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• 真正奢侈的是你瞬间的动情

  作者：二毛 发布时间：2011-06-08 00:53:00

  日本地震核辐射产生后，国内一部分不明真相的“盐荒子孙”让“盐”瞬间变成了货架上“奢侈品”；对于前不久洞庭湖和鄱阳湖遭受大旱现在又饱受洪涝之苦的渔民来说“阳光”又成为心头的“奢侈品”；新安江遭苯酚污染后这两天杭州的媒体又很可能让“水”变成了可以囤积的“奢侈品”……奢侈品从来都离我们很近，条件一转换，它就是我们生活中的必需品。

  在《奢侈态度》里，专栏作家王迩淞谈的“奢侈品”不一定都是我们的生活必需品，但切入的视角却往往是从生活肌肤内里开始延伸，给人打开另一片洞天。

  从佩戴眼镜的经历他洞察出手工定制镜架商店给予人的体贴感，是源自对细节的观照。13岁还在读小学的小女儿最崇拜的偶像居然是Dior首席设计师，背后折射的是法国教育对待时尚思想的自由与开放。《雪国》里“穿过长长的国境隧道就是雪国了”这句意境悠远的开头，实际上反映了一个有意思的“沿途衰落”经济现象。台湾街头专门惦记老普洱、LV箱、GUCCI金属制品的“品位贼”之所以能够得手，是因为国际奢侈品牌为了不扰人清梦而没有安装防盗警报器……可以说，在作者的一连串行文“走神”中，奢侈品所牵系的各个剖面逐渐裸露出来，它可能是炒股的技术工具K线，可能是日本的年度汉字，可能是特吕弗的《最后一班地铁》，还可能是女儿干妈的一条购物短信……

  但何为奢侈品，通读全书，作者显然不愿意给予其一个粗暴的定义，答案隐藏在故事里。

  “在巴黎一个半小时车程的村庄里，住着一位75岁的乡下老太太，她独自一人过着种菜养马的生活，然而每年时装发布季前夕，她都会接到香奈儿（CHANEL）公司派专人送来的布料，请她为高级定制礼服制作织带。”

  “终日优哉游哉穿行于巴黎大街小巷的和善老头马萨罗手里总是拎着个极其普通的塑料袋，在这个不起眼的塑料袋里，就放着他为香奈儿制作的新款样鞋。每到各季时装发布会前的设计阶段，他就要天天这样，从自己的鞋店走到香奈儿公司，去向设计师交活。这条固定的线路他已经走了将近50年。”

  对于仍然热衷于以Quantity（数量）而不是以Quality（质量）取胜，仍然停留在以产品为中心的大多数中国品牌而言，让一位孤独的老人和一个小店的店长担此重任，这显然是件很难想象和接受的事情。

  当我们感叹新买来的鞋子总不合脚的时候，小时候母亲挑灯用手工纳的千层底鞋便成为记忆里的温暖。在那一针一线里，饱含的是人灌注于物的情感。而这种对传统手工艺的尊重与这种情感认同，便是那些奢侈品牌得以价值永续的基石。

  如果时间凑巧，在奢侈品云集的万象城，你可以看到这样一句广告语：真正奢侈的是你瞬间的动情。这仿佛也是这个一幢房子或一辆车子能决定一段感情寿命，一对模范明星夫妻突然传出婚变，人们就纷纷表示不相信爱情的时代密语。

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• 《武则天正传》：男性视野中的武则天

  作者：wlhui 发布时间：2010-09-09 21:55:56

  孔子说，唯女子与小人难养也。林语堂写武则天，只是在写一个女人，而且是在写女人的阴暗面。武则天之所以当上了女皇，且打下不错的基础，为后世的开元盛世奠基，自然非有雄才大略不可，所以，林语堂是把武则天写小了。

  武则天不仅不小，反而很大。毛泽东说她有容人之量，有识人之智，还有用人之术。这哪一条不要相当的胆识，非一般的小女子担当得起。

  本书中对她重用酷吏、秽乱宫闱大加渲染，也许是为着英文书的读者喜欢看这后宫秘闻；武则天是中国唯一的女皇帝，自然老外的女权主义者也喜欢；玩弄权术、喜用酷吏，自然也增添东方神秘，可惜这都不是武则天。起码不全是。

  武则天之用酷吏也是适当的时候，登临宝座，人心不稳，她就用酷吏整治。女人当政难免惹来非议，用酷吏也是不得以为之，而一旦时局稳定，则忠臣贤士能够也愿意为她重用。狄仁杰就深受她的喜爱。她不让狄仁杰下拜，说那样会让她都觉得自己浑身疼。狄仁杰有一次骑马，帽子被风给吹下来了，她让太子李显去捡，说千万别折腾国老再去下马。

  至于她的情夫冯小宝、张氏兄弟等人，都是在她60多岁之后到82岁去世间的宠幸，又能秽乱什么宫闱呢？不过是一个女子当了皇帝，也要找几个好看有趣的男子当玩意、逗逗乐子罢了。不正是大胆的挑战吗？

  至于她死后的无字碑，更是叫人唏嘘不已，说明她是何等的清醒！还权大唐李氏，留下一个国富民强，只留身后事由世人评说。

  大唐有那样的高蹈的开放与自由之风，也是有这位女皇帝的功劳的。难怪多少人向往大唐盛世的恢弘。至今，日本还有很多的“唐风”。东瀛而有一脉，影响可谓悠远。

  难怪一代代的人们总是在谈论她。在这些注视中，她总是活着。

  而在男性视野中，她太出格了。男性视野中，看到的又往往是小女人阴毒的一面，真为这位“大女人”鸣不平。

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• 沙盘游戏

  作者：东一宝 发布时间：2019-04-30 19:10:27

  以前就不太能读明白外国人著的译过来的书，可能由于语言原因，亦可能因为垮领域，总之感觉有些晦涩难懂。

  书中从沙盘游戏治疗边缘人格障碍，困境中的儿童，青少年发展过程中的死亡与重生，戒毒等几方面的研究举例。

  了解到了孩子从在胚胎过程中就已经有了那种主体意识，婴儿早期由母亲及家庭构成了他的整个社会。孩子的滋养来自母亲的关爱，到了青春期如何能够让孩子与父母顺利分离是关键。婴儿期未解决的问题影响青春期，青春期很多经历都会给青少年造成伤害。

  整本书还描述了更多的案例，大多都不是太明白，准备看完心理学基础课程后再回来重新看一遍。

  有一句话我觉得挺有意义：年轻人所面临的挑战就是管理好自己，并且作为一个主体和客体，处理好自己以及与外部世界的关系。

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• 大江东去。

  作者：九 发布时间：2006-09-06 17:06:46

  话说天下大势，分久必合，合久必分。

  我读过许多本书听过许多故事，古今中西，却始终最是爱这一本演义。

  我无法诉说清楚自己为什么这样喜欢它。

  且不提温酒斩华、对峙官渡、五关六将、大战长坂、赤壁相持、单刀赴会、连营七百、七纵蛮王、火烧上方、姜邓斗阵等等轰轰烈烈的大场面，小处也尽是动人心的。

  从未想过明艳如桃花，并不只可配佳人，配起乱世英雄来居然更加出色。

  群英会上，素袍锦衣相应，周郎扬剑作歌，这般的酣畅快意。

  仲谋遗书孟德，足下不死孤不得安，又是怎样的知己相惜。

  百骑劫营的甘宁，在投效东吴前招合亡命纵横江湖，草莽中人却竟有个极风雅的名号，因他腰悬铜铃，帆西川锦，人称“锦帆贼”；这甘兴霸是死在先主伐吴时番王沙摩柯箭下，倚坐树下，群鸦数百围绕其尸。

  周泰守濡须口，复入重围救主，遍体鳞伤身无完肤，孙权手指其痕一一问之，每伤一处令吃酒一觥，是夜将军大醉。

  张温秦宓指天相难可谓睿智雅趣，卧龙先生拒敌空城必是剑胆琴心。

  这好处我怎么说得完。直是人人生色，字字珠玑。

  我想我是爱那乱世的气魄，有心机谋略，有剑影刀光，有书生意气，有肝胆相向。

  但不必说关二爷的天神威仪大半是罗老爷子虚构来的，也不必说诸葛丞相倘若听从魏文长兵出子午之计也不会落得出师未捷身先死。这些我全都不理。

  我只愿彻头彻尾地信这个乱世传奇，信孔明先生通天晓地，信刘玄德大智若愚，信关张赵马黄当世无敌，信孙伯符和太史慈真诚又痛快淋漓地打过一场架，信周公瑾雄姿英发驱强橹于谈笑间...

  我愿信儿时听过的那个妙趣横生又玄美绝伦的故事。

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• 《洛杉矶书评》对玛丽亚·斯捷潘诺娃的专访原稿-Mad Russia Hurt Me into Poetry: An Interview with Maria Stepanova

  作者：熬夜看稿五百斤 发布时间：2020-07-31 11:52:33

  《洛杉矶书评》对玛丽亚·斯捷潘诺娃的专访原稿

  “Maria Stepanova was already an important and innovative poet by the time of Vladimir Putin’s accession, but the times called for a tougher, more public role. Unfortunately, her recognition in the West has lagged behind the high profile she has in Russia.”

  “玛丽亚·斯捷潘诺娃早在普京时代前就已经是一位相当重要，充满创造力的诗人，然而时代却呼唤更强硬更公众化的角色。非常不幸，西方对其的认可远远落后于其负盛名的俄罗斯。”

  Mad Russia Hurt Me into Poetry: An Interview with Maria Stepanova

  MARIA STEPANOVA IS AMONG the most visible figures in post-Soviet culture — not only as a major poet, but also as a journalist, a publisher, and a powerful voice for press freedom. She is the founder of Colta, the only independent crowd-funded source of information in Russia. The high-traffic online publication has been called a Russian Huffington Post in format and style, and has also been compared to The New York Review of Books for the scope and depth of its long essays. The Muscovite is the author of a dozen poetry collections and two volumes of essays, and is a recipient of several Russian and international literary awards, including the prestigious Andrei Bely Prize and Joseph Brodsky Fellowship. She was recently a fellow with Vienna’s highly regarded Institut für die Wissenschaften vom Menschen. Her current project is In Memory of Memory, a book-length study in the field of cultural history.

  Stepanova has helped revive the ballad form in Russian poetry, and has also given new life to the skaz technique of telling a story through the scrambled speech of an unreliable narrator, using manic wordplay and what one critic called “a carnival of images.” Stepanova relishes this kind of speech “not just for how it represents a social language but for its sonic texture,” wrote scholar and translator Catherine Ciepiela in an introduction to her poems. “She is a masterful formal poet, who subverts meter and rhyme by working them to absurdity. For her the logic of form trumps all other logics, so much so that she will re-accent or truncate words to fit rigorously observed schemes.” According to another of her translators, Sasha Dugdale, myth and memory play an important part in poems: “She shares with her beloved W. G. Sebald a sense of the haunting of history, the marks it leaves on the fabric of landscape.”

  Maria Stepanova was already an important and innovative poet by the time of Vladimir Putin’s accession, but the times called for a tougher, more public role. Unfortunately, her recognition in the West has lagged behind the high profile she has in Russia. In this interview, she talks about both roles, and the way politics and poetry come together in her work.

  ¤

  CYNTHIA HAVEN: You’re a poet, but also a journalist and the publisher of a major crowd-funded news outlet in Russia, Colta. Yet Joseph Brodsky said, “The only things which poetry and politics have in common are the letters P and O.” Presumably, you disagree.

  MARIA STEPANOVA: There is a third word with the same letters: postmemory. Contemporary Russia is a realm of postmemory. I think it is a territory where poetry and politics still can meet each other on equal terms.

  Equal? Politics is a much more crude beast, surely. Look at our current elections. Look at elections everywhere.

  Well, we know crude and not-so-crude animals coexist in nature — and sometimes even manage to get along.

  So talk about this unusual coexistence, Russian-style.

  Russian reality is wildly political, but what is meant by “politics” is also wildly different — and not only because the Russian political world is one of repression. Remember that the ways and means of talking politics or even doing politics have long been different in Russia — not for a decade or two, but for centuries. Political thinking was impossible in the open, so it had to disguise itself. In order to form your views, or even to take direct instructions on what to do, you had to read some novel, or even a poem.

  People built their political views on Nikolay Chernyshevsky [author of the programmatic utopian novel What Is To Be Done?] or Dostoyevsky, and thus expected a certain level of political engagement from authors, even from poets. This has a flip side: a reader may treat reality more lightly, as if it were a work of fiction. That’s why it was so easy to revise and rewrite official history — in Stalin’s time or right now, under Putin. You are always looking for an example — for something to imitate — but there is nothing final about it.

  This search for an example, for a predecessor, is pervasive. When Russian politicians try to achieve something, they look for validation from the past — to Ivan the Terrible, to Lenin, to Brezhnev, or whatever. The same with Russian poets, who still rely heavily on different traditions. You can choose the one you like. You can look back to Pushkin or Brodsky, but also to, well, T. S. Eliot or Lyn Hejinian. It doesn’t really matter. The important thing is, we behave as if we are ascending the staircase but looking back. One always needs to feel the bannister under one’s hand. That is, we need something solid and from the past, which makes the present feel more real for us.

  Do you find that poetry, for you, is a space of freedom, even though it’s affected by your political predicament?

  I feel that the poetry is a powerful tool of inner resistance, because what’s important, what really counts, is how much you let the outer forces deform you. Poetry keeps you in shape. More important than outward protests is inner freedom, the ability to stay yourself. That is usually the first thing you lose. You can imitate the motions and doings of free people but be utterly unfree inside. You become an expert in deforming your inner reality, to bring it into accord with what the state wants from you — and this could be done in a number of subtle, unnoticed ways. This kind of damage weighs on us the most.

  I like what you said at Stanford, that poetry is, by definition, a form of resistance, because the first thing it resists is death.

  Absolutely. After all, it is one of the few known forms of secular immortality — and one of the best: your name may well be forgotten, but a line or two still have a life of their own, as it happened to lines of classic poetry. They come to life anew every time people fill them with their own voice or meaning.

  In fact, any activity that involves creating something from nothing — or almost nothing — is a way of taming death, of replacing it with new forms of life. When you are making a pie out of disparate substances — grains of sugar, spoons of loose flour that are suddenly transformed into something alive and breathing — it’s a living miracle. But this is even more evident when it comes to poetry, where the operative space is pure nothing, a limited number of vowels and consonants, which doesn’t need anything to stay alive besides the human mind; poetry doesn’t even need ink and paper, because it can be memorized. We are more lucky than musicians or artists, who need working tools, and budgets, and audience halls — poetry is a lighter substance. You know it was essential in the concentration camps and gulags — if you knew a good amount of verse by heart, they couldn’t take it away from you. Maybe I’m overly optimistic, but I think that poetry is better equipped to withstand political oppression. If you want to make movies or build opera houses, you have to bargain with the state, to make deals, and inevitably to lose.

  And yet you are a publisher and journalist, too. How do you balance the two worlds you inhabit?

  Strange as it may seem, it was never a serious matter for me. I never felt that these two levels were connected, or even coexisted. Maybe this also has something to do with what I was referring to — the schizoid way of addressing the present. It’s quite common in Russia: you can be thinking “this” and “that” at the same time, as if two notions were commenting on each other. This is very typical of the Soviet or post-Soviet space, with its sharp cleavage between the official way of behavior and the way you behave at home, between the official history and the hidden familial history, or what we call the “minor history (malaya istoriia).”

  And come to think of it, maybe I also divide my official face from my inner life. When I was a teenager, a student, I saw how the people who belonged to the previous generation were traumatized by the crash of the Soviet system of literary education and literary work. The Soviet Writers’ Union had been able to give writers enough to live on after publishing a book or a collection of poems in some literary magazine — for the official writers, of course, not to the authors of samizdat. You could live for three years after publishing a book, but it had to be a bad book, because it was the result of an inner compromise. Nevertheless, lots of people had the feeling that they could stay themselves and still, somehow, occupy some cozy step on the enormous staircase of the official Soviet literary establishment. When the system crashed, people were disappointed and disorientated. By 1992 or 1993, it became evident that the utopia wasn’t working anymore, especially for poets. It became evident that a book of poetry would never have a press run of more than 2,000 copies. It would never bring you money or even fame. I saw people crushed, melted, changed because of that. They had relied on a system that had suddenly vanished into thin air. They were still willing to make compromises, but there was no longer anyone to make a compromise with.

  And where did you fit into that architecture? You weren’t tempted to put a foot on that staircase?

  I was quite young and opinionated, so my attitude was rather harsh. I didn’t want to have anything in common with them. I refused to rely on poetry to make a living, to attain a position in the world. I would find some other professional occupation and would be as free as I could be in terms of poetry. It was the easiest way for me to stay independent. I split my world into halves.

  And that’s how it worked. I started in the mid-1990s as a copywriter in a French advertising agency, and then I switched to TV. Journalism happened rather late in my life. I cannot say it doesn’t affect my poetry, because it does. Of course it does. The things I deal with as a journalist get mixed up with the problems that make me tick as a poet. That space I was hoping to make — you know, the enclosed garden — is not secluded enough. It’s not enclosed now — the doors are wide open, and the beasts of the current moment are free to enter. Because I’m changing, too. You have to open the doorways to let the world in — to make the words come in, in fact. Because if poetry is a means of changing language, and changing the language is a means of changing the world around you, you must make sure that you’re ready to receive new words — words you find foreign or even ugly.

  That awareness is evident in your poetry, which features different voices, different registers, and discordant uses of language. Is that how today’s Russia affects your poetry?

  I think so, yes — “mad Russia hurt me into poetry.” You could say that the poet — that is, the author as a working entity — always has a kind of narrative mask or an optical system to serve a special purpose in the moment. The need to invent and reinvent the self never stops: you cannot do it just once, and every single thing that happens demands a complete change. The “you” who deals with new phenomena — birth, death, shopping, an idle conversation at the bus stop — is a new entity that hardly recognizes the previous ones. You know that all the cells of the human body are constantly replacing each other, and in seven years not a single cell of your old body is left. All that holds our personalities together is mere willpower — and our selves are as replaceable as brain cells. The human mind is a flowing thing, it is a process, and it happens somehow that the only solid and constant thing we can cling to is the inner zoo of the soul. I mean the persons and stories from the past that have no relationship to our own stories. Antigone or Plato or Brutus, invented or real, are actors in the theater of the mind. They do not change; they are strong enough for us to test them with our projections and interpretations. You could call the destructive element in yourself Medea or Clytemnestra — but it is you who is switching from one identity to another. In a mental theater, a single person plays all the parts.

  And that’s how you see the poetic process?

  I guess it is a fair description. A play is being performed, or maybe improvised, and there is an actor for every part, and a certain idiosyncratic language for each of them. But it is all centered on some very urgent question that is formulated from the outside, something you’ve been dealing with all your life: you’re born with this question and the need to answer it again and again. W. H. Auden spoke of neurosis as a life-shaping experience that is to be blessed — we’d never become what we are without it. I’m totally sure that certain patterns are shared, extrapolated to the scale of the whole society, so that everyone you know is shaped, at least partly, by the same problem. I guess this could describe what’s going on in a number of post-Soviet states; one can only wonder if a country can undergo some kind of therapy, if it can do collective work on collective trauma. Especially in times that are rather allergic to any collective project.

  I definitely share my compatriots’, my generation’s full range of traumas and voids. A few years ago, in 2014, in the midst of the Ukrainian wars, I suddenly wrote a longish poem about Russia. It was titled “Spolia” — you know, the architectural term, the densely metaphoric way of building new things, using some bits and parts of previous constructions in the process. You see it everywhere in Rome or Istanbul — pieces of marble, columns, stelae are used as mere bricks in a new wall. Sometimes an old building is demolished in order to provide elements for the new one. This involuntary coexistence of old and new is a good description of what happens to language in “interesting times.”

  And my poem was the result of utter shock: language was changing all around me. Not only was it heavily peppered with hate speech, but it also became utterly hybrid. People were quoting Stalin’s speeches, or brilliantly and unconsciously imitated the style of Pravda’s columns from the 1930s or ’50s, never realizing that they hadn’t invented these words. You have a good example of this now in the United States. When Donald Trump speaks about enemies of the state, he doesn’t know whom he is quoting — or even if he is quoting. I was living in a red-hot climate, and I still needed to find some reasons to continue. I mean, you have to love the place you live in. If it becomes utterly unlovable, you need to leave — or to find some other grounds for love.

  In the poem I quoted some of the criticism I was getting from critics regarding my “impersonality.” After my latest book, a number of them claimed that my work was a trick of sorts, empty and unrelatable, because I didn’t have a distinct and constant lyrical voice. I use other people’s voices, so I’m sometimes seen as an imitator, like Woody Allen’s Zelig, never having a full-grown ego, never able to speak in the first person — of myself, of my own needs and fears.

  It rather reflects your views about your country, doesn’t it?

  Well, that is exactly what I can say about Russia. It doesn’t really know what it is; self-definition is not our strong suit. It’s a huge, beautiful, and misused piece of land, inhabited by more ghosts than mortals, full of histories no one cares to remember, so they just keep repeating themselves — full of larger-than-life possibilities and a complete inability to avoid disaster. That was an image of the country I could identify with; in fact, for a while I ceased seeing any difference between myself and Russia, bizarre as it sounds. The Russian Symbolist poet Alexander Blok had called Russia his wife. I had a feeling that Russia was me — that our stigmas were the same.

  I was, in fact, identifying with the country. Not with the awful thing that was happening — the invasion of Donbass, the annexation of Crimea; there is no explanation or excuse for acts of evil, pure and simple, and these are among them. But to oppose the evil you have to learn the language of love. And to love Russia at that moment was a hard job. One had to become Russia, with its wastelands, faded glory, and the horrifying innocence of its everyday life — to speak with its voices and see with its multiple eyes. That’s what I was trying to do: to change my optical system, to dress my hate in a robe of light. You have to be a trickster to do that effectively. Well, my way of writing poetry is distinctive, in that it has to irritate — not only to affect or penetrate, but also to irritate.

  I’m still not sure that I’m answering the question, but maybe it’s the question itself that is important. That multilayered, multifaceted thing I’m trying to create aligns with what is going on in the Russian mind, in the Russian world. There is something very distinctive in the presence of the country, in the way it tends to describe itself, or to be described.

  Of course, we’ve just given a Nobel Prize to a woman who tried to do much of what you’re speaking about in prose, in journalism.

  You’re right, but Svetlana Alexievich writes nonfiction, or documentary fiction, and that’s another story. She is giving voice to real people; there are some true stories behind the books, a number of interviews, the feeling that you are dealing with documented reality. I am speaking with imaginary voices; they are real, but they don’t belong to me. (One Russian poet from the 18th century, Vasily Trediakovsky, used to say that poetic truth doesn’t inhere in what really happened, but in what could and must have happened.) I’m appropriating, or annexing, other people’s lives and voices, as if I were editing an anthology of unused opportunities. Sometimes it means I have to embrace the language of state officials, or criminals, or propaganda. The goal of the poetic, as well as of the political, is to make things visible, to force them into the light, even if they would prefer to stay in the darkness.

  By the way, Marina Tsvetaeva also used those jumbled voices, those different registers. You feel a certain affinity with her, yes?

  My parents conscientiously taught me reading at a very young age — around two-and-a-half, I guess. When I was six, I was reading everything I could lay my hands on, from Pushkin to The Three Musketeers, and lots of suspense novels, too. Then, on New Year’s Eve, someone gave my mother a two-volume edition of Marina Tsvetaeva. That was a rarity in Soviet times. It was an unbelievable gift, a kind of miracle — you couldn’t just go into the bookshop and buy Tsvetaeva or Mandelstam, you had to be a Party member to get it, or spend a fortune on the black market. I knew nothing about Tsvetaeva at the time. I was only seven. My mom read me lots of poetry, but this was something different. I opened the second volume, which had her prose. It was unlike anything I had read before.

  I still have a special affinity with Tsvetaeva. Not in terms of working with the language, because my ways of treating it are different, but in terms of how I see reality. Tsvetaeva lived under ethical standards, a moral pressure that was a constant presence in her life — some moral entity or deity that shaped her life, literally telling her what to do. Sometimes she surrendered to it, sometimes she resisted wildly.

  Nevertheless, she placed all her literary work in some kind of moral coordinate system. I find her example compelling. Because the question that’s essential for me is not the question of “how” or “what,” but rather of “who.” In the case of Tsvetaeva, we get that “who” in its fullest range, larger than life. You still can feel her presence — and that’s what counts.

  https://lareviewofbooks.org/article/mad-russia-hurt-me-into-poetry-an-interview-with-maria-stepanova/

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