泰晤士北岸的静谧之境.docx

泰晤士北岸的静谧之境 In economic terms as well as geographic， London’s black and beating heart has always been the River Thames， 1）viscous with centuries of 2）filth and secrets. Eventually， the Victorians laced the city with underground drains to spare Londoners the sight and 3）stench of their own 4）effluent， which had until then poured freely into the river； yet in my childhood it was， nonetheless， still famously dirty. The river slices the city in half， dividing us， suspicious and unforgiving rivals， into South London and North， or “saaf” and “norf”in the local diction. To go to the other side is to venture into unfamiliar and potentially hostile territory. The river is cleaner these days， but an ancient collective memory of its poison remains. Perhaps this is what makes us so reluctant， now， to cross it. We breathe sighs of relief， lungs cleared by the fierce wind off the water， as we cross back over the bridges and return to our rightful places. And so in truth， for 21st-century Londoners， the Thames is no longer a center but a boundary. If we’re crossing the river， we think， it better be bloody worth it. For me， a lifelong northwest London girl， the Thames is merely my southern border， and the heart of my city is Hampstead Heath： 790 acres of dense woodlands and open meadow， and the odd corner of 5）manicured and rolling lawn， all presided over by the twin peaks of Parliament and Primrose hills. The view east from these heights sweeps all the way across the city to St Paul’s Cathedral， to the slowturning Ferris wheel of the London Eye， and now to the angular 6）monstrosity of 7）the Shard. When I was little， someone once told me that Parliament Hill would remain above the water as an island even if all the polar ice caps melted， and this immediately made it the center of my imagined world. The Heath is a place for solitude or for communion. It is a place for picnicking， for stargazing， for mushrooming， for watching birds and for collecting whichever blackberries hang high enough to have 8）evaded the casual 9）urination of passing 10）canines. The Heath is where north Londoners walk the dog or the baby and where， in darker corners on certain nights， men look to one another for fleeting love， or something like it. I knew the Heath before I ever breathed―my mother walked here every day when she was pregnant with me. When I was a child， my father ran here at five every morning， a coal miner’s lamp strapped to his forehead， a source of light in the dull London mornings. It was to Hampstead Heath that I was 11）frogmarched， frozen and complaining， to do cross-country running for school， until one of the girls saw a 12）flasher on our circuit and after that we stayed on school grounds. George Orwell puttered on the Heath when he worked in a nearby bookshop； Katherine Mansfield moved to Hampstead， hoping the healthy air would cure her 13）tuberculosis. Keats， drawn by the same vain hope， heard his nightingale here. Shelley sailed paper boats on one of the ponds. John Constable painted the skies from almost every angle； the whole Dickens 14）clan relocated to the edge of the Heath one summer， when cash was tight. John le Carr and his characters frequent the Hampstead Bathing Ponds. There are too many artists to name. Several years ago the Italian sculptor Giancarlo Neri erected a huge sculpture called The Writer in the middle of one of the Heath’s meadows； it was a simple chair and table made of wood and steel looming 30 feet high as a monument “to the loneliness of writing.” I know of no better place in any city for a writer to claim that blissful solitude―to walk， to breathe， to contemplate. But that giant， looming desk， evoking the ghosts of a hundred Hampstead writers， was more than a little intimidating. It was a hugely affecting sculpture， and I was relieved when they took it down. Not everyone shares my passion. In Samuel Richardson’s 18th-century novel Clarissa， the character Robert Lovelace is 15）dismissive： “Now， I own that Hampstead Heath affords very pretty and very extensive prospects； but it is not the wide world neither.” Well， true， and it is good， sometimes， to be reminded of it， even by a 16）scoundrel like Lovelace. From the top of Parliament Hill， that wide world opens up below you. Mistshrouded even in summer， here lies the whole of London―its churches and skyscrapers； its slums and palaces； its 17）stucco and concrete and glass. From here， the glittering curves of the river are hidden； north and south are unified by height and distance. Of course there is a bigger London， a wider world. But here is the highest point， for me. 无论是在经济术语还是地理术语中，伦敦那颗黝黑而跃动的心脏永远都是泰晤士河，这条长河因沉淀着数百年来的污秽和秘密而变得粘滞不堪。

最终，在维多利亚时代，伦敦装上了地下排水管以免伦敦人看到那幅自造的污水横流、臭气熏天的景象，此前，污水被随意排入河道；尽管如此，在我的童年时期，泰晤士河依然因其脏污而臭名昭著 泰晤士河将伦敦城一分为二，我们给分裂成互相猜忌且毫不宽容的对手，分成了“南伦敦”和“北伦敦”，或者用本地话来说就是“南城”和“北城”要想去到城市的另一边，那就是要冒险进入不熟悉，甚至有可能是怀有敌意的领地如今这条河流已经干净许多，但曾经的那段关于其危害的集体记忆依然留存也许现在，正是这段记忆使得我们如此不情愿跨过这条河当我们横过桥梁归来，回到正确的地方，。