房 间 The Room（中英文对照）

 

房 间 　　在半梦半醒之间，我发现自己在一个房间里。这房间并没有什么特别之处，只不过一面墙壁满是小小的索引卡抽屉。就像图书馆那些字母顺序编排的作者或主题目录。但是这些密密麻麻从地板伸到天花板，并且似乎向各个方向无尽伸展的抽屉有着非常不同的标题。 　　当我走近这面墙壁时，首先吸收我注意力的是名为“我喜欢过的人”的抽屉。我打开它翻了翻那些卡片。看了几眼我马上关了上抽屉，每个卡片上写的名字我都认识，这确实让我惊诧。无需告知，我很清楚我身处何地。这个没有生气却满是小抽屉的房间是我一生粗略的记录。这里记载着我每时每刻的行为，事无巨细，一一在案，让我的记忆自叹弗如。 　　当我信手打开那些抽屉探究里面的内容时，一种好奇心混杂着恐惧令我心神不宁。有些内容给我带来快乐和甜蜜的回忆；有些则令我惭愧万分后悔不已，真害怕有什么旁人也看到了。一个名为“朋友”的抽屉就在“我背叛过的朋友”旁边。 　　题目从世俗平凡的到奇异怪诞的可谓五花八门。“我读过的书”，“我说过的谎”，“我给予过的安抚”，“我哈哈大笑过的笑话”。 　　有些标题惟妙惟肖让我真想笑出声来，如“我冲我的兄弟吼叫过的事情”；而有些则让我难以发笑：“愤怒下我做过的事情”，“我向父母咕哝抱怨过的事情”。 　　卡片的内容让我惊奇不已。卡片的数目常常让我猜测的要多，有时也有比我希望的要少些的。我被我一生浩瀚的内容所震惊。在我20年的生活里我真会有时间来记录这数千张甚至数百万张卡片吗？但每一张卡片又证实了这一事实。每张都是我亲笔写的，每张上都有我的签名。当我打开名为“我听过的歌”的抽屉时，我意识到抽屉内的容量在增加。卡片一张挨一张，我翻过两三码（一码合三英寸）后，依然看不到尾。我关上抽屉，感到惭愧，不光因为音乐的质量，更多的是因为我知道这抽屉表明我曾为此耗费过多少时间。 　　当我翻到“淫念”的抽屉时，我感到一股寒流通遍全身。我把抽屉只打开一英寸宽——我不愿探究这个抽屉究竟有多深——然后抽出一张卡。上面记录的详细内容让我战栗。一想到这样的时刻也被记录下来，我直犯恶心。一种动物般的暴怒让我无法自控。 　　一个念头占据了我的大脑：“谁也甭想看到这些卡片！谁也甭想看到这间屋子！我必须毁了它们！”疯狂之下我猛地把抽屉拉了出来。它有多长我也顾不上了。我必须把它一倾而空烧掉那些卡片。但当我把抽屉拉出重重摔到地上时，一张卡也没有撤出。我气急败坏抽出一张卡，拼命要撕毁它时却发现它坚如钢板。 　　只好认输，一筹莫展，我把抽屉放回原处。前额抵在墙上，我发出一声长长的自怜的叹息。这时我看见了那个名为“我与之分享过福音的人们”的抽屉。抽屉的把手比其周围的更亮更新，几乎未被触摸过。我一拉把手，一个不过三英寸长的抽屉落入我手中。我可以用一只手就数清有多少张卡。这时我的眼泪夺眶而出。我开始哭泣。抽泣如此深切，我的胃开始隐隐作痛，不久疼痛遍及全身。我跪在地上嚎啕大哭。我因羞愧而痛哭，因满胸满腹的羞愧而痛哭。 　　一排排抽屉在我噙满泪水的眼眶里涡旋着。谁也别想知道这间房间，别想！我必须把它锁起来并藏好钥匙。但正当我擦去眼泪时，我看见了他。不可能是他呀！不能在这里呀！哦，是谁也不能是耶稣呀！我束手无策地看着他打开抽屉看卡片。我无法忍受看他的反应。等我定住神看他的面孔时，我看到了比我更为深切的悲痛。他似乎凭直觉翻到了那些最糟糕的抽屉。他干吗非得挨个读遍呢？终于他转过身看看房间那头的我。他的眼里满是怜悯。但这种怜悯并没激怒我。我低下头，用手捂住脸，再次痛哭起来。 　　他走过来搂住我。他本可以说许多话，但他只字未说。他只是和我一起哭。然后他起身走回满是抽屉的那面墙。从房间的一头开始，他取出一个抽屉，在每张卡上在我的名上签下他的名字。 　　“不”我边喊边冲向他。我从他的手中夺过卡片，嘴里说的只是“不，不”。他的名字不能落在这些卡片上。但它确实在上面，红色的，那么浓厚，那么深沉，那么活生生的。耶稣的名字覆盖了我的。那是用他的血写出的。他温柔地把卡片拿回，悲哀地一笑继续签名。我想我永远也不会弄明白他怎么签得那么快，但片刻之后我似乎听到他关上最后一个抽屉走回我身旁。 　　他把手放在我的肩上，说“完成了”。我站起身，他领我走出房间。门上没锁。还有卡片待写。 　　我彻底醒了。

The Room In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room. There were no distinguishing features except for the one wall covered with small index card files. They were like the ones in libraries that list titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which were stretched from floor to ceiling and were seemingly endless in either direction, had very different headings. As I drew near the wall of files, the first to catch my attention was one that read "Girls I Have Liked," I opened it and began flipping through the cards. I quickly shut it, shocked to realise that I recognised the names written on each one. And then without being told, I knew exactly where I was. This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalogue system for my life. Here were written the actions of my every moment, big and small, in a detail my memory couldn't match. A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me, as I began randomly opening files and exploring their content. Some brought joy and sweet memories; others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching. A file named "Friends" was next to one marked "Friends I Have Betrayed." The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird. "Books I Have Read," "Lies I Have Told", "Comfort I Have Given", "Jokes I Have Laughed At". Some were almost hilarious in their exactness: "Things I Have Yelled At My Little Brother." Others I couldn't laugh at: "Things I Have Done In My Anger", "Things I Have Muttered Under My Breath At My Parents". I never ceased to be surprised by the contents. Often there were many more cards than I expected. Sometimes even fewer than I hoped. I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had lived. Could it be possible that I had the time in my life to write each of these thousands or even millions of cards? But each card confirmed this truth. Each was written in my own handwriting. Each was signed with my signature. When I pulled out the file marked "Songs I Have Listened To," I realised that the files grew to contain their contents. The cards were packed tightly, and yet after two or three yards, I hadn't found the end of the file. I shut it, shamed, not so much by the quality of music, but more by the vast amount of wasted time that file represented. While I came to a file marked "Lustful Thoughts," I felt a chill run through my body. I pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to test its size, and drew out a card. I shuddered at its detailed content. I felt sick to think that such a moment had been recorded. An almost animal rage broke on me. One thought dominated my mind: "No one must ever see this room! I have to destroy them!" In an insane frenzy I yanked the file out - its size didn't matter now. I had to empty it and burn those cards. But as I took it at one end and began pounding it on the floor. I could not dislodge a single card. I became desperate and pulled out a card, only to find it as strong as steel when I tried to tear it out. Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to its slot. Leaning my forehead against the wall, I let out a long self-pitying sigh. And then I saw it. The file with the title "People I Have Shared The Gospel With." The handle was brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused. I pulled on its handle and a small box not more than three inches long fell into my hands. I could count the cards it contained on one hand. And then the tears came. I began to weep with sobs so deep that the hurt started in my stomach and shook through me. I feel on my knees and cried. I cried out of shame, from the overwhelming shame of it all. The rows of file shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No one must ever, ever know of this room. I must lock it up and hide the key. But then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him. No, please, not Him! Not here. Oh, anyone but Jesus. I watched helplessly as He began to read the cards. I couldn't bear to watch His response, and in the moments I could bring myself to look at His face, I saw a sorrow deeper than my own. He seemed to intuitively to go to the worst boxes. Why did He have to read every one? Finally, He turned around and looked at me from across the room. He looked at me with pity in His eyes, but His was a pity that didn't anger me. I dropped my head, covered my face with my hands, and began to cry again.He walked over and put His arm around me. He could have said so many things. But He didn't say a word. He just cried with me. Then He got up and walked back to the wall of files. Starting at one end of the room, He took out a file and, one by one, began to sign His name over mine on each card. "No!" I shouted rushing to Him. All I could find to say was "No, No," as I pulled the card from Him. His name shouldn't be on these cards. But there it was, written in red so rich, so dark, so alive. The name of Jesus covered mine. It was written with His blood. He gently took the card back. He smiled a sad smile and began to sign the cards. I don't think I'll ever understand how He did it so quickly, but the next instant it seemed I heard Him close the last file and walk back to my side. He placed His hand on my shoulder and said, "It is finished." I stood up, and He led me out of the room. There was no lock on its door. There were still cards to be written……