MIGRATIONS OF THE HEART(ISBN=9781400078318) 英文原版 下载 pdf 电子版 epub 免费 txt 2025

　　In her classic memoir, distinguished author, television

executive, and activist Marita Golden beautifully recounts an

astounding journey to Africa and back.

Marita Golden was raised in Washington, D.C., by a mother who was

a cleaning woman and a father who was taxi-driver. For all their

struggles, with life and each other, her parents instilled her with

spirit and aspirations. Swept up in the heady Black Power movement

of the sixties, Marita moved to New York to study journalism at

Columbia--and fell in love with Femi Ajayi, a Nigerian architecture

student..

Their passion led them to start a life together in Africa--a

place Marita was eager to understand. Exhilarated by a world free

of white racism, Marita quickly found work as a professor and

embraced motherhood. But Femi's increasing expectations that she

snap into the role of the submissive Nigerian wife were shocking

and dispiriting. Her struggle to regain her footing and shape a

black identity that was true to her spirit is suspenseful and

inspiring, an uncommon tale of race, identity, and Africa.

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　　Marita Golden has written both fiction and

nonfiction, including Migrations of the Heart, The Edge

of Heaven, A Miracle Every Day, and Saving Our

Sons. She is the editor of Wild Women Don’t Wear No Blues:

Black Women Writers on Love, Men and Sex and the coeditor of

Gumbo: An Anthology of African American Writing and of

Skin Deep: Black Women and White Women Write About Race. She

is the founder and CEO of the Hurston/Wright Foundation, which

supports African American writers, and lives in Maryland. Please

visit Marita at www.maritagolden.com.

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　　1

　　　My father was the first man I ever loved. He was as assured as a

panther. His ebony skin was soft as the surface of coal. The

vigorous scent of El Producto cigars was a perfume that clung to

him. The worn leather seat of his taxi, a stubborn aroma, had

seeped into his pores, and like a baptism the smells rubbed onto me

from the palms of his hands.

　　　In school he went as far as the sixth grade, then learned the

rest on his own. Part of the rest he bequeathed to me--gold nuggets

of fact, myth, legend dropped in the lap of my mind, shiny new

pennies meant to be saved. By his own definition he was "a black

man and proud of it." Arming me with a measure of this conviction,

he unfolded a richly colored tapestry, savored its silken texture

and warned me never to forget its worth.

　　　Africa:"It wasn't dark until the white man got there."

　　　Cleopatra: "I don't care WHAT they tell you in school, she was a

black woman."

　　　Hannibal: "He crossed the Alps with an army of five hundred

elephants."

　　　The Sphinx (pointing with a tobacco-stained index finger to a

page in the encyclopedia): "Look at the nose, see how broad it is?

That's your nose. That's my nose too."

　　　Bitter, frightening tales of slavery dredged by his

great-grandparents from memories that refused to be mute. Passed to

him. Passed to me. And when he recounted the exploits of Toussaint

L'Ouverture, pausing to remind me that L'Ouverture meant "The

Opener," inside his eyes I saw fire and smoke float over the hills

of Haiti, and his voice stalked the room amid the clanging of

swords, the stomp of heavy boots.

　　　Our most comfortable stage was his taxicab. On frigid winter

Saturday afternoons and warm summer evenings, I rode in the front

seat with him. Always, it was an adventure. As much as anything

else in his life, my father cherished the look of surprise and

unease that invaded the faces of white passengers as he regaled

them with quotes from Jefferson, Tolstoy or Frederick Douglass.

Pouncing on them unawares with the sharpness of his intellect, he

brought their blanched faces from behind The Wall Street Journal or

the New York Times. Their baffled respect, blooming in the form of

a generous tip or an awed, "Mister, you're pretty smart," sealed

his victory.

　　　Together we visited the homes of women, who plied me with

Kool-Aid and cookies and spoke to him in a language of double

meanings and invisible but obvious desire. Women adored my father.

He took them seriously enough to strip his fantasies before them.

He listened as intensely as he spoke, and his reactions confirmed

the legitimacy of their dreams. All of his women were like my

mother, women who had turned daydream desire into tangible reality

through houses, cars, money. All theirs. And, like my mother, these

women, who had flexed their muscles in the face of fate and

circumstance, looked at him with eyes that said, "I will give this

all to you." My father never refused anything. He accepted their

allegiance or a loan of money with equal ease as his due. He was a

hard, nearly impossible man to love when love meant exclusive

rights to his soul. Yet he relied on their steadfastness to enhance

the improvisational nature of his life. Hearing their screen doors

slam behind us as we walked to my father's cab, I trembled as

though implicated in a crime. For, returning home, I met my

mother's worried interrogation and watched her large hands tie

themselves in knots after I helplessly nodded in assent when she

asked if we'd visited Dorothy or Mamie that day.

　　　My father's friends were men with names like Lucky and Sweets,

men whose eyes rendered other verdicts on their lives. I watched

them develop potbellies and saw gray sprout at their hairlines as

they stood, year after year, before the fire-engine-red Coke

machine in Sam's Sunoco gas station, waiting for the number to come

out. In a shifting, eternal circle, they parried and joked, voices

edgy, cloaked in gruff humor as they stood wondering if 301 or 513

would come out that day and "make them a man." Because of his luck

with women and money, they called my father Goldie.

　　　They were not his real friends--they feared him too much.

Shuddered in the wake of his determination, which cast

consideration aside. And they trembled, windswept and lost, in the

face of his poorly hidden belief that he was and always would be

better than the rest. Much like the characters who peopled the

Africa he created for me, and for whom he felt an unbridled

affinity, my father viewed his life as a stage. Those around him

were an audience from whom he demanded total loyalty but to whom he

gave mere lightning flashes of his soul. And I loved him with blind

faith. Could never imagine having to forgive him anything. So when

I had to, I could not.

　　　My father grabbed life by the arm and wrestled it into squealing

submission. My mother cleared the same terrain with a faith and

self-possession that both fueled and ruined some of her

dreams.

　　　Greensboro, North Carolina, must have fit her like a coat too

small, buttons missing, hem unraveling and torn. The town, steeped

and cured in humility and patience, could never have imagined her

hopes. So at nineteen she fled. One summer night, while her parents

and younger brothers slept, she crept out of bed. Crouching on the

floor, she retrieved a cardboard suitcase wrapped in string that

had been hidden beneath her bed for three days. After pinning a

note to her pillow, she walked out into the full-moon night.

Standing on the porch, she felt her heart hacking a path out of her

chest. Placing the suitcase on the porch, she rubbed her sweating

palms on the side of her dress. Crickets echoed in the night air

and fireflies illuminated the web of knee-high front-yard grass.

And, as on every evening of what had been her life up to then, the

pure, heartfelt country silence reached out for her. Struggling out

of its grasp, she picked up the suitcase. Licked her lips for

courage. And, imagining her mother's face the next morning

discovering the empty bed and her wizened hands reaching for the

letter, she scurried down the steps. It was 1928 and she was headed

north.

　　　Washington, D.C., was as far north as she got. There she settled

with a cousin who'd arrived the year before. Her first job was

cleaning government office buildings. But soon she discovered more

gratifying outlets for her industry. Driven by caution, she

scrupulously saved her earnings yet daringly, shrewdly bet small

amounts on the numbers. She hit them regularly and plowed the

winnings into property. Soon she owned four boarding houses and

leased two others, a material affluence which at that time equaled

a virtual empire for a black woman. Indeed, my mother was blessed,

for she had her own. Each month, when she wrote her parents, she

slipped a money order between the pages of the folded letter. And

seven years after her arrival in the city dotted with historical

monuments and scarred by Jim Crow laws, my mother drove, prosperous

and proud, back to Greensboro in her own 1935 Ford.

　　　Her mother sat on the porch in a rocking chair, stringing beans

that afternoon. Her feet touched the splintered boards and she set

the bowl of beans on the table beside her, stood up and clutched

the banister. "Be-A-trice, whose car that you drivin?" she called

out with only modest interest.

　　　"It's mine, mama," her daughter called back, parking the car

before the house with considerable skill.

　　　"Yours?"

　　　"Yes, mama, mine."

　　　My mother was now walking dramatically up the steps to the

porch. She wore a dark-purple suit and a hat that resembled a box

was perched on her head. Her hands held white gloves and a small

brown leather clutch bag.

　　　"You want to go for a ride?" she asked, delighted to be offering

such a treat.

　　　Her mother, who had witnessed greater miracles than this every

Sunday in church, merely folded her arms and shook her head in

disgruntled amazement. "Be-A-trice, can't you write your own folks

no more? It's been three months since we last heard from

you."

　　　If she'd had her way, my mother would have been an actress. Like

the best of them, her presence was irresistible. My father used

words to control and keep others at bay. For my mother language was

a way to reassure and reward. My father demanded loyalty. My mother

inspired it in the host of friends whom she cared for and melded

into her life. She was a large, buxom woman, with caramel-colored

skin and a serene face that gave little indication of the passion

with which she imbued every wish, every commitment. Her hands were

large, long-fingered. Serious hands that rendered punishment

swiftly and breathlessly, folded sheets and dusted tables in a

succession of white folks' homes long after she was mistress of

several of her own. Hands that offered unconditional shelter and

love. In every picture of her there is freeze-framed a look of

sadness rippling across her glance, as though there is still just

one more thing she wants to own, to do, to know. She wore perfume,

fox fur throws casually slung over her shoulders and lamb coats, as

though born to wear nothing less. My father confided to me

offhandedly once, "When I met your mother I thought she was the

most beautiful woman I'd ever seen."

　　　She had been married once before. That husband had loved her

with a precision and concern my father could never imagine. But

after ten years she divorced him, his spirit routed, mauled by

years of drinking into a shape she could barely recognize.

　　　My father was her Armageddon. The thirteen years of their

marriage, a music box wound too tight, played an off-key song of

separation and reunion. The arguments and fights were nearly always

murderous. Sculpted like hot wax around the dry bones of their

unyielding wills was a love that joined and informed them of each

other in ways that were unbearable and soothing. They fought over

my father's women. But mostly, with a special viciousness, over

power, symbolized by my mother's property. Her will shimmered with

so much eloquence and strength that my fat...

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媒体评论

　　"It is a book all women will find useful and compelling and

all men who love women will find disturbing, painful, and

instructive." --Alice Walker

　　"Golden's book reads like a lyrical and well-balanced novel, but

it is all the more difficult to put down because the story is

true." –

Newsday

　　“The book is exquisitely written.”

—

Los Angeles Times

　　"A marvelous journey . . .

powerful imagery. . . . Distinctly drawn characters come alive,

events pulsate with energy."--

The Washington Post Book

World

书籍介绍

In her classic memoir, distinguished author, television executive, and activist Marita Golden beautifully recounts an astounding journey to Africa and back.

Marita Golden was raised in Washington, D.C., by a mother who was a cleaning woman and a father who was taxi-driver. For all their struggles, with life and each other, her parents instilled her with spirit and aspirations. Swept up in the heady Black Power movement of the sixties, Marita moved to New York to study journalism at Columbia--and fell in love with Femi Ajayi, a Nigerian architecture student..

Their passion led them to start a life together in Africa--a place Marita was eager to understand. Exhilarated by a world free of white racism, Marita quickly found work as a professor and embraced motherhood. But Femi's increasing expectations that she snap into the role of the submissive Nigerian wife were shocking and dispiriting. Her struggle to regain her footing and shape a black identity that was true to her spirit is suspenseful and inspiring, an uncommon tale of race, identity, and Africa.

• 作者：Reltih8 发布时间：2018-03-31 10:40:22

  一直以为抗美援朝是宣传出来的，看了美国人写的书才发现中国打仗原来这么NB!

• 作者：瓦达西瓦又又又桑只爱这巧克力 发布时间：2020-01-28 16:33:16

  感觉作者角度和态度有点迷。。。字里行间有一丝丝斯德哥摩综合征的气质，与其叫成吉思汗与今日世界之形成不如叫成吉思汗和子孙们与今日世界之形成。不过在西方被长期污名化的蒙元（后来这个污名逐渐转移到中国

• 作者：一滴沥青 发布时间：2010-11-28 20:04:24

  很好很详细~神经病考完了，书也还图书馆了，还记得那书的味道~估计它又要在书架上孤寂一段时间了，等待下一个暂时的小主人~哈哈哈，我会想你滴~

• 作者：June 发布时间：2023-07-14 14:40:19

  立意主旨很好，只有这个优点了，出版十多年后读明显感到细节的过时，以及一些叙述潜意识的男性凝视，很多想当然，很多大惊小怪，自己给自己贴标签，恋爱臆想，妓女怎么可能主动去参加小组，一些自以为是的玩笑其实很无聊……读来很不适。作者明显不了解她所描写的这群人却还要硬凹娴熟，很自以为是，很做作，不如直接写成纪实文学，东捏西凑的人物很标签扁平。医学人文关怀本是极好的素材，但她自以为了解的病人心理是二十年前了，早已经过时，阿尔兹海默症都写成奥本海兹默症，对于当过医生的她来说很离谱。如果还要吃这碗饭，就永远不能脱离一线病人，全靠仅存记忆中的臆想怎么可能写出振聋发聩的文字呢？不喜欢，毕淑敏明显不是一流作家。

• 作者：moongate 发布时间：2016-07-01 09:24:20

  再一次拷问生的意义，前面铺垫够久，使得最后出现的这样的呐喊特别震撼，“为什么要生下我，为什么我要来到这个世界上。”

• 作者：象 发布时间：2011-12-26 12:35:37

  有些芜杂，提出的一些针对流行心理咨询概念的反对声音值得一探。

• 这竟然是流浪地球2中图丫丫喜欢的绘本

  作者：小鱼爱哲学 发布时间：2023-02-22 20:47:55

  

  月初的时候去看了《流浪地球2》，还挺震撼的，尤其是图恒宇和图丫丫这条线，一个父亲对女儿的爱，以一种常人难以想象的方式表达。

  

  不得不说，剧组在设计上对细节的追求也十分惊人，除了那些网上揭示来的彩蛋之外，电影里图丫丫的房间也是经过精心设计过的，其中就包括图丫丫房间里的小书架和绘本。在官方的图丫丫个人资料中，图丫丫zui喜欢的绘本叫做《爸爸，我要月亮》，就是这本由国际绘本大师艾瑞.卡尔绘制有趣作品，一起来看看吧！

  

  艾瑞·卡尔（Eric Carle）是美国设计师、插画家、儿童绘本作家和儿童文学作家。其著名的作品是《好饿的毛毛虫》（The Very Hungry Caterpillar），是非常畅销的儿童读物。

  

  《爸爸，我要月亮》讲的是女孩小茉莉的故事：小茉莉很想和月亮一起玩，但她摘不到月亮，便拜托爸爸把月亮摘下来，于是爸爸拿了一把好长好长的梯子，架在一座好高好高的山上，努力地向上爬呀爬，但是月亮太大拿不下来，爸爸只好等到月亮变成下弦月，才把月亮带回给小茉莉玩……

  

  这是一个有关爱与梦想的故事，上下打开的多种折页变化，让孩子惊奇感受空间延伸的巧妙创意。孩子从故事情节中，不仅可以了解长短、高矮、大小等概念与形容词，还能从中观察到月亮阴晴圆缺的自然现象。

  这个故事的确非常符合图丫丫在剧中的人设，科学家的女儿，充满了好奇心和探索欲，而图恒宇也许就是受此影响，才决定到月球上去工作。

  

  我们都知道，把月亮摘下来是不可能的，但是正是这种“不可能”在不断地激发着科学家们的探索，他们把很多很多的“不可能”变成了可能：比如很久很久以前，登上月亮也是不可能的，但如今却成为了可能。在和孩子一起读这本书的时候，我们也可以告诉孩子，很多事看起来不可能，但是我们需要多动脑筋，多想办法，也许有一天，我们也可以把“不可能”变成“可能”呀！

  

  

  

• 土地是最伟大的诗人

  作者：风撼斜阳 发布时间：2009-09-11 20:50:48

  陌生的大自然

     “曾经有一段时间，绅士和淑女们喜爱在田野上漫游，他们这么做并不是为了要知道这个世界是如何形成的，而是为了要搜集一些午茶时间的话题。这是一个将所有的鸟都称作‘小鸟儿’的时代，一个以拙劣的诗文表达植物学的时代，一个所有当代人都只会叫嚷着‘自然不是很壮丽吗？’的时代。”

      20世纪40年代是个极其喧嚣的年代，《沙郡年记》的作者，李奥帕德(Aldo Leopold)，此时正独守在威斯康辛州沙郡的一个农场内，像是一个不合时宜的人。他买下了一座废弃的农场，携全家入住，亲自进行自然保育的研究和工作。他知道，真正的生态学不在学校，而在野地。在与大自然共舞的时光中，他将他极具诗人特质的文字和深邃的哲学性思考熔为一炉，铸成了这本《沙郡年记》。在书中，他用满怀深情的笔触记录下了沙郡12个月的景致。那些栎树，北美乔松，雁群，鹬，鳟鱼，松鸡的故事，在他眼中是那么亲切熟悉，但在我们这些早以被城市驯化了的智人的眼中，却是那么陌生。我承认，我的动植物学知识十分贫乏，学了那么多年的生物，恍然发现学来的只不过是一堆废物，我甚至叫不出那些常见的花鸟虫鱼的名字，更别说葶苈，高原鹬，犎牛，蓝翅黄森莺这些闻所未闻的名字了。前些日子，我一个朋友准备买本植物学的图解，我这才发现我们从来就没有认识过大自然。如果一个人对大自然如此陌生，如果他并未真正深入大自然，那么那些生态保护的名目，物种灭绝的情况，在他眼中就不过是一堆枯燥单调的数据和概念。如此一来，生态保育的未来就不得不让人担忧了。李奥帕德深深地体会到了这一点，他热爱他的那片土地，但他也看到了人们对土地的冷漠，他看到了所谓的“进步”对野地的侵蚀，于是他写下了这本书，埋下了他最后的希望。书成不久，李奥帕德在协助扑灭邻居农场大火时丧生。然而60年过去了，他的遗志大多数人依然没有听到。

  “

      在十一月的玉米田里制造音乐的风是匆忙的。

      雁群从低垂的云朵间出现，

      随风上下移动，聚集又分开。

      当雁群在远方天空变模糊时，

      我听到最后的鸣叫，那是夏天的熄灯号。

      ......

         现在，在浮木后面是温暖的，

      因为风已随雁群远去，

      而我也愿意随雁群远去——但愿我是那风。

  ”

      

  像山一样思考

      “我们都在努力追求安全，繁荣，舒适，长寿，以及单调的生活。鹿用它柔软的腿追求，牧牛人用陷阱和毒药，政治家用笔，而大多数人则用机器，选票和钱。但是，这一切都只为了一件事：这个时代的和平。在这方面获得某种程度的成功是很好的，而且或许是客观思考的必要条件。然而，就长远来看，太多的安全似乎只会带来危险。当梭罗说‘野地里蕴含着这个世界的救赎’时，或许他正暗示着这一点。或许这就是狼的嚎叫所隐藏的意义；山早就明白了这个意义，只是大多数人仍不明白。”

      野外的生活是我们所无法了解的，如果我们不能学会李奥帕德所说的“Thinking like a Mountain”的话。大多数人似乎没有体会到大自然的令人称奇之处，所以各州都为了狩猎的发展而扑灭当地的狼群，最终带来的是干旱尘暴区以及依旧不可避免的鹿的死亡。在生态系统复杂精妙的运作面前，人类的智识显得如此微不足道，书中说到一个无神论者因此而信仰了上帝，足以见大自然让人震撼之处。只是，还有太多的人不懂得那些土地的丰饶。即便是在学校学生物学的学生，有多少人关心过大自然的历史？李奥帕德对教育制度在这方面的功用做出了毫不留情的批判。

     “我要问，了解活生生的动物，以及它们如何在阳光下坚守阵地不是同样重要吗？很不幸的，当前的动物学教育系统实际上已删除活动物的研究。例如在我自己的大学里，我们并没有研究鸟类学或哺乳动物学的课程......自然而然地，实验室生物学很快就被视为较优越的科学形式。当这种科学继续发展下去时，自然历史便被挤出教育制度了。”

      当人们越来越以追求经济利益作为学习生物的目标时，人对自然的理解就越加肤浅了。当然，诸如生物工程这类的学科是必要的，但我们万万不可顾此失彼，有些东西是我们不能舍弃的，我们承受不起这个代价。土地的词典中从来就没有金钱和利益，它只是一种亘古不变的循环，维持这我们这个脆弱的世界。

  躲在城市，我们可以享受安全舒适的生活，终于我们就这样与自然隔绝，我们不再有打猎的那种原始野性，不再有奔跑的能力，出门便是车，抬头便是楼，我们就这样在无所事事的忙碌里终老。

      “免于恐惧的生活，必然是贫瘠的生活。”

      所幸的是还有那么一群业余爱好者，一位工业化学家利用空闲时间搜集了大量往日的资料，重建了已经绝迹的旅鸽的历史；而俄亥俄州的一位家庭主妇则在后院对歌带鹀进行了详细的研究，以致各国鸟类学家都来向她请教。他们出了名，但他们在与自然交流的过程中获得的那份满足是远远重于偶然带来的名气的。无论如何，土地孕育了我们，而我们所要做的就是去倾听狼的嚎叫，并像山一样思考。

      “重要的是，受过教育的公民是否明白，他只是一个生态机制中的一个钝齿？是否明白如果他和这个机制合作，那么他的精神和物质财富将无限地扩大？是否明白如果他不愿和这个机制合作，后者终将把他碾成灰尘？如果教育不能教导我们这些，那么教育的功用是什么？”

  渐行渐远

      “教授为科学服务，而科学为进步服务，科学为进步做了很大的贡献，所以，当它急着将进步扩展到所有的落后地区时，许多较复杂的乐器便在进步的过程中遭践踏，破坏了，所以，管弦乐团的乐器便一个接一个地失去，再也无法演奏优美的乐曲。倘使教授能够在每一项乐器破碎之前为它分类，那么，他就心满意足了。”

      在描写沙郡二月景观的章节中，李奥帕德以“年轮泄露的秘密”为题，借锯断栎木的锯齿的深入而展开了对80年自然史的回顾。

      “在一个清爽的冬日，以一把刚刚挫好的锯子，朝它形同堡垒的底部锯下，芬芳的历史碎片从锯子切入的地方飞溅出来，堆积在两个跪着的锯木者之前的雪地上，我们感觉这两堆锯屑不只是木头：它们是一个世纪完整的横切面；我们的锯子来来又回回，十年又十年地，切入以好栎树各个同心圆年轮写成的生涯年代记中。”

      在这八十年中，有国家森林法的订立，猎物保护区的设立，植树节的成立；也有在威斯康辛州一车车鸽肉馅饼的背后鸽子的离去，州内最后一只旅鸽被子弹射中，最后一只貂和美洲狮的死亡以及汲干沼泽地的蒸汽挖土机的出没。

      自工业时代以来，科学技术就在不断得进步，并且让人们一次次欢呼，可是这嘈杂的欢呼声也让人们渐渐遗忘了自然，遗忘了曾经在青山绿水旁的生活。现代生态学的历史有一百多年了，这么多年的发展是否给我们的土地和自然带来了足够多的保护？我记得中学的生物书中也有生态环保的知识，但我很怀疑就这么看看枯燥的教科书对我们会有多大影响？很多人只是用它来考试，然后继续在城市里读大学工作，混得好的可以吃着奇珍异兽，开着名贵跑车潇洒过活，混得不怎么样的也能整天开着空调，尽享现代科学给人带来的舒适生活。林地被毁，生物灭绝在大多数人看来是一件遥远的事。是啊，因为他们自出生以来就从未去过真正的野地，如果不能真正走进原始的自然，去感受其野性，再多的生态教育也是徒劳。在科技日新月异的道路上，我们与土地就这样渐行渐远。

       当修路人员把裂叶翅果菊当作杂草除去的时候，李奥帕德为其哀泣：

       “如果我对附近教堂的牧师说，修路人员正以除杂草为名，燃烧他墓地里的历史书，那么他一定会很诧异，而且摸不着头脑，杂草怎么可能是书？......这是本地植物群葬礼的一个小插曲，也是世界植物群葬礼的一个插曲。机械化的人们遗忘了植物群，对于他们在清理这片人们无论如何必须终老其上的地景系统的进步，感到十分骄傲。如果明智的话，或许我们应立即停止教导一切真正的植物学和历史，免得未来的公民在知悉他们的好生活是以付出多少植物的代价换来时，会感到良心不安......当最后一头犎牛离开威斯康辛州时，很少人为它伤心；当最后一株裂叶翅果菊随它前往梦幻之国青翠繁茂的大草原时，同样很少人会为它哀泣。”

      为了牛的安全，政府派出捕兽员杀死了艾斯卡迪拉山上的灰熊。

      “我们这些默许灭熊行动的林务官，知道当地一个牧场主人曾经用犁翻出一把匕首，匕首上刻着一个科罗纳多军队指挥官的名字。我们严厉叱责西班牙人，因为他们在狂热地追求黄金和改变信仰者之时，滥杀印第安原住民。但我们却没有想到，自己也是指挥着一次过于自以为是的侵略行动的指挥官。艾斯卡迪拉山依旧矗立在地平线上，但是看着它时，你不会再想起熊。现在，他不过是一座山而已。”

     “每一世代的人都会问：白色的大灰熊在哪里？如果我们回答它在自然资源保护论者没有注意时就消失了，那么，这真是一个令人不胜唏嘘的答案。”

      威斯康辛州失去了旅鸽，鸟类学会竖起了一座旅鸽纪念碑。

      “我们立起一座纪念碑，以纪念一种鸟的葬礼。这座纪念碑象征我们的悲伤；而我们之所以悲伤，是因为没有人可以再见到那些凯旋之鸟成群疾飞的方阵，它们辟出一条穿越三月天空的春之路径，将溃败的冬天逐出所有威斯康辛州的森林和草原......我们的祖父辈不像我们住得这般舒适，不像我们吃得这么饱，也不像我们穿的这么好。他们为改善生活所做的努力，就是是我们失去鸽子的凶手。或许我们现在之所以悲伤，是因为在内心深处，我们不确定这项交换究竟带来了什么好处。较之鸽子，工业的各种小玩意带给我们更多的舒适，但是它们可否如鸽子那般，为春天增添如许的光彩？”

      ......

         还有多少毁灭是我们所不知道的，在这人与自然日渐疏离的日子？

      渐行渐远。

       

     

      “有一天，我的沼泽会被筑上堤防，抽出水，然后躺在小麦底下被人遗忘，就像‘今日’和‘明日’躺在悠悠岁月之下被人遗忘那样。在最后一条沼泽荫鱼在最后一个池塘里最后一次摆动身体之前，燕鸥会尖叫着向克兰布依道再会，天鹅则会带着它们雪白的高贵神情向天空旋飞而去，而鹤会吹起它们告别的喇叭。”

  土地伦理

      “当人们已遗忘了土地的存在时，或者当教育和文化几乎已经和土地脱节时，我们如何让人们努力和土地和谐相处？”

       《沙郡年记》全书的高潮乃李奥帕德提出的土地伦理(Land Ethic)与对其的诠释。他从一个崭新的角度，即生态学的角度描述了伦理规范的递演，这是一种处理人和土地，以及处理人和土地上动植物的关系的伦理规范。

      李奥帕德笔下的土地，包括了土壤，水和所有动植物，自然也包括人类本身。此一套伦理之必要，就在于李奥帕德敏锐地看出人和土地的关系完全是经济性的，土地只是人的一种财产。

      “简言之，土地的伦理规范使‘智人’从土地-群集的征服者，变成土地-群集的一般成员和公民；这暗示着，他对这个群集内其他成员，以及对这个群集的尊重。”

      如今许多对自然资源的保护其目的还是为了经济的长远发展，如若一项物种毫无利用价值，人们便不会费力气去保护它，甚至为了某种利益而消灭它。这种完全由经济上的利己主义所主导的伦理规范使得真正的生态保育工作举步维艰。

      大多数人过于注意可持续的发展，而没有意识到生态系统本身就无法容忍物种的意外灭亡。真正的生态保护是不需要任何理由的，正如书中所说：“就生存权利而言，鸟类应该继续生存下去，不管我们是否有经济利益可图......掠食性动物是群集的成员，没有人有权为了某种真实或想象出来的好处而消灭它们。”

      “想要促进伦理规范的发展过程，一个关键步骤就是:停止将正当的土地使用视为纯粹的经济问题。除了从经济利害关系的角度来考量外，我们也应该从伦理和美学的角度，来考虑每个问题。当一件事倾向于保存生物群落的完整，稳定和美感时，这便是一件适当的事情，反之则是不适当的。”

      李奥帕德希望更多的土地私有者能担负起土地伦理的责任。而这一切的出发点则是李奥帕德对土地的那份毫无保留的爱。

      “就我而言，倘使人们对于土地没有怀着喜爱，尊敬和赞赏之情，或者不重视土地的价值，那么，人和土地之间的伦理关系是不可能存在的。我所说的价值，当然是某种比纯粹的经济价值更为广义的东西；我指的是哲学上的价值。”

      

      毫无疑问，土地是我们这个时代最伟大的诗人。

      “我们永远无法和土地和谐共处，就像我们永远无法获得绝对的公义和自由一样。在追求这些较崇高的目标时，重要的不是完成，而是奋斗。”

  野地的挽歌

      “人们总是毁了自己所爱的事物，所以，我们这些拓荒者毁了我们的野地。有人说，我们不得不这么做。尽管如此，我很高兴能够在野地度过年轻的日子。要是地图上看不见任何空白处，就算有四十大自由，又有什么用？”

      也许，最让李奥帕德痛心的，是野地的逐渐消失。

      在现代文明的冲击下，野地范围的缩小或许是不可避免的，但保存了最原始的景观和物种的野地如若消失，那将是一个大灾难。

      野地是生态保育计划的重点，也是每个地区土地状况的标本，如果在当地出现了土地失调，那么这些野地对土地症状的诊断来说就是最宝贵的资料。另外，野地还是一系列原始的野外旅行艺术的庇护所。

      然而，野地正受到不能理解它的人的侵蚀。对林木的砍伐，对掠食动物的控制，旅馆和观光道路的兴建总是在不停地增多，打扰了万古以来就在这定居的公民。

      在野地，你还可以真切感受到那种置身于大自然的孤独。城市中的人们也想体验这种孤独，却又没有足够的耐心，于是吉普车和汽艇开进了野地，使得本就稀少的野地更加缩减。他们并非真的热爱这片土地，而开发商们却又在这群人中看到了商机。

      广告，促销，缆车，道路，飞机和汽车，这些现代文明的产物让意欲阻止野地消失的人备感无力。

      野地是一种只会缩小，不会扩大的资源。

      李奥帕德为野地唱出的这一曲挽歌会是给人类自己的吗？

      “不再根植于土地的肤浅的现代人，以为已经发现了重要的东西；这些人喋喋不休地空谈着可以持续千年的政治或经济帝国。只有学者明白，历史是由连续从同一个起点展开的旅程积累而成的，人类不断回到同一个出发点，为再次出发寻找另一套永恒的价值观做准备。只有学者了解，为什么原始的荒野赋予人类开创力的定义和意义。”

      

  诗人何为

      “在这贫困的时代，诗人何为？” ——荷尔德林

      倘若土地是诗人，那么这句诗对当今的状况的描绘则是再贴切不过的了。人们如此贫困，以至于诗人成了多余，而一旦诗人死去，那这个世界还有什么意义呢？

      人类在一出出自然悲剧的面前，似乎依旧缺少某种危机感。

      

      “许多自然资源保护的处理方式显然只是触及皮毛而已。控制洪水的水坝和造成洪水的原因无关；拦砂坝和梯田没有触及土壤侵蚀的真正原因；维持猎物和鱼类供应的保护区和孵卵场，没有解释为什么会发生供应不足的现象。”

      人们只是热衷于治疗土地，却不愿研究土地健康的科学。归根结底还是人们缺少倾听诗歌的耳朵，缺少对诗真正的欣赏。而这些诗，如果你不去聆听，或许就再也没有下一次机会了。

      “如果有迫切的需要，有人可能会写另一部《伊利亚特》，或画另一幅‘奉告祈祷钟’，但是，谁能够制造一只雁？只有上帝：‘我，耶和华，将应允他们。这是主的手所做，以色列的至圣者所创造。’”

      李奥帕德为自己所热爱的生态保育工作奉献了一生，最终也死在了他所深爱的沙郡土地上。他看到了那么多毁灭，却依旧描摹出他心中的自然之美，因为这是他一生的信仰。上帝将他提前带走，或许是不忍心打破他内心依旧存有的希望吧。然而他的灵魂却还在天空徘徊，因为土地的声音越来越微弱，他不肯安心去那没有任何烦扰的天堂。

      也许，李奥帕德在为大地而默默垂泪，世俗的人们却还依旧不理解这一串串苍穹中晶莹的泪珠背后的悲伤。

      “或许以后他们将不知如何处理这些健康，教育和能力，因为那时山丘上可能不再有鹿，树丛里可能不再有鹌鹑，草原上可能不再有鹬的鸣叫；当黑暗笼罩着沼泽时，他们或许再也听不见葡萄胸鸭的尖啼，以及鸭的嘎喳声；当晨星在东方天空逐渐隐去时，他们或许再也看不见迅速挥动的翅膀在空中飕飕作响；当黎明的风在古老的北美白杨树林吹动，而灰白的阳光从古老河流上的山丘缓缓流泻，温柔地划过宽广，棕色的沙洲时，如果不再有雁的音乐，他们该怎么办？”