2010春高口阅读训练05-《逝去的影像》

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本文来源：NEWSWEEK
本文字数：644
发表日期：February 08, 2010  
所属类别：CULTURE

（注：本阅读材料根据高级口译笔试试卷出题大纲选择，适合10年3月参加笔试的考生备考阅读。请精读此类文章，并总结主题相关词汇。详细阅读材料取材规则请见《10春季高口考生必备的外刊阅读资料》。）

Visions of a vanishing world

The death of J. D. Salinger last Wednesday understandably brought a great deal of what Holden Caulfield called "that David Copperfield kind of crap" about the author: "where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me." Salinger himself was a great story: the brilliant young artist who writes a classic and then disappears into the woods of New Hampshire for decades. No more David Copperfield kind of crap for him.
Another literary death last week received less attention, but the life and work of Louis Auchincloss speak as much to us as Salinger's. A lawyer and prolific author, Auchincloss, born in 1917, grew up in houses in Manhattan, on Long Island, and in Bar Harbor, Maine. The family traveled from house to house with its chauffeur (singular) and its servants (very much plural). He studied at Groton and Yale and the University of Virginia law school. He was a wonderful storyteller, but he was the shrewdest of observers and listeners, too. He seemed to know everybody's secrets, or at least the secrets of everybody who lived on the Upper East Side. Tall and forbidding—or forbidding until he cracked a joke, or found something amusing, at which point he would break into a smile of epic proportions—Auchincloss wrote of a vanishing milieu of Eastern privilege: of prep schools and discreet lawyers and quiet clubs where the chairs were comfortable and the martinis cold.

Salinger will endure much longer and will be read more widely than Auchincloss, who will be viewed in death in much the same way he was in life: as an interesting novelist of manners. As Auchincloss himself noted in interviews, he was not remotely as accomplished as Edith Wharton, in whose wake he worked, but he was nevertheless an artist to be taken seriously as a chronicler of a certain sphere of life at a certain time. Not a bad fate, that: it is, in fact, the most virtually any writer could hope for, and which only a tiny number achieve. Auchincloss is to New York in the 20th century what Trollope is to English clerical life in the 19th: a writer who must be read to understand the ethos of a lost world, but whose essential subject matter—the heart and its discontents—transcends time and place.

What is most interesting about Auchincloss, is not the elegance of the lives he chronicled but the complexities, the unfulfilled ambitions, the restless hearts of his characters. In Auchincloss's novels (and in The Catcher in the Rye), little is what it seems to be. The exterior appears solid and secure. But the interior is a constantly roiling emotional battlefield. Glib analysis was insufficient to the problems of the heart Auchincloss was surveying. His 1974 memoir, A Writer's Capital,should be required reading for anyone interested in the craft. It is a book that manages to be honest and personal without being self-indulgent. He writes of his mother's anxiety about breaking the conventions of her caste, a reluctance dictated by fear.

"Fear of what?" Auchincloss recalled. "It is hard to describe. Fear of a grading system in which one started with a handicap. Fear of not coming up to some kind of scratch. Fear of being measured in the balance and found wanting."

Like many of his works, Auchincloss's Rector is in part about the tragic nature of lives that at first glance appear immune to tragedy. Who can feel sorry for a headmaster who laments that his school produces more stockbrokers than priests or public servants? Auchincloss's answer is that his readers should care, for the specialized disappointments and frustrations of the well established are particular expressions of the universal truth that life is never precisely what we want it to be, no matter how many houses one has.