泰晤士北岸的静谧之境

In economic terms as well as geographic， Londons black and beating heart has always been the River Thames， viscous with centuries of filth and secrets. Eventually， the Victorians laced the city with underground drains to spare Londoners the sight and stench of their own effluent， which had until then poured freely into the river； yet in my childhood it was， nonetheless， still famously dirty.

The river slices the city in half， dividing us， suspicious and unforgiving rivals， into South London and North， or “saaf” and “norf”in the local diction. To go to the other side is to venture into unfamiliar and potentially hostile territory. The river is cleaner these days， but an ancient collective memory of its poison remains. Perhaps this is what makes us so reluctant， now， to cross it. We breathe sighs of relief， lungs cleared by the fierce wind off the water， as we cross back over the bridges and return to our rightful places. And so in truth， for 21st-century Londoners， the Thames is no longer a center but a boundary. If were crossing the river， we think， it better be bloody worth it.

For me， a lifelong northwest London girl， the Thames is merely my southern border， and the heart of my city is Hampstead Heath： 790 acres of dense woodlands and open meadow， and the odd corner of manicured and rolling lawn， all presided over by the twin peaks of Parliament and Primrose hills. The view east from these heights sweeps all the way across the city to St Pauls Cathedral， to the slowturning Ferris wheel of the London Eye， and now to the angular monstrosity of the Shard. When I was little， someone once told me that Parliament Hill would remain above the water as an island even if all the polar ice caps melted， and this immediately made it the center of my imagined world. The Heath is a place for solitude or for communion. It is a place for picnicking， for stargazing， for mushrooming， for watching birds and for collecting whichever blackberries hang high enough to have evaded the casual urination of passing canines. The Heath is where north Londoners walk the dog or the baby and where， in darker corners on certain nights， men look to one another for fleeting love， or something like it.

I knew the Heath before I ever breathed—my mother walked here every day when she was pregnant with me. When I was a child， my father ran here at five every morning， a coal miners lamp strapped to his forehead， a source of light in the dull London mornings. It was to Hampstead Heath that I was frogmarched， frozen and complaining， to do cross-country running for school， until one of the girls saw a flasher on our circuit and after that we stayed on school grounds.

George Orwell puttered on the Heath when he worked in a nearby bookshop； Katherine Mansfield moved to Hampstead， hoping the healthy air would cure her tuberculosis. Keats， drawn by the same vain hope， heard his nightingale here. Shelley sailed paper boats on one of the ponds. John Constable painted the skies from almost every angle； the whole Dickens clan relocated to the edge of the Heath one summer， when cash was tight. John le Carré and his characters frequent the Hampstead Bathing Ponds. There are too many artists to name.

Several years ago the Italian sculptor Giancarlo Neri erected a huge sculpture called The Writer in the middle of one of the Heaths meadows； it was a simple chair and table made of wood and steel looming 30 feet high as a monument “to the loneliness of writing.” I know of no better place in any city for a writer to claim that blissful solitude—to walk， to breathe， to contemplate. But that giant， looming desk， evoking the ghosts of a hundred Hampstead writers， was more than a little intimidating. It was a hugely affecting sculpture， and I was relieved when they took it down.

Not everyone shares my passion. In Samuel Richardsons 18th-century novel Clarissa， the character Robert Lovelace is dismissive： “Now， I own that Hampstead Heath affords very pretty and very extensive prospects； but it is not the wide world neither.” Well， true， and it is good， sometimes， to be reminded of it， even by a scoundrel like Lovelace. From the top of Parliament Hill， that wide world opens up below you. Mistshrouded even in summer， here lies the whole of London—its churches and skyscrapers； its slums and palaces； its stucco and concrete and glass. From here， the glittering curves of the river are hidden； north and south are unified by height and distance. Of course there is a bigger London， a wider world. But here is the highest point， for me.

无论是在经济术语还是地理术语中，伦敦那颗黝黑而跃动的心脏永远都是泰晤士河，这条长河因沉淀着数百年来的污秽和秘密而变得粘滞不堪。最终，在维多利亚时代，伦敦装上了地下排水管以免伦敦人看到那幅自造的污水横流、臭气熏天的景象，此前，污水被随意排入河道；尽管如此，在我的童年时期，泰晤士河依然因其脏污而臭名昭著。

泰晤士河将伦敦城一分为二，我们给分裂成互相猜忌且毫不宽容的对手，分成了“南伦敦”和“北伦敦”，或者用本地话来说就是“南城”和“北城”。要想去到城市的另一边，那就是要冒险进入不熟悉，甚至有可能是怀有敌意的领地。如今这条河流已经干净许多，但曾经的那段关于其危害的集体记忆依然留存。也许现在，正是这段记忆使得我们如此不情愿跨过这条河。当我们横过桥梁归来，回到正确的地方，我们发出宽慰的轻叹，肺部经受了水面强风的洗涤。因此说句实话，对于生活在21世纪的伦敦人来说，泰晤士河再也不是城市的中心，而是边界。如果我们要跨过河去，我们认为，最好是要相当的不虚此行。

对于我这个一辈子在伦敦西北部生活的女子来说，泰晤士河几乎就是我的南部边界，而我的城市心脏是汉普斯特德希斯公园：790英亩的浓密林地和开阔草场，布满修剪整齐且波浪起伏的草地的那个偏僻角落，全都在国会山和普林姆罗斯山这两座双子峰的掌控之下。从这些高点向东看去，能够横扫整个城市直到圣保罗大教堂、缓缓旋转的摩天轮“伦敦眼”，以及如今棱角分明庞然碍眼的“碎片大厦”。小时候，曾有人告诉我，即便所有的极地冰川都消融了，国会山依然会像一座岛屿那样浮在水面上，而这一说法立刻令我将其想像为世界的中心。希斯公园是一个既能独处又能交流的地方。在这个地方能够野餐、观星、采蘑菇、观鸟和采集任何悬挂于高处足以避过犬只随意大小便的黑莓。希斯公园是北伦敦人遛狗或遛宝宝之地，而在某些晚上的黑暗角落，人们彼此相望寻找一夜放纵，或诸如此类的东西。

我甚至在能够呼吸之前就知道希斯公园——我母亲怀着我的时候就每天都到这里来散步。我年幼之时，父亲每天早上五点到这里跑步，额头上绑着一盏矿工灯，这是伦敦阴暗清晨的光源之一。我就曾被强押着来到汉普斯特德希斯公园，冻得半死还怨声连连地为学校准备越野赛跑，直到某个女孩在我们跑步的线路上见到一个暴露狂，此后我们就留在学校的跑道上锻炼了。

当年乔治·奥威尔在近旁的一间书店里工作，在希斯公园里就混过不少时间；凯瑟琳·曼斯菲尔德搬到了汉普斯特德，希望这里有益健康的空气能够治愈她的肺痨。济慈也曾被这徒劳的希望所牵引着，在这里倾听他的夜莺歌唱。雪莱在其中一个池塘里放过纸船。约翰·康斯特勃几乎从每一个角度描绘过天空；某个夏天，当手头紧时，整个狄更斯家族都搬到了希斯公园边上居住。约翰·勒卡雷和他的人物角色经常出没于汉普斯特德的浴池。这里有过太多的艺术家，无法一一尽述。

几年前，意大利雕塑家吉安卡洛·内里在希斯公园的一座草坪中央树立起了一座巨大的名为《作家》的雕塑；它不过是一套简单的桌椅，由木材和钢材制成，30英尺高，隐现其中，作为一个纪念碑“献给写作的孤独”。我想不出还有哪个城市的某个地方能更好地给作家来宣称孤独的快乐——行走、呼吸、沉思。但那张唤起了汉普斯特德数以百计的作家灵魂的庞大而若隐若现的桌子，却是相当的令人畏惧。它是一座影响力巨大的雕塑，而当他们将其拆除时，我感到松了一口气。

也不是每个人都能分享我的热忱。山缪尔·理查森写于18世纪的小说《克拉丽莎》中，主人公罗伯特·拉夫雷斯便对此不屑一顾：“现在，我承认那个汉普斯特德希斯算得上是非常漂亮，景象也非常辽远，但大千世界中这算不上什么。”嗯，确实，而且有时候能被人这样提醒一下也不错，即使是被拉夫雷斯这样一个恶棍提醒。从国会山的山顶上看过去，广袤的世界展现在你的脚下。即使在夏季也是雾气缭绕，这里坐落着整个伦敦——它的教堂和摩天大楼；它的贫民区和宫殿；它的灰泥、水泥和玻璃。从这里看去，泰晤士河弯弯曲曲的粼粼水波都被遮挡殆尽；北方和南方由高度和距离连接在了一起。当然了，还有地方能够看到更大的伦敦，更辽阔的世界。但这里就是最高点，于我而言。