羅伯特·林德

It was only the other day that I came upon a full-grown man reading with something like rapture a little book—Ships and Seafaring Shown to Children. His rapture was modified1 however， by the bitter reflection that he had already passed so great a part of his life without knowing the difference between a ship and a barque; and， as for sloops， yawls， cutters， ketches， and brigantines， they were simply the Russian alphabet to him. I sympathise with his regret. It was a noble day in one’s childhood when one had learned the names of sailing-vessels， and， walking to the point of the harbour beyond the bathing-boxes， could correct the ignorance of a friend： “That’s not a ship. That’s a brig.” To the boy from an inland town every vessel that sails is a ship. He feels he is being shown a new and bewildering world when he is told that the only ship that has the right to be called a ship is a vessel with three masts （at least）， all of them square-rigged. When once he has learned his lesson， he finds an unaccustomed delight in wandering along the dirtiest coal-quay， and recognising the barques by the fact that only two of their three masts are square-rigged， and the brigs by the fact that they are square-rigged throughout—a sort of two-masted ships. Vessels have suddenly become as real to him in their differences as the different sorts of common birds. As for his feelings on the day on which he can tell for certain the upper fore topsail from the upper fore top-gallant sail， and either of these from the fore skysail， the crossjack， or the mizzen-royal， they are those of a man who has mastered a language and discovers himself， to his surprise， talking it fluently. The world of shipping has become articulate poetry to him instead of a monotonous abracadabra2.

It is as though we can know nothing of a thing until we know its name. Can we be said to know what a pigeon is unless we know that it is a pigeon？ We may have seen it again and again， with its bottle-shoulders and shining neck， sitting on the edge of a chimney-pot， and noted it as a bird with a full bosom and swift wings. But if we are not able to name it except vaguely as a “bird，” we seem to be separated from it by an immense distance of ignorance. Learn that it is a pigeon however， and immediately it rushes towards us across the distance， like something seen through a telescope. No doubt to the pigeon-fancier this would seem but the first lisping3 of knowledge， and he would not think much of our acquaintance with pigeons if we could not tell a carrier from a pouter. That is the charm of knowledge—it is merely a door into another sort of ignorance. There are always new differences to be discovered， new names to be learned， new individualities to be known， new classifications to be made. The world is so full of a number of things that no man with a grain of either poetry or the scientific spirit in him has any right to be bored， though he lived for a thousand years. Terror or tragedy may overwhelm him， but boredom never. The infinity of things forbids it. I once heard of a tipsy young artist who， on his way home on a beautiful night， had his attention called by a maudlin4 friend to the stars， where they twinkled like a million larks. He raised his eyes to the heavens， then shook his head. “There are too many of them，” he complained wearily. It should be remembered， however， that he was drunk， and that he did not know astronomy. There could be too many stars only if they were all turned out on the same pattern， and made the same pattern on the sky. Fortunately， the universe is the creation not of a manufacturer but of an artist.

There is scarcely a subject that does not contain sufficient differences to keep an explorer happy for a lifetime. It is said that thirteen thousand species of butterflies have been already discovered， and it is suggested that there may be nearly twice as many that have so far escaped the naturalists.? Many men give all the pleasant hours of their lives to learning how to know the difference between one kind of moth and another. One used to see these moth-hunters on windless nights in a Hampstead lane pursuing their quarry5 fantastically with nets in the light of the lamps. In pursuing moths， they pursue knowledge. This， they feel， is life at its most exciting， its most intense. And， indeed， one could not conceive a more appalling sort of blank idiocy than the condition of a man who could not tell one thing from another in any department of life whatever. We would rather change lives with a jelly-fish than with such a man. The townsman passing a field of sheep finds it difficult to believe that the shepherd can distinguish between one and another of them with as much certainty as if they were his children. And do not most of us think of foreigners as beings who are all turned out as if on a pattern， like sheep？ The further removed the foreigners are from us in race the more they seem to us to be like each other. Probably to a Chinese all English children look exactly alike， and it may be that all Europeans seem to him to be as indistinguishable as sticks of barley-sugar.

Thus our first generalisations spring from ignorance rather than from knowledge. They are true， so long as we know that they are not entirely true. As soon as we begin to accept them as absolute truths， they become lies. One of the perils of a great war is that it revives the passionate faith of the common man in generalisations. He begins to think that all Germans are much the same， or that all Americans are much the same， or that all Conscientious Objectors are much the same. I do not wish to deny the importance of generalisations. It is not possible to think or even to act without them. The generalisation that is founded on a knowledge of and a delight in the variety of things is the end of all science and poetry. Keats said that he sought the principle of beauty in all things， and poems are in a sense simply beautiful generalisations. They subject the unclassified and chaotic facts of life to the order of beauty. The mystic， meditating on the One and the Many， is also in pursuit of a generalisation—the perfect generalisation of the universe. And what is science but the attempt to arrange in a series of generalisations the facts of what we are vain enough to call the known world？ To know the resemblances of things is even more important than to know the differences of things. Shakespeare is greater than all the other poets because he， more than anybody else， knew how very like human beings are to each other and because he， more than anybody else， knew how very unlike human beings are to each other. He was master of the particular as well as of the universal. How much poorer the world would have been if he had not been so in regard not only to human beings but to the very flowers—if he had not been able to tell the difference between fennel and fumitory， between the violet and the gillyflower！

就在幾天前，我偶然遇見一個成年人，他正狂喜地讀《給孩子系列：船舶與航?！?。然而，當(dāng)他發(fā)現(xiàn)自己活了大半輩子，竟然不知道“帆船”與三桅帆船的區(qū)別時，他不再那么狂喜了。談到單桅縱帆船、雙桅帆船、獨桅縱帆船、雙桅縱帆船、前桅橫帆雙桅船等帆船類型，他更是感到兩眼摸黑。對于他的遺憾，我深表同情。小時候，如果我們能夠了解帆船的名字，走到比海邊更衣室更遠(yuǎn)的港口去糾正朋友的錯誤說法，告訴朋友“這不叫帆船，而叫雙桅橫帆船”，那么我們會覺得很自豪。對于一個來自內(nèi)陸的男孩來說，所有能揚帆航行的船都叫作“帆船”。當(dāng)人們告訴他至少有三個桅桿且桅桿上全是橫帆的船才能被稱為帆船時，他感覺自己發(fā)現(xiàn)了一片令人神迷的新大陸。認(rèn)識到這一點后，他發(fā)現(xiàn)，當(dāng)自己沿著臟亂不堪的煤炭碼頭閑逛時，他能分辨出三桅帆船和雙桅橫帆船。前者有三個桅桿，且其中兩個是橫帆桅桿，后者則有且只有兩個橫帆桅桿。于是，一種異乎尋常的喜悅在他心底油然而生。就像能區(qū)分不同的鳥類一樣，不同的船舶也能分辨得清清楚楚了。當(dāng)他能明確區(qū)分前桅上帆和高上桅帆，抑或是前桅天帆、后桅底桁和后桅最上桅帆時，他的感受就如同掌握了一門語言并驚喜地發(fā)現(xiàn)自己能熟練運用。此刻，對于他來說，航海世界變得詩意盎然、令人迷醉，而不是單調(diào)無趣。

看來，似乎只有知道了事物的名字后，才能說我們對其有所了解。那么是否可以說，只有知道鴿子叫鴿子之后才能說我們認(rèn)識鴿子呢？我們可能經(jīng)常見到鴿子。鴿子的肩膀圓鼓鼓的，脖子周圍的羽毛也總是油亮亮的。而且，其胸部豐滿，翅膀靈巧，喜歡落在煙囪邊上。但是如果我們不知道它的名字，而含糊地以“小鳥”去稱呼它，我們似乎會因無知而對它產(chǎn)生很強(qiáng)的距離感。但得知它叫鴿子后，就像通過望遠(yuǎn)鏡看某物，感覺近在咫尺。然而，對于一位鴿友來說，知道鴿子的名字無疑只是對鴿子世界的粗淺了解。假如我們不能區(qū)分信鴿和球鴿，他會認(rèn)為我們不配自稱了解鴿子。這就是知識的魅力所在——知識僅能將我們引導(dǎo)至另一個未知領(lǐng)域，因為還有很多新的差異、新的名稱、新的個體、新的類別等著我們?nèi)グl(fā)現(xiàn)、去學(xué)習(xí)、去了解、去辨別。若我們略懂詩歌或是略具科學(xué)精神，我們就會發(fā)現(xiàn)這世界是如此豐富多彩，人類生存千年也不會感到枯燥乏味。我們可能被恐懼和不幸打倒，卻永遠(yuǎn)不會因無聊而死亡。因為人不能窮盡宇宙萬物。從前，我聽過一個小故事：在一個美麗的夜晚，醉酒的年輕藝術(shù)家走在回家的路上，這時一位多愁善感的朋友邀他關(guān)注天上那無數(shù)的星辰，這些星辰就像一百萬只百靈鳥一樣眨著眼睛，一閃一閃，熠熠生輝。他抬眼望向天空，搖了搖頭，有氣無力地抱怨道：“實在是太多了！” 但要知道，他當(dāng)時酩酊大醉，也對天文學(xué)茫然無知。事實上，只有當(dāng)所有的星星都一模一樣，并且都在天上排成同樣的圖案時，我們才可以感嘆 “天上有無數(shù)的星星”。幸好，我們的宇宙是藝術(shù)家的手筆，而不是工人制造出來的。

幾乎所有學(xué)科都飽含差異，并能為研究者不斷帶來終生探索的樂趣。據(jù)說到目前為止，人類已經(jīng)發(fā)現(xiàn)了13000種蝴蝶，但與之相比，還有將近兩倍的蝴蝶有待自然學(xué)家去發(fā)現(xiàn)。很多人樂意終其一生，盡其最美的時光去學(xué)習(xí)如何區(qū)分各種飛蛾。人們常會看到這樣的一幕：無風(fēng)的夜里，在漢普斯特德鄉(xiāng)間小路上，捕飛蛾的人在燈光的照射下用網(wǎng)捕捉飛蛾。在捕捉飛蛾的過程中，他們收獲了知識。他們認(rèn)為這才是生命中最令人激動、最扣人心弦的時刻。在任何領(lǐng)域，如果一個人不能區(qū)分事物，那么他會被看作是最愚昧無知的人。的確，世界上再沒有其他比這更讓人覺得愚不可及了。如果讓我們成為這樣的人，真真不如做只水母呢！牧場里羊群遍地，但是牧羊人能將所有羊區(qū)分開來，仿佛這些羊就是自己的孩子一樣。久居城市的人經(jīng)過牧場看到后都對此感到難以置信。我們中大部分人不都認(rèn)為外國人像羊一樣，彼此都長得差不多嗎？外國人與我們?nèi)朔N差異越大，我們越會覺得他們彼此相像。可能對于一位中國人來說，所有英國孩子都長得相似，所有歐洲人也都長得差不多，就像麥芽棒棒糖一樣難以區(qū)分。

因此，歸納起初源于蒙昧無知而非學(xué)識淵博。只要我們認(rèn)識到事物不完全真實，那么它們便是真實的。一旦我們將其當(dāng)作絕對的真理，它們就成了謊言。一場偉大戰(zhàn)爭最危險的地方在于，它能以偏概全，激起廣大普通民眾的狂熱信仰。人們開始相信，所有的德國人幾乎都一樣，所有的美國人幾乎都一樣，所有的拒服兵役者幾乎都一樣。在此，我不想否定歸納的重要性。思考或行動都少不了歸納。基于對各種事物的了解和喜愛而做的歸納是一切科學(xué)和詩歌的終極目標(biāo)。濟(jì)慈說，他曾試圖找出宇宙萬物中美的法則，詩在某種程度上就是美麗的概括。它們將生活中未經(jīng)分類的混亂事實歸于美的秩序呈現(xiàn)出來。對“一與多”問題的神秘冥想也是一種對概括的追求，一種對宇宙完美概括的追求。什么是科學(xué)？科學(xué)就是試圖系列歸納我們自以為是地稱為“已知世界”的種種事實，但是將世界稱作“已知世界”太過自負(fù)。了解事物之間的相似點比了解其差異來得更加重要。莎士比亞比任何其他詩人都偉大，是因為他比任何人都了解人與人之間有多相似，又有多不同。他精通共性和個性。如果他做不到如此，無論對人還是對那些花朵——比如不能分辨茴香和延胡索，抑或紫羅蘭和康乃馨——那這個世界會變得多么貧乏！