Chapter 9 Chapter 9 Living Together

1 During our honeymoon we visited Dubrovnik and from there to Split.I will never forget Splitter.In the evening, we came out of the hotel for a walk, and when we walked to the corner of a square, we saw the giant shadow of St. Gregory towering into the sky, which is the masterpiece of the sculptor Mestrovic.It overlooks everything, like an eternal milestone that is indelible in people's memory. The next step in the journey is down the Dalmatian coast and along the Greek coast to Patras.The ship we took was a small freighter, and there were only four passengers on board, two of us in one cabin and the other two in the other.They disembarked at the next stop, and we were left as two passengers.

I have never had such a good meal on board: thinly sliced ​​delicious lamb, very tender, fresh vegetables, rice, skewers full of delicious seasoning.We stammered with the captain in Italian.He asked: "Do you like this meal? I am very happy to arrange an English meal for you. This is authentic British food." I hope he doesn't come to England lest he see real English food. We spent several days happily on this small Serbian boat, and the boat stopped at the ports along the way from time to time, Santa Ana, Santa Maura, Holy Quarrata and so on.Before the two of us went ashore, the captain always reminded us to sound the whistle half an hour before sailing.So when the two of us were lingering under the olive tree or sitting among the flowers, the flute suddenly sounded in our ears, and we hurried back to the boat.Sitting among the olive groves, surrounded by silence, we were immersed in happiness.It's such a pleasant situation, it's like being in Eden, paradise on earth.

Finally arrived in Patras, we happily bid farewell to the captain and took a funny little train to Olympia. Greece needs no further talk.Olympia is as beautiful as imagined.The next day we rode our mules to Andrizener, which, frankly, almost put our marriage in jeopardy. I had never ridden a mule before, and the fourteen-hour journey was unbelievably painful.I got to the point where I couldn't tell which was more painful, the mule or the walk.When I got there, I slipped off the mule, my legs were so stiff that I couldn't walk, I blamed Max and said, "If you don't know the pain of others after such a trek, you are not qualified to marry."

We rested for two days at Andrizener to recover.I admit that I don't regret marrying him, and he can also learn how to take care of his wife, and ask his wife to travel on a mule after carefully calculating the distance.We rode mules for nearly five hours to the Temple of Bassa, but this time I didn't feel tired. Epidaurus was beautiful to my eyes, but it was there that I first learned the character of an archaeologist.The weather was fine that day, so I climbed to a high place in the theater and sat down, leaving Max alone in the museum to read the inscription.After a long time, he still hasn't come to me.I finally lost my temper and went down into the museum.Max was still lying on the ground upright, studying the inscription with great interest.

"Are you still watching that thing?" I asked him. "Well, it's very rare," he said, "look here, and may I tell you about it?" "I don't think so," I said firmly, "it's beautiful out there, it's a sight to behold .” "Well, I'm sure it must be," said Max absently. "You don't mind if I go out again?" I asked. "No," Max said with a slightly surprised tone, "That's good, I thought you were interested in this inscription." "I don't think it's any more interesting than being outside," I said, and sat back on the height of the theater looking into the distance.When Max came to me an hour later, smiling, he had deciphered a terribly difficult Greek phrase that would make the day a little bit more meaningful for him.

Delphi is truly unforgettable.What impresses me the most is the charming scenery, we even searched around, hoping to find a piece of land there to build a house someday.I remember we chose three places.It's a beautiful dream: don't remember if either of us believed in the plan.Two years ago, I revisited the old place and saw the endless flow of cars, coffee shops, souvenirs and tourists everywhere. I was really glad that I didn’t build a house there. When I arrived in Athens, my honeymoon was coming, and there were only four or five days left When we were about to part, we two happy inhabitants of Eden suddenly faced catastrophe.I fell ill and at first thought I was suffering from one of those common stomachaches that are common in the Middle East, among them Jipi stomachache, Baghdad stomachache, Tehran stomachache, etc.I'm calling this one an Athens stomach ache, but it's actually far worse.

After a few days, I got up, but when I was driving around, I was so uncomfortable that I had to drive the car back again.Only Greek doctors were available at that time.He spoke French, and I soon realized that, while my French was adequate for general conversation, I knew nothing about medical terminology. The doctor attributed my illness to eating red herring heads.According to him, this fish is very dangerous for first-timers who are not good at stewing fish.Once a cabinet minister also got this disease and almost died.I was sure I was sick enough to die at any moment.I still have a high fever and can't eat anything.However, the doctor finally saved my life.I told Max to put his mind at ease and he could go the next day.

"How could I ever leave you, dear?" he said. The trouble was that Max had been entrusted with arriving at Ur in time to build all the ancillary facilities for the expedition's housing, so that it would be ready when the Woolleys and the rest of the expedition arrived a fortnight later.He's building a new dining room and building a new bathroom for Catherine. "I'm sure they'll forgive me," Marks said.But there was hesitation in his tone.I know they won't understand.I angrily told him that they would blame me for his irresponsibility.It's a matter of both our reputations, and Max has to be there on time, and I reassure him that I'll be fine.I shall lie still for a week, and then take the Orient Express straight home.

Poor Max is heartbroken.At the same time he was besieged by that damned British sense of responsibility.This was the result of the influence that Leonard Woolley had exerted on him for a long time. In the end, we both said our goodbyes with a certain sense of sadness, and Max left me at last to fulfill his duties. I lay like a log in a room covered with green wallpaper, as sick as a cat.My back hurts, my stomach hurts, and I'm so weak that I don't even want to lift my hands.I ordered bland boiled pasta and pushed it away after two bites.It seemed impossible to eat anything more. I miss Max.By this time he should be in Beirut, and tomorrow he will cross the desert with the Nairn convoy.Poor Max, how much he misses me.

Fortunately, I don't have to worry about myself anymore.Already I felt a churning determination to do something or move somewhere.I had some tasteless boiled macaroni with some grated cheese.Walk up and down the room three times each morning to restore leg strength.When the doctor came to see me, he said I was much better. "Not bad. Well, I can tell you're recovering." "Honestly, I want to go home the day after tomorrow." "Oh, don't talk stupid. Tell you, the cabinet minister..." I left there as planned.The hotel porter assisted me as I hobbled onto the train.I lay down on my bunk and didn't move much, occasionally calling for a bowl of hot soup from the dining car.The soup is always greasy and I have no appetite.If it is a few years later, this dislike of greasy food will be good for maintaining body shape, but at that time I was still very thin.When I got home from the trip, I was skinny to the bone.When I got home, I couldn't be more comfortable lying in my own bed.It was nearly a month before I fully regained my strength and energy.

Max arrived in Ur safely. He was upset about me and sent several telegrams along the way, hoping to hear from me, but there was always no news.He used work to dilute his inner anxiety, and he did a lot more than the Woolleys expected. At my age, I know all too well how to deal with impulsive personalities: actors, producers, architects, musicians and vain people like Catherine Woolley.As far as mothers go, Max's mother was what I would call a hypersensitive person, and my mother was in the same category. Several of my actor friends have a tendency to throw tantrums.Charles Laughton as Hercule Poirot in Alibi.During a rehearsal break, while sipping on an ice cream water, he told me about his trick: "It's good to be moody. People say, be careful not to annoy him, you know, he loses his temper all the time." "It's annoying at times," he added, "especially if you don't have the desire. But it pays off, and it pays off every time." 2 It seems inconceivable that the creative activities of this period seem incomprehensibly vague in my memory.In fact, even then, I didn’t see myself as a real writer.I write novels and short stories and get them published.I'm getting used to it as a regular income.But whenever I fill out the occupation column in the form, I don't know what else to write besides the proud "married woman" at that time.I'm a married woman, that's who I am, that's what I do.Writing books is my side job.I have never had the golden sign of writing as "professional".I thought that was ridiculous. My mother-in-law didn't understand this, "You've written wonderfully, dear Agatha, you should write something, um, more serious?" referring to something "worth writing".I found that I could not explain to her, nor did I think to explain, that my work was written for pleasure. I wanted to be a good detective story writer, and I really thought so at the time. I flattered myself that I was a good writer of detective stories.Some of my work makes me feel proud and satisfied.However, I never got carried away because I don't think these are the highest achievements.The story is not as ideal as it was conceived when writing the thread development for the first chapter, or as it unfolded in front of the murmur while walking. My lovely mother-in-law probably wants me to write a biography of some world famous person.I can't imagine anything more tricky than this.However, I always answer without thinking and with great humility, "You're right, but I'm not really a writer." Rosalind would often correct me and say, "But you are, mother. There's nothing wrong with that." doubt." Poor Max has been severely cured for being married: as far as I know, he never reads novels.Catherine Woolley thrust him "The Roger Ackroyd Murder" and he didn't read a word of it.Someone talked about the ending of the story in front of him, and he said: "If you know the ending, what's the point of this book?" At this moment, he became my husband, so he resolutely picked up the book. So far, I have written nearly ten books, and he reads slowly from the first one.Marx's concept of light readers are those profound works of archaeology or research works on classical topics.Therefore, the frowning look on his face when he read this light-hearted novel is very funny.But I should be proud to say that he persevered, and later on, he seemed to enjoy the trouble he was asking for. It's ridiculous that I don't remember much about the books I wrote after marriage.Probably I am too indulged in the joys of daily life, and writing has become my intermittent task.I never had a permanent dedicated writing room.This got me into a lot of trouble for many years to come, because whenever I received a visitor, the first thing they asked for was a photo of me at work. "Show us your writing room." "Oh, I can write anywhere." "But there is always a dedicated room?" But I don't.All I have is a sturdy desk and a typewriter.By this time I had begun to write directly on the typewriter, although I still used to write with the pen occasionally in the first few chapters, and then typed it out later.A marble top for the washbasin in the bedroom makes a good place for writing; a dining table is also suitable in the dining room. People in my family often noticed that I was about to start writing again, "Look, Missus is thinking about it again." Carlo and Mary always called me Missus, and they could see the expression on my pensive expression. Looking at me expectantly, he urged me to hide in the room and concentrate on writing. Many friends said to me: "I don't know when you wrote the book, because we never saw the scene of your writing, or even where you went to write." My whereabouts are probably the same as a dog walking away with a bone in its mouth Pretty much: The dog sneaks away and is not seen for half an hour.Then it will appear in front of it with mud on its nose.I'm probably the same way, I'm always a little self-conscious when it comes to writing.But whenever I can get away and close the door to prevent others from disturbing me, I can sit at my desk and write, completely immersed in writing. Between 1929 and 1932 I wrote a considerable body of work: in addition to some complete novels, I published two collections of short stories. A collection of novels with Mr. Quinn as the protagonist, this is my favorite work.I don't write very often, maybe every three or four months, sometimes even longer.The periodicals seemed to like this kind of work, and I was quite proud of myself, but I turned down requests to write a series of novels for the periodicals.I don't want to write a series about Mr. Quinn, I only do it when I feel compelled to. I also published a collection of short stories called .Each novel is modeled after a certain stereotyped detective model of the time.I can't remember some of them now.I remember Southley Colton as the blind detective, and of course Austen Freeman; Freeman Wells Croft and his fantastic timelines; and Sherlock Holmes.Now that I have selected twelve detective writers, it will be interesting to see which of them are still familiar to readers today.Some names became household names, while others quietly disappeared.It seemed to me at the time that they were all brilliantly written and enjoyable in different styles.Among them was the story of my two young detectives, Tommy and Tuppence, who became the main characters of my second book.For a change, it is quite interesting to create with them as the main characters again. "Abode Mystery" was published in 1930, but I don't remember exactly when and where it was published, how it was written, why it came about, or even how I thought of using a new character, Miss Marple, as the detective in the novel.At the time, I certainly did not intend to continue to feature her for the rest of my writing career.I didn't expect her to be Hercule Poirot's rival. People are writing me incessantly these days suggesting that Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot should run into each other.But why is this necessary?I'm sure neither of them would be happy about it.Hercule Poirot was so proud of himself that he would not ask a spinster to teach him a few tricks.He was a professional detective, and without him there would be no place for Miss Marple.Both of them are celebrities, and they both rely on their ability to eat.I would not have arranged for them to meet by chance unless I felt compelled to do so on a whim. I think it was probably the pleasure I had of portraying Dr. Sheppard's sister in The Murder of Roger Ackroyd that inspired me to create the character of Miss Marple.I like her character in the book, a sharp old maid, full of curiosity, there is nothing she doesn't know and have never heard of: a real private detective.When the book was adapted into a screenplay, I was greatly annoyed that Carole was missing.The doctor has a younger sister, a young girl, a charming girl who can arouse Poirot's heart. I didn't know when the idea first came up.How difficult it is for people to accept the changes in the play.By this time I had written a detective story script of my own, I can't remember when.Hughes Macy took issue with that; they actually told me that I had better not expect anything from the script, so I didn't push them.The script is called "Black Coffee".It's a traditional thriller, and while there's a lot of cliché in it, I think it's fine.Then, as luck would have it, a friend of mine at Sunnydale, Mr. Berman, who was connected with the Royal Theater, suggested to me that the play might be produced. Francis Sullivan as Poirot in "Black Coffee."He was bloated, six foot two; I was surprised that the actor who played Poirot was always a fat guy.I remember the first performance was at the Popular Theater in Hampstead, and the part of Lucia was played by Joyce Brand, who I always thought was a wonderful actress. After four or five months of performance, "Black Coffee" was finally moved to the West District.More than twenty years later, the play reappeared on the stage with slight modifications.As a repertoire, people responded well to it. Alibi is Michael Morton's first play based on one of my books, The Roger Ackroyd Murders.He is a master of script adaptation.I dismissed his initial idea that he wanted Poirot to be twenty years younger, to be called Bo Poirot, and to be surrounded by girls.By this time I had formed an indissoluble bond with Poirot, and I realized that he would always be my character, and I was strongly opposed to completely changing his character traits.Later, with the support of executive producer Gerald du Maurier, we decided to drop the character of the doctor's sister Carolina and replace it with a young and beautiful girl.As I said before, I was very reluctant to get rid of the character of Carlo Leno, and I prefer the part of the story about her that is set in the country.I love the drama of country life shown through the lives of the doctor and his dominating sister. I am not as satisfied now as I am when I revisit "Abode Mystery" as I was then.I think it has too many characters and too many details.But the main plot stands up to scrutiny.I looked at that village as if it were real, and even today there are villages like it.The orphaned maids, the trained and upwardly mobile servants, are gone, but the day maids who have replaced them are remarkably like them, though admittedly less scheming than their predecessors. Miss Marple came into my life without my noticing.I wrote a series of six short stories for a journal, and I chose six characters to meet in a small village every week to tell difficult cases.I began with Miss Jane Marple, a spinster who resembled some of my aunt's best friends at Ealing.When I was young, I often met this kind of old women when I went to the country.Miss Marple was by no means a reincarnation of my aunt; she was fussier and more spinster than my aunt.But the two do have similarities, and their personalities are straightforward.They always like to think that people and things are bad, and the terrible thing is that they are proved to be right nine times out of ten. My aunt's foresight is quite frightening.My brother and sister once raised a docile little squirrel at home for a year.One day, my aunt held up the little creature with a broken paw in the garden, and said wisely, "Listen! This squirrel will run away down the chimney within a few days." Ran.I have bestowed upon Miss Marple this prophetic power of my aunt.Miss Marple didn't have any malice towards people, she just didn't trust anyone.Despite her view that people are inherently evil, she treats everyone kindly. Miss Marple was about sixty-five or seventy when she first appeared in my book, like Poirot.It's not a good thing, because she's going to be with me a lot in my creative life.If I had foreseen this, I would have made a precocious schoolboy my first detective, and he would have grown up with me. For this series of six novels, I have assigned Miss Marple five companions.The first was her nephew, a contemporary novelist whose works involved esoteric theories, incest, sex, and sordid depictions of bedrooms and toilet fixtures, in short, life as he saw it.He blindly accommodates his beautiful but pedantic Aunt Jane, just like treating someone who doesn't know much about the world.The second was a young girl who was a modernist painter who had just had an affair with Raymond West.Next came Mr. Pettigrew, a local lawyer, impersonal, alert, and elderly; and the other two were local doctors, one of whom knew many cases and was useful in explaining why each night's problems people, and a priest. The mystery told by Miss Marple herself has a ridiculous name: "St. Peter's Thumb".Later, I continued to write six novels with Miss Marple as the protagonist.These twelve and one other were published in England under the title "Murder at the Tuesday Club" in the United States. I don't remember the writing, I may have had a draft in the belly before, it's my habit, I often don't know whether a book is just finished or has been published.Storylines often come to mind unexpectedly: while walking along the high street, or browsing a hat shop with interest, a brilliant idea suddenly arises.I thought: "This time it will be perfect, no one can see the flaws." Of course, all the plots need to be further deliberated, and each character can only slowly come to life. I immediately wrote this down in the exercise book Brilliant idea. So far this has been handy, but I often throw away the exercise book.I always kept half a dozen exercise-books in my hand, and jotted down at any moment any episode that occurred to me, or some poison or medicine, or some cunning deception I had read in the papers.Of course, it would save me a lot of trouble if all of this was clearly categorized and filed.Sometimes, however, it's fun to rummage through a stack of old notebooks for a few scribbled lines like "Available plots: do it yourself; girl isn't real sister; August" and a plot synopsis. Some plots can't be remembered, and some plots linger in my mind from time to time. I am willing to savor and play carefully, because I know that I will write it one day.The details of The Roger Ackroyd Murder were in my head for a long time before I laid them out.Ruth Draper's performance inspired me to write. I was inspired by her realistic imitation, the way she transformed herself from a nagging wife into a peasant girl kneeling in church.She made me write. When I first wrote detective stories, I was infinitely critical or serious about crime.The detective novel is the novel of the hunt, and it is also a novel of a certain morality; in fact it reproduces the old popular moral legend: the destruction of evil and the triumph of good.During the war of 1914, the perpetrators were not heroes; the heroes were good and the enemies were evil, so plain and simple.Psychology was not studied at that time.I, like anyone else who writes and reads books, detests the criminal and sympathizes with the innocent victim. The exception is the sassy hero Raffles, a habitual thief, cricket-loving, and always with that bunny buddy, Bonnie.I've always hated Raffles a bit, and that's certainly a function of tradition.He's a Robin Hood-like figure, but Raffles is lighthearted. One would never have dreamed that crime novels were read for the pleasure of violence, for the sadistic thrill of brutality. Cruelty is now almost as common as the daily bread and butter.Of course, what I call "haters" is a very small minority, but, like all minorities, the energy of such people far exceeds that of the majority. I became interested in the study of criminology as a result of writing crime fiction.I especially enjoy reading books written by people who deal with criminals, especially those who try to educate criminals or find ways to "rehabilitate" criminals. I think people will use more grandiose words to describe them these days .Those criminals were presumably bewitched, just like what Milton's Satan did: he longed for prominence, for power, for being as noble as God.He has no love in his heart, and he does not know humility.I have often said myself, and have come to the conclusion by looking at life, that ignorance of humility means destruction. One of the joys of writing detective fiction is that there are so many genres to choose from. Thrilling novels of the light-hearted type, which are particularly comfortable to write; detective novels with complex plots, which are complicated, thought-provoking, and worth aftertaste; passion because people care about the innocent and not the criminal. I can suspend judgment on those murderers, but I think they are silverfish of society, they create hatred and do whatever they want.I would like to believe that they were born crippled, and that perhaps for that reason they would be pitied, but even so they would not be forgiven.For forgiving them is tantamount to forgiving those who escaped from a medieval plague-ridden village and mingled with innocent villagers and lively children in neighboring villages.The innocent must be protected and they should be able to live together in peace and fraternity. It struck me that no one seemed to care about the innocent.When one reads about a murder, one seems indifferent to the tragic spectacle—say, a shaky old woman in a small tobacco shop who is beaten to death as she turns around to fetch a pack of cigarettes for a young villain.People seemed indifferent to the horror, to her pain, to the fact that she was finally gone.No one takes the pain of the dead seriously, except for the young murderer, who is young. Why not put him to death?In this country we kill wolves and do not try to make wolves and sheep live in harmony.We went into the mountains to kill the wild boar, lest it come down and kill the children by the stream.They are our enemies and we hunt them. What do I do with those who are infected by the mold of cruel hatred and regard other people's lives as worthless?These people often have a good family background, good opportunities, and a good education, but they just don't follow the right path to put it bluntly.What can be done with such a person?How to deal with murderers?It's not life imprisonment, it's more brutal than execution in a cup of hemlock juice in ancient Greece.The best we've found is exile. In the vast wilderness, only the aborigines live there, and they can only live in a more despicable environment there. Let's take a look at the notion that what is short today was long in the past.If it is not cruel, if it is not bloodthirsty, if it is not merciless, it may be difficult for human beings to survive.Maybe it's already extinct.The wicked of today may be the strong of yesteryear.At that time he had this need, but today there is no such need, he has become a dangerous element. It seems to me that the only hope is to compel such a person to contribute to the good of society as a whole.For example, such a person could be allowed to choose between a glass of hemlock juice or a dedication to experimental research. This might seem like a far cry from a detective story, but it probably explains why I'm more interested in victims than criminals.The more realistically the victim is described, the more intense is the indignation that accompanies it, and the more joyous a sense of triumph fills us when we rescue him from the valley of death. 3 In March of the following year, I went to Ur as planned.Max met me at the station. I once wondered if I would be shy, after all, we separated after we got married.To my surprise, we were together as if yesterday.The letter Max wrote to me was very detailed, and I felt that I knew the progress of the archaeological excavation site at that time like an archaeologist.Before returning home, I stayed at the archaeological team camp for a few days.Ryan and Catherine welcomed me warmly, and Max took me to see the excavation site. The sky was not beautiful, and suddenly a storm blew up.Only then did I notice that Max's eyes were used to the wind and sand.I staggered after him, blinded by the wind, while Max opened his eyes wide, pointing here and there.My only thought was to hide in the house, but I persevered bravely because, despite the pain, I was extremely interested in what Max said in the letter. With the digging season over, we both decided to return home via Persia.At this time, a small airline (run by the Germans) launched a route from Baghdad to Persia, and we took the plane.It is a single-engine aircraft with only one pilot.We both felt it was too risky. The plane landed in Shiraz, and I remember how fascinating it was, a deep green gem set in a taupe field.As the plane flew closer, the emeralds became more dazzling; after the plane landed, we finally found out that this is a green city composed of oases, palms and gardens.I don't know how many deserts there are in Persia, but I understand why Persians value gardens so much. It's because of how hard it is to have a garden. We traveled from Shiraz to Isfahan.Max and I plan to continue our trip via Russia if passports, visas, travel expenses, etc. are no problem. to this end.We went to the Bank of Iran to inquire.The bank manager sighed and said, "There are many difficulties." "Is that so?" Max expected difficulties, but surely it wouldn't be difficult, right? "You know," explained the bank manager, "their laws come and go, they're never fixed, and they often invite contradictions. One law says you can't take a certain foreign currency out of the country, and another says Said it was the only foreign currency allowed to leave the country.” Max understands this.The bank manager cheered up and told us that the journey would be pleasant: "Let me see, you want to go to the Caspian Sea by car? Don't you? It's good to go by car. First to Risht and from there to Baku by boat .That boat is Russian, I don't know anything about it, but people go on boats." In this way, we embarked on the journey as scheduled, with a large amount of Iranian gold coins and a certificate issued by the Russian consul. The ride to the Caspian Sea is beautiful.The car first climbed up the exposed hills of the rocky mountain, and then crossed the top of the mountain. When we went down the mountain, we found another world: warm wind and rain.Finally arrived at Resht. We were taken aboard the unpleasant Russian ship, quite nervously. Everything is very different from Persia and Iraq.First of all, the boat was surprisingly clean, almost as clean as a hospital.In the narrow cabin, there are high iron beds and harsh straw mattresses.Clean coarse linen, a tin kettle and a washbasin.The crew are all robot-like, all appearing to be six feet tall, with blond hair and expressionless faces.They treat us well.Max and I felt like the suicidal couple in Open Limits, wandering around the boat like ghosts.Nobody spoke to us, looked at us, paid us no attention at all. We arrived in Baku.A representative of a Soviet travel agency came to meet us.He is a good man, familiar with ancient and modern times, and speaks fluent French.He asked if we wanted to go to the opera to see a performance of Faust.I don't want to go.So he said he would arrange other entertainment for us.We were shown various buildings and unfinished apartments. We had a good trip to the Black Sea.What I remember most clearly is the mooring at the port of Inebolu, where some cute brown bears were brought on board, and I heard that they were transported to the Marseille Zoo.Now it is funny to think of a French sailor who was big and thick and was feeding the cubs one by one with a feeding bottle in a serious manner. 4 For Max, the meaning of going to Nineveh was to excavate the mounds there.The Campbell-Thompsons weren't very enthusiastic about it, but they had agreed in advance that Max could give it a try.Prehistoric culture suddenly became popular in archaeology, because almost all unearthed artifacts at that time belonged to the historical period. They searched on small mounds that were not noticed in the wild.Everywhere I go, I have to pick up some painted pottery pieces, label them, put them in bags by category, and examine the patterns again. This is a lot of fun.Despite their age, they still feel fresh. Determining the age of these pottery is extremely difficult because there are no writings on them.It is difficult to tell whether one type of sherd is dated before or after another.The results of our excavations at Nineveh were indeed exciting, for it soon turned out that three-quarters of that great ninety-foot-high mound was prehistoric, which had never been noticed before, except that the ground was known to belong to Assyrian era. Max's book was placed before my eyes: "Nimrud and its ruins". How happy I am that he got his long-cherished wish.Nimrud awoke from a hundred-year slumber, Raiyad pioneered the work, and my husband finished it. 他还发现了更进一步的奥秘：城邦边界上的沙尔曼奈塞尔大城堡和位于土丘上的其他宫殿。有关亚述国军事都城卡拉的传说由此而展开。尼姆鲁德现在已还其历史本来面目，除此之外，那些由手工制作的最美的物品被收藏到世界上许多博物馆中。雅致而考究的象牙制品则更令人叹为观止。 看到人类用自己的双手制作妙不可言的精品，真为自已是人类的一员而骄傲。人类是富于创造力的，他们肯定获得了造物主的某些灵感，造物主创造了世界及其大自然，并以此为满足。但是它留下了创造的余地。它使人类的双手得以发挥创造力。 人类有邪恶的一面，其邪恶比野兽有过之而无不及。但是他们也可以在创造的亢奋中飘然欲仙。 我十分留恋这第一次在考古现场度过的日子。我很喜欢摩苏尔；我写完了并且成功地揭开了谋杀之谜。我在拜访坎贝尔一场普森夫妇时，曾给他们朗读了全部手稿，他们非常欣赏。我想，除我的家里人之外，他们俩大概是惟一听我读过手稿的人。 5 我们怀着胜利的喜悦回到了英国。马克斯整个夏天忙于写这次考古情况的总结。我们在大英博物馆举办了一次考古展览。马克斯关于阿尔帕契亚的书在当年或者第二年出版了。该书不能再拖延了，马克斯曾说，考古工作者们的著作往往出版得太迟，而成果本应尽快地公布于众。 第二次世界大战期间，我在伦敦写了一本叙述我们在叙利亚生活的书，定名为《在遥远的叙利亚》，后来我每每读起这本书就很兴奋地回忆起在叙利亚的日子。 一九三零到一九三八年那几年特别令人心满意足，因为没有来自外界的阴影威胁。由于工作压力，特别是工作成功后的负担使得人们往往愈来愈少闲暇；但是这仍然是无忧无虑的年代，总有好多事要干，虽然并不富于吸引力。我写作侦探小说，马克斯撰写考古的著作、报告和文章。大家都忙忙碌碌，但并不很劳累。 我们就这样悠然度日。马克斯以极大的热情从事考古工作，我从事写作，这时写作已成为我的职业了。因此，并没有多少热情可言。 起初，写作是件激动人心的事，部分原因是因为我并没有感到自已是个作家。写的书每每得以出版都使我感到吃惊。而现在，写作成了天经地义的事了，成了我的专职。人们不仅要求出版我的书，还催促我继续写下去。可是那种想干点分外事的无休止的渴望使我坐立不安；而实际上不这样生活也太乏味了。 这时我想做的是要写点侦探小说以外的东西。因此，我怀着志石不安的心情，沉浸在一本名为纯小说《巨人的面包》的写作之中。这是一本以音乐为题材的小说。严格说来，它时时暴露出我对这个题材的无知。读者对这本书的评价尚好，销路也如预期那样不错。我用了玛丽·韦斯特马考特的笔名，谁也不知道本书的作者是我。这秘密我一直保守了十五年。 一两年后，我又用这个笔名写了另一本书《未完成的肖像》。只有一个人猜到是我：楠·瓦茨，现在她叫楠·昆。楠的记忆力很强，我描写孩子的某个短语和在第一本书中的一首诗引起了她的注意。她立刻自言自语地说：“肯定是阿加莎写的。” 一天，她捅了捅我的腰肋，用一种稍不自然的声音说：“前两天，我看了一本爱不释手的书，让我想想看书名是什么来着？《矮人的血》，对，就是《矮人的血》。” 然后她又调皮地对我眨了眨眼。我到她家后，说：“那么你猜《巨人的面包》是谁写的呢？”“当然知道是你啦，我熟悉你的写作风格。”楠说。 我有时还写写诗歌，多半是民谣。但是，我不想凭运气闯一闯一个完全不同的写作领域，也不想在这个不大容易干点新鲜事、冒险事的年纪去干这种事。 我想促使我动笔的原因是人们用我不喜欢的方式来把我的小说改编成剧本，我为此倍感懊恼。虽然我写了《黑咖啡》这个剧本，可从没认真地想去创作剧本。我对写《埃赫那吞》很得意，但是绝不相信它会上演。我突然想到，既然我不喜欢别人改编我的作品，那么何不自己尝试——下改编呢。在我看来，我的作品被改成剧本之所以失败，主要在于摆脱不了原作。侦探小说决不会像个剧本，因此改编它要比改编一部普通小说困难得多。它的情节是如此错综复杂，人物繁多，线索干头万绪，扑朔迷离。需要的是删繁就简。 我曾写过一本书，名叫《十个小黑鬼》（在美国出版时书名改为），因为它太难写了，所以就更有吸引力。十个人要合情合理地在谋杀犯不好马脚的情况下被干掉。我在经过充分构思之后动笔了，写完后我很满意。 这本书线索既清晰明快又令人迷惑不解，可解释又合情合理；事实上，为了解释就需要有一个尾声部分。这本书的评论和销路都不错，但是真正为之满意的还是我本人，因为我比评论家更清楚写这本书是多么不易。 其后，我又进了一步。我暗想，如果把它改编成一个剧本会更令人激动。乍一看这似乎不可能，因为没有人来讲故事的结局，于是我只好有所改动。我必须使其中两个人物摆脱干系，从磨难中平安地脱身，在故事结束时再团聚。这与原来的童谣的内涵并不相悖，因为有一首“十个黑孩子”的歌谣是这样结尾的：“他成了家，万事大吉。” 我写完了剧本。它并没有得到多少赞许，断语是“无法上演”。查尔斯·科克伦却对它产生了强烈兴趣。他为此剧的上演尽了全力，但不幸的是他无法说服他的赞助人同意他的观点。那些人说的都是空泛之辞，什么没法演啊，观众会笑话啦，情节太紧张啦等等。科克伦坚定地说他不同意他们的观点，可事情明摆着不行。 “希望将来这个剧本的运气会好一点，”他说，“因为我很想使这部剧上演。” 后来机会来了。对它感兴趣的伯蒂·迈耶，他曾和查尔斯·劳顿一起把《不在犯罪现场》搬上舞台。艾琳·亨舍尔是该剧的舞台监督，我觉得她工作兢兢业业。我对她的手法颇感兴趣，因为她的手法与杰拉尔德·杜·莫里哀的手法截然不同。首先，在我这个对舞台艺术一窍不通的人眼中，她似乎极不老练，仿佛心中没底；但是当我看到技巧进一步发挥时，我才认识到这种手法的魄力。她开始时就在舞台上摸索，用眼睛观察效果，而不是用耳朵，观察舞台动作和舞台灯光以及总体效果如何。随后，她几乎事后才想到集中演员对台词。这种作法卓有成效，给人印象极深。这造成了一种紧张感，舞台灯光转暗后，在三盏聚光灯柱照射下，演员们都正襟危坐在闪烁的蜡烛旁，这种灯光效果强极了。 随着演员的杰出表演，你可以感到情绪愈来愈紧张，恐怖和不信任在人物间蔓延；在我看来，谋杀设计得极为巧妙，丝毫没有什么破绽或者显得过分哗众取宠。我不是说这是我的得意之作，或者自认为届上乘，可我确实认为在某些方面，这在我的作品中是一部写得比较满意的。我觉得是《十个小黑鬼》使我在写小说的同时又踏上了戏剧创作的道路。我拿定主意以后除我自己之外，不让任何人改编我的作品。我自己决定哪些小说应该改编，并且仅仅这些小说才可以改编。 我着手改编的第二部作品《空幻之屋》是在几年后的事了。一天，我突然冒出个想法，《空幻之屋》一定会成为一出好戏。我把这个想法告诉了罗莎琳德。在生活中她总是扮演试图劝阻我又屡屡受挫的角色。 “把《空幻之屋》改为一出戏，妈妈？”罗莎琳德面带惧色地问，“这是部好小说，我也很爱看。可是你无法把它改编成剧本。” “我行。”我说，为有了对立面而激动不已。 “噢。但愿你别这样。”罗莎琳德叹了口气说。 不管怎样，我兴致勃勃地记下了《空幻之屋》剧本的构思。这本书在某些方面当然更像小说而不是个间谍故事。我一直认为《空幻之屋》这部作品由于增加了波洛这个人物而被我毁了。我已经习惯于作品中出现波洛，因此他也很自然地出现在这部作品中，可是他一出现，全都乱套了。他的确大显身手，可我总想没有他这部作品会更好。于是在设计剧本情节时，我割舍了波洛这个人物。 《空幻之屋》脱稿了，尽管除罗莎琳德外还有些人持相反意见。彼得·桑德斯很喜欢这个剧本，他曾把我的许多剧本搬上舞台，他相信这个剧也会成功。 《空幻之屋》获得成功后，我开始自讨苦吃了。当然，我知道小说创作是我稳定和有保障的职业。我可以继续这样编织情节，进行创作一直到老。我对能否再构思创作一部新的作品从未产生过绝望情绪。 当然，在一部作品动笔之前，我总得经历极为难熬的三到四个星期的时间。这种痛苦无法形容。独处一室，咬着铅笔，眼睛盯着打字机；或踱来踱去，或——屁股坐在沙发里，禁不住想大喊大叫。然后走出房间去打扰某个正忙碌着的人，通常要打扰马克斯，因为他的脾气特别温厚，对他说：“真糟糕，你看我不晓得如何下笔了，我没法再写下去了，再也写不出书了。” “哦，怎么会呢？你肯定能行。”马克斯常这样安慰我。他总是带着期望的语气边安慰我，边将目光转向他的工作。 “可我知道不行了，我想不出什么故事。我脑子里曾有个故事轮廓，可现在看来毫无可取之处。” “你只需闯过这个阶段。类似的情况以前曾发生过。你去年就曾这样唠叨过，前年也一样。” ”这次不同了。”我确信无疑地说。 但是这次当然也没什么不同，尽管我这样地凄惨和绝望。然而这种特殊的阶段需要有所体会。这就像把雪貂放在兔穴里，而自己在洞口守着猎物一样。在洞穴内一片混战之前，在无聊中度过漫长的时间，精神上得不到平衡。同样，脑子里对想写的东西一片空白，随手翻开一本书，但不久又会发现根本没有看进去；试试做字谜游戏，心思又没放在解法上；全部身心都被一种痴呆的绝望情绪所占据。 之后，由于某种难以名状的原因，一种内在的动力使人文思如涌。大脑开始运转，自知这时迷雾已经散去，灵感已经到来。你会突然绝对有把握地弄清楚了甲想对乙说些什么。你会跑出房间，沿路不停地自言自语，不断地重复着某节对话，譬如莫德和阿尔温的一问一答，他们要去哪，另外一个人会从树后的什么地方盯着他俩，地上的一只小死野鸭如何勾起了莫德早已忘却的经历，诸如此类的情节。回到家时满心欢喜，虽然还只字未写，但是终于可以动笔了。 那时，我像是迷上了剧本创作，而这仅仅因为它不是我的本行。剧本要比小说容易写，因为可以想象出剧情，而不会因那种苦于小说中的描写而中断情节的连续性。舞台的时空限制了故事的复杂程度。你不必随女主人公上楼下楼，或是来往于网球场，对这些情节不必绞尽脑汁进行描写。惟一要写的是所见所闻和所干的事。观察、倾听和感受，做到这些就足矣。 我应该坚持一年完成一本书，我相信能做到这一点。剧本创作不过是冒冒风险，什么事都是这样，有成功也有失败。 成功会接踵而来，随后是不明不白的一连串的失败。Why?谁也无法解释。我发现许多创作家都这样。我曾看过一个相当不错的剧本，但它的演出却失败了，因为它没有迎合观众的口味，或是因为它不合时宜，或者因为演员阵容对其演出有些影响。剧本创作是一件难以预料的事，每次都是一次有趣的赌博，我喜欢这种冒险。 写完《空幻之屋》后不久，我明白应该再写一个剧本。我暗想，如果可能，我要创作一个不是小说改编的剧本，一个纯粹的剧本。