世上最愛我們的那個人，也許并不是對我們說“我愛你”最多的那個人，她的愛常常沉靜羞澀以至無法言表。也許我們都像文中詩里那個長大了的孩子，從不知道當走到馬路邊時，媽媽仍然想要伸出手去牽住我們的手。在你的家里，是不是也有這樣一面不說話但已萬語千言的“格言墻”?在你和母親之間， 是不是也有這樣從不表白但愛戀深沉的美好默契?

When I read a book from my mother’s shelves, it’s not unusual to come across a gap in the text. A paragraph, or maybe just a sentence, has been sliced out, leaving a window in its place, with words from the next page peeping through. The chopped up page looks like a nearly complete jigsaw puzzle waiting for its missing piece. But the piece isn’t lost, and I always know where to find it. Dozens of quotations, clipped1) from newspapers, magazines—and books—plaster one wall of my mother’s kitchen. What means the most to my mother in her books she excises2) and displays.

當我翻看媽媽書架上的書時，常常會發現其中的文字缺了一部分。其中的一個段落，或可能只是一個句子，被剪了下來，在原來的位置上留下了一扇窗戶，讓后一頁上的文字探頭探腦地露了出來。被挖掉一塊的那一頁看上去就像是一幅幾乎就要完成的拼圖作品，等待著缺失的那一塊拼圖。但那一塊拼圖并沒有丟，而且我總是知道在哪兒能找到它。在我媽媽的廚房里，從報紙上、雜志上——還有書上——剪下的紙片貼滿了一面墻。在她的書里，那些她最喜歡的句子和段落都被她剪了下來，貼在墻上。

I’ve never told her, but those literary amputations3) appall me. I know Ann Patchett4) and Dorothy Sayers5), and Somerset Maugham6) would fume alongside me, their careful prose severed from its rightful place. She picks extracts that startle me, too: “Put your worst foot forward7), because then if people can still stand you, you can be yourself.” Sometimes I stand reading the wall of quotations, holding a scissors-victim novel in my hand, puzzling over what draws my mother to these particular words.

我從未當面和她說過，但她對文學作品的這種“截肢手術”的確讓我感到震驚。我知道，安·帕契特、多蘿西·塞耶斯和薩默塞特·毛姆也在我身旁氣得冒煙呢，怎么能把這些他們嘔心瀝血寫出來的文字就這樣從它們原來的位置上“截肢”了呢!她挑出來的那些段落也著實嚇了我一跳，比如：“以你最糟糕的一面示人，因為如果那樣人們也能容忍你的話，你就能做真正的自己了。”有時候，我會站在那兒讀墻上那些書摘，手里拿著一本備受剪刀“迫害”的小說，心里充滿困惑，不知道到底是什么驅使媽媽剪下了這樣一些稀奇古怪的句子。

My own quotation collection is more hidden and delicate. I copy favorite lines into a spiral-bound journal—a Christmas present from my mother, actually—in soft, gray No. 2 pencil. This means my books remain whole. The labor required makes selection a cutthroat8) process: Do I really love these two pages of On Chesil Beach9) enough to transcribe them, word by finger-cramping word? (The answer was yes, the pages were that exquisite.)

我也摘錄和收藏文字，不過我的收藏更為隱秘和精致。我會用灰色的二號軟芯鉛筆把我最喜歡的句子摘抄到一個活頁日記本里——事實上，這還是我媽媽送我的一份圣誕禮物呢。也就是說，我的書都是完整的。但因為摘抄需要工夫，因此選擇哪些文字摘抄就成了一個痛苦的過程：我是不是真的喜歡《在切瑟爾海灘上》里的這兩頁文字?喜歡到我愿意一個字一個字地把它們抄下來，直抄到手指頭都抽筋?(答案為“是”，因為這兩頁文字寫得實在太美了。)

My mother doesn’t know any of this. She doesn’t know I prefer copying out to cutting out. I’ve never told her that I compile quotations at all.

我媽媽一點也不知道這件事。她不知道與剪貼相比，我更喜歡抄錄。我壓根就沒告訴過她我也收集自己喜歡的文字。

There’s nothing very shocking about that; for all our chatting, we don’t have the words to begin certain conversations. My mother and I talk on the phone at least once a week, and in some ways, we are each other’s most dedicated listener. She tells me about teaching English to the leathery10) Russian ladies at the library where she volunteers; I tell her about job applications, cover letters11), and a grant I’d like to win. We talk about my siblings, her siblings, the president, and Philip Seymour Hoffman12) movies. We make each other laugh so hard that I choke and she cries. But what we don’t say could fill up rooms. Fights with my father. Small failures in school. Anything, really, that pierces13) us.

其實這一點沒什么值得大驚小怪的;盡管我們總是聊天，但對于某些特定的話題，我們總是不知道該怎么開口。媽媽和我一個星期至少會通一次電話，從某些方面來說，我們是對方最專心的聽眾。她會告訴我她在圖書館做志愿者教那些強悍的俄羅斯婦女英語時發生的事;而我會和她談談我找工作的事、我的求職信，還有我想要爭取的補助什么的。我們會聊我的兄弟姐妹、她的兄弟姐妹、總統，還有菲利普·塞默·霍夫曼的電影。我們常常逗得對方大笑，笑得我喘不過氣來，笑得她眼淚都流出來了。但我們不聊的東西也很多，多得幾個房間都裝不下。譬如她和我爸吵架了，又譬如我在學校遇到一些小挫折了。事實上，所有讓我們傷心的事，我們都避而不談。