Yvette 實在是 ......好一個囂張狂妄的台長啊！

不不不！不是這意思啦！聽我說完......

事情是這樣的：

上星期是我們學校的期中考，全校真是「哀鴻遍野」、觸目盡是傷兵。我提前一週考試，所以純上課。可是有些學生躲到最後一排就直接趴下去睡。我看著即將要上的 Marianne Moore 和她的詩，突然悲從中來：這麼棒的詩，就這樣和她們擦肩而過.....我像 Arnold Lobel 畫的那隻貓頭鷹，注定要為這種大事掉幾顆眼淚來主眼淚茶的吧！

平常我不會為這種事「教訓」學生，可是那一天我說話了。

我覺得同學在這門課上睡著是很可惜的事呢! (有兩個人坐直了。)

我這樣說不是因為我太臭屁，自以為教得很好。而是妳們很可能一輩子再也碰不到這位詩人的作品。(另外兩個人也坐直了。)沒多久之後妳們就畢業了，接下來可能就像學長姐一樣過那種三個月在北京、三個月在上海、三個月在台北、剩下來的日子都在各城市的旅館打尖、四處辦活動展覽的日子。很可能你再也沒有一種閒情享受這種純粹的感動。回不到這種讀幾行詩、寫幾行字、畫幾個圖就可以讓你興奮不已的生活。

然後大家全坐直了。後來有五位同學唸詩分享，大家都很專心聽，也很熱情的鼓掌。然後大家又專心聽 Marianne Moore .....一直到下課。

 孺子可教也！

應該就是這個意思。

Marianne Moore (1887-1972)

A Grave

Man looking into the sea,

taking the view from those who have as much right to it as you have to 

          yourself,

it is human nature to stand in the middle of a thing,

but you cannot stand in the middle of this;

the sea has nothing to give but a well excavated grave.

The firs stand in a procession, each with an emerald turkey-foot at the 

          top,

reserved as their contours, saying nothing;

repression, however, is not the most obvious characteristic of the sea;

the sea is a collector, quick to return a rapacious look.

There are others besides you who have worn that look--

whose expression is no longer a protest; the fish no longer investigate

          them

for their bones have not lasted:

men lower nets, unconscious of the fact that they are desecrating a grave,

and row quickly away--the blades of the oars

moving together like the feet of water-spiders as if there were no such

          thing as death.

The wrinkles progress among themselves in a phalanx--beautiful under 

          networks of foam,

and fade breathlessly while the sea rustles in and out of the seaweed;

the birds swim through the air at top speed, emitting cat-calls as hereto-

          fore--

the tortoise-shell scourges about the feet of the cliffs, in motion beneath

          them;

and the ocean, under the pulsation of lighthouses and noise of bellbuoys,

advances as usual, looking as if it were not that ocean in which dropped

          things are bound to sink--

in which if they turn and twist, it is neither with volition nor 

          consciousness.

Silence
My father used to say,
"Superior people never make long visits,
have to be shown Longfellow's grave
or the glass flowers at Harvard.
Self-reliant like the cat—
that takes its prey to privacy,
the mouse's limp tail hanging like a shoelace from its mouth—
they sometimes enjoy solitude,
and can be robbed of speech
by speech which has delighted them.
The deepest feeling always shows itself in silence;
not in silence, but restraint."
Nor was he insincere in saying, "Make my house your inn."
Inns are not residences.