作者：珍•莫里斯(Jan Morris)为英国《金融时报》撰稿
2007年6月15日 星期五
 
 
香
港在南，上海在北，两地相距将近一千英里。但在2007年春，我的两地之行却让我有了完全相反的感觉——当然不是在地理位置上，而是在感觉上。这是一种哲学到另一种哲学的转变，是一种气质、想象力和半虚构的转变。

其中有着明显的历史原因。自从香港脱离英国成为中国的特别行政区，时间刚刚过去10年，而上海摆脱殖民时代通商口岸的地位，成为中国第二大城市的时间已长达半个世纪。其中还有经济、政治和历史的原因：但我认为，基本而言，是本能的原因。这么说可能完全不可理喻。

上海的享乐元素

“你喜欢香港吗？”抵达上海后，我向我遇到的第一位上海市民问道。“我从未去过那里，”她立刻回答道，“但我想很快去香港买化妆品。”

与香港不同，上海有一种享乐的元素。我想，它也有着一种不受北京决策者欢迎的元素。他们希望这个以前曾以受西方腐蚀而闻名的大城市，成为长期遭受屈辱的中国实力重新复苏的象征。

没错。在黄浦江左岸，是一个被称为外滩的地方，这里曾经是殖民时代旧上海的中心和象征，充斥着罪恶、犯罪和外国的剥削。一幢幢豪华的帝国主义建筑沿着外滩耸立着，它们一个个傲慢地望向黄浦江以及川流不息的人流。其中半数由香港的帕默(Palmer)和特纳(Turner)两位先生设计：雄伟的银行、豪华的酒店、拥有全球最长吧台的上海总会(Shanghai Club)、花园中的英国领事馆，全部建筑均为穹顶，带有尖塔，设有走廊，而且就像侮辱性传说中所说的，坚决拒绝狗和华人。

这些建筑依然雄伟地矗立在那里，但现在往江对岸看去，就在外滩的对面，也矗立着一系列雄伟的建筑。它们比帕默和特纳曾经建造的建筑更高、姿态更为傲慢且意味更为明确。在过去几年的时间内，上海金融区浦东从废墟中拔地而起，给外滩曾代表的一切以有力的还击。

在当今所有的新兴城市中——包括迪拜、吉隆坡、柏林和新加坡以及金丝雀码头(Canary Wharf)，浦东无疑是最为难看的。它不仅不可爱，实际上相当丑陋。所有陈腐的建筑元素都体现在了它一簇簇的摩天大楼——到处都是硕大的庭院式大堂、明亮的玻璃和镀金装饰，还有全球最高的酒店、最引人瞩目的电视塔，所到之处看到的一切都弥漫着缺乏个性的商业气氛，同时还有全球最快的火车与上海全新的机场相连。

傲慢，但有活力

写写这个城市就会让我吃惊，而这肯定就是它的用意。这是一个崭新的中国。黄浦江中的运输船只已行走了百年，如今江上悠闲的观景船则一小时又一小时的播放着视频广告。浦东向河对面的外滩嚷道：“去你的。”

香港则从不这样。它没有那么傲慢，那么无耻，那么张扬。在香港的街道上，我觉得我身处的这个城市，依然遵循着道德和礼仪，这些让它成为全球社会的一部分。甚至现在，在回归中国10年后，它给人的第一感觉仍是一个属于更广泛世界的城市。

尽管上海的一切都提醒我，我不是站在中国这个大国的边缘，而肯定是在它的内部。当我在文化大革命以后第一次来到上海时，我感到有些吃惊：现在我必须说，尽管城市中弥漫着工业排放的烟雾，尽管数百万辆汽车充斥其中，尽管它不可避免的带有历史的威胁，但我发现这个城市确实令人兴奋。我喜欢难看的浦东，特别是在晚上，灿烂的灯光似乎没有受到环境的影响，上海金茂君悦大酒店(Grand Hyatt) 88层顶层公寓的灯光向我诉说着难以想象的盈利谈判。我喜欢上海的广大、大胆和放肆。

奇怪得很，虽然浦东光彩夺目，但外滩似乎根本不比江对岸光彩照人的景象逊色，反而更有活力。它的建筑师可能会引以为荣。当年入主这些建筑的银行并非今天的这些银行，上海总会(Shanghai Club)的长廊酒吧(Long Bar)已经被人忘却，英国领事馆(British Consulate)也已迁到不太重要的地方，但在具有爱德华时代风格的建筑中，到处都郑重其事地穿插着令人羡慕的服装店、时尚设计公司和高雅的珠宝店。上海的青年男女经常出入外滩5号的魅力酒吧(Glamour Bar)，而来到位于6层的某个旧式金融所，喝杯卡布奇诺，远离楼下的喧嚣吵闹，也是件令人高兴的事——在你探寻那不勒斯式的码头途中，休息一下的感觉很不错。

陆家嘴和外滩

浦东和外滩是上海精良打造的典型，但这座城市存在的细微差别各式各样，这两者可能就体现了这一点——上海也比香港更富于变化，因为它的历史更复杂。

有时候我觉得自己回到了毛泽东时代的上海。在一个高雅的崭新咖啡馆，我碰到了一场由3位年轻女士在下午茶时间表演的三重奏，我停下来听了听。她们演奏的是多情的爱尔兰传统音乐，弹奏手法娴熟。但当我站在那儿的时候，才意识到她们的诠释几乎都是程式化的节奏，不再是温柔的舒缓音调，也没有情感上的震撼，就好像她们被毫无感情的内心节拍器控制着一样。她们和吉普赛咖啡馆的乐手们完全不同。随后，我意识到，她们可能是在一个崇尚毛泽东思想的少儿班里学的音乐。

有时候（尤其是在某个人们经常出入的日子、暮霭席卷这座城市的时候）浦东的摩天大楼让我觉得很邋遢，就像上世纪60年代中国第一篇企图感受现代主义的随笔文章一样；街道上永远不变的拥堵让人回想起毛泽东时代大家都骑自行车的日子。回顾过去，所有的色彩都消失了，街道上满是坑坑洼洼，路人穿着单调，所有人的衣服都是黑色或褐色的，表明自己属于共产主义工人，自斯大林主义后期开始，全世界任何地方的这种人都是如此。

在众多崭新的建筑物中间，在遍布上海的无边无际的高架公路旁，的确有一栋建筑在某些地方表现出不足为信的意识形态。在北京和莫斯科方面对彼此的幻想破灭之前，苏联向中国提出建造一个斯大林主义纪念建筑，冠以无产阶级兄弟之情恒久不变的寓意，此类建筑至今仍伫立在欧洲某些旧时的卫星首都。

就本质而言，这种类型的典型建筑不会主导上海，但在各种颇具中式风格的建筑中，仍有这样一个建筑矗立于此，还是让我感到有些不舒服，何况眼前掠过的还是高速公路的壮观图景。我的同伴不能确切告诉我它到底是什么——某种展览大厅？——但我不禁想到这是为了保持权威。帕默(Palmer)和特纳(Turner)曾经设计的渣打银行（Chartered Bank，外滩18号，目前内部设有卡地亚(Cartier)、滩外楼中餐馆和绚烂的Bar Rouge酒吧）在规模上已经超过了它。

事实上，社会主义意识形态在迅速消逝（即便在这个最后的人民天堂中它也在迅速消逝），在这座城市中，其遗留下来的影响力，不及那种遗留下来的狂热、复杂、注定融于国际社会的氛围。在两次世界大战期间，这种氛围颇为盛行，当时，外滩周围的美欧公共租界(International Settlement)以及附近的法租界，定下了这种基调，并成为上海的声誉所在。

让人兴奋的不安感觉

在上海，汽车鸣笛声比香港吵闹得多。晚上，出租车等在上海各家夜总会的外面，排成几条长队，像黑白电影中一样，这些车应该由避难的白俄罗斯伙计驾驶。有一次，我对一位酒店服务员说，我疯狂地爱上了我们身边一个经典的中国英雄塑像，他只是淡淡地说：“我们董事长也喜欢他。”这个地方有一种天生的活力，有趣，有点儿脏，存在一种容忍的意识和一点儿兴奋的感觉。

有人告诉我高层腐败损害了上海市的吸引力，使得投资者仍对香港青睐有加。有时候在穿过这座城市的小巷时，我的确能感到一种从未在香港感受到的些许不安。黄昏时分，纠缠不休的乞丐会突然跳出门口，有时我相信穿着深色衣服的年轻人会通过手机彼此联系，指出我的行走路线，做好攻击我的准备。

不过，什么事也没发生过。没人伤害过我，事实上，在霓虹灯照不到的黑暗缝隙中，那种恐惧带来的战栗感觉反而让我非常享受。对我而言，这就像穿越朴实的时间隧道回到过去，听到不远处人民广场(People's Square)（上海的中心）传来的街头争吵声。那是一种“地中海式”的争吵，观望人群团团围住，通常争吵都没有结果，但时而发作，时而平静，时而暴怒，时而平淡，偶尔拳脚相向，但最终以粗鲁的某种姿势结束，使得所有看热闹的人都失望不已，对我而言更是如此。我喜欢带有粗糙感的城市，尽管新上海光彩夺目，尽管咖啡馆里有那些呆板的少女，但在这里有许多粗糙的感觉。

我要离开上海去香港，他们那里正在选举特别行政区行政长官，香港是民主模式的一个完美复制品，不过（民主）完全软弱无力；电视辩论、徒步宣传、报纸采访等等。所有这些都不能对事先决定的结果造成什么影响，但这确定了尽职尽责的城市形象。

我去上海机场时，坐的是令人难以置信的德国造磁悬浮列车，它以每小时450公里的速度用磁悬浮把我运出上海。有人告诉我，坐这种车的人不太多，因为太贵了，它让上海耗资上百亿人民币，高出估算，不过这证实了我对这座城市过度花费的感觉。当我们到达机场时，几乎和我坐同一列车的所有人都转乘火车回城。他们只是为了“感受”才来的——香港理智的市民可能会认为这是种不成熟的表现。

珍•莫里斯著书逾40本，包括最近的《Hav》和她的旅游文学和报告文学集《一个作家的世界》(A Writer's World)。

译者/何黎

(LIFESTYLE) A TALE OF TWO CITIES

 
By Jan Morris
Friday, June 15, 2007
 
 
Hong
Kong is nearly a thousand miles south of Shanghai, but travelling from one to the other in the spring of 2007 makes me feel it is the other way round – not geographically, of course, but sensually. It is a temperamental, imaginative, half-imaginary shift from one metaphysical climate to another.

There are obvious historical causes for this. It is only 10 years since Hong Kong was emancipated from the British Empire to become a Chinese Special Administrative Region, but half a century since Shanghai shook off its own colonial past as a Treaty Port to become the second city of the People's Republic of China. There are economic reasons for the sensation, too, and reasons of politics and history: but mostly, I think, they are reasons of the instinct. They are purely unreasonable reasons.

“Do you like Hong Kong?” I asked the first citizen of Shanghai I met on my arrival. “I have never been there,” she replied instantly, “but I want to go soon to buy cosmetics.”

There is to Shanghai an element of hedonism alien to Hong Kong, and an unwelcome one, I would imagine, to the policy-makers of Beijing. They want this tremendous city, once notorious for its westernised decadence, to be an allegorical projection of the resurgent Chinese power that for so long lay dormant in humiliation.

There is no mistaking the allegory. On the left bank of the Huangpu river runs the old esplanade called the Bund, once the very heart and symbol of colonial Shanghai, rampant with vice and crime and foreign exploitation. One by one along the length of it, looking haughtily towards the river and its ceaseless traffic, arose the extravagant imperialist palaces of its prime, half of them designed by Messrs Palmer and Turner of Hong Kong: the mighty banks, the great hotels, the Shanghai Club with the longest bar in the world, the British Consulate in its gardens, the whole array domed, pinnacled, porticoed and decidedly unwelcoming, as scurrilous legend has it, to dogs and Chinese.

The buildings still stand there grandly enough, but look across the river now and, bang opposite the Bund, there towers a spectacular architectural riposte. Far, far higher than anything Messrs Palmer and Turner ever built, far more arrogant of posture and explicit of meaning, the financial district of the city called Pudong has sprung out of the mud during the past few years as a deliberate slap in the eye to everything the Bund once represented.

Of all the new civic exhibitions of our time, the Dubais and the Kuala Lumpurs, the Berlins and the Singapores and the Canary Wharfs, Pudong strikes me as unquestionably the ugliest. It is not just unlovely, it is actually nasty. Every contemporary architectural cliche is represented in its vast cluster of skyscrapers, every last bulge and atrium, mirror-glass and gold plating, the highest hotel on earth, the showiest TV tower, the whole attended by a mass of faceless commercialism stretching away as far as the eye can see, and connected to its own brand-new airport by the fastest train in the world.

It takes my breath away just to write about it, and that is undoubtedly what it is meant to do. This is the new China. The water traffic streams by down the Chinese centuries, and a loitering publicity barge displays its video advertisements hour after hour mid-stream. “Up yours!” shouts Pudong across the river to the Bund.

Hong Kong was never like this. It was never quite so brash, so shameless, so obvious. In its streets I feel I am in a city still governed by mores and even manners that are part of global society. Restraint shows still in Hong Kong, and even now, a decade after its return to China, it feels above all a city of the wider world.

Everything about Shanghai, though, reminds me that I am not just on the edge of the vast semi-continent that is China, but decidedly inside it. It rather scared me when I first came to this city in the aftermath of the Cultural Revolution: now, I have to say, I find it exhilarating, despite the pervading smog of its industries and millions of cars, despite its inescapable suggestion of historical threat. I warm to hideous Pudong, especially at night when its blazing illuminations seem impervious to ecology, and the lights from the 88th floor penthouse suites of the Grand Hyatt speak to me of unimaginably profitable negotiations. I like the bigness and the boldness and the chutz-pah of it all.

And oddly enough, despite the all too obvious messages of Pudong, the Bund does not seem at all downcast by the gaudy performance across the river, but actually rather buoyant. Its architects might be proud of it. Their majestic banks are not banks nowadays, the Long Bar of the Shanghai Club is forgotten and the British Consulate has moved somewhere less dominant, but there are enviable dress shops here and there, and trendy design firms, and posh jewellers inserted demurely among the Edwardiana. The Chinese jeunesse dorée of Shanghai frequents the Glamour Bar at No 5, and it is a pleasure to pop up to the sixth floor of some superannuated finance house to have a cappuccino high above the hubbub – rather like taking a break, say, as you explore the Neapolitan waterfront.

Pudong and the Bund are the well-worked archetypes of Shanghai, but the city is far more varied of nuance that this dichotomy might suggest – more varied than Hong Kong too, because its history has been more complicated.

There are moments when I feel I am back in the Shanghai of Mao Zedong. At one of the elegant new cafés, I came across a trio of young ladies playing tea-time music, and I paused to listen to them. They were playing sentimental old Irish melodies, and their technique was impeccable. But as I stood there, I realized that their interpretations were almost regimentally rhythmical, never a tender rallentando, never a quiver of emotion, as though they were governed by inexorable inner metronomes. They were the very opposite of gypsy café musicians. I realised then that they had probably learnt their musicianship at one of those mass children's classes dear to Maoist theory.

Then again sometimes, especially on one of those frequent days when toxic murk swirls through the city, the skyscrapers of Pudong look to me downright dowdy, like China's first shoddy essays in modernism back in the 1960s, and the tireless congestion of the streets recalls the massed cyclists of the Maoist years. All colour is gone at such moments of revelation, the streets are full of potholes, and the drab crowds of pedestrians, all in blacks or browns, suggest generic Communist workers, anywhere in the world, from the later years of Stalinism.

Somewhere among the mass of new constructions, beside one of the immense elevated highways that mesh this metropolis, there is indeed a building that really could be somewhere in that discredited ideological empire. Before Beijing and Moscow were disillusioned with each other, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics presented to the People's Republic one of those monumental Stalinist buildings, surmounted by the star of proletarian brotherhood, which still stand in some of the old satellite capitals of Europe.

Shanghai's example of the genre cannot, by the nature of things, dominate this city, but it gave me a queer frisson, scudding along that splendid super-highway, to see the building still standing there amid a miscellany of very Chinese constructions. My companions could not tell me exactly what it was – some sort of exhibition hall? – but I could not help thinking that for staying power, it was outclassed by, say, Palmer and Turner's former Chartered Bank (18 the Bund, and now housing Cartiers, the Tai Wai Lou Chinese Restaurant and the fancy Bar Rouge).

Actually, the legacy of the fast-fading socialist ideology – fading fast even in this last of the People's Paradises – is less pervasive in the city than a surviving aura of the frenzied, sophisticated and doomed international society that flourished here between the world wars, when the Anglo-American International Settlement around the Bund, and the nearby French Concession, set the tone and the reputation of Shanghai.

Car horns blare far more blatantly in Shanghai than they ever do in Hong Kong. At night long lines of taxis wait outside the city nightclubs, as in black-and-white movies, and ought to be driven by refugee White Russian dukes. When I once remarked to a hotel employee that I had fallen madly in love with a statue of a classical Chinese hero standing near us, he simply said: “Our chairman loves him too”. There is an innate raciness to this place, tinged with fun, squalor, a sense of tolerance and a hint of excitement.

I am told that high-level corruption sullies Shanghai's civic allure, and still makes investors prefer Hong Kong, and it is true that sometimes, traversing the back streets of this city, I have felt a slight tremor of unease that I never feel in Hong Kong. In the dusk, importunate beggars spring out of doorways, and sometimes I am persuaded that young men in dark suits are signalling my progress to each other on mobile phones, in readiness to pounce.

Nothing ever happens, though. Nobody harms me, and, actually, I rather enjoy that tremor of menace, in the dark interstices between the neon lights. It was like old times to me, like homely deja vu, to come across a street brawl not far from People's Square, the ceremonial centre of the city – one of those Mediterranean-style brawls that never come to anything either, but erupt and subside, flare and fade, break sporadically into fisticuffs and peter out in rude gestures to the disappointment of all observers, especially me. I like a city with rough edges, and for all the shine and dazzle of the new Shanghai, for all those mechanical maidens at the café, there are plenty of rough edges here.

And so I left Shanghai for Hong Kong again, where they were holding an election for the Chief Executive of the Special Administrative Region in a perfect, though entirely impotent, replica of democratic modes; TV debates, walkabouts, newspaper interviews and all. None of which could make any difference to the preordained result, but which confirmed the civic image of conscientious balance.

I went out to Shanghai's airport in the fabulous German-made Maglev train, which whisked me out of the city by magnetic levitation at 450 kph. Not many people used it, I was told, because it was too expensive, and it had cost the city countless trillion yuans over estimate, but that only confirmed my fellow-feeling for this city of raffish excess. When we reached the airport, almost all my fellow passengers transferred to the next train back to town. They had just come for the ride – something the sensible citizens of Hong Kong might consider immature.


Jan Morris is the author of more than 40 books, including most recently ‘Hav' and ‘A Writer's World', a collection of her travel writing and reportage

...................................................................................

塞普，这么长，不利于我们的学习啊，我都看到恶心了还没看完。。。。。

啊。。那我以后发短的

PS：咚妈呀。 我订阅了FT的中文版（网络），上面有狠多双语文章。推荐你也去订哦。  

希望咚妈雅思考个9分， 以后偶就来取经咯