【信件０３】死灰和幻想|Ash and Fiction

你好吗？

二月海南的一天，我在屋里藤床上刚躺下，就听见我妈陈女士在对面露台上叫了一声“啊呀！”然后听见她迅速的转身进了我的屋子，关上了门。

“怎么了？”我问。

“昨天那半根没有给你灸完的艾条，全在阳台上自己烧没了，”她压低声音说，递给我她手里半扣上的两个小瓷碗。天青色的瓷碗里，里面非常安静的，躺着浅灰色的灰，盖了小小的一个小丘，我的呼气好像马上就会吹起一层那样，“小点儿声，不然你爸又要说。”

我想起了前一日她给我艾灸完了以后，把半根艾条插进水杯里半天的那个场景。我当时还琢磨会不会潮了今天点不燃。

我仿佛看到了后来默默的、再被放置阳台后，自顾自燃起的那半截艾条，和生气的一溜非常自由又低调的烟。

我今天突然想起来那个画面，想到了一个词。

“死灰复燃”。

我转念一想，发现了这个词充满了言简意赅的戏谑：这四个字，其实有着好多层面的一体两面：“他人的认为”和“事物的实际状况”，死灰实际上不是死灰，复燃的一定不是死灰。但是“他人”认为它是，或者希望它是；“过去”和“现在”，过去“死了”，现在却是“燃的”，而且更多的是承认“燃”的现实。这甚至包括了一种“愿望”和“现实”的对抗，就当主观意念希望这灰是死的，然而这主观意念其实无法驳掉它是“一直是燃的”得事实。有着本质区别的死灰和死灰……太有趣了。

然后我想到了你。

你我，对于我是死灰，对于你是也是死灰。我清清楚楚得知道它是怎样的死灰，你却不知道它是哪种死灰。太有趣了。

提笔之前，重新看了《英国病人》这部电影，这大概是我第四次或者更多次看了，它一直以来在我的电影排行榜的前十名，因为Ralph Fiennes，因为Kristine Scott Thomas……

因为Ｋ那封唯美的信件：

“My darling, I'm waiting for you — how long is a day in the dark, or a week? The fire is gone now, and I'm horribly cold. I really ought to drag myself outside but then there would be the sun. . . I'm afraid I waste the light on the paintings and on writing these words. We die, we die rich with lovers and tribes, tastes we have swallowed, bodies we have entered and swum up like rivers, fears we have hidden in, like this wretched cave. We are the real countries, not the boundaries drawn on maps with the names of powerful men. I know you will come and carry me out into the palace of winds. That's all I've wanted — to walk in such a place with you, with friends, on earth without maps...”

和那首鲜活的、Almásy写在圣诞爆竹壳纸上的跳跃的诗：

"Betrayals in war are childlike/

compared with our betrayals during peace/

New lovers are nervous and tender,

But smash everything,

For the heart is an organ of fire."

然而这次观看后，我讶异的发现，即使反复抄写过这句“For the heart is an organ of fire"，对Kristine在电影里的穿搭了然于胸的我，之前竟然从来没有看懂过这部电影，反观各种歌颂这部电影里爱情的各种影评，发现我们都是被Almásy和Katharine的美丽有型的外观所迷住；被电影里所有饱读诗书且专注、有情调、甚至沙漠、吟诵、文化科考，本身这些美丽的、“不食烟火”的优点所倾倒；甚至因为Geoffery同归于尽来祭奠他爱情的凄惨烘托的更为稀有和够劲儿的Alamsy和Katherine以生命为代价的爱情，和爱情本身在国家和战火之中必然殉葬的脆弱感……暂且不提这部电影里经常被忽略的护士Hanna and Kip的另一条故事线，太多太美的元素充斥着这部电影和这个故事。

我被绕花了眼，从来没有看懂过这部甚至在我心目中排名前十的电影。（笑，我经常后知后觉的对于曾经的自己不知所谓的着迷，在清醒以后感到好笑、参杂着悲哀和庆幸、且带着对于未来能够觉知更多的憧憬）

对，有一次你问我最爱看的书籍和电影，我记得我还列举了这部电影来着。（笑）

然而，临近深夜，两个多小时的电影结束片尾曲响起，我感受到来源于这部电影的悲伤——这彻头彻尾的爱情悲剧，怎么竟然让如此多的人歌颂其中的爱情？……不可思议。

他们相遇的开始，那如此显而易见的致命吸引，以及诸多的Almásy试图抗拒吸引的、近乎无情的各种拒绝：

Katharine从容跳下车后，潇洒且毫不在意的甩着头发说：“No, I insist. There clearly isn’t room for all of us. And I’m not one of the walking wounded. It’s only one night. If I remain, it’s the most effective method of persuading my husband… to abandon whatever he’s doing and come and rescue us."

Almásy在目视车开远后，回头望向镜头（Katharine走去的方向），背后是浩瀚的沙漠，他眼里不是他告诫Geoffery说 "Dessert is tough for a woman" 的不解和担忧，而更多的是不知所措的、知道一个漩涡在前方，却不知如何自处的表情……是的，此时此刻他已经身在漩涡边缘了，因为他第一次靠近漩涡，是在市场走出来问她，“how much did you pay for it" 而她因为他显而易见的不可理喻下令她哂笑后，走开了。

他第一次拒绝漩涡，是Katharine主动的递来手绘的壁画卡片，他拒绝一次后，K直白的说“No I would love for you to have them"。 Almásy因为坐着，直面着站着且面对着太阳光的K（此处导演的镜头语言包括了阳光的方向，绝了！）非常直接、直接到生硬甚至伤人的说， “No, really. There is no need. I should feel obliged. Thank you.”

这一个词 "should" 把自己的内心挣扎，和刻意的拉远距离的意图，说的明明白白。

Katharine自讨没趣的走开以后，在优雅和被拒绝的怒气的融合下，说了这样一句话： “And that would be unconscionable, I suppose, wouldn’t it?　To feel any obligation.”　然后她的失望显而易见　“Yes, of course it would.”　

其实在此处，他们的悲剧，就已经昭然若揭了。

Katharine饱读诗书、优雅美丽，品味极佳。她有着一个美丽女性的活泼、善意；她有着大多数女人没有的洒脱和务实（能够与生活情况艰苦的沙漠共存且热爱它；她有着非常好的家庭背景，还是一个优秀的飞行员）。她非常聪明，可以三言两语自然的冲破Almásy的防线和认知（第一次是用love来辩论Almásy一贯认定形容词本身无法改变事物本质的认知；第二次是在他毫无礼貌的用一个故事来暗示Katharine话太多以后，她精准的点出他爱唱歌但他自己都不知道这件事，然后很自然的和车顶的随从一起大声唱他爱唱的歌；第三次是借Geoffery之口说出she knows what she can handle and not）。

她，是他期盼和认知以外的女人。

这份"之外"，对于Almásy的吸引是致命的，其实Almásy是知道的，这也是他诸多抵抗的原因。

在这份诸多抵抗中，他的主动抽离了多次，第二次是在回到城里后站在台阶下（又是一次他仰视看她的镜头语言）叫出”Mrs. Clinton",；他第三次的主动抽离——在浴缸里两人赤裸相拥谈论最爱“what do you love"这种亲密的话题和气氛的时候说“when you leave, you should forget me" 的第二次使用should。

这就是悲剧昭然若揭的开始：悲剧的开始，在于Katharine并不知道在他心里，她的吸引是如此致命的，他对于她的确认是异常直接且深刻的；而她，能够感受到他对她的吸引，但这份吸引对于她来说到底是什么样的，她一无所知。

她如果一无所知这份爱对于她的深度，那她到底能够感受到什么？修养极佳的她，透过镜头讲述的其实不多。但是可以确认的是，她能够感受到，是她的愤怒和失望。

第一次的愤怒和失望是““And that would be unconscionable, I suppose, wouldn’t it”，第二次是她在“Mrs. Clinton"以后，她直视他说出的低声的“don't"。 第三次是她穿着一袭白裙主动来找他，看到他后开始出手捶打他的肩膀和头部；第四次是在他说出“you should forget me"后，她推开怀里的他，湿淋淋的从浴缸里站起来跨出去。短短相知的时间里，四次足够多足够频繁了。

如果剥离掉所有美好的两个人的特质，爱恋这条线两端的两个人，一个是极为典型的回避型依恋人格（笑），一个表现为矛盾依恋型人格。

其实他们是可以不用死的，但是Geoffery本身可能是焦虑型依恋人格。他面对知晓爱人爱上他人后，他的选择是一直闭口不谈，最后同归于尽；而且这期间他一直以来对katharine应该仍然是尽其所有的温柔和爱护，不然不可能在飞机撞Almásy时候他喊的是“I love you, I love you so much" 且Katharine到那一刻才能确认说“He knew. He must’ve known all the time"。

当然，这些依恋型人格推测本来就很片面甚至玩笑话，但从另外一个角度上说，无论是Geoffery主动选择死亡本身，还是Katharine平静、诗意、用一贯洒脱甚至美丽的态度面对她折了的肋骨和手腕脚腕以及和可能降临的死亡，还是Almásy近乎偏执的不顾一切去信守的“I will be back"的承诺以及他执拗的把她称为my wife、且用假装的失忆来守护的他珍视的所有片段；——所有的这些，都只是用这些“结局”来讲述和昭示，他们彼此羁绊和链接的浓度、强度、深度超越生死，超越战争，超越碾压生命的一切。

然而不能够忽略的、重要的事实是，他们三个人的选择其实是不同的。

Geoffery在被背叛中选择死亡，而且是一同殉情的死亡，用死亡和大声呼喊“I love you so much"的宣誓。

Katharine其实在背叛的挣扎中，选择了主动结束和离开。即使她将Almásy送她的顶针在他最爱的锁骨上凹。

Almásy其实在katharine选择走开后，被动选择了继续他的独自一人的科考生活，他没有想到的是Geoffery选择同归于尽，将她再带回他的身边，给与了他一个承诺的机会。

最后死亡本身的戏虐，是战争、国界、领土和属于这些升华这份爱情的咏叹高潮；然而，他们的相爱后选择分开，其实是Katharine作为一个“好人”的底色，和她在两份截然不同、浓度却类似的爱之间的挣扎。她最后写下“We die, we die rich with lovers and tribes, tastes we have swallowed, bodies we have entered and swum up like rivers, fears we have hidden in, like this wretched cave."是她对于她“背叛”结局的欣然接受，对于生命本身的豁然，以及对于她生时所拥有的一切的拥抱和无尽感激……这些也许是她美丽外表、智慧和饱读诗书之外，最让她迷人的底色，也是让她陷入无声又无尽挣扎和疼痛的本色。

"The King insisted that he would find some way… to prove beyond dispute… that his wife was fairest of all women"　这个坎道列斯（Candaules）的故事从最开始就奠定了这个悲剧，这位最后一位赫拉克勒斯王朝（Heraclid Dynasty）的国王的一切就充满了痴迷、背叛和悲剧；而讲这个故事的Katharine，很难说不是另一位“fairest of all women”。

然而这样一位fairest of all women, 无可抗拒的爱上了她丈夫之外的男人，在极度的吸引与忠诚的爱的角色与义务中被无尽的拉扯和撕裂，最后在飞机坠毁受伤后，阴差阳错的赔上了性命……其实不难想象，即使她幸免活下来，她和Almásy的结局最后也是聚少离多，也是不应该复燃（should not)的死灰。

The English Patient 这个故事当然要远远大于爱情本身，二战的背景以及把Hanna and Kip这条线加回来后讲述的更多的故事，其实深刻的涵盖了很多生命本质的讲述、以及显而易见的对于身份定义的诘问。

如果缩小回Katharine and Almásy这个片面，那么就无法回绝故事讲述者对于“背叛”这个词的直视。

“背叛”这个词，是“忠诚”的反面吗？

人为什么会忠诚？

忠诚是主动的选择，还是被动的驱使？一个人如果认同某种信念，这是一个人完全自我的选择吗？还是它其实紧密的联系与这个人的背景和成长经历？一个人一定很难忠诚于与他无关的事物不是吗？它必定是深度绑定的。

忠诚的对象是自我还是他物？忠诚的对象如果不是“自我”，而是外物（其他人、或者组织、或者概念），出现对立和挣扎难道不是必然的吗？如果忠诚的对象是“自我‘，又如何能够避免掉入自我禁锢和自私的窠臼？忠诚本身是不是带着“愚“？还是愚的本身就是忠诚一体两面的必然性？

忠诚一定有显现吗？一个人的忠诚是有自我觉知的吗？也就是说，有可能一个人忠诚于某个人或者某个他物，但是丝毫不知道自己是忠诚的吗？

如果有一时刻，一个人此时此刻选择偏离她一直以来的选择，这就是背叛本身吗？如果一个人后来又选择了过去的选择呢？如果背叛本身就是一个选择的偏离，那么在时间不可逆的情况下，背叛是一个无法扭转的结果。所以是不是忠诚本身只存在于“完全”和“没有”，两种极端的状态？

忠诚本身有意义吗？它的意义是自发的，有自觉性的；还是它的意义是环境和忠诚的主体的一个综合产物（结果）？

你曾经不止一次的提到过，“忠诚”这个词在你生命里的重要性。然而这两个词，对我来说都仍然是陌生的概念，我有这么多的问题，然而我却没有答案。

就像是这份生命，我看到这么多灿烂的星辰，又有那份烧尽了的灰尘，有时候我知道，有时候我不知道。我有那么多话想说，然而它们除了在我胸中震耳欲聋外，安静的可以降落。

Summerrs

2025年春

How are you?

On a February day in Hainan, I had just lain down on the rattan bed when I heard my mother, Ms. Chen, exclaim "Ah!" from the terrace. Then came the sound of her hurried footsteps as she entered my room and shut the door behind her.

"What happened?" I asked.

"The half-used moxa stick from yesterday—it burned itself to ashes on the balcony," she whispered, handing me two small porcelain bowls, barely cupped in her palms. In the celadon bowls lay a quiet heap of soft gray ash, a tiny mound, so still that even my breath seemed capable of scattering it into the air. "Keep your voice down, or your father will start talking again," she added.

I remembered how she had extinguished the moxa stick the day before, leaving it submerged in a cup of water for half a day. I had even wondered then if it would be too damp to relight the next day.

And yet, later, alone on the balcony, that half-burnt stick had somehow reignited itself. It must have smoldered quietly, a thin wisp of smoke rising in silent defiance. I suddenly recalled the image today and thought of a phrase—

"Dead embers reignite."

And then, I turned the phrase over in my mind, realizing its quiet irony. The words carry two truths at once: "What others perceive" and "What truly is." The embers were never truly dead; what reignites cannot be lifeless. But others believed they were dead—or wished they were. "The past" and "the present"—the past was supposedly dead, yet now it burns, demanding acknowledgment. There is even a tension between "desire" and "reality"—even when the will insists the embers should have gone cold, reality asserts they never truly did. The distinction between dead embers and embers perceived as dead… how fascinating.

And then, I thought of you.

You and I. To me, we are dead embers. To you, we are dead embers too. But I know exactly what kind of embers we are. You, however, do not.

How fascinating.

Before writing this, I rewatched The English Patient—perhaps the fourth or fifth time. It has always been among my top ten films, because of Ralph Fiennes, because of Kristin Scott Thomas… because of Katharine's exquisite letter:

“My darling, I’m waiting for you—how long is a day in the dark, or a week? The fire is gone now, and I’m horribly cold. I really ought to drag myself outside but then there would be the sun… I’m afraid I waste the light on the paintings and on writing these words. We die, we die rich with lovers and tribes, tastes we have swallowed, bodies we have entered and swum up like rivers, fears we have hidden in, like this wretched cave. We are the real countries, not the boundaries drawn on maps with the names of powerful men. I know you will come and carry me out into the palace of winds. That’s all I’ve wanted—to walk in such a place with you, with friends, on earth without maps.”

And that poem, the one Almásy scribbled on the husk of a Christmas cracker:

“Betrayals in war are childlike /compared with our betrayals during peace. /New lovers are nervous and tender, /But smash everything, /For the heart is an organ of fire.”

Yet this time, watching it again, I was stunned to realize—despite having transcribed "For the heart is an organ of fire" over and over, despite knowing every detail of Kristin's wardrobe in the film—I had never truly understood this movie. And looking at all the reviews that praise its love story, I see now that we were all blinded—by the striking elegance of Almásy and Katharine, by their knowledge and passion, by the romance of the desert, the poetry, the intellectual pursuits. We were enthralled by their erudition, their refinement, their detachment from the mundane. Even Geoffrey’s spectacular demise seemed to serve only to intensify the rarity of Almásy and Katharine’s love—to sanctify it, as if love itself must be fragile, doomed to be consumed by war and duty.

And yet, now, in the quiet of the night, as the credits rolled, a thought pressed against my chest: Why do so many call this a love story?

Almásy and Katharine’s attraction was inevitable—deadly in its obviousness. But wasn’t the tragedy already foretold the moment Almásy rejected her with deliberate cruelty? “No, really. There is no need. I should feel obliged.” That should—such a precise admission of restraint, of the distance he was determined to keep.

Katharine, radiant, poised, and razor-sharp, was everything beyond Almásy’s realm of control. She was everything outside his expectations, his carefully maintained world. And he knew that her existence, in his orbit, was ruinous. That is why he fought it. But she, not knowing the depth of her own gravity, misread his resistance, his evasion. What she perceived was frustration, a game, a challenge. What he felt was dread, a knowing terror. She did not know how lethal her presence was to him.

And yet, she did sense his rejection. Her anger, her quiet hurt—it was there in “And that would be unconscionable, I suppose, wouldn’t it?” and “Don’t.” and later, in the way she struck him when she came to him dressed in white. She did not understand the depths of his fear, only the sting of his avoidance.

If stripped of the desert, the war, the poetry—at its core, this is a story of an avoidant attachment and an anxious one entangled in a doomed affair. And yet, they might not have died if Geoffrey had not been a man with his own desperate form of attachment—one that, in silence and surrender, chose mutual destruction rather than acknowledgment. And in his final moment, as he crashed that plane, he did not scream in rage, but in devotion—“I love you. I love you so much.” And Katharine, only then, realized: “He knew. He must have known all the time.”

And so, as the fire burned, as the betrayals unfolded, I ask myself: What is betrayal?

Is it truly the opposite of loyalty? What is loyalty but the persistence of choice? Is it born of will or of circumstance? Is it always a conscious decision? Or do we sometimes serve loyalties we do not even recognize in ourselves?

You once told me how much "loyalty" mattered to you. But for me, it remains a foreign word. I have so many questions and no answers.

Like this life—so full of burning stars, and the ashes of what was. Sometimes, I understand. Sometimes, I do not.

Summerrs

Spring 2025