柳向春︱凡是"国宝",都要争取:香港回购文物记
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-b/-d/-g/-wg,-p/-t/-k/-wk。
-wg>-wgɦ>-wɦ>-wh。-g>-gɦ>-ɦ>-h。-d>-dɦ>…>-jlh>-jh(…表示过程未明)。-b,部分演变为-wg,与-wg一起演变到-wh;部分演变为-d,与-d一起演变到-jh。
比如说,-p既可能直接变为-ʔ,也可能先合并到-t再一起变。比如说,-k既可能演变到无韵尾韵,也可能在部分方言的部分韵部里有演变到i韵尾或u韵尾的演变(比如,-aik>ᴀiʔ>ᴀi,-ɑk>-ᴀuk>ᴀuʔ>ᴀu,-ok>-ouk>-ou)。比如说,具体哪些字派到三声中的哪些声调,各地也可能不同。比如说,也有可能有些地方实际是经过「…>-ʔ>-ʔh」的过程来演变的。比如说,在一些方言里,入声演变的过程中可能还涉及l类韵尾。……这些都是具体方言的研究内容了,这里就不赘述了。
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The Nobel Prize in Literature is broken. On Friday, the Swedish Academy, which awards the prize, announced that it will not name a laureate this year, a decision that results from a scandal within its ranks—a "sex abuse" scandal, as the Times push alert, which broke the news to me early in the morning, put it, though that salacious phrase both overplays and underplays the confusing turn of events that has led to this remarkable impasse.
Here is an attempt at a summary. In November, the Swedish newspaper Dagens Nyheter reported that eighteen women had accused a man connected to the Swedish Academy of sexual harassment and assault, behavior that apparently began at least twenty years ago. The man, it emerged, was Jean-Claude Arnault, a French photographer, whose wife, the poet Katarina Frostenson, is a member of the academy; together, they own and operate Forum, a prestigious cultural club in Stockholm that received funding from the academy. In light of the allegations, Sara Danius, the academy's permanent secretary, swiftly cut ties with Forum and hired a law firm to investigate the academy's relationship with the club. "Financial irregularities" were discovered. The firm also found that the Nobel's strict secrecy rules had been broken; it seems that Arnault repeatedly leaked the names of winners, presumably with Frostenson's help—not an insignificant matter when you consider the frenzied betting that takes place before the prize is announced each year. (Arnault has denied all allegations. Frostensen has not commented publicly on the scandal.)
The academy began to fall apart. Three members resigned after the body declined to expel Frostensen. So, eventually, did Danius, who was elected to her post in 2015 and is the first woman ever to hold it. Many people felt that it was wrong for a woman to take the fall for a man's egregious misdeeds, particularly in the age of #MeToo; crowds of protesters, most of them women, gathered in the square outside the academy's headquarters to voice support for Danius. More members resigned, including Frostensen. And yet members of the academy, who are appointed for life, cannot technically resign. Empty seats remain vacant until their occupants die, though King Carl XVI Gustaf, the academy's patron, has said that he will change that rule. Perhaps as a signal of what might happen if he doesn't, the current recommended reading on the literature prize's Web site is "Lord of the Flies," by the Nobel laureate William Golding.
But new members can only be approved by a twelve-member quorum, and the shrunken Academy now has ten active members instead of its usual eighteen: a Catch-22 if there ever was one. To make matters even more convoluted, the academy could have awarded the prize this year, if it chose to. Only eight members are needed to constitute a quorum for voting, which operates by a simple majority. But the academy deemed it wise to postpone the proceedings until it gets its house in order—the first time it will have done so since 1949, when the academy decided that no nominee met its criteria. (William Faulkner was eventually chosen, and received his prize a year late.) To compensate, two winners will be announced next year, which raises the possibility that Philip Roth will at last receive the recognition that he and his fans have long craved and still manage to not quite get a full piece of the pie.
A man manipulating his cultural prestige to sinister ends, a scapegoated woman made to take the fall, literary squabbling and backstabbing galore: the Nobel scandal is truly a story for our times, though details like the flummoxed king and the arcane quorum procedure give it the sheen of fiction. It seems inevitable that all this chaos will damage the prestige of the Nobel Prize in Literature. Maybe the bigger surprise is that it has managed to maintain its lustre for so long. Why, after all, do we get so worked up about which writer a committee of Swedish intellectuals chooses to anoint in any given year? For people who care about books, the Nobel announcement day is like a secular Christmas. First there is the pleasure of speculating about what gift we might be given. Preferences are expressed; bets are placed at Ladbrokes; the odds are discussed and argued over, without the slightest shred of evidence to give credence to any particular hunch over another. Then the announcement finally comes, and is greeted with joy (Alice Munro), bemusement (Patrick Modiano), rancor (Mo Yan), or a mix of the above (Bob Dylan). The Dylan situation was particularly instructive. Partisans celebrated his win as the pinnacle in a lifetime of achievements, the ultimate halo for their trickster saint. Detractors questioned whether he had the right to be considered a writer at all, let alone a great one. It was October, 2016; with the Presidential election looming, you wouldn't think that any of this would matter in the least. But it felt like it did, and the feeling was wonderful. Arguing over the Nobel made art briefly seem just as important as politics—which, sometimes, it is.
Now we have been reminded that behind the mystical Nobel curtain is a small, fairly homogenous group of fallible Swedes who have taken it upon themselves to arbitrate all of world literature, and that reminder punctures the aura of supreme election that the prize has accrued. Writing about the academy's scandal for the Opinion page of the Times, the novelist and critic Tim Parks called the prize "nonsense." Dylan himself might agree with that—recall his ghosting of the academy, which culminated in the now lesser scandal of his possibly plagiarized acceptance speech—and so, for that matter, might Doris Lessing, who enraged her critics when she refused to accept the prize with gratitude or grace. Parks takes issue with the whole conceit of literary prizes, and he has a point. Literature is not like a sport, in which rank can be determined by contest, nor is it an entity that can be weighed or measured like a handsome squash or a blue-ribbon pig. Parks has scorn for writers who lust after the prize as if it were an objective validation of their life's work. "Literary style distinguishes itself by its distance from the other styles that surround it, implying a community of readers with a shared knowledge of other literary works, of standard language usage and cultural context," he writes. "What sense does it make for a group from one culture—be it Swedish, American, Nigerian or Japanese—to seek to compare a Bolivian poet with a Korean novelist, an American singer-songwriter with a Russian playwright, and so on?"
It doesn't. Still, the prize serves another real function: exposure. I confess that I had never given any thought to Patrick Modiano until I woke up one October morning and saw that he had won the Nobel. Reading him became one of the most rewarding literary experiences of my life. In the United States, where translation is heinously undervalued, there are few ways to bring international writers to prominence, and no better way than the Nobel. This is why the academy's choice of Kazuo Ishiguro, last year, felt, to me, fairly or unfairly, like a bit of a wasted opportunity—and why others would say exactly the same thing about Dylan.
But that doesn't explain why we root for the writers we love to win, or why we celebrate what we deem the academy's good choices and decry the ones we find bad. Part of the paradoxical fun of the Nobel Prize—of any prize, really—is in finding it trivial, baseless, and stupid in some years, brilliant, inspired, and revelatory in others. We invoke its authority when we agree with it, and dispute its authority when we don't. In other words, we need literature prizes to remind us that literature is above prizes, a point that Louis Menand made in a 2005 article for the magazine. Parks's characterization of the inconsistent, fundamentally incoherent nature of the Nobel Prize and its laureates makes me feel excited about it all over again. There is no reason to compare writers of wildly different genres, styles, backgrounds, and experiences—aside from the fact that they are all inhabiting the earth at the same moment, writing in whichever part of it they find themselves. The unwieldy, utopian impossibility of the Nobel's fundamentally flawed project may be the most exciting thing about it.
There is nothing normative or definitive about the Nobel Prize and its winners. There is no guarantee that the Swedish Academy's choices will stand the test of time. But we already knew that. What makes the prize relevant is our belief that it is. The academy's scandal is a reminder that it owes its legitimacy to us readers. The prize only matters if we care about it, and, on that front, the academy has a lot of convincing to do before 2019 rolls around.
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There's a joke, attributed to Oscar Wilde, that the most frightening sentence in the English language is: 'I had a very interesting dream last night.' If Wilde did say that, it's a safe bet that he wouldn't have liked Insomniac Dreams, because this short book is focused entirely on the dream-life of Vladimir Nabokov.[*] It has at its heart a record of dreams that Nabokov kept for eighty days from October 1964, while he was living at the Montreux Palace Hotel – in terms of his books, after he had finished Pale Fire and before he wrote Ada. He recorded the dreams on waking, using the set-up he employed for writing his books, in his neat pencil handwriting, on lined A6 index cards.
The usual reason people take an interest in their own dreams is to divine their meaning. That wasn't Nabokov's motive. The inspiration for his project came from An Experiment with Time, a book by J.W. Dunne, published in 1927 and renowned in its day. Dunne's theory was that time doesn't only run forwards in a linear direction, and that, as a result, dreams can contain glimpses of the future. Not that dreams, in Dunne's view, are only predictive: they mix past events, future events, and random mental fluff. The experiment of recording dreams at the moment of waking was to get evidence for precognition, through a contemporaneous record of dream-predictions which subsequently turn out to be accurate. An Experiment seems kooky now, but H.G. Wells took an interest, and so did the Tolkien/Lewis Inklings, and J.B. Priestley, among others. Dunne was an aeronautical engineer and former soldier, and part of the appeal of his book was probably that he dressed his speculations with the correct amount of scientific apparatus. It is also evident from reading him that he believed his own theory – so he might be a visionary and a fool and a crank, but he wasn't a liar or a con man.
On that basis, Nabokov gave it a go. He already had a long-standing interest in dreams, which often crop up in his fiction. Gennady Barabtarlo, the Nabokov specialist who compiled, edited and wrote the commentary for Insomniac Dreams, puts together a chapter of dream-extracts from the fiction, divided into categories – filial, precognitive, erotic, 'oneiric realism' and so on. The varieties of dreams in the fiction are unsurprisingly similar to those in the dream-diary. Barabtarlo puts the dreams, and the project of recording them, in the context of Nabokov's troubles with insomnia, which were spectacular. Nabokovians have long known that their hero had problems with sleep – only a lifelong insomniac could have made the beautiful, terrible observation of Transparent Things, 'night is always a giant' – but the specifics are grim even so. 'My usual extent of sleep (apart from periodical insomnias), even if induced by more or less potent pills (at least thrice daily) is a 3+2+1 or at best 4+2+2 or at frequent worst 2+1+1+2+1-hour affair with intervals (+) of hopelessness and nervous urination.' This doesn't sound like much fun at all. A night's sleep:
August 21 [1975]: Sample of a 'good' night. Fell asleep around 8.45 slept till 8.45 with the following toilet interruptions at
10.05 pm
11.05
12.35
1.40 am
2.20
3.45
5.35
6.20
8.45
Let the record show that, on the evidence of the photograph on the book's inside jacket flap, Nabokov's sleep hygiene was poor. There he is, writing in bed! Vladimir: bed is for sleep! Sleep Hygiene 101! Another ignored lesson from Sleep Hygiene 101 is don't look at the time. But you can see that sleep and waking blurred into each other; he might well have been too knackered to write anywhere else. It's tiring to fight a giant.
There is no single key to Nabokov's dream-life: Insomniac Dreams doesn't produce a conclusion or even have a central thesis, and is none the worse for that. There are no revelations in the dreams, not least because we already knew what his dreams were like from his books. As for how the experiment went, he found a couple of bits of evidence for what he thought was precognition, but these seem thin – for instance, a TV programme that appeared to have been foretold by a dream three nights earlier. This doesn't convince, not least because, as Barabtarlo points out, the dream also echoes (as Nabokov didn't realise) one of his own short stories from decades before.
Does it make sense to think that a great writer will have more interesting dreams than the rest of us? Barabtarlo, though he can be unbuttoned ('the English term "novel", a secondhand Italian import, is feckless'), is careful not to make that claim, correctly I think. The dreams are quite difficult to read, not through any density of prose or complication of thought, but because they are not really written – they are not finished prose. Comparison with the inevitably dazzling extracts from Nabokov's fiction make this point. The dreams are not so much fragments of writing as fragments of not-writing or near-writing or pre-writing. Another odd thing about the project is that Nabokov not only had no interest in the interpretation of dreams, he was specifically and explicitly opposed to it. The same was true of Dunne – which is one of the reasons Nabokov was attracted to the Experiment. That's fine, but a large part of the relevance of dreams, for people who are interested in them, is in their interpretation: that's where the meaning is to be located. Abandon the idea of interpreting a dream, and what of interest is left?
I may be biased. A reader's attitude to this whole project will be influenced by her attitude to literary dreams. I'm neutral to sceptical. 'I don't read dreams,' a critic (a good critic) once told me flatly. He meant, dream sequences in novels. Every time I come across a dream sequence in a novel I remember that remark and am tempted to skip. In brutal truth, if you do, you don't miss much. Cyril Connolly once said that if we threw out every novel written by a writer under the age of thirty, it would be 'amusing to note how little is lost'. If you skip dreams in prose fiction, how much are you really missing, in terms of the canon? I can't think of a single great sequence set in a dream in any major novel. Pretty much by definition, dreams don't tell you much about plot or character, so their primary function in fiction is as mood-music. This is often how Nabokov uses them, as a form of emotional syncopation, a kind of psychological off-beat. It may be that if a book is having to resort to a character's dream for mood-music, something about its daylight life is not fully resolved.
That said, the dream diaries have their charm, meaning, they have Nabokov's charm. His tendency to act out versions of his loftiest, lordliest self – a 'set of attitudes, prejudices, habits, remarks, performances which is highly visible, highly stylised, and which I find dull and narrow', as Michael Wood put it – is not present. Instead we find him struggling with sleep, dreaming about appointments in museums and zoology departments (an entire category of what he called 'professional dreams') and remembering his father: 'It is odd that my father who was so good-natured, and gay, is always so morose in my dreams.' He watches rubbish television with Véra, he has a dream in which 'somebody discussed "anti-Semitism in the world of waiters",' he has another in which Pelé shoots a football and he lunges to save it (once a goalkeeper, always a goalkeeper) and, in real life not the dream, almost breaks his hand against the bedside table.
The book needs that charm, because there is otherwise a sense in it of the Montreux years. In the mid-1990s I went on a pilgrimage to the Montreux Palace Hotel, curious to have a look at the place where Nabokov lived for the last fifteen years of his life. I found three things: first, an amazing lack of any reference to the great writer whose long residence there was the hotel's single biggest claim to fame. (I wonder if they've fixed that by now? From the general vibe of comfortable philistinism, I wouldn't bet on it. There's no mention of Nabokov on the hotel website.) Second, it made me realise just how important butterflies were to Nabokov – you notice them straightaway in the lakeside and mountainside setting. (Three days later I met my Italian publisher, who had known Nabokov. The great man once told him he had never been to Venice. The publisher expressed amazement but Nabokov just shrugged and said: 'No butterflies.') Third, the main impression the hotel interior gave was of not being anywhere. It was a version of placelessness, or non-place. That, I think, was what appealed to Nabokov: if he could never get back the world and the language he had lost in exile, he could live in the most luxurious and comfortable version possible of nowhere. I can see why he did that, but I think it contributed something to the airless atmosphere of the books he wrote in Montreux.
I once had a plan to write a radio play imagining Nabokov getting stuck in a lift at the Palace with the heavy rock band Deep Purple, who were recording in Montreux when the casino complex burned down in 1971. The fire was commemorated in their best-known song, 'Smoke on the Water', arguably the most famous riff in all rock music. My ambition has changed over time: instead of writing it, I'd like someone else to write it: ideally, Tom Stoppard. Useful starting point for the stuck-lift conversation: Roger Glover, the band's bassist, said that the title 'Smoke on the Water' came to him in a dream.
[*] Insomniac Dreams by Vladimir Nabokov, edited by Gennady Barabtarlo. (Princeton. 202 pp., £19.95, November 2017, 978 0 691 16794 7).
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