扫帚把上的沉思

乔纳森•斯威夫特

乔纳森•斯威夫特(1667—1745)，英国18世纪杰出的讽剌文学作家，也是著名的散文家。他在本篇中由扫帚把联想到人生，文笔幽默，发人深省。

请看看这根扫帚把，它现在灰溜溜地躺在偏僻的角落，而以前我曾在树林里碰见过它，那时它风华正茂，汁液充沛，枝叶繁盛。如今它完全变了样，却还有人自作聪明，想靠人类的手工同大自然竞争，拿来一束枯枝捆在它那早已干瘪的身上，结果是枉费心机，不过颠倒了它原来的位置，使它枝干朝地，根梢朝天，成为一株头朝下的树，然后落在干脏活累活的女仆们的手里使用。从此它受命运的摆布，把别人打扫干净，而自己却变得又脏又臭，在女仆们手里折腾多次之后，最后被扔出门外，或者作为引火的柴禾被投进火里。

目睹了这一切，我不禁叹息一番，自言自语道：人不也是一根扫帚把么？当大自然刚把他送到人间时，他是强壮而有力的，精力充沛，头上是满头黑发。如果把人比作一株有理性的植物，那就是枝繁叶茂。但是，没过多久，酒色就如同一把斧子，砍掉了他的青枝绿叶，只留给他一根枯枝。于是他赶紧求助于人工，戴上扑满香粉的假发，并以之为荣。要是我们这把扫帚也这样登场，由于把一些别的树条收集到身上而得意洋洋，其实这些树条上尽是尘土，即使是最 高贵的夫人的房里的尘土，我们一定会笑它是如何虚荣吧！我们就是这种偏心的审判官，偏向于自己的优点、别人的毛病！

或许你会说，一根扫帚把不过象征着一棵头冲下的树而已，那么请问：人又是什么？不也是一个颠倒的动物吗？他的兽性总是骑在理性的背上，他的头去了该脚应去的地方，总是在土里趴着。可是尽管有这么多毛病，他还自命为天下的改革家、除弊者、伸冤者，把手伸进人世间每个藏污纳垢的角落，扫出来一大堆从未暴露过的脏物，把原来干净的地方弄得尘土满天，非但没扫走脏物，还把自己弄得满身污垢。到了晚年，他又变成女人的奴隶，通常是一些最不堪的女人，直到他被折磨得只剩下一根枯枝，于是他也像他的扫帚老弟一样，或者是被扔出门外，或者是被拿来生火，用于温暖别人了。

A Meditation Upon a Broom Stick

Jonathan Swift

This single Stick, which you now behold ingloriously lying in that neglected corner, I once knew in a Flourishing State in A Forest, it was full of Sap, full of Leaves, and full of Boughs; but now, in vain does the busie. Art of Man pretend to Vye with Nature, by tying that wither'd Bundle of Twigs to its sapless Trunk; 'tis now at best but the Reverse of what was, a Tree turn'd upside down, the Branches on the Earth, and the Root in the Air; 'tis now handled by every Dirty Wench, condemn'd to do her Drudgery, and by a Capricious kind of Fate, destin'd to make other Things Clean, and be Nasty it self: At Length, worn to the Stumps in the Service of the Maids, 'tis either thrown out of Doors, or condemn'd to its last use of kindling Fires.

When I beheld this, I sigh'd, and said within myself, Surely Man is a Broom Stick; Nature sent him into the World Strong and Lusty, in a Thriving Condition, wearing his own Hair on his Head, the proper Branches of this Reasoning Vegetable, till the Axe of Intemperance has lopt off his Green Boughs, and left him a wither'd Trunk: He then flies unto Art, and puts on a Peruque, valuing himself upon an Unnatural Bundle of Hairs, all cover'd with Powder that never grew on his Head; but now should this our Broom Stick pretend to enter the Scene, pound of those Birchen Spoils it never bore, and all cover'd with Dust, tho'the Sweepings of the Finest Lady's Chamber, we should be apt to Ridicule and Despise its Vanity, Partial Judges that we are! of our own Excellencies, and other Men's Faults.

But a Broom stick, perhaps you'll say, is an Emblem of a Tree standing on its Head; and pray what is Man, but a Topsyturvy Creature, his Animal Faculties perpetually a Cock Horse and Rational; His Head where his Heels should be; groveling on the Earth, and yet with all his Faults, he sets up to be an universal Reformer and Corrector of Abuses, a Remover of Grievances, rakes into every Slut's Comer of Nature, bringing hidden Corruptions to the Light, and raises a mighty Dust where there was none before, sharing deeply all the while, in the very same Pollutions he pretends to sweep away: His last Days are spent in Slavery to Women, and generally the least deserving; 'till worn to the Stumps, like his Brother Bezom, he's either kickt out of Doors, or made use of to kindle Flames, for others to warm Themselves by.