影响我成长的老师和课程——在哈佛学“红楼梦”

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影响我成长的老师和课程——在哈佛学“红楼梦”



作者：王  可
    5岁随留学父母去美国。哈佛大学2003级本科生、2009级硕士生。现在美国芝加哥工作，担任教育咨询专家。

  
   （注：本文转自《麦可思研究》2011年12月上旬刊,  翻译  罗惠文  附英文版）
    我的生活中，持续着一场关于 “应该做什么”和“想做什么”的战争。上大学时，它表现为我“应该”选什么课和我“想”上什么课，进一步来说，就是我应该主修什么专业和我想学什么专业。“应该”，意味着人们对我的印象，有着家庭和社会的影响与压力。“想”，意味着我基于本能和自然意愿而渴望做的事。

    大学第一年时，我“汇编”了一张详尽的自己应该选的课程列表，包括经济学、政治学和其他实用性社会科学。然而，每次浏览课程目录时，我总被文学、历史、外语等各种人文科学所吸引。由于缺乏自己坚定的想法、倾向于听从更“厉害”的权威，这两点使得我允许了他人来告诉我这些课程是“没用”和“不切实际”的。“学了19世纪英国文学的课程能有什么用？”然而，真的没用吗？

    在精疲力竭于选择我的“实用”课程之隙，我也去听了东亚研究系的课程。几乎其中的每门课程我都想学。“晚期帝制中国社会与文化”？是的。“东亚电影”？是的。“红楼梦研讨”？当我看到给新生提供这门研讨课时，我就知道我需要修读它，尽管我必须把它作为第五门课程加进去。这本经典著作的英文版本，是我成长过程中对我情感生活影响最大的文学作品。我能逐一复述出贾府用膳时的确切菜名。我能讲出其中盘结交错的家族关系，描述出每个丫鬟的性格特征。这几乎令我着迷。我知道这部小说从头到尾的故事情节，但从来没有机会从学术角度研究它。

    我猜想每个人都想修这门课程，于是我拜访了这门课的教授以巩固自己的“选课地位”。这位教授叫李惠仪（Wai-yee Li），一位精神饱满的来自香港的华裔中年教授，专门研究中国传统文学。还记得敲她办公室旧木门时的犹豫，那是我第一次自己去接近一位哈佛教授。我脑子里有关于哈佛教授的各种“狂野”猜想和模式化形象，其中大多是认为他们会很学术或令人生畏。李教授却绝不像我想的那样吓人。她休闲随意的长发、圆形的金属框架眼镜、温柔的眼睛、温和的举止很快消除了我的紧张。可能是太放松了，没几分钟我就迅速“供认”自己从11岁开始反复读这部小说，我从小就非常认同林黛玉，还能背出她的《葬花吟》。在接下来的20分钟里，李教授变成我的《红楼梦》心理学家，频频点头，以她柔和的声音向我提问，追根究底我对这部小说的激情和着迷。她向我保证，只要我愿意，将在春季学期（即第二学期——编辑注）“红楼梦研讨”这门课程中获得一席之地。她的风度仪态使我感受到一种温暖和被接纳，让我在一所有着6000多名卓越本科生的学校中，从觉得自己显然“不特别”到“特别”。

    回想起来，我现在为当时对她讲的一些幼稚的话和个性的陈述而感到难为情，但李教授却绝没有一点儿认为我在浪费她的时间，或认为我只是一个愚笨的本科生。她向我表现出的是，我所说的每句话都是值得她聆听的。离开她的办公室时，我为自己和哈佛教授进行了一场“真正的谈话”而感到轻松愉快，也兴奋地期盼着这门研讨课的开始。在哈佛艰难的第一学期，我把这门课程当作一个盼头。一旦我修读了这门课程，每件事都会变得更美好些，每个决定也都会做得更容易些。

    不幸的是，我没能有机会在本科期间修读这门课程。那年春季，李教授遗憾地通知我，因为没有足够数量的学生对这门课感兴趣而无法开课（我原来认为“每个人”都会跳出来，抓住机会学习中国历史上最伟大的文学作品，这是一种多么愚蠢的想法）。那门课程原本是我在哈佛第二学期的亮点，没有了它，其他所有事情都显得不那么有劲。我在一位中文讲和写都一样烂的教授那里修读了另一门中国文学课程，这门课难以置信地好。但我还是不禁会去想，如果是“红楼梦”课程会多么的美妙。后来，到大二时，我从东亚研究转移到心理学作为主修。我有时会想，如果当时修读了“红楼梦”，或许事情会和现在不一样。我再没有和李教授说过话，努力使自己融入新的学习。



    当大三这门课程终于开课时，我却因为在巴黎学习而不能选课。本科时我最终没能去修读这门课。它渐渐从我的记忆中褪色，落入不断增长的“我想学”但因为觉得“不应该学”所以没有学的课程名单中。几年后，我上了哈佛的研究生院。因为不满足于教育学研究生院关于中国的专题课的缺乏，我跑到文理研究生院去注册选课。在网上“扫描”课程目录时，我看到了被自己长期遗忘的这门课程——“红楼梦及其背景研讨”，虽然它是作为其他专业的研究生课程列出来。我第一时间敲响了李教授的门。

    “我记得你”是她在我自我介绍以后的第一句话。“你大一时来过这里，你10岁左右就开始读《红楼梦》。是的，我记得我们的谈话。”6年多以后，李教授几乎一点没变。同样的发式，也许多了些白发，同样的眼镜，同样的温柔的脸和温和的声音。当我向她表示为自己没有中国传统文学学术训练背景而担忧时，她平静地向我保证，这门课真正地向所有对它感兴趣的人开放，不管有什么样的经历和背景，每个人都可以带来他/她的新观点。她说，有一些修读这门课的人是中国文学的研究学者，还有一位中国的访问学者是在大学里教《红楼梦》的。她的再次保证给了我不惧失败、学习这门课程的信心。

    整个课程中，李教授保持着这种开放、不装腔作势、兼容并包的态度。每周四，我们聚集在一起，研读和讨论3小时的《红楼梦》。我们讨论与它相关的一切——清朝的文学传统、曹雪芹悲剧的一生和家族史、佛教和道教对小说的影响，当然，还有贾家成员们的家族和个人关系。刚开始时，作为唯一的非东亚研究系的研究生，我还怯于表达自己对这部小说的看法。但李教授却鼓励我讲出自己的观点。她“不经意”地宣布，我作为一个差不多是《红楼梦》终身读者的人，有自己独特的视角。

    当我回顾这门课程时，我有着充满感激和温馨的回忆：李教授谦逊、理智地包纳和引导着所有学生表达出自己的想法。她从来没有让我感受到，她是在我们之上的世界级的红楼梦和帝制中国文学专家。她广博的知识表现在她如何“搭建”我们的对话，表现在她温和地向我们提出挑战性问题。当我写这门课程的期末论文时，我认为自己“不够格”而对写论文没有把握时，她就此和我进行了谈话，耐心地听着我脑海里浮过的各种选题，并没有简单打发我或显现出不耐烦。

    李教授的引导也改变了我对两位女主角——林黛玉和薛宝钗的看法，这也在一定程度上反映了我情感生活的成熟。我与李教授讨论时，我们反复讨论读者对两个角色提出的整体象征：她们互相代表着对方所没有的特质，并促使自己大量忠实的读者趋向于讨厌另一个角色。在李教授建议下，我仔细分析了这部作品和文学评论，论文选题定在林黛玉和薛宝钗不同于模式化角色分类的、变化的、复杂的性格演进。不管这是不是李教授原本的打算，我意识到，通过我们的讨论和论文的写作，我理解了这些角色的复杂性，进而是人性的复杂性，这反映了我个人的成长，和我对这部小说理解的加深。

    我们选读课程来学习，来增进我们对一些学科的理解。我们常把课程和学习作为通向一个结果的工具。“红楼梦研讨”课让我明白，最有效、最有力的课堂学习，是伴随着你性格发展的。李教授具体展现了对这种旅程和时光的完美引导。我想起来时，有着难以置信的喜欢和感激——她不矫揉造作、温和的风度，以及她在这段非常学术和令人生畏的探索中所给予的个人接触。是她这样的教授和“红楼梦”这样的课程，给了我绝妙的博雅教育（Liberal Arts Education）。这原本是那些我想学而别人会认为没有用处的课程之一。没有人比你更清楚，什么样的课程会吸引你，会驱动你的天性；如果任何课程表现出符合这些标准，并且有利于你个人和认识的成长，那它决不是无用的。学习一些机械技术是容易的，但对我们的生活和世界产生丰富多样的看法却是不容易的。这就是为什么现在我还记得并感受到“无用”的博雅教育和文科教授对我产生的冲击，并且在5年、10年、20年后还会继续记得并感受到这种影响的原因。


Hongloumeng at Harvard

In the course of my life, there has always been a constant battle between what I should do and what I want to do. In college, this tension played out in the form of courses I should take and courses I wanted to take, and by extension, the major I should study and the major I wanted to study. Should, meaning what was impressed upon me by people, social and environmental influences and pressures. Want, meaning what I desired to do based on an instinctive and organic inclination.

During my freshman year of college, I compiled an exhaustive list of classes I should take, including economics, political science and other practical social sciences. However, every time I flipped through the course catalogue, I was drawn to literature, history, foreign language and all sorts of humanities courses. Being uncertain of my own convictions and inclined to listen to superior authorities, I allowed the voices of other people to tell me that these courses were “useless” and “extravagant”. What could I do with a course in 19th century British literature, really?

Between exhausting sessions of selecting my practical courses, I visited the East Asian Studies section. I wanted to take nearly every course in the department. “Society and Culture of Late Imperial China”? Yes. “East Asian Cinema”? Yes. “Hongloumeng Seminar”? As soon as I saw this seminar for freshmen, I knew I needed take it, even if I had to add it as a fifth class.  I had grown up with the English version of this classic novel in such a way that this book was the single strongest literary influence on my emotional life. I could repeat verbatim the exact dishes served at Jia family meals. I could tell you the convoluted family relationships, describe each and every maid’s personality. It was nearly obsessive. I knew the novel from front to end in terms of plot and story but had never had the opportunity to study it from an academic perspective.

I assumed that everyone would want to take the course and so I paid a visit to the professor in order to secure my place. This professor was Wai-yee Li, a youthfully middle-aged Chinese professor from Hong Kong specializing in classical Chinese literature. I remember the apprehension with which I knocked on the worn wooden door to her office. It was the first time that I had ever approached a Harvard professor on my own. I had all sorts of wild thoughts and stereotypes about The Harvard Professor, mostly related to being academically and personally intimidating. Professor Li was everything but intimidating. Her casually long hair, rounded metal-framed glasses, gentle eyes and quiet demeanor quickly relaxed my tense presence. Perhaps too much. Within minutes, I confessed rapidly that I had re-read the novel many times since the age of 11, that I grew up identifying intensely with Lin Dai-yu and that I had memorized Dai-yu’s flower-burial poem. During the next twenty minutes, Professor Li became my Hongloumeng psychologist, nodding and asking questions in her soft voice, probing my passion and obsession with the novel. She assured me that as long as I wished, I would have a place in the Hongloumeng seminar in the spring. Her presence made me feel warm, accepted and special on a campus where I felt distinctly un-special among 6,000+ very special undergraduates.

In retrospect, I cringe at the naïve things I said to her, and at the personal nature of my confession, but Professor Li gave absolutely no indication that she thought I was wasting her time or that I was a silly freshman. She gave me the impression that everything I had to say was worth listening to. I left her office light and happy at having had a real conversation with a Harvard professor and excited at the prospect of taking the seminar. During the difficult first semester at Harvard, I looked forward to this Hongloumeng course as that saving grace in the spring. Everything would be better, all of my decisions would be made easier, once I had taken the course.

Unfortunately, I never had the chance to take the course in college. That spring, Professor Li regretfully informed me that there were not enough students interested to justify holding the course (how silly I was to have thought that everyone would jump at the chance to study the greatest piece of literature in Chinese history). That course had been the highlight of my second semester at Harvard, and without it, everything else seemed uninteresting. I took another Chinese literature class with a professor whose spoken Chinese was as atrocious as his written Chinese was incredible. But I couldn’t help but wonder how much more wonderful the Hongloumeng course would have been. Later, during my sophomore year, I transferred out of East Asian Studies to Psychology for my major. I briefly wondered if things would have been different had I taken Hongloumeng. I didn’t speak to Professor Li again, as I tried to involve myself in my new department.

I never did take the course as an undergraduate. When it was finally offered during the spring of my junior year, I was unable to take it because I was studying abroad in Paris. It faded from my memory and my ever-growing list of classes I regretted not taking even though I wanted to take them, because I thought that I somehow shouldn’t take them. Fast-forwarda few years later to graduate school. Dissatisfied with the lack of China-specific courses in the Graduate School of Education, I registered to take classes at the Graduate School of Arts and Sciences. Scanning the course catalogue online, I saw the course that I had by then long forgotten. “Honglou meng and its contexts: seminar”. Although it was listed as a graduate seminar, I wasted no time in knocking on Professor Li’s door.

“I remember you” were the first words she spoke after I introduced myself. “You came here when you were a freshman and you read Hongloumeng when you were 10 or so. Yes, I remember our conversation.” More than six years later, Professor Li had hardly changed. The same hair, a little grayer perhaps, the same glasses, the same gentle face and quiet voice. When I expressed my concern that I had no academic training in classic Chinese literature, she calmly reassured me that the class was really open to anyone who was interested, regardless of experience and that each person could bring his or her fresh perspective to the literature. Some people taking the course, she said, were graduate scholars in Chinese literature. One visiting Chinese scholar taught Honglou meng in her university.  Her reassurance gave me the confidence to approach the course without fear or expectations of failure.

Professor Li’s open, unpretentious and inclusive attitude continued for the duration of the course. Every Thursday once a week, our small class gathered for three hours to read and discuss Honglou meng, discussing everything from the literary tradition of the Qing, DynastyCao Xueqin’s tragic personal and family histories, the Buddhist and Taoist implications of the novel, and of course, the personal and familial relations amongst the denizens of the Jia family. At first, I felt too shy to express my thoughts on the novel, as the only non East Asian Studies graduate student in the room. However, Professor Li made a point to call on me for my opinions, casually announcing that I had a unique perspective as a virtually life-long reader of Honglou meng.

When I think back to the class, I remember with gratefulness and warmth Professor Li’s humble and intellectually inclusive approach to seeking out the thoughts of all of her students. She never made me feel that she was above us as a world-class expert on Honglou meng and imperial Chinese literature. The vastness of her knowledge was imparted to us in how she framed our conversations, in the gently challenging questions she asked us. When I wrote the term paper for the course, she talked me through my insecurities about writing a paper for which I felt under-qualified, listened with patience through the riot of topics floating in my head, without dismissing my concerns or displaying impatience.

Professor Li’s guidance also changed how I viewed the personalities of the two female protagonists, Lin Dai-yu and Xue Bao-chai, in a way that reflected the maturation of my emotional life. In my discussions with Professor Li, we repeatedly circled back to the monolithic symbolism assigned by readers to both characters: each one represents what the other does not have, and each character inspires legions of loyal fans that tend to hate the other character. Upon Professor’s Li’s suggestion, I closely analyzed the book and literary criticisms to write about the evolution of both Lin Dai-yu and Xue Bao-chaias dynamic, complex personalities defying any stereotypical categorization.  Perhaps it was not her intention, or perhaps it was, but I realized through our discussions and my writing that an understanding of these characters’ complexity and in turn, our own human complexities, reflected my personal growth, and the growth of my understanding of the novel.

We take classes to learn, to advance our understanding of subjects. We often see classes and learning as a means to an end. The Hongloumeng seminar taught me that the most effective, powerful classroom learning is that which takes place alongside the evolution of your character. Professor Li embodied the perfect guide for this journey and to this day, I recall with astounded fondness and appreciation her unaffected, gentle presence and the immensely personal touch she gave to the exploration of an intensely scholarly and intimidating subject. It is professors like her, and classes like Honglou meng that define the experience of an incredible liberal arts education for me. And this was a class that among many others, I wanted to take, and that some people would have said was useless. No one knows better than yourself what classes draw you, drive your instinct, and if any class embodies these organic criteria and encourages your personal and intellectual growth, it is never useless. It is easy to learn a mechanical skill, but it is not easy to develop and grow a rich and complex perspective of our lives and our world. That is why I remember and feel the impact of my “useless” liberal arts courses and professors now, and will continue to remember and feel five, ten, twenty years from now.