高级英语（张汉熙版）第二册学习笔记（原文及全文翻译）——9 - The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas（从奥米勒斯城出走的人）
Unit 9 - The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas
The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas
Ursula Le Guin
WITH a clamor of bells that set the swallows soaring, the Festival of Summer came to the city Omelas, bright-towered by the sea.
The rigging of the boats in harbor sparkled with flags.
In the streets between houses with red roofs and painted walls, between old moss-grown gardens and under avenues of trees, past great parks and public buildings, processions moved.
Some were decorous: old people in long stiff robes of mauve and grey, grave master workmen, quiet, merry women carrying their babies and chatting as they walked.
In other streets the music beat faster, a shimmering of gong and tambourine, and the people went dancing, the procession was a dance.
Children dodged in and out, their high calls rising like the swallows' crossing flights over the music and the singing.
All the processions wound towards the north side of the city, where on the great water-meadow called the Green Fields boys and girls, naked in the bright air, with mud-stained feet and ankles and long, lithe arms, exercised their restive horses before the race.
The horses wore no gear at all but a halter without bit.
Their manes were braided with streamers of silver, gold, and green.
They flared their nostrils and pranced and boasted to one another; they were vastly excited, the horse being the only animal who has adopted our ceremonies as his own.
Far off to the north and west the mountains stood up half encircling Omelas on her bay.
The air of morning was so clear that the snow still crowning the Eighteen Peaks burned with white-gold fire across the miles of sunlit air, under the dark blue of the sky.
There was just enough wind to make the banners that marked the race course snap and flutter now and then.
In the silence of the broad green meadows one could hear the music winding through the city streets, farther and nearer and ever approaching, a cheerful faint sweetness of the air that from time to time trembled and gathered together and broke out into the great joyous clanging of the bells.
Joyous! How is one to tell about joy? How describe the citizens of Omelas?
They were not simple folk, you see, though they were happy. But we do not say the words of cheer much any more.
All smiles have become archaic. Given a description such as this one tends to make certain assumptions.
Given a description such as this one tends to look next for the King, mounted on a splendid stallion and surrounded by his noble knights, or perhaps in a golden litter borne by great-muscled slaves.
But there was no king. They did not use swords, or keep slaves. They were not barbarians.
I do not know the rules and laws of their society, but I suspect that they were singularly few.
As they did without monarchy and slavery, so they also got on without the stock exchange, the advertisement, the secret police, and the bomb.
Yet I repeat that these were not simple folk, not dulcet shepherds, noble savages, bland utopians.
They were not less complex than us.
The trouble is that we have a bad habit, encouraged by pedants and sophisticates, of considering happiness as something rather stupid.
Only pain is intellectual, only evil interesting.
This is the treason of the artist: a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the terrible boredom of pain.
If you can't lick 'em, join 'em. If it hurts, repeat it. But to praise despair is to condemn you about the people of Omelas?
They were not naive and happy children-though their children were, in fact, happy.
They were mature, intelligent, passionate adults whose delight, to embrace violence is to lose hold of everything else.
We have almost lost hold, we can no longer describe a happy man, nor make any celebration of joy. How can I tell lives were not wretched? miracle! but I wish I could describe it better. I wish I could convince you.
Omelas sounds in my words like a city-in a fairy tale, long ago and far away, once upon a time. Perhaps it would be best if you imagined it as your own fancy bids, assuming it will rise to the occasion, for certainly I cannot suit you all.
For instance, how about technology?
I think that there would be no oars or helicopters in and above the streets; this follows from the fact that the people of Omelas are happy people.
Happiness is based on a just discrimination of what is necessary, what is neither necessary nor destructive, and what is destructive.
In the middle category, however—that of the unnecessary but un-destructive, that of comfort, luxury, exuberance, etc. they could perfectly well have central heating, subway trains, washing machines, and all kinds of marvelous devices not yet invented here, floating light-sources, fuel-less power, a cure for the common cold.
Or they could have none of that: it doesn't matter.
As you like it. One thing I know there is none of in Omelas is guilt. But what else should there be?
I thought at first there were no drugs, but that is puritanical.
For those who like it, the faint insistent sweetness of drooz may perfume the ways of the city, drooz which first brings a great lightness and brilliance to the mind and limbs, and then after some hours a dreamy languor, and wonderful visions at last of the very arcana and inmost secrets of the Universe, as well as ex-citing the pleasure of sex beyond all belief; and it is not habit-forming.
For more modest tastes I think there ought to be beer. What else, what else belongs in the joyous city? The sense of victory, surely, the celebration of courage.
But as we did without clergy, let us do without soldiers. The joy built upon successful slaughter is not the right kind of joy: it will not do; it is fearful and it is trivial.
A bound-less and generous contentment, a magnanimous triumph felt not against some outer enemy but in communion with the finest and fairest in the souls of all men everywhere and the splendor of the world's summer: this is what swells the hearts of the people of Omelas, and the victory they celebrate is that of life.
I really don't think many of them need to take drooz.
Most of the processions have reached the Green Fields by now. A marvelous smell of cooking goes forth from the red and blue tents of the provisioners.
The faces of small children are amiably sticky; in the benign grey beard of a man a couple of crumbs of rich pastry are entangled.
The youths and girls have mounted their horses and are beginning to group around the starting line of the course.
An old woman, small, fat, and laughing, is passing out flowers from a basket, and tall young men wear her flowers in their shining hair.
A child of nine or ten sits at the edge of the crowd, alone, playing on a wooden flute.
People pause to listen, and they smile, but they do not speak to him, for he never ceases playing and never sees them, his dark eyes wholly rapt in the sweet, thin magic of the tune.
He finishes, and slowly lowers his hands holding the wooden flute.
As if that little private silence were the signal, all at once a trumpet sounds from the pavilion near the starting line: imperious, melancholy, piercing.
The horses rear on their slender legs, and some of them neigh in answer.
Sober-faced, the young riders stroke the horses' necks and soothe them, whispering, Quiet, quiet, there my beauty, my hope They begin to form in rank along the starting line.
The crowds along the racecourse are like a field of grass and flowers in the wind. The Festival of Summer has begun.
Do you believe? Do you accept the festival, the city, the joy? No? Then let me describe one more thing.
In a basement under one of the beautiful public buildings of Omelas, or perhaps in the cellar of one of its spacious private homes, there is a room.
It has one locked door, and no window. A little light seeps in dustily between cracks in the boards, secondhand from a cobwebbed window somewhere across the cellar.
In one corner of the little room a couple of mops, with stiff, clotted, foul-smelling heads, stand near a rusty bucket.
The floor is dirt, a little damp to the touch, as cellar dirt usually is.
The room is about three paces long and two wide: a mere broom closet or disused tool room. In the room a child is sitting. It could be a boy or a girl.
It looks about six, but actually is nearly ten. It is feeble-minded. Perhaps it was born defective, or perhaps it has become imbecile through fear, malnutrition, and neglect.
It picks its nose and occasionally fumbles vaguely with its toes or genitals, as it sits hunched in the corner farthest from the bucket and the two mops.
It is afraid of the mops. It finds them horrible. It shuts its eyes, but it knows the mops are still standing there; and the door is locked; and nobody will come.
The door is always locked; and nobody ever comes, except that sometimes-the child has no understanding of time or interval-sometimes the door rattles terribly and opens, and a person, or several people, are there.
One of them may come in and kick the child to make it stand up, The others never come close, but peer in at it with frightened, disgusted eyes.
The food bowl and the water jug are hastily filled, the door is locked, the eyes disappear.
The people at the door never say anything, but the child, who has not always lived in the tool room, and can remember sunlight and its mother's voice, sometimes speaks.
I will be good, it says. Please let me out. I will be good! They never answer.
The child used to scream for help at night, and cry a good deal, but now it only makes a kind of whining, eh-haa, eh-haa, and it speaks less and less often.
It is so thin there are no calves to its legs; its belly protrudes; it lives on a half-bowl of corn meal and grease a day.
It is naked. Its buttocks and thighs are a mass of festered sores, as it sits in its own excrement continually.
They all know it is there, all the people of Omelas. Some of them have come to see it, others are content merely to know it is there.
They all know that it has to be there. Some of them understand why, and some do not, but they all understand that their happiness, the beauty of their city, the tenderness of their friendships, the health of their children, the wisdom of their scholars, the skill of their makers, even the abundance of their harvest and the kindly weathers of their skies, depend wholly on this child's abominable misery.
This is usually explained to children when they are between eight and twelve, whenever they seem capable of understanding; and most of those who come to see the child are young people, though often enough an adult comes, or comes back, to see the child.
No matter how well the matter has been explained to them, these young spectators are always shocked and sickened at the sight.
They feel disgust, which they had thought themselves superior to. They feel anger, outrage, impotence, despite all the explanations.
They would like to do something for the child. But there is nothing they can do.
If the child were brought up into the sunlight out of the vile place, if it were cleaned and fed and comforted, that would be a good thing, indeed; but if it were done, in that day and hour all the prosperity and beauty and delight of Omelas would wither and be destroyed.
Those are the terms. To exchange all the goodness and grace of every life in Omelas for that single, small improvement: to throw away the happiness of thousands for the chance of the happiness of one: that would be to let guilt within the walls indeed.
The terms are strict and absolute; there may not even be a kind word spoken to the child.
Often the young people go home in tears, or in a tearless rage, when they have seen the child and faced this terrible paradox.
They may brood over it for weeks or years. But as time goes on they begin to realize that even if the child could be released, it would not get much good of its freedom: a little vague pleasure of warmth and food, no doubt, but little more. It is too degraded and imbecile to know any real joy.
It has been afraid too long ever to be free of fear.
Its habits are too uncouth for it to respond to humane treatment.
Indeed, after so long it would probably be wretched without walls about it to protect it, and darkness for its eyes, and its own excrement to sit in.
Their tears at the bitter injustice dry when they begin to perceive the terrible justice of reality, and to accept it.
Yet it is their tears and anger, the trying of their generosity and the acceptance of their helplessness, which are perhaps the true source of the splendor of their lives.
Theirs is no vapid, irresponsible happiness. They know that they, like the child, are not free.
They know compassion.
It is the existence of the child, and their knowledge of its existence, that makes possible the nobility of their architecture, the poignancy of their music, the profundity of their science.
It is because of the child that they are so gentle with children.
They know that if the wretched one were not there sniveling in the dark, the other one, the flute-player, could make no joyful music as the young riders line up in their beauty for the race in the sunlight of the first morning of summer.
Now do you believe in them? Are they not more credible? But there is one more thing to tell, and this is quite incredible.
At times one of the adolescent girls or boys who go to see the child does not go home to weep or rage, does not, in fact, go home at all.
Sometimes also a man or woman much older falls silent for a day or two, and then leaves home.
These people go out into the street, and walk down the street alone. They keep walking, and walk straight out of the city of Omelas, through the beautiful gates.
They keep walking across the farmlands of Omelas. Each one goes alone, youth or girl, man or woman.
Night falls; the traveler must pass down village streets, between the houses with yellow-lit windows, and on out into the darkness of the fields.
Each alone, they go west or north, towards the mountains. They go on. They leave Omelas, they walk ahead into the darkness, and they do not come back.
The place they go towards is a place even less imaginable to most of us than the city of happiness. I cannot describe it at all.
It is possible that it does not exist. But they seem to know where they are going, the ones who walk away from Omelas.
(from The Norton Anthology of Short Fiction) "
参考译文——从奥米勒斯城出走的人
从奥米勒斯城出走的人
厄修拉·勒古恩
随着一阵响彻云霄的钟声的敲响，一群燕子惊得展翅高翔，白塔映日的海滨城市奥米勒斯迎来了她的夏庆节。
港湾里停泊的船只的缆索上都飘扬着鲜艳夺目的彩旗。
市区的大街小巷上，一支支游行队伍穿过街道两旁那一排排红顶彩漆墙面的房屋，穿过一座座长满青苔的古老庭园，走过一条条林荫大道，一座座公园和公共建筑，迤逦而行。
游行队伍有的显得十分文雅庄重，其参加者或是一些身着紫衣灰袍的老者，或是一些沉郁肃穆的工人师傅，或是一些文文静静、欢欢喜喜的妇女，她们抱着孩子，边走边聊天。
另外一些游行队伍的情形却迥然不同：那儿奏着欢快的音乐，锣鼓喧天，游行的人们一路上载歌载舞。
成群的小孩在队伍中兴高采烈地穿来穿去，他们的欢叫声像高翔于空中的燕子的鸣叫声一样，盖过游行队伍的鼓乐声和歌唱声。
所有游行队伍都沿着蜿蜒曲折的街道迤逦向北行进，来到一个称作绿野的大草坪上。草坪上早有一些光着身子、脚踝沾满泥巴、手臂长大而灵活的青年男女在那儿对他们的劣马进行赛前训练。
那些马都没有上鞍具，只套了一根不带嚼子的缰绳。
马的鬃毛上扎着一些银色、金色和绿色饰带。
那些马都扬着鼻子，欢腾跳跃相互炫耀；它们都兴奋异常，因为马是唯一将人的喜庆活动看作自己的喜庆活动的动物。
城外较远处，环绕奥米勒斯西面和北面的是一道半圆形的山脉。
早晨的天空晴明如镜，湛蓝的天幕下积雪未化的十八座峰顶上，白雪映着阳光，犹如燃烧的火焰，发出冲天的金光。
赛马跑道上插着的彩旗在微风吹拂下呼啦啦地飘摆。
置身于一片寂静的大草坪上，人们就可以听到城区街道上的鼓乐声由远及近，犹如阵阵醉人的香风迎面扑来。鼓乐声时而微弱下去，时而响亮起来，直至最后融入一片欢乐喧闹的钟声之中。
欢乐！究竟怎样才叫欢乐？该怎样描述奥米勒斯城的市民的欢乐情形呢？
说起来，他们并不是一些头脑简单的人，尽管他们过得很快活。
人们不再把快乐一类的字眼挂在嘴边上了，因为快乐的欢笑也已变成了过时的时尚。
听到这样的描述，人们可能会作出一些想当然的推断；听到这样的描述，人们也许就会意想到那君临天下的国王，骑在一匹高头大马上，身边簇拥着一群威武的骑士，或是踞坐在一乘由一队健壮如牛的奴隶抬着的金轿上。
然而，奥米勒斯城并没有国王。奥米勒斯人不用剑，也不养奴隶。他们并不是化外的野蛮人。
我不知道他们的社会有些什么条令和法规，但我猜想他们的条规一定很少。
他们的社会既不存在君主制和奴隶制，同样也没有股票交易，没有商业广告，没有秘密警察，没有原子弹。
不过，我再次说明，这些人并不是头脑简单的原始人，不是温厚善良的牧羊人，不是出身高贵的野蛮人，也不是温文有礼的乌托邦主义者。
他们的头脑并不比我们的简单。
我们的社会的弊病在于，由于一些卖弄学问的人和深谙世故的人的推波助澜，我们养成了一种恶习，认为欢乐是一种无聊乏味的东西，
只有痛苦才能启迪人的智慧，
只有邪恶才能激发人的兴趣。拒绝承认邪恶的平淡无奇和痛苦的枯燥无味性是艺术家的负义失职。
倘若你无法战胜这些，不如干脆与之同流合污；倘若你受到打击觉得痛苦，不如重施一次打击，以减轻痛苦。
他们是成熟的、智慧的、充满激情的成年人，而且过着不错的生活。啊，真是奇迹!
我们已几乎失去一切，再也不知如何去描述一个快乐的人了，也无法举行什么快乐的活动。
不过，我真希望把这一切描写得更好！我怎样才能对你们讲清奥米勒斯人的快乐情形呢?我真希望你们人人都能信服。
叫我说来，奥米勒斯城就似乎是很久很久以前存在于童话世界的某个遥远地方的一座城市。倘若读者有足够的想象力的话，最好还是自己去想象奥米勒斯城的情形吧。
因为让我一个人来描述，肯定是难合所有读者的口味。
比如，奥米勒斯城的科技发展状况如何?
我认为那儿的街道上不会有汽车奔驰，空中不会有飞机盘旋。其依据是这样的事实：奥米勒斯人民是快乐幸福的人民。
快乐幸福的基础是能分辨什么是生活必需之物，什么是既不必需又无危害之物，以及什么是有害之物。
奥米勒斯人自然不会要汽车、飞机等有害之物。不过，在第二类物品中——那些虽不必需但却无害的物品，即那些给人带来舒适享受的奢侈品中，他们却完全可能拥有中央空调、地铁火车、洗衣机以及其他各种各样尚未发明出来的东西，如流动光源、无燃料动力、治疗伤风感冒的秘方等等。
也许他们根本没有这些玩意，那也无关紧要。就由你自己去想象吧。
有一样东西我确知是奥米勒斯城所没有的，那就是罪恶。除此以外还有些什么呢?
我想，首先是他们没有毒品，但那样他们的生活又显得太像苦行僧了。
如果人们喜欢的话，城区的街道上也可以闻到一种称作"德鲁斯"的麻醉药品散发出的清淡而沁人心脾的香味。服了这种麻醉品后最初的反应是四肢变得十分轻灵，头脑变得十分灵活;
过几个小时以后，便昏昏沉沉地进入一种梦境，并产生各种各样奇妙的幻觉，使人得以窥视宇宙间最玄妙、隐藏最深的奥秘;
另外，它还能极大的增强性交的快感。
除此以外，还有什么，还有什么属于这座快乐的城市所有呢？胜利的荣誉感，当然还有尚武精神。
但既然我们已经排除了教士，我们也理应排除武士。建筑在争斗拼杀的成功之上的欢乐不是正当的欢乐。那种欢乐是要不得的，是可怕的，也是不值得的。
使奥米勒斯人心中充满欢乐和自豪的是一种巨大无边的满足感，是一种巨大的胜利的喜悦，但这胜利不是指击败外敌的胜利，
而是指自己心灵上与一切美好的心灵以及光辉灿烂的自然世界产生共鸣的胜利。他们所庆祝的胜利是人生的胜利。
说实话，我觉得没有多少奥米勒斯人有服食"德鲁斯"的必要。
大多数游行队伍此时都已到达绿野大草坪。炊事队的红蓝双色帐篷里散发出美妙的食品香味。
一些小孩子的天真可爱的脸蛋上都因吃甜食弄得粘糊糊的，还有一位慈眉善目的老人的灰白胡子上也粘着几片奶油蛋糕碎屑。
参加赛马的青年男女骑手都已骑马来到起跑线上等候着。
一位胖胖的小个子老妪提着一篮子鲜花微笑着向他们发花，高高大大的青年男子都接过她的花插在自己油光发亮的头发上。
一个大约九到十岁的小孩独自坐在边上吹奏一支木笛。
人们都停下其他的活动，微笑着听他吹奏，但都不同他说话，因为他一直不停地吹，从不抬头望他们一眼，他的一双乌黑的眼睛全神贯注于那美妙而动人的乐曲上。
吹奏完毕，他徐徐地放下握笛子的双手。
笛声一停，场上紧接着出现一阵寂静，这似乎成了一个信号，片刻寂静之后，立刻便听到起跑线附近的一个亭子里响起了一阵威严、低沉、尖锐的号声。
那些在等候的马一听号声，便人立而起，有的还发出嘶叫声。
那些青年骑手们此时一本正经地抚摸着马颈，轻声细语地安慰道：安静点，安静点，我的美人儿，我的希望…他们开始在起跑线上列队。
聚集在赛马跑道沿线的人群东倒西歪，宛如原野上的一片花草迎风起伏着。夏庆节正式开始了。
你相信了吗？上面描述的这种节庆，这个城市以及欢乐景象，你都觉得可信了吗？不可信？那么，请让我再讲述一件事情吧。
在奥米勒斯城某幢漂亮的公共建筑下面的地下室里，也许是在一所宽敞的私宅的地窖里，有一个房间。
这房间有个上了锁的门，但没有窗户。一丝充满尘埃的光线从有隙缝的板墙里透过来。
这光线间接来自地窖某处一个结满蛛网的窗户。小房间的一个墙角，靠近一个生锈的水桶。
地是泥土地，碰上去有点潮湿，地窖的泥土地都这样。
房间大约三步长，两步宽，只是一个放扫帚的小间，或是久已不用的工具间。小间里坐着一个小孩，可能是个男孩，也可能是个女孩。
他（她）看上去六岁左右，但实际上已近十岁。他（她）是低能儿。也许他（她）生来就是低能，也许是由于恐惧，营养不良和无人照管才变成低能。
他（她）弓着背，坐在离水桶和两把拖把最远的一个角落里，抠抠鼻子，偶尔漫不经心的摸摸自己的脚趾或者生殖器。
他（她）怕这拖把。他（她）觉得这些拖把很可怕。他（她）闭上眼睛，但他（她）知道拖把还立在那儿，门还是锁着，而且没有人会来。
门总是锁着的，从来没有人来过。除了有时候一一这孩子没有时间概念，也不知时间间隔是什么，有时候门嘎嘎直响。然后门开了，门口站着一个人或几个人。
他们中有一个可能进屋，踢踢这孩子让他（她）站起来。其他的人从来不走近，只是用恐惧、厌恶的眼睛往里瞧，看着他（她）。
盛食物的碗和盛水的钵被匆匆填满，然后门给锁上，眼睛消失了。
站在门口的人从来不说话，但这小孩并不是生来就住在这工具间的，他（她）还能记得阳光和母亲的声音，有时候张口说话。
我一定不淘气，他（她）说道。请放我出去。我一定好好的，不淘气！他们从不回答。
孩子过去晚上总是尖声呼救，大声地哭，而且哭很久。但现在只发出一种哎——啊，哎——啊的哀鸣声，话也说得越来越少了。
他（她）瘦极了，瘦到腿肚子都没有，肚子却鼓着，一天就靠半碗玉米粉和一点动物油维持生命。
他（她）赤身裸体，臀部和股部是一大串化脓的疮，因为他（她）老坐在自己的屎尿里。
所有的奥米勒斯人都知道他（她）在那儿。有些人还去看过他（她），还有些人则觉得没必要亲自去看，知道他（她）在那儿就够了。
大家都明白他（她）必须呆在那儿。至于他（她）为什么必须呆在那儿，这原因就只有一部分才明白，有些人并不知晓。
但所有的人都清楚一个道理：他们的幸福生活，他们城市的美景，他们之间的亲爱和睦的关系，他们的孩子的健康成长，他们的学者们的智慧，他们的工人的技艺，甚至连他们那片天地里的风调雨顺、五谷丰登的繁荣景象，这一切全都有赖于那孩子所受的苦难。
奥米勒斯人等他们的孩子长到八至十二岁，能懂事明理的时候便把这一道理讲给他们听。
去地窖里看那孩子的多半是青年人，不过还有一个成年人更经常去看那孩子。
不管大人们把这事对那些青年人怎么解释，这些青年看到那孩子的悲惨情状都不禁大为震惊并感到恶心。
他们感到厌恶，这是他们原来所没有料到的。尽管他们听了许多的解释，他们还是感到气愤、愤怒但又无能为力。
他们本想为那孩子做点什么的，但却什么也不能做。
假若能把那孩子弄出那个悲惨的地方，让他（她）重见天日，假若能把他（她）洗得干干净净，将他（她）喂得饱饱的，并让他（她）有个舒舒服服的睡觉的地方，那无疑是一件很好的事情。
但只要那样做了，奥米勒斯的一切，包括她的繁荣气象、美丽景色和欢乐生活等都会立刻化为乌有。
这是条约上有明文规定的。为了做那一件微不足道的善事而牺牲善良的奥米勒斯全体众生，为了给一个人创造幸福的机会而破坏千万人的幸福，那无疑是将罪恶引进奥米勒斯城。
条约上的规定极其严格，没有半点变通的余地。就连对那孩子讲一句仁慈友善的话都在被禁止之列。
当那些青年去看了那个孩子，面对那种痛苦的矛盾处境后再回到家里时，他们往往会痛哭流涕，或是悲愤难抑。
他们可能要为此悲伤若干个星期，甚至若干年。但随着时间的推移，他们会渐渐认识到，即使那孩子获得释放，他（她）也不会感受到自由的好处。当然，他（她）可能因为温饱问题得到解决而感受到一点模模糊糊的愉悦，
再不会有多少别的好处了。
他（她）缺乏教养，性情也很朴拙，即使再对他（她）施以人道的待遇，他（她）也会无动于衷。
说实在的，他(她)对那种生活已经习以为常了，若是将他(她)放出来，失去了牢笼的保护，失去了他（她）的眼睛所习惯的黑暗，再也不能坐在自己的屎尿上，他（她）倒可能觉得难受。
当那些青年人开始认识到现实的这种悲哀的公正性后，他们因看到那孩子的悲惨遭遇而悲伤的泪水便自动地干了。
然而，正因为他们在自己的仁义之心经受考验时悲伤流泪，无可奈何地接受现实时悲愤难抑，他们的生活才如此光辉灿烂。
他们的幸福并不是一种平淡无奇的、不带义务和条件的幸福。他们完全明白，他们自己其实也像那孩子一样没有自由。
他们懂得怜悯。
正是因为有了那孩子的存在以及他们对这一事实的认识，他们的建筑才有可能如此的雄伟壮观，他们的音乐才有可能如此的震撼人心，他们的科学才有可能如此的高明玄妙。
他们对一般儿童也那样温和，也正是因为那孩子的关系。
他们懂得，假如没有那个可怜的孩子在黑暗的地窖中悲泣，那另一个孩子，即那个吹木笛的孩子，就不可能在那些青年骑手骑着美丽的骏马迎着第一个夏日列队等候赛马开始时吹奏出那样欢快的乐曲来。
现在你相信我描述的这一切了吗？它们的可信度是否增加了一些？不过，我还有一件事情要讲，这件事情却是真有点令人难以置信。
有的时候，某个青年男女去看了那孩子之后并不回家痛苦流涕或是震怒发狂，事实上，他或她根本就不回家。
也有的时候，某个年纪大得多的成年男女去看了那孩子之后会沉默一两天，然后便离家出走。
这些人走到街上，独个儿一路走去。他们一直往前走，穿过漂亮的城门径直走出奥米勒斯城。
出城之后，他们穿越奥米勒斯的田野继续向前走。每个人，无论是男青年还是女青年，无论是成年男子还是成年女子，都是一人独行。
夜幕降临了，他们还得沿着村镇的街道，穿过街道两边窗户亮着萤光的房屋，继续往前走，走进一片黑暗的旷野之中。
每个人都是单独地向西或向北，朝深山里走去。他们一直向前走。他们离开奥米勒斯城，头也不回地向黑暗中走去。
他们要去的地方是一个对我们大多数人来说比奥米勒斯城更难想象的地方。我根本无法描述那个地方。也许根本就不存在那样一个地方。
但那些离开奥米勒斯城的人似乎知道他们要去的是一个什么样的地方。
(摘自《诺顿短篇小说集》)
Key Words:
restive ['restiv]
adj. 不愿向前走的，倔强的，难驾御的
procession [prə'seʃən]
n. 队伍，行列
tambourine [.tæmbə'ri:n]
n. 小手鼓
clamor ['klæmə]
n. 喧嚷，大声的要求 v. 喧嚷，大声要求
decorous ['dekərəs]
adj. 合宜的，高雅的，端庄的
archaic [ɑ:'keiik]
adj. 已不通用的，古老的，古代的
exuberance [iɡ'zju:bərəns,-ənsi]
n. 丰富，茂盛；健康
languor ['læŋgə]
n. 怠惰，疲倦，无气力
benign [bi'nain]
adj. 仁慈的，温和的，良性的
magnanimous [mæg'næniməs]
adj. 度量大的，宽大的，有雅量的，高尚的
imperious [im'piəriəs]
adj. 傲慢的，专横的
melancholy ['melənkɔli]
n. 忧沉，悲哀，愁思 adj. 忧沉的，使人悲伤的
paradox ['pærədɔks]
n. 悖论，矛盾(者)
vile [vail]
adj. 恶劣的，简陋的，低廉的
splendor ['splendə]
n. 光辉，壮丽，显赫
参考资料：
- 高级英语第二册(MP3+中英字幕) 第9课:从奥米勒斯城出走的人(1)_品牌英语听力 - 可可英语
- 高级英语第二册(MP3+中英字幕) 第9课:从奥米勒斯城出走的人(2)_品牌英语听力 - 可可英语
- 高级英语第二册(MP3+中英字幕) 第9课:从奥米勒斯城出走的人(3)_品牌英语听力 - 可可英语
- 高级英语第二册(MP3+中英字幕) 第9课:从奥米勒斯城出走的人(4)_品牌英语听力 - 可可英语
- 高级英语第二册(MP3+中英字幕) 第9课:从奥米勒斯城出走的人(5)_品牌英语听力 - 可可英语
- 高级英语第二册(MP3+中英字幕) 第9课:从奥米勒斯城出走的人(6)_品牌英语听力 - 可可英语
- 高级英语第二册(MP3+中英字幕) 第9课:从奥米勒斯城出走的人(7)_品牌英语听力 - 可可英语
- 高级英语第二册(MP3+中英字幕) 第9课:从奥米勒斯城出走的人(7)_品牌英语听力 - 可可英语
- 高级英语第二册(MP3+中英字幕) 第9课:从奥米勒斯城出走的人(8)_品牌英语听力 - 可可英语
- 高级英语第二册(MP3+中英字幕) 第9课:从奥米勒斯城出走的人(9)_品牌英语听力 - 可可英语
- 高级英语第二册(MP3+中英字幕) 第9课:从奥米勒斯城出走的人(10)_品牌英语听力 - 可可英语