Prose
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汉诺威广场，不见不散
My Darling Wife
佚名／Anonymous
Can it really be sixty-two years ago that I first saw you?
It is truly a lifetime, I know, but as I gaze【gaze [geiz] v.凝视；注视】 into your eyes now, it seems like only yesterday that I first saw you, in that small cafe in Hanover Square.
From the moment I saw you smile, as you opened the door for that young mother and her newborn baby, I knew that I wanted to share the rest of my life with you.
I still think of how foolish I must have looked, as l gazed at you, that first time I remember watching you intently【intently [in′tentli] adv.专心地；专注地；热切地；热心地】, as you took off your hat and loosely【loosely [′lu:sli] adv.松弛地；零散地；轻率地；不严谨地；生活堕落地】 shook your short dark hair with your fingers I felt myself becoming immersed【immersed [i′mə:st] adj.专注的；浸入的】 in your every detail, as you placed your hat onthe table and cupped your hands around the hot cup of tea, gently blowing the steam away with your pouted【pout [paut] v.噘嘴；板脸；不高兴；噘起】 lips.
From that moment, everything seemed to make perfect sense to me. The people in the cafe and the busy street outside all disappeared into a hazy blur【blur [blə:] n.模糊；模糊不清的事物；污点；污迹】. All I could see was you.
All through my life I have relived【relive [ri:′liv] v. （在想象中）再体验；再经历；再生；复活】 that very first day. Many, many times I have sat and thought about that the first day, and how for a few fleeting moments I am there, feeling again what is like to know true love for the very first time. It pleases me that I can still have those feelings now after all those years, and I know I will always have them to comfort me.
Not even as I shook and trembled uncontrollably in the trenches【trench [trentʃ] n.深沟；地沟】, did I forget your face. I would sit huddled into the wet mud, terrified, as the hails of bullets and mortars crashed down around me. I would clutch my rifle tightly to my heart, and think again of that very first day we met. I would cry out in fear, as the noise of war beat down around me. But, as I thought of you and saw you smiling back at me, everything around me would be silent, and I would be with you again for a few precious moments, far from the death and destruction.It would not be until I opened my eyes once again, that I would see and hear the carnage of the war around me.
I cannot tell you how strong my love for you was back then, when I returned to you on leave in theSeptember, feeling battered, bruised and fragile【fragile [′frædʒail] adj.易碎的；易损坏的；脆弱的；虚弱的；纤细的】. We held each other so tight I thought we would burst. I asked you to marry me the very same day and I whooped【whoop [hwu:p] v.高喊；呐喊；发喘息声】 with joy when you looked deep into my eyes and said “yes” to being my bride.
I’ m looking at our wedding photo now, the one on our dressing table, next to your jewellery box. I think of how young and innocent【innocent [′inəsnt] adj.清白的；无罪的；无辜的】 we were back then. I remember being on the church steps grinning like a Cheshire cat, when you said how dashing and handsome I looked in my uniform. The photo is old and faded now, but when I look at it, I only see the bright vibrant colors of our youth.
I remember being so over-enjoyed,when a year later, you gently held my hand to your waist and whispered in my ear that we were going to be a family.
I know both our children love you dearly; they are outside the door now, waiting.
Do you remember, how I paniced【panic [′pænik] v.惊慌】 like a mad man when Jonathon was born? I can still picture you laughing and smiling at me now, as I clumsily held him for the very first time in my arms. I watched as your laughter faded into tears, as I stared at him and cried my own tears of joy.
Sarah and Tom arrived this morning with little Tessie. Can you remember how we both hugged each other tightly when we saw our tiny granddaughter for the first time?
I know you are tired, my dear, and I must let you go. But I love you so much and it hurts to do so.
I must go now, my darling【darling [′dɑ:liŋ] n.心爱的人；亲爱的；宝贝；亲切友好的人；备受宠爱的人；宠儿】. Our children are waiting outside. They want to say goodbye to you.
I am sad that you had to leave me, but please don’t worry. I am content【content [kən′tent] adj.满足的；满意的；甘愿的】, knowing I will be with you soon. I know it won’t be long before we meet again in that small cafe in Hanover Square.
第一次见到你，真的已经是62年前的事了吗？我明白，这是一生的缘分。但此时，当我凝望着你的双眸时，一切又都像是就发生在昨天，在汉诺威广场的那间小咖啡店里。
当时，你正在为一位年轻的母亲和她的新生宝贝开门，就在那一瞬间，我看到了你的微笑。从那一刻开始，我就知道，我要与你共度我的余生。
时至今日，我仍然觉得，初次遇到你时，我凝望你的眼神看起来一定很愚钝。我记得，当时我呆呆地望着你摘下帽子，用手指轻柔地抚弄着你的黑发。
你把帽子放在桌上，双手捧一杯热气腾腾的茶，嘟着嘴轻轻地吹开热气，那一刻，我感觉自己已经完全沉醉在你的一举一动中
从那时起，每一件事对我来说都好像是有意义的。咖啡店里的人们，以及行走于匆忙的街道上的人们顿时都消失在了迷雾之中。我的眼中只有你。
在我的一生之中，那次的初遇曾多次在我的脑中重现。一次又一次，我坐在那里，回味着当时的情形，感受岁月如梭，再次体味着你我初遇时的那份真爱。令我感到欣慰的是，多年以后的今天我仍然能够重拾那份感觉，而我也知道这是我生命中永远的慰藉
即使我在战壕中不由自主地战栗和发抖时，我也没有忘记你的容颜。我蜷缩在潮湿的泥浆中，恐惧和枪林弹雨包围着我。我握着，将其紧紧地贴在胸口，再次回想着我们的初遇。当战争的号角吹响时，我在恐惧中大叫。但是当我想到你，看到你在我的背后微笑，周围的一切顿时便陷入沉寂，我与你在这宝贵的时刻里相遇，暂时远离死亡和毁灭。直到我再次睁开双眼，。
9月，我回到了你身边，那时的我，因受伤痛的折磨而变得脆弱不堪，我无法告诉你我对你的爱是多么的强烈。我们彼此紧紧拥抱，仿佛想溶入对方的身体，就在这一天，我向你求婚。当你注视我的双眼，说“我愿意”时，兴高采烈的我兴奋得大叫。
此时，我正看着我们的结婚照，我一直把它放在梳妆台上——你的首饰盒旁边。那时的我们是多么年轻和天真啊！我记得你说我穿制服很神勇英俊，而那时我正站在教堂的台阶上，咧着嘴笑得像只柴郡猫。这张照片已经有些泛黄和褪色，但是当我看着它，眼里却只有我们年轻时灿烂的容颜。
一年后，你轻轻地将我的手放在你的腹部，悄悄地告诉我，我们有孩子了，而那一刻，我记得我几乎被这突如其来的幸福击倒
我知道我们的两个孩子都深深地爱着你，此时，他们就在门外等候着。
你记得吗？乔纳森出世时，我是多么慌张！我还记得，当我第一次把他抱在怀中，你含笑望着我时的表情。微笑中，你的眼泪夺眶而出，我望着他，也流下了开心的眼泪。
萨拉和汤姆今天早上带着小泰西来了。你还记得我们初次看到我们的小孙女时，曾紧紧地拥抱在一起吗？
亲爱的，我知道你很累，我必须要放你走。但我是如此爱你，让你离开，我好难过。
亲爱的，我必须得走了，孩子们正在外面等我，他们也希望能同你道别。
你要离开我了，我很悲痛，但是请不要担心，只要一想到我很快就能去陪你，我就感到欣慰。我知道，不久之后，我们就会在汉诺威广场上的那间小咖啡店里再次相聚。
心灵小语
当爱到了一个境界，就会冲破生死的束缚。真爱，是永恒的，不会因为时间、地域又或其他而改变。当一个人真爱一个人，不管他们是否阴阳相隔，他们的心都在一起。
◎佳句翻译◎
1.你把帽子放在桌上，双手捧起一杯热气腾腾的茶，嘟着嘴轻轻地吹开升腾而起的热气，那一刻，我感觉自己已经完全沉醉在你的举动中了。
译____________________________
2.一次又一次，我坐在那里回味着当时的情形，感受岁月如梭，再次体味着你我初遇时的那份真爱。
译____________________________
Araby
阿拉比
[爱尔兰] 詹姆斯 ·乔伊斯 （James Joyce）
《阿拉比》是詹姆斯 ·乔伊斯小说集《都柏林人》中一篇反映少年心理变化的短篇小说。小说讲述了一个都柏林少年对同伴的姐姐产生了朦胧的爱情，在经过漫长而又焦急的等待之后，最终爱情幻想以破灭而告终。
Every morning I lay on the floor in the front parlor watching her door. The blind was pulled down to within an inch of the sash so that I could not be seen. When she came out on the doorstep my heart leaped. I ran to the hall，seized my books and followed her. I kept her brown figure always in my eye and，when we came near the point at which our ways diverged，I quickened my pace and passed her. This happened morning after morning. I had never spoken to her，except for a few casual words，and yet her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood.
Her image accompanied me even in places the most hostile to romance. On Saturday evenings when my aunt went marketing I had to go to carry some of the parcels. We walked through the flaring streets，jostled by drunken men and bargaining women， amid the curses of laborers，the shrill litanies of shop boys who stood on guard by the barrels of pigs’cheeks，the nasal chanting of street singers，who sang a come-all-you about O’ Donovan Rossa，or a ballad about the troubles in our native land. These noises converged in a single sensation of life for me:I imagined that I bore my chalice safely through a throng of foes. Her name sprang to my lips at moments in strange prayers and praises which I myself did not understand. My eyes were often full of tears (I could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out into my bosom. I thought little of the future. I did not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or，if I spoke to her，how I could tell her of my confused adoration. But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.
One evening I went into the back drawing room in which the priest had died. It was a dark rainy evening and there was no
You must strive to find your own voice sound in the house. Through one of the broken panes I heard the rain impinge upon the earth，the fine incessant needles of water playing in the sodden beds. Some distant lamp or lighted window gleamed below me. I was thankful that I could see so little. All my senses seemed to desire to veil themselves and，feeling that I was about to slip from them，I pressed the palms of my hands together until they trembled，murmuring:“O love! O love !” many times.
At last she spoke to me. When she addressed the first words to me I was so confused that I did not know what to answer. She asked me was I going to Araby. I forgot whether I answered yes or no. It would be a splendid bazaar，she said；she would love to go.
“And why can’t you?”I asked.
While she spoke she turned a silver bracelet round and round her wrist. She could not go，she said，because there would be a retreat that week in her convent. Her brother and two other boys were fighting for their caps and I was alone at the railings. She held one of the spikes，bowing her head towards me. The light from the lamp opposite our door caught the white curve of her neck，lit up her hair that rested there and，falling，lit up the hand upon the railing. It fell over one side of her dress and caught the white border of a petticoat，just visible as she stood at ease.
“It’s well for you，”she said.
“If I go，”I said，“I will bring you something.”
What innumerable follies laid waste my waking and sleeping thoughts after that evening! I wished to annihilate the tedious intervening days. I chafed against the work of school. At night in my bedroom and by day in the classroom her image came between me and the page I strove to read. The syllables of the word Araby were called to me through the silence in which my soul luxuriated and cast an Eastern enchantment over me. I asked for leave to go to the bazaar on Saturday night. My aunt was surprised and hoped it was not some Freemason affair. I answered few questions in class. I watched my master’s face pass from amiability to sternness；he hoped I was not beginning to idle. I could not call my wandering thoughts together. I had hardly any patience with the serious work of life which，now that it stood between me and my desire，seemed to me child’s play， ugly monotonous child’s play.
On Saturday morning I reminded my uncle that I wished to go to the bazaar in the evening. He was fussing at the hall stand， looking for the hat brush，and answered me curtly:“Yes，boy，I know.”
As he was in the hall I could not go into the front parlor and lie at the window. I left the house in bad humor and walked slowly towards the school. The air was pitilessly raw and already my heart misgave me.
When I came home to dinner my uncle had not yet been home. Still it was early. I sat staring at the clock for some time and，when its ticking began to irritate me，I left the room. I mounted the staircase and gained the upper part of the house. The high cold empty gloomy rooms liberated me and I went from room to room singing. From the front window I saw my companions playing below in the street. Their cries reached me weakened and indistinct and，leaning my forehead against the cool glass，I looked over at the dark house where she lived. I may have stood there for an hour，seeing nothing but the brown-clad figure cast by my imagination，touched discreetly by the lamplight
You must strive to find your own voice at the curved neck，at the hand upon the railings and at the border below the dress.
When I came downstairs again I found Mrs. Mercer sitting at the fire. She was an old garrulous woman，a pawnbroker’s widow，who collected used stamps for some pious purpose. I had to endure the gossip of the tea table. The meal was prolonged beyond an hour and still my uncle did not come. Mrs. Mercer stood up to go:she was sorry she couldn’t wait any longer，but it was after eight o’clock and she did not like to be out late，as the night air was bad for her. When she had gone I began to walk up and down the room，clenching my fists. My aunt said:
“I’m afraid you may put off your bazaar for this night of Our Lord.”
At nine o’clock I heard my uncle’s latchkey in the hall door. I heard him talking to himself and heard the hall stand rocking when it had received the weight of his overcoat. I could interpret these signs. When he was midway through his dinner I asked him to give me the money to go to the bazaar. He had forgotten.
“The people are in bed and after their first sleep now，”he said. I did not smile. My aunt said to him energetically: “Can’t you give him the money and let him go? You’ve kept him late enough as it is.”
My uncle said he was very sorry he had forgotten. He said he believed in the old saying:“All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.”He asked me where I was going and，when I had told him a second time he asked me did I know The Arab’s Farewell to His Steed. When I left the kitchen he was about to recite the opening lines of the piece to my aunt.
I held a florin tightly in my hand as I strode down Buckingham Street towards the station. The sight of the streets thronged with buyers and glaring with gas recalled to me the purpose of my journey. I took my seat in a third-class carriage of a deserted train. After an intolerable delay the train moved out of the station slowly. It crept onward among ruinous houses and over the twinkling river. At Westland Row Station a crowd of people pressed to the carriage doors；but the porters moved them back， saying that it was a special train for the bazaar. I remained alone in the bare carriage. In a few minutes the train drew up beside an improvised wooden platform. I passed out on to the road and saw by the lighted dial of a clock that it was ten minutes to ten. In front of me was a large building which displayed the magical name.
每天早晨，我躺在前客厅的地板上，望着她家的门，百叶窗拉下来，只留不到一英寸的缝隙，那样别人就看不见我了。当她出现在台阶上时，我的心就怦怦跳。我冲到过道里，抓起书就跑，跟在她后面。我紧盯着她穿着棕色衣服的身影。快到岔路口时，我便加快步伐超过她。每天早晨都是如此。除了随便招呼一下之外，我从没跟她讲过话。可是，她的名字总能让我情绪激动。
她的样子甚至在最不浪漫的场合也陪伴着我。每逢周末傍晚，我都要跟姑姑上街买东西，替她拎包儿，我们穿行在五光十色的大街上，被醉鬼和讨价还价的婆娘们挤来挤去，周围一片喧嚣：劳工们的诅咒，站在一桶桶猪头肉旁守望的伙计的尖声叫嚷，街头卖唱的用浓重的鼻音哼着的关于奥唐纳万 ·罗沙的《大伙儿都来》，或一支关于爱尔兰动乱的歌谣。在我看来，这些噪声汇合成一片熙熙攘攘的众生相。我仿佛感到自己正端着圣餐杯，在一群对头中间穿过。有时，在莫名其妙地做祷告或唱赞美诗时，她的名字几乎从我嘴里脱口而出，我时常热泪盈眶（自己也说不清为什么）。有时，一股沸腾的激情从心底涌起，流入胸中。我很少想到前途。我不知道自己究竟会不会同她说话，要是说了，怎么向她倾诉我那迷茫的爱慕。这时，我的身子好似一架竖琴，她的音容笑貌宛如拨弄琴弦的纤指。
有一天，薄暮时分，我踅到教士死亡的画室。那是一个漆黑的雨夜，屋子里一片沉寂。透过破碎的玻璃窗，我听到雨密密麻麻地泻在土地上，如针般的细雨在湿透了的泥地上不断跳跃。远处，有路灯的光或是哪一家窗口透出来的光在下面闪烁。我庆幸自己的视线模糊。我的全部感官似乎都想隐蔽起来，我觉得自己快要失去知觉了，于是把双手紧紧地合在一起，以致手都颤抖了，同时嘴里还喃喃自语：“啊，爱！啊，爱！”
她终于跟我说话了。她一开口，我就慌乱不堪，呆在那儿，不知道说什么好。她问我去不去阿拉比。我记不得是怎么回答的。她说那儿的集市一定很热闹，她很想去呐。
“为啥不去呢？”我问。
她不断地转动着手腕上的银镯子说，她不能去，因为这星期女修道院里要做静修。这时，她的弟弟正在和两个男孩抢帽子。我独自站在栏杆旁。她手中握着一支熏衣草，低着头，凑近我。门对面，街灯的光照着她白嫩的脖子，照亮了披垂的头发，也照亮了扶在栏杆上的手。她从容地站在那里，灯光使她衣服的一边清晰可见，显出了裙子的白色镶边。
“你真该去看看。”她说。
“要是我去的话，”我说，“一定会给你捎点什么的。”
从那时起，数不清的愚蠢的怪念头充塞在我白天的幻想和夜半的梦中！但愿出发之前那段乏味的日子快点过去。学校里的功课使我烦躁。每当夜晚在寝室里或白天在教室中读书时，她的形象便闪现在书页之间。阿拉比的音节在静谧中向我召唤，我的心灵沉溺在寂静中，四周弥漫着迷人的东方气息。我要求星期六晚上要到阿拉比的集市去。我姑姑听了后大吃一惊，怀疑我跟有什么勾搭。在课堂上，我很少能回答得出问题。我看着老师的脸从和蔼到严峻。他说，希望你不要变懒。我成天神思恍惚。生活中的正经事使我厌烦，它们使我的愿望不能尽快实现，所以在我看来，这些正经事就像小孩子的游戏，单调乏味的小孩子游戏。
星期六早晨，我对姑父说晚上我要到集市去。他正在前厅的衣帽架那里手忙脚乱地找帽刷子，漫不经心地说：“行，孩子，我知道了。”
他待在过道里，我没法去前客厅，就躺在窗边了。我悻悻地走出家门，去上学。那刺骨的阴冷，使我心里一阵阵忐忑不安。
当我放学回家时，姑父还没回来。时间还早呢。我呆呆地坐着，滴答滴答的钟声让我心烦意乱，我便走出房间，登上楼梯，走到楼上。那些高敞的空房间，寒冷而阴沉，却使我无拘无束。我唱起歌来，从一个房间跑到另一个房间。透过正面的玻璃窗，我看见伙伴们在街上玩。他们的喊声隐隐约约传到我耳边。我把前额贴在冰冷的玻璃窗上，望着她家。大约一个小时过去了，我还站在那儿，什么都没看见，脑海中全是她那穿着棕色衣服的身影，街灯的光朦胧地照亮呈曲线的脖子、扶在栏杆上的手以及裙子下摆的镶边。
我再下楼时，看见当铺老板的遗孀莫塞太太坐在火炉边。她为了某种虔诚的目的在收集用过的邮票。我陪着吃茶点，耐着性子听她嚼舌。开饭的时间早已过了一个小时，姑父还没回来。莫塞太太站起身来说对不起，不能久等，8点多了，她不愿在外面待得太晚，夜里的风她受不了。她走后，我在屋里踱来踱去，紧攥着拳头。姑姑说：
“兴许你今晚去不成了，改天再去集市吧。”
9点，我忽然听见姑父用钥匙开过道门的声音。接着听见他在自言自语，听到挂衣服时衣架的晃荡声。我很明白这些举动的含义。晚饭吃到一半，我跟他要钱到集市去。他已把这件事忘得一干二净了。
“人们早已睡了一觉了。”他说。
我没笑。姑姑大声地说：
“还不给钱让他去？他等的时间已经够长啦！”
他说非常抱歉，忘了这件事。然后又说他很欣赏的那句老话：“只工作不玩，聪明孩子也变傻。”他又问我去哪儿，于是我又说了一遍。他问我知不知道《阿拉伯人向骏马告别》。我走出厨房时，他正要给姑姑背诵那故事的开场白。
我紧紧攥着一枚两先令硬币，沿着白金汉大街大步走向火车站。街上熙熙攘攘，尽是买东西的人，煤气灯的照耀如同白昼，这景象提醒我快到集市去。我在一列空荡荡的火车的三等车厢找了个座位。火车迟迟不开，叫人等得恼火，过了好久才缓慢地驶出车站，爬行在沿途倾圮的房屋中间，驶过一条闪闪发亮的河流。在威斯特兰罗车站，来了一大群乘客，直拥向车厢门。列车员说，这是直达集市的专车，这才把他们挡回去。我独自坐在空荡荡的车厢里。几分钟后，火车停在一个临时用木头搭起的月台旁。我下车走到街上。有一只钟被亮光照着，我瞅了一眼：9∶50。我的面前矗立着一座高大的建筑物，上面是那魅人的名字。
作者介绍
詹姆斯 ·乔伊斯 (1882-1941)，他谙熟欧洲大陆作家作品，受易卜生影响尤深，并渐渐表现出对人类精神世界特殊的感悟及对家庭笃信的宗教和自己生活环境中的习俗、传统的叛逆。詹姆斯 ·乔伊斯是二十世纪最伟大的作家之一，他的作品及 “意识流 ”思想对全世界产生了巨大的影响。
BBC-世界上最好的早餐？
Is it the world’s best breakfast?
BBC - British playwright Maugham once said that “to eat well in England you should eat breakfast 3 times a day”.
Was this a witty way of saying that, save for breakfast, the food in England was inedible – or that the English breakfast is so superior that it’s worth eating not once but thrice daily?
The English breakfast is a cholesterol-laden calorie bomb usually consisting of two eggs, sausage, bacon, baked beans, fried tomato and toast. It’s a symphony of deliciousness on a plate, enough to ward off the worst hangover and fill you up until dinnertime.
Indulge in it as often as Maugham suggested and it could take years off your life. But devotees insist you can’t find a better breakfast anywhere.
On a recent trip to London, I wanted to indulge in a few of these fry ups (as the meal is colloquially referred ) to decide for myself whether this was the world’s best breakfast – and, by extension, how to interpret Maugham’s dining admonition.
Regency Café has been slinging up the full English breakfast since 1946. I recruited local food writer Lizzie Mabbott for the artery-hardening task of helping me decipher the dish.
Mabbott and I got in line and studied the chalkboard behind the counter: the set breakfast consisted of egg, bacon, sausage, beans or tomatoes, bread or toast, coffee or tea. All for £5.50. For a small additional fee you could also order hash browns, black pudding (blood sausage stuffed with small chunks of lard) and bubble and squeak (a sort of potato cake with cabbage)…
Mabbott urged me to study the sausage, which she said indicates the overall quality of the breakfast. “If the sausage is good,” she said, “then everything else on the plate should be good, too.” The sausage at the Regency Café was surprisingly good – juicy and fresh tasting for a no-frills neighborhood restaurant that serves up not-so-health-conscious fare...
According to The English Breakfast Society, the fry up dates back to the early 19th Century, when the landed gentry would partake in a large breakfast before going hunting, or while relaxing and reading. Later that century, as a middle class emerged, more English citizens began to emulate the wealthy – and one way was to partake in the full English. The working class soon got in on it, too, realising that a hearty breakfast was a good way to start a day of energy-sapping labour. By the 1950s, the fry up had become the national breakfast.
After eating so many English breakfasts...I had more insight into Maugham’s colourful quip. Certainly he’d be pleased with the current state of English food, which, by all accounts, is leaps and bounds better than it was when he left us in 1965. But also, I decided, Maugham had to be speaking in praise of the English breakfast, not against British cuisine. If calories and cholesterol weren’t a concern, the English breakfast really would be worth eating three times per day.
(原文选自BBC新闻)
英国剧作家毛姆曾说过，“要在英国吃得好，你就应该一天吃三顿早餐。”
这究竟是在表示除了早餐以外，英国食品就无法入口的诙谐说法，还是在说英式早餐是如此优越，以至值得一天不是吃一顿，而是吃三顿？
英式早餐是满载着胆固醇的卡路里炸弹，通常包含两个鸡蛋、有烤肠、咸肉、焗豆类、煎番茄、面包片。它是盘中美味的交响乐，足以抵御最严重的隔夜遗留的醉眼惺忪，并让你填饱肚子，支撑到晚饭时分。
若像毛姆说的那样经常沉湎于英式早餐，会让你少活好几年。但热爱英式早餐的人却坚称，哪儿也找不到比这更好的早餐了。
在最近的一次伦敦之行中，我想要尽情享用一下这种煎炸大餐（这就是英式早餐的俗称），自己来做个决断，这究竟是不是世界上最好的早餐 - 并推而广之，究竟如何解读毛姆的早餐遗训。
对于丽晶咖啡馆来说，英式全套早餐1946年以来，一直都是它的拿手好戏。我请来了当地的美食作家丽齐.马博特，来做这项足以令人动脉硬化的任务 -帮我揭密英式早餐。
我和马博特于是排起了队，仔细研究起柜台后的粉笔板来：早餐套餐包括鸡蛋、熏肉、烤肠、豆子或番茄、面包或面包片、咖啡或茶。全套5.5英镑。再加一点钱，你就可以点棕煎土豆饼、黑布丁（用小块猪油作馅的血肠），以及“泡泡叫”（一种包菜土豆饼）......
马博特催促我好好研究一下烤肠，她说，烤肠能体现早餐的整体质量。“如果烤肠不错的话，”她说，“那么盘里的其它一切都应该不错。”对供应不是很强调健康意识的食物的一家朴实无华的社区餐馆来说，丽晶咖啡馆的烤肠可谓好得出奇 - 多汁、鲜美......
根据英式早餐协会，这种煎炸大餐早餐可追溯至19世纪早期，当时的地主乡绅出去打猎、放松或读书之前，都会一起共进盛大的早餐。到了19世纪后期，随着中产阶级的兴起，更多的英国公民开始模仿富人 -模仿的方法之一，就是共进全套英式早餐。很快，工人阶级也参与其中，意识到一顿喧闹盛大的早餐，正是迎接消耗体能的一天劳动的好办法。到了1950年代，这种煎炸早餐成了国餐。
吃了这么多英式早餐后......我对毛姆的缤纷妙语有了更深的理解。如果他还活着，他肯定会对英国食物的现状感到欣慰。无论以何标准衡量，英国食物比他1965年离开我们时已经有了突飞猛进的改善。但另外，我也已经确定，毛姆的话肯定是在赞扬英式早餐，而不是非难英伦烹调。如果卡路里和胆固醇不足为虑的话，英式早餐真的值得一天吃三顿。