世界上最美丽的英文——情满人间 All That Is beautifuhLove 第一篇: A Sailor' s christmas ifit William J. Lederer Last year at Christmas time my wife, our three boys and I were in France on our way from Paris to Nice. For five wretched days everything had gone wrong. Our hotels were "tourist traps our rented car broke down; we were all restless and irritable in the crowded car. On Christmas Eve, when we checked into a dingy hotel in Nice, there was no Christmas spirit in our hearts It was raining and cold when we went out to eat. We found a drab little joint shoddily decorated for the holidays. It smelled greasy. Only five tables in the restaurant were occupied. There were two German couples, two French families and an American sailor, by himself. In the corner, a piano player listlessly played Christmas music. I was too stubborn and too tired and miserable to leave. I looked around the noticed that the other customers were eating in stony silence. The only person who seemed happy was the American sailor While eating he was writing a letter, and a half-smile covered his face My wife ordered our meal in French. The waiter brought us the wrong thing, so I scolded my wife for being stupid. She began to cry. The boys defended her, and I felt even worse. Then at the table with the French family, on our left, the father slapped one of the children for some minor infraction, and the boy began to cry On our right, the fat, blond German woman began berating her husband All of us were interrupted by an unpleasant blast of cold air. Through the front door came an old French flower woman. She wore a dripping tattered overcoat and shuffled in on wet, rundown shoes. Carrying her basket of flowers, she went from one table to the other Flowers, monsieur? Only one franc. No one bought any Wearily she sat down at a table between the sailor and us. To the waiter she said, "A bowl of soup I haven 't sold a flower afternoon. To the piano player she said hoarsely, "Can you imagine, Joseph, soup Christmas Eve?He pointed to his empty tipping plate The young sailor finished his meal and got up to leave. Putting on his coat, he walked over to the flower womans table. Happy Christmas! he said, smiling, and picking out two corsages, asked, How much are they?
世界上最美丽的英文——情满人间 All That Is Beautiful——Love 第一篇：A Sailor's Christmas Gift William J. Lederer Last year at Christmas time my wife, our three boys and I were in France on our way from Paris to Nice. For five wretched days everything had gone wrong. Our hotels were "tourist traps," our rented car broke down; we were all restless and irritable in the crowded car. On Christmas Eve, when we checked into a dingy hotel in Nice, there was no Christmas spirit in our hearts. It was raining and cold when we went out to eat. We found a drab little joint shoddily decorated for the holidays. It smelled greasy. Only five tables in the restaurant were occupied. There were two German couples, two French families and an American sailor, by himself. In the corner, a piano player listlessly played Christmas music. I was too stubborn and too tired and miserable to leave. I looked around the noticed that the other customers were eating in stony silence. The only person who seemed happy was the American sailor. While eating he was writing a letter, and a half-smile covered his face. My wife ordered our meal in French. The waiter brought us the wrong thing, so I scolded my wife for being stupid. She began to cry. The boys defended her, and I felt even worse. Then at the table with the French family, on our left, the father slapped one of the children for some minor infraction, and the boy began to cry. On our right, the fat, blond German woman began berating her husband. All of us were interrupted by an unpleasant blast of cold air. Through the front door came an old French flower woman. She wore a dripping, tattered overcoat and shuffled in on wet, rundown shoes. Carrying her basket of flowers, she went from one table to the other. "Flowers, monsieur? Only one franc." No one bought any. Wearily she sat down at a table between the sailor and us. To the waiter she said, "A bowl of soup. I haven't sold a flower all afternoon." To the piano player she said hoarsely, "Can you imagine, Joseph, soup on Christmas Eve?" He pointed to his empty tipping plate. The young sailor finished his meal and got up to leave. Putting on his coat, he walked over to the flower woman's table. "Happy Christmas!" he said, smiling, and picking out two corsages, asked, "How much are they?
"Two francs, monsieur. Pressing one of the small corsages flat, he put it into the letter he had written then handed the woman a 20-franc note I dont have change, monsieur, she said, " I'll get some from the waiter. No, ma'am, he said, leaning over and kissing the ancient cheek. This is my Christmas present to you. Straightening up, he came to our table holding the other corsage in front of him. "Sir, he said to me, "may I have permission to present these flowers to your beautiful wife? " In one quick motion, he gave my wife the corsage, wished us a Merry Christmas, and departed Everyone had stopped eating. Everyone was watching the sailor. Everyone was silent A few seconds later, Christmas exploded throughout the restaurant like a bomb The old flower woman jumped up, waving the 20-franc note Hobbling to the middle of the floor, she did a merry jig and shouted to the piano player, Joseph, my Christmas present, and you shall have half so you can have a feast too "The piano player began to beat out Good King Wenceslaus, hitting the keys with magic hands, nodding his head in rhythm My wife waved her corsage in time with the rhythm. She was radiant and appeared 20 years younger. The tears had left her eyes and the corners of her mouth turned up in laughter. She began to sing, and our three sons joined her, bellowing the song with uninhibited enthusiasm Gut, gut, " shouted the Germans. They jumped on their chairs and began singing in German The waiter embraced the flower woman. Waving their arms, they sang in French. The Frenchman who had slapped the boy beat rhythm with a fork against a bottle. The lad climbed on his lap, singing in a youthful soprano The Germans ordered wine for everyone. They delivered it themselves, hugging the other customers, bawling Christmas greetings. One of the French families ordered champagne and made the rounds, kissing each one of us on each cheek. The owner of the restaurant started singing"The First Noel, and we all joined in, half of us crying People crowded in from the street until many customers were standing. The walls shook as hands and feet kept time to the yuletide carols. A few hours earlier, a few people had been spending a miserable evening in a shoddy restaurant. It ended up being the happiest, the very best Christmas Eve they had ever spent This, Admiral McDonald, is what I am writing you about. As the top man in the Navy, you should know about the very special gift that the U.S. Navy gave to my family -to me and to the other people in that restaurant. Because your young sailor had the Christmas spirit in his soul, he released the love and joy that had been smothered within us by anger and disappointment. He gave us Christmas
"Two francs, monsieur." Pressing one of the small corsages flat, he put it into the letter he had written, then handed the woman a 20-franc note. "I don't have change, monsieur," she said, "I'll get some from the waiter." "No, ma'am," he said, leaning over and kissing the ancient cheek. "This is my Christmas present to you." Straightening up, he came to our table holding the other corsage in front of him. "Sir," he said to me, "may I have permission to present these flowers to your beautiful wife?" In one quick motion, he gave my wife the corsage, wished us a Merry Christmas, and departed. Everyone had stopped eating. Everyone was watching the sailor. Everyone was silent. A few seconds later, Christmas exploded throughout the restaurant like a bomb. The old flower woman jumped up, waving the 20-franc note. Hobbling to the middle of the floor, she did a merry jig and shouted to the piano player, "Joseph, my Christmas present, and you shall have half so you can have a feast too." The piano player began to beat out "Good King Wenceslaus," hitting the keys with magic hands, nodding his head in rhythm. My wife waved her corsage in time with the rhythm. She was radiant and appeared 20 years younger. The tears had left her eyes and the corners of her mouth turned up in laughter. She began to sing, and our three sons joined her, bellowing the song with uninhibited enthusiasm. "Gut, gut," shouted the Germans. They jumped on their chairs and began singing in German. The waiter embraced the flower woman. Waving their arms, they sang in French. The Frenchman who had slapped the boy beat rhythm with a fork against a bottle. The lad climbed on his lap, singing in a youthful soprano. The Germans ordered wine for everyone. They delivered it themselves, hugging the other customers, bawling Christmas greetings. One of the French families ordered champagne and made the rounds, kissing each one of us on each cheek. The owner of the restaurant started singing "The First Noel," and we all joined in, half of us crying. People crowded in from the street until many customers were standing. The walls shook as hands and feet kept time to the yuletide carols. A few hours earlier, a few people had been spending a miserable evening in a shoddy restaurant. It ended up being the happiest, the very best Christmas Eve they had ever spent. This, Admiral McDonald, is what I am writing you about. As the top man in the Navy, you should know about the very special gift that the U.S. Navy gave to my family - to me and to the other people in that restaurant. Because your young sailor had the Christmas spirit in his soul, he released the love and joy that had been smothered within us by anger and disappointment. He gave us Christmas
第二篇: It Doesn' t Have To Be Right N。w Hendy Irawan Maybe you have realized Everything behind what I saic Maybe you have know That now I am just alone It's maybe not how far And maybe not how old Or how long we have been Because it's just about us It doesn't have to be right now n tell m With all the romantic words Ive been dreaming every moment It doesnt have to be right now Or it could never be And all up to you No. it's not about it Not about him or her Because it's just about us And I'm in love whit you It doesn't have to be right now Cause I can wait till a time When you finally want me Cause I'm in love with you
第二篇：It Doesn't Have To Be Right Now Hendy Irawan Maybe you have realized Everything behind what I said Maybe you have know That now I am just alone It's maybe not how far And maybe not how old Or how long we have been Because it's just about us It doesn't have to be right now When you can tell me With all the romantic words I've been dreaming every moment It doesn't have to be right now Cause it could be someday Or it could never be And all up to you No, it's not about it Not about him or her Because it's just about us And I'm in love whit you It doesn't have to be right now Cause I can wait till a time When you finally want me Cause I'm in love with you
第三篇: The Red Mahogany Piano Many years ago, when I was a young man in my twenties, I worked as a salesman for a St Louis piano company We sold our pianos all over the state by advertising in small town newspapers and then, when we had received sufficient replies, we would load our little trucks, drive into and sell the pianos to those who had replied Every time we advertised in the cotton country of Southeast Missouri, we would receive a eply on a postcard, which said, in effect, Please bring me a new piano for my little granddaughter. It must be red mahogany. I can pay $10 a month with my egg money. "The old lady scrawled2 on and on and on that postcard until she filled it up then turned it over and even wrote on the front around and around the edges until there was barely room for the address Of course, we could not sell a new piano for $10 a month. No finance company would carry a contract with payments that small, so we ignored her postcards One day, however, I happened to be in that area calling on other replies, and out of curiosity decided to look the old lady up. I found pretty much what I expected: The old lady lived in a one-room sharecroppers3 cabin in the middle of a cotton field The cabin had a dirt floor and there were chickens in the house. Obviously, the old lady could not have qualified to purchase anything on credit no car, no phone, no real job othing but a roof over her head and not a very good one at that. I could see daylight through it in several places. Her little granddaughter was about 10, barefoot and wearing a feed sack dress I explained to the old lady that we could not sell a new piano for $10 a month and that she should stop writing to us every time she saw our ad I drove away heartsick, but my advice had no effect she still sent us the same postcard every six weeks. Always wanting a new piano, red mahogany, please, and swearing she would never miss a $10 payment. It was A couple of years later, I owned my own piano company, and when I advertised in that area the postcards started coming to me For months, I ignored them what else could I do? But then, one day when I was in the area something came over me. I had a red mahogany ly little truck. Despite knowing that I was about to make a terrible business decision, I delivered the piano to her and told her I would carry the contract myself at $10 a month with no interest, and that would mean 52 payments. I took the new piano in the house and placed it where I thought the roof would be least likely to rain on it. I admonished her
第三篇：The Red Mahogany Piano Many years ago, when I was a young man in my twenties, I worked as a salesman for a St. Louis piano company. We sold our pianos all over the state by advertising in small town newspapers and then, when we had received sufficient replies, we would load our little trucks, drive into the area and sell the pianos to those who had replied. Every time we advertised in the cotton country of Southeast Missouri, we would receive a reply on a postcard, which said, in effect, “ Please bring me a new piano for my little granddaughter. It must be red mahogany. I can pay $10 a month with my egg money.” The old lady scrawled2 on and on and on that postcard until she filled it up then turned it over and even wrote on the front around and around the edges until there was barely room for the address. Of course, we could not sell a new piano for $10 a month. No finance company would carry a contract with payments that small, so we ignored her postcards. One day, however, I happened to be in that area calling on other replies, and out of curiosity I decided to look the old lady up. I found pretty much what I expected: The old lady lived in a one-room sharecroppers3 cabin in the middle of a cotton field. The cabin had a dirt floor and there were chickens in the house. Obviously, the old lady could not have qualified to purchase anything on credit no car, no phone, no real job, nothing but a roof over her head and not a very good one at that. I could see daylight through it in several places. Her little granddaughter was about 10, barefoot and wearing a feed sack dress. I explained to the old lady that we could not sell a new piano for $10 a month and that she should stop writing to us every time she saw our ad. I drove away heartsick, but my advice had no effect she still sent us the same postcard every six weeks. Always wanting a new piano, red mahogany, please, and swearing she would never miss a $10 payment. It was sad. A couple of years later, I owned my own piano company, and when I advertised in that area, the postcards started coming to me. For months, I ignored them what else could I do? But then, one day when I was in the area something came over me. I had a red mahogany piano on my little truck. Despite knowing that I was about to make a terrible business decision, I delivered the piano to her and told her I would carry the contract myself at $10 a month with no interest, and that would mean 52 payments. I took the new piano in the house and placed it where I thought the roof would be least likely to rain on it. I admonished4 her
and the little girl to try to keep the chickens off it, and I left sure I had just thrown away a new ano But the payments came in, all 52 of them as agreed sometimes with coins taped to a 3x5 inch card in the envelope. It was incredible So, I put the incident out of my mind for 20 years Then one day I was in Memphis on other business, and after dinner at the Holiday Inn on the Levee, I went into the lounge. As I was sitting at the bar having an after dinner drink, I heard the most beautiful piano music behind me. I looked around, and there was a lovely young woman playing a very nice grand piano asked for requests, and when she took a break she sat down at my tabl Arent you the man who sold my grandma a piano a long time ago? It didn't ring a bell6, so I asked her to explain She started to tell me, and I suddenly remembered. My Lord, it was her! It was the little barefoot girl in the feed sack dress She told me her name was Elise and since her grandmother couldnt afford to pay for lessons, she had learned to play by listening to the radio. She said she had started to play in church where she and her grandmother had to walk over two miles, and that she had then played in school, had won many awards and a music scholarship. She had married an attorney in Memphis and he had bought her a grand piano Something else entered my mind. "Look, Elise, I asked, May I ask you what kind of wood is your first piano made of, the one your grandmother bought you? It's red mahogany, she said, Why? couldnt speak. Did she understand the significance of the red mahogany? The unbelievable audacity 7 of her grandmother insisting on a red mahogany piano when no one in his right mind would have sold her a piano of any kind? I think not And then did the old lady understand the marvelous accomplishment of that beautiful, terribly underprivileged8 child in the feed sack dress? No, I'm sure she didnt understand that either But I did, and my throat tightened
and the little girl to try to keep the chickens off it, and I left sure I had just thrown away a new piano. But the payments came in, all 52 of them as agreed sometimes with coins taped to a 3x5 inch card in the envelope. It was incredible! So, I put the incident out of my mind for 20 years. Then one day I was in Memphis on other business, and after dinner at the Holiday Inn on the Levee, I went into the lounge. As I was sitting at the bar having an after dinner drink, I heard the most beautiful piano music behind me. I looked around, and there was a lovely young woman playing a very nice grand piano. Being a pianist of some ability myself, I was stunned by her virtuosity5, and I picked up my drink and moved to a table beside her where I could listen and watch. She smiled at me, asked for requests, and when she took a break she sat down at my table. “Aren't you the man who sold my grandma a piano a long time ago?” It didn't ring a bell6, so I asked her to explain. She started to tell me, and I suddenly remembered. My Lord, it was her! It was the little barefoot girl in the feed sack dress! She told me her name was Elise and since her grandmother couldn't afford to pay for lessons, she had learned to play by listening to the radio. She said she had started to play in church where she and her grandmother had to walk over two miles, and that she had then played in school, had won many awards and a music scholarship. She had married an attorney in Memphis and he had bought her a grand piano. Something else entered my mind. “Look, Elise,” I asked, “ May I ask you what kind of wood is your first piano made of, the one your grandmother bought you?” “It's red mahogany,” she said, “Why?” I couldn't speak. Did she understand the significance of the red mahogany? The unbelievable audacity7 of her grandmother insisting on a red mahogany piano when no one in his right mind would have sold her a piano of any kind? I think not. And then did the old lady understand the marvelous accomplishment of that beautiful, terribly underprivileged8 child in the feed sack dress? No, I'm sure she didn't understand that either. But I did, and my throat tightened
Finally, I found my voice. "I just wondered, I said. "I'm proud of you, but I have to go to my room And I did have to go to my room, because men don't like to be seen crying in public. 第四篇: Friend and friends forever Nancy Hoback a friend is a friend forever They'll ignite a flame of love And set your heart aglow And light up your life From your head down to your toe A faithful friend is always there To lend a helping hand They'll be there to defend your honor And take a firm or gentle stand When you least expect it They may drop in to say Hello, how have you been? I love you with all my heart, My true and special friend. A friend will add beauty to your life Like a sweet scented flower a good conversation may last into the night Or for many, many, hours They will take time to stop and listen When your life is in doubt Thats what a good friend,'s love is all about
Finally, I found my voice. “I just wondered,” I said. “I'm proud of you, but I have to go to my room.” And I did have to go to my room, because men don't like to be seen crying in public. 第四篇：Friend And Friends Forever Nancy Hoback A friend is a friend forever They'll ignite a flame of love And set your heart aglow And light up your life From your head down to your toe A faithful friend is always there To lend a helping hand They'll be there to defend your honor And take a firm or gentle stand When you least expect it They may drop in to say "Hello, how have you been? I love you with all my heart, My true and special friend." A friend will add beauty to your life Like a sweet scented flower A good conversation may last into the night Or for many, many, hours They will take time to stop and listen When your life is in doubt That's what a good friend's love is all about
第五篇: All Mun' s Letters To this day I remember my mums letters. It all started in December 1941. Every night she sat at the big table in the kitchen and wrote to my brother Johnny, who had been drafted that summer. We had not heard from him since the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. didn t understand why my mum kept writing Johnny when he never wrote back. "Wait and see-we 'll get a letter from him one day, " she claimed. Mum said that there was a direct link from the brain to the written word that was just as strong as the light God has granted us. She trusted that this light would find Johnny don t know if she said that to calm herself. dad or all of us down but i do know that it helped us stick together, and one day a letter really did arrive. Johnny was alive on an island in the Pacific I had always been amused by the fact that mum signed her letters, Cecilia Capuzzi", and I teased her about that. Why dont you just write Mum? I said I hadn't been aware that she always thought of herself as Cecilia Capuzzi. Not as Mum. I began seeing her in a new light, this small delicate woman, who even in high-heeled shoes was barely one and a half meters tall She never wore make-up or jewelry except for a wedding ring of gold. Her hair was fine, sleek and black and always put up in a knot in the neck. She wouldnt hear of getting a haircut or a perm. Her small silver-rimmed pince-nez only left her nose when she went to Whenever mum had finished a letter, she gave it to dad for him to post it. Then she put the water on to boil, and we sat down at the table and talked about the good old days when our Italian-American family had been a family of ten: mum, dad and eight children. Five boys and three girls. It is hard to understand that they had all moved away from home to work enroll in the army, or get married. All except me. Around next spring mum had got two more sons to write to Every evening she wrote three different letters which she gave to me and dad afterwards so we could add our greetings ittle by little the rumour about mums letters spread. One day a small woman knocked at our door. Her voice trembled as she asked: Is it true you write letters? "I write to my sons And you can read too? whispered the woman
第五篇：All Mum's Letters To this day I remember my mum's letters. It all started in December 1941. Every night she sat at the big table in the kitchen and wrote to my brother Johnny, who had been drafted that summer. We had not heard from him since the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. I didn't understand why my mum kept writing Johnny when he never wrote back. "Wait and see-we'll get a letter from him one day," she claimed. Mum said that there was a direct link from the brain to the written word that was just as strong as the light God has granted us. She trusted that this light would find Johnny. I don't know if she said that to calm herself, dad or all of us down. But I do know that it helped us stick together, and one day a letter really did arrive. Johnny was alive on an island in the Pacific. I had always been amused by the fact that mum signed her letters, "Cecilia Capuzzi", and I teased her about that. "Why don't you just write 'Mum'?" I said. I hadn't been aware that she always thought of herself as Cecilia Capuzzi. Not as Mum. I began seeing her in a new light, this small delicate woman, who even in high-heeled shoes was barely one and a half meters tall. She never wore make-up or jewelry except for a wedding ring of gold. Her hair was fine, sleek and black and always put up in a knot in the neck. She wouldn't hear of getting a haircut or a perm. Her small silver-rimmed pince-nez only left her nose when she went to bed. Whenever mum had finished a letter, she gave it to dad for him to post it. Then she put the water on to boil, and we sat down at the table and talked about the good old days when our Italian-American family had been a family of ten: mum, dad and eight children. Five boys and three girls. It is hard to understand that they had all moved away from home to work, enroll in the army, or get married. All except me. Around next spring mum had got two more sons to write to. Every evening she wrote three different letters which she gave to me and dad afterwards so we could add our greetings. Little by little the rumour about mum's letters spread. One day a small woman knocked at our door. Her voice trembled as she asked: "Is it true you write letters?" "I write to my sons." "And you can read too?" whispered the woman
The woman opened her bag and pulled out a pi them aloud to me The letters were from the woman's son who was a soldier in Europe, a red-haired boy who mum remembered having seen sitting with his brothers on the stairs in front of our house Mum read the letters one by one and translated them from English to Italian. The womans eyes welled up with tears. "Now I have to write to him, " she said. But how was she going to Make some coffee, Octavia, mum yelled to me in the living room while she took the woman with her into the kitchen and seated her at the table. She took the fountain pen, ink and air mail notepaper and began to write. When she had finished, she read the letter aloud to the woman How did you know that was exactly what I wanted to say? I often sit and look at my boys letters, just like you, without a clue about what to write A few days later the woman returned with a friend, then another one and yet another one-they all had sons who fought in the war, and they all needed letters. Mum had become the correspondent in our part of town. Sometimes she would write letters all day long Mum always insisted that people signed their own letters, and the small woman with the grey hair asked mum to teach her how to do it. I so much want to be able to write my own name so that my son can see it. Then mum held the womans hand in hers and moved her hand over the paper again and again until she was able to do it without her help After that day, when mum had written a letter for the woman, she signed it herself, and her face brightened up in a smile One day she came to us, and mum instantly knew what had happened. All hope had disappeared from her eyes. They stood hand in hand for a long time without saying a word Then mum said: "We better go to church. There are certain things in life so great that we cannot comprehend them. "When mum came back home, she couldn't get the red-haired boy out of her mind After the war was over, mum put away the pen and paper. Finito, "she said. But she was wrong. The women who had come to her for help in writing to their sons now came to her with letters from their relatives in Italy. They also came to ask her for her help in getting American citizenship. On one occasion mum admitted that she had always had a secret dream of writing a novel. "Why didn t you?I asked
"Sure." The woman opened her bag and pulled out a pile of airmail letters. "Read… please read them aloud to me." The letters were from the woman's son who was a soldier in Europe, a red-haired boy who mum remembered having seen sitting with his brothers on the stairs in front of our house. Mum read the letters one by one and translated them from English to Italian. The woman's eyes welled up with tears. "Now I have to write to him," she said. But how was she going to do it? "Make some coffee, Octavia," mum yelled to me in the living room while she took the woman with her into the kitchen and seated her at the table. She took the fountain pen, ink and air mail notepaper and began to write. When she had finished, she read the letter aloud to the woman. "How did you know that was exactly what I wanted to say?" "I often sit and look at my boys' letters, just like you, without a clue about what to write." A few days later the woman returned with a friend, then another one and yet another one--they all had sons who fought in the war, and they all needed letters. Mum had become the correspondent in our part of town. Sometimes she would write letters all day long. Mum always insisted that people signed their own letters, and the small woman with the grey hair asked mum to teach her how to do it. "I so much want to be able to write my own name so that my son can see it." Then mum held the woman's hand in hers and moved her hand over the paper again and again until she was able to do it without her help. After that day, when mum had written a letter for the woman, she signed it herself, and her face brightened up in a smile. One day she came to us, and mum instantly knew what had happened. All hope had disappeared from her eyes. They stood hand in hand for a long time without saying a word. Then mum said: "We better go to church. There are certain things in life so great that we cannot comprehend them." When mum came back home, she couldn't get the red-haired boy out of her mind. After the war was over, mum put away the pen and paper. "Finito," she said. But she was wrong. The women who had come to her for help in writing to their sons now came to her with letters from their relatives in Italy. They also came to ask her for her help in getting American citizenship. On one occasion mum admitted that she had always had a secret dream of writing a novel. "Why didn't you?" I asked
All people in this world are here with one particular purpose, she said. Apparently, mine is to write letters She tried to explain why it absorbed her so A letter unites people like nothing else. It can make them cry, it can make them laugh There is no caress more lovely and warm than a love letter, because it makes the world seem very small, and both sender and receiver become like kings in their own kingdoms. My dear. a letter is life itself! Today all mums letters are lost. But those who got them still talk about her and cherish the memory of her letters in their hearts 至今我依然记得母亲的信。事情要从1941年12月说起。母亲每晚都坐在厨房的大饭桌旁边 给我弟弟约翰写信。那年夏天约翰应征入伍。自从日本袭击珍珠港以后,他就一直杳无音信。 约翰从未回信,我不明白母亲为何还要坚持写下去。 可母亲还是坚持说:“等着瞧吧,总有一天他会给我们回信的。”她深信思想和文字是直接相 连,这种联系就像上帝赋予人类的光芒一样强大,而这道光芒终会照耀到约翰的身上。 虽然我不肯定她是否只是在安慰自己,或是父亲,或者是我们几个孩子,但我们一家人却因 此更加亲密。而最终我们终于等到了约翰的回信,原来他驻扎在太平洋的一个岛屿上,安然 无恙。 母亲总以“塞西莉娅·卡普奇”署名,每每令我忍俊不禁,还要嘲笑她几句。我问:“为什么 不直接写‘母亲’呢?” 以前我一直没有留意到她把自己当成塞西莉娅·卡普奇,而不是母亲。我不禁以新的眼光打量 自己的母亲,她是多么优雅,又是那么矮小,就算穿上高跟鞋,她的身高依然不足一米五。 母亲向来素面朝天,除了手上戴的婚戒,她基本是不戴其他的首饰。她的头发顺滑乌亮,盘 在颈后,从不剪短或烫曲。只有在睡觉的时候,她才摘下那副小小的银丝眼镜。 每次母亲写完信,就会把信交给父亲去邮寄。然后她把水烧开,和我们围坐在桌旁,聊聊过 去的好日子。从前我们这个意裔的美国家庭可是人丁旺盛:父母亲和我们八个兄弟姐妹- 五男三女,济济一堂。现在他们都因工作、入伍或婚姻纷纷离开了家,只有我留下来,想想 真觉匪夷所思 第二年春天,母亲也要开始给另外两个儿子写信了。每天晚上,她先写好三封内容不同的信 交给我和父亲,然后我们再加上自己的问候。 母亲写信的事渐渐传开。一天,一个矮小的女人来敲我们家的门,用颤抖的声音问:“你真的 会写信吗?” “我写给我的儿子。” “那么你也能读信咯?”女人小声问
"All people in this world are here with one particular purpose," she said. "Apparently, mine is to write letters." She tried to explain why it absorbed her so. "A letter unites people like nothing else. It can make them cry, it can make them laugh. There is no caress more lovely and warm than a love letter, because it makes the world seem very small, and both sender and receiver become like kings in their own kingdoms. My dear, a letter is life itself!" Today all mum's letters are lost. But those who got them still talk about her and cherish the memory of her letters in their hearts. 至今我依然记得母亲的信。事情要从 1941 年 12 月说起。母亲每晚都坐在厨房的大饭桌旁边， 给我弟弟约翰写信。那年夏天约翰应征入伍。自从日本袭击珍珠港以后，他就一直杳无音信。 约翰从未回信，我不明白母亲为何还要坚持写下去。 可母亲还是坚持说：“等着瞧吧，总有一天他会给我们回信的。” 她深信思想和文字是直接相 连，这种联系就像上帝赋予人类的光芒一样强大，而这道光芒终会照耀到约翰的身上。 虽然我不肯定她是否只是在安慰自己，或是父亲，或者是我们几个孩子，但我们一家人却因 此更加亲密。而最终我们终于等到了约翰的回信，原来他驻扎在太平洋的一个岛屿上，安然 无恙。 母亲总以“塞西莉娅•卡普奇”署名，每每令我忍俊不禁，还要嘲笑她几句。我问：“为什么 不直接写‘母亲’呢？” 以前我一直没有留意到她把自己当成塞西莉娅•卡普奇，而不是母亲。我不禁以新的眼光打量 自己的母亲，她是多么优雅，又是那么矮小，就算穿上高跟鞋，她的身高依然不足一米五。 母亲向来素面朝天，除了手上戴的婚戒，她基本是不戴其他的首饰。她的头发顺滑乌亮，盘 在颈后，从不剪短或烫曲。只有在睡觉的时候，她才摘下那副小小的银丝眼镜。 每次母亲写完信，就会把信交给父亲去邮寄。然后她把水烧开，和我们围坐在桌旁，聊聊过 去的好日子。从前我们这个意裔的美国家庭可是人丁旺盛：父母亲和我们八个兄弟姐妹—— 五男三女，济济一堂。现在他们都因工作、入伍或婚姻纷纷离开了家，只有我留下来，想想 真觉匪夷所思。 第二年春天，母亲也要开始给另外两个儿子写信了。每天晚上，她先写好三封内容不同的信 交给我和父亲，然后我们再加上自己的问候。 母亲写信的事渐渐传开。一天，一个矮小的女人来敲我们家的门，用颤抖的声音问：“你真的 会写信吗？” “我写给我的儿子。” “那么你也能读信咯？”女人小声问
“当然。” 女人打开背包,掏出一叠航空信。“请,请您大声读给我听好吗?” 信是女人在欧洲参战的儿子写来的,母亲依稀还记得他的模样,他有一头红色的头发,常和 他的兄弟一起坐在我们家门前的楼梯上。母亲把信一封接一封地从英文翻成意大利文读出来。 听完,那女人双眼噙着泪水说:“我一定要给他写回信。”可是她该怎么办呢? “奥塔维娅,去冲杯咖啡来。”母亲在客厅大声叫我,然后把那女人领到厨房桌旁坐下,拿出 钢笔、墨水和信纸开始写信。写完后为她大声读出来。 “这正是我想说的话,您是怎么知道的呢?” “我也和你一样,常常坐在那里看儿子的来信,完全不知道写什么好。” 几天后,女人回来,带来一个朋友,后来又来一个,再一个……他们都有儿子在战场上奋战, 都需要写信。妈妈变成了我们城镇的通讯员,有时她一整天都在写回信。 母亲常常坚持让大家签上自己的名字。一位头发灰白的女人要母亲教她怎么签名。“我真想亲 手写下自己的名字,好让儿子可以看到。”于是母亲手把手地教她在纸上一遍一遍书写,直到 她自己可以签名 第二天,母亲帮那个女人写好信,由她亲自签名,女人的面容在微笑中变得灿烂了 有一天她来我家,眼里全无希望的光芒,母亲立刻明白了。两人握着手,久久无语。后来母 亲说:“我们去教堂吧。生命中有些事情太深奥,我们无法理解。”母亲回家后,一直记着那 个红头发的小男孩。 战争结束后,母亲收起纸笔,说:“都结束了。”可是她错了。那个曾让母亲帮忙给儿子写信 的女人又来了,带着意大利亲人的来信。他们还让母亲帮忙帮他们的亲属申请入籍。 一次母亲承认她心里一直有一个愿望,就是要写一本小说。“为什么不写呢?”我问。 母亲试着解释她为何如此沉迷写信,“每个人来到这个世界都有一个目的。显然,我就是来写 信的。” “信无可替代地把人与人连在一起,让人笑,让人哭。一封情书比任何爱抚更令人觉得亲爱 和温暖,因为它让世界变小,写信人和收信人都成为自己世界里的国王。亲爱的,信就是生 命本身!” 今天,母亲所有的信己经遗失。但是那些收到信的人仍在谈论她,并把有关信的记忆珍藏在
“当然。” 女人打开背包，掏出一叠航空信。“请，请您大声读给我听好吗？” 信是女人在欧洲参战的儿子写来的，母亲依稀还记得他的模样，他有一头红色的头发，常和 他的兄弟一起坐在我们家门前的楼梯上。母亲把信一封接一封地从英文翻成意大利文读出来。 听完，那女人双眼噙着泪水说：“我一定要给他写回信。”可是她该怎么办呢？ “奥塔维娅，去冲杯咖啡来。”母亲在客厅大声叫我，然后把那女人领到厨房桌旁坐下，拿出 钢笔、墨水和信纸开始写信。写完后为她大声读出来。 “这正是我想说的话，您是怎么知道的呢？” “我也和你一样，常常坐在那里看儿子的来信，完全不知道写什么好。” 几天后，女人回来，带来一个朋友，后来又来一个，再一个……他们都有儿子在战场上奋战， 都需要写信。妈妈变成了我们城镇的通讯员，有时她一整天都在写回信。 母亲常常坚持让大家签上自己的名字。一位头发灰白的女人要母亲教她怎么签名。“我真想亲 手写下自己的名字，好让儿子可以看到。”于是母亲手把手地教她在纸上一遍一遍书写，直到 她自己可以签名。 第二天，母亲帮那个女人写好信，由她亲自签名，女人的面容在微笑中变得灿烂了。 有一天她来我家，眼里全无希望的光芒，母亲立刻明白了。两人握着手，久久无语。后来母 亲说：“我们去教堂吧。生命中有些事情太深奥，我们无法理解。”母亲回家后，一直记着那 个红头发的小男孩。 战争结束后，母亲收起纸笔，说：“都结束了。”可是她错了。那个曾让母亲帮忙给儿子写信 的女人又来了，带着意大利亲人的来信。他们还让母亲帮忙帮他们的亲属申请入籍。 一次母亲承认她心里一直有一个愿望，就是要写一本小说。“为什么不写呢？”我问。 母亲试着解释她为何如此沉迷写信，“每个人来到这个世界都有一个目的。显然，我就是来写 信的。” “信无可替代地把人与人连在一起，让人笑，让人哭。一封情书比任何爱抚更令人觉得亲爱 和温暖，因为它让世界变小，写信人和收信人都成为自己世界里的国王。亲爱的，信就是生 命本身！” 今天，母亲所有的信已经遗失。但是那些收到信的人仍在谈论她，并把有关信的记忆珍藏在 心
