加载中…花落的声音--作者：张爱玲
(2025-01-12 18:21:03)
那一刻的夜真静啊，静得听自己的呼吸犹如倾听涨落的潮汐。整个人都被花落的声音吊在半空，尖着耳朵，听得心里一惊一惊的，像听一个正在酝酿中的阴谋诡计。
早晨，满桌的落花静卧在那里，安然而恬静。让人怎么也无法相信，它曾经历了那样一个惊心动魄的夜晚。
玫瑰花瓣即使落了，仍是活鲜鲜的，依然有一种脂的质感，缎的光泽和温暖。我根本不相信这是花的尸体，总是不让母亲收拾干净。看着它们脱离枝头的拥挤，自由舒展地躺在那里，似乎比簇拥在枝头更有一种遗世独立的美丽。
这个世界，每天似乎都能听到花落的声音。像樱、梨、桃这样轻柔飘逸的花，我从不将它们的谢落看作一种死亡。它们只是在风的轻唤声中，觉悟到自己曾经是有翅膀的天使，它们便试着挣脱枝头，试着飞，轻轻地就飞了出去……
有一种花是令我害怕的。它不问青红皂白，没有任何预兆，在猝不及防间整朵整朵任性地鲁莽地不负责任地骨碌碌地就滚了下来，真让人心惊肉跳。
曾经养过一盆茶花，就是这样触目惊心的死法。我大骇，从此怕茶花。怕它的极端与刚烈，还有那种自杀式的悲壮。不知那么温和淡定的茶树，怎会开出如此惨烈的花。
只有乡间那种小雏菊，开得不事张扬，谢得也含蓄无声。它的凋谢不是风暴，说来就来，它只是依然安静温暖地依偎在花托上，一点点地消瘦，一点点地憔悴，然后不露痕迹地在冬的萧瑟里，和整个季节一起老去。
I have roses at home. Not long ago, in the dead of night,
I heard the sound of petals falling. Initially, it was a hesitant
"plop," reminiscent of a single raindrop striking the table. Soon
after, a continuous series of "plops" followed, as if countless
butterflies were descending from the sky one by one.
The night was so still that I could hear my own
breathing, like the rhythmic ebb and flow of the tide. The sound of
the falling petals held me in suspense, and I listened intently,
each time startled, as if I were overhearing a secret being
whispered. In the morning, the
fallen petals lay quietly on the table, serene and peaceful. It was
hard to imagine they had experienced such an intense night. Even in
their fallen state, the rose petals retained their freshness, with
the texture of velvet, the luster of satin, and the warmth of skin.
I found it difficult to believe they were the remnants of flowers
and often prevented my mother from clearing them away. Watching
them lie there, free from the congestion on the branches, seemed
more beautiful to me than when they were crowded together, as if
they had achieved a serene independence from the
world. In this world, it
seems we can hear the sound of petals falling every day. For
flowers like cherry blossoms, pear blossoms, and peach blossoms,
which are so light and graceful, I never consider their falling as
a form of death. Instead, they seem to realize, in the gentle call
of the wind, that they once had wings, and they attempt to break
free from the branches, gently floating away.
There is
one type of flower that I fear. It falls without warning, in a
chaotic and reckless manner, as if committing suicide, which is
truly terrifying. I once had a pot of camellia, and it died in such
a shocking way. The experience left me with a lasting fear of
camellias. I am afraid of their extremity and boldness, as well as
their tragic beauty, which seems suicidal. I cannot understand how
such a gentle and calm camellia tree could produce such tragic
blooms.
Only the small daisies in the countryside bloom modestly and fade
away silently. Their withering is not sudden but gradual. They lie
quietly and warmly on their stalks, gradually becoming thinner and
more haggard, eventually disappearing without a trace in the
bleakness of winter, growing old along with the entire
season.
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