Only The Lonely
Stephen Fry
June 24th, 2013
There isn’t any point in denying that the outburst of sympathy and support that followed my confession to an attempt at self-slaughter last year (Richard Herring podcast) has touched me very deeply.
Some people, as some people always will, cannot understand that depression (or in my case cyclothymia, a form of bipolar disorder) is an illness and they are themselves perhaps the sufferers of a malady that one might call either an obsession with money, or a woeful lack of imagination.
“How can someone so well-off, well-known and successful have depression?” they ask. Alastair Campbell in a marvelous article, suggested changing the word “depression” to “cancer” or “diabetes” in order to reveal how, in its own way, sick a question, it is. Ill-natured, ill-informed, ill-willed or just plain ill, it’s hard to say.
But, most people, a surging, warm, caring majority, have been kind. Almost too kind. There’s something a little flustering and embarrassing when a taxi-driver shakes you by the hand, looks deep into your eyes and says “You look after yourself, mate, yes? Promise me?” And there’s something perhaps not too helpful to one’s mental health when it is the only subject people want to talk to you about, however kindly or for whatever reasons.
But I have nothing to complain about. I won’t go into the terrible details of the bottle of vodka, the mixture of pills and the closeness to permanent oblivion I came. You can imagine them and I don’t want to upset the poor TV producer and hotel staff who had to break down my door and find me in the unconscious state I was in, four broken ribs thanks to some sort of convulsive fit that must have overtaken me while I lay almost comatose, vomit dribbling from my mouth. You can picture the scene.
The episode, plus the relationship I now have with a magnificent psychiatrist, has made made my mental health better, I think, than it’s ever been. I used to think it utterly normal that I suffered from “suicidal ideation” on an almost daily basis. In other words, for as long as I can remember, the thought of ending my life came to me frequently and obsessively. But then it’s the thought behind the most famous speech in all history. To be, or not to be.
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover’d country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action…
Take time to read it slowly to yourself or out loud. I don’t have Hamlet’s wit (or Shakespeare’s of course) but every logical or doubtful step from line to line expresses better how hard I thought about the advantages and cursed (as I thought) disadvantages against suicide. The speech, for the most part, stayed my hand. As it did Hamlet’s.
But medicine, much as some don’t like to hear it, can help. I am on a regime of four a day. One is an SNRI, the other a mood-stabilizer. I haven’t considered suicide in anything other than a puzzled intellectual way since this pharmaceutical regime “kicked in”.
But I can still be sad. Perhaps you might go to my tumblr page and see what Bertrand Russell wrote about his abiding passions (it’s the last section of the page). I can be sad for the same reason he was, though I do so much less about it than that great man did. But I can be sad for personal reasons because I am often forlorn, unhappy and lonely. These are qualities all humans suffer from and do not qualify (except in their worst extremes) as mental illnesses.
Lonely? I get invitation cards through the post almost every day. I shall be in the Royal Box at Wimbledon and I have serious and generous offers from friends asking me to join them in the South of France, Italy, Sicily, South Africa, British Columbia and America this summer. I have two months to start a book before I go off to Broadway for a run of Twelfth Night there.
I can read back that last sentence and see that, bipolar or not, if I’m under treatment and not actually depressed, what the fuck right do I have to be lonely, unhappy or forlorn? I don’t have the right. But there again I don’t have the right not to have those feelings. Feelings are not something to which one does or does not have rights.
In the end loneliness is the most terrible and contradictory of my problems. I hate having only myself to come home to. If I have a book to write, it’s fine. I’m up so early in the morning that even I pop out for an early supper I am happy to go straight to bed, eager to be up and writing at dawn the next day. But otherwise…
It’s not that I want a sexual partner, a long-term partner, someone to share a bed and a snuggle on the sofa with – although perhaps I do and in the past I have had and it has been joyful. But the fact is I value my privacy too. It’s a lose-lose matter. I don’t want to be alone, but I want to be left alone. Perhaps this is just a form of narcissism, vanity, overdemanding entitlement – give it whatever derogatory term you think it deserves. I don’t know the answer.
I suppose I just don’t like my own company very much. Which is odd, given how many times people very kindly tell me that they’d put me on their ideal dinner party guestlist. I do think I can usually be relied upon to be good company when I’m out and about and sitting round a table chatting, being silly, sharing jokes and stories and bringing shy people out of their shells.
But then I get home and I’m all alone again.
I don’t write this for sympathy. I don’t write it as part as my on going and undying commitment to the cause of mental health charities like Mind. I don’t quite know why I write it. I think I write it because it fascinates me.
And perhaps I am writing this for any of you out there who are lonely too. There’s not much we can do about it. I am luckier than many of you because I am lonely in a crowd of people who are mostly very nice to me and appear to be pleased to meet me. But I want you to know that you are not alone in your being alone.
Loneliness is not much written about (my spell-check wanted me to say that loveliness is not much written about – how wrong that is) but humankind is a social species and maybe it’s something we should think about more than we do. I cannot think of many plays or documentaries or novels about lonely people. Aah, look at them all, Paul McCartney enjoined us in Eleanor Rigby… where do they all come from?
The strange thing is, if you see me in the street and engage in conversation I will probably freeze into polite fear and smile inanely until I can get away to be on my lonely ownsome.
Make of that what you will.
Sx
译文(译者为e_e):
无法否认,在我承认去年曾试图自杀后,接踵而至的同情与鼓励深深触动了我。
有些人,正如他们一贯所为,不能理解抑郁(在我个人而言是躁狂抑郁症,一种双相型障碍)是一种疾病。这些人自己或许也正为某些痼疾所苦,人们概而论之为财迷或者想象力匮乏。
“一个如此名利双收的成功人士怎么会抑郁呢?”他们问。在一篇精彩的文章中,Alastair Campbell 建议将‘抑郁’这个词换成‘癌症’或者‘糖尿病’以显示这是一个多么令人反感的问题。到底是问题本意不良,表达方式不佳,问题者心怀叵测抑或只是单纯的病态,则很难定论。
但作为蓬勃温暖充满关爱的主流群体,大部分人都表现出了善意——几乎是太过善意了。当一位出租车司机握着你的手,深深看进你的双眼里说,“你要照顾好自己,伙计,嗯?答应我”的时候,我甚至有点不安和尴尬。而且当这变成人们跟你交谈的唯一主题时,不论对方出于什么目的或是多么充满好意,这对一个人的精神健康大概都没有什么好处。
但我没什么可抱怨的。我不会详述关于伏特加,各种药片和自己几乎归于永寂的种种可怕细节。你可以想象得到。我不想让那些可怜的电视制作人和酒店员工难堪;他们被迫撬开我的房门,发现我已经失去意识,很可能是在痉挛发作时断了四根肋骨,而后陷入昏迷,呕吐物从嘴里淌出来。你可以想象那画面。
我想这次经历加上我现在这位优秀精神科医师的作用让我的精神状态比先前都要好。我曾经以为自己几乎每天都受“自杀观念”所扰是完全正常的。换句话说,在我的记忆中,我经常频繁而且偏执地想要结束自己的生命。不过随后便是那句史上最著名的话。
生存或毁灭, 这是个必答之问题:
是否应默默的忍受坎苛命运之无情打击,
还是应与深如大海之无涯苦难奋然为敌,
并将其克服。
此二抉择, 究竟是哪个较崇高?
死即睡眠, 它不过如此!
倘若一眠能了结心灵之苦楚与肉体之百患,
那么, 此结局是可盼的!
死去, 睡去...
但在睡眠中可能有梦, 啊, 这就是个阻碍:
当我们摆脱了此垂死之皮囊,
在死之长眠中会有何梦来临?
它令我们踌躇,
使我们心甘情愿的承受长年之灾,
否则谁肯容忍人间之百般折磨,
如暴君之政、骄者之傲、失恋之痛、法章之慢、贪官之侮、或庸民之辱,
假如他能简单的一刃了之?
还有谁会肯去做牛做马, 终生疲於操劳,
默默的忍受其苦其难, 而不远走高飞, 飘於渺茫之境,
倘若他不是因恐惧身後之事而使他犹豫不前?
此境乃无人知晓之邦, 自古无返者。
所以,「理智」能使我们成为懦夫,
而「顾虑」能使我们本来辉煌之心志变得黯然无光, 像个病夫。
再之, 这些更能坏大事, 乱大谋, 使它们失去魄力...
花点时间慢慢默念或是念出声来。我没有哈姆雷特的智慧(当然更没有莎翁的), 但句与句之间充满逻辑或是怀疑的每一步都更好地表达了我曾经如何费尽心力在思考关于自杀的优点和(我彼时认为)该死的缺点。最重要的是这段独白让我的手停下了。正如发生在哈姆雷特身上的一样。
但药物,正如有些人所憎恶的,可以帮上忙。我习惯每天吃四种。其中一个是SNRI[1], 另一个是情绪稳定剂。自从这些日常药物见效之后,我就不再想着用毫不复杂毫无智慧的方式自杀了。
但我仍然会难过。或许你可以去我的汤不热页面看看Bertrand Russell 关于他生活激情所写下的话(在页面最下面)。我可以因为与他相同的原因而伤感,只不过我不像伟人那样作为多多。但我会因为个人原因而伤感,因为我经常孤立,郁郁寡欢并且孤独。这是全人类都会经受的痛苦,(除了极端情况外)并不能称之为精神疾病。
孤独?我的邮筒里几乎每天都有邀请卡。我可以出现在温布尔登的皇家包厢里,我也有几位极为诚恳而慷慨的朋友邀请我跟他们一起到法国南部,意大利,西西里,南非,不列颠哥伦比亚和美洲过夏天。我还有两个月可以着手写一本书,随后我会去百老汇上演一轮第十二夜。
我可以看着上面最后一句话并意识到,不论是否有双相型障碍,如果我正在接受治疗并且并不抑郁,我有什么该死的理由感到孤独,不快乐或是孤立呢?我并没有这种权利。不过话说回来,我也没有权利没有这些感受。感受并不是什么你有没有权利获得的东西。
最终,孤独是我的问题中最为严重和矛盾的一个。我痛恨回到空无一人的家里。如果我有书要写,那还好。我早晨起得很早,因此即便我早早吃完晚饭回到家我也可以欣然入睡,乐于转天清晨起床写作。但除此之外……
我并非想要个性伴侣,一个稳定伴侣或是一个能够睡同一张床一起依偎在沙发上的人——或许其实我也想要,而过去我曾经有过这样的伴侣,那些经历很愉快。但事实上我也很在意自己的隐私。这是个双输的局面。我不喜欢一个人,但我也不想别人管我。或许这只是一种自恋,傲慢,对自我权利的过分苛求——你可以用任何你觉得合适的贬义词。我并不知道答案是什么。
我猜我只是不喜欢面对自己。考虑到人们曾经很多次好心地告诉我,他们乐于把我的名字列于他们理想中的晚宴客人名单,这实在是很奇怪。我固然认为当我出门在外自己可以成为被人信任的好伙伴,我可以坐在餐桌前与人聊天,犯傻,分享笑话和故事,让羞涩的人们抛开壁垒。
但当我回到家,我又变成了一个人。
我并非为了引人同情这么写。我这么写并非因为我一直以来与Mind等精神健康慈善机构有联系。我不知道我为什么这么写。我想我这么写是因为它让我心向往之。
而且,或许我这么写是为了那些同样孤独着的人。我们对此没什么办法。我比其他大部分人更幸运,因为我周围的大部分人都非常善良并且看上去愿意见到我。但我想要你知道,你并非因为独处而孤独。
孤独(loneliness)并没什么好写的(我的拼写检查要我改成可爱(loveliness)并没什么好写的——多么错误)但人类是群居动物,或许我们应该更多地考虑到这一点。我想不到太多关于孤独者的戏剧,纪录片或是小说。啊,看看他们,Paul McCartney在Eleanor Rigby的歌词里这样告诉我们……他们都是从哪来的?
奇怪的是,如果你在街上看到我,找我攀谈起来,或许我会出于礼貌和惊惧愣在当场满脸傻笑,直到逃回自己孤独的独处中。
事情就是这样。
Sx
注
[1] SNRI:Serotonin–norepinephrine reuptake inhibitor,5-羟色胺和去甲肾上腺素再吸收抑制剂,一种抗抑郁剂,药效比百忧解更强但副作用也更为严重,具体可参考谷歌
[2] 文中哈姆雷特独白参考自朱生豪译本
June 24th, 2013
There isn’t any point in denying that the outburst of sympathy and support that followed my confession to an attempt at self-slaughter last year (Richard Herring podcast) has touched me very deeply.
Some people, as some people always will, cannot understand that depression (or in my case cyclothymia, a form of bipolar disorder) is an illness and they are themselves perhaps the sufferers of a malady that one might call either an obsession with money, or a woeful lack of imagination.
“How can someone so well-off, well-known and successful have depression?” they ask. Alastair Campbell in a marvelous article, suggested changing the word “depression” to “cancer” or “diabetes” in order to reveal how, in its own way, sick a question, it is. Ill-natured, ill-informed, ill-willed or just plain ill, it’s hard to say.
But, most people, a surging, warm, caring majority, have been kind. Almost too kind. There’s something a little flustering and embarrassing when a taxi-driver shakes you by the hand, looks deep into your eyes and says “You look after yourself, mate, yes? Promise me?” And there’s something perhaps not too helpful to one’s mental health when it is the only subject people want to talk to you about, however kindly or for whatever reasons.
But I have nothing to complain about. I won’t go into the terrible details of the bottle of vodka, the mixture of pills and the closeness to permanent oblivion I came. You can imagine them and I don’t want to upset the poor TV producer and hotel staff who had to break down my door and find me in the unconscious state I was in, four broken ribs thanks to some sort of convulsive fit that must have overtaken me while I lay almost comatose, vomit dribbling from my mouth. You can picture the scene.
The episode, plus the relationship I now have with a magnificent psychiatrist, has made made my mental health better, I think, than it’s ever been. I used to think it utterly normal that I suffered from “suicidal ideation” on an almost daily basis. In other words, for as long as I can remember, the thought of ending my life came to me frequently and obsessively. But then it’s the thought behind the most famous speech in all history. To be, or not to be.
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover’d country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action…
Take time to read it slowly to yourself or out loud. I don’t have Hamlet’s wit (or Shakespeare’s of course) but every logical or doubtful step from line to line expresses better how hard I thought about the advantages and cursed (as I thought) disadvantages against suicide. The speech, for the most part, stayed my hand. As it did Hamlet’s.
But medicine, much as some don’t like to hear it, can help. I am on a regime of four a day. One is an SNRI, the other a mood-stabilizer. I haven’t considered suicide in anything other than a puzzled intellectual way since this pharmaceutical regime “kicked in”.
But I can still be sad. Perhaps you might go to my tumblr page and see what Bertrand Russell wrote about his abiding passions (it’s the last section of the page). I can be sad for the same reason he was, though I do so much less about it than that great man did. But I can be sad for personal reasons because I am often forlorn, unhappy and lonely. These are qualities all humans suffer from and do not qualify (except in their worst extremes) as mental illnesses.
Lonely? I get invitation cards through the post almost every day. I shall be in the Royal Box at Wimbledon and I have serious and generous offers from friends asking me to join them in the South of France, Italy, Sicily, South Africa, British Columbia and America this summer. I have two months to start a book before I go off to Broadway for a run of Twelfth Night there.
I can read back that last sentence and see that, bipolar or not, if I’m under treatment and not actually depressed, what the fuck right do I have to be lonely, unhappy or forlorn? I don’t have the right. But there again I don’t have the right not to have those feelings. Feelings are not something to which one does or does not have rights.
In the end loneliness is the most terrible and contradictory of my problems. I hate having only myself to come home to. If I have a book to write, it’s fine. I’m up so early in the morning that even I pop out for an early supper I am happy to go straight to bed, eager to be up and writing at dawn the next day. But otherwise…
It’s not that I want a sexual partner, a long-term partner, someone to share a bed and a snuggle on the sofa with – although perhaps I do and in the past I have had and it has been joyful. But the fact is I value my privacy too. It’s a lose-lose matter. I don’t want to be alone, but I want to be left alone. Perhaps this is just a form of narcissism, vanity, overdemanding entitlement – give it whatever derogatory term you think it deserves. I don’t know the answer.
I suppose I just don’t like my own company very much. Which is odd, given how many times people very kindly tell me that they’d put me on their ideal dinner party guestlist. I do think I can usually be relied upon to be good company when I’m out and about and sitting round a table chatting, being silly, sharing jokes and stories and bringing shy people out of their shells.
But then I get home and I’m all alone again.
I don’t write this for sympathy. I don’t write it as part as my on going and undying commitment to the cause of mental health charities like Mind. I don’t quite know why I write it. I think I write it because it fascinates me.
And perhaps I am writing this for any of you out there who are lonely too. There’s not much we can do about it. I am luckier than many of you because I am lonely in a crowd of people who are mostly very nice to me and appear to be pleased to meet me. But I want you to know that you are not alone in your being alone.
Loneliness is not much written about (my spell-check wanted me to say that loveliness is not much written about – how wrong that is) but humankind is a social species and maybe it’s something we should think about more than we do. I cannot think of many plays or documentaries or novels about lonely people. Aah, look at them all, Paul McCartney enjoined us in Eleanor Rigby… where do they all come from?
The strange thing is, if you see me in the street and engage in conversation I will probably freeze into polite fear and smile inanely until I can get away to be on my lonely ownsome.
Make of that what you will.
Sx
译文(译者为e_e):
无法否认,在我承认去年曾试图自杀后,接踵而至的同情与鼓励深深触动了我。
有些人,正如他们一贯所为,不能理解抑郁(在我个人而言是躁狂抑郁症,一种双相型障碍)是一种疾病。这些人自己或许也正为某些痼疾所苦,人们概而论之为财迷或者想象力匮乏。
“一个如此名利双收的成功人士怎么会抑郁呢?”他们问。在一篇精彩的文章中,Alastair Campbell 建议将‘抑郁’这个词换成‘癌症’或者‘糖尿病’以显示这是一个多么令人反感的问题。到底是问题本意不良,表达方式不佳,问题者心怀叵测抑或只是单纯的病态,则很难定论。
但作为蓬勃温暖充满关爱的主流群体,大部分人都表现出了善意——几乎是太过善意了。当一位出租车司机握着你的手,深深看进你的双眼里说,“你要照顾好自己,伙计,嗯?答应我”的时候,我甚至有点不安和尴尬。而且当这变成人们跟你交谈的唯一主题时,不论对方出于什么目的或是多么充满好意,这对一个人的精神健康大概都没有什么好处。
但我没什么可抱怨的。我不会详述关于伏特加,各种药片和自己几乎归于永寂的种种可怕细节。你可以想象得到。我不想让那些可怜的电视制作人和酒店员工难堪;他们被迫撬开我的房门,发现我已经失去意识,很可能是在痉挛发作时断了四根肋骨,而后陷入昏迷,呕吐物从嘴里淌出来。你可以想象那画面。
我想这次经历加上我现在这位优秀精神科医师的作用让我的精神状态比先前都要好。我曾经以为自己几乎每天都受“自杀观念”所扰是完全正常的。换句话说,在我的记忆中,我经常频繁而且偏执地想要结束自己的生命。不过随后便是那句史上最著名的话。
生存或毁灭, 这是个必答之问题:
是否应默默的忍受坎苛命运之无情打击,
还是应与深如大海之无涯苦难奋然为敌,
并将其克服。
此二抉择, 究竟是哪个较崇高?
死即睡眠, 它不过如此!
倘若一眠能了结心灵之苦楚与肉体之百患,
那么, 此结局是可盼的!
死去, 睡去...
但在睡眠中可能有梦, 啊, 这就是个阻碍:
当我们摆脱了此垂死之皮囊,
在死之长眠中会有何梦来临?
它令我们踌躇,
使我们心甘情愿的承受长年之灾,
否则谁肯容忍人间之百般折磨,
如暴君之政、骄者之傲、失恋之痛、法章之慢、贪官之侮、或庸民之辱,
假如他能简单的一刃了之?
还有谁会肯去做牛做马, 终生疲於操劳,
默默的忍受其苦其难, 而不远走高飞, 飘於渺茫之境,
倘若他不是因恐惧身後之事而使他犹豫不前?
此境乃无人知晓之邦, 自古无返者。
所以,「理智」能使我们成为懦夫,
而「顾虑」能使我们本来辉煌之心志变得黯然无光, 像个病夫。
再之, 这些更能坏大事, 乱大谋, 使它们失去魄力...
花点时间慢慢默念或是念出声来。我没有哈姆雷特的智慧(当然更没有莎翁的), 但句与句之间充满逻辑或是怀疑的每一步都更好地表达了我曾经如何费尽心力在思考关于自杀的优点和(我彼时认为)该死的缺点。最重要的是这段独白让我的手停下了。正如发生在哈姆雷特身上的一样。
但药物,正如有些人所憎恶的,可以帮上忙。我习惯每天吃四种。其中一个是SNRI[1], 另一个是情绪稳定剂。自从这些日常药物见效之后,我就不再想着用毫不复杂毫无智慧的方式自杀了。
但我仍然会难过。或许你可以去我的汤不热页面看看Bertrand Russell 关于他生活激情所写下的话(在页面最下面)。我可以因为与他相同的原因而伤感,只不过我不像伟人那样作为多多。但我会因为个人原因而伤感,因为我经常孤立,郁郁寡欢并且孤独。这是全人类都会经受的痛苦,(除了极端情况外)并不能称之为精神疾病。
孤独?我的邮筒里几乎每天都有邀请卡。我可以出现在温布尔登的皇家包厢里,我也有几位极为诚恳而慷慨的朋友邀请我跟他们一起到法国南部,意大利,西西里,南非,不列颠哥伦比亚和美洲过夏天。我还有两个月可以着手写一本书,随后我会去百老汇上演一轮第十二夜。
我可以看着上面最后一句话并意识到,不论是否有双相型障碍,如果我正在接受治疗并且并不抑郁,我有什么该死的理由感到孤独,不快乐或是孤立呢?我并没有这种权利。不过话说回来,我也没有权利没有这些感受。感受并不是什么你有没有权利获得的东西。
最终,孤独是我的问题中最为严重和矛盾的一个。我痛恨回到空无一人的家里。如果我有书要写,那还好。我早晨起得很早,因此即便我早早吃完晚饭回到家我也可以欣然入睡,乐于转天清晨起床写作。但除此之外……
我并非想要个性伴侣,一个稳定伴侣或是一个能够睡同一张床一起依偎在沙发上的人——或许其实我也想要,而过去我曾经有过这样的伴侣,那些经历很愉快。但事实上我也很在意自己的隐私。这是个双输的局面。我不喜欢一个人,但我也不想别人管我。或许这只是一种自恋,傲慢,对自我权利的过分苛求——你可以用任何你觉得合适的贬义词。我并不知道答案是什么。
我猜我只是不喜欢面对自己。考虑到人们曾经很多次好心地告诉我,他们乐于把我的名字列于他们理想中的晚宴客人名单,这实在是很奇怪。我固然认为当我出门在外自己可以成为被人信任的好伙伴,我可以坐在餐桌前与人聊天,犯傻,分享笑话和故事,让羞涩的人们抛开壁垒。
但当我回到家,我又变成了一个人。
我并非为了引人同情这么写。我这么写并非因为我一直以来与Mind等精神健康慈善机构有联系。我不知道我为什么这么写。我想我这么写是因为它让我心向往之。
而且,或许我这么写是为了那些同样孤独着的人。我们对此没什么办法。我比其他大部分人更幸运,因为我周围的大部分人都非常善良并且看上去愿意见到我。但我想要你知道,你并非因为独处而孤独。
孤独(loneliness)并没什么好写的(我的拼写检查要我改成可爱(loveliness)并没什么好写的——多么错误)但人类是群居动物,或许我们应该更多地考虑到这一点。我想不到太多关于孤独者的戏剧,纪录片或是小说。啊,看看他们,Paul McCartney在Eleanor Rigby的歌词里这样告诉我们……他们都是从哪来的?
奇怪的是,如果你在街上看到我,找我攀谈起来,或许我会出于礼貌和惊惧愣在当场满脸傻笑,直到逃回自己孤独的独处中。
事情就是这样。
Sx
注
[1] SNRI:Serotonin–norepinephrine reuptake inhibitor,5-羟色胺和去甲肾上腺素再吸收抑制剂,一种抗抑郁剂,药效比百忧解更强但副作用也更为严重,具体可参考谷歌
[2] 文中哈姆雷特独白参考自朱生豪译本
莎士比亚!!Σ( ° △ °|||)︴
好多都看不懂啊(给英文老师跪了
关于孤单的那段,饱含忧伤和慰藉
希望能够有GN翻译啊,有些地方看的一知半解
咯噢噢噢噢感谢翻译!!!!!!!!
翻译得不错
每当看到这样的文章就想使劲儿地抱一下炸叔...
> 我来回应