鲶鱼与曼荼罗
简介鲶鱼与曼荼罗为一本书的名称。
该书讲述一位越南裔美国人（Vietnamese American）的自行车的寻根之旅。该书也讲述和探讨了很多社会现象,例如船民(Boat people),
文化身份(Culture Identity), 性别身份(Sexual Identity),变性(Transsexual)以及现在越南人民的真实生活状况。
语言：英文
该书作者：冯旋安 (Andrew X. Pham)
该书出版社: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, New York (纽约)
该书荣获1999年的太平洋边岸图书奖（PACIFIC RIM BOOK PRIZE）
该书售价：15美圆/ 20加圆
总章数：共46章
总页数；344页
分章内容概要纪念：我的姐姐秦和我的哥哥明，只要我学会不用眼睛去观看，他们便是同一个人……
序（Prologue）：奶奶告诉我，我姐姐秦的命运已被一个越南和尚在她出生的虎年写在了命运签上：在三十二岁时自杀。我们正坐在那个秦上吊自杀的房间。
奶奶双手合十然后问我是否想看看我自己的命运签。她在我的胸前攥紧一个发皱的黄色命运卷。我看见这个从一个遥远世界来的遗物，正在释放它的能量。
我说不，我辞掉了我的工作然后骑自行车去了墨西哥沙漠……
第一章 流浪的旅者作者到墨西哥沙漠遇见了泰勒,作者向他坦白说自己是越南美国人,泰勒感到很惊讶又有些恐惧,因为泰勒是过去参加过越战的美国军人(GI)。
第二章 鲶鱼和黎明1975年的西贡陷落前后作者的回忆。以及逃跑失败被抓后，作者父亲在死亡营时的情景。
第三章 落叶1961年作者的第一个姐姐在出生不满一年时，死于发烧——由于父母没钱买药
第四章 家族的裂缝作者回到湾区，重新生活，工作…… 作者和母亲及兄弟姐妹中的天（Tien），凯（Kay）等人的会面，经历。
第五章 落叶1962年作者的第二个姐姐秦出生，她坚强得挺住了。
第六章 逆风的慌乱作者骑自行车由加洲北上游历俄勒冈洲与华盛顿洲数城市的见闻。
第七章 日本之梦作者在日本的经历。在那里作者见识到了日本的发达与日本人冷漠。作者并没有在日本找到他的文化身份与种族根基。
第八章 最后的赌博作者九岁时的经历。在作者的眼中，从越南逃到自由的美国是件简单的事，他并不知道几千的船民因为逃跑而死去了。他几乎忘掉了越南海军攻击船民的船的情景，他们的逃生竟是最后的赌博。
第九章 圣城的记忆作者回越南的过程。
第十章 奇怪的家庭作者初到越南，会见在越南亲戚的情景。
第十一章落叶作者还是四岁时和姐姐看到了一车美军，姐姐说那个像印度人的人（黑人）是用巧克力做的，结果作者小安上去就咬了那名黑人美军一口。
第十二章 相异的韵律（上接第十章）作者看到了越南人对他，越裔美国人（越南人称之为Viet-kieu）不同的态度。
第十三章 濒死的天使（上接第八章） 继续讲述安一家人在海上漂泊逃生的故事。
第十四章 小巷的世界安回到儿时居住的房子，钩起了他对往事的回忆。他碰到了还在越南的表妹，表妹说她们这很穷，问作者能否带她去美国，或是每月给她寄点钱。作者对她这话感到失望，因为作者到越南来并不是作捐款人的，而只是去寻找他的根。
第十五章 乞丐与恩惠作者继续在越南旅行。这次他跟着叔叔和亲戚们在晚上的西贡市喝椰汁聊天。那里晚上是乞丐的世界。不时有几个乞丐向他们乞讨。安碰到一个小女孩向他们讨要不成后，问是否可以收走他们喝完的瓶子，得到肯定的答复后，小女孩激动的连连鞠躬。事后，安又将自己钱包全部的钱给了小女孩。
第十六章 落叶讲述安小时候与姐姐昂（Anh）和她的老朋友比池（Bich）在西贡市中心的故事。
第十七章 希望的漂泊继续讲述安一家人海上漂泊之旅
第十八章 礼品与婚姻
第十九章 翡翠的巨人
第二十章 垂死的回归
二十一章 浸礼的佛陀
二十二章 陌生的亚洲
二十三章 乳汁与母亲
二十四章 叫秦的女儿讲述了对秦的不公正待遇，男尊女卑的体现。
二十五章 丛林火车站火车上的经历。因为缺钱，作者只能坐火车去河内，由于他是Viet-kieu（越南美国人）所以各种人都想和他要钱。他们认为外国人特别是viet-kiew不会穷，于是他被小贩和乞丐团团围住。列车员要价$140，他说没那么多钱，列车员一耸肩，开车离他而去。之后他的包也被小偷偷走了。列车官员说如果作者没有护照就必须一直留在丛林。
二十六章 夜晚的疾风秦出走的经过
二十七章 落叶
二十八章 河内的容颜
二十九章 爱国者之憩胡叔叔（胡志明）是白种人？作者以叙述和夸张胡志明的“天才”经历以及如今河内破败的景象，表现了对其的鄙视。（作者认为胡的政策是导致越南人民受苦的主要原因。过度的爱国主义？他把胡称为爱国者，而爱国者的休息就是指胡志明的时代已经过去）
第三十章 安静的年代
三十一章 粉红的冬天
三十二章 越人的宿命
三十三章 病苦的惨风
三十四章 战争幸存者
三十五章 妓女与豪杰
三十六章 落叶
三十七章 张口的鲶鱼
三十八章 秦姐和明哥（超感人的故事！）秦活下来了（从前文我们知道，秦因为是女孩在家里受尽了委屈），十四年后，她以男人的身份（变性）出现在家人的面前。（男尊女卑观念下的悲剧人物）他（她）结婚了，并用贷款买了房子。他本应和妻子和和美美的生活下去，然而妻子却因为他不能生育而断然和他离婚。两人的房子因为离婚而破败，明（变性后改名叫明，原名是秦，作者的姐姐）还不起贷款被迫将房子卖掉。然而当他向父母提出搬回来住时，他的母亲却因为他是老虎（属相），而他们是老鼠和龙的属相不合的原因拒绝了他。明几经周折，好不容易找到地方落脚，准备和前妻调解，但她的家人保护她不让明与之相见。明说：“我不知道，我只是想把东西放到一起。”圣诞节过后，用过节得到的钱，明从圣何西国际机场去了橘镇寻找前妻，他在那逗留直到他的钱全部花光，他最后的尝试都失败后，他回到了祖母家，一个空闲的房间。三天后，他将自己的生命结束在一条黄尼龙绳上，那年他三十二岁。
三十九章 狂热的旅行
第四十章 落叶
四十一章 可口可乐
四十二章 兄弟作者告诉母亲弟弟修是同性恋，尽管弟弟一再嘱咐他不要将此事告诉父母。
四十三章 父子他告诉了父亲他的两个弟弟是GAY的事实，以及父亲对秦的忏悔。
四十四章 越裔美国人
四十五章 秦与我
最终章 尾声
鸣谢
文章试读(中文翻译配英文原文)第一章：流浪的旅行者 （全文翻译）
我注意到泰勒（Tyle）的第一件事是他可以蹲坐在自己的臀部—第三世界的样式。泰勒是一个光着胸脯和脚丫的，有着沙漠烤成金色的皮肤的巨人。一个月漫游，墨西哥的荒芜把我逼进了他用仙人掌围成的帐篷。他用一种我羡慕的偶像力量去迎接我。我看见风已经把他的脸雕刻出道道峡湾。用一种干燥的声音，他问我：“在找温泉吗？” 我说是的，阿瓜·凯林特（Agua Caliente）离这很近吗？他说，当然，这就是，再往前走两百码。“太好了，我找到了”他微笑着摇动那头金黄的发：“你怎么用那自行车来这还真是让人惊叹呢！”我已经在这片荒凉的土地上骑行，在异国的沙滩上流浪很长时间了。当我饿了的时候，我在农场或牧场的地方停下，然后向农场主乞求一些水，然后试着买些墨西哥薄饼，鸡蛋，羊油和水果。每一个地方都给我营养品和食物；男人和女人们从他们的家庭花园里摘葡萄和番茄给我，却不收一比索的钱。我问他们为什么，他们用耐心的嗓音解释道：先生，你骑自行车来这，所以你很穷。你在沙漠里哪也不去，所以你是疯子。从穷人和疯子的身上要钱会带来坏运气。他们向我吐露的全部事情就是我不是当地人。我是越南人——他们的好兄弟。但我向他们喊叫：“我是美国人，越裔美国人。”他们嘻嘻一笑，塞给我一条牛肉。泰勒问我你从哪来？我说：“加洲湾区。”“不，你原本的地方。”我总是讨厌这个问题，我掩饰住我的反感，因为那样就不像美国人了。也许我会撒谎，我每次都会准备好一个回答，我是日本-韩国-中国混合的亚洲人。但是我只会说流利的美国英语。这次我反问道：“你认为我从哪来？”他说：“韩国。”有些时候他真的让我围着真相跳舞，我苦笑着知道我是美国人在他眼中没什么份量。他的绿眼睛让我感觉自己很渺小，我说：“我们的味道挺像。”但这不够，他的脸黑黑的，盯着我搜寻问题的答案，我知道我欠他的。“我来自越南。”他的眼中闪现出一丝畏惧，他咕哝着转身向仙人掌森林走去。我站起身来，仿佛听到了回音：“中国佬，韩国佬，日本佬，东南亚的狗（蔑称），滚回家去吧，斜眼睛！”（Chink，Jap，gook， charlie均为对亚洲人的蔑称。）我相信，我一定把我姐姐，一个没有绿卡的非法移民逼到了阴暗的小巷，在寒冷中将她抛弃，在她十六岁那年离家出走的时候。有一个人曾经揭露了一些令我震撼的事，他说：“你姐姐死了，因为她变得太美国人了。”
深夜，泰勒像鬼魂一样从我的营火中钻出来，他向我点头，然后在火焰前盘腿坐下。我们一起喝着龙舌兰酒，我们之间似乎有着一种说不出的休战。当酒喝到一半时，泰勒开始说话了。起先，他讲了一些墨西哥沙漠生活的趣事，以及他的生活和工作。他有一个妻子和两个儿子，他和他们分离有九年多了。我是他第一个见到的越南人，自从他来到墨西哥。“你回到过越南吗？”他问。“没有，不过将来会回去——参观。”有些人作为游客回去，去证明他们不再是越南人而是美国人，我们回去去炫耀我们的成功，曾经的难民现在是胜利者。但通常，我们回去因为我们迷失了。泰勒说：“我去过越南。”我多多少少已经猜到了，只是没说。我点头。他肯定看到我的尴尬因为他更温柔的又说了一次。当时，我做了一些从来没做过的事，我向他鞠躬，一种表示我知道他的苦痛方式。看着营火，他温柔地说：“原谅我，原谅我对你的人民所做的一切！”“什么，泰勒？”“我很抱歉，我真的很抱歉。”他开始哭泣。不，不我怎样原谅你？你对我的人民做了什么？谁又是我的人民？我不知道，你是我的人民吗？“请原谅我！”我用我的宁静拒绝了。他像醉汉说胡话一般一口气说出了无名的脸庞，地点，杀戮。我能做的只有喘气。他又一次乞求我的原谅。“当你回越南时”他说，“告诉他们我的生活，我失去的家庭，告诉他们我很抱歉。”我给了泰勒最荣耀的礼物，我们越南人最好的礼物——沉默。
第一章的原文：Exile-Pilgrim
The first thing I notice about Tyle is that he can squat on his haunches Third World-style, indefinitely. He is a giant, an anachronistic Thor in rasta drag, bare-chested, barefoot, desert-baked golden. A month of wandering the Mexican wasteland has tumbled me into his lone camp warded by cacti. Rising from the makeshift pavilion staked against the camper top of his pickup, he moves to meet me with an idle power I envy. I see the wind has carved leathery lines into his legend-hewn face of fjords and right angles. In a dry, earthen voice, he asks me, "Looking for the hot spring?"
"Yeah, Agua Caliente. Am I even close?"
"Sure. This is the place. Up the way a couple hundred yards."
"Amazing! I found it!"
He smiles, suddenly very charismatic, and shakes his head of long matty blond hair. "How you got here on that bike is amazing."
I had been pedaling and pushing through the forlorn land, roaming the foreign coast on disused roads and dirt tracks. When I was hungry or thirsty, I stopped at ranches and farms and begged the owners for water from their wells and tried to buy tortillas, eggs, goat cheese, and fruit. Every place gave me nourishment; men and women plucked grapefruits and tangerines from their family gardens, bagged food from their pantries, and accepted not one peso in return. Why, I asked them. Señor, they explained in the patient tone reserved for those convalescing, you are riding a bicycle, so you are poor. You are in the desert going nowhere, so you are crazy. Taking money from a poor and crazy man brings bad luck. All the extras, they confided, were because I wasn't a gringo. A crew of Mexican ranchers said they liked me because I was a bueno hermano--good brother--a Vietnamito, and my little Vietnam had golpea big America back in seventy-five. But I'm American, Vietnamese American, I shouted at them. They grinned--Si, si, Señor--and grilled me a slab of beef.
Tyle says, "So, where are you from?"
"Bay Area, California."
"No. Where are you from? Originally."
I have always hated this question and resent him for asking. I hidemy distaste because it is un-American. Perhaps I will lie. I often do when someone corners me. Sometimes, my preparedinvention slipsout before I realize, it: I'm Japanese-Korean-Chinese-mixed-race Asian. No,sir, can't speak any language but good old American English.This time, I turn the question: "Where do you think?"
"Korea."
Something about him makes me dance around the truth. I chuckle,painfully aware that "I'm an American" carries little weight with
him. It no doubt resonates truer in his voice.The blond giant holds me with his green eyes, making me feel small, crooked. So, I reply, "We nips all look alike."
But it isn't enough. He looks the question at me again, and, by a darkness on his face, I know I owe him.
"I'm from Vietnam."
A flinch in the corner of his eye. He grunts, a sound deep from his diaphragm. Verdict passed. He turns his back to me and heaves into the cactus forest.
I stand, a trespasser in his camp, hearing echoes--Chink, gook, Jap, Charlie, GO HOME, SLANT-EYES!--words that, I believe, must have razored my sister Chi down dark alleys, hounded her in the cold after she had fled home, a sixteen-year-old runaway, an illegal alien without her green card. What vicious clicking sounds did they make in her Vietnamese ears, wholly new to English? And, within their boundaries, which America did she find? A man once revealed something which disturbed me too much to be discounted. He said, "Your sister died because she became too American."
Later in the night, from the thick of the brush, Tyle ghosts into the orange light of my campfire. He nods at me and folds himself cross-legged before the popping flames, uncorks a fresh tequila bottle, takes a swig, and hands it to me. We sit on the ground far apart enough that with outstretched arms we still have to lean to relay the bottle. I grip the warm sand between my toes and loll the tart tequila on my tongue. A bottom-heavy moon teeters on the treetops. Stars balm the night. We seem content in our unspoken truce. When the bottle is half empty, Tyle begins to talk. At first, he talks about the soothing solitude of the Mexican desert. Life is simple here, food cheap, liquor plentiful. He earns most of his money from selling his handicrafts--bracelets, woven bands, beads, leather trinkets--to tourists. When times are tough, there are always a few Mexicans who will hire him for English lessons or translations. And the border isn't too far if he needs to work up a large chunk of cash. Between the mundane details, his real life comes out obliquely. Tyle has a wife and two boys. He has been away from them nine years. I am the first Vietnamese he has seen since he fled to Mexico seven years ago. When four fingers of tequila slosh at the bottom of the bottle, he asks me, "Have you been back to Vietnam?"
"No. But someday I'll go back ... to visit."
Many Vietnamese Americans "have been back." For some of us, by returning as tourists we prove to ourselves that we are no longer Vietnamese but Vietnamese Americans. We return, with our hearts in our throats, to taunt the Communist regime, to show through our material success that we, the once pitiful exiles, are now the victors. No longer the poverty-stricken refugees clinging to fishing boats, spilling out of cargo planes onto American soil, a mess of open-mouthed terror, wide-eyed awe, hungry and howling for salvation. Time has veiled the days when America fished us out of the ocean like drowning cockroaches and fed us and clothed us--we, the onus of their tragedy. We return and in our personal silence, we gloat at our conquerors, who now seem like obnoxious monkeys cheating over baubles, our baggage, which mean little to us. Mostly, we return because we are lost.
Tyle says, "I was in Nam."
I have guessed as much. Not knowing what to say, I nod. Vets--acquaintances and strangers--have said variations of this to me since I was a kid and didn't know what or where Nam was. The contraction was lost on a boy struggling to learn English. But the note, the way these men said it, told me it was important,someplace I ought to know. With the years, this statement took on new meanings, each flavored by the tone of the speaker. There was bitterness, and there was bewilderment. There was loss and rage and every shade of emotion in between. I heard declarations, accusations,
boasts, demands, obligations, challenges, and curses in the four words: I was in Nam. No matter how they said it, an ache welled up in me until an urge to make some sort of reparation slicked my palms with sweat. Some gesture of conciliation. Remorse. A word of apology. He must have seen me wince for he says it again, more gently. At that, I do something I've never done before. I bow to him like a respected colleague. It is a bow of acknowledgment, a bow of humility, the only way I can tell him I know of his loss, his sufferings. Looking into the fire, he says softly, "Forgive me. Forgive me for what I have done to your people."
The night buckles around me. "What, Tyle?"
"I'm sorry, man. I'm really sorry," he whispers. The blond giant begins to cry, a tired, sobless weeping, tears falling away untouched. My mouth forms the words, but I cannot utter them.
No. No, Tyle. How can I forgive you? What have you done to my people? But who are my people? I don't know them. Are you mypeople? How can you be my people? All my life, I've looked at you sideways, wondering if you were wondering if my brothers had killed your brothers in the war that made no sense except for the one act of sowing of me here--my gain--in your bed, this strange rich-poor, generous-cruel land. I move through your world, a careful visitor, respectful and mindful, hoping for but not believing in the day when I become native.. I am the rootless one, yet still the beneficiary of all of your and all of their sufferings. Then why, of us two, am I the savior, and you the sinner?
"Please forgive me.
I deny him with my silence. His Viking face mashes up, twisting like a child's just before the first bawl. It doesn't come. Instead words cascade out, disjointed sentences, sputtering incoherence that at the initial rush sound like a drunk's ravings. Nameless faces. Places. Killings. He bleeds it out, airs it into the flames, pours it on me. And all I can do is gasp Oh, God at him over and over, knowing I will carry his secrets all my days. He asks my pardon yet again, his open hand outstretched to me. This time the quiet turns and I give him the absolution that is not mine to give. And, in my fraudulence, I know I have embarked on something greater than myself. "When you go to Vietnam,"' he says, stating it as a fact, "tell them about me. Tell them about my life, the way I'm living. Tell them about the family I've lost. Tell them I'm sorry." I give Tyle the most honored gift, the singular gift we Vietnamese give best, the gift into which one can cast all one's sorrow like trash into an abyss, only sometimes the abyss lies inside the giver. I give him silence.
注：这本书版权归出版社所有，如果你喜欢此书，请在外文书店或上网购买。
NOTE：This book is Copyright © 1999 Andrew X. Pham. If you like this book, please buy it or its copy in the bookstore or online.
评论（英文）亚马孙图书：A great memoirist can burnish even an ordinary childhood into something bright--see, for instance, Annie Dillard's An American Childhood. So what about a really good writer with access to a dramatic and little-documented story? This is the case with Catfish and Mandala, Vietnamese American Andrew X. Pham's captivating first book, which delves fearlessly into questions of home, family, and identity. The son of Vietnamese parents who suffered terribly during the Vietnam War and brought their family to America when he was 10, Pham, on the cusp of his 30s, defied his parents' conservative hopes for him and his engineering career by becoming a poorly paid freelance writer. After the suicide of his sister, he set off on an even riskier path to travel some of the world on his bicycle. In the grueling, enlightening year that followed, he pedaled through Mexico, the American West Coast, Japan, and finally his far-off first land, Vietnam.
The story, with some of a mandala's repeated symbolic motifs, works on several levels at once. It is an exploration into the meaning of home, a descriptive travelogue, and an intimate look at the Vietnamese immigrant experience. There are beautifully illuminated flashbacks to the experience of fleeing Vietnam and to an earlier, more innocent childhood. While Pham's stern father, a survivor of Vietcong death camps, regrets that Pham has not been a respectful Vietnamese son, he also reveals that he wishes he himself had been more "American" for his kids, that he had "taken [them] camping." Catfish and Mandala is a book of double-edged truths, and it would make a fascinating study even in less able hands. In those of the adventurous, unsentimental Pham, it is an irresistible story. --Maria Dolan
多种族网站：（The Multiracial Activist - www.multiracial.com）：Catfish and Mandala is the poignant, lyrical tale of an American odyssey--a solo bicycle voyage around the Pacific Rim to Vietnam--made by a young Vietnamese-American man in pursuit of both his adopted homeland and his forsaken fatherland. Intertwined with an often humorous travelogue spanning a year of discovery is a memoir of war, escape, and, ultimately, family secrets. Viewed through Viet-kieu (foreign Vietnamese) eyes and told in an accomplished voice, Catfish and Mandala uncovers a new Vietnam, its scarred landscape dotted with indefinable, tenacious people grappling with their unique brand of Third World capitalism. Their stories are at once ephemeral and lasting, their faces fleeting, intense, memorable. There is Pham's stepgrandfather Le, the fish-sauce baron of Phan Thiet, who claims his ancestors invented the condiment; his father, a POW of the Vietcong, who finally leads his family on a perilous boat journey to the land of their freedom; and his beloved sister, Chi, a post-operative transsexual who commits suicide.