無知常樂

與一個普通城里人到鄉(xiāng)下散步，特別是在四、五月份里，不為他的一無所知感到驚奇是不可能的。一個人到鄉(xiāng)下散步，不為自己對事事無知吃驚也是不可能的。成千上萬的人渾渾噩噩地過了一生，分不出山毛櫸和榆樹的差別，也聽不出畫眉和烏鴉的鳴聲有什么不同。住在現(xiàn)代城市里的人能夠分辨這兩種啼聲大概是極其罕見的。這倒不是因為我們沒有見過這兩種鳥，而是由于我們從不去注意它們。我們與小鳥比鄰而居，但我們的觀察力卻極其薄弱，很少人能說出花雞是否鳴囀亦或杜鵑是什么顏色。有時候我們會像孩童一樣爭吵不休：杜鵑是不是在飛翔時歌唱，或者棲在樹枝上也在歌唱；查浦曼是根據(jù)自己的想象，還是憑借對大自然的觀察寫出詩句：杜鵑在橡樹的嫩枝上歌唱，帶給人們第一束明媚春光。

然而，這種無知也不完全是壞事。從無知中我們就會不斷獲得發(fā)現(xiàn)的喜悅。只要我們本懵懂無知，每年春天大自然的各種現(xiàn)象就會帶著清新的露珠呈現(xiàn)在我們眼前。如果我們活了半輩子還從未看見過杜鵑，只知道它是一個飄逸游蕩的聲音，那么當我們看見它由于做了壞事，急匆匆地從一個樹叢逃到另一個樹叢，或者當它準備飛落到長滿杉樹、可能潛伏著復仇的敵人的山坡之前，它像鷹隼一樣懸在空中，長尾巴索索抖動著，我們會滋生驚喜的感覺。如果說自然學家在觀察鳥類時就沒有這種喜悅心情，那會令人感到荒謬。兩者的不同之處在于：以恬靜和單調(diào)工作為職業(yè)的自然學家的欣喜是持續(xù)不斷的；而一個普通人在某天早晨初次見到杜鵑卻喜出望外，仿佛天地都煥然一新！

對于喜悅之情如何產(chǎn)生，就連自然學家在某種程度上也有賴于其無知，讓其得以不斷發(fā)現(xiàn)新大陸。他可能從書本上吸取了很多的知識，但他還是要親身去印證每一個絢麗的事物，不然他依舊會感到一知半解。他要親眼看一下雌杜鵑——罕見的奇觀——如何在地上產(chǎn)蛋，然后再把蛋銜到巢中，哺育出一個殺嬰犯。他日復一日地用一副望遠鏡進行觀察，為了證實或反駁杜鵑確實是把蛋產(chǎn)在地面上而不是窩里。即使他足夠幸運，碰巧看到了這種行蹤詭秘的小鳥在產(chǎn)蛋，也還有其他有爭議的問題亟待他去克服。譬如說，杜鵑蛋的顏色是否同它所投放在某個巢內(nèi)的蛋的顏色相同呢？科學家們顯然不必為他們失去的無知而悲嘆。如果說他們似乎無所不知，那也只是因為我們幾乎一無所知。在他們揭露出的每個現(xiàn)象后面，永遠都有一個無知的寶庫等待被挖掘。他們永遠也不會知道賽壬海妖唱給尤利西斯聽的是什么歌；在這一點上，他們?nèi)缤旭R斯·布朗爵士。

我舉了杜鵑的例子來說明普通人的無知，并不是因為我對這種鳥可以發(fā)表權威性的議論。不過我曾在某個教區(qū)暫住，而那年春天從非洲飛來的杜鵑似乎都聚集在那兒，因此我認識到我自己以及所遇見的人對杜鵑的了解非常之少。但你我的無知決不僅限于杜鵑這一方面。它涉及到宇宙萬物，從太陽、月亮直到各種花卉的名字。有一次我聽到一個聰明的女人提出這樣的問題：新月是不是總在每周的同一天出現(xiàn)？她接著又說這樣也好，正因為不知道它什么時候出現(xiàn)在天空的某個方位，它一出現(xiàn)才會帶來驚喜。然而我想，哪怕人們把月亮盈虧時間表記得再熟，看到新月出現(xiàn)也難免又驚又喜。春回大地，花開花落，也莫不如此。盡管我們對一年四季草木節(jié)令了如指掌，知道櫻草總是在三、四月開花，而不是十月，當我們看到一株早開花的櫻草，還是照樣地高興。另外，我們知道蘋果樹先開花，后結果，可是五月一旦到來，果園里一片花海，我們還是會驚奇不已。

倘若每年春天重溫一遍各類花卉之名，另有一番風味。這就像重讀一本印象已經(jīng)模糊的書一樣。蒙田說過，他的記憶力不好，讀舊書也總像讀新書一樣津津有味。我自己的記憶力也很不可靠，漏洞百出。我甚至能拿起《哈姆雷特》和《匹克威克外傳》，當做是新作家剛出版的作品來念。自從上次讀過以后，這兩本書在我腦海里的印象已經(jīng)模模糊糊了。尤其對一個事事都講求精確的人來講，這樣的記憶力在某些場合讓人傷腦筋。但這是就那些生活除去娛樂尚有重大目標的人而言。如果只講享受的話，認為記憶力不佳就一定不如記憶力強，還真是大可懷疑。記憶力欠佳的人可以翻來覆去讀一輩子普魯塔克和《一千零一夜》。一些細枝末節(jié)當然也可能存留在最壞的記憶力，恰如一群羊鉆出籬笆不可能不留下一絲半縷的羊毛。然而羊終歸逃出去了，偉大的作家也如此從我們不爭氣的記憶中消失，所留下的東西微不足道。

既然讀過的書我們都可以忘得一干二凈，那么一年十二個月及每個月的風物，一旦事過境遷就更容易遺忘了。在某個短暫時刻，我可以對自己說，我對五月就像對于乘法表那樣熟悉。五月份開什么花，花的形狀、開放順序，這些都考不住我。今天，我還非常肯定金鳳花有五瓣（也許是六個吧？上星期我還記得很清楚呢。）。但明年我也許連算術也忘記了，為了不把金鳳花同白屈菜弄混，我可能不得不重新溫習一遍。我將再一次用一個陌生人的眼光重新觀察一下外部世界這個大花園，五彩繽紛的原野會讓我目不暇接。那時，我將猶疑不決，認為雨燕（一種像大號小燕子、又是蜂鳥的近親的黑鳥）從來不在巢中棲息，一到夜間就飛向高空，究竟是科學論斷，還是無知妄說？我還會再一次驚奇地發(fā)現(xiàn)，會唱歌的是雄性杜鵑，而不是雌性杜鵑。我得重新學習，以免把剪秋羅誤認為野天竺葵；還要去重新發(fā)現(xiàn)白楊在樹木生長中算是早成材還是晚成材。一個外國人有一次問一位英國當代作家，英國最重要的農(nóng)作物是什么。他毫不猶豫地回答：“稞麥。”在我看來，這是一宗徹頭徹尾的無；不過，大大無知的也包括那些沒有文化的人。普通人只會使用電話，卻無法解釋它的工作原理。他把電話、火車、排字機、飛機看做當然之事，正像我們的祖父對《福音》書上記載的奇跡從不懷疑一樣。他對日常事物既不深究，也不理解。我們每個人似乎只對很小范圍內(nèi)的某幾件事才真正下功夫去了解、弄清楚。大多數(shù)人把日常工作以外的知識當做花哨無用的玩意兒。盡管這樣，無知還是經(jīng)常刺激到我們，讓我們有所振作。我們有時候會悚然一驚，開始對某一事物進行思索，都會使我們心醉神馳。我們思考的可能是死后的歸宿，或者關于某些據(jù)說亞里士多德也感到大惑不解的問題，例如“為什么從中午到午夜打噴嚏為吉，而從午夜到正午打噴嚏則為兇？”為求知而陷于無知，這是人們所欣賞的最大樂趣之一。歸根結底，無知的極大樂趣在于探索問題的答案。一個人如果失去了這種樂趣，或者把它換成了教條的答案，并以此為樂，那么他的頭腦也就開始僵化了。我們羨慕像裘伊特這樣勤學好問之人，他到了六十多歲還能坐下來研究心理學。我們大多數(shù)人不到他這個年齡就早已失去無知的感覺了。我們甚至還為自己那點兒少得可憐的知識自鳴得意，把與日俱增的年齡看作是培養(yǎng)無所不知的天然學堂。我們忘記了：蘇格拉底之所以名垂后世，并非因為他無所不知，而是因為他在七十歲高齡時依然認為自己一無所知。

It is impossible to take a walk in the country with an average townsman—especially， perhaps， in April or May—without being amazed at the vast continent of his ignorance. It is impossible to take a walk in the country oneself without being amazed at the vast continent of ones own ignorance. Thousands of men and women live and die without knowing the difference between a beech and an elm， between the song of a thrush and the song of a blackbird. Probably in a modern city the man who can distinguish between a thrushs and a blackbirds song is the exception. It is not that we have not seen the birds. It is simply that we have not noticed them. We have been surrounded by birds all our lives， yet so feeble is our observation that many of us could not tell whether or not the chaffinch sings， or the colour of the cuckoo. We argue like small boys as to whether the cuckoo always sings as he flies or sometimes in the branches of a tree—whether [George] Chapman drew on his fancy or his knowledge of nature in the lines：

When in the oaks green arms the cuckoo sings，

And first delights men in the lovely springs.

This ignorance， however， is not altogether miserable. Out of it we get the constant pleasure of discovery. Every fact of nature comes to us each spring， if only we are sufficiently ignorant， with the dew still on it. If we have lived half a lifetime without having ever even seen a cuckoo， and know it only as a wandering voice， we are all the more delighted at the spectacle of its runaway flight as it hurries from wood to wood conscious of its crimes， and at the way in which it halts hawk-like in the wind， its long tail quivering， before it dares descend on a hill-side of fir-trees where avenging presences may lurk. It would be absurd to pretend that the naturalist does not also find pleasure in observing the life of the birds， but his is a steady pleasure， almost a sober and plodding occupation， compared to the morning enthusiasm of the man who sees a cuckoo for the first time， and， behold， the world is made new.

And， as to that， the happiness even of the naturalist depends in some measure upon his ignorance， which still leaves him new worlds of this kind to conquer. He may have reached the very Z of knowledge in the books， but he still feels half ignorant until he has confirmed each bright particular with his eyes. He wishes with his own eyes to see the female cuckoo—rare spectacle！—as she lays her egg on the ground and takes it in her bill to the nest in which it is destined to breed infanticide. He would sit day after day with a field-glass against his eyes in order personally to endorse or refute the evidence suggesting that the cuckoo does lay on the ground and not in a nest. And， if he is so far fortunate as to discover this most secretive of birds in the very act of laying， there still remain for him other fields to conquer in a multitude of such disputed questions as whether the cuckoos egg is always of the same colour as the other eggs in the nest in which she abandons it. Assuredly the men of science have no reason as yet to weep over their lost ignorance. If they seem to know everything， it is only because you and I know almost nothing. There will always be a fortune of ignorance waiting for them under every fact they turn up. They will never know what song the Sirens sang to Ulysses any more than Sir Thomas Browne did.

If I have called in the cuckoo to illustrate the ordinary mans ignorance， it is not because I can speak with authority on that bird. It is simply because， passing the spring in a parish that seemed to have been invaded by all the cuckoos of Africa， I realised how exceedingly little I， or anybody else I met， knew about them. But your and my ignorance is not confined to cuckoos. It dabbles in all created things， from the sun and moon down to the names of the flowers. I once heard a clever lady asking whether the new moon always appears on the same day of the week. She added that perhaps it is better not to know， because， if one does not know when or in what part of the sky to expect it， its appearance is always a pleasant surprise. I fancy， however， the new moon always comes as a surprise even to those who are familiar with her time-tables. And it is the same with the coming in of spring and the waves of the flowers. We are not the less delighted to find an early primrose because we are sufficiently learned in the services of the year to look for it in March or April rather than in October. We know， again， that the blossom precedes and not succeeds the fruit of the apple tree， but this does not lessen our amazement at the beautiful holiday of a May orchard.

At the same time there is， perhaps， a special pleasure in re-learning the names of many of the flowers every spring. It is like re-reading a book that one has almost forgotten. Montaigne tells us that he had so bad a memory that he could always read an old book as though he had never read it before. I have myself a capricious and leaking memory. I can read Hamlet itself and The Pickwick Papers as though they were the work of new authors and had come wet from the press， so much of them fades between one reading and another. There are occasions on which a memory of this kind is an affliction， especially if one has a passion for accuracy. But this is only when life has an object beyond entertainment. In respect of mere luxury， it may be doubted whether there is not as much to be said for a bad memory as for a good one. With a bad memory one can go on reading Plutarch and The Arabian Nights all ones life. Little shreds and tags， it is probable， will stick even in the worst memory， just as a succession of sheep cannot leap through a gap in a hedge without leaving a few wisps of wool on the thorns. But the sheep themselves escape， and the great authors leap in the same way out of an idle memory and leave little enough behind.

And， if we can forget books， it is as easy to forget the months and what they showed us， when once they are gone. Just for the moment I tell myself that I know May like the multiplication table and could pass an examination on its flowers， their appearance and their order. Today I can affirm confidently that the buttercup has five petals. （Or is it six？ I knew for certain last week.） But next year I shall probably have forgotten my arithmetic， and may have to learn once more not to confuse the buttercup with the celandine. Once more I shall see the world as a garden through the eyes of a stranger， my breath taken away with surprise by the painted fields. I shall find myself wondering whether it is science or ignorance which affirms that the swift （that black exaggeration of the swallow and yet a kinsman of the humming-bird） never settles even on a nest， but disappears at night into the heights of the air. I shall learn with fresh astonishment that it is the male， and not the female， cuckoo that sings. I may have to learn again not to call the campion a wild geranium， and to rediscover whether the ash comes early or late in the etiquette of the trees. A contemporary English novelist was once asked by a foreigner what was the most important crop in England. He answered without a moments hesitation： “Rye.” Ignorance so complete as this seems to me to be touched with magnificence； but the ignorance even of illiterate persons is enormous. The average man who uses a telephone could not explain how a telephone works. He takes for granted the telephone， the railway train， the linotype， the aeroplane， as our grandfathers took for granted the miracles of the gospels. He neither questions nor understands them. It is as though each of us investigated and made his own only a tiny circle of facts. Knowledge outside the days work is regarded by most men as a gewgaw. Still we are constantly in reaction against our ignorance. We rouse ourselves at intervals and speculate. We revel in speculations about anything at all—about life after death or about such questions as that which is said to have puzzled Aristotle， “why sneezing from noon to midnight was good， but from night to noon unlucky.” One of the greatest joys known to man is to take such a flight into ignorance in search of knowledge. The great pleasure of ignorance is， after all， the pleasure of asking questions. The man who has lost this pleasure or exchanged it for the pleasure of dogma， which is the pleasure of answering， is already beginning to stiffen. One envies so inquisitive a man as [Benjamin] Jowett， who sat down to the study of physiology in his sixties. Most of us have lost the sense of our ignorance long before that age. We even become vain of our squirrels hoard of knowledge and regard increasing age itself as a school of omniscience. We forget that Socrates was famed for wisdom not because he was omniscient but because he realised at the age of seventy that he still knew nothing.

參考文獻：

[1]Robert Lynd， The Pleasures of Ignorance， 1st World Library –Literary Society， 2004

【作者簡介】寧波，中國土木工程集團有限公司。