一把从耶鲁偷来的椅子

After 20 years, it’s time to come clean2). As I write these words, I’m sitting on a chair stolen from Yale.

I didn’t steal it—at least not at first. The chair came with the apartment that I rented as a second-year law student in the fall of 1990. Left by some Yalie who lived there before me, it’s a sturdy3) piece, with a hardwood frame, a dark leather (or leather-like) seat, and a firm back secured by twin rows of brass tacks4).

The Law School dining hall had chairs that were similar enough to rouse my suspicions. But when I ventured over to Commons5) for lunch one day, any doubt was erased: I saw hundreds of exact replicas of “my” chair. It was definitely stolen property.

Being short of cash and needing a solid desk chair, I decided to use it just for the year. And while the chair had seen better days6)—the wood was scuffed7), the seat had started to peel and crinkle—I found it was perfectly designed for long hours of study. It invited good posture when I was fresh and was stable enough to handle slouching8) and crossed-leg hunching9) when I grew tired. I liked the chair so much that I broke my silent pledge to bring it back to campus at the end of the year. Instead, I took it with me to my new apartment. When I leave New Haven, I thought to myself. That’s when I’ll return it.

But by the time graduation rolled around in May 1992, I felt too attached to the chair to let it go. After all, I’d largely earned my JD10) sitting on it. So I loaded it into a small U-Haul and drove off to my new job in Washington, D.C. I used the chair at my home desk in Washington for 14 years, and when I moved to New York City in 2006, I again took it along.

The irony of all this hasn’t escaped me: I’m a Yale law graduate breaking the law. At least, I think I’m breaking it. The truth is, I’m not really sure what the law of Connecticut says about possession of stolen property (which should only reinforce my alma mater11)’s reputation for teaching Big Ideas, not black-letter12) rules). Of course, there’s the old chestnut13) that possession is nine-tenths of the law14). But my gut15) tells me that this isn’t really my chair.

So why have I kept it so long? Initially, I guess, the chair somehow connected me to the things I missed about Yale—Friday afternoon football games with my classmates, late nights at Yorkside Pizza, doughnuts at the Doodle16). Over the years, though, my stolen chair has accreted17) much greater meaning, and the truth is that today, parting with it would be very difficult. The chair has literally supported me for my entire writing career—a career that began during law school, when I realized I wasn’t a lawyer at heart18).

I was sitting on this chair while I wrote my first short story, my first screenplay, and my first chapters of a novel; while I read my first rejection letters; and, perhaps most important, while I struggled to finish my first book. Fittingly, that book was, in large part, about Yale—the story of how my classmates took the U.S. government to court to free innocent refugees held at Guantánamo19) in the early 1990s. Part of my challenge was to recreate the atmosphere of the Law School—and sitting every day on the same chair I’d used back then surely must have helped me.

Today, my old Yale chair is in bad shape. The legs are splintered20) and the varnish21) is wearing away. The seat upholstery22) is shredded, and I’ve covered the loose spring coils with a couple of cloth napkins from IKEA. Friends say it looks like something I retrieved from a dumpster23). But when I sit down to work each day, I don’t see an object for the trash heap. I see an old friend, a constant companion that has been with me through the ups and downs of what is a terribly solitary profession.

As part of a recent Law School fund-raising campaign, I pledged an amount that I thought would cover several new chairs. Even so, for the punishment to fit the crime, I guess I should donate a few copies of each book I write to the Yale library.

And maybe one day, many years from now, I could get the chair properly fixed up, carve “Brandt Goldstein” in some hidden place, and drop it off in the Law School library. It would be nice to have my name on a chair at Yale.

20年过去了，是时候把真相和盘托出了。在写这句话的时候，我正坐在一把从耶鲁大学偷来的椅子上。

椅子并不是我偷的——至少一开始不是这样。1990年秋天我在耶鲁法学院读二年级的时候，租了一间公寓，租来时这把椅子就在那间公寓里。它是在我之前住在那儿的耶鲁学生留下来的。椅子很结实，硬木框架，黑色真皮(或是仿真皮)椅座，坚固的靠背还钉了两排黄铜平头钉加固。

法学院食堂的椅子与这把十分相像，这足以让我怀疑这把椅子的来历。但是，当我有一天跑到耶鲁的公共食堂吃午饭的时候，我的所有疑问都有了答案：我看到几百把和“我的”椅子一模一样的椅子。毫无疑问，这东西就是偷来的了。

由于当时手头紧，又正需要一把结实耐用的书桌椅，于是我决定自己留着用，就用这一年。这把椅子早已“风光不再”，木框架已经磨损，椅座也开始脱皮起皱，但我发现它的设计非常适合长时间学习。在我精神饱满时，它能让我保持优雅的坐姿；在我感到疲倦时，它也足够坚固，大可以让我耷拉着脑袋懒洋洋地靠着，或是盘腿蜷缩起来。我曾经暗自许诺要在这一年结束时把椅子还给学校，可是我太喜欢它了，于是没有兑现诺言。相反，我把它带到了我的新公寓。我心里盘算着，等离开纽黑文(注：耶鲁大学所在地)时，我就把它归还回去。

可是到了1992年5月临近毕业的时候，我又感觉自己太留恋这把椅子了，实在是割舍不下。毕竟，我攻读法学博士的大部分时光都是在它上面度过的。于是，我把它装进一辆从U-Haul汽车租赁公司租来的小卡车上，然后驾车前往华盛顿——我的新工作单位所在地。在华盛顿，我把这把椅子放在了家中的书桌旁，一用就用了14年。2006年，我搬往纽约的时候，我再一次把它带在了身边。

我深知这一切所蕴含的讽刺意味：身为一名耶鲁法学院的毕业生，我却知法犯法。至少，我觉得自己是犯了法。事实上，我并不十分清楚康涅狄格州的法律对占有被盗财产有什么规定(这也更好地诠释出我母校的在外声名，那就是只传授“重要理念”，不讲授既定的“法律条文”)。当然，古谚有云：现实占有，败一胜九。可是我的内心明白，这的确不是我的椅子。

那我为什么把它保留了这么久呢？最初，我想，是因为这把椅子能够勾多多少少让我回想起耶鲁生活中那些让我思念的往事：星期五下午与同学一起参加的橄榄球赛，约克赛德比萨店的深夜，还有涂鸦大会上的炸面圈。但随着一年年过去，我这把偷来的椅子所附着的意义却与日俱增，事实上，现在我与它已经难舍难分了。在我的整个写作生涯里，这把椅子一直名副其实地支撑着我。我的写作生涯始于法学院其间，那时我就认识到自己实际上不是当律师的料。

我坐在这把椅子上完成了自己的第一则短篇小说、第一个电影剧本和第一部长篇小说的前几个章节；我坐在这把椅子上，品读了最初的几封退稿信；而也许最为重要的是，我坐在这把椅子上艰难地写完了自己的第一本书。这本书大部分内容都与耶鲁有关，讲述的是在20世纪90年代初我的同学们如何将美国政府诉诸法庭，从而使关押在关塔那摩的无辜难民得以释放的故事。在写作的过程中，我受到的一大挑战就是重现法学院的氛围，而每天都坐在我上大学时曾坐过的那把椅子上，这对我的写作无疑颇有助益。

如今，我这把老旧的耶鲁椅状况很糟糕：椅子腿裂了，油漆的光泽已渐渐褪去，椅座外饰碎成一片一片的，弹簧圈也松弛了，我用从宜家买来的几块餐布把它们盖了起来。朋友们说，它看上去真像是从大垃圾桶里捡回来的。可每天当我坐下来工作的时候，我所看到的可不是什么垃圾废品，而是一位老朋友，一个陪我在极其孤独的职业生活中起起伏伏的忠实伴侣。

法学院最近开展了一项募资活动，我承诺捐一笔钱，我想这笔钱够买好几把新椅子了。即便如此，按照罚罪相当的原则，我估计我还得把自己写的每一本书都捐几本给耶鲁图书馆才行。

也许许多年后的某一天，我会找人把这把椅子修理妥当，再在某个隐蔽的地方刻上我的名字“勃兰特·戈尔茨坦”，然后放进法学院的图书馆。把我的名字留在耶鲁的椅子上，这应该是件不错的事情。