I will tell you another thing that would be better, and that is, if I myself believed in anything of what I have just written. I swear to you, gentlemen, there is not one thing, not one word of what I have written that I really believe. That is, I believe it, perhaps, but at the same time I feel and suspect that I am lying like a cobbler.
“Then why have you written all this?” you will say to me. “I ought to put you underground for forty years without anything to do and then come to you in your cellar, to find out what stage you have reached! How can a man be left with nothing to do for forty years?”
“Isn’t that shameful4, isn’t that humiliating?” you will say, perhaps, wagging your heads contemptuously. “You thirst for life and try to settle the problems of life by a logical tangle5. And how persistent6, how insolent7 are your sallies, and at the same time what a scare you are in! You talk nonsense and are pleased with it; you say impudent8 things and are in continual alarm and apologising for them. You declare that you are afraid of nothing and at the same time try to ingratiate yourself in our good opinion. You declare that you are gnashing your teeth and at the same time you try to be witty9 so as to amuse us. You know that your witticisms10 are not witty, but you are evidently well satisfied with their literary value. You may, perhaps, have really suffered, but you have no respect for your own suffering. You may have sincerity11, but you have no modesty12; out of the pettiest vanity you expose your sincerity to publicity13 and ignominy. You doubtlessly mean to say something, but hide your last word through fear, because you have not the resolution to utter it, and only have a cowardly impudence14. You boast of consciousness, but you are not sure of your ground, for though your mind works, yet your heart is darkened and corrupt15, and you cannot have a full, genuine consciousness without a pure heart. And how intrusive16 you are, how you insist and grimace17! Lies, lies, lies!”
Of course I have myself made up all the things you say. That, too, is from underground. I have been for forty years listening to you through a crack under the floor. I have invented them myself, there was nothing else I could invent. It is no wonder that I have learned it by heart and it has taken a literary form . . . .
But can you really be so credulous18 as to think that I will print all this and give it to you to read too? And another problem: why do I call you “gentlemen,” why do I address you as though you really were my readers? Such confessions19 as I intend to make are never printed nor given to other people to read. Anyway, I am not strong-minded enough for that, and I don’t see why I should be. But you see a fancy has occurred to me and I want to realise it at all costs. Let me explain.
Every man has reminiscences which he would not tell to everyone, but only to his friends. He has other matters in his mind which he would not reveal even to his friends, but only to himself, and that in secret. But there are other things which a man is afraid to tell even to himself, and every decent man has a number of such things stored away in his mind. The more decent he is, the greater the number of such things in his mind. Anyway, I have only lately determined20 to remember some of my early adventures. Till now I have always avoided them, even with a certain uneasiness. Now, when I am not only recalling them, but have actually decided21 to write an account of them, I want to try the experiment whether one can, even with oneself, be perfectly22 open and not take fright at the whole truth. I will observe, in parenthesis23, that Heine says that a true autobiography24 is almost an impossibility, and that man is bound to lie about himself. He considers that Rousseau certainly told lies about himself in his confessions, and even intentionally25 lied, out of vanity. I am convinced that Heine is right; I quite understand how sometimes one may, out of sheer vanity, attribute regular crimes to oneself, and indeed I can very well conceive that kind of vanity. But Heine judged of people who made their confessions to the public. I write only for myself, and I wish to declare once and for all that if I write as though I were addressing readers, that is simply because it is easier for me to write in that form. It is a form, an empty form — I shall never have readers. I have made this plain already . . .
I don’t wish to be hampered26 by any restrictions27 in the compilation28 of my notes. I shall not attempt any system or method. I will jot29 things down as I remember them.
But here, perhaps, someone will catch at the word and ask me: if you really don’t reckon on readers, why do you make such compacts with yourself — and on paper too — that is, that you won’t attempt any system or method, that you jot things down as you remember them, and so on, and so on? Why are you explaining? Why do you apologise?
Well, there it is, I answer.
There is a whole psychology30 in all this, though. Perhaps it is simply that I am a coward. And perhaps that I purposely imagine an audience before me in order that I may be more dignified31 while I write. There are perhaps thousands of reasons. Again, what is my object precisely32 in writing? If it is not for the benefit of the public why should I not simply recall these incidents in my own mind without putting them on paper?
Quite so; but yet it is more imposing33 on paper. There is something more impressive in it; I shall be better able to criticise34 myself and improve my style. Besides, I shall perhaps obtain actual relief from writing. Today, for instance, I am particularly oppressed by one memory of a distant past. It came back vividly35 to my mind a few days ago, and has remained haunting me like an annoying tune36 that one cannot get rid of. And yet I must get rid of it somehow. I have hundreds of such reminiscences; but at times some one stands out from the hundred and oppresses me. For some reason I believe that if I write it down I should get rid of it. Why not try?
Besides, I am bored, and I never have anything to do. Writing will be a sort of work. They say work makes man kind-hearted and honest. Well, here is a chance for me, anyway.
Snow is falling today, yellow and dingy37. It fell yesterday, too, and a few days ago. I fancy it is the wet snow that has reminded me of that incident which I cannot shake off now. And so let it be a story A PROPOS of the falling snow.
点击收听单词发音
1 inertia | |
adj.惰性,惯性,懒惰,迟钝 | |
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2 hurrah | |
int.好哇,万岁,乌拉 | |
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3 advantageous | |
adj.有利的;有帮助的 | |
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4 shameful | |
adj.可耻的,不道德的 | |
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5 tangle | |
n.纠缠;缠结;混乱;v.(使)缠绕;变乱 | |
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6 persistent | |
adj.坚持不懈的,执意的;持续的 | |
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7 insolent | |
adj.傲慢的,无理的 | |
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8 impudent | |
adj.鲁莽的,卑鄙的,厚颜无耻的 | |
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9 witty | |
adj.机智的,风趣的 | |
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10 witticisms | |
n.妙语,俏皮话( witticism的名词复数 ) | |
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11 sincerity | |
n.真诚,诚意;真实 | |
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12 modesty | |
n.谦逊,虚心,端庄,稳重,羞怯,朴素 | |
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13 publicity | |
n.众所周知,闻名;宣传,广告 | |
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14 impudence | |
n.厚颜无耻;冒失;无礼 | |
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15 corrupt | |
v.贿赂,收买;adj.腐败的,贪污的 | |
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16 intrusive | |
adj.打搅的;侵扰的 | |
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17 grimace | |
v.做鬼脸,面部歪扭 | |
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18 credulous | |
adj.轻信的,易信的 | |
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19 confessions | |
n.承认( confession的名词复数 );自首;声明;(向神父的)忏悔 | |
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20 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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21 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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22 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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23 parenthesis | |
n.圆括号,插入语,插曲,间歇,停歇 | |
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24 autobiography | |
n.自传 | |
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25 intentionally | |
ad.故意地,有意地 | |
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26 hampered | |
妨碍,束缚,限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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27 restrictions | |
约束( restriction的名词复数 ); 管制; 制约因素; 带限制性的条件(或规则) | |
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28 compilation | |
n.编译,编辑 | |
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29 jot | |
n.少量;vi.草草记下;vt.匆匆写下 | |
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30 psychology | |
n.心理,心理学,心理状态 | |
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31 dignified | |
a.可敬的,高贵的 | |
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32 precisely | |
adv.恰好,正好,精确地,细致地 | |
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33 imposing | |
adj.使人难忘的,壮丽的,堂皇的,雄伟的 | |
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34 criticise | |
v.批评,评论;非难 | |
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35 vividly | |
adv.清楚地,鲜明地,生动地 | |
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36 tune | |
n.调子;和谐,协调;v.调音,调节,调整 | |
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37 dingy | |
adj.昏暗的,肮脏的 | |
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