On Knowing the Difference了解差异

罗伯特·林德

It was only the other day that I came upon a full-grown man reading with something like rapture a little book—Ships and Seafaring Shown to Children. His rapture was modified1 however， by the bitter reflection that he had already passed so great a part of his life without knowing the difference between a ship and a barque; and， as for sloops， yawls， cutters， ketches， and brigantines， they were simply the Russian alphabet to him. I sympathise with his regret. It was a noble day in one’s childhood when one had learned the names of sailing-vessels， and， walking to the point of the harbour beyond the bathing-boxes， could correct the ignorance of a friend： “That’s not a ship. That’s a brig.” To the boy from an inland town every vessel that sails is a ship. He feels he is being shown a new and bewildering world when he is told that the only ship that has the right to be called a ship is a vessel with three masts （at least）， all of them square-rigged. When once he has learned his lesson， he finds an unaccustomed delight in wandering along the dirtiest coal-quay， and recognising the barques by the fact that only two of their three masts are square-rigged， and the brigs by the fact that they are square-rigged throughout—a sort of two-masted ships. Vessels have suddenly become as real to him in their differences as the different sorts of common birds. As for his feelings on the day on which he can tell for certain the upper fore topsail from the upper fore top-gallant sail， and either of these from the fore skysail， the crossjack， or the mizzen-royal， they are those of a man who has mastered a language and discovers himself， to his surprise， talking it fluently. The world of shipping has become articulate poetry to him instead of a monotonous abracadabra2.

It is as though we can know nothing of a thing until we know its name. Can we be said to know what a pigeon is unless we know that it is a pigeon？ We may have seen it again and again， with its bottle-shoulders and shining neck， sitting on the edge of a chimney-pot， and noted it as a bird with a full bosom and swift wings. But if we are not able to name it except vaguely as a “bird，” we seem to be separated from it by an immense distance of ignorance. Learn that it is a pigeon however， and immediately it rushes towards us across the distance， like something seen through a telescope. No doubt to the pigeon-fancier this would seem but the first lisping3 of knowledge， and he would not think much of our acquaintance with pigeons if we could not tell a carrier from a pouter. That is the charm of knowledge—it is merely a door into another sort of ignorance. There are always new differences to be discovered， new names to be learned， new individualities to be known， new classifications to be made. The world is so full of a number of things that no man with a grain of either poetry or the scientific spirit in him has any right to be bored， though he lived for a thousand years. Terror or tragedy may overwhelm him， but boredom never. The infinity of things forbids it. I once heard of a tipsy young artist who， on his way home on a beautiful night， had his attention called by a maudlin4 friend to the stars， where they twinkled like a million larks. He raised his eyes to the heavens， then shook his head. “There are too many of them，” he complained wearily. It should be remembered， however， that he was drunk， and that he did not know astronomy. There could be too many stars only if they were all turned out on the same pattern， and made the same pattern on the sky. Fortunately， the universe is the creation not of a manufacturer but of an artist.

There is scarcely a subject that does not contain sufficient differences to keep an explorer happy for a lifetime. It is said that thirteen thousand species of butterflies have been already discovered， and it is suggested that there may be nearly twice as many that have so far escaped the naturalists.  Many men give all the pleasant hours of their lives to learning how to know the difference between one kind of moth and another. One used to see these moth-hunters on windless nights in a Hampstead lane pursuing their quarry5 fantastically with nets in the light of the lamps. In pursuing moths， they pursue knowledge. This， they feel， is life at its most exciting， its most intense. And， indeed， one could not conceive a more appalling sort of blank idiocy than the condition of a man who could not tell one thing from another in any department of life whatever. We would rather change lives with a jelly-fish than with such a man. The townsman passing a field of sheep finds it difficult to believe that the shepherd can distinguish between one and another of them with as much certainty as if they were his children. And do not most of us think of foreigners as beings who are all turned out as if on a pattern， like sheep？ The further removed the foreigners are from us in race the more they seem to us to be like each other. Probably to a Chinese all English children look exactly alike， and it may be that all Europeans seem to him to be as indistinguishable as sticks of barley-sugar.

Thus our first generalisations spring from ignorance rather than from knowledge. They are true， so long as we know that they are not entirely true. As soon as we begin to accept them as absolute truths， they become lies. One of the perils of a great war is that it revives the passionate faith of the common man in generalisations. He begins to think that all Germans are much the same， or that all Americans are much the same， or that all Conscientious Objectors are much the same. I do not wish to deny the importance of generalisations. It is not possible to think or even to act without them. The generalisation that is founded on a knowledge of and a delight in the variety of things is the end of all science and poetry. Keats said that he sought the principle of beauty in all things， and poems are in a sense simply beautiful generalisations. They subject the unclassified and chaotic facts of life to the order of beauty. The mystic， meditating on the One and the Many， is also in pursuit of a generalisation—the perfect generalisation of the universe. And what is science but the attempt to arrange in a series of generalisations the facts of what we are vain enough to call the known world？ To know the resemblances of things is even more important than to know the differences of things. Shakespeare is greater than all the other poets because he， more than anybody else， knew how very like human beings are to each other and because he， more than anybody else， knew how very unlike human beings are to each other. He was master of the particular as well as of the universal. How much poorer the world would have been if he had not been so in regard not only to human beings but to the very flowers—if he had not been able to tell the difference between fennel and fumitory， between the violet and the gillyflower！

就在几天前，我偶然遇见一个成年人，他正狂喜地读《给孩子系列：船舶与航海》。然而，当他发现自己活了大半辈子，竟然不知道“帆船”与三桅帆船的区别时，他不再那么狂喜了。谈到单桅纵帆船、双桅帆船、独桅纵帆船、双桅纵帆船、前桅横帆双桅船等帆船类型，他更是感到两眼摸黑。对于他的遗憾，我深表同情。小时候，如果我们能够了解帆船的名字，走到比海边更衣室更远的港口去纠正朋友的错误说法，告诉朋友“这不叫帆船，而叫双桅横帆船”，那么我们会觉得很自豪。对于一个来自内陆的男孩来说，所有能扬帆航行的船都叫作“帆船”。当人们告诉他至少有三个桅杆且桅杆上全是横帆的船才能被称为帆船时，他感觉自己发现了一片令人神迷的新大陆。认识到这一点后，他发现，当自己沿着脏乱不堪的煤炭码头闲逛时，他能分辨出三桅帆船和双桅横帆船。前者有三个桅杆，且其中两个是横帆桅杆，后者则有且只有两个横帆桅杆。于是，一种异乎寻常的喜悦在他心底油然而生。就像能区分不同的鸟类一样，不同的船舶也能分辨得清清楚楚了。当他能明确区分前桅上帆和高上桅帆，抑或是前桅天帆、后桅底桁和后桅最上桅帆时，他的感受就如同掌握了一门语言并惊喜地发现自己能熟练运用。此刻，对于他来说，航海世界变得诗意盎然、令人迷醉，而不是单调无趣。

看来，似乎只有知道了事物的名字后，才能说我们对其有所了解。那么是否可以说，只有知道鸽子叫鸽子之后才能说我们认识鸽子呢？我们可能经常见到鸽子。鸽子的肩膀圆鼓鼓的，脖子周围的羽毛也总是油亮亮的。而且，其胸部丰满，翅膀灵巧，喜欢落在烟囱边上。但是如果我们不知道它的名字，而含糊地以“小鸟”去称呼它，我们似乎会因无知而对它产生很强的距离感。但得知它叫鸽子后，就像通过望远镜看某物，感觉近在咫尺。然而，对于一位鸽友来说，知道鸽子的名字無疑只是对鸽子世界的粗浅了解。假如我们不能区分信鸽和球鸽，他会认为我们不配自称了解鸽子。这就是知识的魅力所在——知识仅能将我们引导至另一个未知领域，因为还有很多新的差异、新的名称、新的个体、新的类别等着我们去发现、去学习、去了解、去辨别。若我们略懂诗歌或是略具科学精神，我们就会发现这世界是如此丰富多彩，人类生存千年也不会感到枯燥乏味。我们可能被恐惧和不幸打倒，却永远不会因无聊而死亡。因为人不能穷尽宇宙万物。从前，我听过一个小故事：在一个美丽的夜晚，醉酒的年轻艺术家走在回家的路上，这时一位多愁善感的朋友邀他关注天上那无数的星辰，这些星辰就像一百万只百灵鸟一样眨着眼睛，一闪一闪，熠熠生辉。他抬眼望向天空，摇了摇头，有气无力地抱怨道：“实在是太多了！” 但要知道，他当时酩酊大醉，也对天文学茫然无知。事实上，只有当所有的星星都一模一样，并且都在天上排成同样的图案时，我们才可以感叹 “天上有无数的星星”。幸好，我们的宇宙是艺术家的手笔，而不是工人制造出来的。

几乎所有学科都饱含差异，并能为研究者不断带来终生探索的乐趣。据说到目前为止，人类已经发现了13000种蝴蝶，但与之相比，还有将近两倍的蝴蝶有待自然学家去发现。很多人乐意终其一生，尽其最美的时光去学习如何区分各种飞蛾。人们常会看到这样的一幕：无风的夜里，在汉普斯特德乡间小路上，捕飞蛾的人在灯光的照射下用网捕捉飞蛾。在捕捉飞蛾的过程中，他们收获了知识。他们认为这才是生命中最令人激动、最扣人心弦的时刻。在任何领域，如果一个人不能区分事物，那么他会被看作是最愚昧无知的人。的确，世界上再没有其他比这更让人觉得愚不可及了。如果让我们成为这样的人，真真不如做只水母呢！牧场里羊群遍地，但是牧羊人能将所有羊区分开来，仿佛这些羊就是自己的孩子一样。久居城市的人经过牧场看到后都对此感到难以置信。我们中大部分人不都认为外国人像羊一样，彼此都长得差不多吗？外国人与我们人种差异越大，我们越会觉得他们彼此相像。可能对于一位中国人来说，所有英国孩子都长得相似，所有欧洲人也都长得差不多，就像麦芽棒棒糖一样难以区分。

因此，归纳起初源于蒙昧无知而非学识渊博。只要我们认识到事物不完全真实，那么它们便是真实的。一旦我们将其当作绝对的真理，它们就成了谎言。一场伟大战争最危险的地方在于，它能以偏概全，激起广大普通民众的狂热信仰。人们开始相信，所有的德国人几乎都一样，所有的美国人几乎都一样，所有的拒服兵役者几乎都一样。在此，我不想否定归纳的重要性。思考或行动都少不了归纳。基于对各种事物的了解和喜爱而做的归纳是一切科学和诗歌的终极目标。济慈说，他曾试图找出宇宙万物中美的法则，诗在某种程度上就是美丽的概括。它们将生活中未经分类的混乱事实归于美的秩序呈现出来。对“一与多”问题的神秘冥想也是一种对概括的追求，一种对宇宙完美概括的追求。什么是科学？科学就是试图系列归纳我们自以为是地称为“已知世界”的种种事实，但是将世界称作“已知世界”太过自负。了解事物之间的相似点比了解其差异来得更加重要。莎士比亚比任何其他诗人都伟大，是因为他比任何人都了解人与人之间有多相似，又有多不同。他精通共性和个性。如果他做不到如此，无论对人还是对那些花朵——比如不能分辨茴香和延胡索，抑或紫罗兰和康乃馨——那这个世界会变得多么贫乏！