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读了很受震撼的散文,咱们放下思辩,让感性充满.....

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陈育虹    蜂鸟

1.一千朵花蜜五百里飞翔
有 一种鸟叫蜂鸟。原产美洲。初到美洲的葡萄牙人称它们「飞翔的珠宝」(joyas voladoras)。蜂鸟的心脏只有婴儿指甲那麼大,但每秒跳动十次。每只蜂鸟一天要采一千朵花的蜜,可以飞行五百公里不休息,可以倒著飞,俯冲速度每 小时六十公里。以地球上一般生物一生心跳总数约二十亿次计算,心跳慢的,像乌龟,就命长,可以活两百岁;心跳快的,像蜂鸟,就命短,只活两年。蜂鸟为了应 付快速的新陈代谢,需要大量的氧气和热量,因为消耗多折损快,它们最後大多因为食物不足或天寒而心脏衰竭死亡。蜂鸟疯狂觅食,疯狂地飞,一辈子都在向地心 引力和生存的困境宣战。
这是美国作家布莱恩朵耶(Brian Doyle)一篇散文〈飞翔的珠宝〉("Joyas Voladoras")对蜂鸟的描述。从蜂鸟纤弱却狂热的心,朵耶延伸说哺乳类和飞禽类有四个心室,爬虫类和龟类三个,鱼类两个,昆虫和软体动物一个心 室,单细胞菌类没有心脏。心脏或许各有差异,但所有生物,无一例外,都依赖体内大量液体不停涡旋流转,以维持生命运作。他结论说我们内在随时都在剧烈搅 动,永恒搅动著。swirl/swirling。他用的是这形容飓风的字。
他说我们的心一生可以容纳很多,每日每时每刻可以 容纳很多。但至终我们的心并不对任何人开放。不对父母配偶情人开放,不对孩子及朋友开放。我们顶多开一扇窗,自己却仍然孤独留在屋里。这是没法子的事。因 为心一旦裸开,就会被耙被掘,而这又如何承受。他说年轻时我们以为可以遇到欣赏且包容我们的人,及长才知道那是幼稚的梦,知道所有的心到头来都会碰撞得瘀 青处处瘢痕累累,然後我们得靠时间或意志缀补它。但它永远脆弱且一碰就碎,经不起也许是某个女子的一眼回望,也许是婴儿苹果香的气息,一只背脊受伤蹒跚往 深山待死的猫,或者老母亲纸张一样单薄的手抚过你发际……
像飓风一样涡旋搅动的内在。脆弱且一碰就碎的心。两年或两百年。如果蜂鸟有选择它会宁愿作乌龟嘛?一千朵花蜜与五百里飞翔。如果乌龟有选择它会宁愿作蜂鸟嘛?
想著。很多。


据台北「国立图书馆」网站资料,陈育虹女士,诗人,画家.一九五二 年出生,,广东省南海县人,台湾高雄文藻外语学校英文系毕业。一九九一年移居加拿大温哥华。
也许必是诗人才写得出这样的散文吧?佩服,热烈介绍.
此文自联合副刊网站转来.
http://udn.com/NEWS/READING/X5/


回复
举报|2楼2007-01-20 07:20
    过客何其匆匆?少见留言,其中必有高人,心常慕念.
    诸位有「潜水」美名,海底有仙宫,水面亦有尘缘,俱有可恋之处.


    回复
    举报|3楼2007-01-20 22:56
      留名,文章引人深思,很有震撼力


      比较起来,也许乌龟是一位饱经沧桑的老者,他的心经不起飓风的侵袭,所以他要放慢步调;而蜂鸟更像是一个初出茅庐的青年,他需用有力的挑战、近乎狂热的飞翔来证明自己的强大和独特。 

      每一个生命的选择都值得尊重


      老母亲纸张一样单薄的手抚过你发际…… 
      读了这样的句子,喉头哽咽


      与年龄无关。
      有的人,因为无法把握现实可能的失去,所以宁愿一生躲在龟壳里。
      有的人,因为突然发觉生来无所可失,所以愿意一生迎风破浪去追寻。
      大部分人,如你我,时而畏缩,时而冲动,然而在生命中的某些时刻,曾经凭着感情生活,曾经让心灵高飞


      回复
      举报|7楼2007-01-22 10:46
        我看不懂,能不能再详细讲一下,或者在哪里可以看到全文


        很有意思的文章


        @哈哈啊哈女子


        By Brian Doyle
        JUNE 12, 2012



        Consider the hummingbird for a long moment. A hummingbird’s heart beats ten times a second. A hummingbird’s heart is the size of a pencil eraser. A hummingbird’s heart is a lot of the hummingbird. Joyas voladoras, flying jewels, the first white explorers in the Americas called them, and the white men had never seen such creatures, for hummingbirds came into the world only in the Americas, nowhere else in the universe, more than three hundred species of them whirring and zooming and nectaring in hummer time zones nine times removed from ours, their hearts hammering faster than we could clearly hear if we pressed our elephantine ears to their infinitesimal chests.
        Each one visits a thousand flowers a day. They can dive at sixty miles an hour. They can fly backwards. They can fly more than five hundred miles without pausing to rest. But when they rest they come close to death: on frigid nights, or when they are starving, they retreat into torpor, their metabolic rate slowing to a fifteenth of their normal sleep rate, their hearts sludging nearly to a halt, barely beating, and if they are not soon warmed, if they do not soon find that which is sweet, their hearts grow cold, and they cease to be. Consider for a moment those hummingbirds who did not open their eyes again today, this very day, in the Americas: bearded helmet-crests and booted racket-tails, violet-tailed sylphs and violet-capped woodnymphs, crimson topazes and purple-crowned fairies, red-tailed comets and amethyst woodstars, rainbow-bearded thornbills and glittering-bellied emeralds, velvet-purple coronets and golden-bellied star-frontlets, fiery-tailed awlbills and Andean hillstars, spatuletails and pufflegs, each the most amazing thing you have never seen, each thunderous wild heart the size of an infant’s fingernail, each mad heart silent, a brilliant music stilled.
        Hummingbirds, like all flying birds but more so, have incredible enormous immense ferocious metabolisms. To drive those metabolisms they have race-car hearts that eat oxygen at an eye-popping rate. Their hearts are built of thinner, leaner fibers than ours. Their arteries are stiffer and more taut. They have more mitochondria in their heart muscles—anything to gulp more oxygen. Their hearts are stripped to the skin for the war against gravity and inertia, the mad search for food, the insane idea of flight. The price of their ambition is a life closer to death; they suffer more heart attacks and aneurysms and ruptures than any other living creature. It’s expensive to fly. You burn out. You fry the machine. You melt the engine. Every creature on earth has approximately two billion heartbeats to spend in a lifetime. You can spend them slowly, like a tortoise and live to be two hundred years old, or you can spend them fast, like a hummingbird, and live to be two years old.
        The biggest heart in the world is inside the blue whale. It weighs more than seven tons. It’s as big as a room. It is a room, with four chambers. A child could walk around it, head high, bending only to step through the valves. The valves are as big as the swinging doors in a saloon. This house of a heart drives a creature a hundred feet long. When this creature is born it is twenty feet long and weighs four tons. It is waaaaay bigger than your car. It drinks a hundred gallons of milk from its mama every day and gains two hundred pounds a day, and when it is seven or eight years old it endures an unimaginable puberty and then it essentially disappears from human ken, for next to nothing is known of the the mating habits, travel patterns, diet, social life, language, social structure, diseases, spirituality, wars, stories, despairs and arts of the blue whale. There are perhaps ten thousand blue whales in the world, living in every ocean on earth, and of the largest animal who ever lived we know nearly nothing. But we know this: the animals with the largest hearts in the world generally travel in pairs, and their penetrating moaning cries, their piercing yearning tongue, can be heard underwater for miles and miles.
        Mammals and birds have hearts with four chambers. Reptiles and turtles have hearts with three chambers. Fish have hearts with two chambers. Insects and mollusks have hearts with one chamber. Worms have hearts with one chamber, although they may have as many as eleven single-chambered hearts. Unicellular bacteria have no hearts at all; but even they have fluid eternally in motion, washing from one side of the cell to the other, swirling and whirling. No living being is without interior liquid motion. We all churn inside.
        So much held in a heart in a lifetime. So much held in a heart in a day, an hour, a moment. We are utterly open with no one in the end—not mother and father, not wife or husband, not lover, not child, not friend. We open windows to each but we live alone in the house of the heart. Perhaps we must. Perhaps we could not bear to be so naked, for fear of a constantly harrowed heart. When young we think there will come one person who will savor and sustain us always; when we are older we know this is the dream of a child, that all hearts finally are bruised and scarred, scored and torn, repaired by time and will, patched by force of character, yet fragile and rickety forevermore, no matter how ferocious the defense and how many bricks you bring to the wall. You can brick up your heart as stout and tight and hard and cold and impregnable as you possibly can and down it comes in an instant, felled by a woman’s second glance, a child’s apple breath, the shatter of glass in the road, the words I have something to tell you, a cat with a broken spine dragging itself into the forest to die, the brush of your mother’s papery ancient hand in the thicket of your hair, the memory of your father’s voice early in the morning echoing from the kitchen where he is making pancakes for his children.


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