by Gwee Li Sui
after accounting for the fear of everything.
3
In the holding pattern,
at the right height and angle in the day,
from the window seat
you can see the whole of Singapore,
a badly cut diamond
reaching over the earth’s curvature
as if to escape
off the edge of the visible.
At this moment, you understand
how much of a miniature
this country really is
that circling at a few hundred metres
gives you an overview,
whereas, with other countries,
it would be suborbital space
before their outlines show.
In contrast to how the street-level
city swamps you with detail,
the endless beehive motion
its entropic purpose admitting
no small degree of ambiguity
around the edges,
up here it all seems so clear:
ground control to Major Tom,
the only thing you can do
is to sit tightly tethered
as the wingtip dips again
towards dimpled water,
and, when the airframe straightens,
the shape before you
has lost its further reaches
for limning the building blocks
scattered along a coast
now closer to hand.
The closer you get,
the more fine grain clutches you
and refuses to let go,
burying momentary reification
in the domain of visions
once seen, then dropping away
in slow banks of memory
crammed with ever more detail.
The island will survive you,
will survive the instants
you fail to capture
even through your camera
yet store in expansions of data,
will survive your descent,
the thud of rubber on tarmac,
the thrust of engines in reverse
and the standing delay
to disembarkation,
but as you heave your luggage
off languid carousels
you will never pause to ask
what becomes of the plane,
its cabin darkened,
its turbines dreaming of thin air.
人生三段以后
作者：林高
1
胖嘟嘟坠地，重八磅有余，1949年母亲在静山村产下我。母亲说，农历八月廿五日，晚上八点。肖牛。我在静山村长大，一直到服完兵役，静山村变成红茂桥新镇。我家搬到红茂桥新镇最先建好的组屋，大牌208。静山村不在了，家却在的，在记忆里。我庆幸生命里有静山村给我的滋育并保护了我的赤子之心。
母亲目不识丁，十六岁嫁给父亲。父亲能用潮语读星洲日报，一介草民，卖力气过日子。那年月，日子破个洞，也露不出馅来。那么穷，拿什么来教育孩子呢？
我家后面是橡胶林，疏疏落落有人家。橡胶林里蚊子多。我和童伴跑到林子里拾橡树种子，蚊子像轰炸机来袭似的嗡嗡响。一阵风吹来，噼里啪啦掉下的种子像落下的炸弹。蚊子的侵袭，我两只手对付不了的。走出林子，脖子手臂小腿早被叮了，奇痒。而我们却习以为常，数种子。土丸子一般，颜色油亮，深褐里有淡灰的纹路如流水行云，煞是好看。发觉橡树种子的美，已是中学生了。小时候，拾来当弹子玩，顽皮起来把它摩擦热了烫人取乐，甚至把它砸碎了出气。
晚上听外祖父讲古讲到森林里有“山老鼠”，总压低声音。林子里于是充满神秘。童稚的心里，漆黑便可能躲藏着可怕的东西，会突然跳出来。黑夜给了我黑色的眼睛，却看到莫名的恐怖。外祖父“过番”到柔佛，再辗转到新加坡。“山老鼠”就是藏匿在森林里的马共，那是读中学的时候我才弄明白的。
从我家到实龙岗花园搭车上学，步行得二十几分钟。路蜿蜒蛇行。两边荒草树丛房子园圃。六十年代吧，我读高小的时候，才有路灯。 其实，天天走，路在脑子里蜿蜒蛇行，摸黑过桥也不会掉进水沟里去的。我读的光洋小学在林大头巴刹附近。外婆在巴刹外梯级边摆摊子卖鲜花，大清早就出门。我起个大早，外婆卖花去我上学。读中学，我有辆破脚踏车骑了。下午外婆收摊子买菜回来，我等她，帮她载篮子。静山路是一条泥路，艳阳天尘土飞扬，雨天泥泞，若下倾盆大雨，路变成了排水道，夹泥沙而下。我脱了鞋子提在手上，涉水而行，上学不迟到。雨水冲刷的缘故，路面凹凹凸凸，骑脚车如耍杂技，临山崖，陷深谷，我不当一回事。到了某个时候，静山路实在不行了，村民便主动分工各修筑一段，回复了平坦。这样一个穷村落，它拿什么孕育孩子们的成长呢？
那年月，中学生下了课时间多半是自己的。我喜欢种花种草。母亲在院子里晾衣服，我在院子里用砖头支起的花架，三层，摆了数十盆，种凤仙茉莉芍药变叶木之类。花盆是用我的零用钱买的。花开叶红的时候，花架衬上衣架，颇有些乡下人家的闲适阳光。我喜欢锄地，赤脚踩在泥土上种菜，种番薯甘蔗木瓜。浇水施肥，用的是自家的粪便，特肥沃。油油绿的苋菜空心菜一垄一垄的。还有manis 菜，炒蛋，母亲最爱吃。Manis 是马来语，甜蜜的意思。而今看到那些青菜常感到亲切，那是静山村自家园圃留给我的记忆。
我读光洋小学。校舍是木板房子，两层楼。校长郑允文先生住二楼，我的课室和他的家隔一道板墙。郑校长高高瘦瘦，戴眼镜，一脸严肃。他到课室来讲话，倒挺和蔼的。校长太太在同一所学校教书，天天拿一支藤条，走来走去，学生都怕她。对学生她不讲软话。学校后来扩建，兼办中学。我升上中学。崭新的校舍体面多了。但是，与今日的学校相比，环境、设备、资源……实在远远比不上。
母亲爱唠叨，唠叨个不完。母亲寓教于唠叨，她觉得，日常里的琐琐碎碎若养成了恶习，关系到一个人的气质。父亲教子女的方法是骂，火起来连駡带打。有一点，父亲是不含糊的，他坚信世间有天理，仁义是不能不顾的，奸诈是不能学的。他写下八个字训诫我：律己从严，待人从宽。学会做人才能在社会上立足，是父母共同的信念。
家里穷，没有故事书，没有玩具。可是，孩子懂得玩自己发明的游戏，走出家门，前后左右是自由的天地，有玩不完的花样。游戏的时候，孩子把大人教的道德教条贯彻到游戏里，犯罪要被罚，行善最后受赏。村口有个七寨庙，每年演大戏两次，一次潮州一次福建。看大戏是村子里最兴奋的事。昏君乱政，奸臣害忠臣，演的都是这些老故事。我看得津津有味。后港九皇爷圣诞的时候，请好的戏班演出，比如老赛桃、织云等戏班都各有出名的戏子。我跟外婆去看，跟着大人议论剧情。现在想起来，戏里的仁义、忠奸、廉耻……懵懵懂懂在心里扎了根。
到了学校，对老师的尊敬是发自内心的自然举止。上半天课，放学就回家。学业不紧张，考试不紧张。中华文选是我最喜欢上的课。好文章，老师讲得好，我对老师越发尊敬了。课文的精彩、作者的精彩、老师的精彩在课室里弥漫开来振奋人心的氛围。语文教学对我的潜移默化是毋庸置疑的。
那个贫困的时代，那个破陋的村落，那种简单的日子，已经过去了，我们不会要回来。贫困与破陋提供的“简单”显然有缺憾，可它留下的记忆一直复活在脑子里。在我的一生里，某个时刻，忽然噔一声它就蹦出来，看！“简单”里有可贵的价值；倘若把它的缺憾充实了，补足了，那“简单”就是天长地久的幸福。
2
走了大半段路，回头看自己，哪
位作者、哪本书对自己有着深深远远的影响？
《红楼梦》——千真万确！
我说的是写作态度上，以及对自己，对人世间的有情与无情的观照。
坐在第23教室听乐蘅军老师讲《红楼梦》，我已三十三岁了。之前读过的、知道的《红楼梦》，和现在的我，都怦然心动。追！要追下去。追踪。追问。追求。
三十二岁我踏进台大文学院。二年级上古典小说，课排在早上八点。因缘很奇妙。一样不少，都齐了：《红楼梦》、乐蘅军、我，开始共创一个可能，在谁也不肯定的时段——1982年。我相信因缘的。
乐老师的眼睛闪闪发亮。那样的眼睛，才情不会少的，而且已储存了太多的知识与灼见，而且善解人意。先看到她亲切的微笑，乐老师步子姗姗每次走进教室。开始讲课她便总有从何说起的紧张。把课讲好不难，可是，怎么样的好？小说的？人生的？哲思的？情感的？作者的？读者的？红学家的？层层穿透，最后拿捏在她手里，如此真实，是自己的。
大地白茫茫一片真干净！不是幻吗？空吗？梦吗？无吗？
却拿捏在自己手里，如假包换。乐老师拿捏在手里，她怎么交给我们呢，心的力量！难怪她很有些紧张。
后来我站在讲台上，对高中主修文学的学生讲《红楼梦》。对乐老师的“紧张”有了更为细致的了解。一滴泪一个字，从曹雪芹笔下我听到，隐隐约约，有个声音在呼唤。他用文字呼唤真挚的灵魂，呼唤读者。呼唤最后化作泪，一滴泪一个字，落在人世间读者的头上。
满纸荒唐言，一把辛酸泪。
都云作者痴，谁解其中味？
这滋味怎么咀嚼出来，曹雪芹？他不是在写小说。他在写对人世间的觉悟，写对生命的觉悟。人世间不会有宝玉黛玉这样的人物？人世间有、必须有这样的人物。有与没有之间比衬出来的是，人世间的渴望、期盼、矛盾、妥协、放弃、堕落。说白了，宝黛的爱情故事是曹雪芹磨砺出来一面观照人世间的镜子。这面镜子映照出来许许多多是非、善恶、黑白、真假、苦乐、美丑、高低、长短……许多日常。
日常是美好的。人情物种四时风光……有心就能发现美的存在。《红楼梦》写日常，把日常写得极好。然而，《红楼梦》从常看见了无常，提升了对美的认识。不是放弃，不是否定，是看见了美的本质，美的可能变化，美的升华……
黛玉的死是一种醒悟，宝玉的出走是一种看见，大地白茫茫真干净是一个新的开始。
因色见空，我们看见空里的有，空里的真。
批阅十载，增删五次，曹雪芹恳挚的一颗心，带泪写下《红楼梦》。曹雪芹没有把人世间虚无了寂灭了，恰恰相反，曹雪芹一腔热泪暖了我们的心。
而且一直温着我握笔的手。因缘很奇妙。我觉得我握笔的手一直有曹雪芹给了我的力量。心的力量。
3
近黄昏，所以夕阳无限好。
我十分珍惜我的黄昏岁月。退休后，摆脱了体制的束缚，心情开朗，步履轻松。鸟在天空飞，鱼在大海游，我在青山里走。上世纪九十年代，我写过一篇散文——《心里有一座山》。山的形象不止一次出现在我的诗文里。登山是个隐喻。我这样说：我固执地认为，登山是严肃的旅程。虽然艰苦，却也有发现，有创意，有喜悦；整个过程是不断蓄养，不断萌生，不断包容。
所谓严肃，艰苦云云，含有像我这样的华文写作者对社会给予的烙印的体验与认知。生于斯，我们一起拼搏的岛国，标榜以母语传承文化的血脉。华文的生命力几经波折，扑扑蹎蹎之后，却面无血色了，薪火相传云云实难以承受的重。文化的精神与价值本应活于日常里，自然淘汰芜杂，不断创生新意。华文失去了强劲的活力，且日渐衰落，华文文学自然也就一蹶不振。
这是我的黄昏岁月必须面对的现实。
华文文学有前景吗？或者说，文学有前景吗？在这个科技主导世界潮流、时间越走越快的环球跑道上，声色光影极尽其能事地刺激我们的感官，追逐我们的步伐。不识时务者才去做追求意义的梦，追梦见到的成果也只能拼贴于小众的小空间 。文学的世界越“平面”了，越缩小了。文学有多少挽回的力量？华文文学有多少挽回的力量？
然而，读者会不会有一天回过头来对作者说，对岛国说：来，我们一起把“平面世界”充实起来，变成一个“立体世界”，一个声色光影都有、无限宽大的“心灵世界”。
我是向积极处、向明亮处看的。文学仍放射它的光芒。文学一直向积极处、向明亮处看。到了某个时候，回归之所以可能，因为文学里有一颗赤诚的心在召唤。
心须要有个家。高更在人生的某个阶段写下这样的话，问自己。问我们。
我们从哪里来？
我们要到哪里去？
我们是什么？
高更放弃证劵市场的财富，放弃都市文明，离开家庭，出人意表地跑到大溪地，南太平洋一个荒岛上与原住民共处。他回到大自然天地之初，是为了寻找生命的源头？生命的价值？
活着，我们都会探问生命的源头吧！高更的三个问题是连串的，提示了转折的契机——对探问的意义的寻找。智者都曾问过、思考过相类的问题。哲学家解答的时候不得不越走越高远，甚至到了云中楼台。艺术家则走向人世间，揭示生活的本质，文明的扭曲，生命的陷阱——创立一个精神家园。
文学让我们看到生活的另一面。包含了两方面，生活才是完整的、幸福的。
引颈期盼，回归是可能的。文学的努力在于此。文学的意义在于此。我对此深信不疑。我锲而不舍的就是：写作。
4
落红不是无情物
化作春泥更护花
我用我的文字浇灌岛国的土地。花开结子。岛国的土地是肥沃的，当它繁殖出来新的品种花开结子以后……
而我，锲而不舍的就是写作。
The Three Stages of Life, and After
BY LIN GAO
Translated by Jeremy Tiang
1
In 1949, my mother gave birth to me in Cheng San Village, and I arrived on earth as a plump baby weighing just over eight pounds. She later told me that this happened at eight o’clock at night on the twenty-fifth day of the eighth month in the lunar calendar in the year of the ox. I grew up in Cheng San Village all the way till National Service, when Cheng San became Ang Mo Kio New Town. My family moved into one of the first flats in Ang Mo Kio, Block 208. Cheng San Village no longer exists, but my home does in my memory. I rejoice that there was once a place like Cheng San Village that nurtured me and protected my pure and innocent heart.
My mother, who was illiterate, married my father when she was sixteen. My father could read the Sin Chew Jit Poh newspaper in Teochew. He was a worker, part of the grassroots, and sold his labour to make a living. Those days were like an empty dumpling: if you poked a hole in them, no filling would come out. Living in such poverty, what could they use to educate a child?
There was a rubber plantation behind our home with a few scattered houses among the trees, not to mention many mosquitoes. When my playmates and I ran through the plantation collecting rubber seeds, those insects would attack us, buzzing so loudly that they could have been bomber jets. When a gust of wind blew, rubber seeds would fall like bombs – pak pak pak. My two hands couldn’t fend off the mosquitoes’ assault, and, when we left the forest, I would be itching all over, my neck, arms, and calves all been bitten. We were used to it and shrugged it off, counting our seeds, which, like balls of earth, were of a dark, shiny colour, a deep brown with pale grey threads like flowing water or drifting clouds, rather st
unning to look at. By the time I noticed the beauty of rubber tree seeds, I was already in secondary school. As young children, we played with them like marbles or, if we felt mischievous, would rub them till burning hot and use them to “burn” our friends or smash them to let off some steam.
At night, I listened to my grandfather talk in a low voice about the old days when there were “mountain rats” in the jungle. These trees were full of mystery, and my childish mind imagined all kinds of dreadful things hidden in the pitch darkness that might jump out at me suddenly. The black night gave me black eyes, but all I saw was a nameless terror. Grandfather had crossed over to Johor and then moved on to Singapore. The “mountain rats” were the Malayan Communist Party guerillas who hid in the jungle. This only became clear to me when I was in secondary school.
In order to take the bus to school in Serangoon Gardens, I first had to walk for more than twenty minutes through a winding jungle path with wilderness as well as houses and gardens on either side. It was the sixties, and we didn’t get streetlights until I was in Pre-U One. But, after taking this route daily, the path twisted through my brain too, and I could even cross a bridge in the dark without falling into the ditch below. I studied at Kong Yiong Primary School, near Lim Tua Tow Market. My grandmother sold flowers on the steps outside the market and left the house early in the morning. I work up early too, and, while she was selling flowers, I went to study. By secondary school, I was commuting on a broken-down bicycle. In the afternoon, my grandmother would stop work, do some marketing, and go home. I would wait for her and help carry her basket. Cheng Sang Road was a dirt track, sending sand flying up into the air on sunny days, turning into mud when it rained, and becoming a drain filled with silt during a storm. I would take off my shoes and clutch them while I stepped into the water in order not to be late for school. Being so frequently assaulted by rain, the road surface was bumpy, making a bike ride like performing circus tricks, riding over cliffs and into valleys, but that was nothing to me. After a certain point, when Cheng San Road had become truly unusable, the villagers shared out the labour and restored a section each until it was smooth again. What could a village as poor as that have to nurture children with?
