Chapter 4 third chapter

That if, lifeless tree!Rabelais, your solemn vision: the great potato. IPH, a secular Afterlife Preparatory Academy, we call it for short Hades—that great idea! --invite I teach a semester on death ("Maggot lectures," wrote Dean McCubber). you and me and her, Was just a girl, moved from Newway to Another yew-shaded town in the higher state. I like high mountains.we rented a building crumbling houses, from the big iron gate You can see a snow scene, so far away, so white, It can only make you sigh, as if that would It seems to help digestion. The Afterlife Preparatory Academy

Both a larva and a violet: A tomb in a rational morning.but it didn't understand The point of the whole thing is not to appreciate what best To please those who think the prophecies of the Apocalypse have been fulfilled; For we die every day; not only to dry bones, For the life of youthful blood, forgetting is extremely prosperous, Our best past is now a dirty pile Crumpled names, phone numbers and musty files. I intend to be a little flower, Or a fat fly, but never forgotten. I'd rather forsake immortality, unless the newly dead in heaven to be found in its walls The various things it has stored over the years:

The melancholy and tenderness of mortal life; Passion and Pain; The dimmed purple taillights of the planes shrinking, That gesture of frustration you make when you run out of cigarettes; The way you smile at the dog; The sticky track of silvery snails on stone; this good ink, this rhyme, This kind of index card, this kind of index card that will always form when dropped on the floor A thin rubber band with an "&" symbol. on the other hand Perhaps the academy thought it wiser to Don't expect too much from that paradise: If no one greets a newcomer, say hello no reception no

Indoctrination preaching, so what should I do? If you were dragged into the boundless nothingness and lost your way, Stripped of your spirit, utterly alone, Your task is not done, your disappointment is unknown, Your body is slowly beginning to rot, A man in a dressing-gown, not unclothed, Your widow, prostrate on a dark bed, herself in Your melting brain is just a blur!So what to do? The afterlife preparatory school is scorning the gods, including the most holy God, And yet borrow some fringe fragments from mystic phantoms; it offers guidance with small favors (The amber scene when life fades away)—

How can you not panic when you become a ghost: Gliding sideways, choosing a quiet spot, advancing along the shore, When encountering an entity, it slides straight through, Or let people flow through you. How in that darkness, find the beauty Terra, He took a deep breath and saw that it was Xiaojiabiyu. How to keep a clear head in the spiral space. Beware of weird reincarnations: During the resurrection process given by God, I suddenly discovered that You're already a weak toad who suddenly enters On a busy road full of cars, Or a cub under a burning pine tree, Or a silverfish in the book,

Then how to adapt. Time means duration, duration means change: Therefore timeless immortality must disturb emotional program.we went to The widower offers advice.He was married twice: Meet two ladies in the underworld; both love, both are lovely, both jealous of each other.time means growth, And growing up in Promised Land means nothing. The fair-haired lady caressing a child that never changes, Grieve at the edge of a pool of remembering, A dreamy blurred sky appeared on the water.Also blonde, And slightly brownish yellow in the dark, Standing on tiptoes and knees, sitting on a stone railing,

It was the other, who raised tearful eyes, Staring at the layer of impenetrable blue smoke. How to start?Which one to kiss first?what toy For that doll?that stern-faced boy Understanding a stormy night in March The car accident that killed the mother and son? She, the second lover, with bare feet, In ballerina black, why wear Those earrings in the other lady's jewelry box? Why did she turn away that stern young face? For as we know from dreams, It is very difficult to speak to our dear dead!they ignore Our doubts and unease and shame— That embarrassing feeling of being surprised that they are so different from what they used to be.

That classmate friend who died in a distant war, Not surprised to see us at his door, And in a feeling of mingled elation and melancholy, Pointing to the mud puddle in his cellar room. But who can teach us the kind of thinking that should be reported One of our political watchmen in the morning, at the direction of a certain uniformed baboon, Walk towards the big wall, line up, and take roll call. We only think about things we are familiar with— Kingdom of Rhythm, Mathematical Islands; Listen to the crowing of cocks in the distance, distinguish The rare moss on the gray wall; When our noble hands are bound,

Will laugh at those who are not as good as us, willing to make fun of Those idiots who are devoted to it, just for fun, Spit in their eyes. No one can help the man who has left his home, The old man lying dying in the motel, The fan rumbles in the sweltering night of the prairie, A little colorful light outside the window On his bed, like the dim hands of the past Treasures are being offered; and death comes swiftly. Breathless, he muttered in two languages ​​to pray to the gods, Thin shadows swelled and spread in his chest. A writhing, a tearing—that's to be expected. Perhaps he found the majestic nothingness;

Perhaps he spiraled up again from the eye of the tuber bud. As we passed that college the last time, You say, "I can't tell the difference between this place and hell What's the difference. " We hear the crematorium workers at the Graberman burners, Rough laughter, contemptuous hum-ha, condemnation of that retort It is greatly detrimental to the appearance of ghosts. We all avoid criticizing beliefs. The great Staover Blue Think of the role of planets as soul landings. Consider the fate of beasts.a Chinese Sipping tea with his ancestors, talking about etiquette,

I really have to imagine how much. I tore apart Poe's whimsical reverie. And discussing that beyond the scope of adults, A rainbow of bizarre childhood memories. Among our audience was a young priest, There is an old Communist Party member. IPH can at least Against the line of the church and the party. In the ensuing years it began to decline: Buddhism took root.A media smuggled in Pale jelly and floating mandolin music. Brother Karamazov, the classroom that creeps into everything mutters his misnomer that all things in the world are permitted; To gratify that insecure wish, The Freudian marches toward that grave. This tedious adventure helped me somewhat. I learned when surveying the abyss of death, what It should be ignored.When we lose our own children, I had an epiphany that there was nothing there: no self-appointed The soul touches a dry board with a key on it, take away her endearing title; and no ghost Will be in that dark garden, near the hickory tree, Rise gracefully to greet you and me. "Where's the rattling sound—did you hear it?" "The shutters are rattling on the other side of the stairs, my dear." If you can't sleep, turn on the light. I hate that wind!Let's play chess.Ok. "I'm sure it's not the shutters. Listen—it's ringing again." "It was a tendril caressing the windowpane." "What slid off the roof with a bang?" "That's Old Man Winter somersaulting in the mud." "What shall I do now? My horse is pinned." Who is still driving so late in the stormy night? That is the sorrow of the writer, that is the strong wind in March. That is the father and his child. Then the minutes and days, coming and going, She's no longer in our minds, Life is running fast, the furry worm is running. We head to Italy.Stretched limbs in the sun Lounging on the white sand with other pink or brown Americans together.Fly back to our small town. Discovering "The Wild Seahorse," my bundle of essays, Received "universal praise" (Sold three hundred copies a year). The school started again, and the hillsides were separated On the winding path, you see the endless stream of Car torrent, lights on, all return, Relive the dream of a college education.you keep working, Translate Marvell and Donne into French. It's been a stormy year: Hurricane Lolita blows from Florida to Maine. Mars is shining.The Shah of Iran gets married.Dour Russians act as spies. Ran has drawn a portrait of you.Then I died one night. The Crashaw Club invited me to discuss "Why Poetry Means to Us". I gave a sermon, short and dull. I'm leaving in a hurry to frustrate The so-called "question time" at the end, Those curmudgeonly fellows who come to these seminars, Just wanted to disagree, one of them stood up, Pointing aggressively at me with the pipe in his hand. Then it happened—the attack, the trance, Or my old problem strikes again.front row there It happened that there was a doctor sitting there.I fell right in front of his feet. My heart seemed to stop beating, Minutes passed before throbbing again, continue to trudge toward A more conclusive destination. Now please listen to me with your full attention. i can't tell How do I know - but I know for sure that I have passed that border.Everything I love is gone, But not a single aorta expressed regret. A rubber sun swings violently and sinks; The blood-black nothingness begins to weave A network where cells are connected Reconnect, reconnect with that trunk. And against that darkness, Shows a fountain of white water spraying high upwards. of course i understand that is by no means of our atoms; the impression that the sight leaves Not our kind of feeling.In life, anyone can quickly recognized Illusions of nature, so before his eyes The reed becomes a bird, the gnarled branch turned into an inchworm, the cobra's head into a Mischievous big broken-winged moth.but in In my example of this white fountain, what feels true can replace it, I think, Only those who live in that strange realm can comprehend And I'm just a loser. In no time I saw it melt away: I have returned to Earth, albeit insane. The incident I told made my doctor laugh. He was deeply skeptical, thinking that I was in that position, "Having hallucinations or dreams outright, But that might happen after the fact And not at the very moment of collapse, No, Mr Scheider. " But, doctor, I am dead! He smiled and said, "Not quite dead: just half a ghost." However, I demur.I keep on going in my head Replay that episode.I stepped off the podium again, Feeling hot all over, delirious, Seeing the fellow stand up and fall down, Not because a heckler pointed a pipe at me And maybe for a weak fat thing An unstable old heart, the kind The moment is ripe for judder and crash. My vision exudes authenticity.it has Its own authentic style, essence and whimsy. Indeed.As time goes by, it The rays of victory continue to rise vertically and shine brightly. By the blinding lights of the outside like streets and battles When I am troubled, I often turn to my heart for enlightenment, There in the background of my soul stands That Fountain of Honesty!And its appearance has always been Will soothe me wonderfully.Then, one day I found a miracle that seemed to be performed by twins. It was an anecdote in a magazine about a Mrs. Zi. Her heart was delivered in time by a surgeon Massage with your hands to restore the pulse. She told reporters about the "realm after death", Angels are mentioned in the report, the glitter of stained glass, A soft music, chosen hymns, and her mother's voice; But at the end she mentioned a place far away The view, a foggy orchard—let me quote: Beyond the orchard, through a smoke, I Catch a glimpse of a tall, white fountain—and wake up. Suppose on an unnamed island Captain Schmidt To discover a novel animal and capture it, Suppose Captain Schmidt comes from there later Bring back a hide, and the island is not a myth. Our fountain is a signpost and a marker Objectively exists in that darkness, Solid as bone, substantial as teeth, And almost mundane in its unflinching truth! The article is from the generous pen of Jem Coates, I wrote to Jem immediately and got her address. Drive westward for three hundred miles to have a conversation with her. Upon arrival, there was a burst of enthusiastic meowing. See that blue hair, those freckled hands, That joyful orchid-like temperament-knowing that I have fallen into a trap. "Who would miss such a privilege to meet such What about a poet's chances of becoming famous? " She couldn't be happier with my visit!I really want Ask a question.This is all set aside: "Let's talk about it next time." The journalist Still have her drafts.I shouldn't insist. She urges me to enjoy the fruitcake, which It all turned into a very stupid social visit. "I can't believe it," she said, it's you! I love your poems published in Blue Review. That poem about Mon Blon.I have a niece She climbed the Matterhorn.and that other song I don't understand.I mean that feeling. Because, of course, that tone of voice—but I'm so stupid! She does.I could have stuck to my guns. I could have asked her to tell me more about the two of us The white fountain seen in the "realm of the afterlife". But (I feel) if I bring up that detail, She would pounce, as if catching a gratifying Intimacy, a sacred union, Connecting her mysteriously to me, Suddenly our souls will be like Brother and sister on the verge of that sensitive incest shivering.I said, "time It's late……" I also visit Coates. I'm afraid he doesn't know where to put her draft. He retrieves his masterpiece from a steel filing cabinet: Completely correct.I haven't changed her style. There's only one misprint - which doesn't matter much: It's mountains, not fountains.Grand mood. Based on a misprint—O living God! As I drove home I thought: To be enlightened, Stop investigating my abyss? But I suddenly realized that this is The real point, the thesis of counterpoint; It can only be so: not in the text, but in the structure; Not in dreams, but in confounding coincidences, Not in superficial bullshit, but in a whole sensibility. right!That's enough for me to find in life Some connection, some interesting connection, some kind of interconnected pattern in this game, Artistic when plexiform, and a little orthographic The same enjoyment they find in playing such games. It doesn't matter who they are.no sound, No secret light comes from their whirling dwelling, But there they are, cold and silent Play an earthly game that raises pawns to A unicorn of ivory or a faun of ebony; Light a long life here, extinguish there A short life, killed a Balkan king; Prompted a high-altitude plane to fall from the sky chunk of frozen ice Smash a peasant; hide my key, Glasses or a pipe.put these events and objects with distant events Coordinate with disappearing objects.for accident Add luster to what might be. In my parka, I step in: Sybil, this is My unwavering conviction—"Close that door, my dear, Did you have a good trip? "Excellent - but more importantly I returned convinced I could grope for a little— A little--"Really, my dear?" Such a vague hope.