A. G.加德納 林羽竹

A friend of mine， to whom I owe so much of my gossip that I sometimes think that he does the work and I only take the collection， told me the other day of an incident at a picture exhibition which struck me as significant of a good deal that is wrong with us to-day. He observed two people in ecstasies before a certain landscape. It was quite a nice picture， but my friend thought their praises were extravagant. Suddenly one of the two turned to the catalogue. “Why， this is not the Leader picture at all，” said she. “It is No. So-and-so.” And forthwith the two promptly turned away from the picture they had been admiring so strenuously， found No. So-and-so， and fell into raptures before that.

Now I am not going to make fun of these people. I am not going to make fun of them because I am not sure that I don’t suffer from their infirmity. If I don’t I am certainly an exceptional person， for the people who really think for themselves are almost as scarce as virtuous people were found to be in the Cities of the Plain1. We are most of us second-hand thinkers， and second-hand thinkers are not thinkers at all. Those good people before the picture were not thinking their own thoughts： they were thinking what they thought was the right thing to think. They had the luck to find themselves out. Probably it did not do them any good， but at least they knew privately what humbugs they were， what empty echoes of an echo they had discovered themselves to be. They had been taught—heaven help them！—to admire those vacant prettinesses of Leader and they were so docile that they admired anything they believed to be his even when it wasn’t his.

It reminds me of the story of the two Italians who quarrelled so long and so bitterly over the relative merits of Tasso and Ariosto that at last they fought a duel. And as they lay dying on the ground one of them said to the other， “And to think that I have never read a line of them.” “Nor I either，” said the other. Then they expired. I do not suppose that story is true in fact， but it is true in spirit. Men are always dying for other people’s opinions， prejudices they have inherited from somebody else， ideas they have borrowed second-hand. Many of us go through life without ever having had a genuine thought of our own on any subject of the mind. We think in flocks and once in the flock we go wherever the bellwether leads us.

It is not only the ignorant who are afflicted with this servility of mind. Horace Walpole was enraptured with the Rowley Poems when he thought they were the work of a medi?val monk： when he found they were the work of Chatterton himself his interest in them ceased and he behaved to the poet like a cad. Yet the poems were far more wonderful as the productions of the “marvellous boy” of sixteen than they would have been as the productions of a man of sixty. The literary world of the eighteenth century thought Ossian2 hardly inferior to Homer; but when Macpherson’s forgery was indisputable it dropped the imposture into the deepest pit of oblivion. Yet， as poetry， it was as good or bad—I have never read it—in the one case as in the other.

There is a delicious story told by Anatole France which bears on this subject. In some examination in Paris the Military Board gave the candidates a piece of dictation consisting of an unsigned page. It was printed in the papers as an example of bad French. “Wherever did these military fellows，” it was asked， “find such a farrago of uncouth and ridiculous phrases？” In his own literary circles Anatole France himself heard the passage held up to laughter and torn to tatters. The critic who laughed loudest， he says， was an enthusiastic admirer of Michelet. Yet the passage was from Michelet himself， from Michelet at his best， from Michelet in his finest period. How the great sceptic must have enjoyed that evening！

It is not that we cannot think. It is that we are afraid to think. It is so much easier to go with the tide than against it， to shout with the crowd than to stand lonely and suspect in the midst of it. Even some of us who try to escape this hypnotism of the flock do not succeed in thinking independently. We only succeed in getting into other flocks. Think of that avalanche of crazy art that descended on us some years ago， the Cubists and Dottists and Spottists and Futurists and other cranks， who filled London with their shows， and set all the “advanced” people singing their praises. They were not real praises that expressed genuine feeling. They were the artificial enthusiasms of people who wanted to join in the latest fashion. They would rave over any imbecility rather than not be in the latest fashion—rather than not be thought clever enough to find a meaning in things that had no meaning.

We are too timid to think alone， too humble to trust our own feeling or our own judgment. We want some authority to lean up against， and when we have got it we mouth its shibboleths with as little independent thought as children reciting the “twice-times” table. I would rather a man should think ignorantly than that he should be merely an echo. I once heard an Evangelical clergyman in the pulpit， speaking of Shakespeare， gravely remark that he “could never see anything in that writer.” I smiled at his na?veté， but I respected his courage. He couldn’t see anything in Shakespeare and he was too honest to pretend that he could. That is far better than the affectations with which men conceal the poverty of their minds and their intellectual servility.

In other days the man that dared to think for himself ran the risk of being burned. Giordano Bruno， who was himself burned， has left us a description of the Oxford of his day which shows how tyrannical established thought can be. Aristotle was almost as sacred as the Bible， and the University statutes enacted that “Bachelors and Masters who did not follow Aristotle faithfully were liable to a fine of five shillings for every point of divergence and for every fault committed against the Logic of the Organon.” We have liberated thought from the restraints of the policeman and the executioner since then， but in liberating it we have lost our reverence for its independence and integrity. We are free to think as we please， and so most of us cease to think at all， and follow the fashions of thought as servilely as we follow the fashions in hats.

The evil， I suppose， lies in our education. We standardise our children. We aim at making them like ourselves instead of teaching them to be themselves—new incarnations of the human spirit， new prophets and teachers， new adventurers in the wilderness of the world. We are more concerned about putting our thoughts into their heads than in drawing their thoughts out， and we succeed in making them rich in knowledge but poor in wisdom. They are not in fear of the stake， but they are in fear of the judgment of the world， which has no more title to respect than those old statutes of Oxford which we laugh at to-day. The truth， I fear， is that thought does not thrive on freedom. It only thrives under suppression. We need to have our liberties taken away from us in order to discover that they are worth dying for.

不久前，我的一位朋友（我從他那里得到的內(nèi)幕消息如此之多，以至于我有時認(rèn)為，他才是為報社寫新聞稿的人，而我只是個收集者）告訴了我一件發(fā)生在畫展上的事。我認(rèn)為這件事很重要，它讓我們了解到現(xiàn)在的問題。他注意到有兩個人在某幅風(fēng)景畫前顯得很是入迷。那幅畫相當(dāng)不錯，但我朋友認(rèn)為他們的夸贊有點兒過。突然，那兩人中的一人看向作品一覽表。她說：“哎呀，這畫根本就不是首推畫，首推的是某某號?！比缓?，兩人便毫不猶豫地離開了剛剛還在熱烈贊美的那幅畫，找到了某某號，又心醉神迷地看起來。

我不是要在此笑話這些人。之所以不會笑話他們，是因為我不能確定自己沒有他們這個缺點。如果我沒有，那我肯定是個出類拔萃的人，因為真正獨立思考的人幾乎就同《平原上的城市》中有德行的人一樣稀少。大多數(shù)人都是二手思考者，而這樣的思考者根本不算思考者。最初那幅畫作前駐足夸贊的善心人沒有自己的想法：他們想的是他們認(rèn)為對的事。他們有幸發(fā)現(xiàn)了自我。這或許不能給他們帶來任何好處，但至少他們私下發(fā)現(xiàn)了自己是什么樣的騙子，是對某回聲所作的多么空洞的附和。他們受到的教育——老天爺，幫幫他們吧！——就是欣賞首推畫作種種空虛的美麗，他們是如此順從，以至于只要他們認(rèn)為是那位畫家的作品，他們就予以贊美，即使那其實不是他創(chuàng)作的。

這讓我想起關(guān)于兩個意大利人的故事：他們?yōu)榱怂髋c阿里奧斯托的優(yōu)缺點而爭吵，吵了很長時間，并且非常激烈，最終以決斗了結(jié)。當(dāng)二人躺在地上奄奄一息時，一個人對另一個人說：“想了想，這兩人的作品我一句也沒讀過?！绷硪粋€說：“我也沒讀過?！比缓笏麄儽銛嗔藲?。我不認(rèn)為故事是真的，但其內(nèi)在意義是真的。人們總是為他人的意見爭得你死我活，即從他人那里繼承的偏見、傳播的二手觀點。很多人終其一生都不曾對任何需要思考的事物有過真正屬于自己的想法。我們?nèi)嗽埔嘣?，一旦從眾，就只會盲目跟從意見領(lǐng)袖。

遭受這種思維奴性之苦的不只是無知的人。賀拉斯·沃波爾曾對《羅利詩集》很入迷，他以為這是一位中世紀(jì)僧人的作品;當(dāng)他發(fā)現(xiàn)這本詩集是查特頓本人的作品時，他立馬就沒了興趣，還像個無賴似的對待那位詩人。然而，同樣那些詩，出自一個16歲的“了不起的男孩”可比出自一個60歲的老翁要精彩得多了。18世紀(jì)文學(xué)界的人認(rèn)為，奧西恩幾乎不亞于荷馬;不過，當(dāng)麥克弗森的偽作被坐實后，該作品被扔進(jìn)了遺忘的深淵。然而，作為詩歌，好壞是不變的（我尚未讀過那些詩）。

阿納托爾·法郎士講過一個有趣的故事，就是關(guān)于這個話題的。在巴黎舉行的某場考試中，陸軍部發(fā)給參加考試的人一頁沒有作者名字的聽寫材料。這份材料還作為糟糕法語的典型上了報。有人質(zhì)問：“軍隊里這些人究竟是從哪里找到如此不雅的荒唐文字的？”在法郎士所處的文學(xué)圈子中，他聽到人們嘲笑、貶低那段文字。他說，笑得最響的評論家是米舍萊的狂熱崇拜者。然而，這段文字就出自米舍萊本人，是處于最佳狀態(tài)、處于創(chuàng)作巔峰期的米舍萊寫的。那個偉大的懷疑論者那天晚上如果聽說了這個故事一定很開心！

我們并非不能思考，而是害怕思考。隨波逐流要比逆流而行容易得多，人云亦云要比獨持質(zhì)疑容易得多。即使我們之中一些想逃離群體性催眠的人也沒能做到獨立思考，只是成功進(jìn)入了其他群體。想想幾年前我們遭遇的那場瘋狂藝術(shù)的雪崩吧。立體派、圓點派、斑點派、未來派和其他形形色色的古怪畫家，在倫敦大搞畫展，讓所有的“開明”人士為他們大唱贊歌。那些不是表達(dá)真情實感的真贊美，只是想躋身最新時尚之人的假熱情。他們會熱烈贊美任何愚蠢的言行，只要能跟上最新潮流，只要不會被認(rèn)為不夠聰明，無法在毫無意義的事物中找到意義。

我們太膽小，以至于不能獨自思考;我們太謙虛，以至于不能相信自己的感情或者判斷。我們想依靠某些專家，當(dāng)我們有了專家，我們就會說專家說過的話，像背誦死板表格的兒童一樣不做獨立思考。我寧愿有人無知地思考，也不愿看到他只是做個傳聲筒。我曾聽到一位福音派神職人員在講壇上談到莎士比亞，他嚴(yán)肅地表示，他“從未發(fā)現(xiàn)那位作家有何過人之處”。他的質(zhì)樸讓我發(fā)笑，但我尊重他的勇氣。他發(fā)現(xiàn)不了莎士比亞有任何過人之處，他也太過誠實，不肯裝出能欣賞的樣子。這比人們?yōu)檠谏w思想的貧乏和智力的奴性而裝出的樣子要好多了。

如果是從前，敢于獨立思考的人要冒被燒死的風(fēng)險。佐旦奴·布魯諾就是被燒死的，他為我們描寫了當(dāng)時的牛津大學(xué)，揭露出名人的既定思想能有多專橫。亞里士多德幾乎就像《圣經(jīng)》一樣神圣，大學(xué)的規(guī)章規(guī)定：“不忠實追隨亞里士多德的學(xué)士和碩士，每次與《工具論》的邏輯產(chǎn)生分歧及違反《工具論》的邏輯時，都將被罰款五先令?！贝撕?，我們已經(jīng)將思想從警察和劊子手的限制中解放了出來，但在解放思想的過程中，我們失去了對思想的獨立性和完整性的尊重。我們現(xiàn)在想怎么思考就怎么思考，于是大多數(shù)人干脆停止了思考，就像卑躬追求時尚帽子那樣追求時尚思潮。

我認(rèn)為，這樣的罪惡來自教育。我們按統(tǒng)一的標(biāo)準(zhǔn)教導(dǎo)孩子。我們的目標(biāo)是把他們教得跟我們一樣，而不是教他們成為他們自己——人類精神的新化身、新預(yù)言家和教師、世界荒野中的新冒險者。我們更關(guān)心的，是將我們的想法灌入他們的頭腦中，而不是將他們的思想引出來。我們成功地使他們擁有豐富的知識，卻讓他們智慧貧乏。他們不怕火刑，卻怕世人的評判，這并不比我們今天所嘲笑的牛津的陳舊規(guī)章更值得尊重?？峙?，事實是思想在自由的環(huán)境中無法茁壯成長。它只有在壓迫下才能旺盛發(fā)展。我們需要讓自由被剝奪，這樣才能發(fā)現(xiàn)，自由值得我們付出生命去爭取。