诺贝尔文学经典:《宠儿》第9章Part 4

Softly and then so loud itwoke Denver, then Paul D himself. "Red heart. Red heart. Red heart."
TO GO BACK to the original hunger was impossible. Luckily for Denver, looking was foodenough to last. But to be looked at in turn was beyond appetite; it was breaking through her own skin to a place where hunger hadn't been discovered. It didn't have to happen often, becauseBeloved seldom looked right at her, or when she did, Denver could tell that her own face was justthe place those eyes stopped while the mind behind it walked on. But sometimes — at momentsDenver could neither anticipate nor create — Beloved rested cheek on knuckles and looked atDenver with attention.
It was lovely. Not to be stared at, not seen, but being pulled into view by the interested, uncriticaleyes of the other. Having her hair examined as a part of her self, not as material or a style. Havingher lips, nose, chin caressed as they might be if she were a moss rose a gardener paused to admire. Denver's skin dissolved under that gaze and became soft and bright like the lisle dress that had itsarm around her mother's waist. She floated near but outside her own body, feeling vague andintense at the same time. Needing nothing. Being what there was.
At such times it seemed to be Beloved who needed somethingm wanted something. Deep down inher wide black eyes, back behind the expressionlessness, was a palm held out for a penny whichDenver would gladly give her, if only she knew how or knew enough about her, a knowledge notto be had by the answers to the questions Sethe occasionally put to her: '"You disremembereverything? I never knew my mother neither, but I saw her a couple of times. Did you never seeyours? What kind of whites was they? You don't remember none?"Beloved, scratching the back of her hand, would say she remembered a woman who was hers, andshe remembered being snatched away from her. Other than that, the clearest memory she had, theone she repeated, was the bridge — standing on the bridge looking down. And she knew onewhiteman.
Sethe found that remarkable and more evidence to support her conclusions, which she confided toDenver.
"Where'd you get the dress, them shoes?"Beloved said she took them.
"Who from?"Silence and a faster scratching of her hand. She didn't know; she saw them and just took them.

而后响亮得吵醒了丹芙，也吵醒了保罗·D自己。"红心。红心。红心。"
回复最初的饥饿是不可能的。丹芙很幸运，光是看着别人就能顶饭吃。可是反过来被别人回看，却不是她的胃口承受得住的；它会穿透她的皮肤，直达一个饥饿尚未被发现的地方。这种事不必经常发生，因为宠儿很少正眼瞧她，即便瞧上一眼，丹芙看得出，自己的脸也不过是她眼睛略停一停的地方，眼睛后面的头脑仍在继续漫游。可有的时候——这种时刻丹芙既无法预料也无法创造——宠儿用指节拄着腮，关注地端详着丹芙。
那真可爱。不是被盯视，也不是仅仅被看见，而是被另一个人兴致勃勃、不加评点的眼睛拉进视野。把她的头发当做她自身的一部分，而不是当做一种材料或者一种样式，加以审视。让她的嘴唇、鼻子、下巴得到爱抚，就仿佛她是一朵让园丁流连不已的毛萼洋蔷薇。丹芙的皮肤在她的注视下溶解，变得像搂住她妈妈腰身的那件莱尔裙一般柔软、光艳。她在自己的躯体之外漂游，感到恍惚，同时也觉得紧张。别无他求。听之任之。
这种时候倒是宠儿看起来有所需要——有所要求。在她漆黑的大眼睛深处，在面无表情背后，有一只手掌平摊出来，在讨要着一个铜子儿；丹芙当然乐于施与，只要她知道如何给她，或者对她有足够的了解。但这了解并不得自宠儿对那些问题所作的回答，那些塞丝偶尔向她提出的问题："你什么都不记得了么？我也一直不认识我的妈妈，可我见过她两回。你从来没见过你的妈妈么？他们是哪种白人？你一点儿都不记得了？" 宠儿会挠着手背，说她记得一个属于她的女人，还记得自己从她身边被人抢走。除此以外，她记得最清楚的、不断重复的，是那座桥——站在桥上往下看。另外，她还记得一个白人。
塞丝认为这一点值得注意，也发现了更多的证据，支持着她曾经向丹芙透露过的结论。
"你是从哪儿弄到那条裙子和那双鞋的？" 宠儿说是她拿的。
"从谁那儿？" 沉默。更快地挠手。她不知道；她看见了，就拿了。