《渺小一生》:啊，這一點，我現(xiàn)在才想到？

　 “Oh, it’s all right,” Dennys would sigh, but none of us were convinced.

“啊，沒事的?！钡つ崴箛@氣，但我們都不相信他真的沒事。

　 And in that same way, law school breaks a mind down. Novelists, poets, and artists don’t often do well in law school (unless they are bad novelists, poets, and artists), but neither, necessarily, do mathematicians, logicians, and scientists. The first group fails because their logic is their own; the second fails because logic is all they own.

同樣的，法學院也會摧毀你的思維方式。小說家、詩人、藝術家通常在法學院的表現(xiàn)都不會太好（除非他們是差勁的小說家、詩人、藝術家），但是數(shù)學家、邏輯學者、科學家的表現(xiàn)也不見得好。前者失敗是因為他們有自己的一套邏輯；后者失敗是因為他們只懂邏輯。

　 He, however, was a good student—a great student—from the beginning, but this greatness was often camouflaged in an aggressive nongreatness. I knew, from listening to his answers in class, that he had everything he needed to be a superb lawyer: it’s not accidental that law is called a trade, and like all trades, what it demands most is a capacious memory, which he had. What it demands next—again, like many trades—is the ability to see the problem before you … and then, just as immediately, the rat’s tail of problems that might follow. Much the way that, for a contractor, a house is not just a structure—it’s a snarl of pipes engorging with ice in the winter, of shingles swelling with humidity in the summer, of rain gutters belching up fountains of water in the spring, of cement splitting in the first autumn cold—so too is a house something else for a lawyer. A house is a locked safe full of contracts, of liens, of future lawsuits, of possible violations: it represents potential attacks on your property, on your goods, on your person, on your privacy.

總之，他從一開始就是個好學生，杰出得不得了。但是他極力表現(xiàn)得很平凡，因而掩飾了他有多杰出。根據(jù)他在課堂上的回答，我就知道他有成為一流律師的所有條件：法律被稱為一門買賣（trade）不是意外，就像所有的買賣一樣，最重要的是記性要好，這點他有。其次重要的（也跟很多買賣一樣）就是要看出眼前的問題所在，然后立刻看出后續(xù)可能的影響。那種眼光很像是工程承包商看房子的眼光，他們看到的不光是一座建筑，而是一大堆冬天會結(jié)冰的水管、夏天會潮濕脹大的護墻板、春天會漲滿雨水的雨水槽、秋天第一波寒意來襲時會凍裂的水泥表面。對律師來說，他們眼中的房子也不是房子，而是一個上鎖的保險箱，里面放滿合約、留置權、未來訴訟、可能的違法或侵權。這棟房子代表你的財產(chǎn)、東西、你這個人、你的隱私權可能遭受的各種攻擊。

　 Of course, you can’t literally think like this all the time, or you’d drive yourself crazy. And so for most lawyers, a house is, finally, just a house, something to fill and fix and repaint and empty. But there’s a period in which every law student—every good law student—finds that their vision shifts, somehow, and realizes that the law is inescapable, that no interaction, no aspect of daily life, escapes its long, graspy fingers. A street becomes a shocking disaster, a riot of violations and potential civil lawsuits. A marriage looks like a divorce. The world becomes temporarily unbearable.

當然，你不能真的永遠這么想，不然你會把自己給逼瘋。對大部分律師來說，一棟房子最終也只是一棟房子，需要放進東西、修理、重新粉刷、清空。但是有一段時期，每個優(yōu)秀的法學院學生都覺得自己的觀點轉(zhuǎn)變了，他們了解到法律是無可逃避的，任何互動、日常生活的任何層面都逃不過法律善于攫取的長手指。一條街道變成一場驚人的災難，聚集了各式各樣的違法案例和潛在的民事訴訟。一場婚姻看起來就是一場離婚案。整個世界一時之間變得令人難以忍受。

　 He could do this. He could take a case and see its end; it is very difficult to do, because you have to be able to hold in your head all the possibilities, all the probable consequences, and then choose which ones to worry over and which to ignore. But what he also did—what he couldn’t stop himself from doing—was wonder as well about the moral implications of the case. And that is not helpful in law school. There were colleagues of mine who wouldn’t let their students even say the words “right” and “wrong.” “Right has nothing to do with it,” one of my professors used to bellow at us. “What is the law? What does the law say?” (Law professors enjoy being theatrical; all of us do.) Another, whenever the words were mentioned, would say nothing, but walk over to the offender and hand him a little slip of paper, a stack of which he kept in his jacket’s inside pocket, that read: Drayman 241. Drayman 241 was the philosophy department’s office.

他做得到，他拿到一個案子，就能看到結(jié)果。要做到這一點很難，因為你的腦袋必須想到所有的可能性、所有會發(fā)生的后果，然后選擇要操心哪些、忽略哪些。但他同時也忍不住會思索案子牽涉的道德層面；這在法學院是沒有幫助的。我有一些同事甚至不準學生在課堂上說出“對”和“錯”?！皩Ω@個案子沒關系?！蔽乙郧暗囊粋€教授常常這樣對著我們咆哮，“什么是法律？法律上是怎么樣？”（法律教授都很戲劇化，沒一個例外。）另一個教授每回碰到有人提到“對”或“錯”，什么都不會說，只是走到那個犯規(guī)的學生面前，遞給他一小張紙（他在西裝內(nèi)側(cè)口袋里放了一小疊），上頭印著：錐蒙大樓二四一室。那是哲學系辦公室。

　 Here, for example, is a hypothetical: A football team is going to an away game when one of their vans breaks down. So they ask the mother of one of the players if they can borrow her van to transport them. Sure, she says, but I’m not going to drive. And so she asks the assistant coach to drive the team for her. But then, as they’re driving along, something horrible happens: the van skids off the road and flips over; everyone inside dies.

比方說，有個假設性的案子：某個美式橄欖球隊要去另一所學校打客場比賽，但是一輛面包車故障了。所以他們問某位球員的母親能否借她的車。母親說沒問題，但她不開車，于是她要求助理教練幫她開。結(jié)果，那輛車開到一半，可怕的事情發(fā)生了：車子在路上打滑、沖出路面、翻車，車上的人全部死亡。

　 There is no criminal case here. The road was slippery, the driver wasn’t intoxicated. It was an accident. But then the parents of the team, the mothers and fathers of the dead players, sue the owner of the van. It was her van, they argue, but more important, it was she who appointed the driver of her van. He was only her agent, and therefore, it is she who bears the responsibility. So: What happens? Should the plaintiffs win their suit?

這里頭沒有刑事案件。當時路面很滑，駕駛?cè)艘矝]有喝酒或嗑藥。那是場意外。但那些死去球員的父母告了那輛面包車的車主。他們主張那是她的車，更重要的是，駕駛?cè)耸撬付ǖ摹Ｋ皇撬拇砣?，因此要負責的是她。所以結(jié)果呢，原告勝訴嗎？

　 Students don’t like this case. I don’t teach it that often—its extremity makes it more flashy than it is instructive, I believe—but whenever I did, I would always hear a voice in the auditorium say, “But it’s not fair!” And as annoying as that word is—fair—it is important that students never forget the concept. “Fair” is never an answer, I would tell them. But it is always a consideration.

學生們不喜歡這個案子。我也不常教，因為太極端了，我認為會掩蓋其中的教育意義。但只要我教這個案子，就總是聽到課堂上傳來一個聲音說“可是這樣不公平！”這個字眼——公平——聽了就讓人很煩，但同樣重要的是，學生對公平這個概念總是念念不忘。我會告訴他們，“公平”從來不是回答，但他們總會考慮到公平。

　 He never mentioned whether something was fair, however. Fairness itself seemed to hold little interest for him, which I found fascinating, as people, especially young people, are very interested in what’s fair. Fairness is a concept taught to nice children: it is the governing principle of kindergartens and summer camps and playgrounds and soccer fields. Jacob, back when he was able to go to school and learn things and think and speak, knew what fairness was and that it was important, something to be valued. Fairness is for happy people, for people who have been lucky enough to have lived a life defined more by certainties than by ambiguities.

總之，他從來不談公平與否。他好像對公平這件事沒有什么興趣，這點讓我非常好奇。因為很多人關心公平與否，尤其是年輕人。公平這個概念是用來教導乖孩子的，是幼兒園、夏令營、游樂場和足球場上的管理原則。雅各布還可以去學校學習事物、還可以思考和講話的時候，知道什么是公平，也知道公平很重要，需要受到重視。公平是針對幸福的人，他們有幸過著種種由安全感構筑出來的生活，其中模糊不定的事物比較少。

　 Right and wrong, however, are for—well, not unhappy people, maybe, but scarred people; scared people.

然而，對與錯，就是針對——唔，或許不是不幸福的人，而是有傷痕的人、害怕的人。

　 Or am I just thinking this now?

啊，這一點，我現(xiàn)在才想到？

　 “So were the plaintiffs successful?” I asked. That year, his first year, I had in fact taught that case.

“所以原告會勝訴嗎？”當時我問。那一年，他的第一年。我在課堂上教了這個案子。

　 “Yes,” he said, and he explained why: he knew instinctively why they would have been. And then, right on cue, I heard the tiny “But it’s not fair!” from the back of the room, and before I could begin my first lecture of the season—“fair” is never an answer, etc., etc.—he said, quietly, “But it’s right.”

“會?！彼f，然后解釋為什么，他出于本能知道他們?yōu)槭裁磿僭V。接著，果然，我聽到教室后頭傳來一個小小的聲音：“但是這樣不公平！”我還沒來得及開始那學期的第一次說教——“公平從來不是答案”云云，他就平靜地說：“但這是對的。”

　 I was never able to ask him what he meant by that. Class ended, and everyone got up at once and almost ran for the door, as if the room was on fire. I remember telling myself to ask him about it in the next class, later that week, but I forgot. And then I forgot again, and again. Over the years, I would remember this conversation every now and again, and each time I would think: I must ask him what he meant by that. But then I never would. I don’t know why.

我從來沒能問他那句話是什么意思。那堂課結(jié)束，所有人立刻站起來急著離開，簡直是用跑的，仿佛教室里失火了。我還記得當時提醒自己下一堂課（就在那個星期的后幾天）要問問他，但我后來忘了。然后忘了一次又一次。那幾年，我不時會想起這段對話，每回我都心想：我一定要去問他那句話是什么意思。但我始終沒問，不知道為什么。

　 And so this became his pattern: he knew the law. He had a feeling for it. But then, just when I wanted him to stop talking, he would introduce a moral argument, he would mention ethics. Please, I would think, please don’t do this. The law is simple. It allows for less nuance than you’d imagine. Ethics and morals do, in reality, have a place in law—although not in jurisprudence. It is morals that help us make the laws, but morals do not help us apply them.

于是這成了他的模式：他懂法律，他在法律領域特別有慧根。但接著，正當我希望他停下來不要講的時候，他又會引入某個道德論點，并提到倫理。拜托，我會心想，拜托不要提道德。法律很簡單，不像你想象的需要考慮那么多細節(jié)。在現(xiàn)實里，倫理和道德的確會影響法律，但在法學中不會。道德協(xié)助我們制定法律，但是道德無法協(xié)助我們應用法律。

　 I was worried he’d make it harder for himself, that he’d complicate the real gift he had with—as much as I hate to have to say this about my profession—thinking. Stop! I wanted to tell him. But I never did, because eventually, I realized I enjoyed hearing him think.

我當時很擔心他會讓自己很辛苦，糟蹋自己真正的天賦，只因為思考過度（我很不想這么說自己的專業(yè)）。停止！我很想告訴他。但我從來沒說，因為后來我發(fā)現(xiàn)，我很喜歡聽他講自己的想法。

　 In the end, of course, I needn’t have worried; he learned how to control it, he learned to stop mentioning right and wrong. And as we know, this tendency of his didn’t stop him from becoming a great lawyer. But later, often, I was sad for him, and for me. I wished I had urged him to leave law school, I wished I had told him to go to the equivalent of Drayman 241. The skills I gave him were not skills he needed after all. I wish I had nudged him in a direction where his mind could have been as supple as it was, where he wouldn’t have had to harness himself to a dull way of thinking. I felt I had taken someone who once knew how to draw a dog and turned him into someone who instead knew only how to draw shapes.

到最后，當然，我其實不必擔心，他學會了如何控制，學會了不要提到對與錯。一如我們知道的，他這個傾向并不影響他成為了不起的律師。但后來我常常替他難過，也替自己難過。我真希望當初逼他離開法學院，真希望叫他改念哲學系。我教他的技巧根本就不是他需要的。我真希望我把他推到別的方向，讓他的思維方式像當初那樣柔軟有彈性，不必硬逼自己朝乏味的方向思考。我覺得自己把一個原本會畫狗的人變得只會畫形狀了。

　 I am guilty of many things when it comes to him. But sometimes, illogically, I feel guiltiest for this. I opened the van door, I invited him inside. And while I didn’t drive off the road, I instead drove him somewhere bleak and cold and colorless, and left him standing there, where, back where I had collected him, the landscape shimmered with color, the sky fizzed with fireworks, and he stood openmouthed in wonder.

談到他，很多事情讓我心生愧疚。但有時無來由的，我最感到愧疚的是：我打開了面包車的車門，邀請他上車。雖然我沒沖出路面，但我載他來到一個荒涼、冰冷、沒有顏色的地方，還把他留在那里。而他原先上車的地方有一片充滿鮮亮色彩的風景，天空爆出五彩煙火，讓他驚奇得合不攏嘴。

　 3

3

　 THREE WEEKS BEFORE he left for Thanksgiving in Boston, a package—a large, flat, unwieldy wooden crate with his name and address written on every side in black marker—arrived for him at work, where it sat by his desk all day until he was able to open it late that night.

他要去波士頓過感恩節(jié)的前三個星期，一個包裹寄到了他的辦公室（那是個又大又笨重的扁木板箱，每一面都用黑色馬克筆寫著他的名字和地址）。他把木箱在書桌旁邊放了一整天，直到那天晚上很晚了才有空打開來。