither my mother nor I have ever spoken about it.

她从未和我提起过这首诗，但后来放假回家时，我注意到厨房里有了样新东西。这次不是在她常常粘纸片的墙上，而是在厨房的另一头，粘在一块老旧的磁力板上：罗伯特•赫尔希的诗。诗打印在一小片白纸上，字体有点过时，像是打字机打出来的字体。这块板子高高挂在暖气片的上方，那儿可是厨房里最温暖的地方，我们常在那儿挂湿抹布和粘着雪的手套。那首诗现在还挂在那儿，但无论妈妈还是我，都从未开口谈论过它。

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