Ó¢Óï¹í¹ÊÊ£ºËÀÍöÕÕƬ-ÖÐÓ¢ÎÄË«Óï

2020-12-09 ×÷Õß:¹ÊÊ´óÈ« ÔĶÁ:
¡¡¡¡

It was vacationing on the Greek island of Corfu for about a month in August of 1992. I rent a motorcycle and head into the interior of the island in search of isolated trails and sleepy villages. I rode for hours along dirt trails flanked by bright yellow wildflowers, over steep and rugged hills, and past wide fields where farmers struggled to grow anything that would take root in the barren, rocky soil. I had to keep a close watch on the gas tank because there were no gas stations anywhere except at the village where I had rented the motorcycle. At half a tank, I had no choice but to turn back. 1992Äê8Ô£¬ÎÒȥϣÀ°µÄ¿ÆæÚµº¶ÈÁËÒ»¸öÔ¼١£ÎÒÔÚÄÇ×âÁËÁ¾Ä¦Íгµ£¬Æï׎øÁ˵ºµÄÉî´¦£¬Ì½Ë÷ÄÇЩÓëÊÀ¸ô¾øºÜ¾ÃµÄÒż£ºÍ³Á˯µÄС´åׯ¡£ÎÒÔÚÀÃÄà·ÉÏÒ»Æï¾ÍÊǼ¸¸öСʱ£¬·­¹ýÒ»×ù×ù¶¸Ç͵ÄСɽ£¬´©¹ýÁËÒ»´óƬƶñ¤µÄɳÍÁµØ£¬¿ÉÒÔ¿´µÃ³öÀ´£¬Å©ÃñÃǷѾ¡ÁËÐÄ˼°ÑËùÓпÉÄÜÔÚÕâÖÖµØÉÏÔú¸ùµÄ¶«Î÷¶¼ÖÖ¹ýÁË¡£ÎÒ±ØÐëµÃʱ¿ÌÁôÉñÓÍ±í£¬ÒòΪ³ýÁËÔÚÎÒ×âĦÍгµµÄ´å×ÓÒÔÍâÊÇûÓмÓÓÍÕ¾µÄ¡£Ò»µ©ÓÃÍêÁË°ëÏäÓÍ£¬ÎҾͲ»µÃ²»·µ»ØÁË¡£

The needle had just hit halfway and I was turning around to head back when I noticed an old cemetery in the distance, far away from any village or other sign of habitation. I decided to stretch my legs before beginning the long trip home. I rode to the gate, killed the engine and laid the bike down. As I passed through the creaky, wrought iron gate, I couldn't help but notice how silent the place was. I had to whistle to reassure myself that I hadn't gone deaf. There were only a few hours of daylight left and a strong wind was blowing, stirring the overgrown grass which partially obscured the scattered tombstones. Ëæºó£¬Ö¸ÕëÖ¸ÏòÁËÓͱíµÄÖÐÑ룬ÎÒµôÍ·Õý×¼±¸»ØÈ¥£¬Õâʱºò·¢ÏÖÔ¶´¦ÓÐ×ù¹ÅĹ£¬¾àÀëÕâЩ´å×ÓºÍÃñ¾ÓÓкÜÔ¶µÄÒ»¶Î¾àÀë¡£ÎÒ¾ö¶¨ÔÚÍù»Ø¸Ï֮ǰ×ßÒ»×ߣ¬·ÅËÉÒ»ÏÂÎÒµÄË«ÌõÍÈ£¬ÓÚÊÇÎÒÆï³µµ½ÁËĹÊҵĴóÃÅ¿Ú£¬¹ØÉÏÒýÇæÈ»ºó°Ñ³µµ¹·ÅÔÚµØÉÏ¡£ÎÒ×ß¹ýÄÇÉÈÔø¾­ÊǺܾ«Öµ«ÊÇÏÖÔÚÒѾ­Ò¡Ò¡Óû×¹µÄ´óÌúÃÅ£¬ÀïÃ澹Ȼ°²¾²µÃÁ¬Ò»µãÉùÒô¶¼Ã»ÓУ¬ÒÔÖÁÓÚÎÒ²»µÃ²»´µÁ˸ö¿ÚÉÚÀ´ÌáÐÑ×Ô¼º²¢Ã»±ä³ÉÁËÁû×Ó¡£ÔÙÓÐÒ»Á½¸öСʱ̫Ñô¾ÍÒªÏÂɽÁË£¬Ò»¹É¾¢·ç¹ÎÀ´£¬´µµÃ´ÔÉúµÄÒѾ­ÂûÑÓµ½ÁËű®ÉϵÄÔÓ²ÝÀ´»ØÒ¡Ò¡»Î»ÎµÄ¡£

In Greece, people aren't always buried. The bodies of the deceased are usually laid to rest inside marble tombs above ground with lids that can be easily lifted or slid aside. This tugged at my heart more than anything else - to see the faces of the people buried there as they were in life; their warm smiles and the kindness in their eyes. I spent a long time wandering around, kneeling in the grass next to the graves, talking to the people lying there and wondering how their lives had been. ÔÚÏ£À°£¬²¢²»ÊÇËùÓÐËÀÈ¥µÄÈ˶¼»á±»ÂñÔáµÄ¡£ÓÐʱºò·Å×ÅʬÌåµÄʯ¹×¾Í·ÅÔÚµØÃæÉÏ£¬ÈËÃÇ¿ÉÒÔºÜÇáÒ׵ľͰѸÇ×Ó̧ÆðÀ´»òÕßÍƵ½Ò»±ßÈ¥¡£ÒÔÇ°»¹´ÓûÓÐÆäËûÈκÎÊÂÇéÄÜÈÃÎÒÈç´ËµÄÕ𺳗—¿´×ÅÕâЩȥÊÀµÄÈ˵ÄÁ³ÅÓ£¬»¹Õ¹ÏÖ×ÅÈÈÇéµÄЦÈݺʹÈÏéµÄÑÛÉñ£¬¾ÍºÍËûÃÇÔÚÉú»îÖÐËù±íÏÖ³öÀ´µÄÒ»Ñù¡£ÎÒÅÇ»²ÁËÁ¼¾Ã£¬ÔÚ·ØĹÅԱߵIJݴÔÀï¹òÏÂÀ´£¬Ó볤ÂñµØϵÄÈËÃǽ»Ì¸£¬ÏëÖªµÀËûÃǵ±³õµÄÉú»î×´¿ö¡£

When I walked to the rear edge of the cemetery, an unusual sight caught my eye - a tomb that was twice as large as any of the others. When I looked inside the cabinet, I found out why. There was a photograph of a young couple with their arms around each other, laughing. The date of their deaths, etched in the stone, were identical. Apparently, they were married and had died together in some kind of an accident. They had been laid in each other's arms inside the tomb. I can't relate all the feelings I had while looking at that picture of them together, bursting with youthful energy, their eager smiles full of excitement and anticipation of their lives together. ÎÒÐŲ½×ßµ½¹ÅŵÄ×îºó·½£¬²»Ñ°³£µÄһĻ³¡¾°Ó³ÈëÑÛÁ±——ÓÐÒ»×ù·ØµÄ´óСÊÇÆäËü·ØµÄÁ½±¶ÄÇô´ó¡£ÎÒÏò·ÅÕÕƬµÄÏà¿òÀï¿´È¥£¬ÖªµÀÁËÔ­Òò¡£ÄÇÊÇÒ»¶ÔÄêÇá·ò¸¾µÄÕÕƬ£¬ËûÃÇ¿æן첲¿ª»³´óЦ¡£Ê¯±®ÉÏ¿Ì×ÅËûÃÇÈ¥ÊÀµÄʱ¼ä£¬ÊÇÏàͬµÄ£¬ÏÔÈ»Á½¸öÈËÊÇÔÚÒ»´ÎʹÊÀïË«Ë«È¥ÊÀµÄ¡£´Ë¿ÌËûÃÇÒ»¶¨ÊÇ»¥ÏàÒÀÙË×ÅÌÉÔÚµØϵģ¬¿´×ÅÕâÕÅÑóÒç×ÅÄêÇáÈËÇà´º»îÁ¦µÄÕÕƬ£¬ÎҰٸн»¼¯£¬ËûÃÇÈÈÇéµÄЦÈÝÀïÃ棬³äÂúÁËÐÒ¸£Óë¶ÔδÀ´Éú»îµÄÕ¹Íû¡£

A line from a poem by Andrew Marvell crossed my mind -"The grave is a fine and private place but none, I think, do there embrace."I hoped it wasn't true. °²µÂ³.Âíά¶ûµÄÒ»¾äÊ«¸¡ÏÖÔÚÎÒµÄÄÔº£À“·ØĹÊǸöÒþÃܵĺõط½£¬µ«Ã»ÈË»áÔÚÄÇÀïÓµ±§°É£¬ÎÒÏë¡£”µ«Ô¸Õâ²»ÊÇÕæµÄ¡£

A white marble cross that marked their graves had been broken off at the base, perhaps by vandals or a lightning bolt, and had fallen on the ground at the head of the tomb. Small, orange wildflowers were growing up around it. This might not have been so unusual except for the fact that they were the only flowers growing anywhere in the cemetery. The contrast of these symbols of life and springtime next to a symbol of death was so striking, I decided to take a photograph of it. ·ØĹÉÏÁ¢×ŵİ×É«´óÀíʯʮ×ּܴӵײ¿¶Ï¿ªÁË£¬µôµ½ÁËÇ°ÃæµÄµØÉÏ£¬¿ÉÄÜÊǵÁĹÈËÆÆ»µµÃ°É£¬ÒªÃ´¾ÍÊDZ»ÉÁµç»÷µ½ÁË¡£éÙ»ÆÉ«µÄС»¨´ÓËÄÖܳ¤³öÀ´£¬Ò°»¨Éú³¤ÔÚĹµØµÄÈκεط½£¬±¾¶¼²»ÊÇÏ£ÆæµÄ(²¹£ºµ«ÎÊÌâÊÇ£¬Õû¸öĹµØ£¬Ö»ÓÐÕâ¸öµØ·½³¤×Å»¨)¡£ÔÚÕâÀïÉúÃüÓë´ºÌìÍòÎ︴ËÕµÄÆøÏ¢ÓëËÀÍöµÄÏóÕ÷ÐγÉÁËÇ¿ÁҵĶԱȣ¬ÎÒ¾ö¶¨ÒªÅÄÕÅÕÕƬ£¬ÓÀÔ¶ÁôסÕâ·ù»­Ãæ¡£

I took my camera out of my backpack and started looking for a good angle for the photograph but couldn't find one. I decided that the best angle would be from the top of the tomb looking straight down at the cross, but I felt that standing on it would be disrespectful so I took a few shots from other angles. Unsatisfied, I said to the young couple buried there, "Excuse me. I don't mean any disrespect but I'd just like to stand on your tomb for a second to take a picture of your flowers. I hope you don't mind." ÎÒ´Ó±³°üÀïÄóöÕÕÏà»ú£¬ÏëÒªÕÒÒ»¸öºÏÊʵĽǶÈÅÄÕÕµ«ÊÇÔõôҲѡ²»ºÃ¡£ÎÒ×îºó·¢ÏÖ×îºÃµÄ½Ç¶ÈÓ¦¸ÃÊÇ´Ó·ØĹÉÏÁ¢×ÅÊ®×ּܵÄλÖó¯ÏÂÕÕ£¬µ«ÊÇÎÒ¾õµÃÕ¾µ½ÉÏÃæÈ¥¿ÉÄÜ»áÙôäÂÍöÁ飬Òò´ËÖ»ÊÇ´ÓÆäËüµÄ½Ç¶ÈÅÄÁ˼¸ÕÅ¡£µ«ÊÇÕâЩÎÒ¶¼²»´óÂúÒ⣬ÓÚÊÇÎҾͶÔÏÂÃæµÄÄêÇá·ò¸¾Ëµ£¬“ÇëÔ­Á£¬ÎÒûÓÐÈκÎ𷸵ÄÒâ˼£¬ÎÒÖ»Êǵ½ÄãÃǵķØĹÉÏÃ漸ÃëÖÓÈ¥¸øÄãÃǵĻ¨¶ùÅÄÕÅÕÕƬ¡£Ï£ÍûÄãÃDz»»á½éÒâ¡£”

Hoping I had won their approval, I stood on the lid and took the photo from the angle I wanted. I can't recall feeling any cold sensations or chills other than the ones I was already riddled with due to my overactive imagination. I stepped down from the tomb and said thank you. Before I left, I picked up their cross and put it back in place on their tomb. The break was clean so it fit like a puzzle piece. µ«Ô¸ÎÒÊǵõ½ÁËËûÃǵÄͬÒ⣬ÎÒÕ¾ÁËÉÏÈ¥´ÓÇ¡µ±µÄ½Ç¶ÈÅÄÁËÕÕƬ¡£ÆäʵÓÉÓÚÎÒÄǹý·Ö»îÔ¾µÄÏëÏóÁ¦£¬ÎҵĴóÄÔÀïÃæ¸Õ²ÅÒ»Ö±³ä³â×Å¿Ö¾åÓë²»°²£¬µ«ÊÇ´Ë¿ÌÎÒ²¢Ã»ÓÐÒòΪÓÖ²È̤ÁËËûÃǵķØŶø¸Ðµ½µ¨Õ½Ðľª¡£ÎÒ´ÓÉÏÃæ×ßÏÂÀ´£¬¶ÔËûÃÇ˵ÁËлл¡£À뿪֮ǰ£¬ÎÒ¼ñÆðËûÃǵÄÊ®×Ö¼ÜÖØзŻØÈ¥£¬¶ÏÁѵĺۼ£Ò»Ä¿ÁËÈ»£¬Òò´Ë¿´ÉÏÈ¥¾ÍÏñÊǸöƴͼһÑù¡£

The sun was setting quickly and I was worried about finding my way back in the dark, so I decided to head home. I walked through the creaky, old gate again and kick-started the motorcycle. After being immersed in such profound silence for so long, the noise of the engine seemed louder than ever. Ì«ÑôÒѾ­×ªµ½ÁËÎ÷±ß£¬ÂíÉϾÍÒªÂäÏÂÈ¥ÁË£¬ÎÒ¿ÖÅÂÌìºÚºóÕÒ²»µ½Â·ËùÒÔ¾ö¶¨¸Ï½ô»ØÈ¥¡£ÎÒÓÖÒ»´Î×ß¹ýÄÇÉȹÅÀϵĻλÎÓÆÓƵĴóÃÅ£¬·¢¶¯ÁËĦÍгµ¡£ÔÚÄǸö°²¾²ÖÁ¼«µÄµØ·½´ôÁËÕâô³¤Ê±¼äÒÔºó£¬Âí´ïµÄÉùÒôÕæÓеãÕð¶úÓûÁû¡£

µã»÷·ÖÏí:

À¸Ä¿µ¼º½

ÍƼöÔĶÁ