“Butter,” it says. And then, “cornmeal, and flour.”
“黄油。”它说。然后，“玉米粉，还有面粉。”

“Is this a recipe?” I ask.
“这是食谱吗？”我问。

“Snow drifts,” says the voice. “I stick my hand in. Freshly fallen. It’s like powder, but it melts.”
“是雪堆。”那个声音说，“我把手伸进去。刚落下的雪。像粉末，但会融化。”

“I’ve never seen snow,” I say.
“我从没见过雪。”我说。

“My mother,” the voice says, “her face is gone, but her hands…I’ll never forget her hands. They were lined, wrinkled, rough. They scratched even at smooth surfaces. But on my face they were always soft.”
“我的母亲，”声音说，“她的脸已经消逝了，但她的手……我永远忘不了她的手。它们布满纹路，皱皱的，粗糙的。就算在光滑的表面上也会留下刮痕。可抚在我脸上时，却总是柔软的。”

“We all have mothers,” I say.
“我们都有母亲。”我说。

“The British Isles, 1066,” says the voice. “William the Conqueror comes bursting out of Normandy, steals the land from the Anglo Saxons. He stays. He brings his language with him. But the Anglo Saxons remain. In their tongue is the flower of old Germanic. William’s Gallic, early French. Vines splice. Diverted tracks converge. Chaucer speaks in a tongue we now can nearly recognize.”
“不列颠群岛，一零六六年。”声音说，“征服者威廉从诺曼底猛冲而出，从盎格鲁-撒克逊人手里夺走了土地。他留了下来。他带来了自己的语言。但盎格鲁-撒克逊人还在。他们的舌头上开着古日耳曼语的花朵。威廉的高卢语，那早期的法语。藤蔓嫁接到一处。岔开的轨道合拢了。乔叟说的话，我们已经几乎能辨认了。”

“Garden,” I say. “Origin.”
“花园。”我说。“起源。”

“...a pipe blown by surmises,” says Voice, “jealousies, conjectures…”
“……一支由揣测、妒忌、臆断吹响的笛子。”声音说。

“True,” I say, “as rumor has it.”
“的确。”我说，“正如流言所说。”

“Thales of Miletus,” Voice says, “he thought the world was made of water. That all matters, all forms of energy, were expressions of the damp. Perhaps the mists of night convinced him. He watched the sea becoming wind. Then, while looking to the fluid stars, he fell right down a well.”
“米利都的泰勒斯，”声音说，“他认为世界由水构成。万物，一切形式的能量，都是潮湿的表现。也许是夜里的雾气说服了他。他看着大海化为风。然后，就在他仰望流动的星辰时，一头栽进了一口井里。”

“And the servant girl?” I say, “The stories say she laughed.”
“那女仆呢？”我说，“故事里说她笑了。”

“At eight,” says Voice, “or nine, perhaps, I think I broke a bone. Pass your fingers underneath my wrist, and still you’ll feel a bump.”
“八岁，”声音说，“或许是九岁，我想我摔断过一根骨头。把你的手指从我的腕下摸过去，至今还能感觉到一个凸起。”

“It is true,” I say, “ that some things never heal.”
“的确。”我说，“有些东西永远不会痊愈。”

“They say it was not poor planning,” claims Voice, “not Russian winter nor great ambition that sent Napoleon to the isle. Neither greed, nor sweetest bloodlust that thrust him from his throne. It was the neglect of a young attendant, they say, and the shoes he had forgotten to dry. The great general himself, with the clogging of his nose, could no longer smell victory on the wind.”
“他们说，不是因为谋划不周，”声音声称，“不是俄国的冬天，也不是庞大的野心，把拿破仑送去了那座岛。既不是贪婪，也不是最甜美的嗜血欲将他推下了王座。他们说，是因为一个年轻侍从的疏忽，和他忘了烘干的那双鞋。那位伟大的将军本人，鼻子一塞，就再也闻不到风中的胜利气味了。”

“When a man has a nose,” I say, “he must use it.”
“一个人既然有鼻子，”我说，“就得用它。”

“Nero,” Voice says, “as the legend goes, played the lyre over Rome as it burned. But history does not relate which song it was he played. Were the chords he strummed each struck with hands of anger, or relief?”
“尼禄，”声音说，“据传说，在罗马燃烧之际弹奏了里拉琴。但历史没有记载他弹的是哪一支曲子。他拨动的那些和弦，每一记是出自愤怒之手，还是解脱之手？”

“If you wish to know a man,” I say, “you must only see his hands.”
“想要了解一个人，”我说，“你只需看他的手。”

“Keats died of tuberculosis,” Voice says. “Spinoza was swiftly exiled. Cervantes returned from war without an arm. I can think of my mother holding me, as though she too were ill. I can think of the late afternoon. The sun that touched her face.”
“济慈死于肺结核。”声音说，“斯宾诺莎迅速遭到流放。塞万提斯从战场归来，少了一条手臂。我能想起母亲抱着我，仿佛她也身染重病。我能想起那迟暮的午后。那照在她脸上的阳光。”

I say, “We all lose the mothers we have.”
我说：“我们都终将失去我们所有的母亲。”

“A frigid brook. A Violin,” says Voice. “I tasted sesame once in Baghdad. There were flatbreads hot as charcoal, soft as feathers, thick as fleece.”
“一道冰冷的溪流。一把小提琴。”声音说，“我在巴格达尝过一次芝麻。那里有扁平面包，烫如炭火，软如羽毛，厚如羊毛。”

“They are strange things,” I say, “those that pass over the tongue.”
“都是些奇怪的东西，”我说，“那些滑过舌头的东西。”

Voice says, “Memory travels forward, but history travels back. It is no wonder that elder Livy, aged Thucydides, forgotten Herodotus found the ancient bodies stretching to meet the words that held their lives. Orestes was a giant. Arion rode a dolphin. Romulus and his brother drank their milk from mother-wolf.”
声音说：“记忆向前旅行，历史却向后回溯。难怪年迈的李维，老去的修昔底德，被遗忘的希罗多德，会发现古老的躯体伸展着，去迎接那些承载了他们生命的词句。俄瑞斯忒斯是个巨人。阿里翁骑着海豚。罗慕路斯与他的兄弟从母狼那里吮吸乳汁。”

“And from where,” I ask, “do you take your milk?”
“那你呢，”我问，“你从哪里取你的乳汁？”

“They say, to a child,” says Voice, “that time is doubly wide. But a child is not a reader of history. She cannot expand across a page. A child is historic only when history breathes through her body. When recounting herself, she says, ‘I am no Jeanne D’arc, for whom death is the same as living.’ It is not from within her body that she knows the things that stretch.”
“他们说，对于一个孩子，”声音说，“时间是加倍宽广的。但孩子不是历史的读者。她无法在一页纸上展开。只有当历史从她的身体里呼吸而过时，一个孩子才是历史性的。当她讲述自己时，她说：‘我不是贞德，对她而言死亡与活着无异。’那些伸展的东西，她并非从自己的身体内部知晓。”

“One day,” I say, “our bodies will leave us too.”
“终有一天，”我说，“我们的身体也会离开我们。”

“A common wood is labyrinthine,” says Voice. “I am no longer a child when I understand a vise is an empty room. I spend the days of my life moving forward and back. And you shall forget me, and you shall recognize me, and you shall forget me. And after you have remembered, and forgotten, and remembered me again, the event will be undone. You will recall who I am even though the face, the body, the circumstance announces some determinate other. The other lives, and it lives inside of what you remember. And it lives there until you forget.”
“一片普通的树林也是迷宫般的。”声音说，“当我明白一把台钳便是一间空屋时，我就不再是个孩子了。我生命的日子都在前进与后退中度过。而你将会忘记我，你将会认出我，你将会忘记我。而当你记起、忘记、又再次记起我之后，那件事便会被撤销。你会想起我是谁，即便面孔、身体、境况都宣告着某个确凿的他人。那个他人活着，它就活在你所记得的东西里。它就活在那里，直到你忘记。”

“Even the word,” I say, “is a labyrinth.”
“就连那个词，”我说，“也是一座迷宫。”

“There is a city,” says Voice, “that does not exist, and yet it is perpetually around us. We wear it as though it were our body. We feed it as though it were our child. We nurture it as though it were our understanding. We observe it, as though it belonged to someone else. The city does not yet have a name, for we have not yet given it one. The city does not yet have a center, for we have not yet defined its limits. The city does not yet have a location, for we have not yet decided where to put it. The city does not yet have a purpose, for we do not yet have our own. Even so, the city rises and falls with every breath of every day. Things in the city are winged things. In the sky there, there is water that has never known the land. Beneath the water, there is land that has always known the sky. The things that last, they last there through no effort. Persistence is the unwound spring, by which all cities turn.”
“有一座城市，”声音说，“它并不存在，却又永恒地环绕着我们。我们穿着它，如同穿着自己的身体。我们喂养它，如同喂养自己的孩子。我们滋养它，如同滋养自己的理解。我们观察它，如同它属于别人。这座城市还没有名字，因为我们还未给它取名。这座城市还没有中心，因为我们还未界定它的边界。这座城市还没有位置，因为我们还未决定将它置于何处。这座城市还没有目的，因为我们自己还没有目的。即便如此，这座城市随着每日的每一次呼吸而起落。城中的事物都是有翼的事物。在那里，天空中有从未识得陆地为何物的水。在水之下，有始终认得天空的陆地。那些持久的东西，在那里毫不费力地持久。坚持便是那松开的发条，一切城市都围绕着它转动。”