http://www.amazon.com/What-World-Will-Water-Leaves/dp/0976717778
这个短篇小说集搜集了许多求而不得的故事。
特别推荐主打故事，即最后篇，“当水离我们而去，世界会是什么样” 。
Friday, August 31, 2012
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
用过的胶布
原文见前一帖 “Used Sellotape"
－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－
用过的胶布
作者：Kailash Srinivasan
翻译：Mina
她差不多是疯了。我们第10次约会的时候，她说：“我怀了你的孩子。”我吞下一整罐的水，又作势叫服务员再拿一罐，她把他嘘走了，然后对我说：“开玩笑的。看你的反应。”两天后，我正享用一大杯燕麦啤酒；罗杰费德勒正狂扁一个三脚猫。她把自己的朗姆酒可乐推到一边，点上一只薄荷香烟。她的眼睛紧盯着我。我虽忙着看比赛，但也感觉得到她的视线。
“我得乳腺癌了，”她说道，眼睛湿润。“你还爱我吗？”
乳房对我很重要，我暗想。但有时候实用主义是行不通的。我说道：“你疯了吗？我当然爱你。”然后迅速把视线转移道面前的一盘坚果上。
“你太傻了。”她笑道，“我爱我的胸部，绝对不会让它们出任何状况。”
那天晚上我没再多想。在床上，我采取低调，不让自己靠近她的胸部。结束的时候，我的舌头感觉像粘粘的砂纸。她则一直笑着。她睡着的时候，衬衫敞开着——这是我们从共用一把牙刷以来第一次。我边幻想着伊娃格林在《梦想者》里裸舞，边自己解决，而且不让床嘎吱作响。她把我的手拉去盖在她的乳房上。
“对我好一点，” 她早上警告我， 同时漫不经心地咬了一口抹了黄油的烤面包片。 “不然我会在我们婚礼那天和神父私奔。”
我的父母连她的名字都不知道。
她小口喝着我的朋友从夏威夷带来的咖啡，读着我写的故事，我每天早上写的那些故事（在我上班去干那份愚蠢的记者工作之前）。然后她双眼放光地问：“这个故事是写我的吗？”
她比我小6岁，双颊留有不少青春痘斑，头发黝黑而卷曲，胸部美丽又柔滑。我喜欢牵着她的小手走在拥挤的街道上；不让其他男人和男孩故意挤过她。
我的门铃响了。我从窥视孔里看是谁，因为我桌子上有一杯加了半个柠檬的冰科洛拿酒。我把它放在桌子上本来就有的一圈水痕里，不想留下太多的水痕。我从孔里只看到黑暗。我知道是她 ，因为她总是用无名指堵着小孔。我一打开门，她就扑上来，把我推倒在坚硬、冰冷的大理石地板上。我的背很痛，但是吻着她的嘴唇，我就不介意了。她说可以喝一杯，但是她闻起来都是红酒味。
我们每次见面的时候，她都会谈起以前的恋人，眼里闪耀着被众人追求的自豪。但我只要一提自己的风流韵事，她就勃然大怒。她还是学生，靠父亲每月一号按时寄的钱，过着优越的生活。但是她没有电视。“我不需要电视。”她说，“没时间。”但每次她来我这儿，第一件事就是打开电视，看VHI台的音乐节目。我俩身体交织的时候，她也不把它关上。
那天晚上，也就是我和她讲电话的那天晚上。一个孩子追着一只灰色的毛乎乎的猫穿过马路。我紧急刹车，车轮打滑翻在泥泞的路上，我摔了个结实。电话还没挂，她一直说她的头发——是烫卷，拉直还是染色。我提到过一次我正躺在路上，但是她忙于选择适合的发色，可能是要和瞳孔颜色搭配。呆会打过来 在她的词典里是绝对禁止的。“呆会？为什么？有什么重要的事儿让你现在不能和我说？”她会问。所以，我躺在路中央，等她自己说累了挂电话。”是的，我也爱你。”我说，脸上挂着笑（我没笑的话，她可以从我的声调里感觉到，就是我的嘴唇没有拉长时的声调）。人渐渐聚拢过来要帮忙，但又疑惑地站着。我示意自己没事，他们散开。
我喉咙发炎的时候，她给我煲汤，切蔬菜－胡萝卜，豆子，包菜¬——用她涂着精致指甲油的纤纤玉指。她一勺一勺喂我热汤，先用那两瓣柔软的嘴唇吹一吹，再送过来。然后她去见朋友，她说那人对他有意思，想在离别前见她。
“如果我跳楼，你会不会跟我一起跳？”她那天晚上边亲我的脖子后边，边问。我喘息。为了做爱，“会的 。”
我第一次发表短篇小说时，她尖叫，大笑，哭泣，她像为我怀孕了那样，兴奋地跳起来。我从没见过有人这样为我高兴，我自己都没有。我想象着怎样向她求婚。
那天，暴风雨压过屋檐，紫色的云团像血栓那样，闪电击中了变电器，砰得一声，就像受潮的烟花。我取出蜡烛和火柴，还有一个手电。蜡烛投出长长的阴影，我看着她，心里充满爱意。她坐在沙发上，和往常一样双腿翘起，双眸微合，脸上的青春痘痕闪亮地印在黄色的烛光里。我伸手去摸上衣口袋的戒指；全身紧张地微颤。
她说，“我那天晚上和他接吻了，我去见他的那天晚上。”
我一拳砸在咖啡桌上，骨头都碎了。雨滴打在走廊的锡皮屋顶上。我的嘴巴干涩，一股苦汁涌上喉头，闪电撕裂了天空。蜡烛熄灭，烛芯起烟，闻起来像烧橡胶。
之后，风雨雷电大作，我的呼吸渐渐地平静了下来。她起身离去了。
我的心，就像用过的胶布。
－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－
用过的胶布
作者：Kailash Srinivasan
翻译：Mina
她差不多是疯了。我们第10次约会的时候，她说：“我怀了你的孩子。”我吞下一整罐的水，又作势叫服务员再拿一罐，她把他嘘走了，然后对我说：“开玩笑的。看你的反应。”两天后，我正享用一大杯燕麦啤酒；罗杰费德勒正狂扁一个三脚猫。她把自己的朗姆酒可乐推到一边，点上一只薄荷香烟。她的眼睛紧盯着我。我虽忙着看比赛，但也感觉得到她的视线。
“我得乳腺癌了，”她说道，眼睛湿润。“你还爱我吗？”
乳房对我很重要，我暗想。但有时候实用主义是行不通的。我说道：“你疯了吗？我当然爱你。”然后迅速把视线转移道面前的一盘坚果上。
“你太傻了。”她笑道，“我爱我的胸部，绝对不会让它们出任何状况。”
那天晚上我没再多想。在床上，我采取低调，不让自己靠近她的胸部。结束的时候，我的舌头感觉像粘粘的砂纸。她则一直笑着。她睡着的时候，衬衫敞开着——这是我们从共用一把牙刷以来第一次。我边幻想着伊娃格林在《梦想者》里裸舞，边自己解决，而且不让床嘎吱作响。她把我的手拉去盖在她的乳房上。
“对我好一点，” 她早上警告我， 同时漫不经心地咬了一口抹了黄油的烤面包片。 “不然我会在我们婚礼那天和神父私奔。”
我的父母连她的名字都不知道。
她小口喝着我的朋友从夏威夷带来的咖啡，读着我写的故事，我每天早上写的那些故事（在我上班去干那份愚蠢的记者工作之前）。然后她双眼放光地问：“这个故事是写我的吗？”
她比我小6岁，双颊留有不少青春痘斑，头发黝黑而卷曲，胸部美丽又柔滑。我喜欢牵着她的小手走在拥挤的街道上；不让其他男人和男孩故意挤过她。
我的门铃响了。我从窥视孔里看是谁，因为我桌子上有一杯加了半个柠檬的冰科洛拿酒。我把它放在桌子上本来就有的一圈水痕里，不想留下太多的水痕。我从孔里只看到黑暗。我知道是她 ，因为她总是用无名指堵着小孔。我一打开门，她就扑上来，把我推倒在坚硬、冰冷的大理石地板上。我的背很痛，但是吻着她的嘴唇，我就不介意了。她说可以喝一杯，但是她闻起来都是红酒味。
我们每次见面的时候，她都会谈起以前的恋人，眼里闪耀着被众人追求的自豪。但我只要一提自己的风流韵事，她就勃然大怒。她还是学生，靠父亲每月一号按时寄的钱，过着优越的生活。但是她没有电视。“我不需要电视。”她说，“没时间。”但每次她来我这儿，第一件事就是打开电视，看VHI台的音乐节目。我俩身体交织的时候，她也不把它关上。
那天晚上，也就是我和她讲电话的那天晚上。一个孩子追着一只灰色的毛乎乎的猫穿过马路。我紧急刹车，车轮打滑翻在泥泞的路上，我摔了个结实。电话还没挂，她一直说她的头发——是烫卷，拉直还是染色。我提到过一次我正躺在路上，但是她忙于选择适合的发色，可能是要和瞳孔颜色搭配。呆会打过来 在她的词典里是绝对禁止的。“呆会？为什么？有什么重要的事儿让你现在不能和我说？”她会问。所以，我躺在路中央，等她自己说累了挂电话。”是的，我也爱你。”我说，脸上挂着笑（我没笑的话，她可以从我的声调里感觉到，就是我的嘴唇没有拉长时的声调）。人渐渐聚拢过来要帮忙，但又疑惑地站着。我示意自己没事，他们散开。
我喉咙发炎的时候，她给我煲汤，切蔬菜－胡萝卜，豆子，包菜¬——用她涂着精致指甲油的纤纤玉指。她一勺一勺喂我热汤，先用那两瓣柔软的嘴唇吹一吹，再送过来。然后她去见朋友，她说那人对他有意思，想在离别前见她。
“如果我跳楼，你会不会跟我一起跳？”她那天晚上边亲我的脖子后边，边问。我喘息。为了做爱，“会的 。”
我第一次发表短篇小说时，她尖叫，大笑，哭泣，她像为我怀孕了那样，兴奋地跳起来。我从没见过有人这样为我高兴，我自己都没有。我想象着怎样向她求婚。
那天，暴风雨压过屋檐，紫色的云团像血栓那样，闪电击中了变电器，砰得一声，就像受潮的烟花。我取出蜡烛和火柴，还有一个手电。蜡烛投出长长的阴影，我看着她，心里充满爱意。她坐在沙发上，和往常一样双腿翘起，双眸微合，脸上的青春痘痕闪亮地印在黄色的烛光里。我伸手去摸上衣口袋的戒指；全身紧张地微颤。
她说，“我那天晚上和他接吻了，我去见他的那天晚上。”
我一拳砸在咖啡桌上，骨头都碎了。雨滴打在走廊的锡皮屋顶上。我的嘴巴干涩，一股苦汁涌上喉头，闪电撕裂了天空。蜡烛熄灭，烛芯起烟，闻起来像烧橡胶。
之后，风雨雷电大作，我的呼吸渐渐地平静了下来。她起身离去了。
我的心，就像用过的胶布。
用过的胶布
Kailash是印度新锐作家，在印度和澳洲接收教育，明年初他的第一部短篇小说集"WHAT HAPPENED TO THAT LOVE"。这篇小说是他专门为我们的博客写的。
中文版我会分贴奉上。
－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－
Used sellotape
By Kailash Srinivasan
She was, well, mad. On our tenth date she says, ‘I am with your child.’ I gulp down a whole jug of water and ask the waiter to get another one when she shoos him away, and to me she says, ‘Was kidding. Just gauging your reaction.’ Two days later I am enjoying a large mug of wheat beer; Roger Federer is kicking an amateur’s ass. She keeps her rum and coke aside, lights a mint cigarette. Her eyes are fixed on me. I can sense them even though I am busy with the game.
‘I have breast cancer,’ she says, her eyes moist. ‘Do you still love me?’
Breasts are important to me, I think. But sometimes practicality isn’t advised. I say, ‘Are you crazy? Of course I do,’ and quickly look down at the plate of nuts.
‘You’re so silly.’ She laughs. ‘I love my breasts. No way am I letting anything happen to them.’
I didn’t drink anymore that night. That night in bed, I stay down. Don’t go anywhere near her breasts. At the end of it my tongue feels like sticky sand paper. Smile never leaves her lips. She falls asleep, her shirt unbuttoned for the first time since we started sharing toothbrush. I imagine Eva Green dancing naked in The Dreamers to help myself; make sure the bed doesn’t creak much. She pulls my hand over her breast.
‘Be nice to me,’ she warns, rather casually, as she bites into a butter toast in the morning, ‘or else I might run away with the priest on our wedding day.’
My parents don’t even know her first name.
She reads my stories. Stories I write early morning (before heading to my stupid job as a journalist), sipping coffee from Hawaii a friend bought for me. And she asks, her eyes sparkling, ‘Is this story about me?’
She’s six years younger to me, cheeks splattered with acne marks, hair black and curly, and breasts, fair and smooth. I love holding her slender hand and walking her through a crowded street; keeping her away from men and boys who try to brush against her.
My doorbell buzzes. I look through the peephole to see who it is, because I have a cold Corona with half a lemon inside sitting on the table. I place it exactly on top of the cold ring of water that’s already there. Don’t like to make too many rings. When I peep, all I see is darkness. I know it is her because she always blocks peeholes with her index finger. I open the door and she pounces on me pushing me down on the hard, cold marble floor hurting my back. But her mouth is on mine and I don’t mind. She says she can use a drink, but she already smells of red wine.
Whenever we meet she speaks of ex-lovers, a pride of being the one sought after clearly reflects in her eyes. It quickly turns to boiling rage when I mention one of my ex’s. She’s a student, living a decent life, on allowance sent by her father, promptly, on the first of every month. But she doesn’t own a TV. ‘I don’t need one,’ she says. ‘No time.’ But when she comes home, the first thing she does is turn my TV on and watch music videos on VH1. She keeps it on even as our bodies mingle.
That evening. That evening I am on the phone with her. A kid runs across the road after a gray, furry cat and I brake, skidding and falling on the muddy road, bruising myself badly. I am still on the phone with her and she keeps talking about her hair – whether she should curl it or straighten it or colour it. I mention once that I am flat on the road, but she’s busy with choosing the right colour for her hair, to maybe even match with the colour of her eyes. Can I call you later, is a no-no in her books, an obvious transgression in her eyes. ‘Later? Why? What is so important you can’t talk to me now?’ she’d ask. So I lay there in the middle of the road, waiting for her to tire and put the phone down. I say, ‘Yeah, I love you, too,’ with a smile on my face (she can sense it when I don’t from the pitch of my voice and the way it sounds when my lips aren’t stretched) while people who gather around me to help, stand bewildered, and leave when I gesture I am alright.
She makes me soup, cuts vegetables – carrots, beans, cabbage – with her manicured fingers, when I am down with throat infection. She feeds me spoonfuls of the steaming soup, blowing on it through her soft-soft lips before it touches mine. Then she leaves to meet a friend, who she says has a crush on her. She says he’s leaving town and wants to see her.
‘If I jump off a building, will you jump after me?’ she asks later that night, as she kisses the back of my neck. I moan. For sex. ‘Yes, I say.’
When I publish my short story, my first, she squeals, she laughs, she cries, she jumps, like she has had a child with me. I have never seen anyone this happy for me, not even myself. I think of ways to propose to her.
That day storm rises over my house, all purple, blood-clot like and the lightning blows transformers, which give out a blunt sound, like firecrackers sitting in moisture. I reach for a candle and a match, or a torch. When I bring out the candle, it throws long shadows, and I feel love looking at her, sitting on the couch, her legs up as always, her eyes cast down as always, the acne marks glowing on her face in the yellow candle light. I feel the ring in my upper pocket; a tickle runs through my body.
She says, ‘I kissed him that night, the night I went to meet him.’
I slam my fist on the coffee table and feel a bone crack. Raindrops pound the tin sheet covering the verandah. My mouth is bitter and foul and bile comes up to my throat. Thunder jolts the sky. The candle goes off and the wick smells like burnt rubber.
Then the rain and thunder and lightning and breathing, my breathing, stops. She gets up and leaves.
Used sellotape, my heart.
中文版我会分贴奉上。
－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－－
Used sellotape
By Kailash Srinivasan
She was, well, mad. On our tenth date she says, ‘I am with your child.’ I gulp down a whole jug of water and ask the waiter to get another one when she shoos him away, and to me she says, ‘Was kidding. Just gauging your reaction.’ Two days later I am enjoying a large mug of wheat beer; Roger Federer is kicking an amateur’s ass. She keeps her rum and coke aside, lights a mint cigarette. Her eyes are fixed on me. I can sense them even though I am busy with the game.
‘I have breast cancer,’ she says, her eyes moist. ‘Do you still love me?’
Breasts are important to me, I think. But sometimes practicality isn’t advised. I say, ‘Are you crazy? Of course I do,’ and quickly look down at the plate of nuts.
‘You’re so silly.’ She laughs. ‘I love my breasts. No way am I letting anything happen to them.’
I didn’t drink anymore that night. That night in bed, I stay down. Don’t go anywhere near her breasts. At the end of it my tongue feels like sticky sand paper. Smile never leaves her lips. She falls asleep, her shirt unbuttoned for the first time since we started sharing toothbrush. I imagine Eva Green dancing naked in The Dreamers to help myself; make sure the bed doesn’t creak much. She pulls my hand over her breast.
‘Be nice to me,’ she warns, rather casually, as she bites into a butter toast in the morning, ‘or else I might run away with the priest on our wedding day.’
My parents don’t even know her first name.
She reads my stories. Stories I write early morning (before heading to my stupid job as a journalist), sipping coffee from Hawaii a friend bought for me. And she asks, her eyes sparkling, ‘Is this story about me?’
She’s six years younger to me, cheeks splattered with acne marks, hair black and curly, and breasts, fair and smooth. I love holding her slender hand and walking her through a crowded street; keeping her away from men and boys who try to brush against her.
My doorbell buzzes. I look through the peephole to see who it is, because I have a cold Corona with half a lemon inside sitting on the table. I place it exactly on top of the cold ring of water that’s already there. Don’t like to make too many rings. When I peep, all I see is darkness. I know it is her because she always blocks peeholes with her index finger. I open the door and she pounces on me pushing me down on the hard, cold marble floor hurting my back. But her mouth is on mine and I don’t mind. She says she can use a drink, but she already smells of red wine.
Whenever we meet she speaks of ex-lovers, a pride of being the one sought after clearly reflects in her eyes. It quickly turns to boiling rage when I mention one of my ex’s. She’s a student, living a decent life, on allowance sent by her father, promptly, on the first of every month. But she doesn’t own a TV. ‘I don’t need one,’ she says. ‘No time.’ But when she comes home, the first thing she does is turn my TV on and watch music videos on VH1. She keeps it on even as our bodies mingle.
That evening. That evening I am on the phone with her. A kid runs across the road after a gray, furry cat and I brake, skidding and falling on the muddy road, bruising myself badly. I am still on the phone with her and she keeps talking about her hair – whether she should curl it or straighten it or colour it. I mention once that I am flat on the road, but she’s busy with choosing the right colour for her hair, to maybe even match with the colour of her eyes. Can I call you later, is a no-no in her books, an obvious transgression in her eyes. ‘Later? Why? What is so important you can’t talk to me now?’ she’d ask. So I lay there in the middle of the road, waiting for her to tire and put the phone down. I say, ‘Yeah, I love you, too,’ with a smile on my face (she can sense it when I don’t from the pitch of my voice and the way it sounds when my lips aren’t stretched) while people who gather around me to help, stand bewildered, and leave when I gesture I am alright.
She makes me soup, cuts vegetables – carrots, beans, cabbage – with her manicured fingers, when I am down with throat infection. She feeds me spoonfuls of the steaming soup, blowing on it through her soft-soft lips before it touches mine. Then she leaves to meet a friend, who she says has a crush on her. She says he’s leaving town and wants to see her.
‘If I jump off a building, will you jump after me?’ she asks later that night, as she kisses the back of my neck. I moan. For sex. ‘Yes, I say.’
When I publish my short story, my first, she squeals, she laughs, she cries, she jumps, like she has had a child with me. I have never seen anyone this happy for me, not even myself. I think of ways to propose to her.
That day storm rises over my house, all purple, blood-clot like and the lightning blows transformers, which give out a blunt sound, like firecrackers sitting in moisture. I reach for a candle and a match, or a torch. When I bring out the candle, it throws long shadows, and I feel love looking at her, sitting on the couch, her legs up as always, her eyes cast down as always, the acne marks glowing on her face in the yellow candle light. I feel the ring in my upper pocket; a tickle runs through my body.
She says, ‘I kissed him that night, the night I went to meet him.’
I slam my fist on the coffee table and feel a bone crack. Raindrops pound the tin sheet covering the verandah. My mouth is bitter and foul and bile comes up to my throat. Thunder jolts the sky. The candle goes off and the wick smells like burnt rubber.
Then the rain and thunder and lightning and breathing, my breathing, stops. She gets up and leaves.
Used sellotape, my heart.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
可惜不是你
(作者：樱雨飞眉）
有些歌曲我们曾经听过很多次
却只是听过而已
直到有一天
遇到一个人
再听到这首歌
突然就听懂了 深入心底
嗯。。。现在的我就是这样
突然再来听〈可惜不是你〉
突然就忍不住掉下了眼泪
可惜不是你
也可惜不是我
不能陪你到最后
不能让你一直握着我的手
但是 在将来的某一天
我是不是也会突然蹦出一句你曾经说过的话
原来刻入心底的不仅仅是爱情
还有许许多多
还有点点滴滴
还有我曾未留意却早已被深深影响的。。。那些那些
你的体贴
你的脾气
你的天真
你的固执
你在我耳边轻轻的说"亲爱的"
你永远温暖的手心
。。。。
怎么会有那么多那么多
就好像梁静茹唱的
"我知道被疼是一种运气
以为在你身边那也算永远"
好痛好痛好痛
因为
心里比谁都清楚
我们在彼此的生命里
正是这一句
可惜不是你
有些歌曲我们曾经听过很多次
却只是听过而已
直到有一天
遇到一个人
再听到这首歌
突然就听懂了 深入心底
嗯。。。现在的我就是这样
突然再来听〈可惜不是你〉
突然就忍不住掉下了眼泪
可惜不是你
也可惜不是我
不能陪你到最后
不能让你一直握着我的手
但是 在将来的某一天
我是不是也会突然蹦出一句你曾经说过的话
原来刻入心底的不仅仅是爱情
还有许许多多
还有点点滴滴
还有我曾未留意却早已被深深影响的。。。那些那些
你的体贴
你的脾气
你的天真
你的固执
你在我耳边轻轻的说"亲爱的"
你永远温暖的手心
。。。。
怎么会有那么多那么多
就好像梁静茹唱的
"我知道被疼是一种运气
以为在你身边那也算永远"
好痛好痛好痛
因为
心里比谁都清楚
我们在彼此的生命里
正是这一句
可惜不是你
汉娜和阿宛吉(ii)
亲爱的汉娜，
三个月前我写信给你，一直没等来回音。我原本以为你没有收到，或者离开了村子。可那个我托来打听你的象牙贩子说看到了一个带着孩子，留着贴头皮短发的漂亮女孩。那个女孩穿着印着大红花黑黄底的印染长袍。虽然他说只是匆匆看到一个侧面，我已经确定是你了。那件长袍不是我们一起在库吉特的市场上挑的吗？村子其他的女孩没有你的好眼光。
如果你在村子里的话，一定已经收到了上一封信，因为我特地多给了送信的人两比索，而且信并没有被退回。是什么让你沈默？
我对你的爱不容置疑。自从分手以后，这种感觉越来越强烈。有时我回想起你赤足在草丛中奔跑的样子，像羚羊那样灵动敏捷，激情就会把我像蜡烛般点燃和融化。而转念，我想到你被那个毫无魅力的男人占有和忽略，我心中的愤怒足以焚烧一个城市。天那，我对你的爱让我同时生活在天堂和地狱之中。但为了你，我还是甘愿被耗尽，因为你是唯一值得的。请告诉我你没有忘记我。
告诉我你现在过得怎么样，发来消息，任何消息。
至今深爱着你的
阿宛吉
三个月前我写信给你，一直没等来回音。我原本以为你没有收到，或者离开了村子。可那个我托来打听你的象牙贩子说看到了一个带着孩子，留着贴头皮短发的漂亮女孩。那个女孩穿着印着大红花黑黄底的印染长袍。虽然他说只是匆匆看到一个侧面，我已经确定是你了。那件长袍不是我们一起在库吉特的市场上挑的吗？村子其他的女孩没有你的好眼光。
如果你在村子里的话，一定已经收到了上一封信，因为我特地多给了送信的人两比索，而且信并没有被退回。是什么让你沈默？
我对你的爱不容置疑。自从分手以后，这种感觉越来越强烈。有时我回想起你赤足在草丛中奔跑的样子，像羚羊那样灵动敏捷，激情就会把我像蜡烛般点燃和融化。而转念，我想到你被那个毫无魅力的男人占有和忽略，我心中的愤怒足以焚烧一个城市。天那，我对你的爱让我同时生活在天堂和地狱之中。但为了你，我还是甘愿被耗尽，因为你是唯一值得的。请告诉我你没有忘记我。
告诉我你现在过得怎么样，发来消息，任何消息。
至今深爱着你的
阿宛吉
Monday, November 22, 2010
汉娜和阿宛吉 (i)
亲爱的汉娜，
不知道这几年你是怎么过来的。我在客栈里听一位偶尔会经过你那的象牙贩子说，去年的干旱把村子里身强力壮的人几乎都赶走了。我问他是否见过一位叫汉娜的年轻女孩，带着三个小男孩。他说不太有印象，但是据说留在村子里的，大多数还是女人。我猜想你一定也没有离开，和三个孩子在一起。
我知道你的兄弟把你卖给那个出得起四头羊的醉鬼以后，就离开了堪拓。对于你兄弟来说，他不明白我为什么要学习也是正常的。我会有更好的前途，但在那里没有人相信我，除非我可以马上变出牲口来给他们看。我当时真得是气昏了，又怨恨自己竟然会相信你兄弟的鬼话，说会让你和我在一起。我们毕竟都是阿古尼麻的后人，从小一起打闹大的，没想到他会背叛我。
请原谅我把你丢下，不辞而别。我那时脑袋里只有一个想法，就是要到另外一个地方，挣到一笔大到可以把整个堪拓买下来的财富。上帝知道，因为没有能力，我的内心是多么的愧疚。
请告诉我你现在怎么样？
至今还深爱着你的
阿宛吉
Sunday, November 21, 2010
矛盾爱情
(作者 樱雨飞眉）
爱情大概总是让人矛盾而纠结的吧。
有时候，想起那个人的时候，心中充满了幸福感，满世界都充满了阳光。
有时候，想起那个人的时候，心中满是阴霾、揣测、不安，只能跟自己说，没事，无论如何，都要坚强面对。
嗯。
这份爱情。
终有要结束的那一天的吧。
也许是你做出的决定。
也许是我做出的决定。
最美好的也许。是我先你而去。
于我，就没什么遗憾了。
于你，我可以放心的期许你的今后。
最可怕的也许。是无奈的放手。
于我，成为一辈子的遗憾。
于你，无外乎将我深埋于心。然后，终于渐渐忘却。
细细想来，你我生命里经历了许多人和物。
曾经在那个时候，我们都以为，那些对我们是多么的重要。
我们也曾经努力的挽住那些过往。
有些，我们幸运的挽住了。
有些，我们固执的错过了。
但是如今。如今再看。
也不过如此。
曾经的心动。
曾经的心痛。
曾经的心酸。
曾经的心跳。
再怎么比，也比不上如今的你。
没有人比你能让我心跳的更快。
没有人比你能让我更不能自已。
没有人比你能让我更心动又心痛。
没有人比你能让我笑的更真实更灿烂。
是的。
在我不小心的时候，你已经在我的心里走的这么深入。
在我不自觉的时候，你已经在我的心里刻下了一颗石头。
这颗石头随便转个向，也会有缕缕波澜在心里荡漾。
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