追 梦 人

上自锁也有半个月了，总共七个晚上的通勤累计223km，上锁脱锁认为已经初入门槛了，洋洋得意之时，竟然在宿舍楼下摔了……

0速度摔车，身上蹭破皮三处，还好，车没事

 

再次诅咒那三位成品字形堵在我车头的小姑娘

三个星期能走多远?

======================

原定的年假被迫延后

车架-----MERIDA MATTS SUB/16寸
前叉-----SASO 铝合金硬叉
腕组-----Prestine 轴承腕组
把立-----黑色无标铝合金
车把-----GUB直把
把套-----双边锁
坐管-----GUB
车座-----GUB 5257
刹车-----Shimano M545+AVID SD7
刹把-----AVID FR5
指拨-----Shimano Deore M530
前拨-----Shimano Lx M571
后拨-----Shimano Lx M570
牙盘-----Shimano Deore M532
飞轮-----Shimano H50-9
链条-----Shimano HG73
花鼓-----久裕 041/042

车圈-----亚力士 DH19
辐条-----不锈钢
脚踏-----浩瀚 PM90
外胎-----正新26×1.95
内胎-----正新26×1.95

 

全车重11kg

 

 

伊瑞玛的缺陷

 

R.A. 拉弗蒂

 

 

    艾伯特大概是最后的一个了。
    最后的一个什么？最后一位了不起的个人主义者？还是最后一个创意十足的绝世天才？抑或是最后一位名副其实的先驱人物？
    不，都不对。艾伯特是最后一个的傻蛋加笨瓜。
    当艾伯特出生之时，人类生育出的婴儿变得越来越聪明，这个趋势还将永远持续下去。艾伯特大概是有史以来最后的一个笨孩子。
    即便是他的母亲，也不得不承认艾伯特反应有点迟缓。艾伯特直到四岁才会说话，六岁时第一次学会使用调羹，直到八岁那年才会摆弄门把手，对于这样一个孩子，你还能怎么评价他呢？对于这样一个会穿错左右脚鞋子、然后面带苦色蹒跚举步的小孩，你还能说些啥呢？还有谁在打完哈欠后要在提醒之下才会合上嘴巴？
    有些事情总是不为他理解——就像时钟上代表小时的是那根长指针，还是短些的那根？然而这个疑惑毫不打紧。艾伯特从不关心钟表走到几点。
    在艾伯特九岁那年，日子刚过掉一半，他做出了一个重大突破：通过借助一串荒谬到极点的记忆口诀，他能分清自己的左右手了。这个口诀与以下内容有关：一只狗在躺下之前转身的方式，漩涡与旋风的旋向区别，给奶牛挤奶时选取哪侧奶房，骑马时上马的侧向，橡树与枫树叶片各自盘旋的方向，石头上生长的苔藓与树木上的地衣那令人眼花缭乱的图案的不同朝向，石灰石的裂解方向，鹰隼绕圈、伯劳鸟猎食、蛇类盘绕的方向（要记住，环颈蜥是个例外，它并不真正属于蛇类），以及雪松与香胶树树叶的舒展方向，臭鼬与獾挖掘的洞穴旋向的区别（要牢牢记住臭鼬有时会占用獾废弃的洞穴）。这么说吧，艾伯特花了九牛二虎之力才学会记住哪只是右手、哪只是左手，而一个机敏的小孩无需这些废话就能分清自己的左手与右手。
    艾伯特从来没有学会写字。为了在学校里蒙混过关，他只得作弊。凭借着一副自行车上的速度计、一个小型马达、一片偏心凸轮，再加上他从祖父的助听器上偷偷卸下的电池，艾伯特给自己造出了一台写字机。这机器和一只狮蚁差不多大小，能安装在钢笔或者铅笔上，由此艾伯特就能用手指头遮盖住它。因为艾伯特早已设定好凸轮，让它模仿一本临摹册上的字体，从而写字机能写出一手漂亮的好字。艾伯特通过按下比须发大不了多少的按键来触发不同的字母。这当然是件不老实的行为，但当你愚笨得连勉强书写都不会时，你还能做些什么呢？
    对于算术，艾伯特一点都不会。他不得不再造出台机器来帮他数数。这机器手掌般大小，能做加减乘除。到了第二年，艾伯特升到了九年级，老师开始教他代数学，接着他不得不设计出一件装置，以使他的小玩意可以做二次运算和求解联立方程。要不是有这些作弊的手段，艾伯特不可能在学校里拿到一丁点分数。
    当艾伯特长到15岁时，他又遇到了一个难题。跟你讲，这么说只能算轻描淡写了。对于此事，该用个比“难题”更强烈的词。艾伯特害怕见到女孩子！
    那该怎么办呢？
    “我要给自己造台机器，让它不畏惧女孩子，”艾伯特对自己说道。他开始大干起来。当艾伯特几乎要完工的时候，一个念头钻进他的头脑：“可是没有一台机器会畏惧女孩子。那我造出的机器怎么能帮助到我呢？”
    艾伯特的逻辑推理发生错误，类推方法立马失效。他又采纳了一贯的做法——作弊。
    艾伯特从阁楼上的一架老旧的自动钢琴上取下编曲金属卷，找到一个恰合尺寸的齿轮箱，然后用磁化金属片取代了带孔眼的编曲金属卷。向模具里输入了一份沃姆伍德逻辑程序，之后艾伯特就造出了一台能回答提问的逻辑机。
    “我害怕女孩子，到底是出了什么问题？”艾伯特向他的逻辑机发问道。
    “这与你自身无关，”逻辑机告诉他说。“害怕女孩子很合乎逻辑。在我看来，她们也相当的诡异。”
    “可是我能做些啥来解决它呢？”
    “等待时机。时机当然来得缓慢。除非你想要做点手脚——”
    “啊，我愿意，那该怎么做？”
    “艾伯特，去造一个模样跟你相同、讲话也与你相似的机器人。只是让它稍比你聪明些，而且不会腼腆。接着，艾伯特，你最好把一样特别的东西放到它里面，以防它运转出错。我会把它悄悄告诉你。那是个危险的玩意。”
    就这样，艾伯特制造出小丹尼——一个模样与他相同、说话和他相识，只不过更为聪明、不会腼腆的假人偶。艾伯特把他从《麦德杂志》和《妙语》杂志里得来的俏皮话输入到小丹尼里头，接着将之设定下来。
    艾伯特与小丹尼接着就去拜访爱丽丝了。
    “哇，他棒极了！”爱丽丝赞叹道，“艾伯特，你为啥就不能像他那样呢？小丹尼，你难道不是令人赞叹。艾伯特，为什么小丹尼如此聪慧，你却这么的笨？”
    “我……呃……我也不清楚，”艾伯特支吾着，“嗯……呃……”
    “他听起来像个打嗝的笨蛋，”小丹尼说道。
    “艾伯特，你知道原因，你真的知道！”爱丽丝大声叫道，“艾伯特，你为什么就不能说点有智慧的话，就像小丹尼那样？你为什么会这么的愚笨？”
    开端并不理想，可艾伯特尽力而为。艾伯特给小丹尼编制命令，让他能弹奏夏威夷四弦琴，能开口唱歌。艾伯特盼望着能够给自己也编制出那样的命令，让自己也能歌善琴。爱丽丝喜欢小丹尼的一切，但却丝毫没有注意到艾伯特。有一天，艾伯特终于受够了这一切。
    “我……我……我们要这个假人偶作何用呢？”艾伯特问道，“我制造出它，只不过为……为了取悦你。让我们到别处去，离开小丹尼。”
    “艾伯特，跟你一块到别处去？”爱丽丝发问道，“可你是这么的蠢。我要告诉你我下一步的计划。小丹尼，让我们抛下艾伯特，一起离开。没有了他，我们能玩得更开心。”
    “谁会需要艾伯特？”小丹尼嘲问道，“小鬼，你被甩了。”
    艾伯特远远地走开，他很庆幸自己听取了逻辑机的建议，给小丹尼体内安装了那样特别的小玩意。艾伯特踱步到五十步开外、一百步开外。
    “距离足够远了，”艾伯特自言自语地说道，同时摁下了口袋里的一个开关。
    除了艾伯特和他的逻辑机，没有别的人知道那起爆炸是怎么回事。片刻之后，一些东西纷纷落下：从小丹尼体内蹦出的小轮子，还有爱丽丝的纷碎血肉；可留下的碎片还不足以让另外的人确定真相。
    艾伯特从他的逻辑机学到了一条道理：永远不要制造那些你没法销毁的玩意。
    这么说吧，在几年之后，艾伯特长成了一个男人。他身上总是留有一个非常愚笨的少年的影子。然而艾伯特打起了自己一个人的战争，对抗着那时的少年，狠狠地击败了他们。在艾伯特与他们之间，永远地留下了憎恶与敌对的情绪。艾伯特从来就不是个善于自我调整的年轻人，他憎恨那段回忆。没有人会误以为艾伯特是个心理平衡的人。
    艾伯特过于愚笨，无法在一个诚实的行当里谋生。他只得四处兜售自己发明的那些小玩意，推销给各类讼棍与赞助人。然而他却获取了一些名声，钱财随之而来。
    艾伯特太蠢了，无法处理自己财务上的诸多事宜，可他给自己造出了一台金融精算机，让它管理投资事项，结果艾伯特一不小心就成了个大富翁。艾伯特造出的那台机器实在是太棒了，他对此深表遗憾。
    在我们的历史中，存在着一伙鬼祟的群体，他们将所有卑劣的勾当强加于我们的头上，艾伯特则成了这伙人的一分子。古代有个迦太基人，他学不会象形文字的复杂多变，就给笨蛋们创立了一套不周全而又浅薄的字母表。有个不知姓名的阿拉伯人没法数超过十的数字，就给傻瓜和婴孩设定出了十进制。还有那个表里不一的荷兰人，他发明出了活字印刷，把精细的手抄本彻底逐出了世界。艾伯特是这些人的一个可悲的同伴。
    艾伯特自身并不擅长干什么事。可他的内里有着一个低贱的窍门：他制造出的各类机器能出色地完成所有的事务。
    艾伯特的机器们能稍微做点事情。你该记得，老早以前城市里全都弥漫着烟雾。哦，要把烟雾从空气中驱除干净非常的简单。所需的，只是一个气泵。艾伯特制造出一台气泵机。每天早晨艾伯特会把气泵机打点干净，机器接着就会以艾伯特的陋室为圆心，在一个半径300码的圆内清洁空气，每24个小时就会积聚起一吨多一点的残渣。这些残渣富含大分子的复杂化合物，正好可以给艾伯特的另一台化学反应机作原料。
    人们问艾伯特：“你为什么不把空气统统清洁干净呢？”
    “现在积聚出的残渣足够克拉伦斯·脱氧核糖核考尼巴斯每日之需了，”艾伯特答道。克拉伦斯·脱氧核糖核考尼巴斯就是那台化学反应机的名字。
    “可我们会因为烟雾而死掉，”人们这么说，“怜悯下我们吧。”“哦，好吧，”艾伯特答道。他把气泵机交给他的一台复制机，命令它制造出大量复制品，以满足所需。
    你该记得，以前还有个不良青少年的问题？你还记得那些小讨厌鬼在过去代表着什么吗？艾伯特受够了他们。那些坏小孩有太多笨拙的地方，让艾伯特回想起自己的过去。他按自己的标准造出了一个青少年。它模样很粗鲁。在那些坏小孩看来，它就像是他们中的一员：左耳朵上的耳环、配在体侧晃荡作响的随身用刀 、黄铜制的指关节、长长的刀子，还有一把随时要刺入别人眼睛的拨吉他器。可比起人类的不良少年，它可可怕得多了。它震慑了四邻的少年，让它们严守规矩，令少年的穿戴变得正常。说到艾伯特制造的这个机器青少年，还有一个特点：它是用极化过的金属与玻璃制造的，除了青少年的眼睛，没人看得见它。
    “为什么你的四邻与众不同呢？”人们询问艾伯特，“为什么在你的社区里青少年如此的品行端正、彬彬有礼，而与此同时在其它地方尽是些没礼貌的孩子？好像在这儿四周缭绕着高尚与公义。”
    “哦，我还以为就我一个人讨厌那些坏孩子呢。”艾伯特说。
    “哦，不，不是的，”人们这么回答他，“假若你有什么法子的话——”
    就这样，艾伯特把那个机器青少年交给了一台复制机，让它按着需求制造出大量机器，接着在每个街区放置上一个。从那一天起，直到今日，青少年们都品行端正、彬彬有礼、捎带少许的惧怯。是什么教化了青少年，原因无从得知，除了偶尔可以看见一个被隐形的拨吉他器戳刺后垂落的眼珠。
    由此，20世纪后半叶的两个最为紧迫的难题在无意间得到了解决，可功劳却无从所归。
    当时光流逝，艾伯特在他自己的机器跟前感到极度自卑，特别是那些具有人形的机器。艾伯特正好缺少了人形机器的温文尔雅、光彩四射和无比的睿智。他是那些机器身边的一个大蠢瓜，那些机器令他感受如此。
    为什么不是这样呢？艾伯特发明的一个机器进入了总统内阁。有一个进入了世界观察者最高理事会，维护四处的和平。有一个在管理瑞奇斯无限责任公司（那家私人公共国际机构保证世界上每个人拥有合理的财富）。还有一个是健康与长寿基金会的当家人（那家基金会给所有人提供健康与长寿）。那些机器如此的优秀与成功，它们干吗不鄙视这个制造出它们的猥琐大叔呢？
    “我是靠一个充满好奇的窍门致富的，”某一天艾伯特自言自语地说，“又借助一个命运中的差错获得了荣耀。可在这世上，没有一个人、没有一台机器是我真正的朋友。这儿有一本书交待了怎么交朋友，但我没法那么做。我要以自己的方式交上个朋友。”
    就这样，艾伯特开始制造自己的朋友。
    他造出了小查尔斯——一个和艾伯特一样愚蠢、笨拙和无能的机器人。
    “如今我将有人陪了，”艾伯特说道，可这法子行不通。两个零加一块还是个零。小查尔斯和艾伯特太像了，干不了任何事。
    可怜的小查尔斯！他没法思考，他制造了——（可上校，请稍等一下，这根本行不通）——他制造了一台——（可这不就又是那样该受谴责的鬼东西？）——他制造出一台机器来替自己思考——
    保持现状，不要继续！那就够了。小查尔斯是艾伯特至今为止造出的唯一一台愚笨得可以制造出东西的机器。
    这么说吧，甭管小查尔斯造出的是啥玩意，当艾伯特意外地看到它们时，那些机器已经控制了状况，也控制住了小查尔斯。这台机器造出的机器——这台小查尔斯制造出来替他思考的机器——正在以一种羞辱人的方式教训小查尔斯。
    “惟有无能和有缺陷的人才会发明东西，”那台该死的由机器造出的机器正唠叨着，“辉煌时期的希腊人没有发明东西。他们既不使用附加力，也不使用外在设备。与聪明人和机器们一样，希腊人会使用奴隶。他们不会屈尊使用那些小玩意，而是轻松地解决困难，他们从不寻求省力的途径。
    “可那些没能力、能力不够的人就会发明。那些个堕落的家伙、那些流氓就会发明东西。”
    带着一阵极少见的怒火，艾伯特杀死了它们两个。但他知道，那台机器造出的机器讲出了实情。
    艾伯特心情十分沮丧。换作一个稍聪明点的人，早就能预知到问题出在何处。艾伯特只有一个预感：他不擅预感，而这永远不会改变。看到没有出路，他造出了一台机器，还把它叫作“预感机”。
    在多数方面，这是他所造出的最差劲的机器。在构造它时，艾伯特尝试着表达出一些自己对于未来的不安情绪。这机器头脑笨拙、机械结构毛糙，完全是件废物。
    当艾伯特组装那机器时，他的那些更为聪明的机器聚拢过来，朝艾伯特大声地叫嚷。
    “啊！你是不是疯了啊！”它们嘲骂道，“这东西多么粗糙！它要从周围环境获取能源！早在20年前，我们就说服了你，让你摒弃那方式，给我们所有人建立起统一能源。
    “呃——总有一天会发生社会骚乱，所有的能源中心都将遭到关闭，”艾伯特结结巴巴地说，“可如果整个世界被彻底扫平，预感机将能够继续运行。”
    “它甚至没有调到我们的信息矩阵，”机器们嘲笑地说，“它比小查理斯还差劲。那个愚笨的家伙几乎就是从零开始。”
    “也许有种新的需求需要它，”艾伯特说。
    “它甚至还没受家教！”那些彬彬有礼的机器大声喊出了自己的愤愤不平，“看啊！还流了一地板原始的润滑油。”
    “它让我想起自己的童年，我同情它。”艾伯特说。
    “它能干些什么呢？”机器们追问道。
    “嗳——它有预感的能力。”艾伯特咕哝着。
    “复制品！”机器们叫喊道，“那是你自己所会的本事，还不是十分擅长。我们提议来一场选举，以取代你这个——请谅解我们的笑声——诸多企业的头头。”
    “头儿，我早就预感到要怎样来阻止它们。”尚未完工的预感机悄声说道。
    “它们是在虚张声势，”艾伯特悄悄地回应道。“我的第一个逻辑机教会了我：永远不要造出些自己没法摧毁的玩意。我造出了那些机器，它们也知道这一点。但愿我自己也能像那样思考事情。”
    “也许会到来一个笨拙的时代，那我就将有点用处了。”预感机说道。
    惟有一次，而且还是在晚年的时候，艾伯特显现出几分诚实。他单靠自身，干了一件事情（这是一次惨淡的失败）。那是在千禧年的晚上，艾伯特被授予了菲涅提—赫彻曼奖，那是文明世界所能给与的最高奖项了。当然，艾伯特是个古怪的人选，可是大家都注意到：在近三十年里，几乎所有的基础发明都可追本溯源，追溯到艾伯特和他的那些机器身上。
    你该知道那奖杯。上头是伊瑞玛，那个假想出来的希腊发明女神，她双臂张开，好似要展翅高飞。在她底下，是个剖开的标准大脑模型，显现出沟壑四布的大脑皮层。再底下就是学术院的盾形徽章：正中是银色的古代学者徽章；左侧是红色的安德森分析器花纹；右边是蒙德曼空间驱动花纹（毛皮纹路）。这是戈罗本的杰作，那是在他的第九阶段。
    艾伯特的讲演词写作机给他撰写了一篇演讲稿，可出于某种原因，他没有用上它。艾伯特单靠自己讲了一通，那真是场灾难。当主持人介绍他时，艾伯特站起身来，接着结结巴巴地说了起来，讲的尽是些胡话！
    “呃——仅有不健康的牡蛎才能孕育出珍珠，”艾伯特说道，所有的观众都紧瞪着他看。哪有这样的演讲开场辞啊？“或者说我拥有的是错误的生命？”艾伯特弱弱地发问。
    “伊瑞玛女神并不是这般模样！”艾伯特呆视前方，突然指向那个奖杯，“不，那根本不是她。伊瑞玛倒着走路，是个瞎子。她的母亲还是个没脑子的笨蛋。”
    全体的观众都带着痛苦的表情望向艾伯特。
    “没有了酵母，也就没有了发酵，”艾伯特试图作出解释，“可酵母本身就是种真菌，是种病患。你们大家都规规矩矩，优秀非凡！可没有了反常规的东西，你们没法生存。你们会死去，谁又会告诉你们自己已死去呢？当世界上不再有笨蛋和蠢瓜，谁又会发明呢？如果我们大家都不会发明，你会做些什么呢？到那时谁会帮助你们这群蠢瓜呢？”
    “你是不是病了？”司仪沉着地问艾伯特，“你是不是该结束了？大家会理解你的话的。”
    “我的确是病了。我一直都是个病人，”艾伯特讲，“要不然我能怎样呢？你们定下了完美的标准：所有人都该身体健康、身心平衡。不！不！如果我们全都身心平衡，我们也就将僵化并且灭亡。这个世界要保持健康，惟有让一些头脑疯狂的家伙暗藏其中。人类制造出的第一件工具并不是什么刮刀，也不是石斧，更不是石刀，而是把拐杖。它可不是由健康人发明出来的。”
    “兴许你该休息下了，”一个工作人员低声说道。在以前的颁奖宴会上还没出现过这样不着边际的胡说八道。
    “你该知道，”艾伯特说，“健壮的公牛和牲畜可踩不出新的小径，惟有瘸腿的小牛犊才行。在得以幸存的每样事物中，必定含有不相称的元素。嗨，你知道有女人这么说‘我的丈夫有点不般配，可我从没有喜欢过夏日的华盛顿城。’”
    每个观众都恍恍惚惚地凝视着艾伯特。
    “那是我讲过的第一个笑话，”艾伯特毫无说服力地讲道，“我的讲笑话机可比我要会讲笑话多了。”他停顿了一下，打了个哈欠，大大地吞了口气。
    “笨蛋！”艾伯特接着声色俱厉地嘶叫起来，“当我们这些发明者彻底灭亡，你们将要为笨蛋们做些什么呢？离开了我们，你们怎么才能生存下来呢？”
    艾伯特结束了讲话。他大张嘴巴，忘记了合上。工作人员引领着他回到座位。艾伯特的公关机解释说艾伯特由于过度操劳而疲惫不堪，接着那台机器分发了一些演讲稿副本，那本该是由艾伯特分发的。
    这是段让人遗憾的插曲。多么令人不快啊，改革者从来就不是伟大人物，伟大人物从来就是一无是处，他们只是伟大人物而已。
    在那一年里，凯撒发布了一条法令：将进行全国人口的普查。这条法令来自于凯撒·潘尼比安寇——这个国家的总统。人口普查以十年为隔，这条法令并没有丝毫的不同寻常。然而，其中有些条款要求对流浪者和年老体衰者进行调查（以前常常会忽略他们），还要求仔细审查他们、弄清他们为何如此的原因。在此期间，艾伯特被挑中了。假若有什么人模样像个流浪者、又年老体衰，那人定是艾伯特。
    艾伯特与其他流浪者一道，被赶到一块，坐在一张桌子前面，被拐弯抹角地询问了一些问题。问题如下：
    “你的姓名？”
    艾伯特几乎就要错答问题，可他及时做了补救，答道：“我叫艾伯特。”
    “那个时钟上显示的时间？”
    他们逮住了艾伯特的那个老早之前的弱点。哪根是分针，哪根是时针？艾伯特张大了嘴巴，没有作答。
    “你能阅读吗？”他们问道。
    “不能，如果没有我的——”艾伯特开始回答，“我没有带上我的——不，光靠自己，我没法很好地阅读。”
    “尝试下。”
    他们给了艾伯特一张单子，让他做一些判断题。艾伯特把它们全部标为正确，心里以为自己应该做对了一半的题目。可答案全部为否。那些规规矩矩的人们更偏爱于错误的命题。接着，他们让艾伯特做了一个谚语填空测试。
    “___是最好的政策”，艾伯特对这话毫无了解。对于他名下的那些公司的名称，他也记不住。
    “及时__，能救九条命”，这句里面有太多的数学计算，艾伯特应付不了。
    “看来有六个未知字母，”艾伯特告诉自己，“只有一个正数9。连接它们的动词‘救’语义含糊。我没法求解这方程。我甚至不能确定这是不是一个方程。若是我带上了我的——”
    可艾伯特身边没有带上任何一件小玩意或者机器。他有的只有自己。还有十来道谚语填空题，艾伯特都空白一片。随后，他讲到了一线补救的机会。如果问题数量足够多，哪怕再笨的人也能答出一道题目。
    “___是发明之（9），”问卷上写道。
    “愚蠢，”艾伯特用他那怪异而又难看的字迹写下了答案。之后，他在欢欣中休息了一下。“我知道伊瑞玛女神和她的母亲，”艾伯特偷偷笑道，“啊，我竟知道她俩！”
    可考官判定艾伯特答错了那道题目。他已经答错了每个测试中的每道题目。考官们开始将他关进一个现代化的精神病院，在那儿艾伯特可以学习靠双手做些事情，他的脑袋瓜子可毫无希望了。
    艾伯特的几个彬彬有礼的机器闯进那儿，把他解救了出来。它们解释道，艾伯特虽是个流浪者，他也是个富有的流浪者，甚至还是个重要的人物。
    “他看起来不像，可他的确是——请原谅我们的笑声——重要的人物，”一台极有礼貌的机器解释道，“他在打完哈欠后，要在提醒之下才会合上嘴巴，可尽管如此，他还是菲涅提—赫彻曼奖的获得者。我们都需对他负责。”
    当机器把他带出来时，艾伯特很是痛苦，特别是当它们要求艾伯特走上三四步，走到它们前面，而不要伴在它们左右的时候。它们向艾伯特开了几个相当无礼的玩笑，让他变得如蠕虫那般渺小。艾伯特离开了它们，到了自己留下的一个小小的藏身之处。
    “我要把那些背信弃义的家伙统统干掉，”艾伯特发誓道，“这种耻辱我忍无可忍。可我自己没法完成。我首先需要把它造出来。”
    艾伯特开始在他的藏身之处制造一台机器。
    “老大，你在做什么？”预感机问道，“我有个预感，你来到了这里，还开始制造某样东西。”
    “我在制造一台机器，把那些蠢瓜统统消灭掉，”艾伯特吼叫道，“我自己过于懦弱，没法干成。”
    “老大，我有种预感，还有些更好玩的事情可做。让我们好好玩一下吧。”
    “不要以为我知道方法，”艾伯特深思熟虑地说，“我曾经造出一台娱乐机，让它给我带来玩乐。它好好地欢乐了一场，直到它分崩离析，可那机器从没有给我带来一点欢乐。”
    “头儿，这次的玩乐是为你和我准备的。想想这整个世界。这是怎样的世界啊？”
    “这个世界过于优秀，令我再也无法生存。”艾伯特说，“每样东西、每个人都是那么的完美，所有都是这样。他们高在云霄，赢得了整个世界，把它安排得井井有条。像我这样的笨蛋，在这世上无处容身。所以我必须逃脱这一切。”
    “老大，我有个预感，你的看法是错的。你的眼光不该如此。再仔细看看，谨慎点。现在你看到了什么？”
    “预感机，预感机啊，那可能吗？那是真的吗？我想知道自己之前为何从没有注意到这一点。然而，那就是它的真实情形，现在我看得更仔细了。
    “60亿个懦夫在等待死亡！60亿个懦夫毫无抵抗能力！两个伙计从中取悦，啊，他们能把那群懦夫像艾伯特改良型康秋麦一样刈倒！”
    “头儿，我有个预感，这就是我生来的使命。这个世纪早已变得乏味不堪。让我们猛击它，蚕食掉地球表层的一切。啊，我们能摧毁一切。”
    “我们能开创一个新纪元！”艾伯特心满意足了，“我们将把它称作虫子的转折。我们会有不少的乐子，预感机。我们将把它们像花生一样吞食掉。我以前怎么从没想到呢？60亿个懦夫！

    二十一世纪就在如此怪异的基调上拉开了序幕。

1 Eurema’ Dam，dam一般不用于讲人类的母亲，更何况女神，所以dam用在这里是相当粗鄙的用法，故翻译为Eurema她娘。
2 原文为Mountain Boomer，是美国人对环颈蜥的俗称。中国并不多见这种动物，故改为更常见的四脚蛇。
3 Woodworm’s Logic，
4 Mad杂志，美国老牌讽刺漫画杂志，最著名的是其花样百出的换头封面。
5 Smog，由smoke和fog合成的词语，它是一种严重的空气污染，由交通工具排放的碳氢和氮氧化合物在阳光的照射下，发生光化学反应而产生。
6 Ancient Scholar rampant，rampant在纹章学中是一种独特的花样，一般是某个动物用后脚直立着的动作，称为跃立，例如a lion rampant是跃立狮形的意思，这里是作者开的玩笑，让古代学者来个跃立。
7 Period，很多艺术家在其艺术生涯中有多个时期，例如毕加索有忧郁时期、得意时期等。不过，这位哥罗本有九个时期，也算是够多变的。
8 Honesty is the best policy. 做人诚信为本。诚实为最上策。诚实最可保平安。Policy的复数形式policies经常用来指保险单。
9 A stitch in time saves nine. 小洞不补，大洞吃苦。早补一针，晚补九针。及时一针，少补九针。
10 Necessity is the mother of invention. 需要是发明之母。

 

 

Eurema's Dam

 

R. A. LAFFERTY

He was about the last of them.
What? The last of the great individualists? The last of the true creative geniuses of the century? The last of the sheer precursors?
No. No. He was the last of the dolts.
Kids were being born smarter all the time when he came along, and they would be so forever more. He was about the last dumb kid ever born.
Even his mother had to admit that Albert was a slow child. What else can you call a boy who doesn't begin to talk till he is four years old, who won't learn to handle a spoon till he is six, who can't operate a doorknob till he is eight? What else can you say about one who put his shoes on the wrong feet and walked in pain? And who had to be told to close his mouth after yawning?
Some things would always be beyond him—like whether it was the big hand or the little hand of the clock that told the hours. But this wasn't something serious. He never did care what time it was.
When, about the middle of his ninth year, Albert made a breakthrough at telling his right hand from his left, he did it by the most ridiculous set of mnemonics ever put together. It had to do with the way a dog turns around before lying down, the direction of whirlpools and whirlwinds, the side a cow is milked from and a horse is mounted from, the direction of twist of oak and sycamore leaves, the maze patterns of rock moss and of tree moss, the cleavage of limestone, the direction of a hawk's wheeling, of a shrike's hunting, and of a snake's coiling (remembering that the mountain boomer is an exception, and that it isn't a true snake), the lay of cedar fronds and of balsam fronds, the twist of a hole dug by a skunk and by a badger (remembering pungently that skunks sometimes use old badger holes). Well, Albert finally learned to remember which was right and which was left, but an observant boy would have learned his right hand from his left without all that nonsense.
Albert never learned to write a readable hand. To get by in school he cheated. From a bicycle speedometer, a midget motor, tiny eccentric cams, and batteries stolen from his grandfather's hearing aid, Albert made a machine to write for him. It was small as a doodlebug and fitted onto a pen or pencil so that Albert could conceal it with his fingers. It formed the letters beautifully as Albert had set the cams to follow a copybook model. He triggered the different letters with keys no bigger than whiskers. Sure it was crooked, but what else can you do when you're too dumb to learn how to write passably?
Albert couldn't figure at all. He had to make another machine to figure for him. It was a palm-of-the-hand thing that would add and subtract and multiply and divide. The next year when he was in the ninth grade they gave him algebra, and he had to devise a flipper to go on the end of his gadget to work quadratic and simultaneous equations. If it weren't for such cheating Albert wouldn't have gotten any marks at all in school.

He had another difficulty when he came to his fifteenth year. People, that is an understatement. There should be a stronger word than "difficulty" for it. Albert was afraid of girls.
What to do?
"I will build me a machine that is not afraid of girls," Albert said. He set to work on it. He had it nearly finished when a thought came to him: "But no machine is afraid of girls. How will this help me?"
His logic was at fault and analogy broke down. He did what he always did. He cheated.
He took the programming rollers out of an old player piano in the attic, found a gear case that would serve, used magnetized sheets instead of perforated music rolls, fed a copy of Wormwood's Logic into the matrix, and he had a logic machine that would answer questions.
"What's the matter with me that I'm afraid of girls?" Albert asked his logic machine.
"Nothing the matter with you," the logic machine told him. "It's logical to be afraid of girls. They seem pretty spooky to me too."
"But what can I do about it?"
"Wait for time and circumstances. They sure are slow. Unless you want to cheat—"
"Yes, yes, what then?"
"Build a machine that looks just like you, Albert, and talks just like you. Only make it smarter than you are, and not bashful. And, ah, Albert, there's a special thing you'd better put into it in case things go wrong. I'll whisper it to you. It's dangerous."
So Albert made Little Danny, a dummy who looked like him and talked like him, only he was smarter and not bashful. He filled Little Danny with quips from Mad Magazine and from Quip, and then they were set.
Albert and Little Danny went to call on Alice.
"Why, he's wonderful," Alice said. "Why can't you be like that, Albert? Aren't you wonderful, Little Danny. Why do you have to be so stupid, Albert, when Little Danny is so wonderful?"
"I, uh, uh, I don't know," Albert said. "Uh, uh, uh."
"He sounds like a fish with the hiccups," Little Danny said.
"You do, Albert, really you do!" Alice screamed. "Why can't you say smart things like Little Danny does, Albert? Why are you so stupid?"
This wasn't working out very well, but Albert kept on with it. He programmed Little Danny to play the ukulele and to sing. He wished that he could program himself to do it. Alice loved everything about Little Danny, but she paid no attention to Albert. And one day Albert had had enough.
"Wha-wha-what do we need with this dummy?" Albert asked. "I just made him to am-to amu-to to make you laugh. Let's go off and leave him."
"Go off with you, Albert?" Alice asked. "But you're so stupid. I tell you what. Let you and me go off and leave Albert, Little Danny. We can have more fun without him."
"Who needs him?" Little Danny asked. "Get lost, buster."
Albert walked away from them. He was glad that he'd taken his logic machine's advice as to the special thing to be built into Little Danny. Albert walked fifty steps. A hundred.
"Far enough," Albert said, and he pushed a button in his pocket.
Nobody but Albert and his logic machine ever did know what that explosion was. Tiny wheels out of Little Danny and small pieces of Alice rained down a little later, but there weren't enough fragments for anyone to identify.
Albert had learned one lesson from his logic machine: never make anything that you can't unmake.
Well, Albert finally grew to be a man, in years at least. He would always have something about him of a very awkward teenager. And yet he fought his own war against those who were teenagers in years, and he defeated them completely. There was enmity between them forever. Albert hadn't been a very well-adjusted adolescent, and he hated the memory of it. And nobody ever mistook him for an adjusted man.
Albert was too awkward to earn a living at an honest trade. He was reduced to peddling his little tricks and contrivances to shysters and promoters. But he did back into a sort of fame, and he did become burdened with wealth.
He was too stupid to handle his own monetary affairs, but he built an actuary machine to do his investing and he became rich by accident. He built the damned thing too good and he regretted it.
Albert became one of that furtive group that has saddled us with all the mean things in our history. There was that Punic who couldn't learn the rich variety of hieroglyphic characters and who devised the crippled short alphabet for wan-wits. There was the nameless Arab who couldn't count beyond ten and who set up the ten-number system for babies and idiots. There was the double-Dutchman with his movable type who drove fine copy out of the world. Albert was of their miserable company.
Albert himself wasn't much good for anything. But he had in himself the low knack for making machines that were good at everything.
His machines did a few things. You remember that anciently there was smog in the cities. Oh, it could be drawn out of the air easily enough. All it took was a tickler. Albert made a tickler machine. He would set it fresh every morning. It would clear the air in a circle three hundred yards around his hovel and gather a little over a ton of residue every twenty-four hours. This residue was rich in large polysyllabic molecules which one of his chemical machines could use.
"Why can't you clear all the air?" the people asked him.
"This is as much of the stuff as Clarence Deoxyribonucleiconibus needs every day," Albert said. That was the name of this particular chemical machine.
"But we die of the smog," the people said. "Have mercy on us." "Oh, all right," Albert said. He turned it over to one of his reduplicating machines to make as many copies as were necessary.

You REMEMBER THAT once there was a teenager problem? You remember when those little buggers used to be mean? Albert got enough of them. There was something ungainly about them that reminded him too much of himself. He made a teenager of his own. It was rough. To the others it looked like one of themselves, the ring in the left ear, the dangling side-locks, the brass knucks and the long knife, the guitar pluck to jab in an eye. But it was incomparably rougher than the human teenagers. It terrorized all in the neighborhood and made them behave, and dress like real people. And there was one thing about the teen-age machine that Albert made: it was made of such polarized metal and glass that it was invisible except to teen-ager eyes.
"Why is your neighborhood different?" the people asked Albert. "Why are there such good and polite teen-agers in your neighborhood and such mean ones everywhere else? It's as though something had spooked all those right around here."
"Oh, I thought I was the only one who didn't like the regular kind," Albert said.
"Oh, no, no," the people answered him. "If there is anything at all you can do about them—"
So Albert turned his mostly invisible teen-ager machine over to one of his reduplicating machines to make as many copies as were necessary, and set one up in every neighborhood. From that day till this the teen-agers have all been good and polite and a little bit frightened. But there is no evidence of what keeps them that way except an occasional eye dangling from the jab of an invisible guitar pluck.
So the two most pressing problems of the latter part of the twentieth century were solved, but accidentally, and to the credit of no one.

As THE YEARS went by, Albert felt his inferiority most when in the presence of his own machines, particularly those in the form of men. Albert just hadn't their urbanity or sparkle or wit. He was a clod beside them, and they made him feel it.
Why not? One of Albert's devices sat in the President's Cabinet. One of them was on the High Council of World-Watchers that kept the peace everywhere. One of them presided at Riches Unlimited, that private-public-international instrument that guaranteed reasonable riches to everyone in the world. One of them was the guiding hand in the Health and Longevity Foundation which provided those things to everyone. Why should not such splendid and successful machines look down on their shabby uncle who had made them?
"I'm rich by a curious twist," Albert said to himself one day, "and honored through a mistake in circumstance. But there isn't a man or a machine in the world who is really my friend. A book here tells how to make friends, but I can't do it that way. I'll make one my own way."
So Albert set out to make a friend.
He made Poor Charles, a machine as stupid and awkward and inept as himself.
"Now I will have a companion," Albert said, but it didn't work. Add two zeros together and you still have zero. Poor Charles was too much like Albert to be good for anything.
Poor Charles! Unable to think, he made a—(but wait a moleskin-gloved minute here, Colonel, this isn't going to work at all)—he made a machi—(but isn't this the same blamed thing all over again?)—he made a machine to think for him and to—
Hold it, hold it! That's enough. Poor Charles was the only machine that Albert ever made that was dumb enough to do a thing like that.
Well, whatever it was, the machine that Poor Charles made was in control of the situation and of Poor Charles when Albert came onto them accidentally. The machine's machine, the device that Poor Charles had constructed to think for him, was lecturing Poor Charles in a humiliating way.
"Only the inept and deficient will invent," that damned machine's machine was droning. "The Greeks in their high period did not invent. They used neither adjunct power nor instrumentation. They used, as intelligent men or machines will always use, slaves. They did not descend to gadgets. They, who did the difficult with ease, did not seek the easier way.
"But the incompetent will invent. The insufficient will invent. The depraved will invent. And knaves will invent."
Albert, in a seldom fit of anger, killed them both. But he knew that the machine of his machine had spoken the truth.
Albert was very much cast down. A more intelligent man would have had a hunch as to what was wrong. Albert had only a hunch that he was not very good at hunches and would never be. Seeing no way out, he fabricated a machine and named it Hunchy.
In most ways this was the worst machine he ever made. In building it he tried to express something of his unease for the future. It was an awkward thing in mind and mechanism, a misfit.
Albert's more intelligent machines gathered around and hooted at him while he put it together.
"Boy! Are you lost!" they taunted. "That thing is a primitive! To draw its power from the ambient! We talked you into throwing that away twenty years ago and setting up coded power for all of us."
"Uh—someday there may be social disturbances and all centers of power seized," Albert stammered. "But Hunchy would be able to operate if the whole world were wiped smooth."
"It isn't even tuned to our information matrix," they jibed. "It's worse than Poor Charles. That stupid thing practically starts from scratch."
"Maybe there'll be a new kind of itch for it," said Albert.
"It's not even housebroken!" the urbane machines shouted their indignation. "Look at that! Some sort of primitive lubrication all over the floor."
"Remembering my childhood, I sympathize," Albert said.
"What's it good for?" they demanded.
"Ah—it gets hunches," Albert mumbled.
"Duplication!" they shouted. "That's all you're good for yourself, and not very good at that. We suggest an election to replace you as—pardon our laughter—the head of these enterprises."
"Boss, I've got a hunch how we can block them there," the unfinished Hunchy whispered.
"They're bluffing," Albert whispered back. "My first logic machine taught me never to make anything that I can't unmake. I've got them there and they know it. I wish I could think up things like that myself."
"Maybe there will come an awkward time and I will be good for something," Hunchy said.

ONLY ONCE, AND that rather late in life, did a sort of honesty flare up in Albert. He did one thing (and it was a dismal failure) on his own. That was the night of the year of the double millennium when Albert was presented with the Finnerty-Hochmann Trophy, the highest award that the intellectual world could give. Albert was certainly an odd choice for it, but it had been noticed that almost every basic invention for thirty years could be traced back to him or to the devices with which he had surrounded himself.
You know the trophy. Atop it was Eurema, the synthetic Greek goddess of invention, with arms spread as if she would take flight. Below this was a stylized brain cut away to show the convoluted cortex. And below this was the coat of arms of the Academicians: Ancient Scholar rampant (argent); the Anderson Analyzer sinister (gules); the Mondeman Space-Drive dexter (vair). It was a fine work by Groben, his ninth period.
Albert had a speech composed for him by his speech-writing machine, but for some reason he did not use it. He went on his own, and that was disaster. He got to his feet when he was introduced, and he stuttered and spoke nonsense!
"Ah—only the sick oyster produces nacre," he said, and they all gaped at him. What sort of beginning for a speech was that? "Or do I have the wrong creature?" Albert asked weakly.
"Eurema doesn't look like that!" Albert gawked out and pointed suddenly at the trophy. "No, no, that isn't her at all. Eurema walks backward and is blind. And her mother is a brainless hulk."
Everybody was watching him with pained expression.
"Nothing rises without a leaven," Albert tried to explain, "but the yeast is itself a fungus and a disease. You be regularizers all, splendid and supreme! But you cannot live without the irregulars. You will die, and who will tell you that you are dead? When there are no longer any deprived or insufficient, who will invent? What will you do when there is none of us detectives left? Who will leaven your lump then?"
"Are you unwell?" the master of ceremonies asked him quietly. "Should you not make an end to it? People will understand."
"Of course I'm unwell. Always have been," Albert said. "What good would I be otherwise? You set the ideal that all should be healthy and well adjusted. No! No! Were we all well adjusted, we would ossify and die. The world is kept healthy only by some of the unhealthy minds lurking in it. The first implement made by man was not a scraper or celt or stone knife. It was a crutch, and it wasn't devised by a hale man."
"Perhaps you should rest," a functionary said in a low voice, for this sort of rambling nonsense talk had never been heard at an awards dinner before.
"Know you," said Albert, "that it is not the fine bulls and wonderful cattle who make the new paths. Only a crippled calf makes a new path. In everything that survives there must be an element of the incongruous. Hey, you know the woman who said, 'My husband is incongruous, but I never liked Washington in the summertime.' "
Everybody gazed at him in stupor.
"That's the first joke I ever made," Albert said lamely. "My joke-making machine makes them a lot better than I do." He paused and gaped, and gulped a big breath.
"Dolts!" he croaked out fiercely then. "What will you do for dolts when the last of us is gone? How will you survive without us?"
Albert had finished. He gaped and forgot to close his mouth. They led him back to his seat. His publicity machine explained that Albert was tired from overwork, and then that machine passed around copies of the speech that Albert was supposed to have given.
It had been an unfortunate episode. How noisome it is that the innovators are never great men, and that the great men are never good for anything but just being great men.

IN THAT YEAR a decree went forth from Caesar that a census of the whole country should be taken. The decree was from Cesare Panebianco, the President of the country. It was the decimal year proper for the census, and there was nothing unusual about the decree. Certain provisions, however, were made for taking a census of the drifters and decrepits who were usually missed, to examine them and to see why they were so. It was in the course of this that Albert was picked up. If any man ever looked like a drifter and decrepit, it was Albert.
Albert was herded in with other derelicts, set down at a table, and asked tortuous questions. As:
"What is your name?"
He almost muffed that one, but he rallied and answered, "Albert."
"What time is it by that clock?"
They had him in his old weak spot. Which hand was which? He gaped and didn't answer.
"Can you read?" they asked him.
"Not without my—" Albert began. "I don't have with me my—No, I can't read very well by myself."
"Try."
They gave him a paper to mark up with true and false questions. Albert marked them all true, believing that he would have half of them right. But they were all false. The regularized people are partial to falsehood. Then they gave him a supply-the-word test on proverbs.
" ________ is the best policy" didn't mean a thing to him. He couldn't remember the names of the companies that he had his own policies with.
"A ________ in time saves nine" contained more mathematics than Albert could handle.
"There appear to be six unknowns," he told himself, "and only one positive value, nine. The equating verb 'saves' is a vague one. I cannot solve this equation. I am not even sure that it is an equation. If only I had with me my—"
But he hadn't any of his gadgets or machines with him. He was on his own. He left half a dozen other proverb fill-ins blank. Then he saw a chance to recoup. Nobody is so dumb as not to know one answer if enough questions are asked.
" ________ is the mother of invention," it said.
"Stupidity," Albert wrote in his weird ragged hand. Then he sat back in triumph. "I know that Eurema and her mother," he snickered. "Man, how I do know them!"
But they marked him wrong on that one too. He had missed every answer to every test. They began to fix him a ticket to a progressive booby hatch where he might learn to do something with his hands, his head being hopeless.
A couple of Albert's urbane machines came down and got him out of it. They explained that, while he was a drifter and a derelict, yet he was a rich drifter and derelict, and that he was even a man of some note.
"He doesn't look it, but he really is—pardon our laughter—a man of some importance," one of the fine machines explained. "He has to be told to close his mouth after he has yawned, but for all that he is the winner of the Finnerty-Hochmann Trophy. We will be responsible for him."
ALBERT WAS MISERABLE as his fine machines took him out, especially when they asked that he walk three or four steps behind them and not seem to be with them. They gave him some pretty rough banter and turned him into a squirming worm of a man. Albert left them and went to a little hide-out he kept.
"I'll blow my crawfishing brains out," he swore. "The humiliation is more than I can bear. Can't do it myself, though. I'll have to have it done."
He set to work building a device in his hide-out.
"What you doing, boss?" Hunchy asked him. "I had a hunch you'd come here and start building something."
"I'm building a machine to blow my pumpkin-picking brains out," Albert shouted. "I'm too yellow to do it myself."
"Boss, I got a hunch there's something better to do. Let's have some fun."
"Don't believe I know how to," Albert said thoughtfully. "I built a fun machine once to do it for me. He had a real revel till he flew apart, but he never seemed to do anything for me."
"This fun will be for you and me, boss. Consider the world spread out. What is it?"
"It's a world too fine for me to live in any longer," Albert said. "Everything and all the people are perfect, and all alike. They're at the top of the heap. They've won it all and arranged it all neatly. There's no place for a clutter-up like me in the world. So I get out."
"Boss, I've got a hunch that you're seeing it wrong. You've got better eyes than that. Look again, real canny, at it. Now what do you see?"
"Hunchy, Hunchy, is that possible? Is that really what it is? I wonder why I never noticed it before. That's the way of it, though, now that I look closer.
"Six billion patsies waiting to be took! Six billion patsies without a defense of any kind! A couple of guys out for some fun, man, they could mow them down like fields of Albert-Improved Concho Wheat!"
"Boss, I've got a hunch that this is what I was made for. The world sure had been getting stuffy. Let's tie into it and eat off the top layer. Man, we can cut a swath."
"We'll inaugurate a new era!" Albert gloated. "We'll call it the Turning of the Worm. We'll have fun, Hunchy. We'll gobble them up like goobers. How come I never saw it like that before? Six billion patsies!"

THE TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY began on this rather odd note.

　　

　　
　　我一直在看着你长大。从你的第一声啼哭，到第一次走路，我看着你第一次摔倒，我看过你写的第一个字，我听过你唱的第一首歌。我认识你从小的伙伴，认识你喜欢的第一个女生。
　　我一直在静静的看着你，看着你走过的每一个脚印。
　　时间过的真快。人们曾经用过无数的词来形容时间。弹指，飞逝，流水...
　　转眼，今天又是你的生日，你已经二十五岁了。
　　
　　你记事很早。你曾经无数次的给我说过你小时的事情，从你的奶奶大寿时的螃蟹钳，一直讲到晚上在荒地的煹火。是的，这些我全都记的。时间总在流逝，记忆却从不消失。
　　你和我讲过你从楼上跳下来的感觉。你说你喜欢在空中的那种眩晕。我想你应该去找一个机会跳伞的。当年跳下来的那个晚上，你妈妈抱着你哭了整个晚上，你倔強的没说原因。后来和别人回忆当年的事情，你还是没说。你还有多少东西藏在你的脑袋中？
　　你是一个孤独的人。总是自己一个人安静的做事。无论是看书，看星星，还是发呆。
　　你还记得那个没人的自习室么？一杯水，一个CD，一张碟子，还有一本书。
　　你喜欢看书。从小就是。你已经习惯了在空闲的时间，听着音乐，看看书。
　　从小到大，你总是习惯着同样的习惯。你总是在同一家理发店找同一个师傅理发，总是在同一个时间去同一个小吃摊去吃同样的早饭。你一直是这么的固执。喜欢的，一直喜欢，不喜欢的，就一直讨厌。吃同一家饭店，走同一条路，买同一个牌子，还有同样不变的你。
　　对了，你也不是不变的，这几年来，你变了好多。你开始喜欢吃意大利面，开始喜欢吃粤菜，开始喜欢在做菜的时候放一勺糖。你变的越来越南方人了。变的和南方的Z一样了。
　　呵呵，你又在傻傻的笑了。嗯，这点你一直没变。
　　你在笑什么？想起了什么事情？
　　是Z么？你已经有段时间没见过她了。你还想着她么？还想着和他在一起的那些杂杂碎碎么？那段充满了积水的格子路已经留在了昨天，昏黄的楼梯灯也早已经过去，每天早上掀开你被子催你起床的Z，也开始每天睡着懒觉。一切都变了，一切都在变。每当你想起这些，你总会从微笑慢慢的变到惆怅，伤心。
　　还好，总是有一件事情会让你高兴的。无论在甚么时候。悲伤似乎在最后总是会慢你一拍。你总是能调整好你的脾气，你的心情总是平静，或者愉快，你总是能适应环境。像小强一样，倔强的存在，像狗尾巴花一样，骄傲的存在。对你来说，生活似乎永远都没有悲伤。有一个朋友在博客中用这样的话描述你"秋风瑟瑟，一个用微笑忧郁的人"。
　　你是一个矛盾的人。你向往自由，却又安享懒散。你总是一边向别人说着你宏伟的计划，一边又把闹铃的时间调后了十分钟。还记得当年的那些无数的计划么？从每天写日记，到去年的西藏行。你总是不停的修改着你的计划，一直到取消。如果要我说你有什么计划是坚持下来的计划，我只能回答"不停的修改你计划的计划"。
　　似乎Z也这么的和我讲过你。
　　Z总是不停的数落着你的毛病。从睡懒觉一直到花钱太多。你总是有着很多毛病的。一直都是。你的房间总是散乱的不去打扫。吃完饭的锅碗总是会在水里泡到你下次做饭前。每个月的薪水也总是能在半个月花完。
　　
　　你已经二十五岁了。你的父母已经在渐渐的变的老去，而你总是逃避着。你需要考虑你自己以后的生活。家庭，父母，还有儿女，每一件都是现在的你无法承担的。房子，车子，还有稳定的工作，每一件都是现在的你所没有的。
　　关于未来，你有什么？关于理想，你又想过什么？关于现实，你又做了什么？
　　
　　无所谓未来，理想，或是现实，现在的你只需要好好活着。
　　挺直你的腰杆，扛起你的肩膀。准备好去迎接这一切。也许这生活不是你想要的，但生活就是这样。既然无法反抗，只能去默默接受。　　
　　或者你会在一天，悄悄的告诉我，你有了自己的家庭，有了自己满意的工作，你会每天睁着懒散的眼睛早起上班，你会在每天晚上不情愿的洗碗。周末你会带着家人出去走走，到了傍晚你会悠闲的躺在躺椅上看书，闲下来也许你会想起过去的你。想起你荒唐的年轻时代。想起陪在你人生路上的每一位路人。或者，在未来的你的某个生日，你还会想起我现在写的这篇文章。
　　然后，对自己道一声“瑟瑟，生日快乐”。

我要在一年后沿海岸线北上

这时我想起了也就是在一年前，我的西藏行计划

西藏行夭折了,沿海北上呢?

一年，能有多大的变数...

希望能坚持下去

 

广东>福建>浙江>上海>江苏>山东>河北>天津>北京>辽宁

　　我早已想写一点文字，来纪念跟随我几个月的单车。这并非为了别的，只因为这两个小时以来，悲愤总时时来袭击我的心，至今没有停止，我很想借此算是竦身一摇，将悲哀摆脱，给自己轻松一下，照直说，就是我倒要将他们忘却了。
　　两个小时前的此时，即二〇〇九年的二月三日夜二〇时二〇分，是跟了我将近半年的自行车遇害的时候。当时沃尔玛的保安都不敢管这件事，或者也许是不愿，或不屑管这件事。只是在打了电话报警后，一个警察含糊其辞的用小本子记了这件事情。当我问他能找到么？警察意味深长的对我说：“如果这个小偷被抓了，还把你的车供了出来，我们会联系你的……”
　　或者我应该怪不负责的保安？或者是形式主义的警察？还是怪东莞混乱的治安？当在这个社会中，在这个城市中，丢单车已经司空见惯时，已经成为城市中一道亮丽的风景线时，我还能去责怪什么人呢？
　　在这个城市，曾经有位哲人这么说过“没有丢车的人生，是残缺的人生。”
　　今晚，我终于丢了车了。感谢东莞，让我的人生开始变的完美。

 

我今天突然想到，我要把电视机，电脑卖掉……
能卖多少钱？我已经在这两件东西上投入了将近1000块，我想，能卖到1000块就够了。
然后？
然后我买一个CD机，还有音响。我可以把我现在的那些音乐都刻录出来。
很疯狂，不是么？
我想我一定是一个注重精神享受的人。只不过精神享受，总是建立在大量的物质消耗上。人们总是在填饱了肚子才去享受精神。我却是饿着肚子在享受——我今天一天没有吃饭。
 
前几天的晚饭都做的太过丰盛，而我自己又太缺乏锻炼，我又能摸到我肚子上的肉了。
我的身体很奇怪，我可以在一个星期就长肥七斤，也可以在两个星期立刻减掉十多斤的肉。
既然这样，那就尽情的吃吧，反正我能减下来……
 
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[楚门的世界].The.Truman.Show
 
如果现在我和你说，其实你的一生，只是一个大型的24小时真实生活秀的男主角，你会怎么想？
全世界的人们都定在电视机旁，全世界的人都在看着你生活的一举一动，从出生到现在，你的第一次走路，第一次说话，第一次恋爱，都成为了街头巷尾的无论是老婆婆还是青年壮汉的闲聊，你会怎么想？
所有的一切都是一个谎言么？
尼采能自诩为太阳，世界因他而转，而在这个世界中，在这个小小的桃源岛中，楚门就是太阳，世界，因楚门而转！
在这个世界中，所有的人都坚定地走着同样的圈。
每天早上，都能在同样的时间碰到同样的人，同样的垃圾桶，同样的狗，同样的双胞胎，每天早上，楚门也说着同样的“早上中午晚上好”。
作为楚门在剧中的爱人，已经习惯了在楚门的面前介绍各种商品的详细参数，楚门也习惯了这个喜欢不停的介绍着各种商品资料的妻子。
似乎生活每天都在继续。楚门会升职，会有孩子，会老去，会死亡。一个平淡的讲人生故事的超级肥皂剧就这样被另外的六十亿人看完。
 

每个人都有一个梦想。楚门也是，楚门的梦想，就是去斐济。
因为初恋想去斐济，正是楚门的初恋，才让楚门第一次感觉到他所在的世界的异样。
为什么每天早上，人们都在同样的位置等着楚门，每次想出去，总会恰当的碰到堵车，每次买票去外地，汽车总会恰当的坏掉。
为什么跟在拿着一束花的女人的，总是那辆自行车还有黄色的夹克冲？楚门的好友马龙为什么总能在出危险的时候带着啤酒找到楚门？
楚门开始了策划，一个类似《肖申克的救赎》的胆大的计划。
终于在一个桃源岛的晚上，全世界的人们都发现，楚门不见了。
桃源岛的策划人有说过这么一句“大门永远向楚门打开，只要他想出去”
而当楚门终于鼓起勇气要出去的时候才发现，在打开的大门面前，却是刀山火海搬的阻拦。可又有什么刀山火海能拦得住梦想？
在片子的结尾，楚门终于打开了那扇门。
 
每个人的心中，都有一个梦想。
马丁·路德·金的梦想是让全世界的人们无论肤色出身的都能快乐的在一起。
马克思和保尔的梦想是共产主义社会。
许三多的梦想是要有意义的活着。
我隔壁四岁的调皮小子的梦想是不再挨揍。
那么你的梦想呢？
 
梦想的大门向每个人敞开，每个人的梦想大门前，都有着刀山火海搬的困难。
马丁·路德·金为梦想付出了生命，但世界仍旧有着种族歧视。
马克思最终贫困潦倒，还有和保尔一样的无数人前赴后继，但在我所在的这个号称最接近共产主义社会的国家中仍旧充满着贫穷，不公。
许三多受尽白眼，付出生命，终于可以有意义的活了几十集的连续剧。
我隔壁的小伙子，费尽心思的不让父母知道自己做的坏事，战战兢兢的过着每一天，终于，挨揍的次数少了。
 
可能你能走过那扇梦想的大门，也可能你在门前的刀山火海中早就耗尽了生命。
可能你碌碌无为，得过且过的过着每一天，梦想早已抛之脑后。
当你到达了生命的尽头，当你回首往事，会不会因为你一生的碌碌无为而悔恨？
你是否向着你的梦想迈出了那一步？
 
重要的不是结果，而是如何与刀山火海般的阻拦去奋斗。
那么，你奋斗过了么？