上海的早晨读后感-辽宁省招生办电话

The frost held for many weeks, until the birds were dying rapidly. Ev
erywhere in the fields and under the hedges lay the ragged remains o
f lapwings, starlings, thrushes, redwings, innumerable ragged, blood
y cloaks of birds, whence the flesh was eaten by invisible beasts of p
rey.

Then, quite suddenly, one morning, the change came. The wind went
to the south, came off the sea warm and soothing. In the afternoon t
here were little gleams of sunshine, and the doves began, without int
erval, slowly and awkwardly to coo. The doves were cooing, though
with a laboured sound, as if they were still winter-stunned. Neverthel
ess, all the afternoon they continued their noise, in the mild air, befor
e the frost had thawed off the road. At evening the wind blew gently,
still gathering a bruising quality of frost from the hard earth. Then, i
n the yellow-gleamy sunset, wild birds began to whistle faintly in the
blackthorn thickets of the stream-bottom.

It was startling and almost frightening, after the heavy silence of fros
t. How could they sing at once, when the ground was thickly strewn
with the torn carcasses of birds? Yet out of the evening came the unc
ertain, silvery sounds that made one’
s soul start alert, almost with fear. How could the little silver bugles
1 11

sound the rally so swiftly, in the soft air, when the earth was yet bou
nd? Yet the birds continued their whistling, rather dimly and brokenl
y, but throwing the threads of silver, germinating noise into the air.

It was almost a pain to realize, so swiftly, the new world. “Le mond
e est mort. Vive le monde!” But the birds omitted even the first part
of the announcement, their cry was only a faint, blind, fecund “viv
e!”

There is another world. The winter is gone. There is a new world of s
pring. The voice of the turtle is heard in the land. But the flesh shrin
ks from so sudden a transition. Surely the call is premature, while th
e clods are still frozen, and the ground is littered with the remains of
wings! Yet we have no choice. In the bottoms of impenetrable blackt
horn, each evening and morning now, out flickers a whistling of bird
s.

Where does it come from, the song? After so long a cruelty, how can
they make it up so quickly? But it bubbles through them, they are li
ke little well-heads, little fountain-heads whence the spring trickles a
nd bubbles forth. It is not of their own doing. In their throats the new
life distils itself into sound. It is the rising of the silvery sap of a ne
2 11

w summer, gurgling itself forth.

All the time, whilst the earth lay choked and killed and winter-mortif
ied, the deep undersprings were quiet. They only wait for the ponder
ous encumbrance of the old order to give way, yield in the thaw, and
there they are, a silver realm at once. Under the surge of ruin, unmiti
gated winter, lies the silver potentiality of all blossom. One day the b
lack tide must spend itself and fade back. Then all- suddenly appears
the crocus, hovering triumphant in the year, and we know the order h
as changed, there is a new regime, sound of a new “Vive! Vive!”

It is no use any more to look at the torn remnants of birds that lie exp
osed. It is no longer any use remembering the sullen thunder of frost
and the intolerable pressure of cold upon us. For whether we will or
not, they are gone. The choice is not ours. We many remain wintry a
nd destructive for a little longer, if we wish it, but the winter is gone
out of us, and willy- nilly our hearts sing a little at sunset.

Even whilst we stare at the ragged horror of birds scattered broadcast
, part-eaten, the soft, uneven cooing of the pigeon ripples from the o
uthouses, and there is a faint silver whistling in the bushes come twil
ight. No matter, we stand and stare at the torn and unsightly ruins of
3 11

life, we watch the weary, mutilated columns of winter retreating und
er our eyes. Yet in our ears are the silver vivid bugles of a new creati
on advancing on us from behind, we hear the rolling of the soft and
happy drums of the doves.

We may not choose the world. We have hardly any choice for oursel
ves. We follow with our eyes the bloody and horrid line of march of
this extreme winter, as it passes away. But we cannot hold back the s
pring. We cannot make the birds silent, prevent the bubbling of the w
ood-pigeons. We cannot stay the fine world of silver-fecund creation
from gathering itself and taking place upon us. Whether we will or m
o, the daphne tree will soon be giving off perfume, the lambs dancin
g on two feet, the celandines will twinkle all over the ground, there
will be new heaven and new earth.

For it is in us, as well as without us. Those who can may follow the c
olumns of winter in their retreat from off the earth. Some of us, we h
ave no choice, the spring is within us, the silver fountain begins to b
ubble under our breast, there is a gladness in spite of ourselves. And
on the instant we accept the gladness! The first day of change, out w
histles an unusual, interrupted pean, a fragment that will augment its
elf imperceptibly. And this in spite of the extreme bitterness of the su
4 11

ffering, in spite of the myriads of torn dead.

Such a long, long winter, and the frost only broke yesterday. Yet it se
ems, already, we cannot remember it. It is strangely remote, like a far
-off darkness. It is as unreal as a dream in the night. This is the morn
ing of reality, when we are ourselves. This is natural and real, the gli
mmering of a new creation that stirs in us and about us. We know the
re was winter, long, fearful. We know the earth was strangled and m
ortified, we know the body of life was torn and scattered broadcast.
But what is this retrospective knowledge? It is something extraneous
to us, extraneous to this that we are now. and what we are, and what,
it seems, we always have been, is this quickening lovely silver plas
m of pure creativity. All the mortification and tearing, ah yes, it was
upon us, encompassing us. It was like a storm or a mist or a falling fr
om a height. It was entangled upon us, like bats in our hair, driving u
s mad. But it was never really our innermost self. Within, we were al
ways apart, we were this, this limpid fountain of silver, then quiesce
nt, rising and breaking now into the flowering.

It is strange, the utter in compatibility of death with life. Whilst there
is death, life is not to be found. It is all death, one overwhelming flo
od. And then a new tide rises, and it is all life, a fountain of silvery b
5 11

lissfulness. It is one or the other. We are for life, or we are for death,
one or the other, but never in our essence both at once.

Death takes us, and all is a torn redness, passing into darkness. Life r
ises, and we are faint fine jets of silver running out to blossom. All is
incompatible with all. There is the silvery-speckled, incandescent- lo
vely thrush, whistling pipingly his first song in the blackthorn thicke
t. How is he to be connected with the bloody, feathered unsightliness
of thrush-remnants just outside the bushes? There is no connection.
They are not to be referred the one to the other. Where one is, the oth
er is not. In the kingdom of death the silvery song is not. But where t
here is life, there is no death. No death whatever, only silvery gladne
ss, perfect, the otherworld.

The blackbird cannot stop his song, neither can the pigeon. It takes p
lace in him, even though all his race was yesterday destroyed. He ca
nnot mourn, or be silent, or adhere to the dead. Of the dead he is not,
since life has kept him. The dead must bury their dead. Life has now
taken hold on him and tossed him into the new ether of a new firma
ment, where he bursts into song as if he were combustible.

What is the past, those others, now he is tossed clean into the new, ac
6 11

ross the untranslatable difference?

In his song is heard the first brokenness and uncertainty of the transit
ion. The transit from the grip of death into new being is a death from
death, in its sheer metempsychosis a dizzy agony. But only for a sec
ond, the moment of trajectory, the passage from one state to the other
, from the grip of death to the liberty of newness. In a moment he is i
n the kingdom of wonder, singing at the center of a new creation.

The bird did not hang back. He did not cling to his death and his dea
d. There is no death, and the dead have buried their dead. Tossed into
the chasm between two worlds, he lifted his wings in dread, and fou
nd himself carried on the impulse.

We are lifted to be cast away into the new beginning. Under our hear
ts the fountain surges, to toss us forth. Who can thwart the impulse t
hat comes upon us? It comes from the unknown upon us, and it beho
ves us to pass delicately and exquisitely upon the subtle new wind fr
om heaven, conveyed like birds in unreasoning migration from death
to life.


7 11

译文：

严寒持续了好几个星期，鸟儿很快地死去了。田间与灌木篱下，
横陈着田凫、椋鸟、画眉等数不 清的腐鸟的血衣，鸟儿的肉已被
隐秘的 老饕吃净了。

突然间，一个清晨，变化 出现了。风刮到了南方，海上飘来了温
暖和慰藉。午后，太阳露出了几星光亮，鸽子开始不间断地缓慢< br>而笨拙地发出咕咕的叫声。这声音显得有些吃力，仿佛还没有从
严冬的打击下缓过气来。黄昏时， 从河床的蔷薇棘丛中，开始传
出野鸟微弱的啼鸣。

当大地还散落着厚厚的一层鸟 的尸体的时候，它们怎么会突然歌
唱起来？从夜色中浮起的隐约的清越的声音，使人惊讶。当大地
仍在束缚中时，那小小的清越之声已经在柔弱的空气中呼唤春天
了。它们的啼鸣，虽然含糊，若断若续 ，却把明快而萌发的声音
抛向苍穹。

冬天离去了。一个新的春天的世界。田地间 响起斑鸠的叫声。在
不能进入的荆棘丛底，每一个夜晚以及每一个早晨，都会闪动出
鸟儿的啼鸣 。

8 11

它从哪儿来呀？那歌声？在这么长的严酷后，鸟 儿们怎么会这么
快就复生？它活泼，像泉水，从那里，春天慢慢滴落又喷涌而出。
新生活在鸟儿 们喉中凝成悦耳的声音。它开辟了银色的通道，为
着新鲜的春日，一路潺潺而行。

当冬天抑制一切时，深埋着的春天的生机一片沉默，只等着旧秩
序沉重的阻碍退去。冰消雪化之后，顷 刻间现出银光闪烁的王国。
在毁灭一切的冬天巨浪之下，蛰伏着的是宝贵的百花吐艳的潜
力。有 一天，黑色的浪潮精力耗尽，缓缓后移，番红花就会突然
间显现，胜利地摇曳。于是我们知道，规律变了 ，这是一片新的
天地，喊出了崭新的生活！生活！

不必再注视那些暴露四野的破 碎的鸟尸，也无须再回忆严寒中沉
闷的响雷，以及重压在我们身上的酷冷。冬天走开了，不管怎样，我们的心会放出歌声。

即使当我们凝视那些散落遍地、尸身不整的鸟儿腐烂而可怕的 景
象时，屋外也会飘来一阵阵鸽子的咕咕声，那从灌木丛中发出的
微弱的啼鸣。那些破碎不堪的 毁灭了的生命，意味着冬天疲倦而
残缺不全的队伍的撤退。我们耳中充塞的，是新生的造物清明而
生动的号音，那造物从身后追赶上来，我们听到了鸟儿们发出的
轻柔而欢快的隆隆鼓声。
9 11

世界不能选择。我们用眼睛跟随极端的严冬那沾满血迹 的骇人的
行列，直到它走过去。春天不能抑制，任何力量都不能使鸟儿悄
然，不能阻止大野鸽的 沸腾，不能滞留美好世界中丰饶的创造，
它们不可阻挡地振作自己，来到我们身边。无论人们情愿与否，
月桂树总要飘出花香，绵羊总要站立舞蹈，白屈菜总要遍地闪烁，
那就是新的天堂和新的大地。

那些强者将跟随冬天从大地上隐遁。春天来到我们中间，银色的
泉流在心底奔涌，这 喜悦，我们禁不住。在这一时刻，我们将这
喜悦接受了！变化的时节，啼唱起不平凡的颂歌，这是极度的 苦
难所禁不住的，是无数残损的死亡所禁不住的。

多么漫长漫长的冬天，冰封昨 天才裂开。但看上去，我们已把它
全然忘记了。它奇怪地远离了，像远去的黑暗。看上去那么不真
实，像长夜的梦。新世界的光芒摇曳在心中，跃动在身边。我们
知道过去的是冬天，漫长、恐怖。我们 知道大地被窒息、被残害。
我们知道生命的肉体被撕裂，零落遍地。所有的毁害和撕裂，啊，
是 的，过去曾经降临在我们身上，曾经团团围住我们。它像高空
中的一阵风暴，一阵浓雾，或一阵倾盆大雨 。它缠在我们周身，
像蝙蝠绕进我们的头发，逼得我们发疯。但它永远不是我们最深
处真正的自 我。我们就是这样，是银色晶莹的泉流，先前是安静
10 11

的，此时却跌宕而起，注入盛开的花朵。

生命和死亡全部不相容 。死时，生便不存在，皆是死亡，犹如一
场势不可挡的洪水。继而，一股新的浪头涌起，便全是生命，便
是银色的极乐的源泉。

死亡攫住了我们，一切残断，沉入黑暗。生命复生，我们 便变成
水溪下微弱但美丽的喷泉，朝向鲜花奔去。当炽烈而可爱的画眉，
在荆棘丛中平静地发出 它的第一声啼鸣时，怎能把它和那些在树
丛外血肉模糊、羽毛纷乱的残骸联系在一起呢？在死亡的王国< br>里，不会有清越的歌声，正如死亡不能美化生的世界。

鸽子，还有斑鸠、画眉…… 不能停止它们的歌唱。它们全身心地
投入了，尽管同伴昨天遭遇了毁灭。它们不能哀伤，不能静默，不能追随死亡。死去的，就让它死去。现在生命鼓舞着、摇荡着
到新的天堂，新的昊天，在那里，它 们禁不住放声歌唱，似乎从
来就这般炽烈。

从鸟儿们的歌声中，听到了这场变迁 的第一阵爆发。在心底，泉
流在涌动，激励着我们前行。谁能阻挠到来的生命冲动呢？它从
陌生 的地方来，降临在我们身上，使我们乘上了从天国吹来的清
新柔风，就如向死而生的 鸟儿一样。
11 11