氣味如書

I don’t know what a rose smells like， though when I hold my nose to a full-blown1） bloom and inhale deeply， I sense a vague sweetness.

I don’t know what my husband’s shirt smells like. If he died， I wouldn’t think to sleep in it so I could feel that he was with me.

I don’t know what a baby’s head smells like—not my babies， not anyone else’s babies. I couldn’t pick my babies out of a crowd with my eyes closed， and I don’t miss that baby smell when I hug my growing children.

I don’t know the smell of feet， chalk， rain， new cars， or Chanel No. 5.

I don’t know what old books smell like. I don’t know what new books smell like either.

I learned smells from books， which made me think they were fictional. I believed that Wilbur2）’s barn smelled of hay， manure， the perspiration of tired horses， and the sweet breath of patient cows. But when real people said “I can smell the sea from here，” or “I can’t stand the smell of cilantro3），” I thought they were faking. I assumed that， like me， they knew from books that there were smells and things were supposed to have them. Unlike me， I decided， they were willing to pretend those smells existed beyond the page. As I try to write out this logic， it seems tortuous， but it wasn’t something I ever questioned; it was something I knew. I could not smell the things I read in books， so it was impossible that anyone else could， which meant they must be making it up.

I realized I was wrong when I had children. Too young to read or fake it， they smelled poop and thought it was yucky4）， vanilla5） and thought it was sweet， dinner cooking and couldn’t wait to eat. As they gained words for odors， I finally lost the sense of smell I never knew I should have had.

Poop became my leitmotif6）. I lived in fear that my babies would have dirty diapers and everyone would know but me. Dozens of times a day， I weighed their saggy bottoms in my hand， peered down the backs of their pants or up the leg holes of their onesies7）， using replacement senses I never quite trusted for the seriousness of the task at hand.

Now weed8） has replaced poop in my parental anxiety of smell. Is it called skunk9） because that’s what it smells like？ I wouldn’t know. My children could come home reeking of it， and I still wouldn’t know.

I only discovered the word for people like me a few years ago. We are anosmic10）; we have anosmia： lack of the sense of smell.

Sometimes anosmia is defined as loss of the sense of smell. When people lose their sense of smell， they wax irate and nostalgic. They write articles in the New York Times about the tragedy and danger of not being able to smell burnt toast and how their friends don’t understand. They write books about traveling the world， searching for smell. They almost always regain what they have lost， because that is the nature of narratives of loss： you lose， you suffer， you recover.

Then there are those of us who never had what we’ve supposedly lost.

Our friends don’t understand us either. “What do you mean you can’t smell？” they ask.

“I can smell，” I say. “A bit.” I smell frying onions， garlic， and cigarettes. But not new-mown grass. I only know the grass has been mown when I see the drifts of clippings11）. And I can’t smell all the things you say you smell， the nuances and differences， the specifics. I can smell citrus12）， but not orange， lemon， pink grapefruit. I can smell bad， but I can’t say what’s making it bad. Sometimes you screw up your face and cover your nose， and I smell nothing.

“How can you taste，” they ask， “if you can’t smell？”

I can taste. I taste delicious and disgusting， how dark the chocolate is， the difference between dark and milk， the vicissitudes13） of oysters from different waters. I can’t taste rosemary， thyme， or the difference between organic and what you buy at the corner store. I can’t identify what creates a taste. You will never hear me say， “Was this grilled over mesquite？”

I have a friend who is a gourmet. He reads the descriptions on wine lists and chooses dark cherries， cedar， and pipe tobacco over earth， pepper， and spice. I read the descriptions on wine lists and think they sound like poetry. My friend had an operation on his ear and when he awoke， he could not smell. He could taste， he said， but everything tasted muted. That’s it， I said， that’s my life. I smell， I taste， but the books， the menus， the reports from the world of smell and taste make it clear that my spectrum14） is limited， that everyone else has access to realms I cannot fathom15）.

My friend recovered from his operation and reentered the world of the odorously-abled. I make my older daughter sniff my younger daughter to see if she needs a bath.

When I was a child， reading a book a day， I wondered if the entire world was a big complicated book—being read by a giant. What if what we thought we were living was just what he was reading？

In fact， the world has always seemed something like a book to me， a sphere in which I am immersed， but to which I never quite fully belong. Oh， I jump at sudden noises and cry when I bump my head. I have dear friends and terrible conflicts. I marvel at the miraculous perfection of my children and rage at injustice. And yet， I do not feel my children’s pain; if they need to be held down for a shot， I hold them. I rarely cry at funerals. I am good in a crisis， able to see what needs to be done and then to do it， regardless of material or emotional chaos. I am a fearless editor： I kill darlings with impunity16）， hewing certainty and nuance out of tentative verbiage17）， without sentimentality or regret. Pain and crisis， but also triumph and celebration： It never feels quite real to me， or perhaps it feels only as real as my books.

I wonder， sometimes， if this sense of distance， of the unreality of the real， has to do with anosmia. Unable to smell danger （sour milk， gas） or comfort （home， the people I love）， am I missing a fundamental tether18） that holds other people to the world？ Are my memories lesser for lack of olfactory reminders？ Does the diminution19） of my fifth sense altogether diminish my ability to engage with the sensory realm？

Or are the books the problem？ Has my life of reading distanced me？ Does the side-by-side existence within my head of the characters I’ve read about and the characters I know keep them all a step away？ Have the pungent smells of the literary created my lack？

When I move through the world alone， I see， hear， feel， taste. If I don’t smell， I don’t know it.

But if I read alone， I know it.

也許你見過失聰、失明和失語的人，但你見過失去嗅覺的人嗎？本文的作者就是這樣一位失嗅癥患者。失去了嗅覺，她聞不到花香、丈夫襯衫的味道、寶寶身上的奶味、新車的味道、香水的味道、書的味道……那她該如何感知世界呢？薩特說：“在書里，我和世界相遇。”那么在書里，作者也和氣味相遇。

我不知道玫瑰聞起來是什么味兒，盡管當我把鼻子湊近盛開的花朵，并深吸一口氣時，也會感到淡淡的香味。

我不知道丈夫的襯衫聞起來是什么味兒。如果他不在人世了，我不會想到為了感覺他與我同在而穿著他的襯衫入睡。

我不知道嬰兒的頭聞起來是什么味兒——不管是我的寶寶還是別人家的孩子，我都聞不出來。蒙上雙眼，我無法將自己的孩子從一堆嬰兒里挑出來。當我擁抱我那正在長大的孩子們時，我也不懷念當初他們身上那股嬰兒的味道。

我不知道腳的味道、粉筆的味道、雨的味道和新車的味道，也不知道香奈兒五號是什么味道。

我既不知道舊書的味道，也不知道新書的味道。

我是從書里認識氣味的，這讓我覺得氣味是虛構的。我相信小豬威爾伯生活的谷倉充滿了干草和肥料的味道、疲憊馬兒的汗味兒以及溫順奶牛的甜美氣息。但當現(xiàn)實生活中人們說“我在這兒能聞到海的味道”或者“我受不了香菜味”時，我以為他們都是裝的。我認為他們跟我一樣，也是從書里知道有氣味這回事，以及各種東西都應該有氣味。我確信，與我不同的是他們愿意假裝那些氣味也存在于書本之外。我試著寫下這個邏輯，該邏輯看似曲折復雜，可我從未對它產生過質疑。這是我知道的事實。我聞不到書里寫的那些東西，所以別的人也不可能聞到。這也意味著，別人肯定是在瞎編亂造。

我是在有了孩子之后才意識到自己錯了。孩子們年紀太小，不能讀書，也不會捏造。他們聞到大便味，覺得惡心;聞到香草味，覺得芬芳;聞到做飯的味，就等不及要開飯。等他們學會了形容氣味的詞匯，我終于失去了嗅覺，而之前我從來不知道自己本該擁有嗅覺。

便便成了我生活的主題。我生活在恐懼中，生怕孩子的尿布臟了，所有人都知道而唯獨我不知道。每天好多次，我把他們屁股上松垮垮的尿布放在手上掂量，從他們的褲子后面往下看或是從連體衣的褲管朝上看，動用我從來不大信任的替代感官，來完成手頭的這項重大任務。

現(xiàn)在，在我的家長嗅覺焦慮癥中，大麻代替了大便的位置。超勁大麻叫“臭鼬”大麻是因為它聞起來像臭鼬嗎？我沒法知道。孩子們就算滿嘴大麻味兒回家，我也沒法知道。

直到幾年前，我才發(fā)現(xiàn)了形容我這種人的一個詞。我們是嗅覺缺失者。我們患有失嗅癥：沒有嗅覺。

有時候人們把失嗅癥定義為失去了嗅覺。人如果失去嗅覺，就變得易怒又懷舊。他們在《紐約時報》上撰文，抱怨面包烤焦了自己也聞不到，這是多么悲慘而危險，而朋友們又是多么不理解他們。他們寫書，講述自己為追尋氣味而周游世界的故事。他們幾乎總能找回他們失去的，因為講述有關丟失的故事就是這么回事：失去，承受，失而復得。

但還有我們這些人，從來不曾擁有過據(jù)說是我們失去了的東西。

朋友們也不理解我們。“什么叫你聞不到味道？”他們問。

“我能聞到一點點。”我說。我能聞到炸洋蔥、大蒜和香煙的味道，但聞不到新修剪過的草坪的味道。只有看到一堆堆的草屑，我才知道草坪修剪過。我也聞不出來你說你能聞到的那些氣味，那些細微差別、不同之處和特殊之處。我能聞到柑橘類水果的味道，但聞不出是橙子、檸檬還是粉紅葡萄柚。我可以聞出東西變質了，但說不出是什么讓它變質了。有時候你捂著鼻子，臉擰作一團，而我什么都聞不到。

“如果你聞不到的話，”他們問，“那你怎么嘗得出味道呢？”

我可以嘗出味道。我能嘗出是美味可口還是令人作嘔，能嘗出巧克力熱飲中可可的含量有多少，是純的還是加了奶，能嘗出不同海域的牡蠣味道的區(qū)別。我嘗不出迷迭香、百里香的味道，嘗不出有機食品和街頭小店買到的食物之間的區(qū)別。我說不出某種味道由什么東西產生。你永遠聽不到我說：“這是不是用牧豆樹枝烤過？”

我有一個美食家朋友。他閱讀酒水單上的描述，選那些有黑櫻桃、雪松和煙絲香的酒，不選泥土、胡椒和香料味道的。我讀酒單上的描述，覺得它們就像是詩。我這位朋友的耳朵動了手術，術后醒來時，他聞不到氣味了。他說他還能嘗出味道，但什么東西吃起來都很淡。就是這樣，我說，我過的就是這種日子。我能聞，能嘗味道，但是書本、菜單和來自氣味世界的報告清楚地表明，我的嗅覺范圍有限，其他人都能進入的領域我卻無法理解。

朋友手術后康復了，重回氣味健全的世界。而我只能是讓大女兒去聞聞她的妹妹，看看她是否需要洗澡。

小時候，有一天讀著書，我在想全世界是不是一本復雜的大書——由一個巨人來讀。如果我們自認的生活只是他閱讀的內容，那會怎么樣呢？

事實上，這個世界在我看來一直像一本書，一個我浸沒其中卻從未完全歸屬其中的領域。是的，突然的聲響會讓我嚇一跳，撞到頭時我會叫。我有親愛的朋友，也會遇到激烈的沖突。我為孩子們猶如奇跡般的完美無瑕驚嘆不已，也因不公而憤憤不平。然而，我感受不到孩子們的痛苦，如果需要把他們按著打針，我會按著。我參加葬禮幾乎不哭。我擅長處理危機，能看到要做什么，接著就去做，不管周遭或情緒上有多混亂。我是一名無畏的“編輯”：對親愛的人嚴苛而不受懲罰，從試探性的冗詞里剝出真相和細節(jié)，不多愁善感也不后悔。不管是痛苦和危難，還是勝利和慶祝：我從來沒有感覺多真實，或者說，我覺得這些東西只是像我讀的書一樣真實。

有時候我懷疑，這種距離感和對真實世界產生的不真實感是否跟失嗅癥有關。聞不到危險（酸腐的牛奶、天然氣）或者舒適（家、我愛的人），我是不是就缺少了那條將他人與世界連接起來的重要的紐帶？沒有來自嗅覺的提醒，我的記憶是不是比別人的少？我這第五感的減弱是否也削弱了我參與到感知世界的能力？

或者問題出在書上？是不是讀書的生活讓我變得與世界疏離？書中的人物與我所知道的人物在我的大腦中共存，這會不會使現(xiàn)實中的人們總離我有一步之遙？文學作品中的辛辣味是否導致了我的失嗅癥？

獨自穿過世界，我看，我聽，我感，我嘗。如果聞不到某種東西，我就不了解它。

但如果是獨自閱讀，我就了解。

1. full-blown：（花）盛開的

2. Wilbur：威爾伯，一只可愛的小豬，是美國作家E. B. 懷特（E. B. White）所著的小說《夏洛特的網(wǎng)》（Charlotte’s Web）中的角色。

3. cilantro [s??l?ntr??] n. 芫荽葉;香菜

4. yucky [?j?ki] adj. 惡心的

5. vanilla [v??n?l?] n. 香子蘭，香草

6. leitmotif [?la?tm???ti?f] n. 主題

7. onesie [?w?nzi] n. 嬰兒穿的連體衣

8. weed [wi?d] n. 大麻，大麻制品

9. skunk [sk??k] n. 臭鼬;超勁大麻

10. anosmic [??n?zm?k] adj. 嗅覺缺失的

11. clipping [?kl?p??] n. 剪下物

12. citrus [?s?tr?s] n. 柑橘屬水果（如橘子、檸檬、西柚）

13. vicissitude [v??s?s?tu?d] n. 變化

14. spectrum [?spektr?m] n. （看法、感覺等的）范圍

15. fathom [?f?e?m] vt. 弄清;理解;了解;明白

16. with impunity：不受懲罰地;安然無恙地

17. verbiage [?v??（r）bi?d?] n. 冗詞，廢話，贅語

18. tether [?tee?（r] n. 系鏈;拴繩

19. diminution [?d?m??nju??（?）n] n. 減少，降低