沉舟侧畔千帆过

和出版社来来回回折腾过一阵子，准备破罐子破摔，就这样了八。

看自己的文字，大部分时候是羞愧：哇，怎么说这个，根本就是在胡说八道。彼时的我是那么幼稚，那么激动，那么不成熟。英文么，老师说，your English is good (considering ...)，也就是说，一个外国人，能写成这样不错啦。中文呢，写的时候是在照着某种框架：从小学的，“作文”是一定不能直抒胸臆，要循规蹈矩，从前是八股，后来又加了政治，self-censorship, 本来学问就不大，左顾右盼之后，又丢了一些养分，剩下的便是姥姥不疼、舅舅不爱的干巴鸡肋。

将自己的破烂从英文翻译成中文，是多重的挑战。一，发现自己英文版有很多错误。已经无法再去纠正。（aka 自己的英文很烂。）二，发现中文很可恶，很多词，只有火药味很浓的“联共布党史”词汇，早没有了从前的优雅风范。（aka 自己的中文也很烂。）三，英文说出来的，和中文说出来的竟不是一个意思。或者说语气大不相同。（AKA 自己的翻译也很烂的啦。）下三烂的典故原来是从这里来的。：）

当然了，也有得意的时候，偷眼看左右没人，拍拍自己的肩膀：哇，彼时我怎么那么天才，竟然说出这样的牛言壮语，连我自己都忘了。用John的话说，I'm a genius, and I'm modest too.：）

很奇怪，出版社好象不太顾及书的质量，总是催着我。我其实也想尽快推出去完事。可是又不甘心，自己找人作 Peer Review,是正经读书人，话说得很婉转，却也不能不负责任地瞎吹：人说，自从我的论文完成以后，学术界又出过一些新东东，最好能够update一下。（那谁谁作证，不用人家review,这是我一早就知道的。）

脑袋里打了一个小九九。至少要一个月的full-time,部分旅行，部分钻故纸堆，部分整理成文。人是不能再访问的了，一谈更是没完没了。

而且，纸上的这一个月，翻译成地球时间，等于至少三到四个月。

我却没有这三个月。My life has long changed, and I have different priorities.

于是就象 release software 一样，明知道有bug,死线到了，一咬牙一闭眼，产品也还是要发布出去。从前可是要尽善尽美的，这篇论文写出来的时候，也曾经大言不惭地号称过世界第一、填补空白的，呵呵，时光流逝，美人迟暮，青春不再了哦。

于是也就有了些许“沉舟侧畔千帆过”的悲凉。

正好又看到了 Robert Frost的这首诗。他是我们的近邻，摘苹果，是我们每年秋天的功课。不知道为什么，觉得这首诗，倒也很合心境。

Robert Frost (1874–1963). North of Boston. 1915.

After Apple-picking

MY long two-pointed ladder’s sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there’s a barrel that I didn’t fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn’t pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it’s like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.