The House on Mango Street
Hairs
Boys & Girls
My Name
Cathy Queen of Cats
Our Good Day
Laughter
Gil’s Furniture Bought & Sold
Meme Ortiz
Louie， His Cousin & His Other Cousin
Marin
Those Who Don’t
There Was an Old Woman She Had So Many Children She Didn’t Know What to Do
Alicia Who Sees Mice
Darius & the Clouds
And Some More
The Family of Little Feet
A Rice Sandwich
Chanclas
Hips
The First Job
Papa Who Wakes Up Tired in the Dark
Born Bad
Elenita， Cards， Palm， Water
Geraldo No Last Name
Edna’s Ruthie
The Earl of Tennessee
Sire
Four Skinny Trees
No Speak English
Rafaela Who Drinks Coconut & Papaya Juice on Tuesdays
Sally
Minerva Writes Poems
Bums in the Attic
Beautiful & Cruel
A Smart Cookie
What Sally Said
The Monkey Garden
Red Clowns
Linoleum Roses
The Three Sisters
Alicia & I Talking on Edna’s Steps
A House of My Own
Mango Says Goodbye Sometimes
漫步芒果街
青芒果之味
那些幸福的小雨点
感谢
內容試閱：
回忆是实体的更高形式
代译序
陆谷孙
首次看到译文，据说出自某位“海归”之笔，果然文字清通，读来亲切，兼有详尽注解助读。此书编辑知我喜读，一阵穷追猛打，邀我作序，只好请她把原文寄来。越一日，果有快递上门，把希斯内罗丝的The House on Mango Street寄达，薄薄的40页文字，附前后两幅插图，第一幅以黑白色调为主，上有尖顶旧屋，有东倒西歪的庭院护栅，有矮树，有月亮，有黑猫，有奔逃中回头的女孩，清澈的大眼睛，表情羞涩中略带惶惑;后一幅跃出大片亮黄，俯角下的女孩身影不成比例地拖长到画面之外，画的底部是小朵孤芳，一样拖着阴影。被插图所吸引，我开卷读文字，那原是个“愁多知夜长”的日子，本不想读书写字，可一口气读完这位美国墨裔女作家的中篇，如一川烟草激起满城风絮，竟不由自主地跳出肉身的自我，任由元神跃到半空中去俯察生活:童年、老屋、玩伴、亲人、“成长的烦恼”、浮云、瘦树、弃猫、神话……
我喜欢这部作品，首先是因为希斯内罗丝女士以日记式的断想，形诸真实的稚嫩少女文字，诗化了回忆。就像黑格尔所言，回忆能保存经验， 回忆是内在本质，回忆是实体的更高形式。当我读着作品，感到元神跃出肉身时，应验的正是黑格尔的这些话。近年来，随着反对欧洲中心主义思潮的蔓延，美国文坛另类少数族裔作家(尤其是女作家)的话语空间已远非昔日可比，重要性日渐凸现。开始时，他或她们的回忆或多或少无不带有一种蓄积已久的愤懑;渐渐地，正如米兰?昆德拉所言，“在夕阳的余晖下，所有的一切，包括绞刑架，都被怀旧的淡香所照亮”，多元文化业已是一个文化既成事实，少数族裔作家的作品里也便开始渗入丝丝的温馨暖意，可以说是以一种mellowness在化解最初的bitterness。我读过也教过美籍华裔作家的《女武士》、《唐人》、《喜福会》等作品，拿这些作品与希斯内罗丝的《芒果街上的小屋》作一个比较，上述趋势可以看得比较明白——当然在美华人与墨人的移入方式、人数、作为、地位、对母国文化的认同感等等不尽相同。但回忆成为悲怆中掺加了醇美，从审美的角度看，似更接近“实体的更高形式”，而把场景从麻将桌移到户外，视界也扩展了。
我喜欢这部作品的另一个原因是，正像插图中女孩的眼神，始而回眸，最后怯生生地仰望，作品糅合了回忆和等待。美墨聚居区的少女带上她的书远行了，据她说“我离开是为了回来。为了那些我留在身后的人。为了那些无法出去的人”。(见小说最后三短句)我说“等待”，不说“展望”，是因为像《等待戈多》一样，前一用词拓启了一个开放性的不定阈:忧乐未知，陌阡不识，死生无常，人生如寄;不像“展望”那样给人留下一条光明的尾巴。非此，经验性的回忆无由升华到形而上的哲理高度。笔者渐入老境，虽说一生平淡，也渐悟出“我忆，故我在”和“我等，故我在”的道理。当然，等待什么，那是不可知的。
作品中少数族裔青少年的英语让人耳目一新，本身就是对主流话语的一种反叛。“超短式”的句法(如以“Me”代“As for me”)、不合文法的用语、屡屡插入的西班牙语专名和语词，可以说是族裔的专用符号。除此之外，书中英文由抑扬格的音部和兴之所至的散韵造成的韵律之美，尤为别致，有些段落晓畅可诵。无怪乎，虽有争议，作品会被选作教材，而且受到某些传统主义文评家的褒评。
芒果街上的小屋 我们先前不住芒果街。先前我们住鲁米斯的三楼。再先前我们住吉勒。吉勒往前是波琳娜，再前面，我就不记得了。我记得最清楚的是，搬了好多次家。似乎每搬一次，我们就多出一个人。搬到芒果街时，我们有了六个——妈妈、爸爸、卡洛斯、奇奇，妹妹蕾妮和我。芒果街上的小屋是我们的，我们不用交房租给任何人，或者和楼下的人合用一个院子，或者小心翼翼别弄出太多的声响，这里也没有拿扫帚猛敲天花板的房东。可就算这样，它也不是我们原来以为自己可以得到的那样的房子。我们得赶紧搬出鲁米斯的公寓。水管破了，房东不愿来修理，因为房子太老。我们得快快离开。我们借用着邻居的卫生间，用空的牛奶壶把水装过来。这就是为什么爸妈要找房子，这就是为什么我们搬进了芒果街上的小屋，远远地，从城市的那一边。他们一直对我们说，有一天，我们会搬进一所房子，一所真正的大屋，永远属于我们，那样我们就不用每年搬家了。我们的房子会有自来水和好用的水管。里面还有真正的楼梯，不是门厅台阶，而是像电视上的房子里那样的楼梯。我们会有一个地下室和至少三个卫生间，那样洗澡的时候就不用告诉每个人。我们的房子会是白色的，四周有树木，还有一个很大的院子，草儿生长着，没有篱笆把它们圈起来。这是爸爸手握彩票时提到的房子，这是妈妈在给我们讲的睡前故事里幻想着的房子。可是芒果街上的小屋全然不是他们讲的那样。它很小，是红色的，门前一方窄台阶，窗户小得让你觉得它们像是在屏着呼吸。几处墙砖蚀成了粉。前门那么鼓，你要用力推才进得来。这里没有前院，只有四棵市政栽在路边的小榆树。屋后有个小车库，是用来装我们还没买的小汽车的，还有个小院子，夹在两边的楼中间，越发显得小了。我们的房子里有楼梯，可那只是普通的门厅台阶，而且房子里只有一个卫生间。每个人都要和别人合用一间卧房——妈妈和爸爸、卡洛斯和奇奇、我和蕾妮。我们住在鲁米斯时，有一回学校的嬷嬷经过那里，看到我在房前玩。楼下的自助洗衣店被用木板封了起来，因为两天前刚被洗劫过。为了不走掉生意，主人在木头上涂抹了几个字：“是的，我们在营业”。“你住在哪里呀？”她问。那里。我说，指了指三楼。你住在那里？那里。我不得不朝她指的地方看去——三层楼上，那里墙皮斑驳，窗上横着几根木条，是爸爸钉上去的，那样我们就不会掉出来。你住在那里？她说话的样子让我觉得自己什么都不是。那里。我住在那里。我点头。于是我明白，我得有一所房子。一所真正的大屋。一所可以指给别人看的房子。可这里不是。芒果街上的小屋不是。目前就这样，妈妈说。这是暂时的，爸爸说。可我知道事情是怎样的。The House on Mango StreetWe didn‘t always live on Mango Street. Before that we lived on Loomis on the third floor， and before that we lived on Keeler. Before Keeler it was Paulina， and before that I can’t remember. But what I remember most is moving a lot. Each time it seemed there‘d be one more of us. By the time we got to Mango Street we were six—Mama， Papa， Carlos， Kiki， my sister Nenny and me.The house on Mango Street is ours， and we don’t have to pay rent to anybody， or share the yard with the people downstairs， or be careful not to make too much noise， and there isn‘t a landlord banging on the ceiling with a broom. But even so， it’s not the house we‘d thought we’d get. We had to leave the flat on Loomis quick. The water pipes broke and the landlord wouldn‘t fix them because the house was too old. We had to leave fast. We were using the washroom next door and carrying water over in empty milk gallons. That’s why Mama and Papa looked for a house， and that‘s why we moved into the house on Mango Street， far away， on the other side of town.They always told us that one day we would move into a house， a real house that would be ours for always so we wouldn’t have to move each year. And our house would have running water and pipes that worked. And inside it would have real stairs， not hallway stairs， but stairs inside like the houses on T.V. And we‘d have a basement and at least three washrooms so when we took a bath we wouldn’t have to tell everybody. Our house would be white with trees around it， a great big yard and grass growing without a fence. This was the house Papa talked about when he held a lottery ticket and this was the house Mama dreamed up in the stories she told us before we went to bed.But the house on Mango Street is not the way they told it at all. It‘s small and red with tight steps in front and windows so small you’d think they were holding their breath. Bricks are crumbling in places， and the front door is so swollen you have to push hard to get in. There is no front yard， only four little elms the city planted by the curb. Out back is a small garage for the car we don‘t own yet and a small yard that looks smaller between the two buildings on either side. There are stairs in our house， but they’re ordinary hallway stairs， and the house has only one washroom. Everybody has to share a bedroom—Mama and Papa， Carlos and Kiki， me and Nenny.Once when we were living on Loomis， a nun from my school passed by and saw me playing out front. The laundromat downstairs had been boarded up because it had been robbed two days before and the owner had painted on the wood YES WE‘RE OPEN so as not to lose business.Where do you live? She asked.There， I said pointing up to the third floor.You live there?There. I had to look to where she pointed—the third floor， the paint peeling， wooden bars Papa had nailed on the windows so we wouldn’t fall out. You live there? The way she said it made me feel like nothing. There. I lived there. I nodded.I knew then I had to have a house. A real house. One I could point to. But this isn‘t it. The house on Mango Street isn’t it. For the time being， Mama says. Temporary， says Papa. But I know how those things go.
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