1、Unit 3 THE LIBRARY CARDOne morning I arrived early at work and went into the bank lobby where the Negro porter was mopping. I stood at a counter and picked up the Memphis Commercial Appeal and began my free reading of the press. I came finally to the editorial page and saw an article dealing with on
2、e H. L. Mencken. I knew by hearsay that he was the editor of the American Mercury, but aside from that I knew nothing about him. The article was a furious denunciation of Mencken, concluding with one, hot, short sentence: Mencken is a fool.I wondered what on earth this Mencken had done to call down
3、upon him the scorn of the South. The only people I had ever heard enounced in the South were Negroes, and this man was not a Negro. Then what ideas did Mencken hold that made a newspaper like the Commercial Appeal castigate him publicly? Undoubtedly he must be advocating ideas that the South did not
4、 like.Now, how could I find out about this Mencken? There was a huge library near the riverfront, but I knew that Negroes were not allowed to patronize its shelves any more than they were the parks and playgrounds of the city. I had gone into the library several times to get books for the white men
5、on the job. Which of them would now help me to get books?I weighed the personalities of the men on the job. There was Don, a Jew; but I distrusted him. His position was not much better than mine and I knew that he was uneasy and insecure; he had always treated me in an offhand, bantering way that ba
6、rely concealed his contempt. I was afraid to ask him to help me to get books; his frantic desire to demonstrate a racial solidarity with the whites against Negroes might make him betray me. Then how about the boss? No, he was a Baptist and I had the suspicion that he would not be quite able to compr
7、ehend why a black boy would want to read Mencken. There were other white men on the job whose attitudes showed clearly that they were Kluxers or sympathizers, and they were out of the question.There remained only one man whose attitude did not fit into an anti-Negro category, for I had heard the whi
8、te men refer to him as “Pope lover“. He was an Irish Catholic and was hated by the white Southerners. I knew that he read books, because I had got him volumes from the library several times. Since he, too, was an object of hatred, I felt that he might refuse me but would hardly betray me. I hesitate
9、d, weighing and balancing the imponderable realities.One morning I paused before the Catholic fellows desk.“I want to ask you a favor,“ I whispered to him.“What is it?“I want to read. I cant get books from the library. I wonder if youd let me use your card?“He looked at me suspiciously.“My card is f
10、ull most of the time,“ he said.“I see,“ I said and waited, posing my question silently. “Youre not trying to get me into trouble, are you, boy?“ he asked, staring at me.“Oh, no, sir.“What book do you want?“A book by H. L. Mencken.“Which one?“I dont know. Has he written more than one?“He has written
11、several.“I didnt know that.“What makes you want to read Mencken?“Oh, I just saw his name in the newspaper,“ I said.“Its good of you to want to read,“ he said. “But you ought to read the right things.“I said nothing. Would he want to supervise my reading?“Let me think,“ he said. “Ill figure out somet
12、hing.“I turned from him and he called me back. He stared at me quizzically.“Richard, dont mention his to the other white men,“ he said.“I understand,“ I said. “I wont say a word.“A few days later he called me to him.“Ive got a card in my wifes name,“ he said. “Heres mine.“Thank you, sir.“Do you thin
13、k you can manage it?“Ill manage fine,“ I said.“If they suspect you, youll get in trouble,“ he said.“Ill write the same kind of notes to the library that you wrote when you sent me for books,“ I told him. “Ill sign your name.“He laughed.“Go ahead. Let me see what you get,“ he said.That afternoon I ad
14、dressed myself to forging a note. Now, what were the name of books written by H. L. Mencken? I did not know any of them. I finally wrote what I thought would be a foolproof note: Dear Madam: Will you please let this nigger boy - I used the word “nigger“ to make the librarian feel that I could not po
15、ssibly be the author of the note - have some books by H.L. Mecken? I forged the white mans name.I entered the library as I had always done when on errands for whites, but I felt that I would somehow slip up and betray myself. I doffed my hat, stood a respectful distance from the desk, looked as unbo
16、okish as possible, and waited for the white patrons to be taken care of. When the desk was clear of people, I still waited. The white librarian looked at me.“What do you want, boy?“As though I did not possess the power of speech, I stepped forward and simply handed her the forged note, not parting m
17、y lips.“What books by Mencken does he want?“ She asked.“I dont know, maam,“ I said, avoiding her eyes. “Who gave you this card?“Mr. Falk,“ I said.“Where is he?“Hes at work, at M - Optical Company,“ I said. “Ive been in here for him before.“I remember,“ the woman said. “But he never wrote notes like
18、this.“ Oh, God, shes suspicious. Perhaps she would not let me have the books? If she had turned her back at that moment, I would have ducked out the door and never gone back. Then I thought of a bold idea.“You can call him up, maam,“ I said, my heart pounding. “Youre not using these books, are you?“
19、 she asked pointedly.“Oh, no, maam. I cant read.“I dont know what he wants by Mencken,“ she said under her breath.I knew now that I had non; she was thinking of other things and the race question had gone out of her mind. She went to the shelves. Once or twice she looked over her shoulder at me, as
20、though she was still doubtful. Finally she came forward with two books in her hand.“Im sending him two books,“ she said. “But tell Mr. Falk to come in next time, or send me the names of the books he wants. I dont know what he wants to read.“I said nothing. She stamped the card and handed me the book
21、s. Not daring to glance at them. I went out of the library, fearing that the woman would call me back for further questioning. A block away from the library I opened one of the books and read a title: A Book of Prefaces. I was nearing my nineteenth birthday and I did not know how to pronounce the wo
22、rd “preface“. I thumbed the pages and saw strange words and strange names. I shook my head, disappointed. I looked at the other book; it was called Prejudices, I knew what that word meant; I had heard it all my life. And right off I was on guard against Menckens books. Why would a man want to call a
23、 book Prejudices? The word was so stained with all my memories of racial hate that I cold not conceive of anybody using it for a title. Perhaps I had made a mistake about Mencken? A man who had prejudices must be wrong.When I showed the books to Mr. Falk, he looked at me and frowned.“That librarian
24、might telephone you,“ I warned him.“Thats all right,“ he said. “But when youre through reading those books, I want you to tell me what you get out of them.“That night in my rented room, while letting the hot water run over my can of pork and beans in the sink, I opened A Book of Preface and began to
25、 read. I was jarred and shocked by the style, the clear, clean, sweeping sentences. Why did he write like that? And how did one write like that? I pictured the man as a raging demon, slashing with his pen, consumed with hate, denouncing everything American, extolling everything European or German, l
26、aughing at the weaknesses of people, mocking God, authority. What was this? I stood up, trying to realize what reality lay behind the meaning of the words Yes, this man was fighting, fighting with words. He was using words as a weapon, using them as one would use a club. Could words be weapons? Well
27、, yes, for there they were. Then, maybe, perhaps, I could use them as a weapon? No. It frightened me. I read on and what amazed me was not what he said, but how on earth anybody had the courage to say it.I ran across many words whose meanings I did not know, and either looked them up in a dictionary
28、 or, before I had a chance to do that, encountered the word in a context that made its meaning clear. But what strange world was this? I concluded the book with the conviction that I had somehow overlooked something terribly important in life. I had once tried to write, had once reveled in feeling,
29、had let my crude imagination roam, but the impulse to dream had been slowly beaten out of me by experience. Now it surged up again and I hungered for books, new ways of looking and seeing. It was not a matter of believing or disbelieving what I read, but of feeling something new, of being affected b
30、y something that made the look of the world different.I forget more notes and my trips to the library became frequent. Reading grew into a passion. My first serious novel was Sinclair Lewiss Main Street. It made me see my boss, Mr. Gerald, and identify him as an American type. I would smile when I s
31、aw him lugging his golf bags into the office. I had always felt a vast distance separating me from the boss, and now I felt closer to him, though still distant. I felt now that I knew him, that I could feel the very limits of his narrow life. And this had happened because I had read a novel about a
32、mythical man called George F. Babbitt.I read Dreisers Jennie Gerhardt and Sister Carrie and they revived in me a vivid sense of my mothers suffering; I was overwhelmed. I grew silent, wondering about the life around me. It would have been impossible for me to have told anyone what I derived from the
33、se novels, for it was nothing less than a sense of life itself. All my life had shaped me for the realism, the naturalism of the modern novel, and I could not read enough of them.Steeped in new moods and ideas, I bought a ream of paper and tried to write; but nothing would come, or what did come was
34、 flat beyond telling. I discovered that more than desire and felling were necessary to write and I dropped the idea. Yet I still wondered how it was possible to know people sufficiently to write about them? Could I ever learn about life and people? To me, with my vast ignorance, my Jim Crow station
35、in life, it seemed a task impossible of achievement. I now knew what being a Negro meant. I could endure the hunger. I had learned to live with hate. But to feel that there were feelings denied me, that the very breath of life itself was beyond my reach, that more than anything else hurt, wounded me
36、. I had a new hunger.借书证一天早上，我上班到得早，便走进银行的门廊，里面有一个黑人清洁工在拖地。我站在柜台边，拿了一份孟菲斯商业呼声报 ，读起了免费报纸。我最后翻到社论版，上面登了一篇写关于一名叫 H.L.门肯的人的文章。我听说门肯是 美国信使报的编辑。不过除此之外，对他毫无别的了解。该文言辞激烈地遣责门肯，文章结尾时用了一句辛辣的短句：门肯是个傻子。我在想这位门肯先生到底做了什么事以至于引得南方对他嘲弄。我所听说过在南方唯一受到谴责的人就是黑人。而此人不是黑人。那么门肯持有什么样的观点使得象商业呼声这样的报纸公开攻击他？不用说，他一定是在宣扬南方所不喜欢的思想。那么我怎
37、样能够弄清楚门肯其人？江边有一大型图书馆，但我知道，正如不许黑人进入城里的公园和运动场一样，他们也同样不被允许进入图书馆。我曾经几次去过那儿，帮正在干活的白人借书。他们中有哪个人能帮我借书呢？我反复琢磨着这些白人的人品。有一个犹太人叫唐，但我信不过他。他的情况并不比我好多少，而且我知道他这个人总是不安分没有安全感。他待我总是满不在乎、傲气十足，对我的轻视几乎也不加掩饰。我不敢要他去帮我借书。他特别渴望表示自己在与白人团结一致反对黑人，这使他有可能会出卖我。那么老板如何样呢？不成。他是个浸礼会教徒，我有这样的怀疑，就是他可能不大会明白为什么一个黑人孩子想去读门肯的书。上班的还有一些别的白人，但他
38、们的态度明确地表明他们要么是三 K 党徒，要么是其支持者，要他们帮忙是不可能的。仅剩一人了，他的态度不属于反黑人的范畴，因为我曾经听白人们叫他为“拍教皇马屁的人”。他是爱尔兰的天主教徒，南方白人不喜欢他。我知道他常读书。因为我曾经有几次帮他去图书馆借过书。因为他也是白人仇视的对象，我感到他也许会拒绝我但不大可能出卖我。我拿不准，只在心里反复琢磨，反复权衡着这无法估计的事情。一天早上，我来到这位天主教徒的桌子边停下。“我想请你帮个忙。 ”我低声对他说。“什么忙？”“我想借书。我从图书馆中借不到书。我不知道你可否让我用一用你的借书证？”他满心怀疑地看着我。“我的证大部分时间都借满了， ”他说。“我
39、知道。 ”我边说边等待着，用沉默来提出我的问题。“你不是想给我惹麻烦，对吗，小伙子？” 他两眼瞪着我。“噢，不，先生。 ”“你想借什么书？”“H.L.门肯写的。 “哪一本？”“我不知道。他写过不止一本书吗？”“他写了好几本。 ”“我以前不知道。 ”“你为什么想读门肯的书？”“噢，我刚刚在报纸上看到他的名字。 ”我说。“你想读书是不错的， ”他说，“不过，你应该读一些好的书。 ”我什么也没说。他会不会要监督我的阅读呢？“让我想一下，我会想出办法的。 ”他说。我转过身走开，他把我叫了回来。有些不解地盯着我说：“理查德，不要对其他的白人讲此事。 ”“我知道，我是一个字也不会说的。 ”几天后，他把我叫
40、了过去。“我用我妻子的名义搞了张借书证， ”他说。 “我的这张就给你了。 ”“谢谢你，先生。 ”“你认为自己能成功吗？”“我会搞妥的。 ”我说。“如果他们怀疑上你，你就麻烦了。 ”他说。“我会象你以前让我去借书时一样写张条子给图书馆。 ”我告诉他说，“我会签上你的名子的。 ”他听后笑了起来。“去吧。看看你能借到什么书。 ”那天下午，我竭尽全力造了一张假便条。但是，H.L. 门肯写的书的书名都是什么呢？我一点也不知道。最后，我写了一张自认为万无一失的条子：亲爱的夫人，请让这个小黑鬼 我使用了“黑鬼”这个词是为了让图书管理员不认为我写这张便条 借几本 H.L.门肯的书好吗？在便条上我假冒了这个白人
41、的签名。我象以往为白人跑腿借书时一样走进了图书馆，但不知怎么搞的，我总觉得自己不知会在什么地方出点岔子，最终暴露自己。我摘下帽子，毕恭毕敬地站在离借书桌有一段距离的地方，显出一副不会读书的样子，等着白人读者先借。桌边已经空无一人了，我仍在等着。白人管理员看着我问道：“你想干什么，伙计？”像不会说话一样我迈向前，一声也没作的把那张伪造的条子递了过去。“他想借门肯的书？”她问。“我不知道，夫人。 ”我躲开了她的双眼。“这张卡是谁给你的？”“福尔克先生。 ”“他在哪儿？”“他在工作。在 M光学仪器公司， ”我说，“我以前在这儿给他借过书。 ”“我记得， ”她说。 “但他从未写过象这样的条子。 ”噢，
42、天啊！她有点怀疑了。也许她不会让我借这些书了。如果当时她转过身去的话，我一定会低头冲出门外，再也不回去了。这时，我想出了一个大胆的主意。“你可以打电话问问他，夫人， ”我说道，心里却紧张得砰砰狂跳。“不是你自己用这些书吧？” 她直率地问。“噢，不会，夫人。我不会认字。 ”“我不知道他要门肯的什么书？” 她低声说道。此时，我知道成功了。她已经忘了种族问题，在考虑其它的问题了。她走到书架前，又转过头来看过我一、两次，似乎仍对我有些怀疑。最后她拿了两本书走了过来。 “我借给他两本书。 ”她说。“但你要告诉福尔克先生，下次让他来，要不就告诉他要借的书的名字。我不清楚他借什么书。 ”我什么也没有说。她在
43、借书证上盖了章，然后把书交给了我。我连看都没敢看一眼借到的书就走出了图书馆，生怕她会把我叫回去进一步地盘问。走出一个街区后我打开其中一本书，看了一下书名：序言集 。我马上就十九岁了，可我不知道怎样发“序言”这个词的音。我用手指快速地翻着，看到了一些奇怪的词和句子。我失望地摇了摇头。又去看另一本书。书名叫偏见 。我知道这个词的含义。我从小到大都一直在听到这个词。我由此一下子对门肯的书有了警觉。为什么一个人要把书名定为偏见呢？这个词沾满了我对种族仇恨的所有记忆，我以致于无法想象会有人以它作为书名。也许我错看了门肯？一个带有偏见的人肯定是错的。当我把书扔给福尔克先生看时，他望了望我皱起了眉头。“图书
44、管理员可能会给你打电话的。 ”我先给他提个醒。“这好办。 ”他说， “但是当你读完这些书后，希望你能告诉我从中学到了些什么。 ”那天晚上，有租来的房间里，我让热水冲着洗碗池里的猪肉烧豆罐头，一边打开那本序言集读了起来。我被书中的风格和它那干净、整齐，有力的句子给震惊了。他为什么要这样写呢？又是怎样象这样写成的呢？我把他想象成一个凶狠的魔鬼一样，用手中的笔奋力进攻，内心充满仇恨。对美国的一切进行抨击，而又竭力称颂欧洲或德国的一切东西。他嘲笑人性的弱点，嘲弄上帝和权威。这是怎么回事？我站起来，试图弄明白隐藏在字眼后面的实际情况。是的，这个人一生在战斗，用他手中的笔作武器进行战斗。他就象别人使用棍棒
45、一样使用文字。文字可以作为武器吗？是的，因为在这儿就是如此。不，这种想法把我吓坏了。而是居然会有人有勇气说这些话。我遇到了很多自己不知其意的词。有些我查了字典，有些词还没等我去查，就又遇见了，通过上下文词义清楚了。世界多么奇特啊！看完书后我得出一个结论，那就是不知由于什么原因，自己忽视了生活中一些重要的东西。我曾经试过写作，也曾十分乐意去感受事物，让我那淳朴的想象云游四方。但人生的经历慢慢地磨灭了这些的冲动的梦想。现在它又冒了出来。我渴望看书，期待着新的观察和理解世界的方法。这不是相信或不相信自己所读到的东西的问题，而是一种对新的东西的感受，受到影响并使世界的面貌有的不同。我又造了一些假便条，
46、到图书馆去的次数也更多了。读书成了我的一种爱好。我读的第一本严肃小说是辛克莱刘易斯的大街 。它让我明白了自己的老板杰的尔德先生。我发现到他是一个典型的美国人。当我看到他拖着高尔夫球袋走进办公室时我总要笑。以前我一直觉得自己和老板间距离很远，现在我感到离他近多了，尽管还有一定的距离。我感到自己真正认识了他，我能够感到他的生活圈子小，具有局限性。因为我读了一本写一个虚构的人物乔治F巴比特的小说才有这番变化的。我读了德莱塞的珍尼格哈特和嘉莉妹妹 。它们使我又一次真切地感受到了母亲所遭受的苦难。我完全沉浸在书中了。我变得沉默起来，思考着周围的生活。我不可能告诉任何人自己从小说中有什么收获，因为那正是对
47、生活自身的感受。生活的经历使得我喜欢现代小说中的现实主义，自然主义，这些小说中我百读不厌。我沉浸在新的思想和情绪之中。买了一令纸，我试着写作。可有时我什么也写不出来，有时写出的东西又极为乏味。我发现写作所需要的不仅仅是愿望和感情，于是便放弃了这种想法。但我仍想弄明白怎样才能充分地了解以便能够把他们写出来。我能否真正理解人和生活呢？对我为说，由于自己完全无知和作为黑人在社会中的地位。这似乎是一个可望而不可及的目标。我现在明白了作为一个黑人到底意味着什么。我能够忍受饥饿，也能面对被仇恨的现实。但感觉到自己连某些感情的东西都得不到，就连生活中最基本的东西对我来讲也以难以获取，这一点比其他任何东西都令我伤心。我有了一种新的渴望。
