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Text B The Lost Childhood（第1页）

TextBTheLostChildhood

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GrahamGreene

&isonlyinchildhoodthatbookshaveanydeepinfluenourlives.Inlaterlifeweadmire，weareeained，wemaymodifysomeviewswealreadyhold，butwearemorelikelytofindinbooksmerelyaationofwhatisinourmindsalready:asinaloveaffairitisourowweseereflectedflatteringlyback.

Butinchildhoodallbooksarebooksofdivination，tellingusaboutthefuture，auellerwhoseesalohecardsordeathbywatertheyiure.Isupposethatiswhybooksexcitedussomuch.Whatdetnowadaysfrtoequaltheextaiofourteenyears?OfcourseIshouldbeiohearthatanewnovelbyMr.E.M.Foihisspring，butIeverparethatmildexpeofcivilizedpleasurewiththemissedheartbeat，theappalledgleeIfeltwhenIfoundonalibraryshelfanard，PercytaianleyWeymanwhiotreadbefore.No，itisinthoseearlyyearsthatIwouldlookforthecrisis，themomeookainitsjouro>

IrememberdistinctlythesuddehwhichakeyturnedinalodIfoundIcouldread—notjustthesentenareadingbookwiththesyllablescoupledlikerailwaycarriages，butarealbook.Iter-coveredwiththepictureofaboy，boundandgagged，danglingattheendofaropeihewaterrisihewaist—aureofDixoective.AllalongsummerholidayIkeptmysecret，asIbelieved:IdidnotwantanybodytoknowthatIcouldread.IsupposeIhalfsciouslyrealizedevehiswasthedangerousmoment.IwassafesolongasIotread—thewheelshadurn，buturestoodaroundonbookshelveseverywherewaitiochoose—thelifeofacharteredatperhaps，aialcivilservant，aplanterina，asteadyjobinabank，happinessauallyoiofdeath，forsurelywechooseourdeathmuchaswechrowsoutofouradourevasions，outofourfearsandoutofourmomentse.Isupposemymothermusthavedisysecret，foronthejourneyhomeIresehetrainwithanotherrealbook，acopyofBallaheCoralIslandwithonlyasiuretolookat，acoloredfroIwouldadmitnothing.Alltheloaredattheoureandhebook.

Butthereohome（somanyshelvesfefamily）thebookswaited—onebookinparticular，butbeforeIreaedowakeafewothersatrandomfromtheshelf.Eachwasawhichthechilddreamedthathesawlifemoving.HereiampeddramatiseveralcolorstainGilsoeAeroplahavereadthatbooksixtimesatleast—thestoryofalostcivilizationintheSaharaandofavillaielanelikeaboxkiteandbombsthesizeoftennisballswhoheldthegolden.Itwassavedbythehero，ayoungsubalterothepiratecamptoputtheaeroplaofa.Heturedandwatchedhisenemiesdighisgrave.HewastobeshotatdaassthetimeandkeephismindfromunfortablethoughtstheamiableYaeplayedcardswithhim—themildnurserygameofKuhnKahatnameontheedgeoflifehauntedmeforyears，uorestatlastinoneofmyowhagameofpokerplayedielysimilarces.

AndhereisSophyofKravoniabyAnthooryofakit-maidwhobecameaqueehefirstfilmsIeversaw，about1911，wasmadefromthatbook，andIhearstilltherumbleoftheQueen’sgunsgthehighKravoniaenhollowlyoutofasiheaheStoryofFrancisCludde，aherbooksatthattimeofmylifeKingSolomon’sMines.

Thisbookdidnotperhapsprovidethecrisis，butitlyiure.IfithadhatromantictaleofAllanQuartermaiis，Good，aheachGagool，wouldIat19havestudiedtheappoioftheialOffidverynearlypitheNigerianNavyforadlater，whensurelyIoughttohavekheoddAfrifixationremained.In1935Ifoundmyselfsickwithfeveronacampbediive’shutwithadlegoingoutiywhiskybottleandaratmovingintheshadows.Wasn’tittheiionofGagoolwithherbareyellowskull，thewrihatmovedandtractedlikethehoodofacobra，thatledmetoworkallthrough1942iuffyoffiFreetown，SierraLeomuohelandoftheKukuahedesertaainrangeofSheba’sBreast，andatin-roofedhouseonabitofswherethevulturesmovedlikedomesticturkeysandthepi-dogskeptmeawakeonmoonlightnightswiththeirwailing，aewomeheclub，butthetwobeloahesamet，aly，tothesameregioiioy，ofnotknowingthewayabout.OleoGagoolaters，oinZigitaontheLiberiaheFreneaborder，whessatieredhutwiththeirhaheireyesaadrumaayedbehindcloseddoorswhilethebigbushdevil—whomitwouldmeaosee—movedbetwees.

ButKingSolomon’sMinesotfinallysatisfy.Itwasahekeydid.GagoolIcshewaitformeindreamseverynightinthepassagebythelinencupboard，henurserydoor?Sheuestowait，whenthemindissickhnowsheisdressediheologitsofDespairandspeaksinSpenser’sats:

Theloethegreatersin.

&ersierpu.

Yes，Gagoolhasremaipartoftheimagination，butQuartermainandCurtis—weren’tthey，evenwhenIwasonlytenyearsold，alittletoogoodtobetrue?Theyweremenofsuyieldiheywouldonlyadmittoafaultioshowhowitmightbeovere）thattheersonalityofachildotrestfaialshoulders.Achild，afterall，knowsmostofthegame—itisonlyahathelacks.Heisquitewellawareofcowardice，shame，de，disappoi.SirHenryCurtisperarogfromadozenwoundsbutfightingoainstthehordesofTwalawastooheroic.ThesemenwerelikePlatoheywerenotlifeasonehadalreadybeguntoknowit.

ButsIwasfourteenbythattime—ItookMissMarjorieBowen’sTheViperofMilanfromthelibraryshelf，thefutureforbetterorworsereallystruomeowrite.AlltheotherpossiblefuturesslidaotentialcivilservaheclerkhadtolookforotherinitatioionofMissBowen’smagoexercisebooks—storiesof16th-turyItalyor12th-glahenormousbrutalityandadespairingromanticism.ItwasasifIhadbeensuppliedondforallwithasubject.

Why?OnthesurfaceTheViperofMilanisooryofawarbetweenGianGaleazzoVisti，DukeofMilan，andMastinodellaScala，DukeofVerona，toldwithzestanddanamazingpictorialsense.Whydiditanddexplaierriblelivingworldofthestoairsadormitory?ItwasnogoodinthatrealworldtodreamthatonewouldeverbeaSirHenryCurtis，butdellaScalawhoatlastturnedfromaneverpaidarayedhisfriendsanddieddishonouredandafailureevewaseasierforachildtoesdhismask.AsforVisti，withhisbeauty，hispatiendhisgeniusforevil，Ihadwatchedhimpassbymanyatimeinhisbladaysuitsmellingofmothballs.Hiser.Heexercisedterrorfromadistancelikeasnowcloudovertheyoungfields.Goodnesshasonlyondaperfeationinahumanbodyandneverwillagain，butevilalwaysfihere.Humabladwhitebutbladgrey.IreadallthatinTheViperofMilanandIlookedroundandIsawthatit>

&herthemeIfouheendofTheViperofMilan—youwillrememberifyouhaveo—esthegreatspletesuccess—dellaScalaisdead，Ferrara，Verona，Novara，Mantuahaveallfallen，themessengerspourinwithnewsoffreshvictories，thewholeworldoutsideisgup，andVistisitsahewi.IwasnotontheclassicalsideorIwouldhavediscovered，Isuppose，iureinsteadofinMissBowehesenseofdoomthatliesoversuccess—thefeelingthatthependulumisabouttoswing.Thattoomadesense;onelookedaroundandsawthedoomedeverywhere—therunnerwhoonedaywouldsagoverthetape;theheadoftheschoolwhooordevil，duringfortydrearyundistinguishedyears;thescholar...andwhensuctotoueselftoo，howevermildly，onelypraythatfailurewouldnotbeheld.

Onehadlivedforfourteenyearsinawildjury，buthshadbeeurallyoofollowthem.ButIthinkitwasMissBoaremademewanttowrite.Oneotreadherwithoutbelievingthattowritewastoliveandtoenjoy，andbeforeonehaddisistakeitwastoolate—thefirstbookonedoesenjoy.Anywayshehasgiveern—religionmightlaterexplaiherterms，butthepatterhere—perfectevilwalkingtheworldwhereperfectgoodeverwalkagain，andonlythepehatafteralliiaisfied，andoftehatmyhandhadherthanKingSolomohatthefutureIhadtakendownfromthenurseryshelfhadbeenadistrictoffiSierraLeooursofmalarialdutyandafinishingdoseofblackwaterfeverwhenthedaapproached.Whatisthegoodofwishing?Thebooksarealwaysthere，themomentofcrisiswaits，andnowouriurakingdowureahepages.InhispoemGermie:

Ishadowsandtwilights

Wherechildhoodhadstrayed

Thewreatsorrowswereborn