Hungarian cafe

我就坐在我们学校附近的一家咖啡馆里。这家咖啡馆叫匈牙利咖啡馆。匈牙利，这是一个多么神秘的国家啊，它地处东欧，1956年曾经有过一场不成功的革命，它还……好吧，其实关于匈牙利我一无所知。

匈牙利咖啡馆可不仅仅是一个咖啡馆，而且是一个政治阵营。宣称自己常去匈牙利咖啡馆，就等于宣称了自己的阶级成分，一个左派的进步知识分子，或至少也是一个文化嬉皮士。哥伦比亚大学附近的人，或进而整个世界的人，完全可以被区分成“去匈牙利咖啡馆的人”和“不去匈牙利咖啡馆的人”。一个小小咖啡馆，大大提高了划分敌友的效率。

咖啡馆看似一家乡间小学教室。昏暗的灯光，拥挤的桌椅，斑驳的墙壁，恶作剧地横亘在阳光明媚的阿姆斯特丹大街上，好像唇红齿白的笑容之间，一颗虫牙突兀在那里。令人费解的是，这里永远是人满为患。

人们摒弃了门外的灿烂阳光和星巴克里的资产阶级光明，趴在匈牙利咖啡馆昏暗的灯光下，如同捉虱子一样费劲地辨认自己书上的文字。

我曾经猜想，这里有一个秘密的马克思主义社团。那些从1960年代的左派政治运动中败下阵来的人们在这里招兵买马，商讨颠覆资本主义大计，咖啡和草莓小甜饼只是幌子而已。我这样说不是没有道理的。

证据之一就是那些奇形怪状的人们，比如那个头上扎着一个蝴蝶结的老太太，那个夏天还穿着皮衣服的长发青年……这些人成天驻扎在这里，哪里是喝咖啡，简直是每天在这个生产愤世嫉俗的作坊里值班。证据之二就是这家咖啡馆的厕所。我一生中从来没有上过这么“左”的厕所。小小两平方米的厕所墙上，写满了各种政治宣言——支持巴勒斯坦运动的，呼吁布什下台的，打倒美帝国主义的……其慷慨激烈程度，足以把一个右派吓成便秘。

我这个猜想虽然非常振奋人心，但并不能得到证明。能得到证明的，只是身边这些琐碎的聊天而已。比如那两个女孩，在讨论爱的暧昧与道德修养的关系：“三天都没有回信呢，这都不是爱不爱的问题，而事关基本的人品！”

一次次的窃取情报都是空手而归。我只好承认，人们喜欢光顾这个“左派”咖啡馆，并不是因为他们有什么“左”的意识，而是因为他们喜欢“左”的下意识。意识太多，无意识太少，下意识则刚刚好。正如那些左派的标语，占领大街太多，销声匿迹太少，而匿名地幽闭在一间咖啡馆的厕所里则刚刚好。在意识的层面上，左派已经溃散，等它在下意识里卷土重来时，一个体系完整的意识形态已经分解为支离破碎的意象，比如这些昏暗的灯，这些破旧的桌子，这些失魂落魄的人。人们在这破碎的意象中寻找一种美学上的刺激，却早已无法将它拼凑一个政治野心。当历史变得像一个宿命，政治也从现实主义走向了印象主义。

“左”的幽灵就在这家匈牙利咖啡馆里来回穿梭，招揽生意。这幽灵已失去语言，只剩下身体。它勾引我们，但并不企图征服。人们坐在这里，消费着这妖娆的眼神，而它也萦绕着人们。医治他们下意识里的那一点炎症。

想清楚了这一点，我在匈牙利咖啡馆坐得心安理得起来。这哪是什么左翼咖啡馆，它就是看上去有点“波西米亚”而已。我对波西米亚风格的理解是：当小资厌倦了自己，他就需要时不时地冒充无产阶级。中国的知识分子由于原罪感而发动了一场浩大的革命，西方的知识分子由于原罪感而发明了一个时尚流派。他们的救赎真是比我们的有效率。

I was sitting in a cafe near our school. It's called the Hungarian cafe. Hungary, what a mysterious country it is, it's in Eastern Europe, there was an unsuccessful revolution in 1956, and it's... Well, I don't know anything about Hungary. The Hungarian Cafe is not just a cafe, it is a political camp. To claim to frequent Hungarian cafes is to claim class affiliation, to be a progressive intellectual of the left, or at least a cultural hippie. People around Columbia University, or the world at large, can be divided into "people who go to Hungarian cafes" and "people who don't go to Hungarian cafes". A small cafe, greatly improving the division of friends and enemies of the efficiency. The cafe looks like a classroom in a rural primary school. Dimly lit, crowded tables and chairs, mottled walls, mischievously straddled the sunny streets of Amsterdam, like a red-lipped grin with a gnarled tooth sticking out. Inexplicably, it's always packed. Instead of the bright sunlight outside and the bourgeois light of Starbucks, people found themselves in the dim light of Hungarian cafes, struggling to read their books as if they were catching lice. I used to guess that there was a secret Marxist society. The men and women who had fallen out of the leftist political movement in the 1960s were recruiting to subvert capitalism, and coffee and Strawberry Shortcake were just fronts. I'm not saying this for nothing. One piece of evidence is the odd-looking people, like the old lady with the bow on her head, the long-haired youth who wore fur that summer... these people live here all the time, it wasn't coffee, it was the daily shift at this cynical production workshop. The second piece of evidence is the bathroom in this cafe. I've never been in such a "left" bathroom in my life. The walls of a two-square-metre toilet are covered with political declarations -- pro-palestinian, calling for Bush Bush to step down, bringing down American imperialism... the intensity of their generosity, enough to make a right-wing man constipated. Although my hypothesis is very exciting, it can not be proved. The only thing that proves it is the small talk around here. Like those two girls, discussing the relationship between love ambiguity and moral cultivation: "three days and no reply, this is not love is not the issue, but the basic character!"

< p > again and again to steal information is empty-handed. I have to admit that people like to visit this "left" cafe, not because they have a "left" consciousness, but because they like the "left" subconscious. Too much consciousness, too little unconsciousness, and just enough subconsciousness. As leftist slogans go, too many occupy streets, too few disappear, and the anonymity of a cafe bathroom is just right. At the level of consciousness, the left has crumbled, and by the time it resurfaces subconsciously, a systemic ideology has broken down into fragmented images, such as these dim lights, these worn out tables, these Abandon. People in this broken image for an aesthetic stimulus, but it has long been unable to piece together a political ambition. As history became fatalistic, politics moved from realism to Impressionism. The ghost of the "left" shuttles back and forth in the Hungarian cafe to drum up business. The spirit has lost its language, leaving only its body. It seduces us, but does not attempt to subdue us. People are sitting here, consuming this enchanting look, and it's haunting them. To treat that little bit of inflammation in their subconscious. With that in mind, I was sitting comfortably in a Hungarian cafe. It's not a left-wing cafe. It just looks a little bohemian. My understanding of the Bohemian style is that when the bourgeois is tired of himself, he needs to impersonate the proletariat from time to time. Chinese intellectuals launched a great revolution because of their original sense of guilt, and Western intellectuals invented a fashion school because of their original sense of guilt. Their salvation is more efficient than ours.

标题: 匈牙利咖啡馆
作者: 刘瑜
字数: 1309
简介: 我就坐在我们学校附近的一家咖啡馆里。这家咖啡馆叫匈牙利咖啡馆。匈牙利，这是一个多么神秘的国家啊，它地处东欧，1956年曾经有过一场不成功的革