The oldest one is recommending the book he’s just finished to me.
最老的那个是向他推荐他刚刚读完的书。
“You should read this,” he says, handing me a well-thumbed paperback, which I turn over in my hands.
“你应该看看这本书，”他说，递给我一本翻阅得很破旧的平装书，我把它翻来覆去地看。
“Blue,” I say. “蓝色，”我说。
“The cover’s blue, yeah,” he says. “It’s a translation, and not much happens, but it’s good.”
封面是蓝色的，对，“他说，“这是一本翻译作品，内容不太精彩，但还不错。”
“OK,” I say. “I’m already reading a book, but I will take this on holiday with me.”
“好吧，”我说，“我正在读一本书，但我会在假期带上它。”
“Now I need a new book,” he says. “Any ideas?”
“现在我需要一本新书，”他说，“有什么建议吗？”
This has never happened before. I’ve recommended many books to my sons over the years, but to my knowledge they have never read any of them. My wife also never reads the books I recommend, even though I always read the ones she recommends to me. Actual publishers sometimes ask me to provide blurbs for books, but at home my advice in these matters is both unsolicited and ignored. Until now.
这种情况以前从未发生过。多年来，我向我的儿子们推荐了许多书籍，但据我所知，他们从未读过任何一本。我的妻子也从未读过我推荐的书籍，尽管我总是读她推荐给我的那些。实际出版商有时会请我提供书籍的简介，但在家里，我在这些事情上的建议既不是主动提出的，也被忽视了。直到现在。
“Hmm,” I say, tapping my chin. “Let me think.”
“嗯，”我说，轻敲着下巴。“让我想想。”
“I’m about to go out, so …”
我马上要出门了，所以……
“The book I’m reading right now isn’t that good,” I say, “And the book I read before that was actually recommended to me by you.”
“我现在正在读的书不太好，”我说，“而上一本是我向你推荐的。”
“Death Comes for the Archbishop,” he says. “A banger.”
《死亡降临大主教》，他说。“一本好书。”
“That’s not what I would write if I was asked to provide a blurb for a future edition,” I say. “But yes, it was good.”
那不是我如果被要求为未来版本写推荐语时会写的内容，“但我确实觉得它很好。”
“My train goes in 12 minutes,” he says.
我的火车 12 分钟后出发，他说。
“Wait here,” I say. “在这里等着，”我说。
I go to the living room and, with uncharacteristic luck, immediately locate a particular hardback.
我走进客厅，出乎意料地立刻找到了一本特定的精装书。
“Try this,” I say. “I read it when it came out. It’s like a period thing.”
“试试这个，”我说。“我出版时就读过。就像是个时期的事情。”
“Which period?” he says. “哪个时期？”他说。
“What am I, a historian?” I say. “Olden times.”
“我是什么，历史学家？”我说，“古时候。”
“Huh,” he says, examining the cover.
“嗯，”他说，检查着封面。
“Like a period thing, but funny, and good,” I say.
“就像句号一样，但有趣，又好。”我说。
He pulls his Kindle from his bag, taps in the title and hands the book back to me.
他从包里拿出 Kindle，输入书名，然后把书还给我。
“I’ll give it a go,” he says, heading for the front door.
“我来试试吧，”他说，朝着前门走去。
This feels like an important moment: the start of an era in which my counsel is both sought and heeded. I go in search of the middle one, thinking I might recommend Death Comes for the Archbishop to him, but he’s not home.
这感觉像是一个重要的时刻：一个时代开始了，我的建议既被寻求也被采纳。我去寻找中间的那个人，想着我可能会向他推荐《大主教之死》，但他不在家。
Fifteen minutes later I receive a cryptic text from the oldest one. I read it over twice, but it makes no sense. Eventually it dawns on me that it must be a quotation from the book I recommended to him, an example of the olden times language employed.
十五分钟后，我从最年长的那个人那里收到了一条神秘的短信。我看了两遍，但毫无头绪。最终我意识到，这一定是他引用了我推荐给他的那本书中的一句话，是那个时代语言的一个例子。
I pick up the book from the kitchen table and begin reading. After a few minutes I find the exact words from the text message, on page eight. But by then my mouth is hanging open in horror.
我从厨房的桌子上拿起书开始阅读。几分钟后，我在第八页找到了短信中的确切文字。但那时，我的嘴巴惊恐地张得大大的。
“I remembered not one thing about it,” I tell my wife later. “Not one character, not one name, nothing.”
“我后来告诉我妻子，关于它我一点也想不起来，”我说，“没有一个字，没有一个名字，什么也想不起来。”
“I never remember much about books I’ve read,” she says.
“我从来记不住我读过的书。”她说。
“It’s not just that,” I say. “There was stuff I did remember about the first chapter that is absolutely not in there, that must be from a different book.”
“不只是这样，”我说。“我确实记得第一章的一些内容，但那本书里根本没有，这肯定是从另一本书来的。”
“It happens,” she says. “这是常有的事，”她说。
“I’m going around recommending books to people,” I say. “Books I may as well not have read.”
“我四处向人推荐书籍，”我说。“这些书我可能都没读过。”
“You’re old,” my wife says. “Get over it.”
“你老了，”我妻子说，“接受吧。”
But I can’t get over it. In bed that night I lie awake, staring at the spines of the books on my nightstand, trying to remember a single salient fact about any of them. I imagine a blurb on the back of a paperback that says, “Like a period thing, but funny, and good.” The cumulative knowledge, understanding and wisdom of all the books I have ever read has ceased to exist, I think, or at any rate does not abide in me.
但我无法释怀。那天晚上，我躺在床上辗转反侧，盯着床头柜上书的脊背，试图回忆起关于它们中的任何一本的任何显著事实。我想象着一张平装书封底的简介，上面写着：“像一段时期的事情，但有趣，而且好。”我认为，我读过的所有书的累积知识、理解和智慧已经不复存在，或者至少不再存在于我身上。
I open the not-that-good book I am currently reading – which I have nearly finished – and think: what’s the point?
我打开我现在正在读的并不那么好的书——我几乎要读完了——然后想：这有什么意义呢？
Four days later I am at the airport, sitting on a plastic chair near the Pret with my wife and three other couples. It is the shoulder season, when old people go on holiday together. Everyone at the airport is our age.
四天后，我来到了机场，坐在 Pret 附近的塑料椅子上，和妻子以及另外三对夫妇一起。现在是淡季，老年人会一起度假。机场里的人都是我们这个年龄。
Soon we discuss books: books we have read, or are reading, or might read, or might recommend.
很快我们就开始讨论书籍：我们读过的书，正在读的书，可能会读的书，或者可能会推荐的书。
“It’s about this archbishop who dies, eventually,” I say. “Not much happens before that, but it’s good.”
“这本书是关于一个主教去世的故事，”我说，“在那之前没什么发生，但还不错。”
Fortunately no one is listening to me. Someone else mentions a title that strikes a faint chime in the hazy recesses of my brain.
幸运的是，没有人听我说。另一个人提到了一个标题，在我模糊的记忆深处引起了微弱的共鸣。
“Is that the blue one?” I say.
“那是蓝色的那个吗？”我说。
“The cover is blue, yes,” she says.
“封面是蓝色的，是的，”她说。
“Ah,” I say, reaching into my bag. “I am also reading the blue one.”
“啊，”我说，伸手进我的包里，“我也在读那个蓝色的。”
