PART Ⅱ-6

  Andbesidesfishingtherewasreading.

  I’veexaggeratedifI’vegiventheimpressionthatfishingwastheONLYthingIcaredabout.Fishiainlycamefirst,butreadingwasagoodsed.Imusthavebeehertenoreleveartedreading—readingvoluntarily,Imean.Atthatageit’slikediscanewworld.I’masiderablereaderevennow,infacttherearen’tmanyweeksinwhichIdohroughacoupleofnovels.I’mwhatyoumightcallthetypicalBootsLibrarysubscriber,Ialwaysfallforthebest-sellerofthemoment(TheGoodpanions,BengalLancer,Hatter’sCastle—Ifellforeveryohem),andI’vebeenamemberoftheLeftBookClubforayearormore.Andin1918,whenIwastwenty-five,Ihadasortofdebauchofreadingthatmadeacertaindiffereomyoutlook.Butnothingiseverlikethosefirstyearswhenyousuddenlydiscoverthatyouopenapennyweeklypaperandpluraightintothieves’kitsandeseopiumdensandPolynesianislandsandtheforestsofBrazil.

  ItwasfromwhenIwaseleventowhenIwasaboutsixteenthatIgotmybiggestkickoutofreading.Atfirstitwasalwaystheboys’pennyweeklies—littlethinpaperswithvileprintandanillustrationinthreecoloursonthecover—andabitlateritwasbooks.Sherloes,DrNikola,TheIronPirate,Dracula,Raffles.AndNatGouldandRangerGullandachapwhosenameIfetwhowroteboxingstoriesalmostasrapidlyasNatGouldwroteragones.IsupposeifmyparentshadbeenalittlebettereducatedI’dhavehad‘good’booksshoveddownmythroat,DisandThackerayandsoforth,andinfacttheydiddriveusthroughQuentinDurwardatschoolandUncleEzekielsometimestriedtoioreadRuskinandCarlyle.Buttherewerepracticallynobooksinourhouse.Fatherhadneverreadabookinhislife,excepttheBibleandSmiles’sSelfHelp,andIdidn’tofmyownaccordreada‘good’booktillmuchlater.I’mnotsorryithappehatway.IreadthethingsIwaoread,andIgotmoreoutofthemthaoutofthestufftheytaughtmeatschool.

  TheoldpennydreadfulswerealreadygoingoutwhenIwasakid,andIbarelyrememberthem,buttherewasaregularlineofboys’weeklies,someofwhichstillexist.TheBuffaloBillstorieshavego,Ithink,andNatGouldprobablyisn’treadanylonger,butNickCarteraonBlakeseemtobestillthesameasever.TheGemandtheMag,ifI’mrememberingrightly,startedabout1905.TheB.O.P.wasstillratherpiinthosedays,butChums,whichIthinkmusthavestartedabout1903,lendid.Thentherewasanencyclopedia—Idon’trememberitsexaame—whichwasissuedinpennynumbers.Itneverseemedquiteworthbuying,butaboyatschoolusedtogiveawaybaumberssometimes.IfInowknowthelengthoftheMississippiorthediffereweenanoctopusandacuttle-fishortheexapositionofbell-metal,that’swhereIlearfrom.

  Joeneverread.Hewasohoseboyswhoghyearsofschoolingandattheendofitareuoreadtenlinessecutively.Thesightofprintmadehimfeelsick.I’veseenhimpickuponeofmynumbersofChums,readaparagraphortwoaurnawaywithjustthesamemovementofdisgustasahorsewhenitsmellsstalehay.Hetriedtokickmeoutofreading,butMotherandFather,whohaddecidedthatIwas‘thecleverone’,backedmeup.TheywereratherproudthatIshowedatastefor‘book-learning’,astheycalledit.ButiticalofbothofthemthattheywerevaguelyupsetbymyreadingthingslikeChumsandtheUnionJack,thoughtthatIoughttoreadsomething‘improving’butdidn’tknowenoughaboutbookstobesurewhichbookswere‘improving’.FinallyMotholdofased-handcopyofFoxe’sBookofMartyrs,whichIdidhoughtheillustrationsweren’thalfbad.

  Allthroughthewinterof1905IspentapennyonChumseveryweek.Iwasfollowinguptheirserialstory,‘DonovantheDauntless’.DonovantheDauntlesslorerloyedbyanAmerimillioofetcrediblethingsfromvariousersoftheearth.SometimesitwasdiamondsthesizeofgolfballsfromthecratersofvoloesinAfrietimesitetrifiedmammoths’tusksfromthefrozesofSiberia,sometimesitwasburiedIncatreasuresfromthelostcitiesofPeru.Donovaonanewjourneyeveryweek,andhealwaysmadegood.Myfavouriteplaceforreadingwastheloftbehindtheyard.ExceptwhenFatherwasgettingoutfreshsacksofgrainitwasthequietestplathehouse.Therewerehugepilesofsackstolieon,andasortofplasterysmellmixedupwiththesmellofsainfoin,andbunchesofcobwebsinalltheers,andjustovertheplacewhereIusedtolietherewasaholeintheceilingandalathstigoutoftheplaster.Ifeelthefeelingofitnow.Awinterday,justwarmenoughtoliestill.I’mlyingonmybellywithChumsopeninfrontofme.Amouserunsupthesideofasacklikeaclockworktoy,thensuddenlystopsdeadandwatchesmewithhislittleeyesliketibeads.I’mtwelveyearsold,butI’mDonovantheDauwothousandmilesuptheAmazopitchedmytent,asofthemysteriousorchidthatbloomsonahundredyearsaresafeiinboxundermycampbed.IntheforestsallroundHopi-HopiIndians,whopaieethscarletandskinwhitemenalive,arebeatingtheirwar-drums.I’mwatgthemouseandthemouseiswatgme,andIsmellthedustandsainfoinandthecoolplasterysmell,andI’muptheAmazon,andit’sbliss,purebliss.松语文学www.16sy.coM免费小说阅读

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