Chapter 1（2）
It had happened that morning at the Ministry, if anything so nebulous could be said to happen.
如果说，这样一件模模糊糊的事也可以说是发生的话，这件事今天早上发生在部里。
It was nearly eleven hundred, and in the Records Department, where Winston worked, they were dragging the chairs out of the cubicles and grouping them in the centre of the hall opposite the big telescreen, in preparation for the Two Minutes Hate. Winston was just taking his place in one of the middle rows when two people whom he knew by sight, but had never spoken to, came unexpectedly into the room. One of them was a girl whom he often passed in the corridors. He did not know her name, but he knew that she worked in the Fiction Department. Presumably—since he had sometimes seen her with oily hands and carrying a spanner—she had some mechanical job on one of the novel-writing machines. She was a bold-looking girl, of about twenty-seven, with thick hair, a freckled face, and swift, athletic movements. A narrow scarlet sash, emblem of the Junior Anti-Sex League, was wound several times round the waist of her overalls, just tightly enough to bring out the shapeliness of her hips. Winston had disliked her from the very first moment of seeing her. He knew the reason. It was because of the atmosphere of hockey-fields and cold baths and community hikes and general clean-mindedness which she managed to carry about with her. He disliked nearly all women, and especially the young and pretty ones. It was always the women, and above all the young ones, who were the most bigoted adherents of the Party, the swallowers of slogans, the amateur spies and nosers-out of unorthodoxy. But this particular girl gave him the impression of being more dangerous than most. Once when they passed in the corridor she gave him a quick sidelong glance which seemed to pierce right into him and for a moment had filled him with black terror. The idea had even crossed his mind that she might be an agent of the Thought Police. That, it was true, was very unlikely. Still, he continued to feel a peculiar uneasiness, which had fear mixed up in it as well as hostility, whenever she was anywhere near him.
快到十一点的时候，在温斯顿工作的纪录司，他们把椅子从小办公室 拖出来，放在大厅的中央，放在大电幕的前面，准备举行两分钟仇恨。温斯 顿刚刚在中间一排的一张椅子上坐下来，有两个他只认识脸孔、却从来没有 讲过话的人意外地走了进来。其中有一个是他常常在走廊中遇到的一个姑 娘。他不道她的名字，但是他知道她在小说司工作。由于他有时看到她双手沾油，拿着扳钳，她大概是做机械工的，拾掇那些小说写作机器。她是个年约二十七岁、表情大胆的姑娘，浓浓的黑发，长满雀斑的脸，动作迅速敏捷，象个运动员。她的工作服的腰上重重地围了一条猩红色的狭缎带，这是青年反性同盟的标志，围的不松不紧，正好露出她的腰部的苗条。温斯顿头一眼看到她就不喜欢她。他知道为什么原因。这是因为她竭力在自己身上带着一种曲棍球场、冷水浴、集体远足、总的来说是思想纯洁的味道。几乎所有的女人他都不喜欢，特别是年轻漂亮的。总是女人，尤其是年轻的女人，是党的最盲目的拥护者，生吞活剥口号的人，义务的密探，非正统思想的检查员。但是这个女人使他感到比别的更加危险。有一次他们在走廊里遇到时，她很快地斜视了他一眼，似乎看透了他的心，刹那间他充满了黑色的恐惧。他甚至想到这样的念头：她可能是思想警察的特务。不错，这是很不可能的。但是只要她在近处，他仍有一种特别的不安之感。这种感觉中掺杂着敌意．也掺杂着恐惧。
The other person was a man named O'Brien, a member of the Inner Party and holder of some post so important and remote that Winston had only a dim idea of its nature. A momentary hush passed over the group of people round the chairs as they saw the black overalls of an Inner Party member approaching. O'Brien was a large, burly man with a thick neck and a coarse, humorous, brutal face. In spite of his formidable appearance he had a certain charm of manner. He had a trick of resettling his spectacles on his nose which was curiously disarming—in some indefinable way, curiously civilized. It was a gesture which, if anyone had still thought in such terms, might have recalled an eighteenth-century nobleman offering his snuffbox. Winston had seen O'Brien perhaps a dozen times in almost as many years. He felt deeply drawn to him, and not solely because he was intrigued by the contrast between O'Brien's urbane manner and his prize-fighter's physique. Much more it was because of a secretly held belief—or perhaps not even a belief, merely a hope—that O'Brien's political orthodoxy was not perfect. Something in his face suggested it irresistibly. And again, perhaps it was not even unorthodoxy that was written in his face, but simply intelligence. But at any rate he had the appearance of being a person that you could talk to if somehow you could cheat the telescreen and get him alone. Winston had never made the smallest effort to verify this guess: indeed, there was no way of doing so. At this moment O'Brien glanced at his wrist-watch, saw that it was nearly eleven hundred, and evidently decided to stay in the Records Department until the Two Minutes Hate was over. He took a chair in the same row as Winston, a couple of places away. A small, sandy-haired woman who worked in the next cubicle to Winston was between them. The girl with dark hair was sitting immediately behind.
另外一个人是个叫奥勃良的男人，他是核心党员，担任的职务很重要，高高在上，因此温斯顿对他职务的性质只有一种很模糊的概念。椅子周围的人一看到核心党员的黑色工作服走近时，都不由得肃静下来。奥勃良是个体格魁梧的人，脖子短粗，有着一张粗犷残忍、兴高采烈的脸。尽管他的外表令人望而生畏，他的态度却有一定迷人之处。他有一个小动作奇怪地使人感到可亲，那就是端正一下鼻梁上的眼镜；也很难说清楚，这奇怪地使人感到很文明。如果有人仍旧有那样想法的话，这个姿态可能使人想到一个十八世纪的绅士端出鼻烟匣来待客。温斯顿大概在十多年来看到过奥勃良十多次。他感到对他特别有兴趣，这并不完全是因为他对奥勃良彬彬有礼的态度和拳击师的体格的截然对比感到有兴趣。更多的是因为他心中暗自认为——也许甚至还不是认为，而仅仅是希望——奥勃良的政治信仰不完全是正统的。他脸上的某种表情使人无法抗拒地得出这一结论。而且，表现在他脸上的，甚至不是不正统，而干脆就是智慧。不过无论如何，他的外表使人感到，如果你能躲过电幕而单独与他在一起的话，他是个可以谈谈的人。温斯顿从来没有做过哪怕是最轻微的努力来证实这种猜想；说真的，根本没有这样做的可能。现在，奥勃良瞥了一眼手表，看到已经快到十一点了，显然决定留在纪录司，等两分钟仇恨结束。他在温斯顿那一排坐了下来，相隔两把椅子。中间坐的是一个淡茶色头发的小女人，她在温斯顿隔壁的小办公室工作。那个黑头发的姑娘坐在他们背后一排。
The next moment a hideous, grinding speech, as of some monstrous machine running without oil, burst from the big telescreen at the end of the room. It was a noise that set one's teeth on edge and bristled the hair at the back of one's neck. The Hate had started.
接着，屋子那头的大电幕上突然发出了一阵难听的摩擦声，仿佛是台大机器没有油了一样。这种噪声使你牙关咬紧、毛发直竖。仇恨开始了。
As usual, the face of Emmanuel Goldstein, the Enemy of the People, had flashed on to the screen. There were hisses here and there among the audience. The little sandy-haired woman gave a squeak of mingled fear and disgust. Goldstein was the renegade and backslider who once, long ago (how long ago, nobody quite remembered), had been one of the leading figures of the Party, almost on a level with Big Brother himself, and then had engaged in counter-revolutionary activities, had been condemned to death, and had mysteriously escaped and disappeared. The programmes of the Two Minutes Hate varied from day to day, but there was none in which Goldstein was not the principal figure. He was the primal traitor, the earliest defiler of the Party's purity. All subsequent crimes against the Party, all treacheries, acts of sabotage, heresies, deviations, sprang directly out of his teaching. Somewhere or other he was still alive and hatching his conspiracies: perhaps somewhere beyond the sea, under the protection of his foreign paymasters, perhaps even—so it was occasionally rumoured—in some hidingplace in Oceania itself.
象平常一样，屏幕上闪现了人民公敌爱麦虞埃尔果尔德施坦因的脸。观众中间到处响起了嘘声。那个淡茶色头发的小女人发出了混杂着恐惧和厌恶的叫声。果尔德施坦因是个叛徒、变节分子，他一度(那是很久以前了，到底多久，没有人记得清楚)是党的*物之一，几乎与老大哥本人平起平坐，后来从事反革命活动，被判死刑，却神秘地逃走了，不知下落。两分钟仇恨节目每天不同，但无不以果尔德施坦因为其重要人物。他是头号叛徒，最早污损党的纯洁性的人。后来的一切反党罪行、一切叛国行为、破坏颠覆、异端邪说、离经叛道都是直接起源于他的教唆。反正不知在什么地方，他还活着，策划着阴谋诡计；也许是在海外某个地方，得到外国后台老板的庇护；也许甚至在大洋国国内某个隐蔽的地方藏匿着——有时就有这样的谣传。
Winston's diaphragm was constricted. He could never see the face of Goldstein without a painful mixture of emotions. It was a lean Jewish face, with a great fuzzy aureole of white hair and a small goatee beard—a clever face, and yet somehow inherently despicable, with a kind of senile silliness in the long thin nose, near the end of which a pair of spectacles was perched. It resembled the face of a sheep, and the voice, too, had a sheep-like quality. Goldstein was delivering his usual venomous attack upon the doctrines of the Party—an attack so exaggerated and perverse that a child should have been able to see through it, and yet just plausible enough to fill one with an alarmed feeling that other people, less level-headed than oneself, might be taken in by it. He was abusing Big Brother, he was denouncing the dictatorship of the Party, he was demanding the immediate conclusion of peace with Eurasia, he was advocating freedom of speech, freedom of the Press, freedom of assembly, freedom of thought, he was crying hysterically that the revolution had been betrayed—and all this in rapid polysyllabic speech which was a sort of parody of the ha-bitual style of the orators of the Party, and even contained Newspeak words: more Newspeak words, indeed, than any Party member would normally use in real life. And all the while, lest one should be in any doubt as to the reality which Goldstein's specious claptrap covered, behind his head on the telescreen there marched the endless columns of the Eurasian army—row after row of solid-looking men with expressionless Asiatic faces, who swam up to the surface of the screen and vanished, to be replaced by others exactly similar. The dull rhythmic tramp of the soldiers' boots formed the background to Goldstein's bleating voice.
温斯顿眼睛的隔膜一阵抽搐。他看到果尔德施坦因的脸时不由得感到说不出的滋味，各种感情都有，使他感到痛苦。这是一张瘦削的犹太人的脸，一头蓬松的白发，小小的一撮山羊胡须——一张聪明人的脸庞，但是有些天生的可鄙，长长的尖尖的鼻子有一种衰老性的痴呆，鼻尖上架着一副眼镜。这张脸象一头绵羊的脸，它的声音也有一种绵羊的味道。果尔德施坦因在对党进行他一贯的恶毒攻击，这种攻击夸张其事，不讲道理，即使一个儿童也能一眼看穿，但是听起来却有似乎有些道理，使你觉得要提高警惕，别人要是没有你那么清醒的头脑，可能上当受骗。他在谩骂老大哥，攻击党的专政，要求立即同欧亚国媾和，主张言论自由、新闻自由、集会自由、思想自由，歇斯底里地叫嚷说革命被出卖了——所有这一切的话都是用大字眼飞快地说的，可以说是对党的演说家一贯讲话作风的一种模仿，甚至还有一些新话的词汇；说真的，比任何党员在实际生活中一般使用的新话词汇还要多。在他说话的当儿，唯恐有人会对果尔德施坦因的花言巧语所涉及的现实有所怀疑，电幕上他的脑袋后面有无穷无尽的欧亚国军队列队经过——一队又一队的结实的士兵蜂拥而过电幕的表面，他们的亚细亚式的脸上没有表情，跟上来的是完全一样的一队士兵。这些士兵们的军靴有节奏的踩踏声衬托着果尔德施坦因的嘶叫声。
Before the Hate had proceeded for thirty seconds, uncontrollable exclamations of rage were breaking out from half the people in the room. The self-satisfied sheep-like face on the screen, and the terrifying power of the Eurasian army behind it, were too much to be borne: besides, the sight or even the thought of Goldstein produced fear and anger automatically. He was an object of hatred more constant than either Eurasia or Eastasia, since when Oceania was at war with one of these Powers it was generally at peace with the other. But what was strange was that although Goldstein was hated and despised by everybody, although every day and a thousand times a day, on platforms, on the telescreen, in newspapers, in books, his theories were refuted, smashed, ridiculed, held up to the general gaze for the pitiful rubbish that they were—in spite of all this, his influence never seemed to grow less. Always there were fresh dupes waiting to be seduced by him. A day never passed when spies and saboteurs acting under his directions were not unmasked by the Thought Police. He was the commander of a vast shadowy army, an underground network of conspirators dedicated to the overthrow of the State. The Brotherhood, its name was supposed to be. There were also whispered stories of a terrible book, a compendium of all the heresies, of which Goldstein was the author and which circulated clandestinely here and there. It was a book without a title. People referred to it, if at all, simply as THE BOOK. But one knew of such things only through vague rumours. Neither the Brotherhood nor THE BOOK was a subject that any ordinary Party member would mention if there was a way of avoiding it.
仇恨刚进行了三十秒钟，屋子里一半的人中就爆发出控制不住的愤怒的叫喊。电幕上扬扬自得的羊脸，羊脸后面欧亚国可怕的威力，这一切都使人无法忍受；此外，就凭果尔德施坦因的脸，或者哪怕只想到他这个人，就自动的产生恐惧和愤怒。不论同欧亚国相比或东亚国相比，他更经常的是仇恨的对象，因为大洋国如果同这两国中的一国打仗，同另外一国一般总是保持和平的。但是奇怪的是，虽然人人仇恨和蔑视果尔德施坦因，虽然每天，甚至一天有上千次，他的理论在讲台上、电幕上、报纸上、书本上遭到驳斥、抨击、嘲笑，让大家都看到这些理论是多么可怜的胡说八道，尽管这样，他的影响似乎从来没有减弱过。总是有傻瓜上当受骗。思想警察没有一天不揭露出有间谍和破坏分子奉他的指示进行活动。他成了一支庞大的隐蔽的军队的司令，这是一帮阴谋家组成的地下活动网，一心要推翻国家政权。它的名字据说叫兄弟团，谣传还有一本可怕的书，集异端邪说之大成，到处秘密散发，作者就是果尔德施坦因。这本书没有书名。大家提到它时只说那本书。不过这种事情都是从谣传中听到的。任何一个普通党员，只要办得到，都是尽量不提兄弟团或那本书(thebook)的。
In its second minute the Hate rose to a frenzy. People were leaping up and down in their places and shouting at the tops of their voices in an effort to drown the maddening bleating voice that came from the screen. The little sandy-haired woman had turned bright pink, and her mouth was opening and shutting like that of a landed fish. Even O'Brien's heavy face was flushed. He was sitting very straight in his chair, his powerful chest swelling and quivering as though he were standing up to the assault of a wave. The dark-haired girl behind Winston had begun crying out ‘Swine! Swine! Swine!’ and suddenly she picked up a heavy Newspeak dictionary and flung it at the screen. It struck Goldstein's nose and bounced off; the voice continued inexorably. In a lucid moment Winston found that he was shouting with the others and kicking his heel violently against the rung of his chair. The horrible thing about the Two Minutes Hate was not that one was obliged to act a part, but, on the contrary, that it was impossible to avoid joining in. Within thirty seconds any pretence was always unnecessary. A hideous ecstasy of fear and vindictiveness, a desire to kill, to torture, to smash faces in with a sledgehammer, seemed to flow through the whole group of people like an electric current, turning one even against one's will into a grimacing, screaming lunatic. And yet the rage that one felt was an abstract, undirected emotion which could be switched from one object to another like the flame of a blowlamp. Thus, at one moment Winston's hatred was not turned against Goldstein at all, but, on the contrary, against Big Brother, the Party, and the Thought Police; and at such moments his heart went out to the lonely, derided heretic on the screen, sole guardian of truth and sanity in a world of lies. And yet the very next instant he was at one with the people about him, and all that was said of Goldstein seemed to him to be true. At those moments his secret loathing of Big Brother changed into adoration, and Big Brother seemed to tower up, an invincible, fearless protector, standing like a rock against the hordes of Asia, and Goldstein, in spite of his isolation, his helplessness, and the doubt that hung about his very existence, seemed like some sinister enchanter, capable by the mere power of his voice of wrecking the structure of civilization.
仇恨到了第二分钟达到了狂热的程度。大家都跳了起来，大声高喊，要想压倒电幕上传出来的令人难以忍受的羊叫一般的声音。那个淡茶色头发的小女人脸孔通红，嘴巴一张一闭，好象离了水的鱼一样。甚至奥勃良的粗犷的脸也涨红了。他直挺挺地坐在椅上，宽阔的胸膛胀了起来，不断地战栗着，好象受到电流的袭击。温斯顿背后的黑头发姑娘开始大叫“猪猡！猪猡！猪猡！”她突然拣起一本厚厚的新话词典向电幕扔去。它击中了果尔德施坦因的鼻子，又弹了开去，他说话的声音仍旧不为所动地继续着。温斯顿的头脑曾经有过片刻的清醒，他发现自已也同大家一起在喊叫，用鞋后跟使劲地踢着椅子腿。两分钟仇恨所以可怕，不是你必须参加表演，而是要避不参加是不可能的。不出三十秒钟，一切矜持都没有必要了。一种夹杂着恐惧和报复情绪的快意，一种要*人、虐待、用大铁锤痛打别人脸孔的*，似乎象一股电流一般穿过了这一群人，甚至使你违反本意地变成一个恶声叫喊的疯子。然而，你所感到的那种狂热情绪是一种抽象的、无目的的感情，好象喷灯的火焰一般，可以从一个对象转到另一个对象。因此，有一阵子，温斯顿的仇恨并不是针对果尔德施坦因的，而是反过来转向了老大哥、党、思想警察；在这样的时候，他打从心跟里同情电幕上那个孤独的、受到嘲弄的异端分子，谎话世界中真理和理智的唯一卫护者。可是一会儿他又同周围的人站在一起，觉得攻击果尔德施坦因的一切的话都是正确的。在这样的时刻，他心中对老大哥的憎恨变成了崇拜，老大哥的形象越来越高大，似乎是一个所向无故、毫无畏惧的保护者，象块巨石一般耸立于从亚洲蜂拥而来的乌合之众之前，而果尔德施坦因尽管孤立无援，尽管对于是否有他这个人的存在也有怀疑，却似乎是一个阴险狡诈的妖物，光凭他的谈话声音也能够把文明的结构破坏无遗。
It was even possible, at moments, to switch one's hatred this way or that by a voluntary act. Suddenly, by the sort of violent effort with which one wrenches one's head away from the pillow in a nightmare, Winston succeeded in transferring his hatred from the face on the screen to the dark-haired girl behind him. Vivid, beautiful hallucinations flashed through his mind. He would flog her to death with a rubber truncheon. He would tie her naked to a stake and shoot her full of arrows like Saint Sebastian. He would ravish her and cut her throat at the moment of climax. Better than before, moreover, he realized WHY it was that he hated her. He hated her because she was young and pretty and sexless, because he wanted to go to bed with her and would never do so, because round her sweet supple waist, which seemed to ask you to encircle it with your arm, there was only the odious scarlet sash, aggressive symbol of chastity.
有时候，你甚至可以自觉转变自己仇恨的对象。温斯顿突然把仇恨从电幕上的脸孔转到了坐在他背后那个黑发女郎的身上，其变化之迅速就象做恶梦醒来时猛的坐起来一样。一些栩栩如生的、美丽动人的幻觉在他的心中闪过。他想象自己用橡皮棍把她揍死，又把她赤身裸体地绑在一根木桩上，象圣塞巴斯蒂安一样乱箭丧身。在最后高潮中，他污辱了她，割断了她的喉管。而且，他比以前更加明白他为什么恨她。他恨她是因为她年青漂亮，却没有性感，是因为他要同她睡觉但永远不会达到目的，是因为她窈窕的纤腰似乎在招引你伸出胳膊去搂住她，但是却围着那条令人厌恶的猩红色绸带，那是咄咄逼人的贞节的象征。
The Hate rose to its climax. The voice of Goldstein had become an actual sheep's bleat, and for an instant the face changed into that of a sheep. Then the sheep-face melted into the figure of a Eurasian soldier who seemed to be advancing, huge and terrible, his sub-machine gun roaring, and seeming to spring out of the surface of the screen, so that some of the people in the front row actually flinched backwards in their seats. But in the same moment, drawing a deep sigh of relief from everybody, the hostile figure melted into the face of Big Brother, black-haired, black-moustachio'd, full of power and mysterious calm, and so vast that it almost filled up the screen. Nobody heard what Big Brother was saying. It was merely a few words of encouragement, the sort of words that are uttered in the din of battle, not distinguishable individually but restoring confidence by the fact of being spoken. Then the face of Big Brother faded away again, and instead the three slogans of the Party stood out in bold capitals:
仇恨达到了最高潮。果尔德施坦因的声音真的变成了羊叫，而且有一度他的脸也变成了羊脸。接着那头羊脸又化为一个欧亚国的军人，高大吓人，似乎在大踏步前进，他的轻机枪轰鸣，似乎有夺幕而出之势，吓得第一排上真的有些人从坐着的椅子中来不及站起来。但是就在这一刹那间，电幕上这个敌人已化为老大哥的脸，黑头发，黑胡子，充满力量，镇定沉着，脸庞这么大，几乎占满了整个电幕，他的出现使大家放心地深深松了一口气。没有人听见老大哥在说什么。他说的只是几句鼓励的话，那种话一般都是在战斗的喧闹声中说的，无法逐宇逐句听清楚，但是说了却能恢复信心。接着老大的脸又隐去了，电幕上出现了用黑体大写字母写的党的三句口号：
WAR IS PEACE
FREEDOM IS SLAVERY
IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH
战争即和平
自由即奴役
无知即力量
But the face of Big Brother seemed to persist for several seconds on the screen, as though the impact that it had made on everyone's eyeballs was too vivid to wear off immediately. The little sandy-haired woman had flung herself forward over the back of the chair in front of her. With a tremulous murmur that sounded like ‘My Saviour!’ she extended her arms towards the screen. Then she buried her face in her hands. It was apparent that she was uttering a prayer.
但是老大哥的脸似乎还留在电幕上有好几秒钟，好象它在大家的视网膜上留下的印象太深了，不能马上消失似的。那个淡茶色头发的小女人扑在她前面一排的椅子背上。她哆哆嗦嗦地轻轻喊一声好象“我的救星！”那样的话，向电幕伸出双臂。接着又双手捧面。很明显，她是在做祷告。
At this moment the entire group of people broke into a deep, slow, rhythmical chant of ‘B-B!...B-B!’—over and over again, very slowly, with a long pause between the first ‘B’and the second—a heavy, murmurous sound, somehow curiously savage, in the background of which one seemed to hear the stamp of naked feet and the throbbing of tomtoms. For perhaps as much as thirty seconds they kept it up. It was a refrain that was often heard in moments of overwhelming emotion. Partly it was a sort of hymn to the wisdom and majesty of Big Brother, but still more it was an act of self-hypnosis, a deliberate drowning of consciousness by means of rhythmic noise. Winston's entrails seemed to grow cold. In the Two Minutes Hate he could not help sharing in the general delirium, but this sub-human chant-ing of ‘B-B!...B-B!’ always filled him with horror. Of course he chanted with the rest: it was impossible to do otherwise. To dissemble your feelings, to control your face, to do what everyone else was doing, was an instinctive reaction. But there was a space of a couple of seconds during which the expression of his eyes might conceivably have betrayed him. And it was exactly at this moment that the significant thing happened—if, indeed, it did happen.
这时，全部在场的人缓慢地、有节奏地、深沉地再三高叫“B－B！……B— B！……B— B！”*他们叫得很慢，在第一个 B 和第二个 B 之间停顿很久。这种深沉的声音令人奇怪地有一种野蛮的味道，你仿佛听到了赤脚的踩踏和铜鼓的敲打。他们这样大约喊了三十秒钟。这种有节奏的叫喊在感情冲动压倒一切的时候是常常会听到的。这一部分是对老大哥的英明伟大的赞美，但更多的是一种自我催眠，有意识地用有节奏的闹声来麻痹自已的意识。温斯顿心里感到一阵凉。在两分钟的仇恨中，他无法不同大家一起梦呓乱语，但是这种野兽般的“B— B！……B— B！”的叫喊总使他充满了恐惧。当然，他也和大家一起高喊：不那么做是办不到的。掩饰你真实的感情，控制你脸部的表情，大家做什么你就做什么，这是一种本能的反应。但是有那么一两秒钟的时间里，他的眼睛里的神色很可能暴露了他自己。正好是在这一刹那，那件有意义的事情发生了——如果说那件事情真的发生了的话。
