Unit 3 THE LIBRARY CARD课文翻译大学英语六

1、Unit 3 THE LIBRARY CARDOne morning I arrived early at work and went into the bank lobby where the Negro porter was mopping. I stood at a counter and picked up the Memphis Commercial Appeal and began my free reading of the press. I came finally to the editorial page and saw an article dealing with on

2、e H. L. Mencken. I knew by hearsay that he was the editor of the American Mercury, but aside from that I knew nothing about him. The article was a furious denunciation of Mencken, concluding with one, hot, short sentence: Mencken is a fool. I wondered what on earth this Mencken had done to call down

3、 upon him the scorn of the South. The only people I had ever heard enounced in the South were Negroes, and this man was not a Negro. Then what ideas did Mencken hold that made a newspaper like the Commercial Appeal castigate him publicly? Undoubtedly he must be advocating ideas that the South did no

4、t like. Now, how could I find out about this Mencken? There was a huge library near the riverfront, but I knew that Negroes were not allowed to patronize its shelves any more than they were the parks and playgrounds of the city. I had gone into the library several times to get books for the white me

5、n on the job. Which of them would now help me to get books? I weighed the personalities of the men on the job. There was Don, a Jew; but I distrusted him. His position was not much better than mine and I knew that he was uneasy and insecure; he had always treated me in an offhand, bantering way that

6、 barely concealed his contempt. I was afraid to ask him to help me to get books; his frantic desire to demonstrate a racial solidarity with the whites against Negroes might make him betray me. Then how about the boss? No, he was a Baptist and I had the suspicion that he would not be quite able to co

7、mprehend why a black boy would want to read Mencken. There were other white men on the job whose attitudes showed clearly that they were Kluxers or sympathizers, and they were out of the question. There remained only one man whose attitude did not fit into an anti-Negro category, for I had heard the

8、 white men refer to him as "Pope lover". He was an Irish Catholic and was hated by the white Southerners. I knew that he read books, because I had got him volumes from the library several times. Since he, too, was an object of hatred, I felt that he might refuse me but would hardly betray

9、me. I hesitated, weighing and balancing the imponderable realities. One morning I paused before the Catholic fellow's desk. "I want to ask you a favor," I whispered to him. "What is it?" "I want to read. I can't get books from the library. I wonder if you'd let m

10、e use your card?" He looked at me suspiciously. "My card is full most of the time," he said. "I see," I said and waited, posing my question silently. "You're not trying to get me into trouble, are you, boy?" he asked, staring at me. "Oh, no, sir." &qu

11、ot;What book do you want?" "A book by H. L. Mencken." "Which one?" "I don't know. Has he written more than one?" "He has written several." "I didn't know that." "What makes you want to read Mencken?" "Oh, I just saw his na

12、me in the newspaper," I said. "It's good of you to want to read," he said. "But you ought to read the right things." I said nothing. Would he want to supervise my reading? "Let me think," he said. "I'll figure out something." I turned from him and

13、 he called me back. He stared at me quizzically. "Richard, don't mention his to the other white men," he said. "I understand," I said. "I won't say a word." A few days later he called me to him. "I've got a card in my wife's name," he said. &qu

14、ot;Here's mine." "Thank you, sir." "Do you think you can manage it?" "I'll manage fine," I said. "If they suspect you, you'll get in trouble," he said. "I'll write the same kind of notes to the library that you wrote when you sent me

15、for books," I told him. "I'll sign your name." He laughed. "Go ahead. Let me see what you get," he said. That afternoon I addressed myself to forging a note. Now, what were the name of books written by H. L. Mencken? I did not know any of them. I finally wrote what I tho

16、ught would be a foolproof note: Dear Madam: Will you please let this nigger boy - I used the word "nigger" to make the librarian feel that I could not possibly be the author of the note - have some books by H.L. Mecken? I forged the white man's name. I entered the library as I had alwa

17、ys done when on errands for whites, but I felt that I would somehow slip up and betray myself. I doffed my hat, stood a respectful distance from the desk, looked as unbookish as possible, and waited for the white patrons to be taken care of. When the desk was clear of people, I still waited. The whi

18、te librarian looked at me. "What do you want, boy?" As though I did not possess the power of speech, I stepped forward and simply handed her the forged note, not parting my lips. "What books by Mencken does he want?" She asked. "I don't know, ma'am," I said, avo

19、iding her eyes. "Who gave you this card?" "Mr. Falk," I said. "Where is he?" "He's at work, at M - Optical Company," I said. "I've been in here for him before." "I remember," the woman said. "But he never wrote notes like this.

20、" Oh, God, she's suspicious. Perhaps she would not let me have the books? If she had turned her back at that moment, I would have ducked out the door and never gone back. Then I thought of a bold idea. "You can call him up, ma'am," I said, my heart pounding. "You're n

21、ot using these books, are you?" she asked pointedly. "Oh, no, ma'am. I can't read." "I don't know what he wants by Mencken," she said under her breath. I knew now that I had non; she was thinking of other things and the race question had gone out of her mind. She

22、 went to the shelves. Once or twice she looked over her shoulder at me, as though she was still doubtful. Finally she came forward with two books in her hand. "I'm sending him two books," she said. "But tell Mr. Falk to come in next time, or send me the names of the books he wants

23、. I don't know what he wants to read." I said nothing. She stamped the card and handed me the books. Not daring to glance at them. I went out of the library, fearing that the woman would call me back for further questioning. A block away from the library I opened one of the books and read a

24、 title: A Book of Prefaces. I was nearing my nineteenth birthday and I did not know how to pronounce the word "preface". I thumbed the pages and saw strange words and strange names. I shook my head, disappointed. I looked at the other book; it was called Prejudices, I knew what that word m

25、eant; I had heard it all my life. And right off I was on guard against Mencken's books. Why would a man want to call a book Prejudices? The word was so stained with all my memories of racial hate that I cold not conceive of anybody using it for a title. Perhaps I had made a mistake about Mencken

26、? A man who had prejudices must be wrong. When I showed the books to Mr. Falk, he looked at me and frowned. "That librarian might telephone you," I warned him. "That's all right," he said. "But when you're through reading those books, I want you to tell me what you g

27、et out of them." That night in my rented room, while letting the hot water run over my can of pork and beans in the sink, I opened A Book of Preface and began to read. I was jarred and shocked by the style, the clear, clean, sweeping sentences. Why did he write like that? And how did one write

28、like that? I pictured the man as a raging demon, slashing with his pen, consumed with hate, denouncing everything American, extolling everything European or German, laughing at the weaknesses of people, mocking God, authority. What was this? I stood up, trying to realize what reality lay behind the

29、meaning of the words Yes, this man was fighting, fighting with words. He was using words as a weapon, using them as one would use a club. Could words be weapons? Well, yes, for there they were. Then, maybe, perhaps, I could use them as a weapon? No. It frightened me. I read on and what amazed me was

30、 not what he said, but how on earth anybody had the courage to say it. I ran across many words whose meanings I did not know, and either looked them up in a dictionary or, before I had a chance to do that, encountered the word in a context that made its meaning clear. But what strange world was this

31、? I concluded the book with the conviction that I had somehow overlooked something terribly important in life. I had once tried to write, had once reveled in feeling, had let my crude imagination roam, but the impulse to dream had been slowly beaten out of me by experience. Now it surged up again an

32、d I hungered for books, new ways of looking and seeing. It was not a matter of believing or disbelieving what I read, but of feeling something new, of being affected by something that made the look of the world different. I forget more notes and my trips to the library became frequent. Reading grew

33、into a passion. My first serious novel was Sinclair Lewis's Main Street. It made me see my boss, Mr. Gerald, and identify him as an American type. I would smile when I saw him lugging his golf bags into the office. I had always felt a vast distance separating me from the boss, and now I felt clo

34、ser to him, though still distant. I felt now that I knew him, that I could feel the very limits of his narrow life. And this had happened because I had read a novel about a mythical man called George F. Babbitt. I read Dreiser's Jennie Gerhardt and Sister Carrie and they revived in me a vivid se

35、nse of my mother's suffering; I was overwhelmed. I grew silent, wondering about the life around me. It would have been impossible for me to have told anyone what I derived from these novels, for it was nothing less than a sense of life itself. All my life had shaped me for the realism, the natur

36、alism of the modern novel, and I could not read enough of them. Steeped in new moods and ideas, I bought a ream of paper and tried to write; but nothing would come, or what did come was flat beyond telling. I discovered that more than desire and felling were necessary to write and I dropped the idea

37、. Yet I still wondered how it was possible to know people sufficiently to write about them? Could I ever learn about life and people? To me, with my vast ignorance, my Jim Crow station in life, it seemed a task impossible of achievement. I now knew what being a Negro meant. I could endure the hunger

38、. I had learned to live with hate. But to feel that there were feelings denied me, that the very breath of life itself was beyond my reach, that more than anything else hurt, wounded me. I had a new hunger.借书证一天早上，我上班到得早，便走进银行的门廊，里面有一个黑人清洁工在拖地。我站在柜台边，拿了一份孟菲斯商业呼声报，读起了免费报纸。我最后翻到社论版，上面登了一篇写关于一名叫H.L.门肯的

39、人的文章。我听说门肯是美国信使报的编辑。不过除此之外，对他毫无别的了解。该文言辞激烈地遣责门肯，文章结尾时用了一句辛辣的短句：门肯是个傻子。 我在想这位门肯先生到底做了什么事以至于引得南方对他嘲弄。我所听说过在南方唯一受到谴责的人就是黑人。而此人不是黑人。那么门肯持有什么样的观点使得象商业呼声这样的报纸公开攻击他？不用说，他一定是在宣扬南方所不喜欢的思想。 那么我怎样能够弄清楚门肯其人？江边有一大型图书馆，但我知道，正如不许黑人进入城里的公园和运动场一样，他们也同样不被允许进入图书馆。我曾经几次去过那儿，帮正在干活的白人借书。 他们中有哪个人能帮我借书呢？ 我反复琢磨着这些白人的人品。有一个犹

40、太人叫唐，但我信不过他。他的情况并不比我好多少，而且我知道他这个人总是不安分没有安全感。他待我总是满不在乎、傲气十足，对我的轻视几乎也不加掩饰。我不敢要他去帮我借书。他特别渴望表示自己在与白人团结一致反对黑人，这使他有可能会出卖我。 那么老板如何样呢？不成。他是个浸礼会教徒，我有这样的怀疑，就是他可能不大会明白为什么一个黑人孩子想去读门肯的书。上班的还有一些别的白人，但他们的态度明确地表明他们要么是三K党徒，要么是其支持者，要他们帮忙是不可能的。 仅剩一人了，他的态度不属于反黑人的范畴，因为我曾经听白人们叫他为“拍教皇马屁的人”。他是爱尔兰的天主教徒，南方白人不喜欢他。我知道他常读书。因为我曾

41、经有几次帮他去图书馆借过书。因为他也是白人仇视的对象，我感到他也许会拒绝我但不大可能出卖我。我拿不准，只在心里反复琢磨，反复权衡着这无法估计的事情。 一天早上，我来到这位天主教徒的桌子边停下。 “我想请你帮个忙。”我低声对他说。 “什么忙？” “我想借书。我从图书馆中借不到书。 我不知道你可否让我用一用你的借书证？” 他满心怀疑地看着我。 “我的证大部分时间都借满了，”他说。 “我知道。”我边说边等待着，用沉默来提出我的问题。 “你不是想给我惹麻烦，对吗，小伙子？”他两眼瞪着我。 “噢，不，先生。” “你想借什么书？” “H.L.门肯写的。“ “哪一本？” “我不知道。他写过不止一本书吗？”

42、“他写了好几本。” “我以前不知道。” “你为什么想读门肯的书？” “噢，我刚刚在报纸上看到他的名字。”我说。 “你想读书是不错的，”他说， “不过，你应该读一些好的书。” 我什么也没说。他会不会要监督我的阅读呢？ “让我想一下，我会想出办法的。”他说。 我转过身走开，他把我叫了回来。 有些不解地盯着我说： “理查德，不要对其他的白人讲此事。” “我知道，我是一个字也不会说的。” 几天后，他把我叫了过去。 “我用我妻子的名义搞了张借书证，”他说。“我的这张就给你了。” “谢谢你，先生。” “你认为自己能成功吗？” “我会搞妥的。”我说。 “如果他们怀疑上你，你就麻烦了。”他说。 “我会象你以前

43、让我去借书时一样写张条子给图书馆。”我告诉他说， “我会签上你的名子的。” 他听后笑了起来。 “去吧。看看你能借到什么书。” 那天下午，我竭尽全力造了一张假便条。但是，H.L.门肯写的书的书名都是什么呢？我一点也不知道。最后，我写了一张自认为万无一失的条子：亲爱的夫人，请让这个小黑鬼我使用了“黑鬼”这个词是为了让图书管理员不认为我写这张便条借几本H.L.门肯的书好吗？在便条上我假冒了这个白人的签名。 我象以往为白人跑腿借书时一样走进了图书馆，但不知怎么搞的，我总觉得自己不知会在什么地方出点岔子，最终暴露自己。我摘下帽子，毕恭毕敬地站在离借书桌有一段距离的地方，显出一副不会读书的样子，等着白人读

44、者先借。桌边已经空无一人了，我仍在等着。白人管理员看着我问道： “你想干什么，伙计？” 像不会说话一样 我迈向前，一声也没作的把那张伪造的条子递了过去。 “他想借门肯的书？”她问。 “我不知道，夫人。”我躲开了她的双眼。 “这张卡是谁给你的？” “福尔克先生。” “他在哪儿？” “他在工作。在M光学仪器公司，”我说， “我以前在这儿给他借过书。” “我记得，”她说。“但他从未写过象这样的条子。” 噢，天啊！她有点怀疑了。也许她不会让我借这些书了。如果当时她转过身去的话，我一定会低头冲出门外，再也不回去了。这时，我想出了一个大胆的主意。 “你可以打电话问问他，夫人，”我说道，心里却紧张得砰砰狂跳。 “不是你自己用这些书吧？”她直率地问。 “噢，不会，夫人。我不会认字。” “我不知道他要门肯的什么书？”她低声说道。此时，我知道成功了。她已经忘了种族问题，在考虑其它的问题了。她走到书架前，又转过头来看过我一、两次，似乎仍对我有些怀疑。最后她拿了两本书走了过来。“我借给他两本书。”她说。 “但你要告诉福尔克先生，下次让他来，要不就告诉他要借的书的名字。我不清楚他借什么书。” 我什么也没有说。她在借书证上盖了章，然后把书交给了我。我连看都没敢看一眼借到的书就走出了图书馆，生怕她会把我叫