Chapter 1

My suffering left me sad and gloomy.

Academic study and the steady, mindful practice of religion slowly wrought me back to life. I have kept up with what some people would consider my strange religious practices. After one year of high school, I attended the University of Toronto and took a double-major Bachelor's degree. My majors were religious studies and zoology. My fourth-year thesis for religious studies concerned certain aspects of the cosmogony theory of Isaac Luria, the great sixteenth-century Kabbalist from Safed. My zoology thesis was a functional analysis of the thyroid glandof the three-toed sloth. I chose the sloth because its demeanour—calm, quiet and introspective—did something to soothe my shattered self.

There are two-toed sloths and there are three-toed sloths, the case being determined by the forepaws of the animals, since all sloths have three claws on their hind paws. I had the great luck one summer of studying the three-toed sloth in situ (in its natural place or position) in the equatorial jungles of Brazil. It is a highly intriguing creature. Its only real habit is indolence. It sleeps or rests on average twenty hours a day. Our team tested the sleep habits of five wild three-toed sloths by placing on their heads, in the early evening after they had fallen asleep, bright red plastic dishes filled with water. We found them still in place late the next morning, the water of the dishes swarming with insects. The sloth is at its busiest at sunset, using the word busy here in the most relaxed sense. It moves along the bough of a tree in its characteristic upside-down position at the speed of roughly 400 metres an hour. On the ground, it crawls to its next tree at the rate of 250 metres an hour, when motivated, which is 440 times slower than a motivated cheetah. Unmotivated, it covers four to five metres in an hour.

The three-toed sloth is not well informed about the outside world. On a scale of 2 to 10, where 2 represents unusual dullness and 10 extreme acuity, Beebe (1926) gave the sloths senses of taste, touch, sight and hearing a rating of 2, and its sense of smell a rating of 3. If you come upon a sleeping three-toed sloth in the wild, two or three nudges should suffice to awaken it; it will then look sleepily in every direction but yours. Why it should look about is uncertain since the sloth sees everything in a Magoo-like blur. As for hearing, the sloth is not so much deaf as uninterested in sound. Beebe reported that firing guns next to sleeping or feeding sloths elicited little reaction. And the sloth's slightly better sense of smell should not be overestimated. They are said to be able to sniff and avoid decayed branches, but Bullock (1968) reported that sloths fall to the ground clinging to decayed branches "often".

How does it survive, you might ask.

Precisely by being so slow. Sleepiness and slothfulness keep it out of harm's way, away from the notice of jaguars, ocelots, harpy eagles and anacondas. A sloth's hairs shelter an algae that is brown during the dry season and green during the wet season, so the animal blends in with the surrounding moss and foliage and looks like a nest of white ants or of squirrels, or like nothing at all but part of a tree.

The three-toed sloth lives a peaceful, vegetarian life in perfect harmony with its environment. "A good-natured smile is forever on its lips," reported Tirler (1966). I have seen that smile with my own eyes. I am not one given to projecting human traits and emotions onto animals, but many a time during that month in Brazil, looking up at sloths in repose, I felt I was in the presence of upside-down yogis deep in meditation or hermits deep in prayer, wise beings whose intense imaginative lives were beyond the reach of my scientific probing.

Sometimes I got my majors mixed up. A number of my fellow religious-studies students—muddled agnostics who didn't know which way was up, who were in the thrall of reason, that fool's gold for the bright—reminded me of the three-toed sloth; and the three-toed sloth, such a beautiful example of the miracle of life, reminded me of God.

I never had problems with my fellow scientists. Scientists are a friendly, atheistic, hard-working, beer-drinking lot whose minds are preoccupied with sex, chess and baseball when they are not preoccupied with science.

I was a very good student, if I may say so myself. I was tops at St. Michael's College four years in a row. I got every possible student award from the Department of Zoology. If I got none from the Department of Religious Studies, it is simply because there are no student awards in this department (the rewards of religious study are not in mortal hands, we all know that). I would have received the Governor General's Academic Medal, the University of Toronto's highest undergraduate award, of which no small number of illustrious Canadians have been recipients, were it not for a beef-eating pink boy with a neck like a tree trunk and a temperament of unbearable good cheer.

I still smart a little at the slight. When you've suffered a great deal in life, each additional pain is both unbearable and trifling. My life is like a memento mori painting from European art: there is always a grinning skull at my side to remind me of the folly of human ambition. I mock this skull. I look at it and I say, "You've got the wrong fellow. You may not believe in life, but I don't believe in death. Move on!" The skull snickers and moves ever closer, but that doesn't surprise me. The reason death sticks so closely to life isn't biological necessity—it's envy. Life is so beautiful that death has fallen in love with it, a jealous, possessive love that grabs at what it can. But life leaps over oblivion lightly, losing only a thing or two of no importance, and gloom is but the passing shadow of a cloud. The pink boy also got the nod from the Rhodes Scholarship committee. I love him and I hope his time at Oxford was a rich experience. If Lakshmi, goddess of wealth, one day favours me bountifully, Oxford is fifth on the list of cities I would like to visit before I pass on, after Mecca, Varanasi, Jerusalem and Paris.

I have nothing to say of my working life, only that a tie is a noose, and inverted though it is, it will hang a man nonetheless if he's not careful.

I love Canada. I miss the heat of India, the food, the house lizards on the walls, the musicals on the silver screen, the cows wandering the streets, the crows cawing, even the talk of cricket matches, but I love Canada. It is a great country much too cold for good sense, inhabited by compassionate, intelligent people with bad hairdos. Anyway, I have nothing to go home to in Pondicherry.

Richard Parker has stayed with me. I've never forgotten him. Dare I say I miss him? I do. I miss him. I still see him in my dreams. They are nightmares mostly, but nightmares tinged with love. Such is the strangeness of the human heart. I still cannot understand how he could abandon me so unceremoniously, without any sort of goodbye, without looking back even once. That pain is like an axe that chops at my heart.

The doctors and nurses at the hospital in Mexico were incredibly kind to me. And the patients, too. Victims of cancer or car accidents, once they heard my story, they hobbled and wheeled over to see me, they and their families, though none of them spoke English and I spoke no Spanish. They smiled at me, shook my hand, patted me on the head, left gifts of food and clothing on my bed. They moved me to uncontrollable fits of laughing and crying.

Within a couple of days I could stand, even make two, three steps, despite nausea, dizziness and general weakness. Blood tests revealed that I was anemic, and that my level of sodium was very high and my potassium low. My body retained fluids and my legs swelled up tremendously. I looked as if I had been grafted with a pair of elephant legs. My urine was a deep, dark yellow going on to brown. After a week or so, I could walk just about normally and I could wear shoes if I didn't lace them up. My skin healed, though I still have scars on my shoulders and back.

The first time I turned a tap on, its noisy, wasteful, superabundant gush was such a shock that I became incoherent and my legs collapsed beneath me and I fainted in the arms of a nurse.

The first time I went to an Indian restaurant in Canada I used my fingers. The waiter looked at me critically and said, "Fresh off the boat, are you?" I blanched. My fingers, which a second before had been taste buds savouring the food a little ahead of my mouth, became dirty under his gaze. They froze like criminals caught in the act. I didn't dare lick them. I wiped them guiltily on my napkin. He had no idea how deeply those words wounded me. They were like nails being driven into my flesh. I picked up the knife and fork. I had hardly ever used such instruments. My hands trembled. My sambar lost its taste.

  第一章

    学术研究和坚持不懈、全心全意的宗教修行渐渐使我恢复了生气。某些人可能会认为我的宗教行为很古怪，但我一直在坚持。上了一年高中以后，我进了多伦多大学，拿到了双学士学位。我学的专业是宗教学和动物学。我的宗教学毕业论文与伊萨克·卢里亚的宇宙起源理论的几个方面有关，卢里亚是16世纪萨法德伟大的犹太教神秘哲学家。我的动物学毕业论文写的是对三趾树懒的甲状腺功能的分析。我决定写树懒是因为它镇定自若，温文尔雅，喜欢自省——这样的行为抚慰了心烦意乱的我。

    树懒有两趾的也有三趾的，究竟是哪一种情况要取决于它们的前爪，因为所有树懒的后爪都有三趾。有一年夏天，我非常幸运，有机会在巴西的赤道丛林里研究生活在原产地的三趾树懒。这是一种非常令人感兴趣的动物。它惟一真正的习惯就是懒散。它平均每天睡眠或休息20个小时。我们小组研究了五只野生三趾树懒的睡眠习惯。傍晚，它们入睡后，我们在它们的头顶放上鲜红色的塑料盘子，盘子里盛满了水。第二天上午，盘子仍在原处，水里挤满了昆虫。日落时分是树懒最忙碌的时候，这里的“忙碌”是一种最轻松的意义上的忙碌。它以每小时400米的速度，以特有的头期下的姿势在树干上移动。在地面上，受到刺激时，它会以每小时250米的速度爬向旁边一棵树，这比猎豹受刺激时的奔跑速度慢440倍。在没有刺激的情况下，它每挪动4至5米。

    三趾树懒对外部世界的了解不多。用标有2到10九个分值的量表（2代表极端迟钝，10代表极度敏锐）衡量树懒的官能，毕比(1926)给它的味觉、触觉、视觉和听觉打2分，嗅觉打3分。如果你在野外看见一只熟睡的三趾树懒，轻轻推它两三下就能把它弄醒；然后，它会睡眼惺忪地四处张望，但就是不朝你望。为什么它会四处张望，这一点我还不能确定，因为在树懒眼里，就像在高度近视却又没戴眼镜的人眼里一样，一切都一片模糊。至于听觉，树懒并不聋，只是它对声音不感兴趣。根据毕比的报告，在正在睡觉或吃东西的树懒身边开枪也不会引起它什么反应。树懒的嗅觉稍微灵敏一些，但也不能过高估计。据说它们能够闻出腐朽的树干在哪里并避开，但是根据布洛克的报告(1968)，树懒“常常”因为抓住腐朽的树干而掉到地上。

    那么它怎么生存呢，也许你会问。

    就靠行动迟缓而生存。它总是睡意蒙咙，懒懒散散，这使它远离伤害，躲开美洲豹、豹猫、热带大雕和森蚺的注意。树懒的毛下面寄生着藻类，干季是棕色的，湿季是绿色的，因此它与周围环境中的苔藓和树叶融为一体，看上去像一窝白蚁或一窝松鼠，或者就像树的一部分。

    三趾树懒是素食主义者，生活和平，与环境十分和谐。“它嘴上总是挂着和善的微笑。”蒂勒报告说(1966)o我亲限看见了那种微笑。我不喜欢将人类的特征和感情投射到动物身上，但是在巴西的那一个月里，有很多次，当我抬头看着憩息的树懒时，感到自己面对的是头朝下陷入深深沉思的瑜伽修行者，或是虔心祈祷的隐士，这些智者充满想像的生活是我无法通过科学探索所能了解的。

    有时候我把两个专业混淆起来了。我的几个宗教学专业的同学——那些本末倒置的不可知论者，他们被理性所束缚，而在这些聪明人眼里有着黄金般价值的理性其实只是黄铁矿——让我想起了三趾树懒；而三趾树懒，这一生命奇迹的如此出色的例证，让我想起了上帝。

    我和我的科学家同行之间从来没有什么问题。科学家是一群待人友善，不信神灵，工作努力，爱喝啤酒的人，他们的脑子不在想着科学的时候，就想着性、国际象棋和棒球。

    我是一个出色的学生，如果我可以自己这么说的话。我在圣迈克尔学院连续4年名列前茅。我在动物学系拿到了所有学生奖。我在宗教学系没有拿到奖，这只是因为这个系不设学生奖（我们都知道宗教研究的奖赏不掌握在凡人手里）。要不是因为一个脖子粗得像树干，脾气好得让人受不了，因为吃牛肉而面色红润的小伙子，我就拿到总督学术奖章了，这是多伦多大学颁给本科生的最高奖，很多杰出的加拿大人都得过这个奖。

    我仍然因为这次受冷落而感到有点儿难过。当你在生活中经历了很多痛苦折磨之后，每一次新的痛苦都既令人无法忍受又让人感到微不足道。我的生命就像欧洲艺术中使人想到死亡的绘画：我身边总有一只龇牙咧嘴的骷髅，提醒我人类的野心是多么愚蠢。我嘲笑这只骷髅。我看着它，说：“你找错人了。也许你不相信生命，而我却不相信死亡。走开！”骷髅窃笑一声，靠得更近了。但这并不让我感到惊讶。死亡如此紧紧地跟随着生命，并不是因力生理需要，而是因为嫉妒o+生命太美了，死亡爱上了它，这是一种充满了嫉妒心和占有欲的爱，它紧紧抓住所能抓到的一切。但是生命轻盈地跃过死亡，只失去了一两样不重要的东西。沮丧只是云朵飘过时投下的阴影，很快便消失了。那个面色红润的小伙子也得到了罗兹奖学金评选委员会的首肯。我爱他，我希望他在牛津能有丰富的女神 吉祥天女（ 吉祥天女，又称“室利”，毗湿奴之妻，主财富和吉祥）有一天对我大加垂青，那么牛津是我转到来世之前想去的第五座城市，前四座是麦加、瓦拉纳西、耶路撒冷和巴黎。

    对于我的上班生活，我没什么好说的，我只想说领带就是一个套索，虽然是倒过来的，但还是能吊死人，如果他不小心的话。我爱加拿大。我想念印度炎热的天气，那里的食物，墙上的四脚蛇，银幕上的音乐剧，大街上闲逛的牛群，呱呱叫的乌鸦，甚至关于斗蟋蟀的闲话，但是我爱加拿大。这是一个伟大的国家，这里太冷了，让人无法拥有良好的判断力，住在这里的人富有同情心，头脑聪明，留着糟糕的发式。不管怎样，本地治里已经没有什么可以让我回家的东西了。

    理查德·帕克仍然和我在一起。我一直没有忘记他。我敢说自己想他吗？我敢这么说。我想他。我仍然在梦里见到他。大多是噩梦，但却是带着爱的气息的噩梦。这就是人心的奇怪之处。我仍然无法理解他怎么能如此随便地抛下我，不用任何方式说再见，甚至不回头看一眼。那种痛就像一把利斧在砍我的心。

    墨西哥医院里的医生护士们对我好极了。病人也是。癌症病人或是因车祸受伤的人一旦听说我的故事，就一瘸一拐地走过来，或是摇着轮椅过来看我，他们的家人也来了，尽管他们都不会说英语，而我也不会说西班牙语o他们对我笑，握我的手，拍我的头，把送给我的食物和衣服放在我床上。他们令我感动得无法控制自己，爆发出一阵阵大笑，一阵阵大哭。

    几天后我就能站起来了，甚至能走上两三步，尽管我仍感到恶心、头晕、浑身乏力。验血结果表明我贫血，钠水平非常高，而钾水平却很低。我的体内有积液，腿肿得厉害。我看上去就像被移植了一双大象腿。我的小便是接近棕色的很深的暗黄色。大约一个星期以后，我能正常走动了，而且还能穿上鞋，如果不系鞋带的话。我皮肤上的伤痊愈了，但肩上和背上还有疤。

    我第一次拧开水龙头的时候，哗哗哗喷涌而出的大量的水让我吓了一大跳，我变得慌乱起来，两腿一软，晕在了护士怀里。

    我第一次去加拿大的一家印度餐馆，是用手指拿东西吃。侍者用批评的眼光看着我说：“你是刚下船的吧？”我的脸色变得苍白。

    一秒钟之前我的手指还是先于嘴巴品尝食物的味蕾，现在在他的注视下却变得肮脏，像罪犯被逮个正着一样僵住了。我不敢去舔手指。

    我带着负罪感在餐巾上擦了擦手。他不知道这句话伤我有多深。一个个字就像一枚枚钉子钉进我的肉里。我拿起刀叉。我以前几乎从来

    没有用过这些器具。我的双手在颤抖。浓味小扁豆肉汤变得索然无味。