《芒果街上的小屋》 一本优美纯净的小书，一本“诗小说”。由几十个短篇组成，语言清澈如流水，点缀着零落的韵脚和新奇的譬喻，如一首首长歌短调，各自成韵，又彼此钩连，汇聚出一个清晰世界，各样杂沓人生。所有的讲述都归于一个叙述中心：居住在芝加哥拉美移民社区芒果街上的女孩埃斯佩朗莎。生就对弱的同情心和对美的感觉力，她用清澈的眼打量周围的世界，用美丽稚嫩的语言讲述成长、沧桑、生命的美好与不易和年轻的热望与梦想，梦想有一所自己的房子，梦想在写作中追寻自我，获得自由和帮助别人的能力。

Born Bad （3）

She listened to every book, every poem I read her. one day I read her one of my own. I came very close. I whispered it into the pillow:

I want to be

like the waves on the sea,

like the clouds in the wind,

but I'm me.

One day I'll jump

out of my skin.

I'll shake the sky

like a hundred violins.

That's nice. That's very good, she said in her tired voice. You just remember to keep writing, Esperanza. You must keep writing. It will keep you free, and I said yes, but at that time I didn't know what she meant.

The day we played the game, we didn't know she was going to die. We pretended with our heads thrown back, our arms limp and useless, dangling like the dead. We laughed the way she did. We talked the way she talked, the way blind people talk without moving their head. We imitated the way you had to lift her head a little so she could drink water, she sucked it up slow out of a green tin cup. The water was warm and tasted like metal. Lucy laughed. Rachel too. We took turns being her. We screamed in the weak voice of a parrot for Totchy to come and wash those dishes. It was easy.

We didn't know. She had been dying such a long time, we forgot. Maybe she was ashamed. Maybe she was embarrassed it took so many years. The kids who wanted to be kids instead of washing dishes and ironing their papa's shirts, and the husband who wanted a wife again.

And then she died, my aunt who listened to my poems.

And then we began to dream the dreams.

生辰不吉(3)

她会听我念给她听的每一本书，每一首诗。一天我读了一首自己写的给她听。我凑得很近。我对着枕头轻轻耳语：

我想成为

海里的浪，风中的云，

但我还只是小小的我。

有一天我要

跳出自己的身躯

我要摇晃天空

像一百把小提琴。

很好。非常好。她用有气无力的声音说。记住你要写下去，埃斯佩朗莎。你一定要写下去。那会让你自由，我说好的，只是那时我还不懂她的意思。

那天我们玩了同样的游戏。我们不知道她要死了。我们装作头往后仰，四肢软弱无力，像死人的一样垂挂着。我们学她的样子笑。学她的样子说话，那种盲人说话的时候不转动头部的样子。我们模仿她必须被人托起头颈才能喝水的样子。她从一个绿色的锡杯里把水慢慢地吮出来喝掉。水是热的，味道像金属。露西笑起来，拉切尔也笑了。我们轮流扮演她。我们像鹦鹉学舌一样，用微弱的声音呼喊托奇过来洗碗。那很容易做到。

可我们不懂。她等待死亡很长时间了。我们忘了。也许她很愧疚。也许她很窘迫：死亡花了这么多年时间。孩子们想要做成孩子，而不是在那里洗碗涮碟，给爸爸熨衬衫。丈夫也想再要一个妻子。

于是她死了。听我念诗的婶婶。

于是我们开始做起了那些梦。