雙語名著·追風(fēng)箏的人 The Kite Runner(22)

12歲的阿富汗富家少爺阿米爾與仆人哈桑情同手足。然而，在一場風(fēng)箏比賽后，發(fā)生了一件悲慘不堪的事，阿米爾為自己的懦弱感到自責(zé)和痛苦，逼走了哈桑，不久，自己也跟隨父親逃往美國。

成年后的阿米爾始終無法原諒自己當(dāng)年對哈桑的背叛。為了贖罪，阿米爾再度踏上暌違二十多年的故鄉(xiāng)，希望能為不幸的好友盡最后一點心力，卻發(fā)現(xiàn)一個驚天謊言，兒時的噩夢再度重演，阿米爾該如何抉擇?

故事如此殘忍而又美麗，作者以溫暖細膩的筆法勾勒人性的本質(zhì)與救贖，讀來令人蕩氣回腸。

下面就跟小編一起來欣賞雙語名著·追風(fēng)箏的人 The Kite Runner(22)的精彩內(nèi)容吧！

I read it to him in the living room by the marble fireplace. No playful straying from the words this time; this was about me! Hassan was the perfect audience in many ways, totally immersed in the tale, his face shifting with the changing tones in the story. When I read the last sentence, he made a muted clapping sound with his hands.
我在客廳里的大理石壁爐前面念給他聽。這次可沒有開玩笑，不是照本宣科了，這次是我寫的故事!就很多方面而言，哈桑堪稱完美的聽眾。他全然沉浸在故事中，臉上的神情隨著故事的情節(jié)變化。我念完最后一句話，他鼓起掌來，不過沒發(fā)出聲音。

"Mashallah, Amir agha. Bravo!"He was beaming.
"我的天啦!阿米爾少爺，太棒了!"哈桑笑逐顏開。

"You liked it?"I said, getting my second taste--and how sweet it was--of a positive review.
"你喜歡它嗎?"我說。得到第二次稱贊，真是太甜蜜了。

"Some day, Inshallah, you will be a great writer,"Hassan said. "And people all over the world will read your stories."
"阿拉保佑，你肯定會成為偉大的作家。"哈桑說，"全世界的人都讀你的故事。"

"You exaggerate, Hassan,"I said, loving him for it.
"你太夸張了，哈桑。"我說，不過很高興他這么認(rèn)為。

"No. You will be great and famous,"he insisted. Then he paused, as if on the verge of adding something. He weighed his words and cleared his throat. "But will you permit me to ask a question about the story?"he said shyly.
"我沒有。你會很偉大、很出名。"他堅持自己的觀點。接著他停了一下，似乎還想說些什么，他想了想，清清喉嚨，"可是，你能允許我問個關(guān)于這故事的問題嗎?"他羞澀地說。

"Of course."
"當(dāng)然可以。"

"Well..."he started, broke off.
"那好……"他欲言又止。

"Tell me, Hassan,"I said. I smiled, though suddenly the insecure writer in me wasn't so sure he wanted to hear it.
"告訴我，哈桑。"我說。我臉帶微笑，雖然剎那間我這個作家心中惴惴，不知道是否想聽下去。

"Well,"he said, "if I may ask, why did the man kill his wife? In fact, why did he ever have to feel sad to shed tears? Couldn't he have just smelled an onion?"
"那好吧，"他說，"如果讓我來問，那男人干嗎殺了自己的老婆呢?實際上，為什么他必須感到悲傷才能掉眼淚呢?他不可以只是聞聞洋蔥嗎?"

I was stunned. That particular point, so obvious it was utterly stupid, hadn't even occurred to me. I moved my lips soundlessly. It appeared that on the same night I had learned about one of writing's objectives, irony, I would also be introduced to one of its pitfalls: the Plot Hole. Taught by Hassan, of all people. Hassan who couldn't read and had never written a single word in his entire life. A voice, cold and dark, suddenly whispered in my ear, "What does he know, that illiterate Hazara? He'll never be anything but a cook. How dare he criticize you?"
我目瞪口呆。這個特別的問題，雖說它顯然太蠢了，但我從來沒有想到過，我無言地動動嘴唇。就在同一個夜晚，我學(xué)到了寫作的目標(biāo)之一：諷刺；我還學(xué)到了寫作的陷阱之一：情節(jié)破綻。蕓蕓眾生中，惟獨哈桑教給我。這個目不識丁、不會寫字的哈桑。有個冰冷而陰暗的聲音在我耳邊響起：他懂得什么，這個哈扎拉文盲?他一輩子只配在廚房里打雜。他膽敢批評我?

"Well,"I began. But I never got to finish that sentence.
"很好……"我開口說，卻無法說完那句話。

Because suddenly Afghanistan changed forever.
因為突然之間，阿富汗一切都變了。