When We Dead Awaken: Writing as Re-Vision 復生之悟：寫作再認識

阿德里安娜·里奇 陳麗

Most， if not all， human lives are full of fantasy—passive day-dreaming which need not be acted on. But to write poetry or fiction， or even to think well， is not to fantasize， or to put fantasies on paper. For a poem to coalesce2， for a character or an action to take shape， there has to be an imaginative transformation of reality which is in no way passive. And a certain freedom of the mind is needed—freedom to press on， to enter the currents of your thought like a glider pilot， knowing that your motion can be sustained， that the buoyancy of your attention will not be suddenly snatched away. Moreover， if the imagination is to transcend and transform experience it has to question， to challenge， to conceive of alternatives， perhaps to the very life you are living at that moment. You have to be free to play around with the notion that day might be night， love might be hate; nothing can be too sacred for the imagination to turn into its opposite or to call experimentally by another name. For writing is re-naming. Now3， to be maternally with small children all day in the old way， to be with a man in the old way of marriage， requires a holding-back， a putting-aside of that imaginative activity， and seems to demand instead a kind of conservatism. I want to make it clear that I am not saying that in order to write well， or think well， it is necessary to become unavailable to others， or to become a devouring4 ego. This has been the myth of the masculine artist and thinker; and I do not accept it. But to be a female human being trying to fulfill traditional female functions in a traditional way is in direct conflict with the subversive function of the imagination. The word traditional is important here. There must be ways， and we will be finding out more and more about them， in which the energy of creation and the energy of relation can be united. But in those earlier years I always felt the conflict as a failure of love in myself. I had thought I was choosing a full life： the life available to most men， in which sexuality， work， and parenthood could coexist. But I felt， at 29， guilty toward the people closest to me， and guilty toward my own being.

I wanted， then， more than anything， the one thing of which there was never enough： time to think， time to write. Rapid revelations raised large questions—questions for which the masculine world of the academy around me seemed to have expert and fluent answers. But I needed desperately to think for myself—about pacifism5 and dissent and violence， about poetry and society and about my own relationship to all these things. For about ten years I was reading in fierce snatches， scribbling in notebooks， writing poetry in fragments; I was looking desperately for clues， because if there were no clues then I thought I might be insane. I wrote in a notebook about this time：

Paralyzed by the sense that there exists a mesh of relationships—e.g. between my anger at the children， my sensual life， pacifism， sex （I mean sex in its broadest significance， not merely sexual desire）—an interconnectedness which， if I could see it， make it valid， would give me back myself， make it possible to function lucidly and passionately. Yet I grope in and out among these dark webs.

I think I began at this point to feel that politics was not something “out there” but something “in here” and of the essence of my condition.

I was able to write， for the first time， directly about experiencing myself as a woman. The poem was jotted in fragments during children’s naps， brief hours in a library， or at 3 a.m. after rising with a wakeful child. I despaired of doing any continuous work at this time. Yet I began to feel that my fragments and scraps had a common consciousness and a common theme， one which I would have been very unwilling to put on paper at an earlier time because I had been taught that poetry should be “universal，” which meant， of course， non-female. Until then I had tried very much not to identify myself as a female poet.

大多數人，如果不是全部的話，都有幻想——那種消極的、不需要付諸實踐的白日夢想。但是，去寫詩或者寫小說，抑或是清醒地思考，卻算不上幻想，也不是將幻想寫在紙上。要想讓詩行延續成篇，讓角色或者行動成型，就必須要對現實進行想象性改造，而這絕不消極。一定的思想自由是必需——能夠向前推進的自由，像滑翔機飛行員一樣沖入思想的氣流中的自由，知道自己的動作能夠持續，跳脫的想象力不會被突然地強制轉移。而且，如果想象力要超越和改造生活的話，它必須要去質疑、去挑戰、去構想或許能替代目前這一生存模式的可能性。你必須要能夠自由地嬉戲思想——日能變幻為夜，愛亦會轉化為恨;對于想象力而言，沒有什么是神圣不可侵犯的，一切都可以轉變為對立面或者被實驗性地賦予新的名字。因為寫作就是重新命名的過程。在傳統的婚姻、家庭中，以傳統方式相夫教子的女性就不得不壓抑克制這種想象行為，反而需要一定的保守態度。我想說明，我的意思并不是說，一個人要想有好的寫作、好的思想就必須自絕于其他人，或者自我高度膨脹，只顧自己。大家以前一直是這么誤解男性藝術家和思想家的，我并不認同。但是，對于女性而言，她試圖用傳統方式來完成傳統的女性職責的嘗試，會與上述想象力的顛覆性運作形成直接沖突。“傳統”一詞在這里很重要。一定存在某些方式，而且我們將會發現越來越多的方式，來保證女性既有精力實現創造力，又有精力關注家庭。但是我在早些年間，總是感受到這種沖突，并將它歸咎于我自己的愛心匱乏。我本以為我選擇的是一個完滿的人生：大多數的男人可以享受的人生，性欲、工作和父親身份可以和諧共存。但是，我卻在29歲的時候感到既愧對最親近的人，也有負自己。

那時，我最最想要的唯一一樣東西卻永遠都不能得到滿足：思考的時間、寫作的時間。快速的靈感閃現提出了很多的大問題——這些問題，我身邊的高校里的男人們似乎已經有了專業、流暢的答案。但是，我卻迫切地需要自己思考——思考和平主義、異見和暴力，思考詩歌和社會和我與所有這些事情的關系。在大約十年的時間里，我都是零零散散地閱讀，匆匆忙忙地在筆記本上涂抹幾筆，斷斷續續地寫詩;我在迫切地尋找線索，因為要是沒有線索，我想我可能就會瘋掉。關于這一時期，我在筆記本上這么寫道：

深陷這樣的想法不能自拔：各種關系交錯成網——例如，我對孩子們的怒火，我的俗世生活、和平主義、性（我是指最廣泛意義上的性，不僅僅是性欲）等相互之間的關系——這種相互連接，假如我能夠看到它，使之健全，它就能歸還我的自我，使得自我能夠清醒地、熱情地工作。然而我卻在這些黑暗的網絡里摸索著進進出出，不得要領。

我覺得我就是在這個時候開始領悟到，政治并不是遠在“天邊”，而是近在“眼前”，與我的生存狀態的實質密切相關。

生平頭一次，我得以直接用我的女性體驗為素材進行創作。在孩子們小睡的間隙，在圖書館的短短幾個小時里，或者在凌晨三點，在陪睡不著的孩子起床之后，我匆忙地記下只言片語的詩行。那一陣子，我完全沒辦法創作任何連續性的作品。然而，我開始領悟到，我的那些只言片語、零散詩行擁有一個共同的意識，一個共同的主題，而這一主題我早些年間是絕對不會愿意訴諸筆端的，因為我以前接受的教育總是認為詩歌應該表達“普世”情感，這當然意味著女性情感不在此列。我一直極其費勁地拒絕承認自己的女性詩人身份，直到那個時刻。? ? ? ? ? □