Chapter 5 C

This is how it will be in the "sunset place" a few years later.I am full of humanity, full of experience of one kind or another.During my waking hours, I take notes, intending to use them later when I have the opportunity to record my experiences while I wait for a moment to catch my breath.Then it happened that one day, as I was being reprimanded for some sort of random oversight, the VP dropped a line that stuck with me.He said he'd like to meet someone to write a Horatio Alger-like book on messengers, and he suggested that maybe I could do the job.What an idiot he was, I thought indignantly, and was delighted at the same time, because I secretly longed to write as fast as I wanted to say.I thought to myself—you poor fool, just wait!I walked out of his office in a state of confusion.I saw the procession of people passing by me, men, women and children, saw them weeping, pleading, begging, begging, cursing, spitting, cursing, threatening.I see their footprints on the road, freight trains lying still, parents in rags, empty coal boxes, sewers overflowing with sewage, walls dripping with water, and in the cold water Cockroaches flying like crazy.I saw them staggering about like huddled dwarves, or falling on their backs, having seizures, mouths contorted, spittle spitting, and dancing hands and feet.I see walls crumbling, vermin pouring out like winged liquid, while those above, clinging to their iron logic, wait for the wind to pass, wait for everything to be made up, wait, contented , waiting comfortably, with a big cigar in his mouth, his legs crossed on the table, saying that something went wrong temporarily.I saw Horatio Alger's hero, a sick American dream, climbing higher and higher, first the messenger, then the broker, then the manager, then the director, then the steward, then the The vice president, then the president, then the trust tycoon, then the beer king, then the North and South American tycoon, the God of Wealth, the god of gods, the dirt of the dirt, the vanity of heaven, there are ninety-seven thousand people in front and back decimal zero.Damn it, I said to myself, I want to give you a picture of twelve small people, give you zero without decimals, and give you twelve worms that can't be trampled to death, and they are eating away at you. The foundations of a decaying mansion I'll show you what Horatio Alger looks like the day after the end of the world, when all the stench has been cleared away.

They come to me from all over the world for help.With the exception of primitives, there is hardly a single race that is not represented in my camp of the labor force.Except for the Ainu, Maori, Papuans, Vidas, Lapps, Zulus, Patagonians, Igorots, Hottentots, Tuvalegs, and Extinct Tasmanians, Grimaldi, Atlanteans, I have representatives of almost every race in the world.There were two brothers, still sun-worshippers, and two Nestorians, from the old Assyrian world; there were a pair of Maltese twins from Malta, and a descendant of the Mayans from Yucatan; Little black bros from the Philippines and some Ethiopians from Abyssinia; guys from the Argentinian steppes, street cowboys from Montana; Greeks, Latvians, Poles, Croats, Slovenia Ruthenians, Czechs, Spaniards, Welsh, Finns, Swedes, Russians, Danes, Mexicans, Puerto Ricans, Cubans, Uruguayans, Brazilians, Australians, Persians, Little Japanese, Chinese, Javanese, Egyptians, Africans of Gold Coast and Ivory Coast, Indians, Armenians, Turks, Arabs, Germans, Irish, British, Canadians - and a lot of Italians people and large numbers of Jews.I've only had one French guy that I can think of, and he only lasted about three hours.I've had some American Indians, mainly Cherokees, but no Tibetans, no Eskimos; I've seen names I absolutely can't imagine, I've seen writing in cuneiform, down to the Chinese kind. Sophisticated and surprisingly beautiful calligraphy.I have been approached by people who have been Egyptologists, botanists, surgeons, gold miners, professors of oriental languages, musicians, engineers, physicians, astronomers, cultural anthropologists, chemists, Mathematician, mayor, governor, prison warden, cowboy, lumberjack, sailor, oyster poacher, porter, riveter, dentist, surgeon, painter, sculptor, plumber, architect, drug dealer, man Abortionists, white slaves, divers, chimney builders, ranchers, clothing salesmen, trappers, lighthouse keepers, pimps, city senators, senators, you name it, they're all down and out, Come and beg for a job, earn some cigarette money, car money, fight for a chance, almighty Christ, just a chance!

I have seen and known saints, if there are saints in this world; I have seen and spoken to scholars who have indulged and not indulged; You can convince Almighty God to give them another chance, but you can't convince the vice president of the Universal Elf Telegram Company.I'm nailed to my desk, and I travel the world at lightning speed, and I know it's as black as a crow - hunger, humiliation, ignorance, evil, greed, blackmail, fraud, torture, tyranny, man to man The inhumanity of man: chains, harnesses, bridles, bridles, whips, spurs.The sharper the senses, the more unlucky one is.People walking down the streets of New York in those nasty cheap clothes, contemptible, second-rate clothes, like puffins, like penguins, like cows, like domesticated seals, like stamina mules, like big jackass, like stupid Gorillas, like docile lunatics on dangling baits, like waltzing mice, like guinea pigs, like squirrels, like rabbits roaming the streets, many are fit for world domination and for writing the world's greatest book .When I think of some of the Persians, Indians, Arabs I have known, when I think of the character they displayed, their grace, their tenderness, their wisdom, their holiness, I turn to the white conquerors of the world Spit: those depraved Brits, decent smug Frenchies.Earth is a marvelous sentient being, a planet full of people from head to toe, a living planet faltering and stammering about itself; It is not a home for human beings, yellow people or extinct blue people, but a home for people. All people are equal before God and will have their own opportunities. If there is no one now, then there will be one million years later.The little black brothers in the Philippines will prosper again one day.The slain Indians of North and South America will one day come alive and gallop over the plains where cities now stand, belching fire, and spreading plague.Who decides?people!The earth belongs to man, because man is the earth. The fire, water, air, minerals, matter, and spirit of the earth are universal and indestructible, and they are also the spirit of all planets. Endless signs and symbols, through infinite forms of expression.Wait a minute, you cosmic telegram shit, you heavenly sprites waiting for someone to fix the toilet bowl; wait a minute, you filthy white conquerors, you filth with claws, with tools, with weapons, with germs Earth, only one person has the final say.Justice must be exercised to the last sentient cell - must be exercised!No one is getting away with anything, especially the North American universe shit.

When it came time for me to take a sabbatical—which I hadn’t had in three years and was desperate to make the company successful—I took three weeks instead of two, and I wrote my book about twelve little men.I write in one breath, five thousand words, seven thousand words, sometimes eight thousand words every day.In my opinion, one must write at least five thousand words a day in order to be a writer.I figured he'd have to say it all at once—in a book—and fall.I don't know anything about writing.I'm scared to shit, but I'm determined to get Horatio Alger out of the North American consciousness.I'd guess it's the worst book anyone has ever written.It's a big volume, flawed from start to finish.But this is my first book, and I fell in love with it.If I were as rich as Gide, I would publish it at my own expense.If I had the guts of a Whitman, I'd go door to door selling it.Everyone who saw it said it was horrible.I was urged to give up the idea of ​​writing.I had to realize, like Balzac, that a man has to write several volumes before signing his own name.I had to realize, and I did soon realize, that a man must give up everything and do nothing but write, that he must write, write, even if everyone in the world tells him not to write, even if no one Trust him, he has to write too.Perhaps one writes precisely because no one believes; perhaps the real secret lies in making people believe.It's only natural that people say a book is inappropriate, flawed, bad, horrible.

I tried to do at the beginning what a genius would only do at the end.I want to start with one last sentence.This is absurd and pathetic.It was a crushing defeat, but it made me strong.I at least understand what it's like to fail, what it's like to try to do something big.Today, when I think of the circumstances in which I wrote this book, when I think of the vast amount of material I managed to give form, when I think of all that I then wished to contain, I give myself a double-A.I'm proud of the fact that I fail badly enough, but when I succeed, I'm going to be something huge.Sometimes I flip through my notebooks and look alone at the names of the people I want to write about, and I get dizzy.Everyone comes to me with a world of his own; when he comes he unloads it on my writing table, and he expects me to pick it up and carry it on my shoulders.I don't have time to build a world of my own: I have to be like Atlas (Atlas: one of the Titans in Greek mythology, which later petrified and turned into a mountain. At the end of the world with the stars in the sky .—Translator) stood there motionless, with his feet on the back of the elephant, and the elephant in turn on the back of the tortoise.Be crazy to find out what the turtle is standing on.

I didn't dare to think about anything other than "facts".To get to the bottom of the truth, I had to be an artist, and one doesn't become an artist overnight.First you have to be overwhelmed, allowing your conflicting views to be eliminated.In order to regenerate as an individual, you must be destroyed as a human being.You have to carbonize, mineralize, start with the lowest general features of the self.You must go beyond pity in order to feel at the root of your being.It is impossible for one person to create a new world with "facts".There are no "facts" - just this fact: People, everyone, everywhere in the world, are moving toward classification.Some have gone a long way, some have taken shortcuts.Each man makes his destiny in his own way, and no one can help him but kindness, generosity, patience.

In my passion there are things that are now clear that I could not explain at the time.For example, I'm reminded of Carnahan, one of the twelve little characters I'm going to write about.He was a so-called model messenger, a graduate of a prestigious university, with a sound mind and a model character.He worked eighteen to twenty hours a day and earned more than any messenger man.The clients he served wrote letters adoring him; he was offered good positions, and he turned them down for one reason or another.He lived frugally, sending most of his salary to his wife and children who lived in another city.He has two hairs - Greed and Desire to Make Money.He could go a year without drinking, but as soon as he had one drop, it was over.Twice he made his fortune in Wall Street, but at most he was a sexton in some small town before he came to me looking for work.He was fired from the job for suddenly drinking his communion wine and ringing the bell all night.He is honest, sincere and serious.I absolutely trust him, and my trust in him is borne out by his flawless work file.

Instead, he shot his wife and children in cold blood, and then shot himself.Thankfully none of them died; they were all lying together in the hospital and recovered.After they transferred him to prison, I went to see his wife in order to ask her to help him. She flatly refused.She said he was the son of the meanest, cruelest bitch that ever walked on two legs—and she was going to see him hanged.I begged her for two days, but she was rock solid.I went to the prison and talked to him through the barbed wire.I found that he had won the favor of the prison authorities and had been allowed to enjoy some privileges.He wasn't depressed at all.Instead, he counted on making the most of his time in prison to do a "careful study" of salesmanship.He intends to become America's Top Salesman upon release.

I'd almost say he seemed happy.He said don't worry about him, he'll be fine.He said everyone had been so nice to him and he had nothing to complain about.I left him a little dazed.I went to a nearby beach and decided to go for a swim.I see everything with new eyes.I almost forgot to go home, so absorbed in my thoughts about this guy.Who can say that he is not a blessing in disguise, how can he know that it is not a blessing?Maybe he'll come out of prison more of an evangelist than a salesman.No one can predict what he will do.No one can help him, because he is setting his own destiny in his own hidden way.

There was another guy, an Indian named Guptar.He wasn't just a model of manners—he was a saint.He was very fond of the flute, and always played it alone in his poor little room.One day he was found naked, with his neck cut up to the ears, on the bed with his flute beside him.At the funeral, more than a dozen women shed emotional tears, including the wife of the doorman who had killed him.I could write a book about this lad, he was the nicest, holiest man I ever met, he never offended anybody, never took anything from anybody, but he made a basic My mistake was to come to America to spread peace and love.

And there's Dave Orlinski, another loyal and hard-working messenger who thinks only of work.He has a fatal weakness - he talks too much.When he came to me, he had already circled the earth several times, and there was nothing he would not do to make a living.He knows a dozen languages ​​and is very proud of his language skills.He was one of those whose benevolence and zeal are their bane.He wants to help everyone and tell everyone how to be successful.He can't get enough of the work we give him - he's a workaholic.Perhaps, when I sent him to the East Side office, I should have warned him that he was going to be working in a tricky area, but he pretended to know everything and insisted on working in that area (due to his language skills), I can't say anything more.I thought to myself—you will soon be overwhelmed.No doubt he ran into trouble shortly after working there.A rude Jewish guy walked in from the neighborhood one day and asked him for a blank form.Dave, the messenger, was sitting behind a desk.He didn't like the way the lad asked for blank forms and told him to be more polite.For this he got a big mouth. He babbled a few more words, and then suffered a heavy blow. He swallowed the knocked-out teeth and broke the gums in three places, but he still didn't know how to close his mouth. This damned fool went to the police station to complain.A week later, while he was dozing off on a bench, a gang of rascals came in and beat him to pieces. His head was broken and his head looked like an omelet.Not only that, but they also ransacked the safe and turned it upside down.Dave died on the way to the hospital.They found the five hundred dollars he had stashed away in his socks...then Clausen and his wife, Lena.They came together when he applied for the job. Lena was holding a small child in her arms, and he was leading two.Some relief agency sent them to me.I made him a night messenger so he could have a regular salary.A few days later, I got a letter from him, and something was wrong, in which he asked me to forgive him for going AWOL because he was due to report to his parole supervisor.Then came another letter saying his wife refused to sleep with him because she didn't want any more children.He invited me to see them and tried to convince her to sleep with him.I went to his house—a basement in an Italian neighborhood that looked like a madhouse.Lena was pregnant again, about seven months in, and she was going crazy.She liked sleeping on the roof because it was too hot in the basement and because she didn't want him to touch her again.I said it doesn't matter if I touch it or not now, but she just looked at me and grinned.Clausen had been in the war, perhaps the gas had made him a little unhinged—he was foaming at the mouth anyway.He said he would smash her head if she didn't stay far from that roof.He suggested that she slept there to flirt with the coalman who lived on the top floor.Hearing this, Lena grinned again with her froglike mouth.Clausen got angry and kicked her in the ass.She ran out in a huff, taking the little ones with her.He told her never to come back, and then he opened the drawer and took a Colt.He said he kept the gun just in case. He also showed me some knives and a lead-tipped club he had made himself, and then he began to cry.He said his wife took him for a fool.He said he was sick of working for her because she slept with everyone in the neighborhood and the kids weren't his because he couldn't have kids if he wanted them.The next day Lena was out shopping and he took the kids up on the roof and beat their brains out with the stick he showed me.Then he jumped headfirst off the roof.Lena came back, saw what happened, and went crazy.They had to put her in a straitjacket, and an ambulance was called...and that bastard Schuldig, who had spent twenty years in prison for a crime he never committed.He was almost beaten to death, so he pleaded guilty; then there was solitary confinement, starvation, torture, perversion, drugs.When they finally released him, he was no longer a human.One night he described to me his last thirty days in prison, the agonizing wait before his release.I have never heard of such a thing; I don't think it is possible for human beings to survive such pain.Although free, he is haunted by the fear that he will have to commit a crime and be sent back to prison.He complained that he was followed, stalked, followed over and over again. He said "they" were tempting him to do something he didn't want to do. "They" were spies who followed him and were bribed to send him back to prison.They whispered softly in his ears at night when he was asleep.He was powerless against them, for they had hypnotized him first.Sometimes they put drugs under his pillow, along with a revolver or knife.They wanted him to kill someone innocent so they could have solid evidence to prosecute him.He's getting worse and worse.One night, after running around for hours with a handful of telegrams in his pocket, he came up to a policeman and begged him to be locked up.He couldn't remember his name, address, or which business office he worked for.He completely forgot his identity.He said over and over - "I'm innocent... I'm innocent." They tortured him again.Suddenly he jumped up, shouted like a madman—"I confess .He spoke continuously for three hours.Suddenly, in the middle of an excruciating confession, he stopped, looked around quickly, like a man suddenly waking up, and then, with the ferocity only a madman can have, he dashed across the room, Banging my head against a stone wall... I narrate these things briefly and hastily as they pass through my mind; my memory is filled with thousands of such details, with countless faces, Countless gestures, countless stories, countless confessions, all intertwined and superimposed, like a Hindu temple built not of stones but of human flesh, its astonishing appearance spinning.It is a gigantic building in a dream, constructed entirely of reality, yet not reality itself, but only a container in which the mystery of man is contained.My thoughts turned again to the clinic where I sent some young people for treatment in my ignorance and kindness.I can't think of any inspired image to describe the atmosphere of the place, other than a painting by Hieronymus Bosch.The magician depicted in the painting is healing insanity like a dentist pumping his nerves.All our medical practitioners' tricks were apotheosized in the mild-mannered sadist.He runs the clinic to the full validity of the law and to the tacit connivance of the law. He's a lot like Caligari, except he doesn't have that conical hat.He thinks he understands the mysterious regulating mechanism of glands, and thinks he has the power of a medieval monarch, but he forgets the pain he inflicts on others.He was literally ignorant of everything except his medical knowledge.He sets to work with the human body as a plumber sets to work with underground drains.In addition to the poison he throws into the human body, he often resorts to his fists.Everything depends on the "reaction".If the patient was stupefied, he would yell at him, slap him in the face, pinch his arms, handcuff him, and kick him.If, on the contrary, the patient's energy is too high, he uses the same method, but becomes twice as frantic.It did not matter to him how his patients felt; any response he succeeded in obtaining was only a manifestation or illustration of the laws regulating the action of the endocrine glands.The purpose of his treatment is to adapt the patient to society, but no matter how fast he works, no matter how successful he is, society is producing more and more misfits.Some of them were so uncomfortable that when he smacked them hard on the mouth to get the known reaction, they responded by fishing in a haystack or kicking down three ways.Indeed, most of his patients were early offenders, as he described them.Entire continents collapsed—and are still collapsing.Not only glands need conditioning, but ball bearings, armor, bone structure, brain, cerebellum, coccyx, larynx, pancreas, liver, large intestine, small intestine, heart, kidneys, testicles, uterus, fallopian tubes, all the damn parts.The whole country is full of lawlessness, violence, bombs, demons.It permeates the air, the climate, the vast landscape, the recumbent stone forest, the flooded river that erodes the rock canyon, the very long distance, the very arid desert, the overgrown crops, the huge In the fruit, in the mixture of quixotic temperaments, in the chaos of superstitions, sects, and beliefs, in the opposition of laws and languages, in the contradictions of temperaments, principles, needs, and specifications.This continent is full of buried violence, the carcasses of pre-Flood monsters, extinct human races, and mysteries wrapped in doom.The atmosphere is so tense at times that you go out of your body, like crazy.Like rain, everything comes pouring in—or not at all. The whole continent is one gigantic volcano, the crater temporarily covered by a moving picture that is part dream, part fear, part despair.From Alaska to Yucatan is one thing.Nature dominates all, nature conquers all. Everywhere the same basic urge to kill, to ravage, to plunder.From the outside, they seemed to be a good and strong race--healthy, optimistic, brave, but they had failed in it.As long as there is a small spark, they explode. As so often happens in Russia, a man came running furious, and suddenly, as if blown by the monsoon, he came to his senses.Nine times out of ten, he was a good guy, a guy everyone liked.But once fired, nothing can stop him.He was like a limping horse, and the best thing you could do for him was shoot him on the spot.Peace unleashes their energy, their bloodlust.Europe regularly bled its blood through war.The United States is both pacifist and cannibalistic.Outwardly it appears to be a beautiful bee-hive, with all the drones busily crawling over and over each other; internally, it is a slaughterhouse, each man killing his neighbor, And suck his marrow.On the surface, it looks like a brave male world, but in fact it is a brothel run by women, where locals pimp and bloody foreigners sell their bodies.No one knows what adversity is all about, and everyone is content.This is only possible in movies, where everything is fake, even the fires of hell are fake.The whole continent is asleep, and in this sleep a great nightmare is happening. No one sleeps more dead in this nightmare than I do.When the war came, it was just a muffled rumbling in my ears.Like my countrymen, I am pacifist and cannibal.Millions were slaughtered in massacres and vanished like a passing cloud, much like the disappearance of the Aztecs, Incas, red Indians, bison, etc.People pretend to be deeply moved, but they're not.They just tossed and turned in their sleep.Nobody turned their stomachs, nobody got up and sounded the fire alarm.The day I first realized that there had been a war was about six months after the armistice.It was on a crosstown streetcar on Fourteenth Street.One of our heroes, a Texan lad with a row of medals on his chest, happened to see an officer pass by on the sidewalk.He flew into a rage at the sight of the officer.Being a sergeant himself, perhaps he had every reason to feel the sting.Anyway, as soon as he saw the officer, he was furious, jumped up from his seat, and yelled at the government, the army, the people, the passengers in the car, everything, and everything made him swear.He said that if there was another war, even if twenty donkeys were used to pull him, it would be impossible to drag him into the war.He said he didn't give a damn about all the medals they put on him.To make his point, he tore off the medals and threw them out of the car window.He said that if he stayed in a trench with an officer again, he would shoot him in the back like he would shoot a dirty dog.He said that it would be the same even if General Pershing came, any general would be the same.He also said a lot, using some particularly nasty swear words he'd learned on the battlefield.No one in the car opened his mouth to refute him.When he finished, I felt for the first time that there had really been a war, that the man I was listening to had fought in, and that, brave as he was, the war had turned him into a coward. If he kills again, he is fully conscious and completely cold-blooded.No one dares to send him to the electric chair because he has exercised his duty to his fellow beings, that is, to deny his own divine instincts, so everything is just and fair, because a crime is washed away in the name of God, the state, and humanity. Another crime, may everyone feel at ease.My second taste of the realities of war came one day when ex-sergeant Griswold, one of our night couriers, flew into a fit of rage and smashed up a business office near a railway station.They sent him to me to fire him, but I couldn't bear to do that.He wrecked beautifully, and I wanted to hug him more; I just wish, oh my god, he'd make it to the twenty-fifth floor, or whatever, where the president and vice president's offices are, put that damn But in the name of discipline, and to keep the bloody farce going, I'll have to do something to punish him, or I'll be punished for it.Therefore, I didn't know how to make big things smaller, so I canceled his commission income and let him still rely on salary income.He quite misunderstood me, and was not quite sure what my position was, whether for him or against him, and I soon received a letter from him saying that he was going to visit me in a day or two, Let me better watch out, for he intends to make me suffer.He said he came after work, and if I got scared, I'd better have some big guys around me to take care of me.I knew what he meant, and when I put the letter down, I felt a little fucking shudder.Still, I waited for him alone, feeling more timid to ask for protection.It's a strange experience.The moment he fixed his eyes on me, he must have also understood that if I was a son of a bitch, a deceitful stinking hypocrite, as he called me in the letter, it was only because he was what he was. , because he is not going anywhere.He must have realized right away that we were all in this together, and that the damn ship was leaking a lot.As he strode up, I could see that he was having thoughts of this sort.On the surface, he was still angry and foaming at the corners of his mouth, but in his heart.Everything is dry, everything is limp and light.As for myself, any fear I had was gone the moment I saw him enter. Just being there peacefully by myself, not strong enough to defend myself, but enough to give me the edge over him.Not that I was trying to outwit him, but that's how it turned out, and of course I took advantage of that.As soon as he sat down, he became as soft as putty.He is no longer a man, but just a big kid.There must be millions of them like him, some big kid with a machine gun who could wipe out a whole bunch of people without batting an eye; but back in the working trenches, no weapons, Without a clear, tangible enemy, they are as useless as ants.Everything revolves around the question of eating.Food and rent -- that's all there is to fight for -- and yet there's no way, no clear, tangible way, to fight for it.It's like seeing a well-armed army, capable of defeating everything it sees, and being ordered every day to retreat, retreat, retreat, because that's the strategic mission to execute, even though it means losing ground, losing weapons , for loss of ammunition, for loss of food, for loss of sleep, for loss of courage, and ultimately for loss of life itself.Wherever people are fighting for food and rent, there are such retreats going on, in the fog, at night, for no worldly reason but merely strategic.He is exhausted.Fighting is easy, but fighting for food and rent is like fighting an army of ghosts.All you can do is retreat, and retreat while watching your own brethren being killed quietly and mysteriously, one by one, in the mist, in the darkness, and there is nothing you can do.He was in a panic, at a loss, and was so desperate that he hugged his head and cried on my table.While he was crying like this, the phone rang suddenly, and it was from the vice president's office--never the vice-president himself, always his office--and they told this man, Griswold, to come right away. Expelled, I said: Yes, sir!Just hung up the phone.I didn't say anything to Griswold, just sent him home and had dinner with him and his wife and kids.当我离开他的时候，我对自己说，如果我不得不开除这家伙的话，有人得为此付出代价——不管怎么说，我首先要知道，命令是从哪里来的，为什么。早晨我激动地、怒冲冲地直奔副总裁办公室，我要求见副总裁本人，是你发布的命令吗，我问——为什么？还没等他有机会否认，或解释他的理由，我就把一些战争用品挂到他肩上，他不喜欢它们挂在那儿，不让挂——如果你不喜欢，威尔·退尔第利格先生，你就拿走工作，我的工作和他的工作，你可以把它们塞进你的屁眼——我就那样从他办公室走出去。我回到屠场，像往常一样做我的工作。当然，我料想我在这一天内会被炒鱿鱼，但是没有这样的事情。不，我很惊奇地接到总经理一个电话，让我放宽心，冷静一点儿，是的，只当没这回事，不要做任何匆忙的事情，我们会调查这件事的，等等。我猜想他们是仍在调查这件事，因为格里斯沃尔德仍像往常一样继续工作着——事实上，他们甚至把他提升去做营业员，这又是一桩肮脏的买卖，因为他当营业员要比当送信人钱挣得少，不过，他算保全了面子，但无疑也更多地丧失了一点儿生气。当一个家伙只是睡梦中的英雄时，这样的事情就会发生在他身上。除非恶梦可怕到足以把你惊醒，不然你就继续退却。要么以你当法官告终，要么以你当副总裁告终。完全都是一回事，从头到尾都是一堆乱七八糟的操蛋玩艺儿，一场滑稽戏，一场大失败。我知道我是在睡梦中，因为我已经醒来。当我醒来时，我就离开。我从我进来的那扇门走出去——甚至没有说：请原谅，先生！ 事情都是瞬间发生的，但是首先有一个漫长的过程要经历。 当事情发生的时候，你见到的只是爆炸，而一秒钟前你见到的是火花，然而一切都是按照法则发生的——有着整个宇宙的充分肯定与合作。在我能够爬上去、发生爆炸以前，这枚炸弹必须适当加以准备，妥当地安好雷管。在为上面的那些杂种把事情安排好以后，我就得被人从高位上拿下来，像足球一样被踢来踢去，被践踏，被压制，被羞辱，被戴上手铐脚镣，被弄得像一个软蛋那样无能。我的一生从来不缺少朋友，但是在这个特定的时期，他们就好像蘑菇一样从我周围冒出来。我一刻也不能一个人独自呆一会儿。如果我晚上回家，想休息，有人就会在那里等着见我。有时侯他们一帮人呆在那里，好像我来不来都没什么区别。我交的朋友，都是这一伙瞧不起那一伙。例如斯坦利，他就瞧不起所有的人。乌尔利克也是瞧不起别人。他在欧洲呆了几年以后刚回来。我们自从童年时代以来就不常见面，然后有一天，完全是碰巧，我们在街上遇到了。那在我一生中是重要的一天，因为它为我打开了一个新世界，一个我经常梦想但从来没有希望见到的世界。我清楚地记得，黄昏时分，我们站在第六大道和四十九街的拐角上。我记得这事，是因为，站在曼哈顿的第六大道和四十九街的拐角上听一个人大谈伊特纳山。维苏威火山。卡普里岛、庞贝、摩洛哥、巴黎，似乎是完全没有道理的。我记得他一边谈话，一边环顾四周的样子，就像一个人还没有完全明白他必定会遭遇到什么，但模糊地意识到，他回来是犯了一个可怕的错误。他的眼睛似乎在说——这没有价值，没有任何价值，但是他没有那样说，却一遍又一遍说着：“我确信你喜欢它！我确信这正是适合你的地方。”当他离开我的时候。我感到茫然。我不能很快捉住他。我要从头到尾详详细细地再听一遍。关于欧洲，我所读到的一切，同我朋友亲口说出来的辉煌描述相去甚远。它使我格外有奇迹感，这是因为我们都出自同一环境。他能实现这些，因为他有阔朋友——因为他知道如何攒钱。我从不认识任何一个有钱人，一个旅行过的人，一个在银行里有存款的人。我所有的朋友都像我一样，一天天飘忽不定，从来不想将来。奥马拉，是的，他旅行过，几乎周游过世界——但只是一个游民，要不就在军队里，可当兵还不如当游民哩。我的朋友乌尔利克是我所碰到的第一个可以真正说自己旅行过的人。他也懂得如何来谈论他的经验。