01
前兩天讀了一篇大導演馮小剛寫他的太太徐帆的文章
文章中有幾處讓我讀後難忘
馮導說徐帆每次拍戲回來，不管多忙
都會在市場買幾束鮮花，讓她們盛開在書房，客廳和臥室
每天徐帆還會在家裡薰香
聞起來幸福愉悅
最妙的是徐帆閒下來還會帶著家裡的小保姆吊嗓子，唱幾句崑曲
而馮導在一旁欣賞
仿佛有了一種古時惡霸佔有了名伶的感覺
想來，在馮導心中太太給他打造的家
是繁花盛開，芳香沁脾
一副歌舞昇平的溫馨氣象
這樣的家他怎能不愛回呢
02
這幾個細節之所以馮導會記得
並且讓我讀來都記憶深刻
我想是因為它們分別調動了人的視覺，嗅覺和聽覺
我們的記憶就是這樣奇妙
它從來不是線性的，理性的
它是像藤蔓一樣的
盤根交錯
當我們刻意地回想某件事，或某個人的時候
往往會迷失，像大海撈針一般記不起
然而
當我們無意間走在街頭
某首歌，某個味道，某個畫面
卻會莫名觸發我們記憶的閘門
然後過去那個時段的所有
就像一副長軸畫一樣
慢慢展開， 慢慢上了顏色
03
對於記憶的這個特點的詮釋
再也沒有比法國作家普魯斯特的
《追憶似水年華》表現更完美的了
他把記憶比喻成深淵，說自己總是站在懸崖邊
試圖回想和記起來過去的事情
然而，那些事情實在埋藏的太深，太久遠
於是我們變懶了
放棄了回憶
只關注今天的煩擾
或是明天的希望
這時候
吃吃點心，喝喝茶似乎可以解決一切
Will it ultimately reach the clear surface of my consciousness, this memory, this old, dead moment which the magnetism of an identical moment has travelled so far to importune, to disturb, to raise up out of the very depths of my being? I cannot tell. Now that I feel nothing, it has stopped, has perhaps gone down again into its darkness, from which who can say whether it will ever rise? Ten times over I must essay the task, must lean down over the abyss. And each time the natural laziness which deters us from every difficult enterprise, every work of importance, has urged me to leave the thing alone, to drink my tea and to think merely of the worries of to-day and of my hopes for to-morrow, which let themselves be pondered over without effort or distress of mind.
04
然而，恰是那一杯茶
和一個瑪德琳蛋糕的滋味
不，確切的說
是瑪德琳蛋糕在茶裡稍稍浸泡一下之後的滋味
讓他過去的一切都浮現出來
And suddenly the memory returns. The taste was that of the little crumb of madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray (because on those mornings I did not go out before church-time), when I went to say good day to her in her bedroom, my aunt Léonie used to give me, dipping it first in her own cup of real or of lime-flower tea. The sight of the little madeleine had recalled nothing to my mind before I tasted it; perhaps because I had so often seen such things in the interval, without tasting them, on the trays in pastry-cooks' windows, that their image had dissociated itself from those Combray days to take its place among others more recent; perhaps because of those memories, so long abandoned and put out of mind, nothing now survived, everything was scattered; the forms of things, including that of the little scallop-shell of pastry, so richly sensual under its severe, religious folds, were either obliterated or had been so long dormant as to have lost the power of expansion which would have allowed them to resume their place in my consciousness. But when from a long-distant past nothing subsists, after the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered, still, alone, more fragile, but with more vitality, more unsubstantial, more persistent, more faithful, the smell and taste of things remain poised a long time, like souls, ready to remind us, waiting and hoping for their moment, amid the ruins of all the rest; and bear unfaltering, in the tiny and almost impalpable drop of their essence, the vast structure of recollection.
And once I had recognized the taste of the crumb of madeleine soaked in her decoction of lime-flowers which my aunt used to give me (although I did not yet know and must long postpone the discovery of why this memory made me so happy) immediately the old grey house upon the street, where her room was, rose up like the scenery of a theatre to attach itself to the little pavilion, opening on to the garden, which had been built out behind it for my parents (the isolated panel which until that moment had been all that I could see); and with the house the town, from morning to night and in all weathers, the Square where I was sent before luncheon, the streets along which I used to run errands, the country roads we took when it was fine. And just as the Japanese amuse themselves by filling a porcelain bowl with water and steeping in it little crumbs of paper which until then are without character or form, but, the moment they become wet, stretch themselves and bend, take on colour and distinctive shape, become flowers or houses or people, permanent and recognisable, so in that moment all the flowers in our garden and in M. Swann's park, and the water-lilies on the Vivonne and the good folk of the village and their little dwellings and the parish church and the whole of Combray and of its surroundings, taking their proper shapes and growing solid, sprang into being, town and gardens alike, all from my cup of tea.
05
你的記憶是什麼顏色的
什麼氣味的
什麼樣的質感
什麼樣的溫度
哪首歌會照亮你記憶的死角
哪個名字
又會讓你追憶那段似水的年華
06
If you want this moment to be special
jazz it up with music
color it up with crayons
spray it with Channel NO. 5
All for the remembrance of things past
Good Day!
Love Lisa
文：Lisa An