It was always a mystery to me why the churches of Ireland were filled with women, and empty of men. I looked up at the crucifix and thought it was a bizarre thing for women to worship a man in a church run by men. As far as I was concerned being a Catholic was silly, and being a Jew meant so much more washing-up. What all religions do, however, is what most political systems fail to do — they prize and praise the figure of the mother.
She is the machine, the hidden power. She is the ideal, the revered one, the truly loved. Which makes up, in a way, for being skipped in shop queues and looking like a heap.
And more. On the third night of my child’s life I looked into her eyes and realised that nothing I believed could explain this. It was an embarrassing moment. I think I saw her soul. I suffered from the conviction that a part of her was ancient; and that part chose to be there with me at the beginning of something new. I had a wise child.
Carrying her out of the hospital and into the noise of the traffic; driving her home in second gear; feeding her in the middle of the night, and at the beginning of the night, and at dawn — so precious — I found myself shrinking in the face of her vast and unknowable future. How would she turn out? What would she do? When would she die? Not for many, many years, I hoped; not for the longest time. The mechanisms of fate, the grinding of her days that would lead to one end or another, became urgently opaque to me. There were a thousand things that could hurt this child, or even estrange her from me. What could I do? Nothing. My best.
These are all feelings that religion understands.
I had, I thought, become human in a different and perhaps more radical way. I had let something slip into the stream of time. What else can you do, but trust the river — put it all into the hands of a higher power?
Oh, all right.
And who else, but the suffering Christ, could know the suffering that motherhood brings?
Actually, I will resist the tug of it, if you don’t mind. Still, I will resist.
Anne Enright, ‘God’ in Making Babies: Stumbling into Motherhood, London: Vintage, 2005, 111-12.
***
Children are actually a form of brainwashing. They are a cult, a perfectly legal cult. Think about it. When you join a cult you are undernourished, you are denied sleep, you are forced to do repetitive and pointless tasks at random hours of the day and night, then you stare deep into your despotic leader’s eyes, repeating meaningless phrases, or mantras, like Ooh da gorgeous. Yes, you are! Cult members, like parents, are overwhelmed by spiritual feelings and often burst into tears. Cult members, like parents, spout nonsense with a happy, blank look in their eyes. They know they’re sort of mad, but they can’t help it. They call it love.
From ‘Baby-Talk’ in Anne Enright, Making Babies: Stumbling into Motherhood, London: Vintage, 2005, 138.
爱尔兰的教堂四下都是女人，却没有男人，这对我而言始终是个谜。我抬头看着耶稣受难像，心想女人在男人打点的教堂里崇拜一个男人确是件奇事。对我来说，做天主教徒是愚蠢的，而成为犹太人则意味着更多洗礼。然而，所有的宗教做到了大多数的政治制度未能做到的事——他们珍视和赞美母亲的形象。
母亲是机器，是隐匿的能量。母亲是理想，受人尊敬，真正被爱戴。这在某种程度上弥补了在商店排队时被插队的经历，弥补了日益发福的沮丧。
这还没完。在我孩子降生的第三个晚上，我望向她的眼眸，意识到我所相信的一切皆不能解释这一刻。这是一个尴尬的时刻。我想我看到了她的灵魂。我艰难地坚信她的一部分是古老的；而那部分在我开始新生活时便选择与我同在。我有一个智慧的孩子。
我在车水马龙的喧嚣中，抱着她出了医院；开二挡车送她回家；在半夜、初夜和黎明时分给她喂食——太珍贵了——面对她广袤未可知的未来，我发现自己在退缩。她会变成什么样？她会做什么？她会在哪天死去？我希望，那是在很多很多年之后，尽可能长的很多年。命运的安排如何，随着日子的消磨，她会走向的这种或那种的结局，纵管我心迫切，前景却晦暗不清。成千上万的事可能会伤害到孩子，甚至让她疏远于我。我又能做什么？什么也做不了，只有祝愿。
宗教能够理解这些情感。
我想，我已经以一种不同的，或许更激进的方式变成了人类。我让一些东西溜进了时光的逝水当中。除了相信这条河流——把它全盘付与更高权力的执掌，你还能有何作为呢？
哦，那好吧。
除了受苦的基督，还有谁能明了母性带来的痛楚？
其实，如果你不以为意的话，我会抗拒的。是的，我仍是要抗拒的。
安妮·恩莱特《创造婴儿：跌跌撞撞步入母性》中《上帝》一章，伦敦：Vintage，2005 年，第111-12页。
.........................................
儿语（选段）
孩子实际上是一种洗脑。他们是一种邪教，一种完全合法的邪教。想想看，当你加入邪教时，你营养不良，没人准你睡觉，你被迫在任何时候做重复而毫无意义的任务，日夜无休。你还要深深凝视着你那专制领袖的眼睛，重复着无意义的词句或咒语，就像“喔 达 高吉思 （译者注：哦，那就太好了）”。 是啊，说的就是你啊！邪教成员，就像父母一样，被精神感受所淹没，时常涕泪纵横。邪教成员。就像父母一样，空洞的眼神透着幸福，眼中滔滔不绝的却是胡言乱语。他们清楚自己有点发狂，却仍旧不能自制。他们管此情此景唤做爱。
选自 安妮·恩莱特《创造婴儿：跌跌撞撞步入母性》中《儿童-谈话》一章，伦敦：Vintage，2005 年，第138页。
It was always a mystery to me why the churches of Ireland were filled with women, and empty of men. I looked up at the crucifix and thought it was a bizarre thing for women to worship a man in a church run by men. As far as I was concerned being a Catholic was silly, and being a Jew meant so much more washing-up. What all religions do, however, is what most political systems fail to do — they prize and praise the figure of the mother.
She is the machine, the hidden power. She is the ideal, the revered one, the truly loved. Which makes up, in a way, for being skipped in shop queues and looking like a heap.
And more. On the third night of my child’s life I looked into her eyes and realised that nothing I believed could explain this. It was an embarrassing moment. I think I saw her soul. I suffered from the conviction that a part of her was ancient; and that part chose to be there with me at the beginning of something new. I had a wise child.
Carrying her out of the hospital and into the noise of the traffic; driving her home in second gear; feeding her in the middle of the night, and at the beginning of the night, and at dawn — so precious — I found myself shrinking in the face of her vast and unknowable future. How would she turn out? What would she do? When would she die? Not for many, many years, I hoped; not for the longest time. The mechanisms of fate, the grinding of her days that would lead to one end or another, became urgently opaque to me. There were a thousand things that could hurt this child, or even estrange her from me. What could I do? Nothing. My best.
These are all feelings that religion understands.
I had, I thought, become human in a different and perhaps more radical way. I had let something slip into the stream of time. What else can you do, but trust the river — put it all into the hands of a higher power?
Oh, all right.
And who else, but the suffering Christ, could know the suffering that motherhood brings?
Actually, I will resist the tug of it, if you don’t mind. Still, I will resist.
Anne Enright, ‘God’ in Making Babies: Stumbling into Motherhood, London: Vintage, 2005, 111-12.
***
Children are actually a form of brainwashing. They are a cult, a perfectly legal cult. Think about it. When you join a cult you are undernourished, you are denied sleep, you are forced to do repetitive and pointless tasks at random hours of the day and night, then you stare deep into your despotic leader’s eyes, repeating meaningless phrases, or mantras, like Ooh da gorgeous. Yes, you are! Cult members, like parents, are overwhelmed by spiritual feelings and often burst into tears. Cult members, like parents, spout nonsense with a happy, blank look in their eyes. They know they’re sort of mad, but they can’t help it. They call it love.
From ‘Baby-Talk’ in Anne Enright, Making Babies: Stumbling into Motherhood, London: Vintage, 2005, 138.
爱尔兰的教堂四下都是女人，却没有男人，这对我而言始终是个谜。我抬头看着耶稣受难像，心想女人在男人打点的教堂里崇拜一个男人确是件奇事。对我来说，做天主教徒是愚蠢的，而成为犹太人则意味着更多洗礼。然而，所有的宗教做到了大多数的政治制度未能做到的事——他们珍视和赞美母亲的形象。
母亲是机器，是隐匿的能量。母亲是理想，受人尊敬，真正被爱戴。这在某种程度上弥补了在商店排队时被插队的经历，弥补了日益发福的沮丧。
这还没完。在我孩子降生的第三个晚上，我望向她的眼眸，意识到我所相信的一切皆不能解释这一刻。这是一个尴尬的时刻。我想我看到了她的灵魂。我艰难地坚信她的一部分是古老的；而那部分在我开始新生活时便选择与我同在。我有一个智慧的孩子。
我在车水马龙的喧嚣中，抱着她出了医院；开二挡车送她回家；在半夜、初夜和黎明时分给她喂食——太珍贵了——面对她广袤未可知的未来，我发现自己在退缩。她会变成什么样？她会做什么？她会在哪天死去？我希望，那是在很多很多年之后，尽可能长的很多年。命运的安排如何，随着日子的消磨，她会走向的这种或那种的结局，纵管我心迫切，前景却晦暗不清。成千上万的事可能会伤害到孩子，甚至让她疏远于我。我又能做什么？什么也做不了，只有祝愿。
宗教能够理解这些情感。
我想，我已经以一种不同的，或许更激进的方式变成了人类。我让一些东西溜进了时光的逝水当中。除了相信这条河流——把它全盘付与更高权力的执掌，你还能有何作为呢？
哦，那好吧。
除了受苦的基督，还有谁能明了母性带来的痛楚？
其实，如果你不以为意的话，我会抗拒的。是的，我仍是要抗拒的。
安妮·恩莱特《创造婴儿：跌跌撞撞步入母性》中《上帝》一章，伦敦：Vintage，2005 年，第111-12页。
.........................................
儿语（选段）
孩子实际上是一种洗脑。他们是一种邪教，一种完全合法的邪教。想想看，当你加入邪教时，你营养不良，没人准你睡觉，你被迫在任何时候做重复而毫无意义的任务，日夜无休。你还要深深凝视着你那专制领袖的眼睛，重复着无意义的词句或咒语，就像“喔 达 高吉思 （译者注：哦，那就太好了）”。 是啊，说的就是你啊！邪教成员，就像父母一样，被精神感受所淹没，时常涕泪纵横。邪教成员。就像父母一样，空洞的眼神透着幸福，眼中滔滔不绝的却是胡言乱语。他们清楚自己有点发狂，却仍旧不能自制。他们管此情此景唤做爱。
选自 安妮·恩莱特《创造婴儿：跌跌撞撞步入母性》中《儿童-谈话》一章，伦敦：Vintage，2005 年，第138页。