By+Nick+Ripatrazone

“一步步跑下去，可成千里之行;一頁頁寫下去，可成鴻篇巨制?！迸懿揭蚺c寫作之間存在諸多相似點而為許多作家所青睞。跑步不僅讓他們得以放松身心，也為他們創(chuàng)造了一個與自己獨處、能自由想象的全新世界。借由跑步，他們獲得了寫作靈感，獲得了繼續(xù)前行的體力與耐力，也獲得了許多快樂。

From Homers The Iliad to A. E. Housman1）s poem about an athlete dying young， theres no shortage of literary depictions of running. “Move， as the limbs / Of a runner do，” writes W. H. Auden. “In orbit go / Round an endless track.” Theres also a long tradition of writers leaving their pens or screens behind to stride along roads， tracks， and trails. Jonathan Swift， according to Samuel Johnson， would “run half a mile up and down a hill every two hours” during his 20s. Louisa May Alcott2） ran since her youth： “I always thought I must have been a deer or a horse in some former state，” she wrote in her journal， “because it was such a joy to run.” Despite this correlation， The New Yorkers Kathryn Schulz recently lamented how few books capture the mindset of the runner in descriptive terms， citing Thomas Gardners new collection of essays Poverty Creek Journal as the best exception.

Freedom， consciousness， and wildness： Running offers writers escape with purpose. When confronted with “structural problems” in her writing as the result of a “l(fā)ong， snarled3）， frustrating and sometimes despairing morning of work，” Joyce Carol Oates4） would ease her writing blocks with afternoon runs. For Oates and many other writers， running is process and proves especially useful for the type of cloistered5）， intensive work they do. But in many ways running is a natural extension of writing. The steady accumulation of miles mirrors the accumulation of pages， and both forms of regimented exertion can yield a sense of completion and joy. Through running， writers deepen their ability to focus on a single， engrossing6） task and enter a new state of mind entirely—word after word， mile after mile.

While on sabbatical7） in London in 1972， a homesick Oates began running “compulsively; not as a respite8） for the intensity of writing but as a function of writing.” At the same time， she began keeping a journal that ultimately exceeded 4，000 single-spaced， typewritten pages. “Running seems to allow me， ideally， an expanded consciousness in which I can envision what Im writing as a film or a dream，” she wrote. Oates still runs along “a country road that goes up a hill” where she feels “there will be ideas waiting for me ... If I just sat in a room it wouldnt be the same thing.” Don DeLillo9） also relished the transporting10） effects of running after his morning writing sessions： “This helps me shake off one world and enter another. Trees， birds， drizzle—its a nice kind of interlude11）.”

Whether their reasoning is practical or spiritual， many writers run with ritualistic devotion. The short-story writer Andre Dubus “ran for the joy and catharsis12） of it，” but like Oates and DeLillo， his running was also deliberately timed. Dubus kept a log book that detailed his daily exercise output and writing word count. His method came from an interpretation of Ernest Hemingways dictum to stop a story mid-sentence， perform physical exercise， and then return to the work the next day.

Why do writers so often love to run？ Running affords the freedom of distance， coupled with the literary appeal of solitude. Theres a meditative cadence13） to the union of measured14） breaths and metered strides. Writers and runners both operate on linear planes， and the running writer soon realizes the relationship between art and sport is a mutually beneficial one. The novelist Haruki Murakami， a former Tokyo jazz-bar manager who would smoke 60 cigarettes a day， started running to get healthy and lose weight. His third novel had just been published， but he felt his “real existence as a serious writer [began] on the day that I first went jogging.” Continual running gave him the certainty that he could “make it to the finishing line.”

Murakamis sentiment reminds me of the LSD—long， slow distance—of my college track days. My coach sent us on long afternoon runs without prescribed routes， simply giving us the directive of time. Once I built a tolerance for distance my runs became incubators for writing ideas. The steady， repetitive movement of distance running triggers ones intellectual autopilot15）， freeing room for creative thought. Neuroscientists describe this experience as a feeling of timelessness， where attention drifts and imagination thrives.

Oates enjoyed this mental freedom and “special solitude” while running during her youth. She went through orchards， “through fields of wind-rustling corn towering over my head， along farmers lanes and on bluffs16） ... These activities are intimately bound up with storytelling， for always theres a ghost-self， a ‘fictitious self， in such settings. For this reason I believe that any form of art is a species of exploration and transgression17）.” Exertion frees this fictitious， creative other， enabling the mind of writers who run to wander without inhibition. Writers tap into this ghost-self whenever they construct narratives and characters; writers who run have the benefit of a first draft on foot.

“One of the luckiest things that can happen to a writer，” Reynolds Price notes， “is the gradual acquisition of the sense that one is doing it just for the sake of doing it， that its become a kind of lonely long-distance running which nonetheless has its own huge rewards.” Price is correct that this acquisition is gradual. The former United States Poet Laureate Kay Ryan captures the complicated feelings of both writers and runners： “I like to run. Actually， I dont really like to run but Ive done it for a million years.”

Writers， like runners， often like the idea of their pursuit more so than the difficult work. The appeal of a running regimen18） is how the miles not only condition the body， but free up a space for the creative mind. Which is perhaps why some writers， like Malcolm Gladwell19）， find themselves returning to running after a long absence. Gladwell， who recently completed the Fifth Avenue Mile in New York City in 5：03 minutes， sees the utilitarian impact running has on his projects： “I very explicitly use this time to work out writing problems.”

After my college running days ended， I chose sprints over distance， gained some pounds， and looked more like a fullback20） than a half-miler. Yet I missed those long， aimless runs， when the act of running was one of discovery， not dictated by the set distance of a track. I now run down open rural roads， and， against good sense， straddle21） the center yellow lines that yarn to the horizon. Since Ive returned to distance running， Ive changed the way I think about writing. Writing exists in that odd mental space between imagination and intellect， between the organic and the planned. Runners must learn to accept the same paradoxes， to realize that each individual run has its own narrative， with twists and turns and strains.

Writers and runners use the same phrase—“hit my stride22）”—to describe the moment when exertion and work become joy. Writers stuck on a sentence should lace their sneakers and go for a jog， knowing that when they return， they will be a bit sweatier， more tired， but often more charged to run with their words.

從荷馬的史詩《伊利亞特》到A. E. 豪斯曼描寫一位運動員英年早逝的詩歌，文學(xué)作品中從不缺乏對跑步的描述。詩人W. H. 奧登這樣寫道：“動起來，如跑步者/擺動四肢/沿著無盡的跑道/一圈圈奔跑。”作家們也常常扔下鋼筆，或者離開電腦屏幕，奔跑在大大小小的路上，這種傳統(tǒng)由來已久。塞繆爾·約翰遜曾說，喬納森·斯威夫特20多歲時“每兩個小時就要沿著一座小山上上下下跑半英里”。路易莎·梅·奧爾科特從年輕時就開始跑步?！拔铱傆X得自己上輩子就是一只小鹿或者一匹馬，”她在日記中寫道，“因為我跑起步來是那樣快樂?！北M管文學(xué)與跑步的緣分如此之深，《紐約客》撰稿人凱瑟琳·舒爾茨最近卻撰文遺憾地稱，能夠以描述性語言準(zhǔn)確捕捉到跑步者心境的書籍真是太少了。不過，她特別提到了托馬斯·加德納的新散文集《貧溪日記》，認為他寫得最好，是個例外。

自由、自覺、野趣——跑步能使作家從寫作中解脫出來，有目的地放松自己。美國女作家喬伊斯·卡羅爾·奧茨在寫作時會遇到一些“結(jié)構(gòu)性問題”，因為她“在漫長的上午工作時往往會感到思路混亂，覺得特別受挫，有時甚至絕望”，每當(dāng)此時，她就會在下午選擇跑步，以此掃除寫作的障礙。對于奧茨和其他許多作家來說，跑步是一個加工過程，對于寫作這種需要獨處的高強度工作來說尤其有用。但在很大程度上，跑步是寫作的自然延伸。一步步跑下去，可成千里之行;一頁頁寫下去，可成鴻篇巨制——這兩者何其相似。這兩種努力積累起來都可產(chǎn)生一種成就感，也是快樂之源。通過跑步，作家可磨練自己，使自己專注于一項單一、有趣的工作，一字字地寫，一步步地跑，進入一種全新的境界。

1972年，奧茨在倫敦休假時思鄉(xiāng)心切，開始“強迫性地”跑步，“不是因為高強度的寫作需要休息，而是為了促進寫作”。同時，她開始寫日記，最后以單倍行距打印出來時，竟長達4000多頁。她這樣寫道：“跑步似乎使我達到一種完美的狀態(tài)，放大了我的意識，使我能夠看到自己要寫的東西，就像在看電影或者做夢一樣。”至今，奧茨仍在“沿著一條通往山上的鄉(xiāng)間小路”跑步，她感到“那里有靈感在等著我……如果我只是在房間里待著，那就不會是這個樣子了”。美國當(dāng)代小說家唐·德里羅在經(jīng)過一上午的創(chuàng)作之后，也喜歡享受跑步帶來的令人愉悅的感受：“跑步使我擺脫了原有的世界，進入到另一個全新的世界。有樹，有鳥，還有毛毛細雨——真是一段令人愉悅的插曲。”

無論是出于實用主義還是精神追求，許多作家在跑步時都帶著一種宗教儀式般的虔誠。短篇小說作家安德烈·杜伯斯“為了追求快樂、宣泄情緒而跑步”，但他也和奧茨與德里羅一樣，有意識地規(guī)劃自己跑步的時間。杜伯斯在日志里詳細記錄了自己每天的鍛煉成果和創(chuàng)作字數(shù)。他的這種方法是受了歐內(nèi)斯特·海明威一句名言的啟發(fā)，那就是在一個故事寫到中間時停下來，進行體育鍛煉，然后第二天再繼續(xù)創(chuàng)作。

為什么作家如此熱衷于跑步？跑步給人以空間的自由，還有文人墨客喜愛的孤寂感。勻稱的呼吸，律動的步伐——二者的結(jié)合形成一種特別適合沉思的韻律。作家與跑步者都是在線性的平面上活動，而奔跑中的作家很快就能體會到藝術(shù)與運動之間存在一種相互促進的關(guān)系。日本小說家村上春樹曾經(jīng)做過東京一家爵士樂吧的經(jīng)理，每天要抽60支煙，為了健康和減肥，他開始跑步。他覺得他“作為一個嚴肅作家，真正的生命是從我第一次跑步時開始的”，而說這話之前他的第三部小說都已經(jīng)出版了。持之以恒的跑步鍛煉使他堅信他能夠“跑到終點”。

村上春樹的感慨讓我想起了大學(xué)里在跑道上度過的那些日子——我的慢速長跑。教練常常打發(fā)我們下午進行長跑，也不規(guī)定具體路線，只是在時間上做一些要求。一旦我鍛煉出長跑的耐力，跑步就成了寫作靈感的孵化器。長跑中那穩(wěn)定而又不停重復(fù)的動作往往能激發(fā)起人在智力上的自發(fā)放任狀態(tài)，為創(chuàng)造性思維釋放自由空間。神經(jīng)醫(yī)學(xué)科學(xué)家將這種經(jīng)歷描述成一種時間停滯的感覺，注意力開始神游，想象力爆發(fā)。

年輕的時候，奧茨非常享受跑步時這種無拘無束的精神狀態(tài)和“別樣的孤寂”。她穿過果園，“穿過玉米地——微風(fēng)吹過，玉米葉兒在頭頂沙沙作響——穿過田間小徑，沿著懸崖峭壁……這些都與小說創(chuàng)作息息相關(guān)，因為在這些場景中，總有一個自我的影子，一個‘虛擬的自我。鑒于此，我相信，任何藝術(shù)形式都是一種探索和超越”。運動釋放出這個虛擬的、富有創(chuàng)造力的自我，促使跑步的作家能夠神思飛揚、無拘無束。每當(dāng)作家們創(chuàng)作故事和人物時，他們都會探索這個自我的影子;跑步的作家的優(yōu)勢就在于可以用腳來起草第一稿。

美國小說家雷諾茲·普萊斯說：“一個作家所能遇到的最幸運的事就是逐漸意識到，創(chuàng)作就是為了創(chuàng)作本身，猶如孤獨的長跑，本身就擁有巨大的回報?！逼杖R斯認為這種領(lǐng)悟是逐漸獲得的，可謂一語中的。美國前桂冠詩人凱·瑞恩準(zhǔn)確地捕捉到作家和跑步者的這種復(fù)雜情感：“我喜歡跑步。事實上，我并不太喜歡跑步，但我好像已經(jīng)跑了一百萬年。”

作家和跑步者一樣，往往都喜歡追尋的感覺，而不是費力的勞作。跑步作為一種養(yǎng)生之道，其魅力就在于，它不僅能強身健體，而且能為創(chuàng)造性思維提供任意馳騁的空間?；蛟S這就是為什么有些作家喜歡在長時間停跑之后選擇回歸跑步，比如馬爾科姆·格拉德威爾。格拉德威爾最近剛剛以五分零三秒的成績完成了在紐約第五大道舉行的一英里路跑，他深刻體會到了跑步對創(chuàng)作的促進作用：“我非常明確地利用跑步時間來解決寫作中遇到的問題。”

大學(xué)里跑步的那段日子結(jié)束后，我就放棄了長跑，選擇了快速短跑，結(jié)果體重增加了好幾磅，看起來再也不像一個半英里賽運動員，而像一個足球后衛(wèi)。然而，我還是懷念那段可以漫無目的地長跑的日子，不受跑道固定距離的限制，奔跑的過程也是發(fā)現(xiàn)的過程。如今，我奔跑在空曠的鄉(xiāng)村道路上，道路中間的黃線無限延伸，一直通到天的盡頭，而我就任性地騎著線跑。自從我重新開始長跑，我改變了自己對創(chuàng)作的看法。創(chuàng)作存在于一種奇特的思維空間里，既要馳騁想象，又要發(fā)揮才智，既要師法自然，又要細心籌劃。跑步者也要學(xué)會接受同樣的悖論，要明白每一次跑步都是一個獨特的敘事，迂回曲折的道路猶如情節(jié)曲徑通幽，拉伸繃緊的肌肉猶如緊張刺激的敘事格調(diào)。（譯注：此處twists and turns and strains具有雙關(guān)含義，既可以指跑步，又可以指創(chuàng)作，strains既可以指繃緊拉伸，又可以指作品的情調(diào)、筆調(diào)等。）

作家和跑步者在感受到努力和工作帶來的快樂時，都會不約而同地說：“終于上路嘍！”作家在寫不下去時，應(yīng)該穿上運動鞋，出去跑跑步，這樣在他們回來時，盡管會汗流浹背，疲憊不堪，但卻能更加精神抖擻地繼續(xù)他們與文字的賽跑。

1. A.E. Housman：A. E. 豪斯曼（1859～1936），英國著名詩人與學(xué)者，代表作為《什羅普郡一少年》（A Shropshire Lad）。

2. Louisa May Alcott：路易莎·梅·奧爾科特（1832～1888），美國女作家，其代表作為《小婦人》（Little Women）等。

3. snarled [snɑ?（r）ld] adj. 糾結(jié)的，混亂的

4. Joyce Carol Oates：喬伊斯·卡羅爾·奧茨（1938～），美國作家，代表作有《他們》（Them）等。

5. cloistered [?kl??st?（r）d] adj. （生活）隱居的，與塵世隔絕的

6. engrossing [?n?ɡr??s??] adj. 很有趣味的;使人全神貫注的

7. sabbatical [s??b?t?k（?）l] n. （大學(xué)教授的）休假年，休假

8. respite [?respa?t] n. 暫緩;暫停;暫息

9. Don DeLillo：唐·德里羅（1936～），美國當(dāng)代優(yōu)秀小說家、編劇，代表作有

《地下世界》（Underworld）等。

10. transport [?tr?nsp??（r）t] vt. 使萬分激動;使欣喜若狂

11. interlude [??nt?（r）?lu?d] n. 插曲;間歇

12. catharsis [k??θɑ?（r）s?s] n. [正式]精神發(fā)泄;感情宣泄

13. cadence [?ke?d（?）ns] n. 節(jié)律，節(jié)奏

14. measured [?me??（r）d] adj. 有節(jié)奏的，有韻律的

15. autopilot [???t???pa?l?t] n. 潛意識的行為狀態(tài)

16. bluff [bl?f] n. （尤指臨河、臨海的）懸崖;峭壁

17. transgression [tr?nz?ɡre?（?）n] n. 超越（界限、范圍、疆界等）

18. regimen [?red??m?n] n. 養(yǎng)生法，養(yǎng)生之道

19. Malcolm Gladwell：馬爾科姆·格拉德威爾（1963～），加拿大記者、暢銷書作家

20. fullback [?f?lb?k] n. （足球的）后衛(wèi)

21. straddle [?str?d（?）l] vt. 跨;跨立于

22. hit ones stride：逐漸進入狀態(tài);達到某人的最佳水平