午夜的孩子

于北京时间八月十五日清晨七点在某伊斯兰阅读室看完《午夜的孩子》。
531页的长度让我忘记八月十五是主人公Saleem和他的午夜的孩子们的生日，是他们共同的姊妹兄弟印度共和国的生日。1974年8月15日的午夜。时针和分针握手的刹那，午夜的孩子。
长长的夏天，我缓慢而失败的夏天，终于在今天看完一本“想看了”很多年的了不起的作品。八月十五看完，好歹不算辜负午夜的神迹（神迹之强大，需要改日沐浴焚香，另写一篇）。
拉什迪很少直呼眼泪其名——颗粒状的液体是“钻石”，液体流过的痕迹好像“蜗牛爬过”。这个拥有很多钻石和耗费大量蜗牛的夏天即将结束，我承诺把失败的夏天和我失败的智识生活区分清楚，有耐心有品性有行动力地区分清楚。
拉什迪以改换人称叙述（重写第三人称的成稿，全部变成第一人称）的惨烈重新开篇，发现自己作为作家的身份；但愿，不（许？）久的将来，我的开篇会找到我。

"I WAS BORN in the city of Bombay ... once upon a time. No, that won't do, there's no getting away from the date: I was born in Doctor Narlikar's Nursing Home on August 15th, 1947. And the time? The time matters, too. Well then: at night. No, it's important to be more ... On the stroke of midnight, as a matter of fact. Clock-hands joined palms in respectful greeting as I came. Oh, spell it out, spell it out: at the precise instant of India's arrival at independence, I tumbled forth into the world. There were gasps. And, outside the window, fireworks and crowds. A few seconds later, my father broke his big toe; but his accident was a mere trifle when set beside what had befallen me in that benighted moment, because thanks to the occult tyrannies of those blandly saluting clocks I had been mysteriously handcuffed to history, my destinies indissolubly chained to those of my country. For the next three decades, there was to be no escape. Sooth-sayers had prophesied me, newspapers celebrated my arrival, politicos ratified my authenticity. I was left entirely without a say in the matter. I, Saleem Sinai, later variously called Snotnose, Stainface, Baldy, Sniffer, Buddha and even Piece-of-the-Moon, had become heavily embroiled in Fate — at the best of times a dangerous sort of involvement. And I couldn't even wipe my own nose at the time."
(p. 1. Rushdie rewrites the entire third-person narrative epic which is much longer than the published 531 pages, into this mesmerizing enchantment of first-person narration.)



"He was born in Old Delhi ... once upon a time. No, that won't do, there's no getting away from the date: Aadam Sinai arrived at a night-shadowed slum on June 25th, 1975. And the time? The time matters, too. As I said: at night. No, it's important to be more ... On the stroke of midnight, as a matter of fact. Clock-hands joined palms. Oh, spell it out, spell it out: at the precise instant of India's arrival at Emergency, he emerged. There were gasps; and, across the country, silences and fears. And owing to the occult tyrannies of that benighted hour, he was mysteriously handcuffed to history, his destinies indissolubly chained to those of his country. Unprophesied, uncelebrated, he came; no prime ministers wrote him letters; but, just the same, as my time of connection neared its end, his began. He, of course, was left entirely without a say in the matter; after all, he couldn't even wipe his own nose at the time. "
(p.482. A stroke of amazement when Saleem's non-Saleem-son is born. History does not repeat itself, does it?)