门安静地闭拢。门像一种淡然的眼神，与世无争。争斗喧闹的是人。门悠悠的背后，隐藏着何等样的奥秘？门外拥挤不堪。还有什么比门，更能象征人生？

不知道是需要隐秘，还是需要回避，我极希望推开一扇门，让心灵在门的自然掩闭之后躲进极乐的静谧或与悲伤的秘密搏斗之中。一个孤寂的人，推开一扇孤寂的门，阒寂无声。

门，镶着木纹花边的门，意味深长。

门内炉火正旺？

酒吧的门在暖味的灯光下，期待。颜色深沉、古朴、厚重。推开它，现代生活方式的活泼多姿就跃动在眼帘。而推门那一刻的古典与凝重的感觉还粘留在手中。人总会一个激灵，仿佛从时空的隧道里骤然降至。

豪华大酒店的门完全远离了门的概念。仿佛只需一个意念，两块大玻璃便像被坚利之船驶过的冰自动分裂，无论是实际还是心理，我们都没有推门的感觉。门背后原是私人的与隐私的。透明的门失去了门的意义，没有悬念。没有门的房子，是一只空洞的眼睛。

惧怕那么一扇门，不知道它的关闭是最终判决的表白还是等待智慧开启的启示。

也有许多的门在我即将靠近的时刻关闭了。冷漠的声响至今鸣响在我的耳旁。

门的声音诉说一种心情。比如爱情。猛然关上门弄出巨大的声响其实是一种软弱的自白；轻轻关上门则是生活中最具悲剧性的动作。这扇关闭的门如断线风筝一样令人充满无望与揪心之痛。

不知道，一只小狗为什么会依恋在一扇关闭的门边。

我为什么在一扇关闭的门前徘徊又徘徊。

远远看吧，那扇洁白的门，在绿色藤蔓围绕的竹篱笆墙中，像一个少女一样高贵而矜持地沉默，紧抿双唇。这诗意的一扇门是我心中诚挚而永远的渴念。

一扇门也会是生命中的一朵玫瑰，在不可企及的地方灿然开放，芳香浸润着你的生命。生命不会静止不动的，既使我们孤寂无为。

读到美国作家克.莫利的“生命并不像一斗烟丝那样持久，而命运却把我们像烟灰一样敲落”时，我再一次想到了某个女人说的“生命是一袭华美的睡袍”之类的话，便真感觉自己像烟灰一样正飘飘坠去。

可是，看过那在飞机飞行时，一个人一只手牢抓飞机门框与死神搏斗的镜头吗？疾风使他的衣服像刀子一样挥舞着刮破了他的脸，为不致于像烟灰那样飘向渺渺苍穹，他在攀进，向那一扇生命之门。

On Doors

Christopher Morley

The opening and closing of doors are the most significant actions of man's life. What a mystery lies in doors!

No man knows what awaits him when he opens a door. Even the most

familiar room, where the clock ticks and the hearth glows red at dusk, may harbor surprises. The plumber may actually have called (while you were out) and fixed that leaking faucet. The cook may have had a fit of the vapors and demanded her passports. The wise man opens his front door with humility and a spirit of acceptance.

Which one of us has not sat in some ante-room and watched the

inscrutable panels of a door that was full of meaning? Perhaps you were waiting to apply for a job; perhaps you had some deal you were ambitious to put over. You watched the confidential stenographer flit in and out, carelessly turning that mystic portal which, to you, revolved on hinges of fate. And then the young woman said, Mr. Cranberry will see you now. As you grasped the knob the thought flashed, When I open this door again, what will have happened?

There are many kinds of doors. Revolving doors for hotels, shops and public buildings. These are typical of the brisk, bustling ways of modern life. Can you imagine John Milton or William Penn skipping through a revolving door? Then there are the curious little slatted doors that still swing outside denatured bar-rooms and extend only from shoulder to knee. There are trapdoors, sliding doors, double doors,stage doors, prison doors, glass doors. But the symbol and mystery of a door resides in its quality of concealment. A glass door is not a door at all, but a window. The meaning of a door is to hide what lies inside; to keep the heart in suspense.

Also, there are many ways of opening doors. There is the cheery push of elbow with which the waiter shoves open the kitchen door when he bears in your tray of supper. There is the suspicious and tentative withdrawal of a door before the unhappy book agent or peddler. There is the genteel and carefully modulated recession with which footmen swing wide the oaken barriers of the great. There is the sympathetic and awful silence of the dentist's maid who opens the door into the operating room and, without speaking, implies that the doctor is ready for you. There is the brisk cataclysmic opening of a door when the nurse comes in, very early in the morning--It's a boy!

Doors are the symbol of privacy, of retreat, of the mind's escape into blissful quietude or sad secret struggle. A room without doors is not a room, but a hallway. No matter where he is, a man can make himself at home behind a closed door. The mind works best behind closed doors. Men are not horses to be herded together. Dogs know the meaning and anguish of doors. Have you ever noticed a puppy yearning at a shut portal? It is a symbol of human life.

The opening of doors is a mystic act: it has in it some flavor of the unknown, some sense of moving into a new moment, a new pattern of the human rigmarole. It includes the highest glimpses of mortal gladness: reunions, reconciliations, the bliss of lovers long parted. Even in sadness, the opening of a door may bring relief: it changes and redistributes human forces. But the closing of doors is far more terrible. It is a confession of finality. Every door closed brings something to an end. And there are degrees of sadness in the closing of doors. A door slammed is a confession of weakness. A door gently shut is often the most tragic gesture in life. Every one knows the seizure of anguish that comes just after the closing of a door, when the loved one is still near, within sound of voice, and yet already far away.

The opening and closing of doors is a part of the stern fluency of life. Life will not stay still and let us alone. We are continually opening doors with hope, closing them with despair. Life lasts not much longer than a pipe of tobacco, and destiny knocks us out like the ashes.

The closing of a door is irrevocable. It snaps the packthread of the heart. It is no avail to reopen, to go back. Pinero spoke nonsense when he made Paula Tanqueray say, The future is only the past entered through another gate. Alas, there is no other gate. When the door is shut, it is shut forever. There is no other entrance to that vanished pulse of time. The moving finger writes, and having writ--

There is a certain kind of door-shutting that will come to us all. The kind of door-shutting that is done very quietly, with the sharp click of the latch to break the stillness. They will think then, one hopes, of our unfulfilled decencies rather than of our pluperfected misdemeanors.

Then they will go out and close the door.

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