padma1900 的个人博客

喜爱一些镜头中流水的声音，潺潺河流舒缓而过，之后音乐也从上游流淌下来，两岸皆被浸染透明色彩。

《the hours》里亦有这样场景，伍尔芙口袋中揣着石头，走向河水最深处。也是河水潺源而过，水草悠然飘动。

只是再没有哪部电影将某条河流作为主角，整部电影的镜头似乎都是浸在流水中，河水里的肥美鳟鱼，两岸风光，故事，旁白，音乐甚至布拉德.皮特，都只是衬托，或是背景。

所以，我只当《A River Runs Through It》为人文、风景记录片来看，带有雅克.佩韩洁净的风格。虽然情感也如河水，流过电影，可是一切的视线，都从生命处转移，静静看着米苏拉河从孩童时代奔涌至苍老。

电影从回忆开始，老年的诺曼坐在河边，手轻微颤抖，在鱼线上栓假蝇。之后是一幕一幕似乎是某场记忆的展览。模糊旧照片渐清晰，一切过去随风景穿越时光而来。

其实，面对这部电影，我丧失语言与文字。因为一切都无法比拟影片中的优美以及忧伤。于是，只能寻找些网络上的片段字句，仅为分享。

＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝分割线的舞蹈＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝

以下内容为转载——

＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝分割线的双人舞＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝

原文地址：http://www.culture.zju.edu.cn/new/html/302/304/307/20060614/165028.html

＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝独舞＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝＝

好的片子，总能够让人心驰神往。每一句台词，每一段对话，甚至每一个表演的动作，都能够让你赞叹不已。片子中时常出现了不少经典的美文，尽显Norman作为芝加哥大学文学教授的功力。我尝试着听了其中的两段，通过Google搜索才发现是华兹华斯的诗歌:

Intimation of Immortality

by William Wordsworth

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:  
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,   60
Hath had elsewhere its setting,  
And cometh from afar:  
Not in entire forgetfulness,  
And not in utter nakedness,  
But trailing clouds of glory do we come   65
From God, who is our home:

...
Though nothing can bring back the hour  
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;  
We will grieve not, rather find  
Strength in what remains behind;  185
In the primal sympathy   
Which having been must ever be;  
In the soothing thoughts that spring  
Out of human suffering;  
In the faith that looks through death,  190
In years that bring the philosophic mind.

...
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,  205
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,  
To me the meanest flower that blows can give  
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

好的片子，总能够让人心驰神往。每一句台词，每一段对话，甚至每一个表演的动作，都能够让你赞叹不已。片子中时常出现了不少经典的美文，尽显Norman作为芝加哥大学文学教授的功力。我尝试着听了其中的两段，通过Google搜索才发现是华兹华斯的诗歌:

Intimation of Immortality

by William Wordsworth

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:  
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,   60
Hath had elsewhere its setting,  
And cometh from afar:  
Not in entire forgetfulness,  
And not in utter nakedness,  
But trailing clouds of glory do we come   65
From God, who is our home:

...
Though nothing can bring back the hour  
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;  
We will grieve not, rather find  
Strength in what remains behind;  185
In the primal sympathy   
Which having been must ever be;  
In the soothing thoughts that spring  
Out of human suffering;  
In the faith that looks through death,  190
In years that bring the philosophic mind.

...
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,  205
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,  
To me the meanest flower that blows can give  
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

另外，Norman写给Jessie的信也极其出彩，配合着OST的神秘悠扬风格，让人赞叹不已！

Dear Jessie,   

As the moon lingers a moment over the Bitterroots before its descent into the invisible, my mind is filled with song. I find I am humming softly, not to the music but something else, someplace else-a place remembered. A field of grass where no one seemed to have been, except the deer. And the memory is strengthened by the feeling of you, dancing in my awkward arms.
Norman Maclean

最后，当Maclean家痛失幼子Paul(Brad Pitt主演)之后，在老Maclean牧师作他最后一次布道时，影片再次运用充满文采的台词潜移默化地感染了观众的心:

We can love completely without complete understanding
Each one of us here today will, at one time in our lives, look upon a loved one who is in need and ask the same question. "We are willing to help, Lord, but what, if anything is needed?" For it is true we can seldom help those closest to us. Either we don't konw what part of ourselves to give, or-more oftern than not-the part we have to give is not wanted. And so it is those we live with and should know who elude us. But we can still love them. We can love completely without complete understanding.

部分旁白原文:

A River Runs Through It
Norman Maclean 
  In our family, there was no clear line between religion and fly fishing. We lived at the junction of great trout rivers in western Montana, and our father was a Presbyterian minister and a fly fisherman who tied his own flies and taught others. He told us about Christ's disciples being fishermen, and we were left to assume, as my brother and I did, that all first-class fishermen on the Sea of Galilee were fly fishermen and that John, the favorite, was a dry-fly fisherman.
  It is true that one day a week was given over wholly to religion. On Sunday mornings my brother, Paul, and I went to Sunday school and then to "morning services" to hear our father preach and in the evenings to Christian Endeavor and afterwards to "evening services" to hear our father preach again. In between on Sunday afternoons we had to study The Westminster Shorter Catechism for an hour and then recite before we could walk the hills with him while he unwound between services. But he never asked us more than the first question in the catechism, "What is the chief end of man?" And we answered together so one of us could carry on if the other forgot, "Man's chief end is to glorify God, and to enjoy Him forever." This always seemed to satisfy him, as indeed such a beautiful answer should have, and besides he was anxious to be on the hills where he could restore his soul and be filled again to overflowing for the evening sermon. His chief way of recharging himself was to recite to us from the sermon that was coming, enriched here and there with selections from the most successful passages of his morning sermon.
  Even so, in a typical week of our childhood Paul and I probably received as many hours of instruction in fly fishing as we did in all other spiritual matters.
  After my brother and I became good fishermen, we realized that our father was not a great fly caster, but he was accurate and stylish and wore a glove on his casting hand. As he buttoned his glove in preparation to giving us a lesson, he would say, "It is an art that is performed on a four-count rhythm between ten and two o'clock."

  As a Scot and Presbyterian, my father believed that man by nature was a mess and had fallen from an original state of grace. Somehow, I developed an early notion that he had done this by fallen from a tree. As for my father, I never knew whether he believed God was a mathematician but he certainly believed God could count and that only by picking up God's rhythms were we able to regain power and beauty.
  If our father had had his say, nobody who did not know how to catch a fish would be allowed to disgrace a fish by catching him.
  My father was very sure about certain matters pertaining to the universe. To him, all good things - trout as well as eternal salvation - come by grace and grace comes by art and art does not come easy.
  Undoubtedly, our differences would not have seemed so great if we had not been such a close family. Painted on one side of our Sunday school wall were the words, God Is Love. We always assumed that these three words were spoken directly to the four of us in our family and had no reference to the world outside, which my brother and I soon discovered was full of bastards, the number increasing rapidly the farther one gets from Missoula, Montana.
  We held in common one major theory about street-fighting - if it looks like a fight is coming, get in the first punch. We both thought that most bastards aren't so tough as they talk - even bastards who look as well as talk tough. If suddenly they feel a few teeth loose, they will rub their rubs, look at the blood on their hands, and offer to buy a drink for the house. "But even if they still feel like fighting," as my brother said, "you are one big punch ahead when the fight starts."
  There is just one trouble with this theory - it is only statistically true. Every once in a while you run into some guy who likes to fight as much as you do and is better at it. If you start off by loosening a few of his teeth he may try to kill you.
  It is not in the book, yet it is human enough to spend a moment before casting in trying to imagine what the fish is thinking, even if one of its eggs is as big as its brain and even if, when you swim underwater, it is hard to imagine that a fish has anything to think about. Still, I could never be talked into believing that all a fish knows is hunger and fear. I have tried to feel nothing but hunger and fear and don't see how a fish could ever grow to six inches if that were all he ever felt.
  Below him was the multitudinous river, and, where the rock had parted it around him, big-grained vapor rose. The mini-molecules of water left in the wake of his line made momentary loops of gossamer, disappearing so rapidly in the rising big-grained vapor that they had to be retained in memory to be visualized as loops. The spray emanating from him was finer-grained still and enclosed him in a halo of himself. The halo of himself was always there and always disappearing, as if he were candlelight flickering about three inches from himself. The images of himself and his line kept disappearing into the rising vapors of the river, which continually circles to the tops of the cliffs where, after becoming a wreath in the wind, they became rays of the sun.
  It is a strange and wonderful and embarassing feeling to hold someone in your arms who is trying to detach you from the earth and you aren't good enough to follow her.
  I called her Mo-nah-se-tah, the name of the beautiful daughter of the Cheyenne chief, Little Rock. At first, she didn't particularly care for the name, which means, "the young grass that shoots in the spring," but after I explained to her that Mo-nah-se-tah was supposed to have had an illegitimate son by General George Armstrong Custer she took to the name like a duck to water.
  One reason Paul caught more fish than anyone else was that he had his flies in the water more than anyone else. "Brother," he would say, "there are no flying fish in Montana. Out here, you can't catch fish with your flies in the air."
  Something within fishermen tries to make fishing into a world perfect and apart - I don't know what it is or where, because sometimes it is in my arms and sometimes in my throat and sometimes nowhere in particular except somewhere deep. Many of us probably would be better fishermen if we did not spend so much time watching and waiting for the world to become perfect.
  The hardest thing usually to leave behind can loosely be called the conscience.
  One of life's quiet excitements is to stand somewhat apart from yourself and watch yourself softly becoming the author of something beautiful, even if it is only a floating ash.
  Poets talk about "spots of time," but it is really fishermen who experience eternity compressed into a moment. No one can tell what a spot of time is until suddenly the whole world is a fish and the fish is gone. I shall remember that son of a bitch forever.
  If you have never seen a bear go over the mountains, you have never seen the job reduced to its essentials. Of course, deer are faster, but not going straight uphill. Not even elk have the power in their hindquarters. Deer and elk zagging and switchback and stop and pose while really catching their breath. The bear leaves the earth like a bolt of lightning retrieving itself and making its thunder backwards.
  I said, "I know he doesn't like to fish. He just likes to tell women he likes to fish. It does something for him and the women. And for the fish too," I added. "It makes them all feel better."
  I sat there and forgot and forgot, until what remained was the river that went by and I who watched. On the river the heat mirages danced with each other and then they danced through each other and then they joined hands and danced around each other. Eventually the watcher joined the river, and there was only one of us. I believe it was the river.
  As the heat mirages on the river in front of me danced with and through each other, I could feel patterns from my own life joining with them. It was here, while waiting for my brother, that I started this story, although, of course, at the time I did not know that stories of life are often more like rivers than books. But I knew a story had begun, perhaps long ago near the sound of water. And I sensed that ahead I would meet something that would never erode so there would be a sharp turn, deep circles, a deposit, and quietness.
  You have never really seen an ass until you have seen two sunburned asses on a sandbar in the middle of a river. Nearly all the rest of the body seems to have evaporated. The body is a large red ass about to blister, with hair on one end of it for a head and feet attached to the other end for legs.
  "Help is giving part of yourself to somebody who comes to accept it willing and needs it badly.
  "So it is that we can seldom help anybody. Either we don't know what part to give or maybe we don't like to give any part of ourselves. Then, more often than not, the part that is needed is not wanted. And even more often, we do not have the part that is needed. It is like the auto-supply shop over town where they always say, 'Sorry, we are just out of that part.'"
  I told him, "You make it too tough. Help doesn't have to be anything that big."
  He asked me, "Do you think your mother helps him by buttering his roll?"
  "She might," I told him. "In fact, yes, I think she does."
  "Tell me, why is it that people who want help do better without it - at least, no worse. Actually, that's what it is, no worse. They take all the help they can get, and are just the same as they always have been."
  To my father, the highest commandment was to do whatever his sons wanted him to do, especially if it meant to go fishing.
  Big clumsy flies bumped into my face, swarmed on my nose and wiggled in my underwear. Blundering and soft-bellied, they had been bornbefore they had brains. They had spent a year under water on legs, had crawled out on a rock, had become flies and copulated with the ninth and tenth segments of their abdomens, and then had died as the first light wind blew them into the water where the fish circled excitedly. They were a fish's dream come true - stupid, succulent, and exhausted from copulation. Still, it would be hard to know what gigantic portion of human life is spent in this same ratio of years under water on legs to one premature exhausted moment on wings.
  I took one look at it [fly] and felt perfect. My wife, my mother-in-law, and my sister-in-law, each in her somewhat obscure style, had recently redeclared their love for me. I, in my somewhat obscure style, had returned their love. I might never see my brother-in-law again. My mother had found my father's old tackle and once more he was fishing with us. My brother was taking tender care of me, and not catching any fish. I was about to make a killing.
  "Help is giving part of yourself to somebody who comes to accept it willingly and needs it badly."
  A fisherman, though, takes a hangover as a matter of course - after a couple of hours of fishing, it goes away, all except the dehydration, but then he is standing all day in water.
 When I was young, a teacher had forbidden me to say "more perfect" because she said if a thing is perfect it can't be more so. But by now I had seen enough of life to have regained my confidence in it.
  "All there is to thinking is seeing something noticeable which makes you see something you weren't noticing which makes you see something that isn't even visible."
  On the Big Blackfoot River above the mouth of Belmont Creek the banks are fringed by large Ponderosa pines. In the slanting sun of late afternoon the shadows of great branches reached from across the river, and the trees took the river in their arms. The shadows continued up the bank, until they included us.
  "... but you can love completely without complete understanding."
  Now nearly all those I loved and did not understand when I was young are dead, but I still reach out to them.
  Of course, now I am too old to be much of a fisherman, and now of course I usually fish the big waters alone, although some friends think I shouldn't. Like many fly fishermen in western Montana where the summer days are almost Arctic in length, I often do not start fishing until the cool of the evening. Then in the Arctic half-light of the canyon, all existence fades to a being with my soul and memories and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a four-count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise.
  Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.
  I am haunted by waters.

原文地址：http://fpn.spaces.live.com/blog/cns!9AD3457B0F4F18EC!865.entry

～～～～～～～流水分割～～～～～～～

Eventually, all things merge into one... and a river runs though it.

The river was cut by the world’s great flo...and runs ower rocks from the basement of time on some of the rocks are timeless raindrops.

Under the rocks are the words.

And some of the words are theirs.

I an haunted by water.


end。。。

第一季．

1.
女人没有对抗寂寞的天分。

嘉措。这是我写给你的第一句话。想了很久，才打算落笔。然后发现，自己已经生疏的墨水的味道。淡的，远的。然而，熟悉的。

想一想，这是你离开的第七天。有人说，7是劫数，9是轮回。是不是我该等到轮回那一刻？
可是，我等不及。

嘉措。你的名字就在唇齿间，我小心地，不说出来，真是害怕她会变为声音，散在空气里。所以，我只想你的名字。在心上，流淌成河。

此刻，炎夏。

你明白的，我生活里的仓促和不安定。我没有大把的时间或者开阔的空间，细细的，慢慢的，认真的，把你的每个细节都想清楚，从柔软略薄的发，从光洁如锦缎的肌肤。。以及，你笑的时候，仿佛有些不屑，心底却又无比在乎的小虚伪表情。。嘉措，我真是想，整天整天，什么也不做。。只是想着。。嘉措。。我的嘉措。。

仿佛在身边。

现在，凌晨三点。我还在办公室。空调关掉了，潮湿的汗粘住头发。但是我开了窗户。因为窗外那棵刺槐长得真好，在夜色里，在黎明快到来的夜色里，诡异地香着。我怎么能想到，你说你最喜欢的花是刺槐花。最喜欢的蜜是槐花蜜。。

我真没想到。

所以，你喜欢我的办公室。总是在夜晚跑来。开窗户，闭上眼睛，感觉刺槐的香。。花落尽了，你说还有香。。魂魄一般。。

凌晨四点钟，会有人做完节目下楼。三点五十分左右，接瑞脑消金兽班的人也会来。你看，嘉措，留给我写信的时间并不长。如若被人问起，怎么这么晚还不回去，我总不能说，我是在给我的嘉措写信。

谁会了解呢？没有人。

没有人了解你为什么讨厌我说：我的嘉措。

你不愿意是我的。任何人的，你都不愿。甚至，就连你是否属于你自己，你也要考虑一下。嘉措，只有我明白。你是那样爱那个叫嘉措的女子。甚之于我。你一直考虑嘉措的归属问题。不愿就这样轻易把自己交出去。当然，也包括交给我。你不放心。

我之前不会取笑那些自认知己的人们。他们以为看了相同的书，看了相同的电影，听过相同的句子，不经意说起来，会很惊愕：啊，我也是！我也喜欢！

呵呵，真可笑，不是麽，以为这样就是知己。。。

因为，我曾经也这样以为。可是，嘉措。我认得了你。你让我对这两个字诚惶诚恐起来。那是在你心里比爱情，比生命甚至信仰更神圣的东西。

彼此知己的人，才能找到宿命里真正的归属。这也是你总在犹豫的原因。我们以为我们是。可惜，事实证明。没有人可以。

嘉措。我以为很多事都是错误。比方说，我第一次见你，就以为，我们心里必定有某些情绪相似。连我们颈上戴的小小金制的弥勒佛像，也是一样。不同的，我是用细银链子系住。你的，只是简单红绳。

你永远想的比我要多。

心思细密的嘉措。装着无所谓的嘉措。你骗到一切人。却把那份寂寞泄露给我。

嘉措，你我都是那样渴念幸福的人。所以，第一眼，你微微嘲弄的一笑，也只有我知道，某种讯息。

可是，这样依然不是知己。
可是，是爱情。

你发卷子给我，提醒我写名字。。。之后念出那个字。

锦。

我始终认为这是美好的字。锦瑟的锦。

我的名字经你念出。她自己。亦觉得幸运。这幸运，延续长远。

考得很好。走出教室，我回头看你，你假装别过眼神，呵呵，嘉措。
就等在你学校门口。不时有同事考完出来，问我考得怎样。我只一笑，说，不知道啊。没感觉。
再问我在做什么。我说，等人。

等你的，嘉措。等到校园里人都散尽，你自绚烂黄昏中走来，黑色T恤，头发只随意扎起。尖下巴，嘴角倔强地略微有些翘，似笑非笑，叫人捉摸不透的疏远和不屑。可是，嘉措，你笑起来，你的笑容如花朵盛放时，就成了最纯真洁净孩童。眼睛里，全是闪亮和喜悦。

你见我在等你。

依然是矜持防备的。

但是，我们这样自然简单一起走，没有问彼此目的地。很少讲话。偶尔遇到彼此眼神，一笑而已。

嘉措。只来得及回忆到此。我听到走廊上有脚步声，该是同事来接瑞脑消金兽班。你常说我们的工作辛苦。凌晨是清醒的人最寂寞的时候，偏偏这时，对着话筒，说话，播放音乐给更加寂寞的人听。然后，天空慢慢亮起来。。。。


锦。
某夏。