适合的才是最好的
Suit Is Best
威廉·黑兹利特 / William Hazlitt
一个单词可能音节嘹亮，字母很多，单就它的学术价值和新奇感来说，可能是令人叹赏的，然而把它放在具体的语境中，也可能毫无意义。表达作者的写作意图不是依靠词汇的华丽和夸张，而是对作者主题的贴切适用。正如在建筑中，不必在意材料的大小和光泽，只要它们砌合得完整严实，就能牢固地支撑拱门。又或是在建筑物中，木楔和钉子的支撑作用有时竟与大件木料同等重要，它的作用远远胜过那些徒有其表、不结实的装饰部件。我讨厌那些空占地方的东西，讨厌满载一大堆空纸盒的车招摇过市，也讨厌堆砌那些大而无实际内容的词汇。一个人写文章，只要他不是故意用重重锦绣帐幔和多余伪装完全遮掩自己的写作意图，他总会从熟悉的日常用语中想出一二十种说法，这种语言更接近他所要表达的情感。最后，他就会因为不知道挑选哪一种说法能更好地表达自己而发愁！这样看来，考拜特先生所谓的“第一印象就是最好的说法”未必可靠。这样出现的字眼也许很好，可是经过一次次推敲，就会发现更好的字眼。这种字眼，也许来源于自然的暗示，但经过对主题清新活泼的推理，会自然而然地想到。
The proper force of words lies not in the words themselves， but in their application. A word may be a fine sounding word， of an unusual length， and very imposing from its learning and novelty， and yet in the connection in which it is introduced may be quite pointless and irrelevant. It is not pomp or pretension， but the adaptation of the expression to the idea， that clenches a writer’s meaning： as it is not the size or glossiness of the materials， but their being fitted each to its place， that gives strength to the arch； or as the pegs and nails are as necessary to the support of the building as the larger timbers， and more so than the mere showy， unsubstantial ornaments. I hate anything that occupies more space than it is worth. I hate to see a load of bandboxes go along the street， and I hate to see a parcel of big words without anything in them. A person who does not deliberately dimples of all his thoughts alike in cumbrous draperies and flimsy disguises—may strike out twenty varieties of familiar everyday language， each coming somewhat nearer to the feeling he wants to convey， and at last not hit upon that particular and only one which may be said to be identical with the exact impression in his mind. This would seem to show that Mr. Cobalt is hardly right in saying that the first word that occurs is always the best. It may be a very good one； and yet a better may present itself on reflection or from time to time. It may be suggested naturally， however， and spontaneously， from a fresh and lively conception of the subject.
童 年
Childhood
列夫·托尔斯泰 / Leo Tolstoy
快乐的，快乐的，不再回来的童年时代啊！怎能不让我热爱和珍视对你的回忆呢？这些回忆让我精神亢奋、心灵欢快，是我无限乐趣的源泉。
有时，我会回忆起流逝的岁月。那时跑不动了，我就在茶桌旁那把高背安乐椅上安逸地坐下来；夜深了，我早就喝光我杯里的牛奶，迷迷糊糊地合上眼睛，静坐在那儿聆听妈妈在同什么人说话，她的声音是那么婉转优美！那声音不停地在我的心灵深处荡漾，让我想起那段美妙的时光。我用迷糊的睡眼渴望地看着妈妈的脸。忽然，妈妈的身影逐渐变小，她的面孔缩小成了一个小点。可是，我依然可以看到她，她笑眯眯地瞥了我一眼。不知什么缘故，我喜欢看见妈妈变得这么小的样子。我眨了眨双眼，她的样子变得和瞳人里的小孩儿一样大了。后来我被惊醒了，画面也不见了。我半眯着眼睛，举目四望，努力想使梦中的景象再现，却一点儿也想不起来了。我站起来，又马上惬意地躺回安乐椅上。
“你又睡着了，小尼古拉斯，”妈妈对我说，“你还是上楼去睡比较好。”
“我不想睡，妈妈，”我朦朦胧胧地念叨，我心里装的都是那些迷幻而幸福的梦想。还是小孩的我抵挡不住那浓浓的睡意，眼皮慢慢合了起来，刹那间就进入了沉沉的梦乡，直到最终被人唤醒。朦胧间，我觉得有人用手在轻轻地抚摩我，这种触摸的感觉告诉我，是妈妈的手。睡梦中的我情不自禁地握住那只手，把它牢牢地按在嘴唇上。所有的人都已经离开，客厅里只剩下一根燃烧的蜡烛。妈妈说，她要自己叫醒我。妈妈坐在我睡的那张椅子的扶手上，用她那温暖的手抚摸着我的头发，用我熟悉的、暖人的声音在我耳边说：“起来吧，我的乖宝贝，该去睡觉了。”
她不会因为任何人嫉妒的眼光而有丝毫犹疑：她根本不顾虑把她的全部温柔和慈爱赋予我。我合着眼，只是一次又一次地亲她的手。
“起来吧，我的天使！”
她的另外一只手搂住我的脖子。手指滑过脖子，让我觉得很痒痒。房间里没有一点儿声音，光线忽明忽暗，但挠痒让我精神振奋，睡意全无。此刻，妈妈就坐在我的身边——这我感觉得到——充满爱意地抚摩着我；我听到她的声音，真实地感觉到她的气息。我赶紧跳了起来，双手抱住妈妈的脖颈，把头钻进她的怀里，叹息了一声，说道：“噢，亲爱的，亲爱的妈妈，我多么爱你呀！”
妈妈露出忧郁而迷人的微笑，然后用双手托住我的头，亲亲我的前额，最后抱起来让我坐在她的腿上。“这么说，你十分爱我？”她停了片刻，随后说，“记住，你一定要永远爱我，永远不要忘了我。如果妈妈不在这儿了，你能保证永远不忘掉她吗？永远不忘记，尼古林卡（尼古拉斯的小名）？”她更加轻柔地亲我。
“不，不要这么说，我亲爱的妈妈，我最亲爱的妈妈！”我喊了起来，使劲抱住她的双腿，爱和狂喜的泪水止不住地往下流。
所有的事情都过去后，我回到楼上，虔诚地站在圣像前祷告：“主啊，求你祝福我的爸爸和妈妈。”幼稚的我重复着为亲爱的妈妈祈祷——我对她的爱和对上帝的爱神奇地融合在了一起。
说完祈祷词后，我爬进被窝，心情是又轻快，又平和，又快乐。美梦接二连三，我梦见了什么呢？它们大都很模糊，但都充满了纯洁的爱和对幸福的向往。随后，我就把我宠爱的瓷玩具—— 一只小狗或者一只小兔——放到枕头后面的床角，看着它们如此安逸温暖地躺在那里，我就感到心满意足了。接着，我又祈祷，恳求上帝赐给大家幸福，让人们都心想事成，还恳求上帝让明天有个好天气，那样我们才能去散步；后来我翻了一下身，思绪和梦境交织混杂在一起；最后，我舒服地进入了梦乡，脸上还留着湿漉漉的泪水。
只有童年时代才会有朝气蓬勃、心无杂念的心情，我们童年时对爱的向往和对信仰的坚定，在我们以后的人生岁月里真的还能再拥有吗？当天真的喜悦和对爱的无限渴求——这两种崇高的美德——成为生命中仅有的愿望，我们的生命中，还会有比这更美妙的事物吗？那些衷心的祈祷现在在哪里？最珍贵的礼物——由情感激发的纯洁泪水——现在又在哪里呢？守护天使曾降临在我们周围，微笑着拭去那些眼泪，指引我们进入那充满无法形容的童真乐趣的甜蜜梦境。难道生活在我们的心头划过的伤痕，已经让那些泪水和欢乐永远远离我们了吗？难道剩下的只是对昔日的回忆了吗？
Happy， happy， never-returning time of childhood！ How can we help loving and dwelling upon its recollections？ They cheer and elevate the soul， and become to one a source of higher joys.
Sometimes， when dreaming of bygone days， fancy that， tired out with running about， I have sat down in my high arm-chair by the tea-table. It is late， and I have long since drunk my cup of milk. My eyes are heavy with sleep as I sit there and listen. How could I not listen， seeing that Mamma is speaking to somebody， and that the sound of her voice is so melodious and kind？ How much its echoes recall to my heart！ With my eyes veiled with drowsiness I gaze at her wistfully. Suddenly she seems to grow smaller and smaller， and her face vanishes to a point； yet I can still see it—can still see her as she looks at me and smiles. Somehow it pleases me to see her grown so small. I blink and blink， yet she looks no larger than a boy reflected in the pupil of an eye. Then I rouse myself， and the picture fades. Once more I half-close my eyes， and cast about to try and recall the dream， but it has gone， I rise to my feet， only to fall back comfortably into the armchair.
“There！You are falling asleep again， little Nicolas，” says Mamma. “You had better go to by-by.”
“No， I won’t go to sleep， Mamma，” I reply， though almost inaudibly， for pleasant dreams are filling all my soul. The sound sleep of childhood is weighing my eyelids down， and for a few moments. I sink into slumber and oblivion until awakened by some one. I feel in my sleep as though a soft hand were caressing me. I know it by the touch， and， though still dreaming， I seize hold of it and press it to my lips. Every one else has gone to bed， and only one candle remains burning in the drawing-room. Mamma has said that she herself will wake me. She sits down on the arm of the chair in which I am asleep， with her soft hand stroking my hair， and I hear her beloved， well-known voice say in my ear： “Get up， my darling. It is time to go by-by.”
No envious gaze sees her now. She is not afraid to shed upon me the whole of her tenderness and love. I do not wake up， yet I kiss and kiss her hand.
“Get up， then， my angel.”
