TheOnesWhoWalkAwayFromOmelas離開歐麥拉的人.doc

離開奧米勒斯的人（有翻譯成離開麥歐拉的人）The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas-URSULA LE GUIN（娥蘇拉 勒瑰恩）【轉(zhuǎn)摘自網(wǎng)絡上的英語教育教材，比較難找，原文先不貼了】作者把現(xiàn)實稍加裝飾，變成一個童話故事，發(fā)生在一個虛構(gòu)的城市：Omelas。而這個快樂童話故事慢慢地變得殘酷。幸運的是，故事只能有3個選擇，但我們的現(xiàn)實生活卻可有許多選擇和變通的途徑，時間也能改變很多事。這篇發(fā)人深省的故事，讓人不斷思考：我會如何選擇？我會如何改變？抑或繼續(xù)什么都不做。隨著一陣響徹云霄的鐘聲的敲響，一群燕子驚得展翅高翔，白塔映日的海濱城市奧米勒斯迎來了她的夏慶節(jié)。港灣里停泊的船只的纜索上都飄揚著鮮艷奪目的彩旗。市區(qū)的大街小巷上，一支支游行隊伍穿過街道兩旁那一排排紅頂彩漆墻面的房屋，穿過一座座長滿青苔的古老庭園，走過一條條林蔭大道，一座座公園和公共建筑，迤邐而行。游行隊伍有的顯得十分文雅莊重，其參加者或是一些身著紫衣灰袍的老者，或是一些沉郁肅穆的工人師傅，或是一些文文靜靜、歡歡喜喜的婦女，她們抱著孩子，邊走邊聊天。另外一些游行隊伍的情形卻迥然不同：那兒奏著歡快的音樂，鑼鼓喧天，游行的人們一路上載歌載舞。成群的小孩在隊伍中興高采烈地穿來穿去，他們的歡叫聲像高翔于空中的燕子的嗚叫聲一樣，蓋過游行隊伍的鼓樂聲和歌唱聲。所有游行隊伍都沿著蜿蜒曲折的街道迤邐向北行進，來到一個稱作綠野的大草坪上。草坪上早有一些光著身子、腳踝沾滿泥巴、手臂長大而靈活的青年男女在那兒對他們的劣馬進行賽前訓練。那些馬都沒有上鞍具，只套了一根不帶嚼子的韁繩。馬的鬃毛上扎著一些銀色、金色和綠色飾帶。那些馬都揚著鼻子，歡騰跳躍相互炫耀；它們都興奮異常，因為馬是唯一將人的喜慶活動看作自己的喜慶活動的動物。城外較遠處，環(huán)繞奧米勒斯西面和北面的是一道半圓形的山脈。早晨的天空晴明如鏡，湛藍的天幕下積雪未化的十八座峰頂上，白雪映著陽光，猶如燃燒的火焰，發(fā)出沖天的金光。賽馬跑道上插著的彩旗在微風吹拂下呼啦啦地飄擺。置身于一片寂靜的大草坪上，人們就可以聽到城區(qū)街道上的鼓樂聲由遠及近，猶如陣陣醉人的香風迎面撲來。鼓樂聲時而微弱下去，時而響亮起來，直至最后融入一片歡樂喧鬧的鐘聲之中。歡樂!究竟怎樣才叫歡樂?該怎樣描述奧米勒斯城的市民的歡樂情形呢?說起來，他們并不是一些頭腦簡單的人，盡管他們過得很快活。人們不再把快樂一類的字眼掛在嘴邊上了，因為快樂的歡笑也已變成了過時的時尚。聽到這樣的描述，人們可能會作出一些想當然的推斷；聽到這樣的描述，人們也許就會意想到那君臨天下的國王，騎在一匹高頭大馬上，身邊簇擁著一群威武的騎士，或是踞坐在一乘由一隊健壯如牛的奴隸抬著的金轎上。然而，奧米勒斯城并沒有國王。奧米勒斯人不用劍，也不養(yǎng)奴隸。他們并不是化外的野蠻人。我不知道他們的社會有些什么條令和法規(guī)，但我猜想他們的條規(guī)一定很少。他們的社會既不存在君主制和奴隸制，同樣也沒有股票交易，沒有商業(yè)廣告，沒有秘密警察，沒有原子彈。不過，我再次說明，這些人并不是頭腦簡單的原始人，不是溫厚善良的牧羊人，不是出身高貴的野蠻人，也不是溫文有禮的烏托邦主義者。他們的頭腦并不比我們的簡單。我們的社會的弊病在于，由于一些賣弄學問的人和深諳世故的人的推波助瀾，我們養(yǎng)成了一種惡習，認為歡樂是一種無聊乏味的東西，只有痛苦才能啟迪人的智慧，只有邪惡才能激發(fā)人的興趣。拒絕承認邪惡的平淡無奇和痛苦的枯燥無味性是藝術(shù)家的負義失職。倘若你無法戰(zhàn)勝這些，不如干脆與之同流合污；倘若你受到打擊覺得痛苦，不如重施一次打擊，以減輕痛苦?？墒牵澝澜^望即等于消滅歡樂，擁抱暴力即意味著喪失一切。我們已幾乎失去一切，再也不知如何去描述一個快樂的人了，也無法舉行什么快樂的活動。我怎樣才能對你們講清奧米勒斯人的快樂情形呢?他們并不是一群天真快樂的孩子-盡管他們的孩子也的確是天真快樂的。他們是成熟的、智慧的、充滿激情的成年人，而且過著不錯的生活。啊，真是奇跡!不過，我真希望把這一切描寫得更好!我真希望你們?nèi)巳硕寄苄欧形艺f來，奧米勒斯城就似乎是很久很久以前存在于童話世界的某個遙遠地方的一座城市。倘若讀者有足夠的想象力的話，最好還是自己去想象奧米勒斯城的情形吧。因為讓我一個人來描述，肯定是難合所有讀者的口味。比如，奧米勒斯城的科技發(fā)展狀況如何?我認為那兒的街道上不會有汽車奔馳，空中不會有飛機盤旋。其依據(jù)是這樣的事實：奧米勒斯人民是快樂幸福的人民?？鞓沸腋５幕A是能分辨什么是生活必需之物，什么是既不必需又無危害之物，以及什么是有害之物。奧米勒斯人自然不會要汽車、飛機等有害之物。不過，在第二類物品中-那些雖不必需但卻無害的物品，即那些給人帶來舒適享受的奢侈品中-他們卻完全可能擁有中央空調(diào)、地鐵火車、洗衣機以及其他各種各樣尚未發(fā)明出來的東西，如流動光源、無燃料動力、治療傷風感冒的秘方等等。也許他們根本沒有這些玩意，那也無關緊要。就由你自己去想象吧。有一樣東西我確知是奧米勒斯城所沒有的，那就是罪惡。除此以外還有些什么呢?我想，首先是他們沒有毒品，但那樣他們的生活又顯得太像苦行僧了。如果人們喜歡的話，城區(qū)的街道上也可以聞到一種稱作德魯斯的麻醉藥品散發(fā)出的清淡而沁人心脾的香味。服了這種麻醉品后最初的反應是四肢變得十分輕靈，頭腦變得十分靈活；過幾個小時以后，便昏昏沉沉地進入一種夢境，并產(chǎn)生各種各樣奇妙的幻覺，使人得以窺視宇宙間最玄妙、隱藏最深的奧秘；另外，它還能極大的增強性交的快感。這不是一種會使人上癮的麻醉毒品。對于那些認為其烈性太強的人，我想應該為他們提供啤酒。除此以外，還有什么，還有什么屬于這座快樂的城市所有呢?勝利的榮譽感，當然還有尚武精神。但既然我們已經(jīng)排除了教士，我們也理應排除武士。建筑在爭斗拼殺的成功之上的歡樂不是正當?shù)臍g樂。那種歡樂是要不得的，是可怕的，也是不值得的。使奧米勒斯人心中充滿歡樂和自豪的是一種巨大無邊的滿足感，是一種巨大的勝利的喜悅，但這勝利不是指擊敗外敵的勝利，而是指自己心靈上與一切美好的心靈以及光輝燦爛的自然世界產(chǎn)生共鳴的勝利。他們所慶祝的勝利是人生的勝利。說實話，我覺得沒有多少奧米勒斯人有服食德魯斯的必要。大多數(shù)游行隊伍此時都已到達綠野大草坪。炊事隊的紅藍雙色帳篷里散發(fā)出美妙的食品香味。一些小孩子的天真可愛的臉蛋上都因吃甜食弄得粘糊糊的，還有一位慈眉善目的老人的灰白胡子上也粘著幾片奶油蛋糕碎屑。參加賽馬的青年男女騎手都已騎馬來到起跑線上等候著。一位胖胖的小個子老嫗提著一籃子鮮花微笑著向他們發(fā)花，高高大大的青年男子都接過她的花插在自己油光發(fā)亮的頭發(fā)上。一個大約九到十歲的小孩獨自坐在邊上吹奏一支木笛。人們都停下其他的活動，微笑著聽他吹奏，但都不同他說話，因為他一直不停地吹，從不抬頭望他們一眼，他的一雙烏黑的眼睛全神貫注于那美妙而動人的樂曲上。吹奏完畢，他徐徐地放下握笛子的雙手。笛聲一停，場上緊接著出現(xiàn)一陣寂靜，這似乎成了一個信號，片刻寂靜之后，立刻便聽到起跑線附近的一個亭子里響起了一陣威嚴、低沉、尖銳的號聲。那些在等候的馬一聽號聲，便人立而起，有的還發(fā)出嘶叫聲。那些青年騎手們此時一本正經(jīng)地撫摸著馬頸，輕聲細語地安慰道：安靜點，安靜點，我的美人兒，我的希望.他們開始在起跑線上列隊。聚集在賽馬跑道沿線的人群東倒西歪，宛如原野上的一片花草迎風起伏著。夏慶節(jié)正式開始了。你相信了嗎?上面描述的這種節(jié)慶，這個城市以及歡樂景象，你都覺得可信了嗎?不可信?那么，請讓我再講述一件事情吧。在奧米勒斯城某幢漂亮的公共建筑下面的地下室里，也許是在一所寬敞的私宅的地窖里，有一個房間。這房間有個上了鎖的門，但沒有窗戶。一絲充滿塵埃的光線從有隙縫的板墻里透過來。這光線間接來自地窖某處一個結(jié)滿蛛網(wǎng)的窗戶。小房間的一個墻角，靠近一個生銹的水桶立著幾把拖把，拖把頭發(fā)硬，結(jié)成一團，散發(fā)著臭氣。地是泥土地，碰上去有點潮濕，地窖的泥土地都這樣。房間大約三步長，兩步寬，只是一個放掃帚的小問，或是久已不用的工具問。小間里坐著一個小孩，可能是個男孩也可能是個女孩。他(她)看上去六歲左右，但實際上已近十歲。他(她)是低能兒。也許他(她)生來就是低能，也許是由于恐懼，營養(yǎng)不良和無人照管才變成低能。他(她)弓著背，坐在離水桶和兩把拖把最遠的一個角落里，摳摳鼻子，偶爾漫不經(jīng)心的摸摸自己的腳趾或者生殖器。他(她)怕這拖把。他(她)覺得這些拖把很可怕。他(她)閉上眼睛，但他(她)知道拖把還立在那兒，門還是鎖著，而且沒有人會來。門總是鎖著的；從來沒有人來過。除了有時候一一這孩子沒有時間概念，也不知時間間隔是什么-有時候門嘎嘎直響。然后門開了，門口站著一個人或幾個人。他們中有一個可能進屋，踢踢這孩子讓他(她)站起來。其他的人從來不走近，只是用恐懼、厭惡的眼睛往里瞧，看著他(她)。盛食物的碗和盛水的缽被匆匆填滿，然后門給鎖上，眼睛消失了。站在門口的人從來不說話，但這小孩并不是生來就住在這工具間的，他(她)還能記得陽光和母親的聲音，有時候張口說話。我一定不淘氣，他(她)說道。請放我出去。我一定好好的，不淘氣!他們從不回答。孩子過去晚上總是尖聲呼救，大聲地哭，而且哭很久。但現(xiàn)在只發(fā)出一種哎-啊，哎-啊的哀鳴聲，話也說得越來越少了。他(她)瘦極了，瘦到腿肚子都沒有，肚子卻鼓著，一天就靠半碗玉米粉和一點動物油維持生命。他(她)赤身裸體，臀部和股部是一大串化膿的瘡，因為他(她)老坐在自己的屎尿里。所有的奧米勒斯人都知道他(她)在那兒。有些人還去看過他(她)還有些人則覺得沒必要親自去看，知道他(她)在那兒就夠了。大家都明白他(她)必須呆在那兒。至于他(她)為什么必須呆在那兒，這原因就只有一部分才明白，有些人并不知曉。但所有的人都清楚一個道理：他們的幸福生活，他們城市的美景，他們之間的親愛和睦的關系，他們的孩子的健康成長，他們的學者們的智慧，他們的工人的技藝，甚至連他們那片天地里的風調(diào)雨順、五谷豐登的繁榮景象，這一切全都有賴于那孩子所受的苦難。奧米勒斯人等他們的孩子長到八至十二歲，能懂事明理的時候便把這一道理講給他們聽。去地窖里看那孩子的多半是青年人，不過還有一個成年人更經(jīng)常去看那孩子。不管大人們把這事對那些青年人怎么解釋，這些青年看到那孩子的悲慘情狀都不禁大為震驚并感到惡心。他們感到厭惡，這是他們原來所沒有料到的。盡管他們聽了許多的解釋，他們還是感到氣憤、憤怒但又無能為力。他們本想為那孩子做點什么的，但卻什么也不能做。假若能把那孩子弄出那個悲慘的地方，讓他(她)重見天日，假若能把他(她)洗得干干凈凈，將他(她)喂得飽飽的，并讓他(她)有個舒舒服服的睡覺的地方，那無疑是一件很好的事情。但只要那樣做了，奧米勒斯的一切，包括她的繁榮氣象、美麗景色和歡樂生活等都會立刻化為烏有。這是條約上有明文規(guī)定的。為了做那一件微不足道的善事而犧牲善良的奧米勒斯全體眾生，為了給一個人創(chuàng)造幸福的機會而破壞千萬人的幸福，那無疑是將罪惡引進奧米勒斯城。條約上的規(guī)定極其嚴格，沒有半點變通的余地。就連對那孩子講一句仁慈友善的話都在被禁止之列。當那些青年去看了那個孩子，面對那種痛苦的矛盾處境后再回到家里時，他們往往會痛哭流涕，或是悲憤難抑。他們可能要為此悲傷若干個星期，甚至若干年。但隨著時間的推移，他們會漸漸認識到，即使那孩子獲得釋放，他(她)也不會感受到自由的好處。當然，他(她)可能因為溫飽問題得到解決而感受到一點模模糊糊的愉悅，再不會有多少別的好處了。他(她)太低能了，他(她)太愚笨了。甚至真正的歡樂也不能體味到。他(她)擔驚受怕的時日太久，再也不可能擺脫恐懼了。他(她)缺乏教養(yǎng)，性情也很樸拙，即使再對他(她)施以人道的待遇，他(她)也會無動于衷。說實在的，他(她)對那種生活已經(jīng)習以為常了，若是將他(她)放出來，失去了牢籠的保護，失去了他(她)的眼睛所習慣的黑暗，再也不能坐在自己的屎尿上，他(她)倒可能覺得難受。當那些青年人開始認識到現(xiàn)實的這種悲哀的公正性后，他們因看到那孩子的悲慘遭遇而悲傷的淚水便自動地干了。然而，正因為他們在自己的仁義之心經(jīng)受考驗時悲傷流淚，無可奈何地接受現(xiàn)實時悲憤難抑，他們的生活才如此光輝燦爛。他們的幸福并不是一種平淡無奇的、不帶義務和條件的幸福。他們完全明白，他們自己其實也像那孩子一樣沒有自由。他們懂得憐憫。正是因為有了那孩子的存在以及他們對這一事實的認識，他們的建筑才有可能如此的雄偉壯觀，他們的音樂才有可能如此的震撼人心，他們的科學才有可能如此的高明玄妙。他們對一般兒童也那樣溫和，也正是因為那孩子的關系。他們懂得，假如沒有那個可憐的孩子在黑暗的地窖中悲泣，那另一個孩子，即那個吹木笛的孩子，就不可能在那些青年騎手騎著美麗的駿馬迎著第一個夏日列隊等候賽馬開始時吹奏出那樣歡快的樂曲來。現(xiàn)在你相信我描述的這一切了嗎?它們的可信度是否增加了一些?不過，我還有一件事情要講，這件事情卻是真有點令人難以置信。有的時候，某個青年男女去看了那孩子之后并不回家痛苦流涕或是震怒發(fā)狂，事實上，他或她根本就不回家。也有的時候，某個年紀大得多的成年男女去看了那孩子之后會沉默一兩天，然后便離家出走。這些人走到街上，獨個兒一路走去。他們一直往前走，穿過漂亮的城門徑直走出奧米勒斯城。出城之后，他們穿越奧米勒斯的田野繼續(xù)向前走。每個人，無論是男青年還是女青年，無論是成年男子還是成年女子，都是一人獨行。夜幕降臨了，他們還得沿著村鎮(zhèn)的街道，穿過街道兩邊窗戶亮著螢光的房屋，繼續(xù)往前走，走進一片黑暗的曠野之中。每個人都是單獨地向西或向北，朝深山里走去。他們一直向前走。他們離開奧米勒斯城，頭也不回地向黑暗中走去。他們要去的地方是一個對我們大多數(shù)人來說比奧米勒斯城更難想象的地方。我根本無法描述那個地方。也許根本就不存在那樣一個地方。但那些離開奧米勒斯城的人似乎知道他們要去的是一個什么樣的地方。The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas/omelas.htmlby Ursula K. Le GuinWith a clamor of bells that set the swallows soaring, the Festival of Summer came to the city Omelas, bright-towered by the sea. The rigging of the boats in harbor sparkled with flags. In the streets between houses with red roofs and painted walls, between old moss-grown gardens and under avenues of trees, past great parks and public buildings, processions moved. Some were decorous: old people in long stiff robes of mauve and grey, grave master workmen, quiet, merry women carrying their babies and chatting as they walked. In other streets the music beat faster, a shimmering of gong and tambourine, and the people went dancing, the procession was a dance. Children dodged in and out, their high calls rising like the swallows crossing flights over the music and the singing. All the processions wound towards the north side of the city, where on the great water-meadow called the Green Fields boys and girls, naked in the bright air, with mud-stained feet and ankles and long, lithe arms, exercised their restive horses before the race. The horses wore no gear at all but a halter without bit. Their manes were braided with streamers of silver, gold, and green. They flared their nostrils and pranced and boasted to one another; they were vastly excited, the horse being the only animal who has adopted our ceremonies as his own. Far off to the north and west the mountains stood up half encircling Omelas on her bay. The air of morning was so clear that the snow still crowning the Eighteen Peaks burned with white-gold fire across the miles of sunlit air, under the dark blue of the sky. There was just enough wind to make the banners that marked the racecourse snap and flutter now and then. In the silence of the broad green meadows one could hear the music winding through the city streets, farther and nearer and ever approaching, a cheerful faint sweetness of the air that from time to time trembled and gathered together and broke out into the great joyous clanging of the bells.Joyous! How is one to tell about joy? How describe the citizens of Omelas?They were not simple folk, you see, though they were happy. But we do not say the words of cheer much any more. All smiles have become archaic. Given a description such as this one tends to make certain assumptions. Given a description such as this one tends to look next for the King, mounted on a splendid stallion and surrounded by his noble knights, or perhaps in a golden litter borne by great-muscled slaves. But there was no king. They did not use swords, or keep slaves. They were not barbarians. I do not know the rules and laws of their society, but I suspect that they were singularly few. As they did without monarchy and slavery, so they also got on without the stock exchange, the advertisement, the secret police, and the bomb. Yet I repeat that these were not simple folk, not dulcet shepherds, noble savages, bland utopians. They were not less complex than us. The trouble is that we have a bad habit, encouraged by pedants and sophisticates, of considering happiness as something rather stupid. Only pain is intellectual, only evil interesting. This is the treason of the artist: a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the terrible boredom of pain. If you cant lick em, join em. If it hurts, repeat it. But to praise despair is to condemn delight, to embrace violence is to lose hold of everything else. We have almost lost hold; we can no longer describe a happy man, nor make any celebration of joy. How can I tell you about the people of Omelas? They were not naive and happy children-though their children were, in fact, happy. They were mature, intelligent, passionate adults whose lives were not wretched. O miracle! but I wish I could describe it better. I wish I could convince you. Omelas sounds in my words like a city in a fairy tale, long ago and far away, once upon a time. Perhaps it would be best if you imagined it as your own fancy bids, assuming it will rise to the occasion, for certainly I cannot suit you all. For instance, how about technology? I think that there would be no cars or helicopters in and above the streets; this follows from the fact that the people of Omelas are happy people. Happiness is based on a just discrimination of what is necessary, what is neither necessary nor destructive, and what is destructive. In the middle category, however-that of the unnecessary but undestructive, that of comfort, luxury, exuberance, etc.-they could perfectly well have central heating, subway trains, washing machines, and all kinds of marvelous devices not yet invented here, floating light-sources, fuelless power, a cure for the common cold. Or they could have none of that; it doesnt matter.As you like it. I incline to think that people from towns up and down the coast have been coming in to Omelas during the last days before the Festival on very fast little trains and double-decked trams, and that the train station of Omelas is actually the handsomest building in town, though plainer than the magnificent Farmers Market. But even granted trains, I fear that Omelas so far strikes some of you as goody-goody. Smiles, bells, parades, horses, bleh. If so, please add an orgy. If an orgy would help, dont hesitate. Let us not, however, have temples from which issue beautiful nude priests and priestesses already half in ecstasy and ready to copulate with any man or woman, lover or stranger, who desires union with the deep godhead of the blood, although that was my first idea. But really it would be better not to have any temples in Omelas-at least, not manned temples. Religion yes, clergy no. Surely the beautiful nudes can just wander about, offering themselves like divine souffles to the hunger of the needy and the rapture of the flesh. Let them join the processions. Let tambourines be struck above the copulations, and the glory of desire be proclaimed upon the gongs, and (a not unimportant point) let the offspring of these delightful rituals be beloved and looked after by all. One thing I know there is none of in Omelas is guilt. But what else should there be? I thought at first there were not drugs, but that is puritanical. For those who like it, the faint insistent sweetness of drooz may perfume the ways of the city, drooz which first brings a great lightness and brilliance to the mind and limbs, and then after some hours a dreamy languor, and wonderful visions at last of the very arcana and inmost secrets of the Universe, as well as exciting the pleasure of sex beyond belief; and it is not habit-forming. For more modest tastes I think there ought to be beer. What else, what else belongs in the joyous city? The sense of victory, surely, the celebration of courage. But as we did without clergy, let us do without soldiers. The joy built upon successful slaughter is not the right kind of joy; it will not do; it is fearful and it is trivial. A boundless and generous contentment, a magnanimous triumph felt not against some outer enemy but in communion with the finest and fairest in the souls of all men everywhere and the splendor of the worlds summer: this is what swells the hearts of the people of Omelas, and the victory they celebrate is that of life. I really dont think many of them need to take drooz.Most of the procession have reached the Green Fields by now. A marvelous smell of cooking goes forth from the red and blue tents of the provisioners. The faces of small children are amiably sticky; in the benign grey beard of a man a couple of crumbs of rich pastry are entangled. The youths and girls have mounted their horses and are beginning to group around the starting line of the course. An old women, small, fat, and laughing, is passing out flowers from a basket, and tall young men where her flowers in their shining hair. A child of nine or ten sits at the edge of the crowd, alone, playing on a wooden flute. People pause to listen, and they smile, but they do not speak to him, for he never ceases playing and never sees them, his dark eyes wholly rapt in the sweet, thin magic of the tune.He finishes, and slowly lowers his hands holding the wooden flute.As if that little private silence were the signal, all at once a trumpet sounds from the pavilion near the starting line: imperious, melancholy, piercing. The horses rear on their slender legs, and some of them neigh in answer. Sober-faced, the young riders stroke the horses necks and soothe them, whispering, Quiet, quiet, there my beauty, my hope. They begin to form in rank along the starting line. The crowds along the racecourse are like a field of grass and flowers in the wind. The Festival of Summer has begun.Do you believe? Do you accept the festival, the city, the joy? No? Then let me describe one more thing.In a basement under one of the beautiful public buildings of Omelas, or perhaps in the cellar of one of its spacious private homes, there is a room. It has one locked door, and no window. A little light seeps in dustily between cracks in the boards, secondhand from a cobwebbed window somewhere across the cellar. In one corner of the little room a couple of mops, with stiff, clotted, foul-smelling heads stand near a rusty bucket. The floor is dirt, a little damp to the touch, as cellar dirt usually is. The room is about three paces long and two wide: a mere broom closet or disused tool room. In the room a child is sitting. It could be a boy or a girl. It looks about six, but actually is nearly ten. It is feeble-minded. Perhaps it was born defective, or perhaps it has become imbecile through fear, malnutrition, and neglect. It picks its nose and occasionally fumbles vaguely with its toes or genitals, as it sits hunched in the corner farthest from the bucket and the two mops. It is afraid of the mops. It finds them horrible. It shuts its eyes, but it knows the mops are still standing there; and the door is locked; and nobody will come. The door is always locked; and nobody ever comes, except that sometimes-the child has no understanding of time or interval-sometimes the door rattles terribly and opens, and a person, or several people, are there. One of them may come in and kick the child to make it stand up. The others never come close, but peer in at it with frightened, disgusted eyes. The food bowl and the water jug are hastily filled, the door is locked, the eyes disappear. The people at the door never say anything, but the child, who has not always lived in the tool room, and can remember sunlight and its mothers voice, sometimes speaks. I will be good, it says. Please let me out. I will be good! They never answer. The child used to scream for help at night, and cry a good deal, but now it only makes a kind of whining, eh-haa, eh-haa, and it speaks less and less often. It is so thin there are no calves to its legs; its belly protrudes; it lives on a half-bowl of corn meal and grease a day. It is naked. Its buttocks and thighs are a mass of festered sores, as it sits in its own excrement continually.They all know it is there, all the people of Omelas. Some of them have come to see it, others are content merely to know it is there. They all know that it has to be there. Some of them understand why, and some do not, but they all understand that their happiness, the beauty of their city, the tenderness of their friendships, the health of their children, the wisdom of their scholars, the skill of their makers, even the abundance of their harvest and the kindly weathers of their skies, depend wholly on this childs abominable misery.This is usually explained to children when they are between eight and twelve, whenever they seem capable of understanding; and most of those who come to see the child are young people, though often enough an adult comes, or comes back, to see the child. No matter how well the matter has been explained to them, these young spectators are always shocked and sickened at the sight. They feel disgust, which they had thought themselves superior to. T