现代大学英语精读第二版（第五册）学习笔记（原文及全文翻译）

Love is a Fallacy

Max Shulman

Charles Lamb, as merry and enterprising a fellow as you will meet in a month of Sundays, unfettered the informal essay with his memorable "Old China" and "Dream's Children." There follows an informal essay that ventures even beyond Lamb's frontier. Indeed, "informal" may not be quite the right word to describe this essay; "limp" or "flaccid" or possibly "spongy" are perhaps more appropriate.

Vague though its category, it is without doubt an essay. It develops an argument; it cites instances; it reaches a conclusion. Could Carlyle do more? Could Ruskin?

Read, then, the following essay which undertakes to demonstrate that logic, far from being a dry, pedantic discipline, is a living, breathing thing, full of beauty, passion, and trauma.

—Author's notes

Cool was I and logical. Keen, calculating, perspicacious, acute and astute—I was all of these. My brain was as powerful as a dynamo, as precise as a chemist's scales, as penetrating as a scalpel. And-think of it! —I was only eighteen.

It is not often that one so young has such a giant intellect. Take, for example, Petey Butch, my roommate at the University of Minnesota. Same age, same background, but dumb as an ox. A nice enough young fellow, you understand, but nothing upstairs. Emotional type. Unstable. Impressionable.

Worst of all, a faddist. Fads, I submit, are the very negation of reason. To be swept up in every new craze that comes along, to surrender yourself to idiocy just because everybody else is doing it—this, to me, is the acme of mindlessness. Not, however, to Petey.

One afternoon I found Petcy lying on his bed with an expression of such distress on his face that I immediately diagnosed appendicitis. "Don't move," I said. "Don't take a laxative. I'll get a doctor."

"Raccoon," he mumbled thickly.

"Raccoon?" I said, pausing in my flight.

"I want a raccoon coat," he wailed.

I perceived that his trouble was not physical, but mental. "Why do you want a raccoon coat?"

"I should have known it," he cried, pounding his temples. "I should have known they'd come back when the Charleston came back. Like a fool I spent all my money for textbooks, and now I can't get a raccoon coat."

"Can you mean." I said incredulously, "that people are actually wearing raccoon coats again?"

"All the Big Men on Campus are wearing them. Where've you been?"

"In the library," I said, naming a place not frequented by Big Men on Campus.

He leaped from the bed and paced the room, "I've got to have a raccoon coat," he said passionately. "I've got to!"

"Petey, why? Look at it rationally. Raccoon coats are unsanitary. They shed. They smell bad. They weight too much. They're unsightly. They-"

"You don't understand," he interrupted impatiently. "It's the thing to do. Don't you want to be in the swim?"

"No," I said truthfully.

"Well, I do," he declared. "I'd give anything for a raccoon coat. Anything!"

My brain, that precision instrument, slipped into high gear. "Anything?"

I asked, looking at him narrowly.

"Anything," he affirmed in ringing tones.

I stroked my chin thoughtfully. It so happened that I knew where to set my hands on a raccoon coat. My father had had one in his undergraduate days; it lay now in a trunk in the attic back home. It also happened that Petey had something I wanted. He didn't have it exactly, but at least he had first rights on it. I refer to his girl, Polly Espy.

I had long coveted Polly Espy. Let me emphasize that my desire for this young woman was not emotional in nature. She was, to be sure, a girl who excited the emotions, but I was not one to let my heart rule my head. I wanted Polly for a shrewdly calculated, entirely cerebral reason.

I was a freshman in law school. In a few years I would be out in practice. I was well aware of the importance of the right kind of wife in furthering a lawyer's career. The successful lawyers I had observed were, almost without exception, married to beautiful, gracious, intelligent women. With one omission, Polly fitted these specifications perfectly.

Beautiful she was. She was not yet of pin-up proportions, but I felt sure that time would supply the lack. She already had the makings.

Gracious she was. By gracious I mean full of graces. She had an erectness of carriage, an ease of bearing, a poise that clearly indicated the best of breeding. At table her manners were exquisite. I had seen her at the Kozy Kampus Korner eating the specialty of the house—a sandwich that contained scraps of pot roast, gravy, chopped nuts, and a dipper of sauerkraut—without even getting her fingers moist.

Intelligent she was not. In fact, she veered in the opposite direction. But I believed that under my guidance she would smarten up. At any rate, it was worth a try. It is, after all, easier to make a beautiful dumb girl smart than to make an ugly smart girl beautiful.

"Petey," I said, "are you in love with Polly Espy?"

"I think she's a keen kid," he replied, "but I don't know if you'd call it love. Why?"

"Do you," I asked, "have any kind of formal arrangement with her? I mean are you going steady or anything like that?"

"No. We see each other quite a bit, but we both have other dates. Why?"

"Is there," I asked, "any other man for whom she has a particular fondness?"

"Not that I know of. Why?"

I nodded with satisfaction. "In other words, if you were out of the picture, the field would be open. is that right?"

"I guess so. What are you getting at?"

"Nothing, nothing," I said innocently, and took my suitcase out of the closet.

"Where are you going?" asked Petey.

"Home for the weekend." I threw a few things into the bag.

"Listen," he said, clutching my arm eagerly, "while you're home, you couldn't get some money from your old man, could you, and lend it to me so I can buy a raccoon coat?"

"I may do better than that," I said with a mysterious wink and closed my bag and left.

"Look," I said to Petey when I got back Monday morning. I threw open the suitcase and revealed the huge, hairy, gamy object that my father had worn in his Stutz Bearcat in I925.

"Holy Toledo!" said Petey reverently. He plunged his hands into the raccoon coat and then his face. "Holy Toledo!" he repeated fifteen or twenty times.

"Would you like it?" I asked.

"Oh yes!" he cried, clutching the greasy pelt to him. Then a canny look came into his eyes. "What do you want for it?"

"Your girl," I said, mincing no words.

"Polly?" he said in a horrified whisper. "You want Polly?"

'That's right."

He flung the coat from him. "Never," he said stoutly.

I shrugged. "Okay. If you don't want to be in the swim, I guess it's your business."

I sat down in a chair and pretended to read a book, but out of the corner of my eye I kept watching Petey. He was a torn man. First he looked at the coat with the expression of a waif at a bakery window. Then he turned away and set his jaw resolutely. Then he looked back at the coat, with even more longing in his face. Then he turned away, but with not so much resolution this time. Back and forth his head swiveled, desire waxing, resolution waning. Finally he didn't turn away at all; he just stood and stared with mad lust at the coat.

"It isn't as though I was in love with Polly," he said thickly. "Or going steady or anything like that."

"That's right," I murmured.

"What's Polly to me, or me to Polly?"

"Not a thing," said I.

"It's just been a casual kick —just a few laughs, that's all."

"Try on the coat," said I.

He complied. The coat bunched high over his cars and dropped all the way down to his shoe tops. He looked like a mound of dead raccoons. "Fits fine," he said happily.

I rose from my chair. "is it a deal?" I asked, extending my hand.

He swallowed. "It's a deal," he said and shook my hand.

I had my first date with Polly the following evening. This was in the nature of a survey; I wanted to find out just how much work I had to do to get her mind up to the standard I required. I took her first to dinner. "Gee, that was a delish dinner," she said as we left the restaurant. Then I took her to a movie. "Gee, that was a marvy movie," she said as we left the theater. And then I took her home. "Gee, I had a sensaysh time," she said as she bade me good night.

I went back to my room with a heavy heart. I had gravely underestimated the size of my task. This girl's lack of information was terrifying. Nor would it be enough merely to supply her with information. First she had to be taught to think. This loomed as a project of no small dimensions, and at first I was tempted to give her back to Petey. But then I got to thinking about her abundant physical charms and about the way she entered a room and the way she handled a knife and fork, and I decided to make an effort.

I went about it, as in all things, systematically. I gave her a course in logic. It happened that I, as a law student, was taking a course in logic myself, so I had all the facts at my finger tips. "Polly," I said to her when I picked her up on our next date, "tonight we are going over to the Knoll and talk."

"Oo, terrif," she replied. One thing I Mill say for this girl: you would go far to find another so agreeable.

We went to the Knoll, the campus trysting place, and we sat down under an old oak, and she looked at me expectantly. "What are we going to talk about?" she asked.

"Logic."

She thought this over for a minute and decided she liked it. "Magnif," she said.

"Logic," I said, clearing my throat "is the science of thinking. Before we can think correctly, we must first learn to recognize the common fallacies of logic. These we will take up tonight."

"Wow-dow!" she cried, clapping her hands delightedly.

I winced, but went bravely on. "First let us examine the fallacy called Dicto Simplicitcr."

"By all means," she urged, batting her lashes eagerly.

"Dicto Simplicitcr means an argument based on an unqualified generalization. For example: Exercise is good. Therefore everyboby should exercise."

"I agree," said Polly earnestly. "I mean exercise is wonderful. I mean it builds the body and everything."

"Polly," I said gently, "the argument is a fallacy. Exercise is good is an unqualified generalization. For instance, if you have heart disease, exercise is bad, not good. Many people are ordered by their doctors not to exercise. You must qualify the generalization. You must say exercise is usually good, or exercise is good for most people. Otherwise you have committed a Dicto Simplicitcr. Do you see?"

"No," she confessed. "But this is marvy. Do more! Do more!"

"It will be better if you stop tugging at my sleeve," I told her, and when she desisted, I continued: "Next we take up a fallacy called Hasty Generalization. Listen carefully: You can't speak French. I can't speak French. Petey Burch can't speak French. I must therefore conclude that nobody at the University of Minnesota can speak French."

"Really?" said Polly, amazed. "Nobody?"

I hid my exasperation. "Polly, it's a fallacy. The generalization is reached too hastily. There are too few instances to support such a conclusion."

"Know any more fallacies?" she asked breathlessly. "This is more fun than dancing even."

I fought off a wave of despair. I was getting nowhere with this girl absolutely nowhere. Still, I am nothing if not persistent. I continued.

"Next comes Post Hoc. Listen to this: Let's not take Bill on our picnic. Every time we take him out with us, it rains."

"I know somebody like that," she exclaimed. "A girl back home-Eula Becker, her name is. It never falls. Every single time we take her on a picnic—"

"Polly," I said sharply, "it's a fallacy. Eula Becker doesn't cause the rain. She has no connection with the rain. You are guilty of Post Hoc if you blame Eula Becker."

"I'll never do that again," she promised contritely. "are you mad at me?"

I sighed deeply. "No, Polly, I'm not mad."

"Then tell me some more fallacies."

"All right. Let's try Contradictory Premises."

"Yes, let's," she chirped, blinking her eyes happily.

I frowned, but plunged ahead. "Here's an example of Contradictory Premises: If Cod can do anything, can He make a stone so heavy that He won't be able to lift it?"

"Of course," she replied promptly.

"But if He can do anything, He can lift the stone," I pointed out.

"Yeah," she said thoughtfully. "Well, then I guess He can't make the stone."

"But He can do anything," I reminded her.

She scratched her pretty, empty head. "I'm all confused," she admitted.

"Of course you are. Because when the premises of an argument contradict each other, there can be no argument. If there is an irresistible force, there can be no immovable object. If there is an immovable object, there can be no irresistible force. Get it?"

"Tell me some more of this keen stuff," she said eagerly.

I consulted my watch. "I think we'd better call it a night. I'll take you home now, and you go over all the things you've learned. We'll have another session tomorrow night."

I deposited her at the girls' dormitory, where she assured me that she had had a perfectly terrif evening, and I went glumly to my room. Petey lay snoring in his bed, the raccoon coat huddled like a great hairy beast at his feet. For a moment I considered waking him and telling him that he could have his girl back. It seemed clear that my project was doomed to failure. The girl simply had a logic-proof head.

But then I reconsidered. I had wasted one evening: I might as well waste another. Who knew? Maybe somewhere in the extinct crater of her mind, a few embers still smoldered. Maybe somehow I could fan them into flame. Admittedly it was not a prospect fraught with hope, but I decided to give it one more try.

Seated under the oak the next evening I said, "Our first fallacy tonight is called Ad Misericordiam."

She quivered with delight.

"Listen closely," I said. "A man applies for a job. When the boss asks him what his qualifications are, he replies that he has a wife and six children at home, the wife is a helpless cripple, the children have nothing to eat, no clothes to wear, no shoes on their feet, there are no beds in the house, no coal in the cellar, and winter is coming."

A tear rolled down each of Polly's pink checks. "Oh, this is awful, awfal," she sobbed.

"Yes, it's awful," I agreed, "but it's no argument. The man never answered the boss's questions about his qualifications. Instead he appealed to the boss' sympathy. He committed the fallacy of Ad Misericordiam. Do you understand?"

"Have you got a handkerchief?" she blubbered.

I handed her a handkerchief and tried to keep from screaming while she wiped her eyes. "Next," I said in a carefully controlled tone，"we will discuss False Analogy. Here is an example: Students should be allowed to look at their textbooks during examinations. After all, surgeons have X-rays to guide them during an operation, lawyers have briefs to guide them during a trial, carpenters have blueprints to guide them when they are building a house. Why, then, shouldn't students be allowed to look at their textbooks during an cxaniinadon?"

"There now," she said enthusiastically, "is the most marvy idea I've heard in years."

"Polly," I said testily, "the argument is all wrong. Doctors, lasers, and carpenters aren't taking a test to see how much they have learned, but students are. The situations are altogether different, and you can't make an analogy between them."

"I still think it's a good idea," said Polly.

"Nuts," I muttered. Doggedly I pressed on. "Next we'll try Hypothesis Contrary to Fact."

"Sounds yummy," was Polly's reaction.

"Listen: If Madame Curie had not happened to leave a photographic plate in a drawer with a chunk of pitchblende，the world today would not know about radium.

"True, true," said Polly, nodding her head. "Did you see the movie? Oh, it just knocked me out. That Walter Pidgeon is so dreamy. I mean he fractures me.

"If you can forget Mr. Pidgeon for a moment," I said coldly, "I would like to point out that the statement is a fallacy. Maybe Madame Curie would have discovered radium at some later date. Maybe somebody else would have discovered it. Maybe any number of things would have happened. You can't start with a hypothesis that is not true and then draw any supportable conclusions from it."

"They ought to put Walter Pidgeon in more pictures," said Polly. "I hardly ever see him any more.

One more chance, I decided. But just one more. There is a limit to what flesh and blood can bear. "The next fallacy is called Poisoning the Well."

"How cute！" she gurgled.

"Two men are having a debate. The first one gets up and says, 'my opponent is a notorious liar. You can't believe a word that he is going to say.… Now, Polly, think. Think hard. What's wrong?"

I watched her closely as she knit her creamy brow in concentration. Suddenly, a glimmer of intelligence—first I had seen—came into her eyes. "It's not fair," she said with indignation. "It's not a bit fair. What chance has the second man got if the first man calls him a liar before he even begins talking?"

"Right！" I cried exultantly. "One hundred percent right. It's not fair. The first man has poisoned the well before anybody could drink from it. He has hamstrung his opponent before he could even start.…Polly, I'm proud of you."

"Pshaw" she murmured, blushing with pleasure.

"You see, my dear, these things aren't so hard. All you have to do is concentrate. Think-examine—evaluate. Come now, let's review everything we have learned."

"Fire away," she said with an airy wave of her hand.

Heartened by the knowledge that Polly was not altogether a cretin , I began a long, patient review of all I had told her. Over and over and over again I cited instances, pointed out flaws, kept hammering away without let-up. It was like digging a tunnel. At first everything was work, sweat, and darkness. I had no idea when I would reach the light, or even if I would. But I persisted. I pounded and clawed and scraped, and finally I was rewarded. I saw a chink of light. And then the chink got bigger and the sun came pouring in and all was bright.

Five grueling nights this took, but it was worth it. I had made a logician out of Polly; I had taught her to think. My job was done. She was worthy of me at last. She was a fit wife for me, a proper hostess for my many mansions, a suitable mother for my well-heeled children.

It must not be thought that I was without love for this girl. Quite the contrary, Just as Pygmalion loved the perfect woman he had fashioned，so I loved mine. I determined to acquaint her with my feeling at our very next meeting. The time had come to change our relationship from academic to romantic.

"Polly," I said when next we sat beneath our oak, "tonight we will not discuss fallacies."

"Aw, gee," she said, disappointed.

"My dear," I said, favoring her with a smile, "we have now spent five evenings together. We have gotten along splendidly. It is clear that we are well matched."

"Hasty Generalization," said Polly brightly.

"I beg your pardon," said I.

"Hasty Generalization," she repeated. "How can you say that we are well matched on the basis of only five dates?"

I chuckled with amusement. The dear child had learned her lessons well. "My dear," I Said, patting her hand in a tolerant manner, "five dates is plenty. After all, you don't have to cat a whole cake to know it's good."

"False Analogy", said Polly promptly. "I'm not a cake. I'm a girl."

I chuckled with somewhat less amusement. The dear child had learned her lessons perhaps too well. I decided to change tactics. Obviously the best approach was a simple, strong, direct declaration of love. I paused for a moment while my massive brain chose the proper words. Then I began:

"Polly, I love you. You are the whole world to me, and the moon and the stars and the constellations of outer space. Please, my darling, say that you will go steady with me, for if you will not, life will be meaningless. I will languish. I will refuse my meals. I will wander the face of the earth, a shambling，hollow-eyed hulk."

There, I thought, folding my arms, that ought to do it.

"Ad Misericordiam," Said Polly.

I ground my teeth. I was not Pygmalion; I Frankenstein, and my monster had me by the throat. Frantically I fought back the tide of panic surging through me. At all costs I had to keep cool.

"Well, Polly," I said, forcing a smile, "you certainly have learned your fallacies."

"You're darn right," she said with a vigorous nod.

"And who taught them to you, Polly?"

"You did."

"That's right. So you do owe me something, don't you, my dear? If I hadn't came along you never would have learned about fallacies."

"Hypothesis Contrary to Fact," she said instantly.

I dashed perspiration from my brow. "Polly," I croaked, "you mustn't take all these things so literally. I mean this is just classroom stuff. You know that the things you learn in school don't have anything to do with life."

"Dicto Simpliciter," she said, wagging her finger at me playfully.

That did it. I leaped to my feet, bellowing like a bull. "Will you or will you not go steady with me?"

"I will not," she replied.

"Why not?" I demanded.

"Because this afternoon I promised Petey Burch that I would go steady with him."

I reeled back, overcome with the infamy of it. After he promised, after he made a deal, after he shook my hand!" The rat!" I shrieked, kicking up great chunks of turf. "You can't go with him, Polly. He's a liar. He's a cheat. He's a rat."

"Poisoning the Well," said Polly, "and stop shouting. I think shouting must be a fallacy too."

With an immense effort of will, I modulated my voice."All right." I said. "You're a logician. Let's look at this thing logically. How could you choose Petey Burch over me? Look at me—a brilliant student, a tremendous intellectual, a man with an assured future. Look at Petey—a knot-head, a jitterbug, a guy who'll never know where his next meal is coming from. Can you give me one logical reason why you should go stead with Petey Burch?"

"I certainly can," declared Polly. "He's got a raccoon coat."

爱情是谬误

马克斯·舒尔曼

像査尔斯·兰姆这样快乐和富有创新精神的人物并不常见，他写了《古瓷》和《梦中的孩子》两篇文章，这两篇文章可以说解放了散文。下面的这篇散文颠覆了兰姆的所有文体。当然，用“散”的字眼来评价这篇文章并非特别贴切，用“残缺”“无力”或者可能用“富有弹性”或许更为恰当。

尽管很难对这篇文章进行归类，但毫无疑问，这是一篇散论文：有论点，有例证，有结论。卡莱尔能写得更好吗？罗斯金呢？

那么，就读读下面这篇文章吧，它将向我们展示逻辑并不是一门枯燥乏味、迂腐不堪的学科；恰恰相反，逻辑是一个活生生的事物，充满美丽、激情和心灵的创伤。

——作者简介

我头脑冷静，逻辑缜密。敏捷、缜密、熟虑、洞见、睿智是我的特点。我的大脑像发电机一样强有力，像化学家的天平一样精确，像手术刀一样锋利。能想到吗？我刚18岁。

这么智力非凡的年轻人世所罕见。就令我在明尼苏达大学的同寝同学皮蒂·伯奇来说吧，我们年龄相同，背景一样，可他却愚蠢到了极点。你能明白，他是个不错的家伙，可惜脑子空空。他属于易于激动的类型：情绪无常，易受左右。

最糟糕的是，他赶时髦。我敢说，赶时髦就是缺心眼。在我看来，跟随吋尚看，肓从他人就是缺心眼。可皮蒂却不以为然。

一天下午，看见皮蒂躺在床上，表情痛苦，我马上断定他得了阑尾炎。“别动，”我说，”别吃泻药, 我去找医生。”

“浣熊。”他沙哑地嘟哝着。

“浣熊？”我停下脚步。

“我要一件浣熊皮大衣！”他大哭大叫。

明白了。麻烦不在身体，而在精神。“为什么要浣熊皮大衣？”

“我早该知道，”他捶打着太阳穴，哭叫着，“我早该知道浣熊皮大衣也会随养查尔斯顿舞而再度流行。我真傻，钱都用来买课本，现在买不成浣熊皮大衣了。”

“你是说，”我质疑，“浣熊皮大衣真的又流行了？”

“校园里所有大人物都穿。你去哪儿了？”

“图书馆。”我说出了一个大人物不常去的地儿。

他跳下床。在房间里踱来踱去。“我一定要弄件浣熊皮大衣，”他激动地说，“一定！”

“皮蒂，为什么？好好想一想。浣熊皮大衣不卫生，掉毛、难闻、太重、难看，还有……”

“你不懂，”他不耐烦地打断我，“这就叫时髦。你就不想赶时髦？”

“不想。”我坦率地说。

“好啦。我想！”他态度明确，“为了浣熊皮大衣，舍弃什么都行。”

我的大脑，这部精密的仪器，立刻高速运转。

我紧盯着他问：“什么都行?”

“什么都行！”他毫不犹豫。声如铜钟。

我摸着下颌，思索。我还真知道哪儿能弄到浣熊皮大衣。我父亲上大学的时候有一件，现在还在家里顶楼的箱子里存着。皮蒂有我想要的东西。他还不算拥有，可至少他抢先一步。我指的是他女朋友波莉·埃斯皮。

我对波莉·埃斯皮垂涎已久。我要特別说明，我喜欢这位妙龄女孩并非出于冲动。虽然她确实让人动情，可我绝不会让情感冲昏头脑。想得到波莉是经过慎重考虑的，完全出于理性。

我是法学院新生，可过几年就会出道。我明白一个合适的妻子对一个律师的前程有多重要。经我观察，所有成功的律师几乎都毫无例外地要娶一个美丽、优雅、聪慧的女子。波莉完全符合这些标准，可只差一点。

她漂亮，可还赶不上封面女郎。我相信时间会弥补这一缺陷，因为她具备条件。

她优雅，我是说特別优雅。她亭亭玉立、体态优雅，这一切都表明她出身高贵。进餐时，她行为雅致。我看见过她在“舒适的校园一角”如何享用名点：夹有多汁的炖肉片、碎核桃仁和德国泡菜的三明治。她吃完后居然手指都没弄湿。

她不聪明。事实上，她有点笨。可我相信，经我指导，她会聪明起来。无论如何，值得一试。毕竟，塑靓者达智总比塑丑者达貌来得容易。

“皮蒂，”我说，“爱上波莉·埃斯皮了吧？”

“她是个讨人喜欢的姑娘，”他回答，“可不知道这是不是爱情。问这个干吗？”

“正式约会了？我是说你们确定某种程度的关系了？”我问。

“还没有，我们常见面。但我们各自也和别人约会。怎么了？”

“她有其他意中人吗？”我问。

“好像没有。怎么了？”

我满意地点点头：“那么，如果你不在，场地就是空着的。对吧？”

“我想是这样。你什么意思？”

“没什么。没什么。”我装作若无其事。接着从壁橱里把手提箱拿了出来。

“要去哪儿？”皮蒂问。

“回家过周末。”我把几件衣服扔进了皮箱。

“听着，”他抓住我的胳膊急切地说，”回家后，能不能向你父亲要点钱，借给我买一件浣熊皮大衣？”

“也许比这更好。”我神秘地眨了眨眼。合上皮箱就走了。

“瞧！”我星期一早晨一返校就对皮蒂说。我猛地打开皮箱，露出那件肥大、毛茸茸、味道难闻的东西。这是我父亲1925年开斯图兹勇士敞篷车时穿过的那件浣熊皮大衣。

“我的天！”皮蒂充满敬佩。他两只手即刻抓住皮大衣。接着把脸也埋了进去。“我的天！”他不停地重复了一二十遍。

“喜欢吗？”我问。

“哇，当然！”他大叫，紧紧抓着那油腻腻的毛皮。接着，眼里露出机警的神色，“你想换什么？”

“你的女朋友。”我毫不讳言。

“波莉？”他惊愕地低声说，“你要波莉？”

“没错。”

他把皮大衣甩开，口气坚决：“别想。”

我耸了耸肩：“好吧，如果你不想赶时髦，你看着办吧。”

我坐到椅子上，假装看书，一直用余光瞟着皮蒂。他不知所措。起初，他用一个站在面包店前的流浪儿那种目光看着那件皮大衣。接着，他移开目光，挺着下巴，神情坚定。过一会儿，他又转回头来看看那件大衣，露出更加渴望的神情。等他再移开目光，神情不再那么坚定。他的目光往复移动，欲望愈增，定力愈减。最终，他的目光不再游弋，坚定地站在那儿，贪婪地盯着那件皮大衣。

“我和波莉好像没谈恋爱，”他低声地说，“也谈不上什么正式确定关系。”

“这就对了。”我嘟囔着。

“可我与波莉有何干，波莉与我又有何干！”

“没关系。”我说。

“这不过是寻欢作乐罢了，没别的。”

“试试大衣吧。”我说。

他照办了。大衣上面盖住他的耳朵，下摆一直垂到脚面，活像一具浣熊尸体。他髙兴地说：“正合身。”

我站了起来。“成交？”我说着，把手伸出来。

他接受了。“成交！”他握了我的手。

第二天晚上，我就和波莉第一次约会。这只不过是对她的考察，我想知道得做多少工作才能使她达到我的标准。我先请她吃饭。离开饭店时，她说：“哇，这顿饭太棒了。”然后请她去看电影。走出电影院时，她说：“哇，电影真好。”最后我送她回家。告别时，她说：“哇，今晚真痛快。”

回到房间，我心情沉重：我大大低估了任务的艰巨性。这姑娘头脑空空，令人吃惊。仅仅给她补充知识远远不够，先得教会她思考。这任务可是艰巨，我真想把她还给皮蒂。可一想到她那么多生理优势、进屋的仪态、拿刀叉的姿势，我还是决定继续努力。

像做其他事情一样，我系统地去做。我先给她讲逻辑。身为学法律的学生，我恰好正在听逻辑学课，所以信手拈来。我第二次约她的时候说：“波莉，今晚去‘小山’聊聊。”

“哇，好极了。”她回答。我得补充一句，这么好商量的人可不容易找。

我们去了“小山”。这是校园里人们幽会的地方。我们坐在一棵老橡树下，她带着期待的目光 问：“聊什么？”

“逻辑学。”

她想了足有一分钟，才下了决心，说：“好极了。”

“逻辑学，”我清了清嗓子，“是思维的学问。能够正确地思维之前，首先必须学会判断逻辑中常见的谬误。今晚就聊这个。”

“哇！”她拍手大叫。

我眉头抖动了一下，可还是勇敢地继续：“首先，我们来看看过度概括。”

“说呀！”她急切地眨了眨眼，催促着。

“过度概括是指建之于不合格概括基础上的论断。比如说，运动是有益的，因此人人都应该运动。”

“我同意，”波莉认真地说，“我是说运动好极了，它增强体质，好处多多！”

“波莉，”我轻柔地说，“这个论断是谬误。运动有益是不合格的概括。例如，假如你有心脏病，运动有害，而不是有益。有不少人就被医生建议禁止他们运动。你必须对这个概括加以限定。你必须说，一般来说运动是有益的。或者说，运动对多数人来说有益。否则就是过度概括，明白了吗？”

“不懂，”她坦率地说，“不过太有趣了，继续，接着讲。”

“最好别拽我的袖子了。”我对她说。她松开手，我继续说：“接下来是草率结论。仔细听：你不会讲法语，我不会讲法语，皮蒂·伯奇也不会讲法语。因此我就会得出结论，明尼苏达大学谁都不会讲法语。”

“真的？”波莉大为吃惊，“谁都不会？”

“波莉，”我强压怒火。“这是一种谬误，这个结论下的太草率了，能支持这种结论的证据太少。”

“还有其他的谬误吗？”她屏住呼吸，“这比跳舞有意思多啦！”

我克制自己，不要灰心。这个姑娘，咋教不会，就是不明白。可是，要是不坚持，就会一事无成。我继续讲下去。

“下一种是牵强附会。是这样：我们不能带比尔去野餐。每次带他去，都下雨。”

“有这样的人，”她惊叫，“我们家那儿有个女孩，尤拉·贝克。那才准呢，每次我们带她去野餐……”

“波莉，”我严厉地说，”这是谬误。下雨不是尤拉·贝克造成的，下雨与她没有任何关系。如果把下雨赖到尤拉·贝克身上，你就是牵强附会。”

“我再不怨她了，”她懊悔地保证说，“你生气了吗？”

我深深地叹了口气：“不，波莉，没生气。”

“那就讲讲还有哪些谬误！”

“好，现在说说矛盾前提。”

“行，好呀！”她喳喳叫着，快乐地眨着眼睛。

我皱了下眉头，继续说：“有一个矛盾前提的例子——如果上帝是万能的，他能造出一块连他自己也搬不动的大石头吗？”

“当然能！”她当即答道。

“但是如果他是万能的，他就能搬动那块石头。”我提醒说。

“是呀！”她思索着，“那么，我想他造不出那样的石头。”

“可他是万能的。”我进一步提醒。

她挠了挠她那漂亮的空脑袋。“我想不明白。”她承认。

“你确实不明白。如果一个结论与前提互为矛盾，那么这种结论就不能成立。假如有不可抗拒的力量，就不存在不可移动的物体；假如存在不可移动的物体，就不可能有不可抗拒的力量。懂了吗？”

“再给我讲些这类高难的玩意儿吧。”她急切地说。

我看了看表说：“今晚就讲到这里吧。现在该送你回去了。你回去把今天的内容复习一遍，明晚再上一课吧。”

我把她送到了女生宿舍。分手时她说今晚她非常愉快，而我则郁郁寡欢地回到我的房间。皮蒂正在睡觉，鼾声如雷，那件浣熊皮大衣堆在他的脚边，像一头多毛的野兽。我真想马上把他叫醒，告诉他可以把他的女朋友领回去。显然，我的计划终将失败，这姑娘一点逻辑思维都没有。

可一转念，我想既然已经浪费了一个晚上，不妨再用一个晚上试试看。天知道会是什么结果，也许，在她死火山般的脑袋里，还有一点余火仍在闪烁冒烟。也许会有办法能把这些火星扇成熊熊烈焰。我承认，成功的希望渺茫，可我要再试一次。

第二天晚上，我们又坐在那棵橡树下，我说：“今晚我们先说说文不对题。”

她高兴得发抖。

“听仔细了，”我说，“有个人申请工作。老板问他具备什么资历，他回答说他有妻子和六个孩子，妻子完全残废，孩子们身上无衣，口中无食，脚上无鞋，身下没床，生火没煤，可冬天就要到了。”

泪水流过波莉那粉红的面颊。“啊，真糟糕！真糟糕！”她抽泣起来。

“是的，真糟糕,”我顺着她说，“但这没用。那人根本没有回答老板提出的关于他所具备的资历问题，反而他想求得老板的同情。他文不对题。你懂吗？”

“你有手帕吗？”她啜泣着。

我把手帕递给她。她擦眼泪时，我极力压制自己不要对她大叫。“接下来，”我小心地控制自己的语气，“我们要讨论错误类比。举个例子说：应该允许学生考试时査阅教材。外科医生在做手术时可以看X光片，律师在法庭上可以查看案情摘要，木匠在盖房子时可以看图纸，那么学生在考试时为什么不能看课本呢？”

“正确，”她激动地说，“这是我这么多年来听到的最妙的主意。”

“波莉，”我不耐烦了，“这个结论完全错误。医生、律师和木匠并不是通过考试去检验他们所学的东西，但学生是。情况是完全不同的，他们之间没有可比性。”

“可我还是认为这是个好主意。”波莉说。

“痴呆！”我小声嘀咕，但我坚持不懈，“接下来再看卡与事实相反的假设。”

波莉的反应是：“听起来不错。”

“听着：如果居里夫人不是偶然把一张底片放在装有沥青铀的抽屉里，那么人们就到现在还不知道世界上存在镭这个元索。”

“真的，真的，”波莉点着头说，“看过那部影片吗？哇，绝了。沃尔特·皮金演得让人着迷，我是被他迷倒了。”

“先把皮金先生忘了吧，”我冷冷地说，“我想指出这种结论是错误的。也许居里夫人以后会发现镭，也许其他人会发现，也许还会发生其他的事情。你不能从一个不正确的假设开始，进而得出任何可靠的结论。”

“真应该让沃尔特·皮金多拍些电影，”波莉说，“我几乎再也看不到他了。”

再试一次，我下定决心，但仅此一次。我的身心忍耐程度毕竟有限。“下一个谬误叫作井里投毒。”

“太有趣了！”她咯咯笑着。

“两个人在辩论。第一个人站起来说：‘我的对手是个声名狼藉的骗子，不要相信他所说的话。’……现在，波莉，你想想，仔细想想，这句话错在哪里？”

她眉头紧锁，聚精会神。我盯着她看。突然，一丝智慧的闪光，这是我第一次见到的，在她的眼中闪现。“这不公平，”她愤慨地说，“一点都不公平。如果第一个人在第二个人开口之前就说他是骗子，那么第二个人还有什么机会呢？”

“正确！”我高兴地叫了起来，“百分之百正确。不公平。没等他人喝到井水之前，第一个人就在井里投毒。他甚至不等他的对手开口就已经伤害他了。……波莉。我为你感到骄傲。”

她低声地“哦”了一声，高兴得脸色粉红。

“你看，亲爱的，这些并不难解，精力集中就行。思考、分析、判断。来吧，让我们从头再复习一遍。”

“开始吧。”她把手往上一挥。

看到波莉并不是很傻，我便把所讲过的一切，长时间、耐心地重复了一遍。我不断地举例子，并指出其中的错误所在，不停地讲下去。我好像在挖掘一条隧道，开始只有疲惫、汗水和黑喑，不知道什么时候能见到光明，甚至不知道能否见到光明。然而，我没放弃。我凿，我挖，我刮，我终于得到回报。我见到了一缕光明。后来，光明不断增强，终于，阳光普照，一切都豁然明了。

五个晚上的艰辛，值了。我把波莉变成一个逻辑学家了。她学会了思考。我完成了任务。她达到了我的期望，她会成为我合适的妻子，成为我多处豪宅的女主人，成为我那些富有的孩子们合格的母亲。

不要以为我对这个姑娘没有爱情，恰恰相反，正如皮格马利翁爱恋他自己塑造的完美的女人塑像一样，我也爱我打造出来的女人。我决定下次会面时向她倾吐自己的感情。是将我们的学术转化为浪漫的时刻了。

“波莉，”我们再次坐在那棵橡树下，我说，“今晚我们不再讨论谬误了。”

“呃，是吗？”她感到失望。

“亲爱的，”我善意地微笑着，“我们一起度过了五个晚上，我们相处愉快。我们俩显然很般配。”

“草率结论。”波莉聪明地说。

“什么？”我问道。

“草率结论，”她重复了一遍，“你怎么能仅凭我们的五次约会就说我们俩很般配呢？”

挺有趣，我咯咯地笑了起來。这个可爱的小家伙学得可真不赖。“亲爱的，”我容忍地轻拍着她的手说，“五次约会不少了，你不必把整个蛋糕吃下去才知道蛋糕好吃吧。”

“错误类比，波莉敏捷地说，“我不是蛋糕，我是女孩。”

我又咯咯地笑了，但已经不感到那么有趣了，也许这可爱的孩子学得太好了。我决定改变策略。显然，最好的办法就是简单、坚定、直截了当地向她表白。我停顿了一下，我发达的大脑搜索着恰当的词语。然后我便开始：

“波莉，我爱你。对我来说，你就是我的整个世界，是月亮，是星星，是外太空的所有星座。求你，亲爱的，说你会与我确定关系吧。否则，我的生活就毫无意义，我会备受煎熬，我会绝食，我会变成一个脚步蹒跚、双眼凹陷、到处游荡的躯売。”

我双臂交叉在胸前，认为这个策略一定有效。

“文不对题。”波莉说。

我咬紧牙关，我不是皮格马利翁，我是弗兰肯斯坦，我所创造的怪兽反倒卡住了我自己的喉咙。我强压阵阵涌上心头的恐慌，我必须全力保持冷静。

“好了，波莉，”我强做微笑，“你真把这些谬误学到手了。”

“绝对正确。”她用力点着头。

“可是，波莉，是谁教给你的这一切？”

“是你！”

“这就对了。所以你欠我的，对吧。亲爱的？如果不是我，你永远也不知道这些谬误。”

“与事实相反的假设。”波莉立即回复。

我甩掉淌下眉梢的汗珠。“波莉，”我声音嘶哑，“你不能从表面上理解这些。我是说这些仅仅是课堂上汫的东西。要知道教室里的东西与现实生活毫无关系。”

“绝对判断。”她伸出手指，活泼地向我摇了摇。

我愤怒了，猛地跳了起来，公牛般地吼叫：“你到底想不想和我确定关系？”

“不想。”她答道。

“为什么？”我追问。

“因为今天下午我答应了皮蒂·伯奇，我愿意和他约会。”

皮蒂无耻的行径把我气晕了。我回忆着整个过程：皮蒂承诺，跟我成交，跟我握手！“卑鄙小人！”我尖叫着，一脚踢飞几块草皮。“你不能跟他好，波莉。他说谎，是个骗子，是个卑鄙小人！”

“井里投毒，”波莉说，“别嚷了，大声地叫嚷也是谬误。”

靠着极大的意志，我改变了语气。“好吧，”我说，“你是个逻辑学家，那就让我们从逻辑角度来看待这件事吧。你怎么会选择皮蒂·伯奇，而不选我？你看我，一个杰出的学生，一个伟大的智者，一个前程无量的人；可皮蒂，一个笨蛋，一个无常的家伙，一个有上顿没下顿的低能人。你能给我一个合乎逻辑的理由说明你为什么要跟皮蒂好吗？”

“当然能，”波莉明白地说，“他有一件浣熊皮大衣。”

Key Words:

astute     [əs'tju:t]  

adj. 机敏的，精明的，狡猾的

pedantic [pi'dæntik]    

adj. 卖弄学问的，假装学者的，吹毛求疵的，钻牛角尖的

laxative   ['læksətiv]     

adj. 通便的，不简洁的 n. 泻药，缓泻药

espy [is'pai]    

vt. (从远处等)突然看到，窥见

exquisite ['ekskwizit]    

adj. 精挑细选的，精致的，细腻的，强烈的

poise      [pɔiz]     

n. 平衡，姿势，镇静，悬空 vt. 使 ... 平衡

canny     ['kæni]   

adj. 精明的，谨慎的，节俭的 adv. 仔细地

fallacy     ['fæləsi]  

n. 谬论

immovable    [i'mu:vəbl]     

adj. 固定的，不动的，无法改变的，无感情的

hastily     ['heistili] 

adv. 匆忙地，急速地

fraught   [frɔ:t]      

n. [苏格兰]货物 vt. 装货 adj. 充满的

radium   ['reidiəm]

n. [化]镭

hypothesis     [hai'pɔθisis]   

n. 假设，猜测，前提

liar   ['laiə]      

n. 说谎者

infamy    ['infəmi] 

n. 声名狼藉，丑名，丑行

darn [dɑ:n]    

v. 织补 n. 补钉 int. 该死

参考资料：