作者：史铁生
出版社：外语教学与研究出版社
格式: AZW3, DOCX, EPUB, MOBI, PDF, TXT
命若琴弦（中英对照）试读：
Publisher's Note
"Once upon a time…”, such is the beginning of a story that may have accompanied many people through their childhood no matter what country they live in and what language they speak. When we grow up, we remain keen on one kind of stories or another. This is because stories always keep us at a fascinating distance: things that take place around us may drive home to us a timeless truth, while remote or illusory stories may as well be relevant to reality or reflect the problems of today.
However, if a story is linked with the name of a country, what can the listener expect from it?
The China Stories series is dedicated to those who are fond of stories and hope to know about China. The reason why we have chosen this way of storytelling is that while people nowadays may easily get to know a country by turning on the television, surfing the Internet or touching a cellphone screen, we believe stories make China look more vivid, serene and down-to-earth than media or political or economic commentators, historical archives or museums do.
Our stories or "storytellers" generally fall into two categories. Firstly, small works of big names in contemporary Chinese literature, such as The Love Story of a Young Monk by Wang Zengqi and Ah, xiangxue by Tie Ning; Secondly, Chinese tales told by writers from other lands from the "other" perspectives, like The Magic of the White Snake by the German freelancer Helmut Matt. The differences in settings, plots and the storytellers' personalities have added to the charisma of our stories. This China Stories series will maintain its openness by putting forth new stories, so as to present a rich, varied three-dimensional China to our readers. In this sense, this series is catered not only to foreign friends but also to Chinese-speaking natives so that they can observe this country from a fresh point of view.
Instead of lengthy narratives that may wear our readers down, the China Stories series is a collection of short stories and novellas that are meant for a pleasant reading experience, an experience that is made all the more delightful by our elaborately produced bilingual texts and beautiful illustrations.
Whether the storyteller or the listener comes from China or elsewhere, we believe that you can derive your own impression of China from these stories, and feel closer to it whether it was familiar or strange to you before you lay your hands on the China Stories series. So let's read China Stories, and get a taste of China from them.Foreign Language Teaching and Research PressAugust, 2011
出版说明
“很久很久以前……”，许多人的童年或许都伴随着这样开头的故事，无论她或他身处哪个国家，说着何种语言。当我们长大，依然热衷于各种故事。因为故事总是与人们保持一种远近适宜的奇妙距离：身边发生的故事有时能让人悟到恒久长远的道理，而遥远的甚至虚幻的故事又能使人联想到现实的处境，回应当下的问题。而当故事与一个国家的名称联系在一起的时候，又会给听者一种怎样的期待？《中国故事》系列丛书献给那些喜欢听故事并且希望了解中国的人们。之所以选择这种方式而不是别的——毕竟，现在想了解一个国家，打开电视，浏览互联网，或者触摸一下手机屏幕就可以做到——因为我们相信，比起新闻媒体、政经评论或者历史文献、博物馆陈列中的中国，也许故事所反映的那个中国来得更真切，更沉静，也更实在。
故事的来源，或者说“讲故事的人”大体有两类。一方面我们收集了现当代一些中国文学大家的小作品，例如汪曾祺的《受戒》，铁凝的《哦，香雪》；另一方面，来自中国以外的作者们基于“他者”的视角重述中国的传奇，例如德国赫尔穆特·马特先生的《白蛇传奇》。故事的背景和事件彼此不同，更因叙述者的个性特征而平添魅力，本系列还将不断推新以保持一种开放性。因此呈现给各位的这一套丛书应该是丰富和立体的，希望借此传达的中国形象也能更加真实、丰满。从这个意义上讲，丛书的目标读者应不仅仅限于海外的朋友，其实也包括以中文为母语的读者们，以便透过新鲜的角度来观察这个国家。
这里没有宏大的叙事，而是以中短篇小说的篇幅给读者绝不沉重的阅读体验。这种轻松感还将通过我们精心提供的双语文本和优美插图得到进一步的体会。
无论讲故事的人以及听故事的人是来自中国还是其他国家，我们都相信您能从故事中获得自己对于中国的印象，对这个已经熟悉或者还很陌生的国度，更多一点儿亲近——阅读中国的故事，品味故事中的中国。外语教学与研究出版社2011年8月Strings of Life命若琴弦
Two blindmen walked single-file across the vast expanse of the mountain range, one old, the other young, their two blackened straw hats bobbing, the two of them darting forward as if they were drifting with the current of a restless river. It mattered little from where they came or where they were headed. Each of them carried a three-stringed banjo, and told stories to earn their livelihood.
The mountain stretched over several hundred kilometres in circumference, each peak stretching higher than the last; it was criss- crossed by gullies and ravines, and sparsely populated, so that one could walk a whole day and see only a single patch of open terrain dotted by villages. Passing by thickets of brush, at any time one might see pheasants spring up, or a rabbit or fox jump out, or other game. Hawks often circled above the valley floor. The sun beat down fiercely on the bleak, shadeless mountains.
"Keep hold of the banjo," the blind old man called out, and the sounds of his echo rang back from the facing mountain.
"Got it," the blind lad answered.
"Mind you don't let your sweat get on the banjo. If it gets wet we'll have to strum your ribs to make tonight's music? "
"It's right here in my hand."
莽莽苍苍的群山之中走着两个瞎子，一老一少，一前一后，两顶发了黑的草帽起伏躜动，匆匆忙忙，像是随着一条不安静的河水在漂流。无所谓从哪儿来，也无所谓到哪儿去，每人带一把三弦琴，说书为生。
方圆几百上千里的这片大山中，峰峦叠嶂，沟壑纵横，人烟稀疏，走一天才能见一片开阔地，有几个村落。荒草丛中随时会飞起一对山鸡，跳出一只野兔、狐狸，或者其他小野兽。山谷中常有鹞鹰盘旋。
寂静的群山没有一点阴影，太阳正热得凶。“把三弦子抓在手里。”老瞎子喊，在山间震起回声。“抓在手里呢。”小瞎子回答。“操心身上的汗把三弦子弄湿了。弄湿了晚上弹你的肋条？”“抓在手里呢。”
Senior and junior, both half-naked, each carried a stick to feel his way. Their coarse cloth coats tied up around their waists were soaked through with sweat and their steps stirred up a choking dust. It was peak season for storytelling —days were long, and after dinner the villagers all lounged outdoors; some of them even carried their bowls out to eat by the roadside or on the village common. The elder blindman was eager to get in as much story-telling as possible; during the heat of summer he had dragged the blind lad from village to village performing night after night. The old man grew more nervous and excited by the day. By his reckoning, the day he would play through his thousandth string might yet be this summer, and maybe it would happen right up ahead in Goat Valley.
The shadows lengthened as the day's blistering sun retreated from its attack on the earth. Cicadas everywhere relaxed and quieted their voluminous drone.
"Boy! Can't you walk any faster?" the old man called from ahead without slowing his pace. As the lad ran a few steps forward his satchel banged against his rump with a clatter and he failed to close the gap between him and the old man.
"The wild pigeons are all headed for their nests."
"What?" the lad again quickened his step.
"I said the pigeons have already returned to their nests, and you're still dragging."
老少二人都赤着上身，各自拎了一条木棍探路，缠在腰间的粗布小褂已经被汗水洇湿了一大片。䠀起来的黄土干得呛人。这正是说书的旺季。天长，村子里的人吃罢晚饭都不呆在家里；有的人晚饭也不在家里吃，捧上碗到路边去，或者到场院里。老瞎子想赶着多说书，整个热季领着小瞎子一个村子一个村子紧走，一晚上一晚上紧说。老瞎子一天比一天紧张、激动，心里算定：弹断一千根琴弦的日子就在这个夏天了，说不定就在前面的野羊坳。
暴躁了一整天的太阳这会儿正平静下来，光线开始变得深沉。远远近近的蝉鸣也舒缓了许多。“小子！你不能走快点吗？”老瞎子在前面喊，不回头也不放慢脚步。
小瞎子紧跑几步，吊在屁股上的一只大挎包叮啷哐啷地响，离老瞎子仍有几丈远。“野鸽子都往窝里飞啦。”“什么？”小瞎子又紧走几步。“我说野鸽子都回窝了，你还不快走！”
"Oh. "
"Are you playing with that electric box of mine again?"
"Oh no! The damn thing moved."
"Those headphones are going to break if you tinker with them like that."
"The damn thing moved."
The old man laughed darkly: how many days had this boy been born now? "I can even hear ants fighting," he boasted.
The lad was not going to argue; he quietly slipped the headphones inside his satchel and trailed the old man along the dull, endless road.
After a while the lad heard the sound of a badger gnawing away at some field grain. He growled out his best imitation of a dog's bark; the badger rolled, crawled, and ran to make its escape. Feeling cheered, the lad softly sang a few bars from a love song. Master wouldn't let him keep a dog because he feared it might fight with villagers' dogs and thus affect their business. A little later, the lad heard the slithering of a snake not far off. After leaning over and groping for stones on the ground, he chucked one toward the snake, sending a loud rustle through the sorghum leaves. The old man took pity and stopped to let him catch up.“噢。”“你又鼓捣我那电匣子呢。”“噫—！鬼动来。”“那耳机子快让你鼓捣坏了。”“鬼动来！”
老瞎子暗笑：你小子才活了几天？“蚂蚁打架我也听得着。”老瞎子说。
小瞎子不争辩了，悄悄把耳机子塞到挎包里去，跟在师父身后闷闷地走路。无尽无休的无聊的路。
走了一阵子，小瞎子听见有只獾在地里啃庄稼，就使劲学狗叫，那只獾连滚带爬地逃走了，他觉得有点开心，轻声哼了几句小调儿，哥哥呀妹妹的。师父不让他养狗，怕受村子里的狗欺负，也怕欺负了别人家的狗，误了生意。又走了一会，小瞎子又听见不远处有条蛇在游动，弯腰摸了块石头砍过去，“哗啦啦”一阵高粱叶子响。老瞎子有点可怜他了，停下来等他。
"If it's not badgers, it's snakes," the lad hastened to explain, fearing his master would curse him.
"There's a field coming up, not too far." The old man passed a water jug to his apprentice.
"In our trade, a fellow walks his whole lifetime." Then he added, "Tired?" The lad didn't answer; he knew Master hated it when he said he was tired.
"My master never got his due. He played his whole life without going through a thousand strings."
Observing the old man was in a better mood, the lad asked, "What's a green lounge chair?"
"What? Oh, it's most likely a kind of chair, I suppose."
"What's a twisting corridor?"
"A corridor? What kind of corridor?"
"A twisting corridor."
"I don't know."
"They said it on the radio."
"All you like is listening to that toy. What good does it do you? The world is full of nice things, but what do they have to do with us?"“除了獾就是蛇。”小瞎子赶忙说，担心师父骂他。“有了庄稼地了，不远了。”老瞎子把一个水壶递给徒弟。“干咱们这营生的，一辈子就是走，”老瞎子又说，“累不？”
小瞎子不回答，知道师父最讨厌他说累。“我师父才冤呢。就是你师爷，才冤呢，东奔西走一辈子，到了没弹够一千根琴弦。”
小瞎子听出师父这会儿心绪好，就问：“什么是绿色的长乙（椅）?"“什么？噢，八成是一把椅子吧。”“曲折的油狼（游廊）呢？”“油狼？什么油狼？”“曲折的油狼。”“不知道。”“匣子里说的。”“你就爱瞎听那些玩艺儿。听那些玩艺儿有什么用？天底下的好东西多啦，跟咱们有什么关系？”
"I've never heard you say just what does have something to do with us?" The lad drew out the word "does".
"The banjo! Your dad sent you with me so you could learn to play the banjo and tell stories."
The lad gurgled loudly as he drank from the bottle, and when they started off again he walked in front.
Shadows from the mountains spread across the valley. Gradually the terrain levelled off and opened up.
Drawing near the village the old man called the lad to stop by a spring in the shadows of the mountain. A trickle of water spurted from a crack in the rock face and dribbled down into a depression the size of a wash basin. On all sides the weeds flourished, but several metres away the thirsty, barren soil soaked up what little remained of the water flow.
"Come on over and wash the sweat off your back and face."
The lad brushed aside the weeds and squatted down by the pool of water —he was still trying to guess what "corridoor" might mean.
"Give your whole body a scrubbing. You must look like a little beggar."“我就没听您说过，什么跟咱们有关系。”小瞎子把“有”字说得重。“琴！三弦子！你爹让你跟了我来，是为让你弹好三弦子，学会说书。”
小瞎子故意把水喝得咕噜噜响。
再上路时小瞎子走在前头。
大山的阴影在沟谷里铺开来。地势也渐渐地平缓、开阔。
接近村子的时候，老瞎子喊住小瞎子，在背阴的山脚下找到一个小泉眼。细细的泉水从石缝里往外冒，淌下来，积成脸盆大的水洼，周围的野草长得茂盛，水流出去几十米便被干渴的土地吸干。“过来洗洗吧，洗洗你那身臭汗味。”
小瞎子拨开野草在水洼边蹲下，心里还在猜想着“曲折的油狼”。“把浑身都洗洗。你那样儿准像个小叫花子。”
"Are you anything more than an old beggar?" The lad giggled as he dipped his hands in the water. The old man, pulling his hands from the pool to splash water on his face, laughed, too. "But we're not beggars; we're artisans."
"It seems like we've been to this place before." The lad cupped his ear to listen to the sounds around him.
"But your mind's not on learning your craft. Your young heart is too full of wild ambitions. You never listen to what your elders tell you."
"I'm sure we've been here before."
"Don't interrupt! You still can't play the banjo worth a hoot. Our life is in these strings. That's what my master once told me."
Feeling the refreshing coolness of the spring, the lad began singing his tune about young lovers again. The old man barked at him, "Did you hear what I said?"
"Our lives are these strings; your master said so. I've heard it eight hundred times. And your master left you a medical prescription which you can't get until you've played through a thousand strings. And once you take the medicine you'll be able to see again. I've heard you say it a thousand times."
"You don't believe it?"
"Why should you have to go through a thousand strings before you can get the medicine?"“那您不就是个老叫花子了？”小瞎子把手按在水里，嘻嘻地笑。
老瞎子也笑，双手掏起水往脸上泼。“可咱们不是叫花子，咱们有手艺。”“这地方咱们好像来过。”小瞎子侧耳听着四周的动静。“可你的心思总不在学艺上。你这小子心太野。老人的话你从来不着耳朵听。”“咱们准是来过这儿。”“别打岔！你那三弦子弹得还差着远呢。咱这命就在这几根琴弦上，我师父当年就这么跟我说。”
泉水清凉凉的。小瞎子又哥哥呀妹妹地哼起来。
老瞎子挺来气：“我说什么你听见了吗？”“咱这命就在这几根琴弦上，您师父我师爷说的。我都听过八百遍了。您师父还给您留下一张药方，您得弹断一千根琴弦才能去抓那付药，吃了药您就能看见东西了。我听您说过一千遍了。”“你不信？”
小瞎子不正面回答，说：“干吗非得弹断一千根琴弦才能去抓那付药呢？”
"That's what makes the medicine go down. You clever devil, you can't take medicine without it."
"What's so tough about getting a thousand broken strings?" The lad couldn't help but sneer.
"What are you laughing at? What is it that you think you know? It won't work unless you earnestly play through them, one at a time." The lad did not dare make a sound; he could sense his master's indignation. It always happened this way; the master could not tolerate any questioning of his beliefs.
The old man said nothing more, but he seemed distracted. With his hands resting on his kneecaps and his bonelike eyes facing the sky, he appeared to be ruminating on all those broken strings. Oh, longing for so many years, thought the man. Longing for fifty years! In fifty years how many mountains and miles had he tracked? How much exposure to the sun and cold had he suffered? How many indignities? Night after night he had played, ever mindful that it would not do unless he went through new strings one by one, playing with his whole heart. Now the goal of his hopes would soon come to pass, for he was certain to finish his thousand strings by summer's end. "How much more fortunate I am than my master," he declared. "Right until the very end he didn't have a chance to open his eyes and see even once."
"Hey! I know where we are," burst out the lad.“那是药引子。机灵鬼儿，吃药得有药引子！”“一千根断了的琴弦还不好弄？”小瞎子忍不住嗤嗤地笑。“笑什么笑！你以为你懂得多少事？得真正是一根一根弹断了的才成。”
小瞎子不敢吱声了，听出师父又要动气。每回都是这样，师父容不得对这件事有怀疑。
老瞎子也没再作声，显得有些激动，双手搭在膝盖上，两颗骨头一样的眼珠对着苍天，像是一根一根地回忆着那些弹断的琴弦。盼了多少年了呀，老瞎子想，盼了五十年了！五十年中翻了多少架山，走了多少里路哇，挨了多少回晒，挨了多少回冻，心里受了多少委屈呀。一晚上一晚上地弹，心里总记着，得真正是一根一根尽心尽力地弹断的才成。现在快盼到了，绝出不了这个夏天了。老瞎子知道自己又没什么能要命的病，活过这个夏天一点不成问题。“我比我师父可运气多了，”他说，“我师父到了没能睁开眼睛看一回。”“咳！我知道这地方是哪儿了！”小瞎子忽然喊起来。
That prompted the old man to pick up his banjo and give it a shake. A piece of paper scraped against the snakeskin soundboard; that paper in the belly of his banjo was the prescription.
"Master, isn't this Goat Hill?" asked the lad.
The old man made no reply; he could tell the lad was getting excited.
"Master, Goat Valley's just up ahead, isn't it?"
The old man bent his already hunched back still further and called, "Boy, come over here and swab my back."
"Master, is this Goat Valley or not?"
"Yes! What of it? Stop whining like a kitten."
The lad's heart thumped and he obediently scrubbed his master's back. The old man felt vigor in the boy's movements.
"What if it is Goat Valley? Don't you go sniffing around like a donkey again."
The lad timidly kept silent to conceal his elation.
"Now what are you thinking about? Don't think I don't know what's on your mind."
"What did I do?"
老瞎子这才动了动，抓起自己的琴来摇了摇，叠好的纸片碰在蛇皮上发出细微的响声，那张药方就在琴槽里。“师父，这儿不是野羊岭吗？”小瞎子问。
老瞎子没搭理他，听出这小子又不安稳了。“前头就是野羊坳，是不是，师父？”“小子，过来给我擦擦背。”老瞎子说，把弓一样的脊背弯给他。“是不是野羊坳，师父？”“是！干什么？你别又闹猫似的。”
小瞎子的心扑通扑通跳，老老实实地给师父擦背。老瞎子觉出他擦得很有劲。“野羊坳怎么了？你别又叫驴似的会闻味儿。”
小瞎子心虚，不吭声，不让自己显出兴奋。“又想什么呢？别当我不知道你那点心思。”“又怎么了，我？”
"What did you do? Didn't you go crazy enough last time we were here? That girl isn't worth a damn!" Maybe I shouldn't have brought him to Goat Valley again, the old man thought to himself. But this is a big village; year after year the business is good enough to tell stories for half a month. How he wished he could play through the last few strings all at once. Meanwhile, the lad's heart was palpitating with thoughts of the girl with the piercing voice.
"Listen to me a second; it won't hurt you," the old man said.
"That one's not dependable."
"What one?"
"Don't get smart with me. You know what I'm talking about."
"It's just that I've never heard you say what is dependable." The lad held back a laugh.
The old man paid him no mind and he again turned his bonelike eyes toward the sky. The sun appeared to him like a circle of blood. One of them was young, the other bony and thin, like the craggy, exposed rocks at the base of a mountain. The old blind man was aged seventy, the blind lad, seventeen. At the age of fourteen the lad's father had entrusted him to the care of the old man, with whom he was to learn the art of storytelling and thus have a means to support himself.“怎么了你？上回你在这儿疯得不够？那妮子是什么好货！”老瞎子心想，也许不该再带他到野羊坳来。可是野羊坳是个大村子，年年在这儿生意都好，能说上半个多月。老瞎子恨不能立刻弹断最后几根琴弦。
小瞎子嘴上嘟嘟囔囔的，心却飘飘的，想着野羊坳里那个尖声细气的小妮子。“听我一句话，不害你，”老瞎子说，“那号事靠不住。”“什么事？”“少跟我贫嘴。你明白我说的什么事。”“我就没听您说过，什么事靠得住。”小瞎子又偷偷地笑。
老瞎子没理他，骨头一样的眼珠又对着苍天。那儿，太阳正变成一汪血。
两面脊背和山是一样的黄褐色。一座已经老了，嶙峋瘦骨像是山根下裸露的基石。另一座正年青。老瞎子七十岁，小瞎子才十七。
小瞎子十四岁上父亲把他送到老瞎子这儿来，为的是让他学说书，这辈子好有个本事，将来可以独自在世上活下去。
The old man had been storytelling for over fifty years, and everyone in this remote, desolate, mountain region knew him. Each day his hair grew greyer and his back more hunched. Month after month and year after year he carried his three-stringed banjo everywhere, stopping wherever lonely villagers were willing to pay for the entertainment of his banjo and stories.
His opening lines were often just so:
Ever since Pan Gu's division of heaven and earth,
The emperors have ruled through the ages.
When the Way prevailed, they ruled peacefully;
But when the Way was absent, they oppressed the peasants.
Lightly I pluck my three-stringed banjo, slowly I pause to tell a story;
I have three thousand seven hundred stories,
I wonder which one will stir your hearts tonight?
Thereupon the audience would call out their choices: "Dong Yong sells himself to bury his father" for the old; "Wu Erlang's Midnight Raid of Centipede Mountain" for the young; and tales of the industrious and courageous maiden Qin Xianglian for the girls. That was the moment which gave the old blind man greatest pleasure; when he would forget about the fatigue of his body and the loneliness in his heart, and, cool and composed, take a few sips of water while waiting for the noise of the crowd to build, then suddenly slam his fingers into the strings and bellow: "Today I'll sing no other ballad but 'The Prince Luo Cheng', [1] or I'll drink my tea and smoke my tobacco, then I'll sing the ballad of [2]the woman whose tears felled the Great Wall. " The whole square would fall silent, and the old man would immerse himself in the spirit of the story. He knew a countless number of old tales. He even had an electric box, too; rumour had it that he had spent a great sum to buy it — from an outsider who lived well beyond the mountains — in order to learn new stories.
Actually, the mountain villagers cared little what stories he sang and told. They all praised his playing of the three-stringed banjo as being skillful, graceful, yet with a wonderful touch of uninhibited madness as if his music carried the spirit of the sun, the moon and the people of the earth. Blind since birth and thus aurally attuned, the old man could simulate the sound of nearly anything, including men and women, wind and rain, beast and fowl.
老瞎子说书已经说了五十多年。这一片偏僻荒凉的大山里的人们都知道他：头发一天天变白，背一天天变驼，年年月月背一把三弦琴满世界走，逢上有愿意出钱的地方就拨动琴弦唱一晚上，给寂寞的山村带来欢乐。开头常是这么几句：“自从盘古分天地，三皇五帝到如今，有道君王安天下，无道君王害黎民。轻轻弹响三弦琴，慢慢稍停把歌论，歌有三千七百本，不知哪本动人心。”于是听书的众人喊起来，老的要听董永卖身葬父，小的要听武二郎夜走蜈蚣岭，女人们想听秦香莲。这是老瞎子最知足的一刻，身上的疲劳和心里的孤寂全忘却，不慌不忙地喝几口水，待众人的吵嚷声鼎沸，便把琴弦一阵紧拨，唱道：“今日不把别人唱，单表公子小罗成。”或者：“茶也喝来烟也吸，唱一回哭倒长城的孟姜女。”满场立刻鸦雀无声，老瞎子也全心沉到自己所说的书中去。
他会的老书数不尽。他还有一个电匣子，据说是花了大价钱从一个山外人手里买来，为的是学些新词儿，编些新曲儿。其实山里人倒不太在乎他说什么唱什么。人人都称赞他那三弦子弹得讲究，轻轻曼曼的，飘飘洒洒的，疯癫狂放的，那里头有天上的日月，有地上的生灵。老瞎子的嗓子能学出世上所有的声音，男人、女人、刮风下雨，兽啼禽鸣。不知道他脑子里能呈现出什么景象，他一落生就瞎了眼睛，从没见过这个世界。
The blind lad had once seen the world, but only for his first three years, and so he hardly could have interpreted what he saw. He was little interested in playing the banjo and telling stories. The day his father brought him to live with the old blind man, despite his attempts to explain and plead with him, even deceive him, the lad had refused. But in the end his enchantment with that electric box enticed him to stay. He had clung to that box and let its sounds flow into his spirit, so much so that he failed to notice when his father departed.
This mysterious box fascinated him; its endless talk of unfamiliar places and alien affairs fired his imagination, and aroused his fuzzy memories of colours and shapes. For instance, the box had said the sea was a body of water, boundless as the blue sky. Having once seen both water in a pot and the blue sky, he could imagine the sea as a huge pot of water which stretched as wide as the sky. Or beautiful girls; the box had described them as flowers in bloom but he refused to believe it — flowers were what he had seen when his mother's coffin was carried far into the mountains. But he wanted to think about girls; more and more he wanted to think about girls, especially that girl with piercing voice at Goat Valley — thinking about her always set his heart aflame. But once the box had sung, "A girl's eyes are like the sun," then he had a suitable image in mind, an image of his mother approaching him, silhouetted against the brilliant red sunset. Like everyone else, the lad used his limited knowledge to make inferences about the limitless world. But there was always something the blind lad could not imagine, such as a "twisting corridor."
小瞎子可以算见过世界，但只有三年，那时还不懂事。他对说书和弹琴并无多少兴趣，父亲把他送来的时候费尽了唇舌，好说歹说连哄带骗，最后不如说是那个电匣子把他留住。他抱着电匣子听得入神，甚至没发觉父亲什么时候离去。
这只神奇的匣子永远令他着迷，遥远的地方和稀奇古怪的事物使他幻想不绝，凭着三年朦胧的记忆，补充着万物的色彩和形象，譬如海，匣子里说蓝天就像大海，他记得蓝天，于是想象出海；匣子里说海是无边无际的水，他记得锅里的水，于是想象出满天排开的水锅。再譬如漂亮的姑娘，匣子里说就像盛开的花朵，他实在不相信会是那样，母亲的灵柩被抬到远山上去的时候，路上正开遍着野花，他永远记得却永远不愿意去想。但他愿意想姑娘，越来越愿意想；尤其是野羊坳的那个尖声细气的小妮子，总让他心里荡起波澜。直到有一回匣子里唱道，“姑娘的眼睛就像太阳”，这下他才找到了一个贴切的形象，想起母亲在红透的夕阳中向他走来的样子，其实人人都是根据自己的所知猜测着无穷的未知，以自己的感情勾画出世界。每个人的世界就都 不同。
也总有一些东西小瞎子无从想象，譬如“曲折的油狼”。
试读结束[说明：试读内容隐藏了图片]