有人问我公理和正义的问题
写在一封缜密工整的信上，从
外县市一小镇寄出，署了
真实姓名和身分证号码
年龄（窗外在下雨，点滴芭蕉叶
和围墙上的碎玻璃），籍贯，职业
（院子里堆积许多枯树枝
一只黑鸟在扑翅）。他显然历经
苦思不得答案，关于这麼重要的
一个问题。他是善于思维的，
文字也简洁有力，结构圆融
书法得体（乌云向远天飞）
晨昏练过玄秘塔大字，在小学时代
家住渔港后街拥挤的眷村里
大半时间和母亲在一起；他羞涩
敏感，学了一口台湾国语没关系
常常登高了望海上的船只
看白云，就这样把皮肤晒黑了
单薄的胸膛里栽培着小小
孤独的心，他这样恳切写道：
早熟脆弱如一颗二十世纪梨
有人问我公理和正义的问题
对着一壶苦茶，我设法去理解
如何以抽象的观念分化他那许多凿凿的
证据，也许我应该先否定他的出发点
攻击他的心态，批评他收集资料
的方法错误，以反证削弱其语气
指他所陈一切这一切无非偏见
不值得有识之士的反驳。我听到
窗外的雨声愈来愈急
水势从屋顶匆匆泻下，灌满房子周围的
阳沟。唉到底甚麼是二十世纪梨呀——
他们在海岛的高山地带寻到
相当于华北平原的气候了，肥沃丰隆的
处女地，乃迂回引进一种乡愁慰藉的
种子埋下，发芽，长高
开花结成这果，这名不见经传的水果
可怜悯的形状，色泽，和气味
营养价值不明，除了
维他命C，甚至完全不象征甚么
除了一颗犹豫的属于他自己的心
有人问我公理和正义的问题
这些不需要象征——这些
是现实就应该当做现实处理
发信的是一个善于思维分析的人
读了一年企管转法律，毕业后
半年补充兵，考了两次司法官……
雨停了
我对他的身世，他的愤怒
他的诘难和控诉都不能理解
虽然我曾设法，对着一壶苦茶
设法理解。我相信他不是为考试
而愤怒，因为这不在他的举证里
他谈的是些高层次的问题，简洁有力
段落分明，归纳为令人茫然的一系列
质疑。太阳从芭蕉树后注入草地
在枯枝上闪着光，这些不会是
虚假的，在有限的温暖里
坚持一团庞大的寒气
有人问我一个问题，关于
公理和正义。他是班上穿着
最整齐的孩子，虽然母亲在城里
帮佣洗衣——哦母亲在他印象中
总是白晰的微笑着，纵使脸上
挂着泪；她双手永远是柔软的
乾净的，灯下为他慢慢修铅笔
他说他不太记得了是一个溽热的夜
好像彷佛父亲在一场大吵后
（充满乡音的激情的言语，连他
单祧籍贯香火的儿子，都不完全懂）
似乎就这样走了，可能大概也许上了山
在高亢的华北气候里开垦，栽培
一种新引进的水果，二十世纪梨
秋风的夜晚，母亲教他唱日本童谣
桃太郎远征魔鬼岛，半醒半睡
看她剪刀针线把旧军服拆开
修改成一条夹裤和一件小棉袄
信纸上沾了两片水渍，想是他的泪
如墙脚巨大的雨霉，我向外望
天地也哭过，为一个重要的
超越季节和方向的问题，哭过
复以虚假的阳光掩饰窘态
有人问我一个问题，关于
公理和正义。檐下倒挂着一只
诡异的蜘蛛，在虚假的阳光里
翻转反覆，结网。许久许久
我还看到冬天的蚊蚋围着纱门下
一个塑胶水桶在飞，如乌云
我许久未曾听过那麼明朗详尽的
陈述了，他在无情地解剖着自己：
籍贯教我走到任何地方都带着一份
与生俱来的乡愁，他说，像我的胎记
然而胎记袭自母亲我必须承认
它和那个无关。他时常
站在海岸了望，据说烟波尽头
还有一个更长的海岸，高山森林巨川
母亲没看过的地方才是我们的
故乡。大学里必修现代史，背熟一本
标准答案；选修语言社会学
高分过了劳工法，监狱学，法制史
重修体育和宪法。他善于举例
作证，能推论，会归纳。我从来
没有收过这样一封充满体验和幻想
于冷肃尖锐的语气中流露狂热和绝望
彻底把狂热和绝望完全平衡的信
礼貌地，问我公理和正义的问题
有人问我公理和正义的问题
写在一封不容增删的信里
我看到泪水的印子扩大如干涸的湖泊
濡沫死去的鱼族在暗晦的角落
留下些许枯骨和白刺，我彷佛也
看到血在他成长的知识判断里
溅开，像炮火中从困顿的孤堡
放出的军鸽，系着疲乏顽抗者
最渺茫的希望，冲开窒息的硝烟
鼓翼升到烧焦的黄杨树梢
敏捷地回转，对准增防的营盘刺飞
却在高速中撞上一颗无意的流弹
粉碎于交击的喧嚣，让毛骨和鲜血
充塞永远不再的空间
让我们从容遗忘。我体会
他沙哑的声调，他曾经
嚎啕入荒原
狂呼暴风雨
计算着自己的步伐，不是先知
他不是先知，是失去向导的使徒——
他单薄的胸膛鼓胀如风炉
一颗心在高温里溶化
透明，流动，虚无
Someone Asks Me about Justice and Righteousness
Yang Mu
Someone asks me about justice and righteousness
in a neatly written letter
mailed from a town in another county, signed
with his real name, including social security number
age (outside my window rain drips on banana leaves
and broken glass on garden walls), ancestry, occupation
(twigs and branches pile up in the yard
a blackbird flaps its wings). Obviously he has
thought long without reaching an answer to this important
question. He is good at conceptualization, his
writing is concise, forceful, and well-organized
his penmanship presentable (dark clouds drift toward the far end of the sky)—
he must’ve studied calligraphy in the Mysterious Tower style. In
elementary school, he
probably lived in congested public housing in a back alley
behind a fishing harbor
He spent most of his time with his mother, he was shy and
self-conscious about speaking Mandarin with a Taiwanese accent
He often climbed the hill to watch the boats at sea
and white clouds—that’s how his skin got so dark
In his frail chest a small
solitary heart was growing—he writes frankly
“precocious as a Twentieth-Century pear”
Someone asks me about justice and righteousness
With a pot of tea before me, I try to figure out
how to refute with abstract concepts the concrete
evidence he cites. Maybe I should negate his premise first
attack his frame of mind and criticize his fallacious way of
gathering data, in order to weaken his argument
Then point out that all he says is nothing but bias
unworthy of a learned man’s rebuttal. I hear
the rain getting heavier and heavier
as it pours down the roof and fills gutters
around the house. But what is a Twentieth-Century pear?
They were found in the island’s mountainous region
a climate comparable to the North China plains
Transplanted to the fertile, abundant virgin land
a seed of homesickness sprouted, grew
and bore flowers and fruit—a fruit
whose pitiful shape, color, and smell was not mentioned in
classics
Other than vitamin C its nutrient value is uncertain
It symbolizes hardly anything
but its own hesitant heart
Someone asks me about justice and righteousness
They don’t need symbols—if it is reality
then treat it as such
The writer of the letter has an analytical mind
After a year in business management, he transferred to law. After graduation
he served in the army reserve for six months, took the bar exams twice...
The rain has stopped
I cannot comprehend his background, or his anger
his reproach and accusations
though I have tried, with the pot of tea
before me. I know he is not angry at the exams, because they are not among his examples
He speaks of issues at a higher level, in a precise, forceful
well-organized manner, summarized in a sequence of confusing
questions. The sun trickles onto the lawn from behind the banana trees
glitters among old branches. This isn’t
fiction—an immense, cold atmosphere persists
in this scant warmth
Someone asks me a question about
justice and righteousness. He was the neatest boy in his class
though his mother was a laundry woman in town. In his memory
the fair-skinned mother always smiled even when tears
streamed down her face. With her soft, clean hands
she sharpened pencils for him under the light
Can’t remember clearly, but it was probably on a muggy night
after a fiery quarrel his father—his impassioned speech and heavy accent that even his
only son could not fully understand—
left home. Maybe he went up to the mountains
where the climate resembles the North China plains to cultivate
a newly transplanted fruit, the Twentieth-Century pear
On autumn nights his mother taught him Japanese nursery rhymes
about Peach Boy’s conquest of Devil Island. With sleepy eyes he
watched her rip out the seams of old army uniforms
and scissor them into a pair of wool pants and a quilted jacket
Two water marks on the letter, probably his tears
like moldy spots left by the rain in the corner. I look outside
Earth and heaven have cried too, for an important question
that transcends seasons and directions. They have cried
then covered their embarrassment with false sunlight
Someone asks me a question about
justice and righteousness. An eerie spider
hangs upside down from the eaves, bobs in the false
sunlight, and weaves a web. For a long while
I watch winter mosquitoes fly in a dark cloud
around a plastic pail by the screen door
I have not heard such a lucid and succinct
argument in a long time. He is merciless in analyzing himself
“My lineage has taught me that wherever I go I will always
carry homesickness like a birthmark
But birthmarks come from the mother, and I must say mine
has nothing to do with it.” He often
stands on the seashore and gazes far away. He is told that at the
end of the mists and waves
There is an even longer coastline, beyond them, mountains, forests, and vast rivers
“The place that Mother has never seen is our homeland’’
In college, he was required to study modern Chinese history and
he memorized the book
from cover to cover. He took linguistic sociology
did well in labor law, criminology, history of law, but
failed physical education and the constitution. He excels in citing evidence
knows how to infer and deduce. I have never
received a letter so full of experience and fantasy
fervor and despair with a cold, poignant voice
a letter that strikes a perfect balance between fervor and despair
asking me, politely, about justice and righteousness
Someone asks me a question about justice and righteousness
in a letter that permits no addition or deletion
I see the tear marks expanding like dried-up lakes
In a dim corner fish die after failing to save each other
leaving white bones behind. I also see
blood splashing in his growing knowledge and judgment
like a pigeon released from a besieged fortress under fire—
a faint hope of the exhausted yet persevering resistance—
it breaks away from the suffocating sulfur smoke
soars to the top of a stench-filled willow tree
turns around swiftly and darts toward the base of reinforcement troops
but on its way is hit by a stray bullet
and crushed in the deafening encounter, its feathers, bones, and blood
fill a space that will never be
and is quickly forgotten. I feel
in his hoarse voice that he once
walked in a wasteland, crying out
and screaming at a storm
Counting footsteps, he is not a prophet
He is no prophet but a disciple who has lost his guide
In his frail chest that pumps like a furnace
a heart melts at high heat
transparent, flowing, empty
（Michelle Yeh and Lawrence R. Smith 译）
