http://www.nj1937.org/showZXXX.asp?id=982
人性丑恶的地方还是不要去研究了，会很难过的．比如张纯如，她自杀了．
- Re: for 鍗� -- 濂圭敤鐢熷懡鐓т寒浜虹被鐨勫巻鍙� (zt)posted on 12/10/2006
谢谢梦冉，认认真真读了这篇文章和你译的诗．
- posted on 12/10/2006
谢谢梦冉，认认真真读了这篇文章和你译的诗．
我一直认为张纯如是一个真正意义上的诗人．尽管她的文字并没有排列成行．
但她却代表着人性的良知．柔弱，高贵，正直．．．．
诗人并不一定要写诗．把文字排列成行也不等于就是诗人．
成就诗人的完全是内在的生命，血液，骨头和看不见的灵魂．
张纯如的写作和她的作品是一面沉重的镜子，她使那些关于伟大小说的高谈阔论显出苍白，功利，虚假，平庸，浅薄，无聊．她使那些用各种光彩夺目字句挑起族群争斗，战争，残杀的人显出邪恶的真实面目．
张纯如曾说，写作使得她对人性有了新的认识，那就是人什么事都做得出，既有做出最伟大事业的潜能，也有犯下最邪恶罪行的潜能——人性中扭曲的东西会使最令人难以言说的罪恶在瞬间变成平常琐事。
而歌德说，身心中创造的力量难经琐事纠缠．
张纯如的出现,是天下华人的幸运．她使世界了解到除了希特勒的罪行，日本人在中国进行的大屠杀，南京大屠杀是人类历史上最骇人的一幕悲剧。
- Re: for 鍗� -- 濂圭敤鐢熷懡鐓т寒浜虹被鐨勫巻鍙� (zt)posted on 12/10/2006
人是什么？女人是什么？其实没有定论。所谓“林子大了，什么鸟都有”。人性中有卑劣邪恶，也有正直善良。
人又是脆弱的，所以要自保。离邪恶远一些。在美国这种没有经受过“邪恶战火”的浑朴的地方，群众才会天真地在“万圣节”与妖魔狂欢。在经历过“邪恶之魔”蹂躏的国度里的人们，听到“魔”字就已颤抖（气得发抖或恐惧的缘故）。比如南京大屠杀里的幸存者谈起那个惨绝人寰的大屠杀，广岛的居民谈起核爆炸，纽约人不想去看以“911”为题材的电影“世贸大厦”。
- posted on 12/11/2006
张纯如逝世一周年祭
一，跨越时空的对话
整整一年前，2004年11月9日，大洋彼岸的张纯如用手枪结束了自己的生命。
年仅三十六岁的张纯如并非弱女子，1998年时她还曾经与日本驻美大使在电视直播节目中唇枪舌剑、她的书也令日本右翼分子胆战心惊，然而这样一个的勇敢的女子，为什么要用这种软弱方式了断自己的一生、令“亲者痛、仇者快”呢？总是不断的有人先打上这个问号，弄清之后又涕泪满襟----这其中包括我自己。
1995年，张纯如为搜寻证据而造访南京的时候，只有27岁。
她曾经告诉一路陪伴她的长辈、南京大屠杀纪念馆的段月萍女士说：她最崇拜的人是曾在南京大屠杀中保护了很多妇女免遭日军蹂躏的魏特琳女士。
1912年，26岁的明妮·魏特琳Minnie Vautrin远渡重洋来到中国，开始了传教生涯。1919年，在一个破灭的婚约之后，她成为金陵女子文理学院的教师，此后20多年一直在这里工作。但是，1937年12月日军占领南京后所发生的事情，使魏特琳的信仰和教育生涯被彻底破坏了----尽管几十年后人们尊称她为“女菩萨”“女辛德勒”“女拉贝”，但当年她心灵上的巨大的创伤却无法被弥补，正如拉贝和魏特琳等人的人道主义行为再伟大，也永远无法填平罪恶所掘下的深渊。
1941年，被亲眼目睹的淫虐刺激折磨得精神失常的魏特林女士在同事的陪同下返回美国就医。在穿越太平洋的航行中，她曾几次试图自杀。陪同她的一个朋友好不容易才阻止她跳下轮船。回到美国后，魏特林进了爱阿华州的一家精神病院，接受电击治疗。出院后，她到印第安纳波利斯的基督教士联合会工作。她在密歇根州谢泼德的家人想去看她，她却写信阻止，说自己不久就会国家看望家人。
两周后，1941年5月14日，正是魏特琳离开南京整整一年的日子，她用胶带封了屋里的门窗，打开煤气自杀了。魏特琳最终付出了生命的代价。她在中国所看到、所体验到的痛苦和对于人性的扭曲，彻底泯灭了她对于世界的希望。她留下一份遗书，里面写道：“我在中国传播福音失败了”，“与其受精神错乱之苦，不如一死了之。”
段月萍女士没想到，在离开南京9年后，张纯如竟然也选择了与魏特琳同样的方式来结束生命。后来段女士才知道，张纯如也曾因精神崩溃而患忧郁症住院，和她崇拜的人一样。
年轻的导演佟睿睿得知这个故事后止不住的眼圈泛红，她想到让张纯如和魏特琳这两个有着渊源的女人在天堂里相遇，进行一次跨越时空的精神交流和对话。 2005年8月，中国歌剧院舞剧团将舞剧《南京1937》搬上舞台：1937年，30万南京百姓惨遭日本侵略者杀戮，一个名叫魏特琳的外国女人和日军进行了智斗，最后患精神分裂症抑郁而死；几十年后，一个叫张纯如的华裔女人，无意中发现了《魏特琳日记》，并被深深吸引，但最终也因为抑郁而选择了自杀。
是的，她们都是在精神上受到了太大的淫虐刺激，从而走入了一个漫长而悲伤的旅程。从心路历程上来讲，张纯如正是魏特琳跨越时空的转世灵童。
活得太过痛苦的人便往往选择自杀，就像生不如死的重病患者往往乞求安乐死一样。我们无法责怪这些人。
拉贝的外孙女赖因哈特说：我外祖父的那些日记我一直也没通读过；一开始我尝试过，后来我放弃了，，，我不想读，因为战争太可怕了，那些妇女被奸污杀害，，，，，我不想再生活在战争的回忆之中，，，， Iris Chang（张纯如的英文名）还很年轻，60年代末生人，才30多岁吧，，，，说完，赖因哈特的眼神转向窗外，凝视着远方。
受所见所闻的淫虐刺激而对“上帝是万能的并深爱世人”的基督教基本教义产生动摇，这是导致魏特琳女士自杀的原因，也是沈中先生成不了基督徒的原因，他说：看了张纯如的《THE RAPE OF NANJING（南京大屠杀）》我“难以接受世上有一位深爱着我们的万能的神。我无法想象他能有任何借口或理由不去阻止这样的惨剧的发生。”我“不太相信有人能告诉一个被日本兵强暴的母亲说仁慈万能的上帝之所以没有制止那个日本鬼子用刺刀刺死她的婴儿是因为他不希望她成为一朵“温室里的花朵”。”
是了，我想无论是魏特琳还是张纯如，死前肯定都发出过类似窦娥的质疑： 地也，你不分好歹何为地！天也，你错勘贤愚枉作天！！（未完待续）
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这是俺去年写的“张纯如逝世一周年祭”，一直没有结尾，后来就写不下去了，，，
想不到那诗竟然是梦冉翻译的，敬佩一下；顺便问一下是专门为此文翻译的，还是以前就翻译好的？
- Re: 寮犵函濡傞�濅笘涓�鍛ㄥ勾绁�posted on 12/11/2006
我有很多朋友在香槟，也是张纯如念书的学校。我每次去香槟，都会想到张纯如。这个美丽如花的女子，用她的生命向世界宣告，正义和勇气。
阿拉丁燃灯的这篇文章非常感人，接下去写完吧。
- posted on 12/11/2006
Once upon a time (actually, not that long ago), I put a piece on CND titled "Iris Chang's Legacy". It was a story named "Words Before Dreaming" written by a student in a creative writing class who won a second place or third place in a writing contest. The author said he was inspired by Iris Chang's two books, "The Raping of Nanking", and "Chinese in America".
Words Before Dreaming
Robert Costello
Engl 227
Creative Writing
03/28/2005
Uncle still comes to my bed each night to read to me words from his thick American book. It is always late when he climbs the stairs outside the room where I sleep. He tries to step quietly, so I will not know that he approaches, but the stairs always betray him with their same creaking chatter. When they speak like this, I can hear in them the same low complaints often given in winter by the slack boards of our small house in the village near Harbin where I once lived with Mi-Ma.
On the coldest nights, the playful West wind would fall upon our thin walls as if he thought we lived between harp strings and were eager to dance to his tuneless plucking. If I were wakened by these troubled sounds, Mi-Ma would hum the simple songs taught to her by her mother and shame the foolish wind into stillness. Her soft voice could always calm me back to sleep. Yet there is no soft voice to soothe me when Uncle wakes me now, and I do not still recall those simple songs to hum them to myself.
When he enters, he first ties back the worn sheet, printed with fading plum blossoms, which is the only door between this room and the hallway. The limbs of dim lamplight from the hallway stretch like branches into the darkened room as his shadow, light as a hungry sparrow, lands on my face as if to peck away the first crumbs of sleep that have collected in the corners of my closed eyes.
He sits by my bed on the wounded wooden stool he found abandoned in the street one day on his walk home from the fish market. This happened long before I came to live in his house. He has mended the cracked leg with glue and strong twine many times since. He says they throw away much that is still good here. I have seen that he is right.
At first, when he comes, I keep my eyes shut tight. They will lie for me and tell him that I still sleep. When he is settled on the stool, I can peek around my shut eyelids to watch him as he begins his reading. He does not ever notice. He has too much work with the clumsy English words in his book to see that I am not yet home with Mi-Ma in my dreaming. She waits patiently for me each night, while his slow, rough fingers press down upon the old pages, pushing hardest against the longest words.
I think he wants to hurt them like they hurt him. Maybe he wishes them to cry out their own names, sparing him his effort. But they stay silent and he must fumble them from his own mouth, so softly, so as not to wake me, but still out loud, so that this American poison will seep slyly into my dreams and murder my memories of home.
Mi-Ma will not let this happen though. She waits for him to be finished, enduring as a weary ox each night, until he has closed his book and shuffled off to his small cot at the end of the hallway. It is then that she is free to whisper to me stories of my father's sturdy laugh and the times when he would dangle me like a plump, ripe pear from the stems of his fingertips. These are long-ago days that I am now too grown to hold onto for myself, so she gives them to me like soft buns, feeding me bits of my father's ghost to make me stronger and less afraid. She tells me that his spirit watches over me now in this strange land. She tells me that he watches over Uncle too, and that he, her brother, is the only hope for my future, the reason she gave me up to the great laughing ocean now between us.
I think of these things each night as Uncle reads to me. But I can tell that he sees nothing but the foreign words of his book. Uncle says that I must practice these watery Yankee words so that I too may flow gently with the tides here. He says that I am like a fresh, dry rag that will soak them up much better than he, his brain already sopping with the thoughts and memories of his long lifetime. It is true that I already speak them better than he, but I hate these words. They spill from my lips like the muddied waters of the Songhua in spring, shapeless and treacherous. They have no meaning, only sound-no beauty, only function. Speaking them makes me dead inside.
Even my American name is dead. Susan-it means nothing in this country and only makes a sad, little noise when spoken. Uncle picked it for me when I first came here because he said it sounded like my real name. But I do not think it sounds like Xue Hua at all. Ice Flower. Mi-Ma told me once that she gave me this name because on the frozen, white morning when I born, I came out of her belly as bright and red as a fresh winter sweet blossom.
Uncle calls himself Jack when he speaks to the Americans at the fish market, but they only ever call him Chan or Charlie. I hear them when I help Uncle scrub the stand on Sunday afternoons. The women watch over me with fear, as if they think I will gobble-up their children. I can tell that the men think other thoughts.
I hate these tall, pale ghosts with their slick skin clear like melted wax. Uncle tells me that I must learn to swallow their leers and insults as if they were sweet bean paste, hearty and filling, so that they will feed my angry heart and make it grow stout. He tells me that I must remember that there is little room in this country for a Chinese, especially a girl.
He tells me that I will not see Mi-Ma again. He tells me that the Japanese have killed many people and that our village has been burned to dust. He tells me that they have given our country a false name, Manchukuo, that the Emperor has been made into a leaping monkey within his own palace. He tells me that Mi-Ma is lost to me forever.
It is true that I have not had letters from her since many years ago. But I do not believe that she is dead. I still can feel the steady beating next to my own pulsing heart that tells me she still lives. I know that she is waiting, perhaps in some other village far from the bones of our old home, hoping that I will grown strong enough to one day seek her out.
Uncle does not wish me to speak like this. He will not hear me if I do. He says that I must accept my fate here that I must always dance like the humble leaves for the pleasure of the foolish wind. This is why he reads to me, each night, when he thinks that I still sleep, while I, near dreaming, wait for Mi-Ma to sing to me again the simple songs once taught to her by her mother.
- Re: 寮犵函濡傞�濅笘涓�鍛ㄥ勾绁�posted on 12/12/2006
回答阿拉丁神灯，那诗就是在纪念张纯如去世时译的，也帖在网上，可能作者读到后借用了。
战争（无论是正义的还是非正义的）对平民的伤害都是非常巨大。人，是自己毁了自己的。也许这是代价。我不知道。
于我而言，这一生，有很多与生俱来的慈悲。我也认为，信仰是对于神，而不是对于宗教。神赋予人们慈悲和智慧，如同清凉的莲花护卫着，在火焰般燃烧着的大地上生存，内心尚能得到安宁。这要深深地感恩。
也祈求神让“魔”离开人间。
- posted on 12/12/2006
阿拉丁燃灯的文章中提到魏特琳等的人道主义,我很同意.
我更赞同人的世界应该以人道主义为本.
人没有人道就不成其为人了.什么主义都可以变质.就像现在
美军敢杀死伊拉克的小孩子,孕妇,虐待俘虏,因为他们被认为
是恐怖分子,邪恶分子.所以民主人权也一样可以变质.也一样
可以滥杀无辜虐待俘虏.
而南京大屠杀之所以发生,张纯如认为日本军国主义训练
出来的日本兵完全是一群杀人机器.他们没有把中国人当成人,
而是当成一群猪,并且比猪还糟糕,死了不能吃.
阿拉丁写这篇文章是痛苦的,但也很感动人,同意七月,应该把
它写下去.
SANDS转的贴读了一遍.文章写得很生动.张纯如对海外的年轻
华人影响深远,年轻人可以不相信他们的父母,尤其是第一代
移民父母,但是他们会相信张纯如.
梦冉 wrote:
回答阿拉丁神灯，那诗就是在纪念张纯如去世时译的，也帖在网上，可能作者读到后借用了。
战争（无论是正义的还是非正义的）对平民的伤害都是非常巨大。人，是自己毁了自己的。也许这是代价。我不知道。
人为什么会自己毁掉自己,因为他们不知道自己是人.
人所知道的仅仅是人的概念,概念化的人,异化的人,
碎片的人,机器的人,各种各样主义的人.而不是天生的人,
完整的人.人甚至于已经无法,也没有能力思考这个问题了.
于我而言，这一生，有很多与生俱来的慈悲。我也认为，信仰是对于神，而不是对于宗教。神赋予人们慈悲和智慧，如同清凉的莲花护卫着，在火焰般燃烧着的大地上生存，内心尚能得到安宁。这要深深地感恩。
也祈求神让“魔”离开人间。
- posted on 12/12/2006
》人为什么会自己毁掉自己,因为他们不知道自己是人.
》人所知道的仅仅是人的概念,概念化的人,异化的人,
》碎片的人,机器的人,各种各样主义的人.而不是天生的人,
》完整的人.人甚至于已经无法,也没有能力思考这个问题了.
任何人都有其光明面与黑暗面，也有共同的无奈和弱点。佛祖应世是人，他思考过这些自古以来就有的天灾人祸，深深地怜悯众生所受的苦痛，悟道后对不同素质的众生有过“四万不同法门”的开导。用现代的语言来说，就是提升众生的素质。其中就有认识人是什么样的？比如贪，嗔，痴等。华，你若感兴趣可以去研究一下佛祖在这方面的智慧。
人类的历史中出现过释迦牟尼和老子等圣贤，实在幸运。
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