厄休拉·勒古恩（英语：Ursula Kroeber Le Guin，1929年10月21日－2018年1月22日），美国科幻、女性主义与青少年儿童文学作家。著有小说20余部，并与人合译老子《道德经》。所获文学奖与荣誉不计其数。她深受老子与人类学影响，作品常蕴含道家思想，写作手法流露出民族志风格。
With a clamor of bells that set the swallows soaring, the Festival of Summer came to the city Omelas, bright-towered by the sea. The rigging of the boats in harbor sparkled with flags. In the streets between houses with red roofs and painted walls, between old moss-grown gardens and under avenues of trees, past great parks and public buildings, processions moved. Some were decorous: old people in long stiff robes of mauve and grey, grave master workmen, quiet, merry women carrying their babies and chatting as they walked. In other streets the music beat faster, a shimmering of gong and tambourine, and the people went dancing, the procession was a dance. Children dodged in and out, their high calls rising like the swallows’ crossing flights over the music and the singing. All the processions wound towards the north side of the city, where on the great water-meadow called the Green Fields boys and girls, naked in the bright air, with mud-stained feet and ankles and long, lithe arms, exercised their restive horses before the race. The horses wore no gear at all but a halter without bit.
Their manes were braided with streamers of silver, gold, and green. They flared their nostrils and pranced and boasted to one another; they were vastly excited, the horse being the only animal who has adopted our ceremonies as his own. Far off to the north and west the mountains stood up half encircling Omelas on her bay. The air of morning was so clear that the snow still crowning the Eighteen Peaks burned with white-gold fire across the miles of sunlit air, under the dark blue of the sky. There was just enough wind to make the banners that marked the racecourse snap and flutter now and then. In the silence of the broad green meadows one could hear the music winding through the city streets, farther and nearer and ever approaching, a cheerful faint sweetness of the air that from time to time trembled and gathered together and broke out into the great joyous clanging of the bells.
Joyous! How is one to tell about joy? How describe the citizens of Omelas?
They were not simple folk, you see, though they were happy. But we do not say the words of cheer much any more. All smiles have become archaic. Given a description such as this one tends to make certain assumptions. Given a description such as this one tends to look next for the King, mounted on a splendid stallion and surrounded by his noble knights, or perhaps in a golden litter borne by great-muscled slaves. But there was no king. They did not use swords, or keep slaves. They were not barbarians. I do not know the rules and laws of their society, but I suspect that they were singularly few. As they did without monarchy and slavery, so they also got on without the stock exchange, the advertisement, the secret police, and the bomb. Yet I repeat that these were not simple folk, not dulcet shepherds, noble savages, bland utopians. They were not less complex than us. The trouble is that we have a bad habit, encouraged by pedants and sophisticates, of considering happiness as something rather stupid. Only pain is intellectual, only evil interesting. This is the treason of the artist: a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the terrible boredom of pain. If you can’t lick ’em, join ’em. If it hurts, repeat it. But to praise despair is to condemn delight, to embrace violence is to lose hold of everything else. We have almost lost hold; we can no longer describe a happy man, nor make any celebration of joy. How can I tell you about the people of Omelas? They were not naive and happy children–though their children were, in fact, happy. They were mature, intelligent, passionate adults whose lives were not wretched.O miracle! but I wish I could describe it better. I wish I could convince you.
Omelas sounds in my words like a city in a fairy tale, long ago and far away, once upon a time. Perhaps it would be best if you imagined it as your own fancy bids, assuming it will rise to the occasion, for certainly I cannot suit you all. For instance, how about technology? I think that there would be no cars or helicopters in and above the streets; this follows from the fact that the people of Omelas are happy people. Happiness is based on a just discrimination of what is necessary, what is neither necessary nor destructive, and what is destructive. In the middle category, however–that of the unnecessary but undestructive, that of comfort, luxury, exuberance, etc.–they could perfectly well have central heating, subway trains, washing machines, and all kinds of marvelous devices not yet invented here, floating light-sources, fuelless power, a cure for the common cold. Or they could have none of that; it doesn’t matter. As you like it. I incline to think that people from towns up and down the coast have been coming in to Omelas during thelast days before the Festival on very fast little trains and double-decked trams, and that the train station of Omelas is actually the handsomest building in town, though plainerthan the magnificent Farmers’ Market.
But even granted trains, I fear that Omelas so far strikes some of you as goody-goody. Smiles, bells, parades, horses, bleh. If so, pleaseadd an orgy. If an orgy would help, don’t hesitate. Let us not, however, have temples from which issue beautiful nude priests and priestesses already half in ecstasy andready to copulate with any man or woman, lover or stranger, who desires union with thedeep godhead of the blood, although that was my first idea. But really it would be betternot to have any temples in Omelas–at least, not manned temples. Religion yes, clergyno. Surely the beautiful nudes can just wander about, offering themselves like divinesoufflés to the hunger of the needy and the rapture of the flesh. Let them join theprocessions. Let tambourines be struck above the copulations, and the glory of desirebe proclaimed upon the gongs, and (a not unimportant point) let the offspring of thesedelightful rituals be beloved and looked after by all. One thing I know there is none of inOmelas is guilt. But what else should there be? I thought at first there were not drugs,but that is puritanical.
The term “puritan” was coined in 1560s, which at first was not intended to refer to strict morality,but a reforming attitude towards established churches.
For those who like it, the faint insistent sweetness of drooz mayperfume the ways of the city, drooz which first brings a great lightness and brilliance to the mind and limbs, and then after some hours a dreamy languor, and wonderful visionsat last of the very arcana and inmost secrets of the Universe, as well as exciting thepleasure of sex beyond belief; and it is not habit-forming. For more modest tastes I thinkthere ought to be beer. What else, what else belongs in the joyous city? The sense ofvictory, surely, the celebration of courage. But as we did without clergy, let us do withoutsoldiers. The joy built upon successful slaughter is not the right kind of joy; it will not do;it is fearful and it is trivial. A boundless and generous contentment, a magnanimoustriumph felt not against some outer enemy but in communion with the finest and fairestin the souls of all men everywhere and the splendor of the world’s summer: this is whatswells the hearts of the people of Omelas, and the victory they celebrate is that of life. Ireally don’t think many of them need to take drooz.
Most of the procession have reached the Green Fields by now. A marvelous smell of cooking goes forth from the red and blue tents of the provisioners. The faces of small children are amiably sticky; in the benign grey beard of a man a couple of crumbs of rich pastry are entangled. The youths and girls have mounted their horses and arebeginning to group around the starting line of the course. An old women, small, fat, andlaughing, is passing out flowers from a basket, and tall young men where her flowers intheir shining hair. A child of nine or ten sits at the edge of the crowd, alone, playing on awooden flute. People pause to listen, and they smile, but they do not speak to him, forhe never ceases playing and never sees them, his dark eyes wholly rapt in the sweet,thin magic of the tune.
He finishes, and slowly lowers his hands holding the wooden flute.
As if that little private silence were the signal, all at once a trumpet sounds from the pavilion near the starting line: imperious, melancholy, piercing. The horses rear on their slender legs, and some of them neigh in answer. Sober-faced, the young riders stroke the horses’ necks and soothe them, whispering, “Quiet, quiet, there my beauty, myhope…” They begin to form in rank along the starting line. The crowds along the racecourse are like a field of grass and flowers in the wind. The Festival of Summer has begun.
Do you believe? Do you accept the festival, the city, the joy? No? Then let me describe one more thing.
In a basement under one of the beautiful public buildings of Omelas, or perhaps in the cellar of one of its spacious private homes, there is a room. It has one locked door, and no window. A little light seeps in dustily between cracks in the boards, secondhand from a cobwebbed window somewhere across the cellar. In one corner of the little room a couple of mops, with stiff, clotted, foul-smelling heads, stand near a rusty bucket. The floor is dirt, a little damp to the touch, as cellar dirt usually is. The room is about three paces long and two wide: a mere broom closet or disused tool room. In the room a child is sitting. It could be a boy or a girl. It looks about six, but actually is nearly ten. It is feeble-minded. Perhaps it was born defective or perhaps it has become imbecile through fear, malnutrition, and neglect. It picks its nose and occasionally fumbles vaguely with its toes or genitals, as it sits hunched in the corner farthest from the bucket and the two mops. It is afraid of the mops. It finds them horrible. It shuts its eyes, but it knows the mops are still standing there; and the door is locked; and nobody will come. The door is always locked; and nobody ever comes, except that sometimes-the child has no understanding of time or interval – sometimes the door rattles terribly and opens, and a person, or several people, are there. One of them may come and kick the child to make it stand up. The others never come close, but peer in at it with frightened, disgusted eyes. The food bowl and the water jug are hastily filled, the door is locked, the eyes disappear. The people at the door never say anything, but the child, who has not always lived in the tool room, and can remember sunlight and its mother’s voice, sometimes speaks. “I will be good,” it says. “Please let me out. I will be good!” They never answer. The child used to scream for help at night, and cry a good deal, but now it only makes a kind of whining, “eh-haa, eh-haa,” and it speaks less and less often. It is so thin there are no calves to its legs; its belly protrudes; it lives on a half-bowl of corn meal and grease a day. It is naked. Its buttocks and thighs are a mass of festered sores, as it sits in its own excrement continually.
在欧麦拉斯那众多美丽的公共建筑中的其中一幢的地下室里，亦或在欧麦拉斯那众多宽敞的私人住宅中的其中一户的地窖里，有一个房间。这房间有一扇锁着的门，没有窗户。一点微光从木板上的裂缝间混着尘土钻进屋里，这光是从地窖另一侧某处布满蛛网的窗户透过来的。在这小屋的一角，放着几把墩布，墩布头硬挺挺地结成块，散发着臭味，墩布旁边有一只生锈的桶。地上满是尘垢，摸起来有点湿，正如地窖里的灰尘惯常那般。这小屋大约三步长两步宽：仅一个扫帚柜或废弃的工具间大小。一个孩子在这屋里坐着。说不好它是男是女。它看起来六岁左右，但实际上都快十岁了，是个低能儿。它也许生来如此，也许是因为害怕，营养不良和疏于照管才变成了这样。它蜷缩地坐在离那桶和两把墩布最远的墙角里，在那抠着鼻子，还不时心不在焉笨手笨脚地摆弄自己的脚趾头和生殖器。它害怕那墩布，觉得它们可怕极了。虽然它闭上双眼，但它知道那些墩布还立在那呢；上着锁的门；没人会来的。那门一直锁着；压根儿没人来，除了有时 —— 这孩子没有时间概念也不懂每隔一段时间是指什么 —— 一个或一群人过来把门弄得乒乓作响然后打开。他们中的一个也许会走上前去踢那孩子，让它站起来。虽然其他人从不靠近，但会朝它投去惊恐的、厌恶的眼神。这些人匆匆地把饭碗和水罐填满，再锁上门，便离开了。那些在门口的人从不说话，但这个孩子，它不是一直住在这个工具间里的，它能记起阳光和妈妈的声音，有时，它会开口。它说道，“我会听话的。” “请让我出去吧，我会听话的！”但那些在门口的人从未回应过它。这个孩子过去总是在夜里高声求救，大哭不止，但现在它只发出“嗯—啊，嗯—啊”的号哭，而且它开口说话的次数越来越少了。它太瘦了，连小腿肚子都没有；它的肚皮向前凸起，每天靠着半碗玉米糊和奶油度日；它光着身子，由于长期坐在自己的粪便里，屁股和大腿上全是溃烂的疮。
They all know it is there, all the people of Omelas. Some of them have come to see it, others are content merely to know it is there. They all know that it has to be there. Some of them understand why, and some do not, but they all understand that their happiness, the beauty of their city, the tenderness of their friendships, the health of their children, the wisdom of their scholars, the skill of their makers, even the abundance of their harvest and the kindly weathers of their skies, depend wholly on this child’s abominable misery.
他们都知道它在那，欧麦拉斯的所有人都知道。一些人来看过它，而另一些人仅仅知道它在那便满意了。城里的人都知道它不得不呆在那个小房间里。有的人明白其中缘由，有的人不懂，但所有人都明白 ：他们的幸福，城市的美丽，友谊的温柔，孩子的康健，学者的智慧，匠人的手艺，甚至丰登的富足和宜人的气候 —— 所有这一切都完全地取决于那孩子所承受得那令人厌恶的痛苦。
This is usually explained to children when they are between eight and twelve, whenever they seem capable of understanding; and most of those who come to see the child are young people, though often enough an adult comes, or comes back, to see the child. No matter how well the matter has been explained to them, these young spectators are always shocked and sickened at the sight. They feel disgust, which they had thought themselves superior to. They feel anger, outrage, impotence, despite all the explanations. They would like to do something for the child. But there is nothing they can do. If the child were brought up into the sunlight out of that vile place, if it were cleaned and fed and comforted, that would be a good thing, indeed; but if it were done, in that day and hour all the prosperity and beauty and delight of Omelas would wither and be destroyed. Those are the terms. To exchange all the goodness and grace of every life in Omelas for that single, small improvement: to throw away the happiness of thousands for the chance of the happiness of one: that would be to let guilt within the walls indeed.
The terms are strict and absolute; there may not even be a kind word spoken to the child.
Often the young people go home in tears, or in a tearless rage, when they have seen the child and faced this terrible paradox. They may brood over it for weeks or years. But as time goes on they begin to realize that even if the child could be released, it would not get much good of its freedom: a little vague pleasure of warmth and food, no doubt, but little more. It is too degraded and imbecile to know any real joy. It has been afraid too long ever to be free of fear. Its habits are too uncouth for it to respond to humane treatment. Indeed, after so long it would probably be wretched without walls about it to protect it, and darkness for its eyes, and its own excrement to sit in. Their tears at the bitter injustice dry when they begin to perceive the terrible justice of reality, and to accept it. Yet it is their tears and anger, the trying of their generosity and the acceptance of their helplessness, which are perhaps the true source of the splendor of their lives. Theirs is no vapid, irresponsible happiness. They know that they, like the child, are not free. They know compassion. It is the existence of the child, and their knowledge of its existence, that makes possible the nobility of their architecture, the poignancy of their music, the profundity of their science. It is because of the child that they are so gentle with children. They know that if the wretched one were not there snivelling in the dark, the other one, the flute-player, could make no joyful music as the young riders line up in their beauty for the race in the sunlight of the first morning of summer.
Now do you believe in them? Are they not more credible? But there is one more thing to tell, and this is quite incredible.
At times one of the adolescent girls or boys who go to see the child does not go home to weep or rage, does not, in fact, go home at all. Sometimes also a man or woman much older falls silent for a day or two, and then leaves home. These people go out into the street, and walk down the street alone. They keep walking, and walk straight out of the city of Omelas, through the beautiful gates. They keep walking across the farmlands of Omelas. Each one goes alone, youth or girl man or woman. Night falls; the traveler must pass down village streets, between the houses with yellow-lit windows, and on out into the darkness of the fields. Each alone, they go west or north, towards the mountains. They go on. They leave Omelas, they walk ahead into the darkness, and they do not come back. The place they go towards is a place even less imaginable to most of us than the city of happiness. I cannot describe it at all. It is possible that it does not exist. But they seem to know where they are going, the ones who walk away from Omelas.