In economic terms as well as geographic， Londons black and beating heart has always been the River Thames， viscous with centuries of filth and secrets. Eventually， the Victorians laced the city with underground drains to spare Londoners the sight and stench of their own effluent， which had until then poured freely into the river； yet in my childhood it was， nonetheless， still famously dirty.

The river slices the city in half， dividing us， suspicious and unforgiving rivals， into South London and North， or “saaf” and “norf”in the local diction. To go to the other side is to venture into unfamiliar and potentially hostile territory. The river is cleaner these days， but an ancient collective memory of its poison remains. Perhaps this is what makes us so reluctant， now， to cross it. We breathe sighs of relief， lungs cleared by the fierce wind off the water， as we cross back over the bridges and return to our rightful places. And so in truth， for 21st-century Londoners， the Thames is no longer a center but a boundary. If were crossing the river， we think， it better be bloody worth it.

For me， a lifelong northwest London girl， the Thames is merely my southern border， and the heart of my city is Hampstead Heath： 790 acres of dense woodlands and open meadow， and the odd corner of manicured and rolling lawn， all presided over by the twin peaks of Parliament and Primrose hills. The view east from these heights sweeps all the way across the city to St Pauls Cathedral， to the slowturning Ferris wheel of the London Eye， and now to the angular monstrosity of the Shard. When I was little， someone once told me that Parliament Hill would remain above the water as an island even if all the polar ice caps melted， and this immediately made it the center of my imagined world. The Heath is a place for solitude or for communion. It is a place for picnicking， for stargazing， for mushrooming， for watching birds and for collecting whichever blackberries hang high enough to have evaded the casual urination of passing canines. The Heath is where north Londoners walk the dog or the baby and where， in darker corners on certain nights， men look to one another for fleeting love， or something like it.

I knew the Heath before I ever breathed—my mother walked here every day when she was pregnant with me. When I was a child， my father ran here at five every morning， a coal miners lamp strapped to his forehead， a source of light in the dull London mornings. It was to Hampstead Heath that I was frogmarched， frozen and complaining， to do cross-country running for school， until one of the girls saw a flasher on our circuit and after that we stayed on school grounds.

George Orwell puttered on the Heath when he worked in a nearby bookshop； Katherine Mansfield moved to Hampstead， hoping the healthy air would cure her tuberculosis. Keats， drawn by the same vain hope， heard his nightingale here. Shelley sailed paper boats on one of the ponds. John Constable painted the skies from almost every angle； the whole Dickens clan relocated to the edge of the Heath one summer， when cash was tight. John le Carré and his characters frequent the Hampstead Bathing Ponds. There are too many artists to name.

Several years ago the Italian sculptor Giancarlo Neri erected a huge sculpture called The Writer in the middle of one of the Heaths meadows； it was a simple chair and table made of wood and steel looming 30 feet high as a monument “to the loneliness of writing.” I know of no better place in any city for a writer to claim that blissful solitude—to walk， to breathe， to contemplate. But that giant， looming desk， evoking the ghosts of a hundred Hampstead writers， was more than a little intimidating. It was a hugely affecting sculpture， and I was relieved when they took it down.

Not everyone shares my passion. In Samuel Richardsons 18th-century novel Clarissa， the character Robert Lovelace is dismissive： “Now， I own that Hampstead Heath affords very pretty and very extensive prospects； but it is not the wide world neither.” Well， true， and it is good， sometimes， to be reminded of it， even by a scoundrel like Lovelace. From the top of Parliament Hill， that wide world opens up below you. Mistshrouded even in summer， here lies the whole of London—its churches and skyscrapers； its slums and palaces； its stucco and concrete and glass. From here， the glittering curves of the river are hidden； north and south are unified by height and distance. Of course there is a bigger London， a wider world. But here is the highest point， for me.

無論是在經(jīng)濟(jì)術(shù)語還是地理術(shù)語中，倫敦那顆黝黑而躍動的心臟永遠(yuǎn)都是泰晤士河，這條長河因沉淀著數(shù)百年來的污穢和秘密而變得粘滯不堪。最終，在維多利亞時代，倫敦裝上了地下排水管以免倫敦人看到那幅自造的污水橫流、臭氣熏天的景象，此前，污水被隨意排入河道；盡管如此，在我的童年時期，泰晤士河依然因其臟污而臭名昭著。

泰晤士河將倫敦城一分為二，我們給分裂成互相猜忌且毫不寬容的對手，分成了“南倫敦”和“北倫敦”，或者用本地話來說就是“南城”和“北城”。要想去到城市的另一邊，那就是要冒險進(jìn)入不熟悉，甚至有可能是懷有敵意的領(lǐng)地。如今這條河流已經(jīng)干凈許多，但曾經(jīng)的那段關(guān)于其危害的集體記憶依然留存。也許現(xiàn)在，正是這段記憶使得我們?nèi)绱瞬磺樵缚邕^這條河。當(dāng)我們橫過橋梁歸來，回到正確的地方，我們發(fā)出寬慰的輕嘆，肺部經(jīng)受了水面強(qiáng)風(fēng)的洗滌。因此說句實(shí)話，對于生活在21世紀(jì)的倫敦人來說，泰晤士河再也不是城市的中心，而是邊界。如果我們要跨過河去，我們認(rèn)為，最好是要相當(dāng)?shù)牟惶摯诵小?/p>

對于我這個一輩子在倫敦西北部生活的女子來說，泰晤士河幾乎就是我的南部邊界，而我的城市心臟是漢普斯特德希斯公園：790英畝的濃密林地和開闊草場，布滿修剪整齊且波浪起伏的草地的那個偏僻角落，全都在國會山和普林姆羅斯山這兩座雙子峰的掌控之下。從這些高點(diǎn)向東看去，能夠橫掃整個城市直到圣保羅大教堂、緩緩旋轉(zhuǎn)的摩天輪“倫敦眼”，以及如今棱角分明龐然礙眼的“碎片大廈”。小時候，曾有人告訴我，即便所有的極地冰川都消融了，國會山依然會像一座島嶼那樣浮在水面上，而這一說法立刻令我將其想像為世界的中心。希斯公園是一個既能獨(dú)處又能交流的地方。在這個地方能夠野餐、觀星、采蘑菇、觀鳥和采集任何懸掛于高處足以避過犬只隨意大小便的黑莓。希斯公園是北倫敦人遛狗或遛寶寶之地，而在某些晚上的黑暗角落，人們彼此相望尋找一夜放縱，或諸如此類的東西。

我甚至在能夠呼吸之前就知道希斯公園——我母親懷著我的時候就每天都到這里來散步。我年幼之時，父親每天早上五點(diǎn)到這里跑步，額頭上綁著一盞礦工燈，這是倫敦陰暗清晨的光源之一。我就曾被強(qiáng)押著來到漢普斯特德希斯公園，凍得半死還怨聲連連地為學(xué)校準(zhǔn)備越野賽跑，直到某個女孩在我們跑步的線路上見到一個暴露狂，此后我們就留在學(xué)校的跑道上鍛煉了。

當(dāng)年喬治·奧威爾在近旁的一間書店里工作，在希斯公園里就混過不少時間；凱瑟琳·曼斯菲爾德搬到了漢普斯特德，希望這里有益健康的空氣能夠治愈她的肺癆。濟(jì)慈也曾被這徒勞的希望所牽引著，在這里傾聽他的夜鶯歌唱。雪萊在其中一個池塘里放過紙船。約翰·康斯特勃幾乎從每一個角度描繪過天空；某個夏天，當(dāng)手頭緊時，整個狄更斯家族都搬到了希斯公園邊上居住。約翰·勒卡雷和他的人物角色經(jīng)常出沒于漢普斯特德的浴池。這里有過太多的藝術(shù)家，無法一一盡述。

幾年前，意大利雕塑家吉安卡洛·內(nèi)里在希斯公園的一座草坪中央樹立起了一座巨大的名為《作家》的雕塑；它不過是一套簡單的桌椅，由木材和鋼材制成，30英尺高，隱現(xiàn)其中，作為一個紀(jì)念碑“獻(xiàn)給寫作的孤獨(dú)”。我想不出還有哪個城市的某個地方能更好地給作家來宣稱孤獨(dú)的快樂——行走、呼吸、沉思。但那張喚起了漢普斯特德數(shù)以百計(jì)的作家靈魂的龐大而若隱若現(xiàn)的桌子，卻是相當(dāng)?shù)牧钊宋窇?。它是一座影響力巨大的雕塑，而?dāng)他們將其拆除時，我感到松了一口氣。

也不是每個人都能分享我的熱忱。山繆爾·理查森寫于18世紀(jì)的小說《克拉麗莎》中，主人公羅伯特·拉夫雷斯便對此不屑一顧：“現(xiàn)在，我承認(rèn)那個漢普斯特德希斯算得上是非常漂亮，景象也非常遼遠(yuǎn)，但大千世界中這算不上什么?！编?，確實(shí)，而且有時候能被人這樣提醒一下也不錯，即使是被拉夫雷斯這樣一個惡棍提醒。從國會山的山頂上看過去，廣袤的世界展現(xiàn)在你的腳下。即使在夏季也是霧氣繚繞，這里坐落著整個倫敦——它的教堂和摩天大樓；它的貧民區(qū)和宮殿；它的灰泥、水泥和玻璃。從這里看去，泰晤士河彎彎曲曲的粼粼水波都被遮擋殆盡；北方和南方由高度和距離連接在了一起。當(dāng)然了，還有地方能夠看到更大的倫敦，更遼闊的世界。但這里就是最高點(diǎn)，于我而言。