中國網(wǎng)站品牌欄目（頻道）
我曾在紐約州的奧西寧小鎮(zhèn)住過，那是一個風(fēng)景如畫的地方，鄉(xiāng)間小路阡陌縱橫，帶給我許多美好的回憶。更讓我難以忘懷的是我的鄰居、著名短篇小說家約翰?契弗。雖然當(dāng)時已功成名就，他卻毫無架子，始終平易近人，竭盡所能地給予我這個后輩點(diǎn)撥和幫助。多年后，當(dāng)我再次路過他的故居，想起過去的點(diǎn)滴，內(nèi)心無比溫暖。
By Chris Epting
伊普婷 選注
Literature has been the salvation of the damned, literature has inspired and guided lovers, routed despair and can perhaps in this case save the world.[2] —John Cheever
In a California bookstore recently, I saw a copy of The Short Stories of John Cheever, my all-time favorite collection of short fiction. The book gave me a special feeling, deep connection to a past chapter in my life.
It was 1975 up in Westchester County, New York, in a town called Ossining. Ossining’s original name, “Sing Sing,” was named after the Native American Sinck Sinck tribe from whom the land was purchased in 1685. As you might know, Sing Sing is also the name of the famed local prison. We lived in the rural part of town, in the forest on a winding, idyllic country lane[3] called Spring Valley Road. (Other roads in the area were Hawks Lane, Apple Bee Farms Road, Cedar Lane... you get the picture.)
I was about 13 years old and had decided that I wanted to be a writer (especially if the baseball player thing didn’t work out[4]). When I announced this to my parents, my mom suggested I write a neighbor of ours to see if he might be able to supply some professional guidance. His name was John Cheever, and all I knew of him was that my parents loved his writing and several of his books were on the shelves in our living room library. My mom’s idea seemed reasonable enough so I wrote Mr. Cheever a short note asking if I might be able to ask him a few questions some day. Just a couple of days later, the following letter arrived at our house:
Dear Chris Epting:
It is nice to know that there is another writer living in the neighborhood. I will call you one day soon and then maybe we can take a walk and talk about writing.
(signed)John Cheever
And the very next day, he called my house. “Yes, Chris...” a rich New England-accented[5] voice began, “this is John Cheever.” What a unique way to be introduced to one of the greatest fiction writers in American literary history.
Armed with a few school writing samples, I went to his house the next day and spent several hours there. I listened to him, I asked questions, I watched him smoke tons of filterless cigarettes, I drank Coke and I listened to his Beatles records with him.[6] But then it was time for Little League[7] practice. But it was okay. I’d be back many other times in the next several years to talk about writing.
John Cheever became a mentor[8] to me until his death in 1982. He’d review my work, (scribbling copious notes in red felt tip marker across my pages),[9] take the occasional walk with me and once even personally called a professor at my college to recommend me for a much-in-demand writing course. Naturally the call helped secure my place in the class (it had been his idea to call after I described the situation) and it wasn’t until later in life that I could appreciate the absurdity of the moment: a pompous college English professor with his own dreams of becoming a great American novelist getting a call from one of the true Lions of American fiction to vouch for student.[10]
John Cheever lived in Ossining from 1951 until the time of his death. Over the years, he became iconic[11] in the city. He taught at Sing Sing prison, was part of a regular salon[12]-style dinner group for years and even did readings at the local public library. Cheever was such a regular at the Highland Diner that his photo hung there, shrine-like for years after his death.[13] He was everywhere, and he was nowhere; seen all over town but just as happy in his beautiful colonial[14] home on Cedar Lane with his lovely wife Mary.
Once I’d known him for a couple of years, it finally hit[15] me who he was—and what he represented to people. I was in the supermarket with my mom and at the checkout stand, there was that elegant, weathered face,[16] on the cover of Newsweek magazine (after he’d won the Pulitzer Prize for his novel, Falconer). I was seeing Cheever later that day so I brought the copy with me. In his office, I showed it to him. He just nodded and I asked him something. I explained to him that when I first visited, I was not familiar with him. But now, over time, and especially with this magazine, it was clear to me he was very important. So I wanted to know: why grant me, a kid in the neighborhood, all of this precious time?
He laughed a little at that and explained that since his drinking problems in the last few years, he had looked for therapeutic outlets that might help him focus[17] —and that helping a young writer was almost like medicine. (I learned later that he was completely dry[18] the last seven years of his life—and those were the years I knew him). In addition to visiting at his home, I called him from college to chat from time to time. I’d bump into[19] him taking long walks down Spring Valley Road on lazy summer days (or riding his beloved bicycle) and he’d always stop to talk.
I spoke to John Cheever less than two weeks before he died. I was away at school and while I knew he was ill with cancer, I didn’t know just how sick he was. There was an article I wanted to write about him and on the phone, in a ravaged[20] voice, he told me as soon as he was feeling better we could talk more about it. Then I turned on the news one morning soon after and saw he was gone.
If you ever get the chance to visit Ossining, wherever you are in the village, know that he was probably right nearby at some point. If you make your way to the serene Teatown Lake near his home, be aware that he paused there along the road by the water more than once to sit by the rocks and talk to this young writer about craft and critique, while also mixing in a fair amount of baseball chatter.[21] Further on down the woodsy road, at the Teatown Lake Reservation,[22] the ancient stone walls where Cheever would stop and rest are still there and everything remains as it was when he was here—exactly as I remember it as a teenager.
There’s still a diner at 191 N. Highland Avenue where Cheever could frequently be found. As the local library recounts[23]:
Cheever was a regular at the Highland Diner where he’d arrive with a book or newspaper and look around for someone to talk to... He knew and was liked by so many people in the town that his family used to call him the ‘Mayor of Ossining.’ He never ran for office, of course, but there was an abortive[24] movement in the wake of the Pulitzer to name a street after him. Cheever was pleased and self-deprecatory[25] about this at the same time. He and Mary and the children sat around the dinner table thinking of what else might be named after him. ‘Let’s see,’ he proposed, ‘how about the John Cheever Memorial Dump[26]?’
Recently, I drove once more past the Cheever’s house on Cedar Lane near Route 9A. Peeking down the driveway and looking at the house set back against the woods, I could picture him getting into his red Volkswagen Rabbit to drive me home after that first visit.[27] Then I thought back to what he told me at that meeting:
“Keep a journal[28], start today and don’t stop. It forces you to write and that’s good. Writers write, they don’t talk about writing and a journal strengthens the muscle. So go. Write.”
I thought to myself, how lucky I was to have known someone so gifted and inspirational, someone who took the time to share some stories and advice—someone who gave some critique and company[29] to, as he put it, “another writer living in the neighborhood.”
Vocabulary
1. John Cheever: 約翰?契弗（1912—1982），美國現(xiàn)代重要的小說家，一生著述豐富，尤以短篇見長，有“美國郊外契訶夫”之譽(yù)，曾憑小說《獵鷹者監(jiān)獄》（Falconer）獲普利策獎（Pulitzer Prize），作品常諷刺新英格蘭郊區(qū)富裕的居民。
2. salvation: 拯救，救助；the damned: 受苦的人；route: vt. 按特定方向轉(zhuǎn)移，此處指文學(xué)讓人擺脫絕望，重燃希望。
3. on a winding, idyllic country lane: 在一條彎彎曲曲、寧靜如畫的鄉(xiāng)村小路上。
4. work out: 產(chǎn)生結(jié)果，進(jìn)行順利。
5. New England-accented: 新英格蘭（地區(qū)）口音的。
6. filterless cigarette: 無過濾型香煙，較之過濾嘴香煙，對身體危害更大；Coke: 可口可樂；Beatles: 甲殼蟲（或譯披頭士）樂隊(duì)，20世紀(jì)五六十年代風(fēng)靡一時。
7. Little League: <美>（由8歲至12歲的男女少年參加的）少年棒球聯(lián)合會。
8. mentor:（經(jīng)驗(yàn)豐富且值得信賴的）導(dǎo)師，指導(dǎo)者。
9. scribble: 潦草地書寫；copious: 大量的；red felt tip marker: 紅色氈尖記號筆，felt 有“氈狀材料”之義。
10. secure: 保證，確保；absurdity: 荒唐；pompous: 自高自大的；lion: 著名作家，文壇巨擘；vouch for: 擔(dān)保，保證。
11. iconic: 標(biāo)志性的。
12. salon: 沙龍，尤指作家和藝術(shù)家等在上流社會知名人士家中定期舉行的社交聚會。
13. regular: ?？?；diner: 小餐館；shrine-like: 如神龕般的。
14. colonial：（尤指建筑、家具）（美國獨(dú)立前）殖民地時期制造的，殖民地時期式樣的。
15. hit: 突然清楚地意識到。
16. checkout stand: 收銀臺；weathered: 飽經(jīng)風(fēng)霜的。
17. therapeutic: 治療的；outlet: 途徑。
18. dry: 不再嗜酒的，戒酒的。
19. bump into: 撞見，偶然遇見。
20. ravage: 毀壞，蹂躪，此處形容契弗病得很重，說話毫無力氣。
21. serene: 寧靜的；craft and critique: 技巧和批評；a fair amount of: 相當(dāng)多的；chatter: 喋喋不休的閑聊，形容兩人聊得很歡。
22. woodsy: 綠樹成蔭的；reservation: 自然保護(hù)區(qū)，<美>（印第安人的）居留地。
23. recount: 敘述，說明。
24. abortive: 落空的，失敗的。
25. self-deprecatory: 自我貶損的。
26. dump: 垃圾場。
27. peek: 窺視，偷看；set back against the woods: 在森林的掩映下；Volkswagen Rabbit: 大眾旗下的一款汽車。
28. journal: 日記。
29. company: 陪伴，伴隨。
（來源：英語學(xué)習(xí)雜志）
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