The Day after Yesterday。

昨天凌晨睡不好,翻身起來看著電視入眠;HBO剛好在播Sideways,我也就一點一點的把他看完了。Paul Giamatti真是個戲精,雖然其貌不揚,把中年男人的危機演得非常生動。

話說回來,我們處在一個充滿危機的年代;一些與我同年的朋友已經開始往人生的頂點爬,我還遲遲沒把碩士唸完;有些朋友也許唸完了碩士,卻惶惶不知接下來該不該以此作為終生的職志。Mid-life crisis的最主要原因是對於自己人生一事可能都將無成的焦慮,而我們這一代該還不到無成的年代,焦慮卻似乎已經無法避免。

Sideways裡的Miles是個不成氣候的小說家,在中學裡教著別人的名著,自己寫不出什麼好作品。就算被Jack拉上了這段California鄉間的品酒之旅,他也從來就不是主角;要結婚的是Jack,隨便跟別人睡的是Jack,被打的是Jack,最後Miles還要幫Jack把錢包偷回來,還撞自己的車來圓Jack的謊。已經在人生的邊陲地帶了,Miles卻還是被忽略;而他明明需要的是像Pinot這樣耐心細心的對待。

我很喜歡這段描述Pinot的文字。

It’s a hard grape to grow, as you know. Right? It’s uh, it’s thin-skinned, temperamental, ripens early. It’s, you know, it’s not a survivor like Cabernet, which can just grow anywhere and uh, thrive even when it’s neglected. No, Pinot needs constant care and attention. You know? And in fact it can only grow in these really specific, little, tucked away corners of the world. And, and only the most patient and nurturing of growers can do it, really. Only somebody who really takes the time to understand Pinot’s potential can then coax it into its fullest expression. Then, I mean, oh its flavors, they’re just the most haunting and brilliant and thrilling and subtle and… ancient on the planet.
於是Miles只能微小地,卑微地活著;他的人生並不如美酒般美好,所以也沒什麼好抗議的。

Miles Raymond: Well, the world doesn’t give a shit what I have to say. I’m not necessary. Had. I’m so insignificant I can’t even kill myself.
Jack: Miles, what the hell is that supposed to mean?
Miles Raymond: Come on, man. You know. Hemingway, Sexton, Plath, Woolf. You can’t kill yourself before you’re even published.
Jack: What about the guy who wrote Confederacy of Dunces? He killed himself before he was published. Look how famous he is.
Miles Raymond: Thanks.
Jack: Just don’t give up, alright? You’re gonna make it.
Miles Raymond: Half my life is over and I have nothing to show for it. Nothing. I’am thumbprint on the window of a skyscraper. I’m a smudge of excrement on a tissue surging out to sea with a million tons of raw sewage.
Jack: See? Right there. Just what you just said. That is beautiful. ‘A smudge of excrement… surging out to sea.’
Miles Raymond: Yeah.
Jack: I could never write that.
Miles Raymond: Neither could I, actually. I think it’s Bukowsky.