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熬过六月的大考小考，又到了放松身心的时候。最好的享受莫过于捧起一本好书仔细品味。小编近来也爱上看书哦！每看完一本都觉得精神财富指数和人品值上升了不少，哈哈。恰逢父亲节，特别为大家献上感动人心之作——《不存在的女儿》。这本获得众多好评的美国小说讲述了一个关于秘密的故事：父亲戴维将患有唐氏症的龙凤胎女儿菲比送走，以为这对家人来说是最好的选择，没料到这个秘密却导致家庭的无形破裂。父亲死了，女儿的养母卡罗琳揭开了秘密。此时大家才发现自己未曾真正了解彼此的感受。本文节选自该书结尾
部分——母亲的婚礼后，哥哥保罗带菲比来到父亲的墓前……
阅读小提示：本文作者现任肯塔基大学英文系助理教授，也是美国各大文学奖项的常客。《不存在的
女儿》为其出版的第一部长篇小说。本选段有一定难度，但用词地道，语句优美，不妨熟读几遍，仔细体会。
hey were close to town now. Paul waited for a break in traffic, then turned into the Lexington cemetery[墓地], past the gatehouse[门楼] made of stone. He parked beneath an elm[榆树] tree that had survived a hundred years of drought[干旱] and disease and got out of the car. He walked around to Phoebe’s door and opened it,
offering his hand. She looked at it, surprised, then up at him. Then she pushed herself out of the seat on her own, still holding the daffodils[水仙花], their stems[茎]
crushed and pulpy[柔软的] now. They followed the path for a while, past the monuments[纪念碑] and the pond with the ducks, until he guided her across the grass to the stone that marked their father’s grave.
Phoebe traced her fingers over the names and dates engraved[雕刻] in the dark granite[花岗岩]. He wondered again what she was thinking. Al Simpson was the man she called her father. He did puzzles with her in the
evenings, and brought her favorite albums home from his trips; he used to carry her on his shoulders so that she could touch the high leaves of the sycamores[枫树]. It couldn’t mean anything to her, this slab[板，片] of granite, this name.
David Henry McCallister. Phoebe read the words out loud, slowly. They filled her mouth and fell heavily into the world.
“Our father,” he said.
“Our father,” she said, “who art in heaven,
hallowed be thy name注.”
“No,” he said, surprised. “Our father. My father. Yours.”
“Our father,” she repeated, and he felt a surge of frustration[挫折], for her words were agreeable,
mechanical[呆板的], of no significance in her life.
“You’re sad,” she observed, then. “If my father died,
I’d be sad too.”
Paul was startled. Yes, that was it – he was sad. His anger had cleared, and suddenly he could see his father differently. His very presence must have reminded his father in every glance, with every breath, of the choice he’d made and could not undo. Those Polaroids[宝丽莱相机]
of Phoebe that Caroline had sent over the years, found hidden in the back of a darkroom[暗房] drawer after the
curators[保管员] had gone; the single photograph of his father’s family
too, the one Paul still had, standing on the porch of their lost home. And the thousands of others, one after another, his
father layering[分层堆积] image on image, trying to obscure[隐藏] the
moment he could never change, and yet the past rising up
anyway, as persistent[持久的] as memory, as powerful as dreams.
Phoebe, his sister, a secret kept for a quarter of a century.
Paul walked a few feet back to the gravel[沙砾] path. He paused, his hands in his pockets, leaves swirling[打转] up in the eddies[旋涡] of wind, a scrap[碎片] of newspaper floating over the rows of white stones. Clouds moved against the sun, making
patterns on the land, and sunlight flashed on the headstones, the grass and trees. Leaves tapped lightly in the breeze, and the long grass rustled[发出沙沙声].
At first the notes were thin, almost an undercurrent[暗流] to the breeze, so subtle[细微的] that he had to strain[拉紧] to hear them. He turned. Phoebe, still standing by the headstone, her hand resting
on its dark granite edge, had begun to sing. The grass over the graves was moving and the leaves were stirring. It was a hymn[圣歌],
vaguely[模糊地] familiar. Her words were indistinct[不清楚的], but her voice was pure and sweet, and other visitors to the cemetery were glancing in her direction, at Phoebe with her graying hair and bridesmaid’s dress, her awkward[笨拙的，奇怪的]
stance[姿态], her unclear words, her carefree[无忧无虑的],
fluted[柔和的] voice. Paul swallowed, stared at his shoes. For the rest of his life, he realized, he would be torn like this, aware of Phoebe’s awkwardness, the difficulties she encountered simply by being different in the world, and yet propelled[推进] beyond all this by her direct and guileless[坦率的] love.
By her love, yes. And, he realized, awash[淹没的]
in the notes, by his own new and strangely
uncomplicated love for her.
Her voice, high and clear, moved through the leaves, through the sunlight. It splashed[溅落] onto the gravel, the grass. He imagined the notes falling into the air like stones into water, rippling[起波纹] the invisible surface of the world. Waves of sound, waves of light: his father had tried to pin everything down, but the world was fluid[流动的] and could not be contained.
Leaves lifted; sunlight swam. The words of this old hymn came back to him, and Paul picked up the harmony. Phoebe did not seem to notice. She sang on, accepting his voice as she might the wind. Their singing merged, and the music was inside him, a humming[嗡嗡声] in his flesh, and it was outside, too, her voice a twin to his own. When the song ended, they stayed as they were in the clear pale light of the afternoon. The wind shifted, pressing Phoebe’s hair against her neck, scattering old leaves along the base of the worn stone fence.
Everything slowed, until the whole world was caught in this single hovering[盘旋] moment. Paul stood very still, waiting to see what would happen next.
For a few seconds, nothing at all.
Then Phoebe turned, slowly, and smoothed her wrinkled skirt.
A simple gesture, yet it set the world back in motion.
Paul noted how short and clipped her fingernails were, how delicate[优雅的] her wrist looked against the granite headstone. His sister’s hands were small, just like their mother’s. He walked across the grass and touched her shoulder, to take her home.
他们快到市区了。保罗等到交通稍微缓和后，调转车头朝列克星顿墓园开去，穿过石制的门楼进去。他把车停在一棵熬过了一百多年干旱与虫害的榆树下，然后下车。他绕到菲比那边，打开车门并伸出手。她吃惊地看着他的手，然后抬头望着他。随即，她奋力起身下车，手里仍旧握着那束水仙花，花茎已经压扁蔫掉了。他们沿着小径走了一会儿，经过许多墓碑和养着鸭子的水塘，直到他领着她跨过草地，来到标示着他们父亲坟墓的那块石头面前。
菲比的手指沿着铭刻在黑色花岗岩上的名字和日期划动。他再次猜想她在想些什么。那个名叫艾尔·辛普森的男人才是她的父亲——晚上他陪她玩拼图，旅途回来总会给她捎上她喜欢的唱片；他常常让她骑在自己的肩膀上，好让她能触摸到枫树高处的叶子。对于她来说，这一碑花岗岩，这一个名字并没有任何意义。
戴维·亨利·迈克凯利斯特。菲比慢慢地、大声念出这些字。它们溢满了她的嘴，重重地坠落在世上。
“我们的父亲，”他说。
“我们的天父，”她说，“愿人都尊你的名为圣。”
“不，”他吃了一惊，说，“我们的父亲。我的父亲，也是你的。”
“我们的父亲，”她重复道。他有一股受挫感，因为她的话是如此平淡，毫无感情，好像这在她的生命里无关
重要。
“你很难过，”她观察到。“如果我的父亲死了，我也会很难过的。”
保罗很震惊。是的，事实如此——他很难过。他的愤怒已经烟消云散，突然间，他能从一个不同的角度看待父亲。他的存在使父亲每一次投目，每一次呼吸都会想起那个他所作出的无法改变的选择。这些年来，卡罗琳寄来的菲比的宝丽莱快照被藏在暗房一个抽屉的最里边，直至看管人去世才被发现；还有保罗保存着的、父亲那唯一一张家庭照片。照片中他们站在房子的门廊，而那个家园如今已经不复存在。另有数千张其他人的照片，一张又一张地，父亲让影象层层叠加，力图遮掩那个他无法改变的时刻；然而往事依旧浮现，犹如回忆般挥之不去，又如梦境般强劲有力。
菲比，他的妹妹，一个埋藏了四分之一个世纪的
秘密。
保罗退后几步走回到砾石小径上。他停了下来，双手插在口袋里。树叶在风卷起的漩涡中打转，报纸的碎片漂浮在一排排白色的石头之上。云朵遮住了太阳，在地上投射出形状各异的阴影；阳光闪烁着，洒落在墓碑、草地和树上。树叶在微风中轻轻摇曳，长长的野草沙沙作响。
刚开始，歌声很微弱，就像是微风中的潜流，如此细微，以致他要竖起耳朵才能听到。他转过头。菲比，仍然站在墓碑旁，一只手放在黑色花岗岩的边缘，唱起歌来。坟墓上的草飘动着，树叶在舞动。这是一首圣歌，有一种隐隐约约的熟悉感。她咬字不太清晰，但声音纯净而甜美。墓园的其他到访者都朝着她的方向望去，看着头发灰白、穿着伴娘服的菲比。她的站姿有点奇怪，吐字不太清楚，歌声却柔和而无拘无束。保罗吞了一口口水，盯着自己的鞋子。他意识到，自己的余生都将面对这种煎熬——明知道菲比行动笨拙，因为与人不同而遭遇各种困难，但其直率而真诚的爱仍将推动他将这一切抛诸脑后。
因为她的爱，是的。同时，被这歌声所淹没似的，他意识到这也是出于他对她新生的、单纯的爱。
她的歌声清澈高昂，游走于树叶间，透过阳光，溅落在砾石和小草上。他想象着音符像石头落入水中一样在空中坠落，在看不见的世界里激起涟漪，一波波歌声，一波波阳光：他的父亲试图让一切定格，但世界是流动的，无从限定。
树叶起伏，阳光遨游。保罗忆起这首古老的圣歌的歌词，和谐地附和着。菲比似乎没有察觉。她继续唱着，像风一样接受了他的声音。他们的歌声相互交融。音乐发自他的体内，仿佛肉体里的低鸣；音乐也回荡在体外，她的声音与他的如出一辙。曲终之时，他们站在原地，沐浴在午后洁净的阳光中。风向转了，把菲比的头发吹得紧贴脖子，也将落叶沿着破旧的石栏底部吹散开去。
一切都慢了下来，直至整个世界都沉浸在这萦绕的时刻。保罗静静地站着，等待着接下来即将发生的一切。
几秒种过去了，一切如常。
然后菲比慢慢地转身，抚平起皱的裙子。
一个简单的动作，却让整个世界重新
运转起来。
保罗注意到她的手指甲修剪得很短，紧靠花岗岩墓碑的手看起来如此优雅。他妹妹的手很小巧，就像他们母亲的手一样。他走过草地，拍了拍她的肩膀，带她回家。
注：出自圣经，祷告语，有时会在婚礼的祷告中出现。
部分——母亲的婚礼后，哥哥保罗带菲比来到父亲的墓前……
阅读小提示：本文作者现任肯塔基大学英文系助理教授，也是美国各大文学奖项的常客。《不存在的
女儿》为其出版的第一部长篇小说。本选段有一定难度，但用词地道，语句优美，不妨熟读几遍，仔细体会。
hey were close to town now. Paul waited for a break in traffic, then turned into the Lexington cemetery[墓地], past the gatehouse[门楼] made of stone. He parked beneath an elm[榆树] tree that had survived a hundred years of drought[干旱] and disease and got out of the car. He walked around to Phoebe’s door and opened it,
offering his hand. She looked at it, surprised, then up at him. Then she pushed herself out of the seat on her own, still holding the daffodils[水仙花], their stems[茎]
crushed and pulpy[柔软的] now. They followed the path for a while, past the monuments[纪念碑] and the pond with the ducks, until he guided her across the grass to the stone that marked their father’s grave.
Phoebe traced her fingers over the names and dates engraved[雕刻] in the dark granite[花岗岩]. He wondered again what she was thinking. Al Simpson was the man she called her father. He did puzzles with her in the
evenings, and brought her favorite albums home from his trips; he used to carry her on his shoulders so that she could touch the high leaves of the sycamores[枫树]. It couldn’t mean anything to her, this slab[板，片] of granite, this name.
David Henry McCallister. Phoebe read the words out loud, slowly. They filled her mouth and fell heavily into the world.
“Our father,” he said.
“Our father,” she said, “who art in heaven,
hallowed be thy name注.”
“No,” he said, surprised. “Our father. My father. Yours.”
“Our father,” she repeated, and he felt a surge of frustration[挫折], for her words were agreeable,
mechanical[呆板的], of no significance in her life.
“You’re sad,” she observed, then. “If my father died,
I’d be sad too.”
Paul was startled. Yes, that was it – he was sad. His anger had cleared, and suddenly he could see his father differently. His very presence must have reminded his father in every glance, with every breath, of the choice he’d made and could not undo. Those Polaroids[宝丽莱相机]
of Phoebe that Caroline had sent over the years, found hidden in the back of a darkroom[暗房] drawer after the
curators[保管员] had gone; the single photograph of his father’s family
too, the one Paul still had, standing on the porch of their lost home. And the thousands of others, one after another, his
father layering[分层堆积] image on image, trying to obscure[隐藏] the
moment he could never change, and yet the past rising up
anyway, as persistent[持久的] as memory, as powerful as dreams.
Phoebe, his sister, a secret kept for a quarter of a century.
Paul walked a few feet back to the gravel[沙砾] path. He paused, his hands in his pockets, leaves swirling[打转] up in the eddies[旋涡] of wind, a scrap[碎片] of newspaper floating over the rows of white stones. Clouds moved against the sun, making
patterns on the land, and sunlight flashed on the headstones, the grass and trees. Leaves tapped lightly in the breeze, and the long grass rustled[发出沙沙声].
At first the notes were thin, almost an undercurrent[暗流] to the breeze, so subtle[细微的] that he had to strain[拉紧] to hear them. He turned. Phoebe, still standing by the headstone, her hand resting
on its dark granite edge, had begun to sing. The grass over the graves was moving and the leaves were stirring. It was a hymn[圣歌],
vaguely[模糊地] familiar. Her words were indistinct[不清楚的], but her voice was pure and sweet, and other visitors to the cemetery were glancing in her direction, at Phoebe with her graying hair and bridesmaid’s dress, her awkward[笨拙的，奇怪的]
stance[姿态], her unclear words, her carefree[无忧无虑的],
fluted[柔和的] voice. Paul swallowed, stared at his shoes. For the rest of his life, he realized, he would be torn like this, aware of Phoebe’s awkwardness, the difficulties she encountered simply by being different in the world, and yet propelled[推进] beyond all this by her direct and guileless[坦率的] love.
By her love, yes. And, he realized, awash[淹没的]
in the notes, by his own new and strangely
uncomplicated love for her.
Her voice, high and clear, moved through the leaves, through the sunlight. It splashed[溅落] onto the gravel, the grass. He imagined the notes falling into the air like stones into water, rippling[起波纹] the invisible surface of the world. Waves of sound, waves of light: his father had tried to pin everything down, but the world was fluid[流动的] and could not be contained.
Leaves lifted; sunlight swam. The words of this old hymn came back to him, and Paul picked up the harmony. Phoebe did not seem to notice. She sang on, accepting his voice as she might the wind. Their singing merged, and the music was inside him, a humming[嗡嗡声] in his flesh, and it was outside, too, her voice a twin to his own. When the song ended, they stayed as they were in the clear pale light of the afternoon. The wind shifted, pressing Phoebe’s hair against her neck, scattering old leaves along the base of the worn stone fence.
Everything slowed, until the whole world was caught in this single hovering[盘旋] moment. Paul stood very still, waiting to see what would happen next.
For a few seconds, nothing at all.
Then Phoebe turned, slowly, and smoothed her wrinkled skirt.
A simple gesture, yet it set the world back in motion.
Paul noted how short and clipped her fingernails were, how delicate[优雅的] her wrist looked against the granite headstone. His sister’s hands were small, just like their mother’s. He walked across the grass and touched her shoulder, to take her home.
他们快到市区了。保罗等到交通稍微缓和后，调转车头朝列克星顿墓园开去，穿过石制的门楼进去。他把车停在一棵熬过了一百多年干旱与虫害的榆树下，然后下车。他绕到菲比那边，打开车门并伸出手。她吃惊地看着他的手，然后抬头望着他。随即，她奋力起身下车，手里仍旧握着那束水仙花，花茎已经压扁蔫掉了。他们沿着小径走了一会儿，经过许多墓碑和养着鸭子的水塘，直到他领着她跨过草地，来到标示着他们父亲坟墓的那块石头面前。
菲比的手指沿着铭刻在黑色花岗岩上的名字和日期划动。他再次猜想她在想些什么。那个名叫艾尔·辛普森的男人才是她的父亲——晚上他陪她玩拼图，旅途回来总会给她捎上她喜欢的唱片；他常常让她骑在自己的肩膀上，好让她能触摸到枫树高处的叶子。对于她来说，这一碑花岗岩，这一个名字并没有任何意义。
戴维·亨利·迈克凯利斯特。菲比慢慢地、大声念出这些字。它们溢满了她的嘴，重重地坠落在世上。
“我们的父亲，”他说。
“我们的天父，”她说，“愿人都尊你的名为圣。”
“不，”他吃了一惊，说，“我们的父亲。我的父亲，也是你的。”
“我们的父亲，”她重复道。他有一股受挫感，因为她的话是如此平淡，毫无感情，好像这在她的生命里无关
重要。
“你很难过，”她观察到。“如果我的父亲死了，我也会很难过的。”
保罗很震惊。是的，事实如此——他很难过。他的愤怒已经烟消云散，突然间，他能从一个不同的角度看待父亲。他的存在使父亲每一次投目，每一次呼吸都会想起那个他所作出的无法改变的选择。这些年来，卡罗琳寄来的菲比的宝丽莱快照被藏在暗房一个抽屉的最里边，直至看管人去世才被发现；还有保罗保存着的、父亲那唯一一张家庭照片。照片中他们站在房子的门廊，而那个家园如今已经不复存在。另有数千张其他人的照片，一张又一张地，父亲让影象层层叠加，力图遮掩那个他无法改变的时刻；然而往事依旧浮现，犹如回忆般挥之不去，又如梦境般强劲有力。
菲比，他的妹妹，一个埋藏了四分之一个世纪的
秘密。
保罗退后几步走回到砾石小径上。他停了下来，双手插在口袋里。树叶在风卷起的漩涡中打转，报纸的碎片漂浮在一排排白色的石头之上。云朵遮住了太阳，在地上投射出形状各异的阴影；阳光闪烁着，洒落在墓碑、草地和树上。树叶在微风中轻轻摇曳，长长的野草沙沙作响。
刚开始，歌声很微弱，就像是微风中的潜流，如此细微，以致他要竖起耳朵才能听到。他转过头。菲比，仍然站在墓碑旁，一只手放在黑色花岗岩的边缘，唱起歌来。坟墓上的草飘动着，树叶在舞动。这是一首圣歌，有一种隐隐约约的熟悉感。她咬字不太清晰，但声音纯净而甜美。墓园的其他到访者都朝着她的方向望去，看着头发灰白、穿着伴娘服的菲比。她的站姿有点奇怪，吐字不太清楚，歌声却柔和而无拘无束。保罗吞了一口口水，盯着自己的鞋子。他意识到，自己的余生都将面对这种煎熬——明知道菲比行动笨拙，因为与人不同而遭遇各种困难，但其直率而真诚的爱仍将推动他将这一切抛诸脑后。
因为她的爱，是的。同时，被这歌声所淹没似的，他意识到这也是出于他对她新生的、单纯的爱。
她的歌声清澈高昂，游走于树叶间，透过阳光，溅落在砾石和小草上。他想象着音符像石头落入水中一样在空中坠落，在看不见的世界里激起涟漪，一波波歌声，一波波阳光：他的父亲试图让一切定格，但世界是流动的，无从限定。
树叶起伏，阳光遨游。保罗忆起这首古老的圣歌的歌词，和谐地附和着。菲比似乎没有察觉。她继续唱着，像风一样接受了他的声音。他们的歌声相互交融。音乐发自他的体内，仿佛肉体里的低鸣；音乐也回荡在体外，她的声音与他的如出一辙。曲终之时，他们站在原地，沐浴在午后洁净的阳光中。风向转了，把菲比的头发吹得紧贴脖子，也将落叶沿着破旧的石栏底部吹散开去。
一切都慢了下来，直至整个世界都沉浸在这萦绕的时刻。保罗静静地站着，等待着接下来即将发生的一切。
几秒种过去了，一切如常。
然后菲比慢慢地转身，抚平起皱的裙子。
一个简单的动作，却让整个世界重新
运转起来。
保罗注意到她的手指甲修剪得很短，紧靠花岗岩墓碑的手看起来如此优雅。他妹妹的手很小巧，就像他们母亲的手一样。他走过草地，拍了拍她的肩膀，带她回家。
注：出自圣经，祷告语，有时会在婚礼的祷告中出现。