Chapter 10 chapter eight

Glorious apprenticeship--Expelled from the Madrid Academy of Fine Arts--The style of a dandy--Prison Faced with the deluge of articles flooding the house, my father decided to open a large volume in which he wanted to post everything about my activities.To this end he wrote a preface, no doubt left to posterity, of which the full text follows: Salvador Dali y Domaineco, apprentice painter "After twenty-one years of care, anxiety and hard work, I can finally see that it is possible for my son to provide himself with the necessary conditions for survival. A father's responsibilities are not as easy as it is made out to be. Concession after concession , from time to time I will completely let him go beyond and reject all that I wish. Anyway, we, his parents, do not want him to devote himself completely to the art for which he has shown since childhood that he is destined to be born. I continue Convinced that art is not a means of earning a living. It is nothing more than a kind of insanity that we can indulge in in our spare time. I should add that we, his parents, believe that it is extremely difficult to be a first-rate artist. We understand With all the bitterness, sorrow and despair of a man who achieves nothing, we did our best to convince our son that it was wrong to pursue his chosen freelance profession. However, after his secondary school exams, it should be acknowledged that his ambition to be a painter outweighed all are strong, and I do not think I have the right to thwart such a determined ambition, and there is an even stronger reason for his mental retardation in every other field. In view of the situation we face, I propose to my son a A compromise: he went to the Academy of Fine Arts in Madrid, where he took all the necessary courses to obtain a qualification as a painting teacher, which would allow him to apply for a post at the university that would save him from all kinds of material hardship. Then he would be able to devote himself entirely to art, and I would be at ease with his existence. Best of all, he could live the life of an artist without the financial troubles that make a do-nothing so surly. This is the situation we are facing! I myself will keep my promise to provide my child with all his material needs to complete his art education. This effort is very large, because I do not own private property, Everything I spend comes from my notary income. Everyone knows that the notaries of Qualilas do not trade in gold very often. Currently my son attends his school, although there are some obstacles, it does not Not because of him, but from the nasty arrangements of our educational centers. The school thinks his progress is good. He has completed two levels of courses and won two awards, one in art history and the other It's chromatology. I wrote the school because he would have done better as a student at school, but there his passion for drawing influenced him to study school. He spent most of his time painting for himself and then he sent them to the exhibition. The successes he had at the exhibitions exceeded my expectations. Obviously, I would have preferred these successes to come later in order to secure a teaching position when he so that he won't want to take back his promise. Despite writing these lines, I'd be lying if I claimed that my son's success displeased me. Even if my son doesn't end up being a teacher, around All these things of mine are enough to make me quite sure that his artistic direction is not a mistake. Any other career would be a disaster, because he only felt that he had a talent for painting.

"The pamphlet also contains some useful information about his school days, his expulsion, and his time in prison, which may be of benefit to anyone who wishes to judge whether he was a worthy citizen .I collect records every day and as long as I can learn about him in the future, whether good or bad, I will continue to do so for a long time. Flipping through these pages, my son's true value as an artist and a citizen will be revealed Come out. Those who have the patience to see it all will do him justice." Notary Salvador Dali Figueres, 31 December 1925 I set off for Madrid with my father and sister, where the entrance exam for the Academy of Fine Arts consisted of making a sketch of an ancient artwork.My model happened to be a reproduction of Jacopo Sansovino's Bacchus.I have six days to paint it.My work was carried out according to the normal procedure. On the third day, the janitor followed my father who was waiting in the yard for us to come out, and declared that he was worried that I would not pass the exam.

"I don't discuss the artistic value of your son's sketches," Fei said, "but he didn't follow the exam rules, which clearly stated that the sketches had to be on Ingres paper, but your son's drawings were so small that people would never Those blank spaces will not be regarded as white borders around them. From that moment on, it was as if my father had died.He didn't know how to persuade me: whether to paint again or continue to paint despite everything.During the walks thereafter and during the evenings at the cinema, my father kept repeating: "Do you think you have the courage to repaint?" After a long silence, he added: "You have three days left. .However, his distress also infected me.Before we lay down to sleep, he said to me again:

"Sleep well and don't worry about it. You have a decision to make and look your best tomorrow." The next day, I boldly erased everything and was left stunned by the whitened paper again.Around me, other opponents were on their fourth day on the job and they were starting to shade.Another round, just some serious touch-ups on the final details and they'll be done.With perseverance, I resumed my work.I haven't been able to hastily type the big outline of this new sketch for an hour, it's so bad I have to erase it all over again. Father was waiting at the exit. "Well, what did you do?"

"I wiped it all off." "How is the new painting going?" "I haven't done it yet, I'm just erasing and setting the proportions. I hope to be more sure about the painting this time." "You're right," he said to me. "Two hours to scale is a little too much! You only have two days, and I should have stopped you from erasing it." On this day, neither of us can eat!Every time he eats, he insists: "Eat! Eat! If you want to be energetic tomorrow, eat." We are worried.My sister's face is also not good.Father didn't sleep for a second, tormented by the thought that he shouldn't have erased the sketch.

The next day I got to work without even looking at the stencil I had memorized, and by the end of the round I felt that I had drawn it too big.I can't draw on my drawing paper.This is worse than leaving too much white margin.I wiped everything off again. At the exit, I found that my father's face turned pale with anxiety. "How about it?" "Too big." I replied. "Then what are you going to do?" "I wiped it off." Two tears welled up in his blue-gray eyes. "Let's go," he said, as if to reassure himself, "you've got a full round tomorrow, and many times you've done a sketch in less than two hours! Right?"

But I know it's not humanly possible, because it takes at least one day to draft and another day to paint in shading.Father knew this too.I am the best person in Lars.Shame to go back there!Mr. Nunes was sure that if my sketches were only my most modest work, I would have had no trouble being admitted. "If you don't pass this exam," said my father, "it's my fault and that fool who looks after the door. What's he to do? If you're good at sketching, what does size matter?" I replied maliciously: "That's exactly what I told you! If a thing is painted well, it's instantly recognizable."

"But you yourself told me it was too small, too small," he argued remorsefully, twisting a lock of hair between his fingers. "I never said it was too small, I just said it was small." "Myself," he repeated, "I myself believe you told me it was too small. How would it go? Tell me exactly how big it is, I want to know." I tortured him as painstakingly as I could. "We've talked so much I can't recall it exactly, I think my sketch is up to par, small but not excessive! "Then try to remember it! Is it that big?" He pointed out to me a prayer fork.

"How can I judge the size of my sketch by a bent fork?" - Just imagine," he insisted patiently, "this is a knife, is it that size? " - I think so, but maybe not "Yes or no?" he finally asked angrily. "Maybe, maybe not." Father walked around the room.Painful and angry.He took a small piece of bread, threw it on the ground, knelt down and begged him to ask me: Is the fly as small as this loaf of bread?Or is it as big as this bandage root? " My sister cried, so we went to a popular movie theater.During the intermission, everyone turned their heads to look at me, as if they were looking at a monster.I carried a cane with a gold head, wore a velvet gown, had womanly hair, and a beard halfway down my cheeks, like an actor in disguise.Two girls paid special attention to me, their mouths opened wide in ecstasy.My father is getting impatient.

After a while, we can't even go out with you.It's worth the hair and beards to send us back to Galas with our tails between our legs! For two days, his blue eyes became bitter and lifeless.He didn't even twist his white braid anymore, it stood up like a sharp horn now, expressing all his pain.The next day dawned, a gloomy day for executions.I'm ready for everything.The ending can only be the same as those moments we experienced the previous day.From the very beginning of the round, I worked with my hands.In an hour, I painted everything, including the most subtle shadows.The last moment, I used to appreciate the beauty and success of my work, when I realized that I had drawn something too small, even smaller than the first sketch!

At the exit, I saw my father reading a newspaper.He didn't dare to ask me, as if waiting for my first sentence: "I made a wonderful sketch." After a pause, I added: "Unfortunately, it's smaller than the first one!" That last sentence had the effect of dropping a bomb.The results of the exam were equally dramatic.I was admitted to the Academy of Fine Arts with the following comment: "Although this sketch is not drawn to the specified size, it is perfect and the jury approves it." My father and sister left, and I was left alone in a very comfortable room in the student residence, where a strong recommendation was necessary to be accepted.The sons of the best Spanish families live here.Before long, I started taking classes at the Academy of Fine Arts.I spend all my time on it.I neither hang out on the street nor go to the theater in my apartment.I rarely visited my classmates, and when I came back, I shut myself in the room and continued to work alone.On Sunday morning, I went to the Prado Museum to draw an analysis diagram of the composition of paintings of various genres.From the apartment to the college, the return journey takes only one peseta.Month after month, this one peseta was my only expense.My father found out about me through the principal and the poet Maquina, who had been entrusted with my guardianship; my ascetic life disturbed even my father.He wrote many times to encourage me to play in the countryside, go to the theater, and take a walk in the city with friends to relieve some fatigue from work.like water off a duck's back.From the college to the room, and from the room to the college, I spent only this peseta per day, not a single penny more.My inner life is self-sufficient, and any kind of diversion would be a displeasure. In my room, I painted my first cubist canvases, consciously influenced by Juan Gris.At this moment, I'm only using black, white, and southern stone olive green, against the rich colors of my previous years.A large black felt hat and a pipe that was never lit completed my fancy dress.Since I hated long pants, I started wearing shorts and socks, sometimes with a pair of leggings.A waterproof poncho that drags almost to the ground, protecting me in the rain.Today I realize that this peculiar costume once had a "magic effect".People often whisper it to their faces, and every time I come in or out of a room, curious people gather to watch me strut around. Although I was enthusiastic at first, I soon became disillusioned with the Academy of Fine Arts.Those professors, despite their age and their medals, couldn't teach me anything.In fact, although they are "already" professors, they are still open to "new things", far from hiding in the conventions of the academy.They offered me freedom, laziness, and ambiguity when I expected all kinds of restriction, rigor, and technique from them.These old men have just caught a glimpse of French Impressionism in the typical and inevitable example of Spain... Sorolla is their god.And I am "already" against their cubism, which is only vaguely seen after several generations!I posed some worrying questions to my professor: How should the oil be blended?What to use to reconcile?How can I get a durable and strong material?What method should be followed to achieve such an effect?Dumbfounded by my question, my professor faltered and replied: "Everyone, my friend, should find his own way. There are no rules in painting. Be expressive...Become expressive of what you know. Put your heart into it. Painting is determined by temperament! Temperament !" I thought melancholy; "Depending on the temperament, I can resell it to you, dear professor, but please tell me the ratio of the mixed varnish." "Be bold," he repeated, "be bold, be careful, pay no attention to details. Be simple, be simple, think neither of rules nor limits. In my class each student should work according to his own Temperament noodles!" Painting professor!Professor!What an idiot!How many revolutions, how many wars, to get back to such a peculiarly contrary truth that "strictness" is the first condition of every hierarchy and "restricts the casting of flying forms to itself? Professor Zhou of painting! Professor! What an idiot ! In Madrid, quite unreasonably, I was the only cubist painter, yet I asked the professors for the correct technique of drawing, perspective and colour.My classmates saw me as the enemy against progress.They called themselves revolutionaries and innovators, because then they could paint whatever they wanted, and they even drove black from their palette and replaced it with purple!They claim that black does not exist, everything is iridescent made of light, and the shadows themselves are purple.This Impressionist revolution I had made when I was twelve years old, and even then I never made the mistake of driving black off the palette.Just one glance at a small Renoir in a collection somewhere in Barcelona was enough to make it all clear to me.For years they stagnated in the filthy rainbow colors of their indigestion!Oh, God!Can a man become a beast? Everyone laughed at an old professor who was the only one who knew his profession thoroughly and had a real professional conscience.I myself often regret not having heeded enough of his advice.José Moreno Cabanello was well known in Spain at that time.Some of his oil paintings inspired by "Don Quixote" are still my favorite, even more than then.He came in his frock coat, with a black pearl in his tie, and changed our work with white gloves, which were not at all soiled.With only two or three strokes of charcoal, he miraculously executed the sketch perfectly.He had little psychic eyes that photographed everything, like Meissonnier's.The students waited for him to leave in order to erase the corrections he had made and redraw their sketches according to their "temperament".Their grandeur is compared only with their uncaused and unhonoured conceit, a mediocre conceit which cannot descend to the level of common sense nor rise to the pinnacle of pride.Students of the Academy of Fine Arts, you are a bunch of idiots! One day I brought with me a monograph on Georges Braque, a Cubist painting that no one had ever seen, and no student at the Academy of Fine Arts thought of taking it seriously.Only the professor of anatomy, who is more scientific than anyone else, asked me to lend him this book.He admits he has never seen Cubism, but he rightly believes that what people don't understand should be respected.Since such works were definitely printed, there must be some good reason for them.The next morning, after reading the preface and figuring it out, he returned the book to me.To prove this to me, he cites to me several non-figurative and explicitly geometric works from the past.I replied that this was not the case, that Cubism maintained a very distinctly reproducible sketch.The anatomy professor introduced to his colleagues the wisdom and originality of my aesthetics.People started seeing me as an incredible guy. This attention to my being helps to awaken the violent solution I had in my childhood.Since they can't understand me at all, I think I can explain to them myself what "personality one is". Although there are some temptations, we continue to maintain a typical good quality: never absent from class, always respectful, no matter what the subject matter of the painting , all doing far above and better than the best students in the class. However, the professors were not determined to see me as an "artist". "He was earnest," they said, "very skilful, and brilliant at what he wanted to do."But he is cold as ice, and his work lacks enthusiasm because he has no personality.This was a man of intellectual intellectual activity, and no doubt very knowledgeable.Can be engaged in art with heart! " Wait a minute, wait a minute!Gentlemen, you are about to understand my personality!The first flashes came during King Alfonza VIII's official visit to the Royal Academy of Fine Arts.At the time, his popularity was already in decline, and the visit split the Academy in two.Many people wanted not to come that day, and the school, anticipating disturbances, had to issue some stern orders to force everyone to be there.A week in advance, someone started cleaning the academy, which had been lungs and dilapidated.A shrewd device was devised to conceal our small number from the king.As the tour progressed, the students had to run up some interior stairs to fill some new halls, where they were to stay with their backs to the king.The beautiful girls who usually solicit customers in the streets of Madrid replaced the poor skinny naked models who were paid very little by the school.There are old paintings on the walls, curtains on the windows, and gold and silver lace ribbons almost everywhere.All preparations were made for the king's visit to B, and the king arrived under the escort of the official entourage.Instinctively, if only to go against the prevailing sentiments, I found Di's countenance to be genial.The symptoms of physical and mental weakness that were assigned to him seemed to me to be the sure signs of a noble poise that dwarfed the mediocrity around him.His relaxed and natural attitude is so perfect, it cannot but be said that he has come alive from the noble oil painting of Velazquez.I felt that he noticed me immediately among his classmates.My peculiar attire, my long girlish hair, my upturned beard must have been considered something remarkable, and there was an irresistible instinct between us.Someone took me for a student representative, so a dozen or so classmates and I accompanied King from class to class.I was completely engulfed in the idea that the King might discover a trick the Academy had committed to impressing him, and I felt a deadly bond.Several times, I wanted to debunk the comedy that was being played out right under my nose, but I finally refrained. At the end of the visit, we will take a photo of the king and the students.Someone ordered to find an easy chair, but he resisted the move, and sat down on the floor in the most natural manner in the world.Then he took down the unsmoked cigarette, flicked it lightly with his index finger and thumb, and threw it into a spittoon two meters away.This gesture, typical of the Madrid hooligans, elicited a burst of laughter.The king must have played to the feelings of the students just now, especially the feelings of the servants present, who would never have dared to do so in front of the professor, or even in front of us.It was at this moment that I confirmed that the king thought of me differently.In fact, he shot me a quick glance, wanting to see my reaction.I am sure of that piercing look, which expressed a fear that some might detect in his behavior a demagogy of flattery.I blushed, as the king must have seen when he looked at me again. After taking pictures, the king said goodbye to us.I was the last to shake his hand and the only one to get down on one knee and pay him respect.When I looked up, I saw him agitated, almost imperceptibly twitching his famous Bourbon lower lip.We recognized each other! When he himself signed the decision to expel me from the Academy of Fine Arts two years later, he certainly could not have guessed that it was the same student who had impressed him with respect. It has been four months since I arrived in Madrid, and I have lived a diligent and studious life as usual, organized and measured.To be more precise, the aforementioned qualities have even developed in me into asceticism.I'd rather live in a prison, because if I did, I'd never regret the mile of freedom I had.Everything I draw becomes more and more simple.I made some canvases with a thick gel-coloured base, and during the first four months of living in Madrid, I painted two important works on these plaster-like surfaces, which gave People leave a strong impression.The pieces themselves were gunpowder, and mine came off in pieces as the formulated glue cracked.Before they were destroyed, however, someone found them, and through them found me. The halls of residence were divided into groups and subgroups, and among these groups was a group that called itself the avant-garde in the arts and literature, which did not belong to the conformists.Some disastrous post-war corruption was already brewing in it.This group has just inherited the negative and perverse little tradition of another group of writers and painters; kind of doctrine.They are more or less related to those "Dadaists".Among the group in the student apartment are Peban Bello, Luis Bunuel, García Lorca, Pedro Garfías, Eugenio Mendes, R.Baradas and others.At the time, I only wanted to know two of them who would reach the top: García Lorca in poetry and drama, Eugenio on the ladder of heart and intellect, and Montes, the former Grana Daba, a native of Saint-Jacques-de-Composdale. One day, when I was away, the maid left my door open, and Peban Yuanming passed by in the corridor and saw two of my cubist oil paintings.He immediately told his discovery to members of the group who knew only my face.I'm just the butt of sarcasm, some people call me a "musician" or an "artist", others a "Pole".My scant European outrageous attire made them look down on me as the usual romantic scum, more or less filthy.My studious attitude, my face without the slightest sense of humor, showed me to them that I was very unintelligent, and at best an eccentric.Nothing contrasts more strongly with their suits and English golf pants than my velvet top, my bow tie, and my leggings.Their hair was cut short, and I had girlish long hair.In particular, when I've known them, they're fascinated by a mood that combines elegance and grandeur, and they wield it like seasoned doppelgangers.In a word, the flowers have brought me to my brothers and sisters. I have been dreading their entry into my room almost to the point of disappearing. From the time Pepin Bello discovered my pictures, they all came to see me, and exaggerated their admiration in their customary fashion.Their amazement knew no bounds.They thought about everything about me, but it didn't occur to them that I was a cubist!They confessed to me what they had said, and in compensation they offered me their friendship.I'm less expansive than they are, and still keep my distance because I ask myself if there's anything in me that appeals to them.Within a week, however, I had made them feel strongly that I was far superior to them, and soon the entire group was repeating: "Dalí said so...Dally painted so...Dally replied...Dally thought ...it's like Dali...it's Dali-esque." I quickly understood that they would take everything from me and give me nothing.What they have, I already have in abundance.The only person who impressed me was García Lorca.In the chaotic, bloody, slimy, sublime flesh and blood of himself, trembling with the mass of dark subterranean fire, it was as if every substance was ready to find its original form; Embodies the amazing poetic phenomenon.I resist, adopt a hostile attitude towards the "poetic universe," convinced that nothing can be in a state of infinity.A "contour" and a "law" can be established for everything.There was no such thing as something that one couldn't "eat" (which was already my favorite expression back then).When I feel the seditious and passionate fire of the great Federico's poetry turn into an uncontrollable blaze, I try to control it, extinguish it with the olive branch of my anti-Faust precocious old age, I am ready Well my a priori unpoetic grill, on which, when the day comes and Lorca's fires are left with only a few charcoals, I'm going to grill mushrooms, ribs and sardines of my mind.At the appointed time, lay everything hot and in good time on the clean tablecloths on which you are reading these pages.In one stroke, I quelled for a long time the spiritual, imaginative, and moral hunger of our age. The growing inclination of our group to an anti-intellectual approach apparently tempted us to frequent only the coffee shops where, amidst the heavy smell of burnt oil, the intellectuals of future Spain Literary, artistic, political futures are baked... Double absinthe for kissing olives, for the fickleness of heroism, the fickleness of treachery, the fickleness of shoddy elegance, the fickleness of acid digestion, the goodness of anti-patriotism Change provides a drop of hard-to-disguise sentimentality that goes a long way toward bringing together the chaos that ensued after the war.It was all mixed together by a deep hatred, doomed to progress, doomed to open new long-term credit branches every day, not stopped until the first gunfire of the Civil War, and firmly established. My voice was louder than the whole group, which had just accepted me as a member, and it couldn't teach me anything.I'm well aware that's not entirely true because they also taught me at least one thing that I will always remember.They taught me to "make the bomb"... I should tell you more about this.One afternoon, the group took me to the Crystal Palace, a lovely place in Madrid, for tea.As soon as I walked in, I understood everything.I may have changed greatly.Friends see me as a far more assertive self-respect than I am (my boundless pride prevents anything from hurting me), and friends are hell-bent on defending my fancy dresses, even valiantly insisting that I wear them.They were ready to give anything for it, and their anti-stereotype attitude prompted them to make fire for me.They were obviously offended by the glances that greeted me into the elegant tea room, though dark and wary.Their angry faces seemed to say, "What! Isn't our friend like a sewer rat? Let it be! But he's the most important person you've ever seen, and if you're disrespectful in any way, we'll kill you." Smash your faces." Nuwener, the strongest and most powerful among them, especially inspected the hall, looking for an excuse to fight.Every moment is in his favor.But this time he didn't notice it.At the exit, I said to my guard: "You guys did a great job for me. But I don't want to go any further. Tomorrow, I'm going to dress like everyone else." All members are very excited about this decision.Once they accepted my fancy dress, they cherished it and were ready to defend it.The same excitement had not been encountered in an intellectual community since the day Socrates accepted hemlock juice in the face of his disciples.People tried to persuade me to change my mind, as if by cutting off my long hair and changing my clothes I might lose my personality. My decision cannot be changed.In fact, I insist that it implies a major reason, I want to please the elegant literati I just found in the tea room that day.But what is an elegant woman like?This is the hairless underarm woman who belittles you.I just saw shaved armpits for the first time in my life, a white with a hint of blue that looked so wonderful, it seemed to me like the very limit of decadence and luxury.I intend to "dive deep" into these issues, as I do with anything! The next day, I started with the beginning part, which was the beginning of my search.I dare not go directly to the barber shop in Leeds as recommended by friends.I need a "wholesaler" who does a lot of trimming first, and then I go to a barber in Leeds to get groomed.All afternoon I wandered around Madrid looking for a hairdresser's, but each time I was too timid to step over the threshold of the shop.After much hesitation, I finally settled on a barber who wrapped a sheet around my neck.The first Mizuki hair that fell out terrified me.Is the Samson complex real?Looking in the mirror, I believe I saw a king seated on a throne, with a white scarf in place of the white animal-skin cloak that hung around his shoulders.The excruciating pain overwhelmed me, for the first and last time in my life, and within minutes I lost my faith in myself.I felt that my child-king image had suddenly become an intolerable case of a dissonance between a physically defective, feeble constitution and a fruitless, precocious intellect.Are you an idiot like everyone else? I paid and walked to Leeds.Stepping on the threshold of this barbershop, I felt the last of my worries melt away.I have no regrets, in Leeds I don't feel like I'm in a barbershop, I feel like I'm in a pub. "Bring me a cocktail." I ordered the waiter. "Sir, what cocktail would you like?" I didn't even know how many kinds of cocktails there were, so I answered with a chance attitude: "Anything will do, as long as it's the best." I thought it was terrible, but after five minutes I imagined it was wonderful.I gave up on the idea of ​​a haircut and ordered another glass of wine.That was enough to make me realize something startling: I missed class for the first time, and I didn't think it was a bad thing at all.Quite the contrary, I think my hard work is over and I'm sure I won't be going back to school.There are new things in my life. At the bottom of my second cocktail, I found a gray hair.This lovely symbol moved me to tears.As if the alcohol had been at work, thoughts of all kinds flashed away with unusual speed, and life suddenly burned faster.I repeat: This is my first gray hair!I was drinking a cocktail, so strong that I closed my eyes.It is the fairy wine of my "longevity", the wine of other people in old age, and the fairy wine of "anti-Faust spirit".Sitting in my deserted corner, I said these last words aloud, luckily no one heard me.I was alone in the bar with the waiter standing behind the counter and a wizened old man with white hair who was shaking so badly that he had to be extremely careful not to knock over his glass when he took it.How I longed to tremble with such grace! My eyes turned to the white hair in the cup. "I'm going to watch you closely, because I haven't had you in my life, and I haven't had a chance to pick up a white hair with my fingers and look at it, to find out its secrets." Then I put my index finger and thumb into the glass, but my nails are too short to reach the hair.这时，进来了一位优雅动人的女子，她穿得很少，肩上披了件皮大衣。她跟侍者亲切地交谈着，后者很快就给她摇好了鸡尾酒，并迅速地瞥了我一眼，紧接着，她又向我瞥了一眼。他们在议论我。为了不显出观察我的样子，她装作在大厅里寻找什么人，可她的目光又一次停留在我身上，仿佛只是出于偶然。侍者等着她看完我，好再跟她讲话。他讲话时，脸上挂着一种并非善意的讽刺的微笑，那位女子更随便地望着我。这些窥视的眼睛激怒了我；笨拙地抓不到白发，也激怒了我，我把一个手指伸进杯子，紧贴内壁用力按住它，缓缓地把它往上弄。这根白发死赖着不动，我的手指却火辣辣地病起来，我随即抽出了手指。它上面一处割破的伤口大滴大滴地淌着血。为了不让桌子沾上血迹，我重又把手指伸过鸡尾酒中。并无白发，那是玻璃杯上一长条闪光的裂纹。我伤口的血流得愈发厉害了，那位女子目不转睛地观察着我，同时酒也变成了粉红色的。我确信侍者向那位女子讲过角落里这名孤独的酒徒是个外省人，由于无知才撞到了这儿，竟然天真地点了一种"只要好的就行"的鸡尾酒，而不管它是什么样的！我发誓现在就可以在他的嘴唇上看出这一切！ 我继续流着血。我用两条手绢紧裹住手指，止住血后，我把这只手插进口袋。我打算走了，可这时一个达利式的念头涌上我心头，使我走近柜台，把一张二十五比塞塔的纸币递给侍者，这个家伙忙着找给我二十二个比塞塔的零钱时，我制止他说道： "别找了！" 我从没看到过比这更惊异的面孔。这让我想起了我搞那著名的十生了换五生丁的交易时中学同学们的脸色。这个窍门对成年人同样有效。金钱具有何等至高无上的权力啊！我在酒吧里立刻就明白了这个道理。It's not over yet!已经把我的羞怯驱散掉的酒精，使角色颠倒过来。我恢复了自信和大胆。 我说："我想买个樱桃。" 一只托盘上放满着各种蜜饯水果。侍者殷勤地把这只托盘推向我。 "先生，您想要什么就拿什么好了。" 我只拿了一个，把它放在柜台上。 "How much?" "先生，这没什么。真是不算什么。" 我又掏出一张二十五比塞塔的钞票，交给他。 他觉得受到侮辱，拒绝接受这张钞票。 "那么，我把樱桃还给你吧！" 于是我把樱桃重新放回托盘里。侍者坚持着把托盘推给我，请我拿起樱桃并停止这场玩笑。我的脸色一定是变得极为苍白和严厉，他马上就照我说的办了。 "要是先生仍坚持送我这份礼物的话……" "我坚持这么办。" 他带着害怕的神情拿起这二十五个比塞塔。他不是在同一个疯子打交道吧？他朝那位单独一人的夫人迅速递了个眼色，这位夫人正惊愕地注视着我的伎俩。整个场面发生期间，我没注意她，仅仅就像她并不存在一样。然而就要轮到她了。 "夫人，"我对她说，一请您把帽子上的一粒樱桃送给我当礼物吧。 " "我很乐意。"她带着活泼的娇态说。 她低下头时，找走过去，抓住一粒樱桃。很幸运，自从我出入卡塔莉娜姑姑的帽店那时起，我就对这些人造樱桃的秘密了如指掌了。我没扯下它来，而是把茎梗弄弯，喀咬一声，细铁丝断了。我用仅有的那只没受伤的手极其熟练地完成了全部工作。 我用牙一下子咬住人造樱桃，一点白色棉花露了出来，于是我拿起蜜饯樱桃，用一截铁丝把它与前者连接在一起。借助一根麦秆，我从这位夫人的杯中抽取出一些奶油，小心地放了点奶油在真樱桃上，从而完成了要造成的效果。它们太相似了，谁都无法分清哪个是真的、哪个是假的。侍者和少妇默默地看着我的每一个动作。 "现在，"我补充道，"你们将看到一切中最重要的了。" 转到我的桌子那儿，找拿起我那杯血红的鸡尾酒，再回来把它放在柜台上，随后我小；乙地把两个樱桃放进了鸡尾酒中。 "好好看一下这杯鸡尾酒，"找对侍者说，"你再认不出它来了。" 我极其平静地走出利兹，想着刚才做的事，它就像当初耶稣发明圣餐那样令人激动。那位侍者怎么解决这杯与他给我的鸡尾酒完全不同的红鸡尾酒的难题呢？他会品尝它吗？我离厅后，他们两人会向自己讲些什么呢？这些沉思被一股疯狂的喜悦取代了。马德里的天空异常的蓝，淡玫瑰色的砖房向我许诺大量的光荣。我是非凡的人。 我要乘的有轨电车站太远了，我开始在街上飞奔起来。行人几乎不注意我。不满他们这种冷漠的态度，我在奔跑中加上一些越来越狂热的弹跳。找一直都是个非常优秀的跳高跳远运动员，找创造出这样一些奇迹，使得行人终于惶恐地望着我，更何况我每跳一次都喊着"血比蜜甜"，而且喊"蜜"这个词时声音特别大，就仿佛战斗口号一般震响着。当我感到两脚着地时，－下子正落在美术学院的一位同学身旁，他显然从没见过我处在这样的兴奋状态中。我利用这个机会让他更惊异，靠近他耳朵，好像要告诉他什么机密，接着我就用尽浑身气力向他大喊一声"蜜"。有轨电车过来了，我跳上去，把我这位惊呆了的同学丢在人行道上。第二天他定然会在全校重复说： "达利像头山羊那样疯狂。" 我还没结束让他们吃惊呢！早上，我很迟才去上课。我刚刚从马德里最贵的服装店里买了一套最漂亮的西装。我穿上一件天蓝色绸衬衫，它袖子的链扣是蓝宝石做的。我花了三个小时用一种特殊的发网束住头发，并用绘画光油把头发擦得光可鉴人，它变成了一种均匀坚硬的膏状体，极为光滑，仿佛在我头上浇铸了一个唱盘。如果我拍打头发，它就会发出金属般的声音。一天之内发生的这种变化令美术学院所有学生感到震惊，而我明白了我距穿戴得跟大家一样还远着呢，尽管我在马德里最漂亮的商店购买了一切，我仍然是个独特的人。我用如此惊人的方式成功地把一切结合在一起，使得人们在我经过时全回头张望我。纨绔子弟作风的年代就要开始了。仰慕而又羞怯的好奇心将接替讽刺的态度。我给自己买了一根手柄包皮的柔韧竹手杖。 坐在列吉纳咖啡馆的露天座位上，喝着三杯加橄榄的苦艾酒，我开始打量那群密集的我未来的观众，他们散开在那些如此聪明、如此充满马德里精神的街道中。接近一点钟时，我重又在一家意大利餐馆的酒吧找到了团体的成员，又就着帘蛤喝了两杯苦艾酒。我付钱给侍者时，留给他极多的小费，一股骚动迅速传遍餐馆，侍者们都急于向我大献殷勤。我清楚地记得我那天点的菜：各种冷盘、马德里肉冻、干酪丝通心面、一只鸽子。大家都灌了许多西昂蒂红葡萄酒。咖啡和白兰地更加刺激了我们关于无政府主义的争论。尽管我们只不过是五六个人，可却已分裂了。多数人显示出赞成总有一天会变成斯大林主义工具的自由社会主义的态度。我本人则认为幸福或不幸只是一件完全属于个人的事，与一种社会结构（在其中，人民在获得新政治权利的同时，生活水平也得到改善）毫无关系。相反，应当通过系统地破坏一切来增加危险和集体的不安全感，以便传播苦闷，根据精神分析学，苦闷是快乐的本源。如果幸福是个人的事，那么这就是宗教的问题了。政府应当把自身约束在以最大权威行使权力上。从这种作用和这种反作用中，会出现一种精神的结构或形式，而不是出现一些理性的、机械的、官僚主义的机构，它们只能导致丧失个性、只能导致平庸。还有另一种可能性。尽管这是空想的，但却是诱人的可能性，即产生一位"无政府主义的至高无上的国王"的可能性。巴伐利亚的路易二世并非这方面一个很差的例子。 论战使我的思想具有越来越清晰的形式。它决没有修正我的各种观念，恰恰相反，它总是证实着它们。我要求朋友们同我一起从社会和政治的观点出发审查瓦格纳和他的帕西发尔神话的案例…… 我考虑了一会儿，仿佛我有些需要克服的疑问，我招呼那位正受到我们充分展示的无上智力腐蚀着的侍者，他一字不漏地听我们辩论。 "侍者，"我考虑了一下后说，"给我再拿点儿烤面包和红肠来。" 他马上去了，我不得不朝他喊道： "还要点儿酒！" 从政治和社会观点考虑帕西发尔的案例，从我这方面说，需要一些养制…… 离开意大利餐馆，我回公寓去拿了些钱。我早上放在口袋里那些钱不知道怎么就不见了。要有钱，再没有比这更简单的事了。我去银行取出钱，签了收据。 重新镇过金，我又去同团体的成员会面，不过这次是在一家供应黑啤酒的德国餐馆。我们吃了百来个煮螃蟹，剥去亮的螃蟹特别有益于围绕帕西发尔展开的辩论。很快下午就过去了，我们得转移到广场去喝干马提尼酒。这是我们第一次喝不甜的酒，从此我一直拥护这类饮料。炸土豆片从我们的餐桌上飞快消失，速度令人眩晕，侍者陆续装满那些盘子。很快又提出要到哪儿吃晚饭的问题！无论如何，不能到公寓特有的令人讨厌的食堂去。根据我的提议，全体一致决定回到那家意大利餐馆去。我们打电话定了个房间。 我们的包间十分迷人，玫瑰色蜡烛照亮着一架黑色钢琴，墙上有一大块酒渍。我们吃什么了？要说我还记得，那我就是在撒谎。喝了大量的红酒和白酒。辩论变得十分激烈，我不得不进行调解。于是我坐钢琴边，用一个手指弹贝多芬的《月光》。在我想创造左手的一个卓越的伴奏部分时，有人把我从钢琴这儿拉起来，我们动身去广场的雷克脱尔俱乐部，这是马德里最漂亮的场所之一，大家能在这儿喝一点香槟酒。"一点"是种措词的方式。我知道我们会喝许多，于是我决心一醉方休。 但布努埃尔（他碰巧成了我们实际的司仪）首先决定我们开始时先喝威士忌并吃点餐前点心，然后于睡觉前再畅饮香槟酒。这个主意显得极妙，于是我们马上开始边争论边吃喝。我们全衷心赞成应当进行革命，但怎么进行呢？以何种方式着手呢？for what?一切都并不像乍一说那么清楚了。在此期间，我们要了份冰镇薄荷酒，以便耐心等待下一份威士忌，既然并不存在任何在今夜爆发革命的危险，那么我们当然还有时间吃喝争论。第二份威士忌终于来了，接着第三份、第四份，直到大家问布努埃尔： "那么香槟酒呢？" 凌晨两点了，已经太迟了，我们饿得很难受，得有点东西送香槟酒。我要了意大利面条，别人要了冷子鸡。我立即羡慕起他们来了，可却极力拒绝接受他们那方面的任何东西。正在燃烧的、比大量淌出的香槟酒还要热情的辩论，现在以"爱情"和"友谊"为主题了。 "爱情，"我断言，"就像预示晕船的胃部感觉一样，它还伴随着颤抖和不适，这是很奇特的；人们从而不再明白自己是在爱还是要呕吐。不过，我确信要是我们重新回到帕西发尔的问题，我们可能对此认识得更清楚。" 大家都表示反对，他们受够了帕西发水。 "很好，以后再讨论这个问题吧，不过在我们离开前，还是给我留块鸡翅膀吧。" 凌晨五点钟，雷克脱尔俱乐部要关门了。我们感到在一切进行得如此美好之际，必须回去睡觉真太残酷了！我们拔掉新一瓶香槟酒的塞子，朋友们眼含热泪。黑人乐队很优秀，那切分的节奏令我们内心激动不已、无片刻宁静。钢琴师带着神圣的痴迷神态弹奏着，在一些极其抒情的时刻，他断断续续的呼吸声，听起来比伴奏部分还清楚。用全部热情的生命吹着萨克管的黑人乐手，就要倒下去起不来了。我们刚刚发现爵士乐，坦白说，它当时给我留下相当深刻的印象。我们多次把钞票折放在信封中抛过去。这些不寻常的礼物使黑人们每次都站起来，在头头的带领下向我们致敬感谢，这时他们便露出了全部的白牙。我们送给他们一瓶香槟酒，远远地跟他们干杯，因为规定禁止他们坐到桌边来。 我们不再考虑钱。我们的慷慨同我们处置父母的比塞塔的态度一样惊人。最后一瓶香槟酒使朋友们达成了一个庄严的协议，我们全发誓保证遵守这个协议。它的内容就是十五年后在同一地点再次共同聚会；无论我们生活中遇到什么事，无论我们的政治见解和物质困难是什么样的，哪怕远在外国，我们都要做到这一点；万一广场毁掉了，那就在它占据过的原址上共同聚会。 辩论停留在这样的问题上：在我们相会的前夕或前些年，大厦是否有可能遭到轰炸；在这种情况下，我们究竟应当怎么办。我对这种盯着细节要弄明白的态度不感兴趣，就去注视我们周围那些缀着珠宝的美妙肌肤，它们使我心里很痛苦，它真的是那件事吗？或只是一种轻微的呕吐感，就像我一小时前扮演大儒主义者时所说的那样？我没什么胃口地吃着给我留到最后的鸡大腿。为着我们达成的一致，少不了最后一瓶香槟酒。由于我们共有六个人，我们就把题着雷克脱尔俱乐部名称和桌子编号（我确信这是个8字，因为曾讨论过这个数字的象征价值）的一块纸牌分成六份，每个得到一份，上面有六个人的签名和日期。香槟酒为协议盖了印。 我们定为重聚日的那一天，内战在马德里不可避免地激烈进行着，看过我们金色青春的广场大厦已经变成了一座血淋淋的医院。请设想一下我们的聚会以及这六位朋友（他们被时间、也被顽固而又狂热的仇恨分开了，但是他们超越他们的激情，忠于许下的诺言重聚了）中每一位的历险记，会是一部大有教益的小说的多么美妙的题材吧！我不知道这空想的一餐进行了没有。我能向你们私下讲的唯-一件事，就是我没在场。 正如世间万事都有结束一样，我们在雷克脱尔俱乐部度过的夜晚，在一间酒吧里结束了；这个酒吧挤满了赶车人、守夜人和有在不现实的时刻乘火车怪僻的人。我们在这儿喝最后一杯首香酒。黎明最初的微光邀请我们去睡觉。我们去睡吧！我们去睡吧！今天就到此为止！别急，我们等等再说。明天，我将开始我真正的湘西发尔"。 我的"帕西发尔"是以迟至中午才起床开始的，接着就是五杯加橄榄的苦艾酒。二点钟，用于马提尼酒、生火腿、鳍鱼来消磨时光，等待团体成员的到来。除了我最后咽下的五杯查尔特勒甜酒（它们使我回忆起在卡达凯斯父母家中某些次进餐的结束时刻，我已记不起还吃了什么。我为此哭泣了！下午五六点钟左右，我又在马德里郊外一家农庄的餐桌边坐下来。这儿有个小小的内院，它朝向瓜达拉玛山脉的壮丽景色和黑色的橡树林。团体成员再次与我聚到一起，我们准备吃点东西。我吃了一大盘绕番茄汁的鲍鱼。坐在旁边一张桌子那儿的一些赶车人，使我懂了应该用刀吃鳍鱼。刀的金属味与红鱼味混合在一起，给我一种极为柔和和极为高贵的感觉。吃完鳄鱼，我要了只山鸽，因为我不顾一切地想吃美味的东西。可惜，没有山鸡。作为补偿，老板娘建议我吃回锅洋葱兔肉或鸽子。我说不喜欢任何回锅的东西，选了鸽子。可老板娘恼火了，坚持要给我回锅兔肉，而我则坚持要鸽子。唯一的烦恼就是再过二三个小时，又该吃晚饭了。 "好吧！把兔肉也给我端来吧！" 她真有道理。亏我精于享受的灵敏味觉器官，我立即就明白了这盘回钢菜肴的奥妙和秘密。沙司具有令人难忘的弹性，它贴在嘴口，使我的舌头砰然作响。请相信我，这种乏味的膨喷声（很像香槟酒瓶塞蹦起来的啧啧声），正是那很难理解的事物的声音，即满意的声音。一句话，吃这份回锅兔肉是种乐趣。 我们乘坐两辆豪华车离开了农庄，我当时只注意这两辆车。一旦回到马德里，我们那只用少量午夜冷餐的设想立即无影无踪了。食品的幽灵以惊人的现实性站立在我们面前。 "先喝点什么吧，"我说，"我们没什么忙的，呆会儿再想吃什么好了。" 这是必要而又合理的，因为农庄的酒不好，我吃回锅兔肉时，喝的是水。于是我喝了三杯子马提尼酒，明白我真正的"帕西发尔"要开始了。幸而我有个计划，借口上厕所，我坦然地走向出去的门。 在外面，我使劲呼吸自由的纯净空气。轻松的微颤使我振作起来。终于独自一人了！我坐上一辆出租汽车，它把我带回公寓，在那儿等着我。要是我想为我的"帕西发尔"把自己打扮得很漂亮的话，那么我就得花一小时。我洗了个淋浴，把胡子刮得干干净净，用绘画光油涂抹头发，不顾它会造成的不舒服。不过对我的项西发尔"来说，怎么华丽都不会显得过分。接下来，我用铅笔粉涂黑我的眼圈。这样，我就有了令人无法抵御的迷人神态，仿佛是鲁道夫·瓦伦蒂诺的"阿根廷探戈舞演员"，当时我觉得这种演员就是男性美的原型。至于服装，我选择了一条浅浅的乳白色长裤和一件灰色上衣。衬衫是用薄得透明的生丝制成的，透过它能辨认我胸毛形成的皇帝的鹰。可我突然觉得这件衬衫太新太干净了，我立即排命弄皱它。加上一个洁白的硬领，那效果显得十分惊人。 出租汽车一直等着我。 "司机，去佛罗里达，但先要在花店停一下。" 在花店里，我买了朵橱子花，把它别在我的扣眼里。佛罗里达是家时髦的舞厅，我还不了解它，可我知道马德里的时髦人物经常光顾它。我想一人在这吃夜宵并极精心地在最优雅的女人们中间选了个位置。要不顾一切地实现这件疯狂的不可抗拒的事，这件虽不耸人听闻但却充满沉重色情内含的事，这件从昨天就被我称为我的"帕西发尔"的事，女性材料是绝对不可少的！ ! ! 由于不知道佛罗里达在哪儿，每当出租汽车一放慢速度，我就想下去，心跳得很厉害。我用全部气力唱"帕西发尔"。Oh, God!会是怎样的一个夜晚呢？它使我变老十年！三杯干马提尼酒造成的醉意消失了，我恢复了严肃认真的思考。开胃酒减弱了我的恶意，从理论上讲，我已成为禁酒主义者，因为酒精搞乱了一切，听任最引人同情的主观主义和感伤主义自由泛滥。随后，人就什么都记不得了，而要是人能记起来，那就会更糟！人在醉酒状态中想的一切，似乎都是有才华的，接着人就会为此感到羞愧。醉酒使一切平等、划一、无个性。只有平庸的生命能因酒精而提高。恶毒和有才华的人承受着已使他本人头脑兴奋的他老年的酒精。然而，在出租汽车里，我自问是否用酒精去实现我的"帕西发尔"。不管怎样，我今夜的行动几小时前就牢固确定了。随着在我脑海闪过的每一构想，我精心地推敲细节，一想到它们，我的心就感到发慌。为了以完美的方式实现我的"帕西发尔"（什么都不能阻止我这么做），我需要五名优雅的女人和第六位能协助我们做一切的女人。不论是我还是其他人，都不必脱掉衣服。我甚至希望她们戴着帽子。重要的是其中四位的腋窝是要剃掉毛的，相反，另二位则要保留着腋毛。 我身边有很多钱，足以令人相信我的诱惑力将是不可抗拒的。我终于很早就到了佛罗里达，我背靠着墙，坐在一张桌子边，从这儿可以观察到一切。同一个问题继续纠缠着我。要不要喝点儿什么？酒精肯定会在我提出要求的关键时刻帮助我。可我怎么做呢？应当马上留住其中的两位，邀请她们到一间特殊的客厅，以使她们随后再去找另三位并由她们自己来处理一切吗？另一方面，要是我为克服羞怯在开头几分钟就喝了酒，那我随后就要很快醒过酒来，这才能目光有神，同时看到一切。从我的"帕西发尔"一开始，我的全部清醒的意识、我最富探察力和最恶毒的目光，就不足以对我们无疑近乎让人倒胃口的处境的荣耀和痛苦进行判断、定罪和遭秧了，但是这场"帕西发尔"的七名主角是那么令人渴望、那么美丽、那么谦逊，我将成为这场一帕西发尔"的乐队指挥，一直到黎明，一直到公鸡啼唱，这唱将使令人脸红的羞愧之情从我们七个已厌烦了最强烈的种种乐趣的想象中突然涌现出来。…·· "先生要点什么？" 侍者领班站在我的桌前，等着我的胡思乱想结束。 "一份洋葱兔肉……不过要回锅的。"我脱口说道。 最后，我吃着一个很差劲的鸡骨架。当我对付翅膀时、用晚餐的人开始大批拥进来，把大厅塞得满满的，在这之前，这儿只有我一人以及侍者领班和侍者们，再就是乐队和一对专职的舞蹈者，他们显然使场面活跃了。只看了一眼，我就勾销掉目光落到的第一位女人，问题可能并不在于她是否适合我的"相国发尔"，而在于她太美了、太健康了，而且毫不优雅。可话说回来，我一生中从没碰到过一位优雅的女人是非常漂亮的。从定义上讲，这两种品质是互不相容的。优雅的女人身上，应减弱的丑与应"增强的"美之间永远存在着一种高明的折衷，事情就是这样。优雅的女人可能而且应当不需要一副完美的面孔，这种完美的面孔永久的光彩会像不断的军号声那样刺激神经。如果优雅的女人能大胆地显露某种疲倦和某种精神失衡的话，那么作为补偿，她就绝对需要一种鲜明夺目的手、臂膀和腋窝。乳房没有什么意义。要是它们好看，那当然不错，否则，也就算了。身体的其余部分，我只需要一件让女人优雅的东西：这就是形态非同一般的骸骨，它在什么衣裙下都会显得突出而咄咄逼人。肩部的线条只要适合她的需要就成，匀称与否倒无所谓。我决不会因它让我为难就感到懊丧。眼神十分重要，它应当极为聪慧或"显得很聪慧"。优雅的女人有愚蠢的眼神是不可图议的，相反，愚蠢的眼神却适合十足的美人。《罗的维纳斯》就是这方面的一个明显例证。优雅的女人的嘴可能难看并令人讨厌，但只要在某些特定的场合，它微微开启时，能像奇迹一般，流露出一种难以分辩的天使般神情，那么它就同样是合适的。优雅的女人的鼻子…二·优雅的女人没有鼻子。唯有漂亮的女人才有鼻子！头发要很好，这甚至是优雅的女人身上唯一应当好的因素。最后，她应当受珠宝和衣裙的约束，它们是她存在的主要理由，她的精神完全消耗在集聚它们上，这使她的爱没有激情、她的情感冷酷而又挑剔。只有一种露骨而又贪婪的、精致而又冷漠的情欲适合同她的豪华相配。不管她的身体带给她什么，她都对之抱轻蔑的态度！ 这就是我终于想要些优雅的女人的原因，她们对淫荡采取的厌倦的轻蔑态度，是实现我的"帕西发尔"不可缺少的因素。我必须在这夜找到能严格服从我的六位骄傲的优雅女人，六张非常令人愉快的冷淡面孔。 我睁大双眼，在四周焦急地寻找，但始终没发现想要的对象。虽说一直不见优雅的女人，可并不缺少漂亮的女人。很快我就要让自己有所要挟了，因为佛罗里达现在已挤满人，别的女人不会再来了。第一次，我觉得自己能搞的这场"帕西发尔"只是"差不多的"。可是那"差不多的"优雅的女人有吗？或许这只是同样的一种欺骗行为？正如有人告诉你吃药，而这药却"近似于"美食那样。 终于进来了两位优雅的女人，巧得很，她们就坐在旁边的一张桌子那儿。我还缺四位。不过我觉得最初这两位恰恰是我想要的。她们的手是非凡的，它们交插着，带有一种冷漠的犬德主义的意味，使我直打哆嗦。要不是我知道她们的脚并不好者，我真会以为它们跟手一样绝妙呢。 第二瓶香槟酒刚使我有点儿醉意，一直到那时，我的注意力始终分散在我计划的各个常规中。只有上帝才知道有没有这些常规！看看吧，你是达利，抑或你不是达利？继续下去吧，认真点儿，否则作会糟踏了你的"帕西发尔"。这手腕优雅吗7是的，不过应该把它同另一个嘴配合起来。要是能这么联结那些人就太好了！那么试着像唯一的主人那样行事吧！看看这会怎么使你愉快吧！你已经发现了三处优雅的腋窝；去找一下嘴、找一下冷淡的眼神吧。可别忘了一处令你难忘的胞窝……既然你看清了它，那就认真开始把：腋窝、手、眼神，眼神、手、腋窝。再快点儿，腋窝、手、眼神··--嘴、腋窝，腋窝、嘴，嘴和眼神，眼神和嘴……就是她吗？ 那个头终于转向我，强烈的呕吐感控制了我。可这次，我不能把它当成爱情的痛苦。我非常想呕吐，像受训一样突然站起来，有礼貌地请一名穿路易十五价从服的卖烟女告诉我盥洗室在哪儿。她向我做了个我不明白的手势，我进了一间房间，在它中央醒目地摆着一个摆满信件和打字纸的办公桌。我用手撑着桌子，吐了许多。第一股喷涌过去后，我仍呆在那儿。我知道事情还没完，我那类似礼拜仪式要把一切呕吐出来的工作尚有待完成。穿路易十五侍从服的卖烟女跟在我身后，默默站在门槛上看着我。我给了她五十比塞塔，恳求她： "让我吐完吧。" 我把门在身后锁上，重新庄严地转向桌子，仿佛我要剖腹自杀似的。我接着又呕吐起来，朦胧地意识到我的灵魂就要跟我的内脏搅拌在一起了。这恰似两天的大吃大喝全部又回到我身上，不过却是颠倒地来的，它就这样重复着基督教的宣判："最前的将成为最后的。"一切都重现了：回锅兔肉、两处剃掉毛的液窝、嘴、眼睛，以及再一次的回锅兔肉、无政府主义、解鱼、君主专制政体、帘蛤、苦艾酒、胆汁、胆汁、胆汁、帝蛤、回锅兔肉、瞑汁、腋窝、胆汁、胆汁…·· 什么都不存在时，我擦着额头的汗水和顺脸颊淌下的泪水。一切都过去了。一切，甚至包括君主专制政体都过去了，而我的怀旧的和令人惋惜的《帕西发尔》也历尽苦难。 接下来的一天，我躺在床上喝柠檬汁，又过了一天，我回到美术学院，紧接着下午我就被除名了。 其实，我一到校，就发现一群学生争着比比划划，没完没了地讨论着什么，我似乎有种预感，就要发生什么事了，我想必回忆起费格拉斯烧毁国旗的场面。我将第二次成为我本人神话的牺牲品，好像我生活中的那些事件也根据某些主题发展着，这些主题很简洁，但却非常有特点，互不相同。当随着一粒樱桃或一只拐在我身上发生某件事时，请相信这种情况不会就此终结的。另一些事件将随着另一些樱桃