Not long ago， I unearthed a notebook I had long ago misplaced： a small blue 1）ledger in which， for a period of about four years， I recorded the title of each book I was reading as I finished it. The record begins in mid-July of 1983， around the 2）outset of the summer break before my 3）penultimate year of high school， and the first book listed is Dr. Zhivago， by Boris Pasternak. I don’t remember reading that book， or why I thought that the reading of it merited the 4）instigation of a list.

Leafing through the notebook provides me with the pleasure of recovering a cache of longlost photographs. Some of the images are out of focus， some feature individuals whose names have long been forgotten， and others provide moments of sharp recognition. In February， 1984， under the influence of a boyfriend who fancied himself a Wildean wit， I read The Importance of Being Earnest. （You never forget your first aphorist.） That March， I read The Trial， which I vaguely recall being recommended to me by some other young man of high seriousness and literary inclination—but precisely which such young man now escapes me. The May that I was seventeen， I read Middlemarch in the space of two weeks， a reminder of how little else there was to do in my narrow English

coastal town. The Wildean boyfriend lived， exotically enough， in distant London， a useful arrangement if one is developing a taste for nineteenth-century novels.

I made no record of what I thought of any of these books； in my private Goodreads list， there is no starring system. There’s no indication of why I chose the works I did， though since I bought most of my books cheaply， in secondhand shops， the selection was somewhat 5）dictated by availability. Most of them were not assigned texts， at least in the years before I went to university， though there is a certain inevitability about the appearance of many of them： it is 6）axiomatic that a young woman who reads will discover The Bell Jar， as I did in September， 1984. This was a curriculum 7）stumbled into： a few titles culled from the shelves at home； others coming my way from friends at school； and yet others recommended mostly by the Penguin Classics logo on their spine.

My list has its limitations. It’s weighted toward classics of English literature from the nineteenth century and the first half of the twentieth， and， apart from 8）excursions into the Russians and Europeans， it doesn’t range very widely geographically.There was little contemporary literature on it until I discovered the riches of the Picador 9）paperback imprint， while at college. （Milan Kundera， Julian Barnes， Salman Rushdie， Gabriel García Márquez， Italo Calvino， Ian McEwan.） The notebook 10）fizzles out in 1987， around my twenty-first birthday， by which time I was not only studying literature but also reviewing books for a student magazine.

After I found the notebook， I tweeted an image of one of its pages， which covered four months of my reading at the age of seventeen. Among the titles were Great Expectations， The Waves， three Austens， and two Fitzgeralds， as well as books by Elias Canetti， Dostoyevsky， and William Golding， for whom， the notebook reminds me， I had a particular taste at the time. One response： “No fun reads or guilty pleasures？”

It’s a common and easy enough distinction， this separation of books into those we read because we want to and those we read because we have to， and it serves as a useful marketing trope for publishers， especially when they are trying to get readers to take this book rather than that one to the beach. But it’s a flawed and 11）pernicious division.

This linking of pleasure and guilt is intended as an 12） enticement， not as an 13）admonition： reading for guilty pleasure is like letting one’s diet slide for a day—naughty but relatively harmless. The distinction partakes of a debased cultural Puritanism， which insists that the only fun to be had with a book is the 14）frivolous kind， or that it’s necessarily a pleasure to read something accessible and easy. Associating pleasure and guilt in this way presumes an 15）anterior， scolding authority—one which insists that reading must be work.

But there are pleasures to be had from books beyond being lightly entertained. There is the pleasure of being challenged； the pleasure of feeling one’s range and capacities expanding； the pleasure of entering into an unfamiliar world， and being led into empathy with a consciousness very different from one’s own； the pleasure of knowing what others have already thought it worth knowing， and entering a larger conversation. Among my catalogue are some books that I am sure I was—to use an expression applied to elementary-school children—decoding rather than reading. Such， I suspect， was the case with Ulysses， a book I read at eighteen， without having first read The Odyssey， which might have deepened my appreciation of Joyce. Even so—and especially when considering adolescence—we should not underestimate the very real pleasure of being pleased with oneself. What my notebook offers me is a portrait of the reader as a young woman， or at the very least， a sketch. I wanted to read well， but I also wanted to become well read. The notebook is a small record of accomplishment， but it’s also an outline of large aspiration. There’s pleasure in ambition， too.

We have become accustomed to hearing commercial novelists express frustration with the ways in which their books are taken less seriously than ones that are deemed literary： book reviewers don’t pay them enough attention， while publishers give their works safe， predictable cover treatments. In this debate， academic arguments that have been conducted for more than a generation， about the validity or otherwise of a literary 16）canon， meet the marketplace. The debate has its merits， but less discussed has been the converse consequence of the popular-literary distinction： that literary works， especially those not written last year， are placed at the opposite pole to fun.

My list reminds me of a time when I was more or less in ignorance of this 17）proposition. It may not include any examples of what I later learned to call commercial fiction： I did not， for example， read Hollywood Wives， by Jackie Collins， which had been published the same year that I started the list， and I am not sure I had even heard of it. But I can’t imagine that it could have given me more delight than did the romantic 18）travails that ironically unfold in Emma， or that its satisfactions could possibly have been greater than those offered by the lyricism and very adult drama of Tender Is the Night. The 19）fallacy that the pleasures offered by reading must necessarily be pleasures to which a self-defeating sense of shame is attached offers a very 20）impoverished definition of gratification， whatever book we choose to pull from the shelf.

不久前，我扒出一本遺失已久的筆記，那是一個(gè)藍(lán)色小本子，上面記載了大概有四年的時(shí)光中，我所讀過(guò)的每本書(shū)的名字。記錄始于1983年的7月中旬，上高中二年級(jí)前的暑假剛剛開(kāi)始，我寫(xiě)下的第一個(gè)書(shū)名是鮑里斯·帕斯捷爾納克的《日瓦戈醫(yī)生》。時(shí)至今日，我已不記得自己讀過(guò)《日瓦戈醫(yī)生》了，也不知道當(dāng)時(shí)自己為什么覺(jué)得讀這本書(shū)值得記下一筆。

翻閱著筆記本，我愉快得如同重獲一盒遺失多年的舊照：有的照片已經(jīng)模糊不清，有的照片徒有形象但人名卻早已忘卻，另一些照片則勾起了某些清晰的回憶。我那時(shí)的男友以王爾德式才子自許，在他影響下，我在1984年2月讀了《不可兒戲》。（平生頭一次遇到的警句名家，你絕對(duì)忘不了。）3月，我讀了《審判》，依稀記得向我推薦此書(shū)的另外一個(gè)小伙子極為嚴(yán)肅、熱愛(ài)文學(xué)，但我已經(jīng)記不清到底是哪一位了。那年5月，我17歲，兩周內(nèi)讀完《米德?tīng)栺R契》，這不禁讓我想起那時(shí)我在那英格蘭海濱小鎮(zhèn)真是多么的百無(wú)聊賴。很奇怪的是，我的才子男友那時(shí)住在遙遠(yuǎn)的倫敦，不過(guò)對(duì)于正熱衷于十九世紀(jì)小說(shuō)的我來(lái)說(shuō)，倒也不無(wú)裨益。

這些書(shū)我都沒(méi)有寫(xiě)讀后感，它們被一一列入我的私人“好書(shū)”名單，并沒(méi)有分三五九等。至于為什么選擇這些書(shū)也沒(méi)有規(guī)律可循。不過(guò)鑒于我的書(shū)大多是在二手書(shū)店淘來(lái)的便宜貨，挑選的書(shū)籍多少受貨源限制。書(shū)單中大部分書(shū)都不是老師指定的必讀書(shū)目，至少在上大學(xué)前的兩年里，都不是。不過(guò)，很多書(shū)的出現(xiàn)都有著某種必然性。比如，一個(gè)嗜書(shū)的女青年理所當(dāng)然會(huì)發(fā)現(xiàn)《鐘形罩》，正如我在1984年9月與之相遇一樣。這些書(shū)隨興而至，倒也可觀：有些是從我家的藏書(shū)中挑選出來(lái)，有些是從同學(xué)處覓得，然而其他的大都因?yàn)闀?shū)脊上印有“企鵝經(jīng)典”的標(biāo)識(shí)，讓人招架不住。

不過(guò)我的書(shū)單也有局限。書(shū)目主要偏向19世紀(jì)以及20世紀(jì)上半葉的英語(yǔ)文學(xué)經(jīng)典，除此以外只稍稍涉獵幾部俄國(guó)和歐洲文學(xué)作品，地域性不夠?qū)拸V。而且書(shū)單上幾乎沒(méi)有當(dāng)代文學(xué)作品，直到上了大學(xué)，我才發(fā)現(xiàn)騎馬斗牛士出版社出版的豐富的平裝文學(xué)書(shū)系列（包括米蘭·昆德拉、朱利安·巴恩斯、薩爾曼·拉什迪、加夫列爾·加西亞·馬爾克斯、伊塔洛·卡爾維諾、伊恩·麥克尤恩）。1987年，我一邊主修文學(xué)，一邊為一本學(xué)生刊物寫(xiě)書(shū)評(píng)。就在快要21歲生日的時(shí)候，我的筆記戛然而止了。

在發(fā)現(xiàn)這本筆記后，我把其中一頁(yè)拍照并放到了推特微博上，那是17歲那年四個(gè)月的閱讀記錄，其中包括了《遠(yuǎn)大前程》、《海浪》、三本奧斯汀、兩本菲茨杰拉德，還有艾利亞斯·卡內(nèi)蒂、陀思妥耶夫斯基以及威廉·戈?duì)柖〉淖髌?。要不是這本筆記，我還真忘了自已那時(shí)特別愛(ài)看戈?duì)柖∧?。結(jié)果有人回復(fù)說(shuō)：“該看些偉大的悶書(shū)，還是看墮落卻快樂(lè)的？”

像這樣把書(shū)本種類(lèi)分成我們“想”讀和“不得不”讀，是一種十分簡(jiǎn)單也常見(jiàn)的區(qū)分方法。出版商也把這種兩分法當(dāng)成一種有用的營(yíng)銷(xiāo)手段，特別對(duì)于打算去海邊度假的人，在說(shuō)服他們買(mǎi)這一本、而非那一本時(shí)，這種方法特管用。但這種區(qū)分存在缺陷，內(nèi)藏隱患。

它把快樂(lè)與罪惡感聯(lián)系到一起，與其說(shuō)是勸誡，不如說(shuō)是誘惑：閱讀追求帶有罪惡感的快樂(lè)，就像節(jié)食的人在某一天大開(kāi)食誡——雖然淘氣但也無(wú)傷大雅。這種區(qū)分帶有某種低級(jí)的清教文化主義，強(qiáng)調(diào)一本書(shū)帶給我們的唯一樂(lè)趣在于這種輕浮淺薄的感受，或者說(shuō)，淺顯易懂的讀物必定帶來(lái)快樂(lè)。將快樂(lè)和罪惡如此這般聯(lián)系在一起，也意味著還有一種淵源更深的權(quán)威，它一味苛責(zé)，認(rèn)為閱讀一定是件“勞累活”。

但除了輕松休閑，閱讀還帶給我們更多樂(lè)趣：迎接挑戰(zhàn)之樂(lè)，感到界限和能力得到拓寬之樂(lè)，進(jìn)入陌生世界，與異己思想產(chǎn)生共鳴之樂(lè)，習(xí)得他人已然明白的道理，與更多人對(duì)話之樂(lè)。我敢說(shuō)，書(shū)單里有一些書(shū)，我根本談不上閱讀，借用一下小學(xué)生的詞匯，是破譯天書(shū)。在18歲那年，我閱讀《尤利西斯》估計(jì)就是這種情況，如果那時(shí)我先讀過(guò)《奧德賽》，對(duì)喬伊斯的理解應(yīng)該會(huì)更好。即使如此，我們，特別是青少年讀者，不應(yīng)該低估讀書(shū)的真正快樂(lè)，那就是自我滿足。我的筆記就向我展現(xiàn)了一個(gè)讀書(shū)少女的形象，或者至少有那么一個(gè)輪廓，那個(gè)希望好好閱讀，成為博學(xué)之人的我。這本筆記是個(gè)人成就的小小記錄，也勾勒出一種遠(yuǎn)大的志向。抱負(fù)也讓人快樂(lè)。

我們聽(tīng)?wèi)T了商業(yè)小說(shuō)家們的牢騷，說(shuō)他們的作品沒(méi)有得到認(rèn)真對(duì)待，與公認(rèn)的文學(xué)作品沒(méi)法比：書(shū)評(píng)家不夠重視，出版商也只求穩(wěn)妥，封面設(shè)計(jì)不求創(chuàng)意。關(guān)于文學(xué)標(biāo)準(zhǔn)合理與否，學(xué)術(shù)界超過(guò)一個(gè)世代的這一爭(zhēng)論和市場(chǎng)不謀而合。爭(zhēng)論自然有其價(jià)值，但有一點(diǎn)卻很少被談及，那就是把文學(xué)分為通俗和純文學(xué)產(chǎn)生一個(gè)弊端：純文學(xué)作品，尤其是那些有些年頭的作品，常常被放到了“有趣”的對(duì)立面。

我的書(shū)單讓我回想起一段青澀的歲月，那時(shí)我對(duì)這個(gè)命題多少還算懵懂。里面或許沒(méi)有我日后所知的所謂商業(yè)化小說(shuō)。比如，就在我開(kāi)始列出書(shū)單的那一年，杰姬·科林斯出版了《好萊塢的妻子們》，但我并沒(méi)有讀到這本書(shū)，甚至似乎都不曾聽(tīng)說(shuō)過(guò)。不過(guò)我想，無(wú)論如何，它都不會(huì)比《愛(ài)瑪》和《夜色溫柔》帶來(lái)更愉悅的閱讀體驗(yàn)：《愛(ài)瑪》頗具諷刺性地展示愛(ài)情中各種糾纏，讀來(lái)趣味盎然，《夜色溫柔》充滿詩(shī)意又有十足的成人劇范兒，讓人大呼過(guò)癮。認(rèn)為閱讀之樂(lè)非得附帶一種自我否定式的羞恥感是種謬見(jiàn)，無(wú)論我們隨手從書(shū)架上取下哪一本書(shū)，所帶來(lái)的滿足感都遠(yuǎn)非這一謬見(jiàn)所定義的那般單薄。