Chapter 4 third chapter

The sun is up.Shades of yellow-green light fell on the seashore, gilding the sides of weather-beaten boats with a golden gleam, and making sea erythema and its armored leaves gleaming blue like steel.As the waves fanned out onto the beach quickly, the sun almost filtered through the swift thin breakers.The girl who had just shaken her head and made all the jewels she wore--topaz, sapphire, and crystal gems that scattered sparks of light--all dance, now showed her eyebrows; Carve out a straight path over the waves.The former gleam of the waves, like the quivering scales of a fish, dimmed; they were congregated, the green troughs seemed deep and dark, and there probably schools of fish were swimming to and fro.When the swells came up and went down, they dropped a dark layer of twigs and bark, and rotten grass and sticks, on the beach, as if a boat had sunk, its sides splintered, and the The ship's man had swam onto land, leaped onto the precipice, and left his fragile cargo to be washed up on the beach by the tide.

In the garden, the little birds that had scrambled and twittered in the tree and the shrubbery at dawn now chirped in one chorus, shrill and piercing; Sometimes they sang in unison, as if aware of some company, and sometimes they chirped alone, as if towards the pale blue sky.When the black cat was stalking the bushes, when the cook startled them by throwing cinders on the ashes, they flew away with a roar.In their chirping there is fear, the anxiety of being hurt, and the thrill of being caught immediately.And, in the clear morning air, they chirped and chirped competitively, now flying high above the elm-tops, now chasing each other and singing in unison.They chase, escape, sometimes peck at each other, and sometimes fly towards the blue sky.When they got tired of chasing and flying, they flew down cheerfully, landed gracefully, returned to the ground, and perched quietly on the branches and walls, their clever eyes looked around, and at the same time, their little heads kept moving. Twirling around, conscious, alert, focused on something, especially a target.

Perhaps it was a snail shell, standing in the grass like a gray cathedral, a towering building with dark circles of burnt marks and green against the grass.Or the little birds saw the brilliance of the flowers that cast an erratic purple shadow across the flower-bed; and among the flowers the gray passages of purple shadows moved from stem to stem.Or, their own focused eyes were fixed on the little pale apple leaves; those leaves were waddling, about to fall, and shone obstinately among the pink apple blossoms with their petals.Or, they saw the never-ending raindrop hanging on the hedge, and in the raindrop, huddled the shadows of the whole house and the tall elms; The sun, the little eyes turned into golden beads.

Now, as they looked here and there, they looked further down, below the flowers, through those dark passages down into the lightless world of dead leaves and flowers.Then one of them swooped down gracefully, landed precisely, and pecked through the large, limp body of the helpless caterpillar; pecked and pecked, and left the Caterpillar, let it rot.Around the withered and rotten rhizomes of those flowers, there is a breath of death; on the swollen surface of those moldy and swollen things, there are drops of water seeping out.The skin of the rotten fruit is cracked, and the oozing stuff is sticky and stuck on it.Yellow secretions flowed out like slugs, and from time to time, an indescribable thing with a head on both ends slowly wriggled from side to side.The little birds with shining golden eyes rushed into the green leaves, curiously inspecting those pus and those drops of water.Sometimes, they poke hard into the slimy mixture with their sharp beaks.

Now the rays of the rising sun fell on the windows, touched the red-bordered curtains, and reflected circles and streaks.Then, in the growing light, the whiteness of the curtains was cast on the dishes; the blade gathered its light and became more dazzling.Chairs and cupboards loomed in the shadows behind, and although they were separate, they looked like one unintelligible mass.The reflection of the mirror on the wall seemed whiter and brighter.The real flowers on the windowsill are accompanied by illusory flower shadows.Yet those phantoms are also part of the flower, for whenever a bud opens naturally, the paler flower in the mirror opens a bud likewise.

got windy.The waves drummed against the shore like a band of hooded warriors, men with kerchiefs on their heads and spears smeared with poison, waving their spears aloft. The weapon, aimed at the grazing herd, attacked the white sheep. "The intricacies of things are becoming more and more pressing," said Bernard, "and here, at the University, the hectic and urgent nature of life is at its height, and the mere turmoil of everyday life becomes more and more disturbing every day. Overwhelmed. Something new emerges from this giant lucky bag every moment. Who am I? I ask myself. Is it this? No, I'm that. Especially now, when I Leaving a room while others were chatting, my solitary footsteps echoing on the cobbled road, while I saw the moon rising majestically and indifferently over the old chapel - it was then clear that, I am not a simple person, but many complex individuals. Bernard, in public, is always talkative and a little frivolous; but when he is alone in private, he is always taciturn and secretive ...that's exactly what they don't understand, because there's no doubt they're talking about me right now, that I'm always avoiding them, that I'm always evasive. They don't understand that I have to make all kinds of transformations; have to Concealing the appearances and exits of the various people who take turns playing the role of Bernard. I am uncharacteristically concerned about the circumstances I find myself in. In a train car, if I don't ask first-- Is he an architect? Is she a little off-putting? I can't even be there to read. I notice poor Seamus today with sensitivity, his face covered with acne, and it's painfully painful to give Billie It was too hopeless for Jackson to make a good impression. I was distressed by it, and I warmly invited him to dinner. He would think that I had a good impression of him, although it was not. This True. Yet, 'despite an almost womanly sentimentality' (I'm quoting the man who wrote my biographer), 'Bernard had the logical cool-headedness of a man'. So, People who give the impression of being simple-minded--which is generally a good thing (for simplicity of mind seems to be a virtue in itself)--are always the ones who hold their own in the current. (I immediately Saw a fish with its nose pointing in the opposite direction of the river's flow.) Gannon, Lysette, Peter, Hawkins, Lapont, Neville - all fish in the current .But you know, you, my self that always calls (calling and no one coming must be an excruciating experience; it makes midnight empty and shows that always what about the looks of the old men in the club—they have given up hope of summoning the self that will never come again), you know that what I say tonight can only barely express myself. In my heart I am also whole when I am a different being. I am passionately sympathetic; and like a toad in a hole, I am indifferent and indifferent to whatever happens. Few of you who are talking about me have the dual ability to feel and think like I do. Lysette, you see, he knows how to hunt hares; Hawkins is always in the librarySpent a rather hard-working afternoon here.Peter has a young girlfriend in the circulation library.You're all busy, engrossed, engrossed in it, and literally pulling out all of your energy—except Neville, whose mind is too complex to be agitated by any single activity.I too was too complicated.There is always something about me that remains elusive, independent.

"Now, one of the things that shows how sensitive I am to my environment is that right now when I walk into my room, turn on the lights, and see the table, the papers, and the pajamas I'm throwing over the back of the chair, I realize that I'm The impulsive and brooding man is that reckless and dangerous character who throws off his coat casually, grabs his pen, and immediately scribbles something like this to the girl he's in love with. letter. "Yes, everything is going well. I am in a good mood at the moment. I can write at one stroke this letter which I have so many times underwritten and never finished. I have just come into my room; I have thrown down my hat and cane; I scribbled down the first thing that came into my head, and I didn't even bother to flatten the paper. It was going to be a brilliant essay, and she'd think it was done in one go, without pause, without deletion. Look This letter, how scribbled--here is a blot of careless ink. Everything but speed and informality should be reckoned with. I will write in a quick, scribbled, thin hand, exaggerated The lower stroke of the 'y' is very long, and the horizontal stroke of the 't' looks like this-- a dash. The date should only be signed on the 17th, Tuesday, followed by a question mark. But at the same time I She must also be given the impression that although he—for it was not myself—writes so unthinkingly, so sloppily, there is something subtle about intimacy and respect in it. I must mention vaguely To some of the things we talked about when we were together - replaying certain remembered situations. But I had to make her feel (and this is very important) that I was just mentioning something casually in the most free way in the world and one thing after another. I will casually mention how I rescued the man who fell into the water (I have a wonderful word for it), Mrs. Moffat and her remarks (I have records), And casually mention some thoughts about a book I read, a rare book, apparently accidental, but profound (profound reviews are often written by chance ). I want her to suddenly say, while combing her hair or putting out a candle: 'Where did I read that? Ah, in a letter from Bernard.' That's the quickness I need , warm, heart-melting effect, is this style of sentence after sentence, eloquent, rushing out. Who am I thinking about? Byron, of course. In some ways, I am indeed very much like Byron .Maybe a little savoring of Byron's words will help my mood. Let me read a page or two. No; this is too dull; this is too disorganized. This is a little too formal. Oh , I'm about to get the hang of it. Right now I'm catching his rhythm in my mind (rhythm is the main thing in writing). Well, I'm going to write right away without delay... …

"However, it didn't work out as expected. Expectations fell flat. I couldn't muster up enough energy to make this transition. My real me was out of touch with who I pretended to be. If I re-wrote, she would feel 'Bernard is posturing, pretending to be a literary man; Bernard is imagining his biographer' (which is true). No, I will write this as soon as I have breakfast tomorrow. letter. "Now, let me fill my head with scenes from my imagination. Let me imagine that I am invited to stay at the Royal Estate of Lufton, Restoff, three miles from Longley Station. I am in the twilight Two or three long-legged dogs stalked quietly in the courtyard of the imposing, though dilapidated, mansion. The hall was carpeted with faded colors; The gentleman was pacing up and down the balcony, smoking his pipe. The whole style showed a noble poverty and military connections. On the writing desk was the hoof of a hunting horse--a much-loved horse. beloved horse. 'Do you ride?' 'Yes, sir, I love riding.' 'My daughter is waiting for us in the living room.' My heart was pounding in my chest. She was standing Beside a low table; she's just been hunting; she's like a naughty, boyish girl, munching on sandwiches. I've made an excellent impression on the Colonel. I'm not very bright. , he felt; but not too immature. I can also play billiards. At this time, the beautiful maid who has been in this family for thirty years came in. The pattern on the tableware is that kind of oriental long-tailed bird Son. Over the mantelpiece hangs a portrait of her mother in tulle. Within limits I can paint the details of my surroundings quite easily. But can I make it have the desired effect? ​​Can I hear What about her voice—the tone of voice she used to call me 'Bernard' when it was just the two of us alone?

"Honestly, I need other people's inspiration. Alone, because of my own gray fire of life, I will often find the weak link in my own story. The real novelist, the absolutely simple-minded person, can never read the story. To fantasize indefinitely. He won't say what he says like I do. He won't have this depressing feeling like the dim ashes in a dead furnace. A shadow floats before my eyes. .Everything is blurred. I don't make things up anymore. "Let me cheer up. On the whole, today is a good day. The dew that gathers in the night on the roof of the soul is round and colorful. The morning is very good; the afternoon is a walk. I like it Looking at those pinnacles in the gray fields. I like to glance over people's shoulders. Things keep going on in my head. I have a rich imagination and a keen sense. After dinner, I like the drama. I put our usual Many things that we vaguely perceived in the friends we knew together were kneaded into a concrete image. I realized my transformation without any effort. But let me sit down now, and the black coal sitting in this place has nothing to do. Beside the dim fire with its dark edges veiled, ask yourself the decisive question: Which of these characters is the real me? It depends a great deal on the room. When I say to myself A 'Bernard' and who came in? A loyal, sarcastic man, disillusioned but not bitter. A man of no definite age or occupation. It was myself, and nothing else That's all. Or he, now with the poker, rattling the cinders and making them fall off the grate. 'God,' he said to himself, looking at the falling ashes. , 'What a big dust!' Then he added, gloomily but somewhat consolingly: 'Mrs. Moffat will come and clean them up...' , knocking there, hitting the fender on one side of the wagon, and the fender on the other side of the wagon, I must have often said to myself, repeating this epigram: 'Oh, yes, Mo Mrs. Fate will come and clean them up.' Repeat and go to bed."

"In a world made up of this moment," said Neville, "why distinguish, distinguish? Nothing needs to be given a name unless we can change them by doing so. Let them be Exist, this river bank, this beauty, and I am happy for this brief moment. The sun is scorching. I see the river. I see the trees mottled and yellow in the autumn sun. The boat floats leisurely, Through a patch of red, and then a patch of green. A bell is tolling in the distance, but not a knell for death. A bell is tolled for life too. A leaf falls for joy. Oh Oh, how I love life! See how the willow tree thrusts its beautiful little tops into the sky! See how the boat goes through the willow bushes, full of lazy, carefree, strong-bodied people. Young people. They are listening to the gramophone; they are eating fruit in paper bags. They are throwing banana peels and letting them sink in the water like eels. Everything they do is so graceful. Bottles of spices and trinkets of all kinds; their room was stuffed with oars and reproductions of paintings, but they made it all look beautiful. The little boat passed under the bridge. Then came another. Then there was another one. It was Percival, lounging on the cushion, very poised and poised. No, it was just one of his followers, imitating him poised and poised He was the only one who was unaware of their mischief, and if he caught them on the spot, he merely beat them with his fists a few times in a good mood. They also paddled under the bridge and passed through 'Fountain of weeping willows', through their beautiful shades of yellow and purple. The breeze blows; the curtains flutter; Yet not bloated; still pleasing to the eye, though eons old on the old peatlands. Now the familiar rhythm begins to resound in me; Their heads, repeatedly up and down. Yes, I am a poet. I am undoubtedly a good poet. The boat and the youth are gone, and the trees in the distance, 'fountain-like weeping willows' '. I saw it all. I felt it all. I was inspired. My eyes filled with tears. Yet even as I felt it, I fueled my frenzy with fervor. It came out Sweat. It becomes affectation, hypocrisy. Words, words, a succession of words, how swiftly they gallop--how violently they shake their manes and tails, but how can I Nor can I throw myself on their backs; I cannot make women and nets disappear into nothingness, and fly with words. There are some defects in me—some fatal indecision, which will become if I don't pay attention Positive and unscrupulous. But it is hard to believe that I would not have been a great poet. If IWhat I wrote last night is not good poetry, so what is it?Am I too smooth, too quick?I have no idea.Sometimes I don't know myself, or how to measure, name, and inventory the qualities that make me who I am.

"Now, something has left me; something has left me to meet the one who is to come, and to convince me I know who it is without looking. If a man adds a Friend, what a strange change it will make him, even at a distance. When friends remember us, how good their help must be to a man. But when a man is remembered by others, How painful it must be to be comforted by another so that his self is adulterated and muddled and made a part of him. As he draws nearer, I become less myself and become A mix of Neville and someone - with whom? - and Bernard? Yes, with Bernard, and it's precisely this question I'm going to put to Bernard: Who am I?" "How strange," said Bernard, "this willow tree looks as if I've seen it with someone. I was Byron, and this tree was Byron's tree, with tears and rain , lamenting sadly. Now we are looking at this tree together, it has such a unified appearance, every branch is so neatly defined, under the compulsion of your clear mind, I will tell you what I feel . "I've felt your reproach, I've felt your strength. With you I've become a slovenly, impulsive creature with scone grease on my bandanna. Yes Yes, I hold Gray's "Elegy" in one hand; with the other I pick out the last scone that's soaked in butter and sticks to the bottom of the plate. It repells you; I feel you keenly Stimulated by this, and eager to regain your favor, I began to tell you how I dragged Percival out of bed; I described his slippers, his desk, his The dripping candle; the surly, complaining tone of his voice when I threw the blanket off his feet; when he burrowed under the blanket like a giant cocoon. I pictured it all thus, Although your heart is full of personal sadness (because there is always some hidden situation that governs our encounter), you finally surrendered, you laughed, and you liked me again. My magic and chatter I am also delighted by the extraordinary words, natural and unexpected, when I lift the veil over things with words so rich and infinite that I cannot tell myself. Surprised too. I've observed it. When I'm talking, all kinds of images just bubble up from my head. This, I said to myself, is just what I need I ask myself, why can't I finish the letter I'm writing? Because there are always unfinished letters lying around in my room. Whenever I'm with you, I guess that I probably I am among the most gifted. I am full of the joy of youth, full of potential, full of sensitivity to what is to come. I seem to see myself recklessly but vigorously circling the flowers Whirling, humming into the crimson calyx, making the blue chimneys resound with my mighty rumble. How richly shall I enjoy my youth (it was you who made me so Feelings). And London. And freedom. But shut up. You're not listening. You're showing some Dissent. From such signs we may deduce the unhappiness of our friends. 'In your abundance,' you seem to say, 'please don't leave me alone.' 'Shut up,' you say.' Come Ask me what pain I have.' "Then let me make you. (You did to me.) You lie on this warm bank, on this pleasant dying October day Here, watch the boats pass one by one the dwindling willow. And you wished to be a poet; and you wished to be a lover. Yet your sober mind, and your ruthlessly honest sense ( I should thank you for these Latin phrases; these qualities of yours make me feel a little uncomfortable, and see clearly the incomplete and weak places in my talents) but make you hesitate. You never indulged in mysteries. You never Don't let rose or yellow mist cloud your eyes. "Am I right? Do I read the subtle gesture of your left hand correctly? If so, show me your poems; hand over the pages you wrote last night, you I was so inspired when I wrote it that you feel a little embarrassed now. Because you don't believe in inspiration, yours or mine. Let's go back together, across the bridge, through the shade of the elms , go back to my room; where, with the walls round us, and the red serge curtains drawn at the windows, we may be safe from these distracting noises, from the scent of the lime tree and all the smells , and every other movement of life; these well-groomed and stylishly dressed shopgirls walking haughtily, these slumped, heavy-hearted old women; The furtive look—that figure could be Jenny, or Susan, or Rhoda, gone as she walked across the avenue? Oh, I can guess how you feel from a slight trembling in your body; I fled from you; I buzzed away like a swarm of endlessly wandering bees, with none of your patience to fixate on a single object. But I'll be back .” "Whenever I see a building like this," said Neville, "I can't bear the fact that there are shopwomen here. Their giggling giggles, their gossiping gossip always annoy me, always disturb my mind." Serenity, and always reminds me of our fall, when I am in the midst of the purest joys. "But now, after brief encounters with the bicycles, the smell of limes, and the figures passing by in the disturbing streets, we return to our domain. Here we are the masters of tranquility and order, the The inheritor of the glorious tradition. The light began to cast long and narrow light and shadows on the square. The mist rising from the river is gradually covering these ancient places and gently clinging to these ancient, gray stones. At this time, the rural village The foliage is dim in the alley, the sheep cough dryly in the wet field; but here, in your room, we are dry. We talk quietly. The flame rises and dims, reflecting a The knob on the door shone brightly. "You've been reading Byron. You've marked those passages that seem to be in keeping with your own character. I've found marks next to all the verses that seem to express ironic yet fierce temperament; it's a moth With the impetuous temper of a man, he slammed into the hard mirror. When you scratched those places with your pencil, you were thinking: 'I threw off my cloak like that. I also faced fate. flicking my fingers.' But Byron never made tea like you did. You filled the teapot to the brim and the water overflowed as soon as you closed the lid. There was a puddle on the table over there. Brown water - running through your books and papers. Now you dab it dry with your handkerchief fumblingly. Then you stuff your handkerchief back into your pocket - that's not Byron's way ;this is your way; it speaks so much of your nature that twenty years later, when we are both famous, gouty and unbearable, when I think of you, I That must be the scene that comes to mind; and if you die, I'm sure I'll weep. You were a young follower of Tolstoy; you're a young follower of Byron now; and perhaps you'll be Meredith and you'll go to see Paris on the Easter holidays and come back wearing a black tie like some odious Frenchman nobody's ever heard of. Then I'll stop talking to you . "I am a man--myself. I will never imitate the Catullus I admire. I am the most uninventive kind of student, with a dictionary here, a notebook there, and the past participle All kinds of strange usages are recorded in it. However, a person cannot always hold a knife to carve these ancient inscriptions. I can always draw the red serge curtain, like a block Stand still like marble, pale in the light, and read my book? That would be a glorious life: indulged in the pursuit of perfection; Wherever you lead, into the desert, into the sand, you will be blind to temptations and seductions; "However I was too nervous to finish my speech well. I paced up and down, trying to hide my excitement, and talked quickly. I hate your greasy handkerchiefs—you would Dirty your Don Juan. You're not listening to me. You're making up all this nonsense about Byron. And while you're posing with your cloak, your cane, I'm going to Reveal to you a secret that has never been told to anyone; I want you (as I stand with my back to you) to take my life in your hands and tell me, am I not destined to always To suffer the resentment of those I love. "I am standing with my back to you, anxious. No, my hands are absolutely calm now. I made a place in the bookcase and inserted Don Juan exactly; look, well. I would rather be Love; I'd rather be famous than go through the sands of perfection. But am I doomed to be repugnant? Am I a poet? Believe it. That crowd behind my lips, cold as lead, like Bullet-like lust, that thing I try to get from shopgirls, women, that pose, that vulgarity of life (for I love that vulgarity), as I toss my poems— Catch it - it's all coming at you." "He shot out of the room like an arrow," Bernard said. "He left me his poems. Oh, friendship! I would like to put flowers between the pages of Shakespeare's sonnets! Oh, friendship! How sharp your arrows are - pierced here, here, And here. He turned to me and looked at me; he handed me his poems. All the fog that hung over my life was lifted. Such a trust I will cherish till I die That day. He was like a long wave, like a billowing wave, sweeping past me; All exposed. It's really humbling; I've turned into some tiny pebbles. All illusions are gone. 'You're not Byron; you're just yourself.' Infected by another, fused with him For a life—what a strange thing it is. "How queer it must be to feel the silken thread that emanates from us, and stretches its wonderful filaments through the misty spaces of the world that lies between. He is gone; here I stand, Holding his poems in my hand. It was the thread that connected us. But now, to feel that distant look gone, that searching gaze dimmed and obscured, how comforting, how reassuring. Ah! draw the curtains, and keep no one else present; feel yourself from those shadowy corners-they, those poor sojourners, those familiar companions, driven into hiding by his mighty power, were here Hidden shelter--how glad it was to be back. And now the taunting, observant elves--who watch over me even when stabbed and in a crisis--are thronging again The team is back. With them in, I'm Bernard; I'm Byron; I'm this, I'm that, and so on. They're a black mass, as ever, with their antics and judgment to fill me up and overshadow the wonderful and innocent feelings I have in the heat of the moment. Because I have more of myself than Neville imagines. We're not like our friends trying to satisfy their needs As simple as I wish. But love is simple. "Now my sojourners, my familiar companions, are back. Now the breach which Neville had stabbed in my defenses with his astonishingly beautiful sword is repaired. I am almost whole again无缺的了；而且将奈维尔在我身上所忽略了的能量全都发挥出来，这使我发现自己是多么兴高采烈啊。我一边拉开窗帘，从窗口向外望去，一边心想：'那是不会让他快活的；但却可以让我欢欣鼓舞。'（我们总是把自己的朋友作为参照，来测量我们自己的身高。）我的视野总能包容奈维尔所无法企及的东西。他们在路的那边高声唱着狩猎歌曲。他们带着小猎兔犬正在举行某种表演。在四轮大马车驶过拐弯处的时候，那些总是同时掉转头去的戴制服帽的小伙子们，正在互相拍着肩膀夸夸其谈。但是奈维尔，却娇里娇气地避开干扰，如同一个阴谋家，偷偷摸摸地匆匆溜回他的房间。我看见他一屁股坐在他的矮矮的椅子上，两眼凝视着此时此刻被假想成一座坚固建筑物的炉火。他在想，要是生活能够维持这种恒久，要是生活能够具有这种秩序——因为他最最渴望的就是秩序，而最最嫌恶我的拜伦式的邋遢凌乱；这样想着，他拉上了他的窗帘，闩上了他的门。他的双眼（因为他陷入了爱情；爱情的不祥阴影主宰了我们刚才的会面）充溢渴念；噙满泪水。他抓起火钳，猛地一捅，捣毁了在燃烧的煤火中瞬间闪现的坚固之物。一切都在变化。包括青春和爱情。小船已经驶过垂柳形成的拱门，现在到了桥洞下面。珀西瓦尔、托尼、阿契，或是别的人，将会去印度。我们将不会重逢。想到这些，他伸手拿来他的笔记本——用颜色斑驳的纸整整齐齐装订成的一册——然后用他此时此刻最最钦慕的某个诗人的风格，狂热地写下一行行长长的诗句。 但是我想继续呆下去；我要倚着窗台；我要倾听。那边嬉闹的合唱声又传了过来。这会儿他们正在打碎瓷器——这也算是他们的习惯。他们的合唱，像一股迸溅着越过岩石、粗暴地撞击老树的激流，以非凡壮观的恣肆无束，奔放向前地冲过了悬崖峭壁。他们乘着车大摇大摆地前进；他们飞奔不止，跟在猎狐犬后面，跟在足球后面；他们紧贴着船桨，像几个面粉袋似的，猛升猛降。所有的差异都不见了——他们做的就像是一个人。在总是起风的十月，风一阵喧闹一阵寂静地在庭院里吵吵闹闹地刮着。现在他们又在打碎瓷器了——这就是他们的习惯。一个步履不稳的老妇背着一个口袋，摇摇晃晃地经过被火光映红的窗前，往家走去。她有些害怕它们会落下来砸在她身上，使她跌倒在街沟里。然而她停下来，仿佛想在那如流的火花迸射、烧焦的纸屑飞腾的篝火上烤烤她那骨节突出、患风湿病的双手。这个老妇人靠着火光照耀的窗户留连不去。这是一个对照。这情景我看到了，而奈维尔没有看到；这情景我感受到了，而奈维尔没有感受到。因此，他将达到完美，而我将一事无成，并且在死后我除了留下一些泥沙混杂的、不完美的辞句，留不下任何别的东西。 “我现在想起了路易斯。对这个萧索的秋夜，对这种打碎瓷器和高唱狩猎歌曲的行为，对奈维尔、拜伦以及我们在这儿的生活，路易斯会用什么样幸灾乐祸、但一针见血的言辞来形容呢？他的薄薄的嘴唇微微地噘了起来；他的脸颊苍白；他在一间办公室里全神贯注地看一些复杂难解的商业文件。'我的父亲，布里斯班的一个银行家'——由于为此感到羞耻，路易斯老是谈到他——破产了。所以，路易斯，学校里最优秀的高材生，只好坐在一间办公室里。但是我在寻求对比的时候，常常会感到他的目光正在望着我们，他那嘲弄的眼神，他那无礼的目光，把我们当作他老是在办公室里审核的某笔大宗账目中一些无足轻重的条款，累加在一起。将来有那么一天，他会拿起一只细笔尖的钢笔，在红墨水里蘸一蘸，把结算完成；我们的总额将会一目了然；可是这还不能算完。 “梆！他们现在把一张椅子摔到墙上。那么我们是不可救药的了。我的情况也毫无把握。我不是正沉湎在毫无来由的感触中吗？是的，当我将身子探出窗外，把我抽的香烟往下一扔，让它轻轻旋转着落到地面上，我感到路易斯甚至正在瞧着我的香烟。而且他会说：'这倒还有点儿意思。可究竟是什么意思呢？'” “人们继续来来往往地走过，”路易斯说，“他们络绎不绝地从这家饮食店的窗前走过。汽车，大篷货车，公共汽车；接着又是公共汽车，大篷货车，汽车——它们不断地从窗前开过。在远处，我看见一座座商店和一幢幢房屋；还有一座是教堂灰蒙蒙的尖顶。在近旁，是那些摆放着一盘盘小面包和一盘盘火腿三明治的玻璃货架。从茶水壶里冒出来的水汽，把所有东西都变得朦胧难辨。一股由牛肉和羊肉、香肠和马铃薯泥散发出来的油腻腻、潮乎乎的气味，像一张潮湿的网似的悬浮在饮食店中央。我把我的书竖着靠在一个伍斯特沙司瓶子上，竭力要显得跟周围的人没有差别。 “可是我做不到。（他们继续来来往往地走过，他们继续熙来攘往地经过这里。）我无法看我的书，也无法充满自信地点我要的牛肉。我反复地念叨：'我是一个普普通通的英国人；我是一个普普通通小职员。'然而，我却始终望着那些坐在邻桌的小个子男人，以便确信我能做得跟他们一个样。他们一脸温和相，面皮打着皱纹，总是随着多变的心情而抽搐，像猴子似的紧缠不放，面对眼前的特殊场合显得特别圆滑；他们正在打着各式各样的手势，讨价还价地拍卖一架钢琴。那架钢琴挡住了大堂的通道；所以他宁愿只要十英镑就把它出售。人们继续来来往往地走过；他们继续在教堂尖顶的背景下，在火腿三明治的盘子前，来来往往。我的意识的飘带摇曳不定，不断被他们的嘈杂纷乱所打断，所困扰。所以我没法一心一意地吃我的饭。'我宁愿只要十英镑。钢琴架子很漂亮；但是它挡住了大堂的通道。'他们就像浑身羽毛油光水滑的海鸠，在水中潜入潜出。任何超出那个定价的付出都是虚荣的表现。那就是卑贱；那就是平庸。与此同时，一顶顶帽子晃来晃去；门不停地推开关上。我对骚动、对纷乱十分敏感；对幻灭和绝望十分敏感。如果这意味着一切，那这便毫无意义。然而，我同时又感觉到了饮食店里的这种节奏。它就像一支华尔兹舞曲，曲调时高时低，回旋往复。那些女招待平稳地擎着托盘，一阵儿风似的进进出出，转来转去，传递着一盘盘蔬菜、一碟碟杏脯和果冻，把它们准确及时地送到顾客的桌子上。这些平庸的男人把她们的节奏跟自己的节奏配合起来（'我宁愿只要十英镑；因为它堵在大堂的通道里。'），他们享用着他们的蔬菜，享用着他们的杏脯和果冻。那么，在这连续不断的过程中，有什么不连贯的地方呢？有什么裂隙让人从中可以看出不对头的地方呢？这种循环是连续不断的；这种和谐是完美无缺的。此乃核心节奏；此乃支配一切的主发条。我注视着它伸展，回缩；接着又一次伸展。可是我却没有被容纳进去。要是我开口说话，模仿着他们的口音，他们就会竖起他们的耳朵等着我再讲，以便能辨别出我来自哪里——如果我是来自加拿大或者澳大利亚，那么我，这个最渴望被别人爱的怀抱接纳的人，就会永远是一个异乡人。我，一个渴望感受到平常人呵护的浪涛将自己淹没的人，凭眼角的一瞥就会看见远处的景象；就会注意到那些在持续不断的混乱中晃来晃去的帽子。那彷徨、烦恼的心灵的怨诉（有个牙齿残缺的妇人正在柜台前畏畏葸葸地诉说），仿佛是冲着我说的：'求主把我们，把这些乱糟糟地来来往往、晃晃悠悠地在眼前摆满盛着火腿三明治盘子的橱窗旁徘徊的人，全都带回羊栏里去吧。'是的；我要使你们获得秩序。 “我要读读这本靠在伍斯特沙司瓶子上的书。它里面有一些金属般的音调，一些完美无缺的表述，字数寥寥，却诗意盎然。你们，你们所有的人都忽略了它。这位死去的诗人所说的话，你们已经全忘了。可是我却没法给你们翻译出来，好让它那摄人魂魄的力量吸引住你们，让你们明白你们是毫无目的的，那种节奏是粗俗而没有价值的；而这样就会消除堕落，否则如果你们对自己的毫无目的无知无觉，这种堕落就会浸透你们，使你们衰老，即使你们正当年轻。翻译这首诗歌，让它容易读懂，是我未来的使命。我，柏拉图和维吉尔的知心朋友，将去敲那扇漆着斑纹的橡木门。我反对这种流行一时的熟铁做的捅火棍。我绝不会容忍这种无聊的、流行的宽边低顶毡帽和洪堡式毡帽，也绝不会容忍那些带翎羽的、五彩斑斓的女人头饰。（苏珊，我所敬重的人，在夏天只戴一顶朴实无华的草帽。）还有那种死读书，那凝成大小不等的水珠、沿着窗格玻璃淌下来的水汽；那些公共汽车急促刹车和猛然开动的声音；那种在柜台前面犹豫不决的神态；以及那些乏味无聊、拖长声调讲的毫无人之意趣的连篇累牍废话；我要让你们获得秩序。 “我的根须深深地穿过地下的铅矿和银矿，穿过散发着各种气味的潮湿的、沼泽般的地域，延伸到一个当中由橡树的根须纠结成一团的树根疙瘩里面。尽管封闭未露而且幽暗难辨，尽管泥土堵塞了我的两耳，我却听到了关于战争的传闻，也听到了夜莺的鸣唱；我感觉到一批批人流，成群结队地满世界奔走寻求文明，就像一群群候鸟定期迁徙追寻夏天；我还看见成群的女人提着红色水罐走向尼罗河河畔。我在一个花园里醒来，因为我的脖子后面被什么东西碰了一下，那是一个热吻，珍妮的热吻；我铭记着这个吻，就像一个人牢记着一次半夜大火灾中那些慌乱的呼喊、摇摇欲坠的梁柱和红一束黑一束的光影。我一直在睡睡醒醒。我一会儿睡，一会儿醒。我看到了那个微光闪烁的茶壶；那些盛满淡黄色三明治的玻璃格盘；那些高踞在柜台前的高脚凳子上的、身穿宽大外衣的男人；在他们身后，我还看到了永恒。那是一个戴着头巾的男人用一根烧红的烙铁在我哆嗦的皮肉上烫下的烙印。我看到这家饮食店耸立着，它背后紧靠着的是羽毛蓬松但却被包扎起来的、仍然在振动但却已经合拢的往事之鸟的翅膀。因此，我噘起嘴唇，我显得病弱苍白；我心怀憎恨，满腹牢骚，露出一副令人厌恶和讨厌的脸色，转过身去望着正在紫杉树下逍遥闲逛的伯纳德和奈维尔；他们继承了祖上传下来的安乐椅；他们拉严房间的窗帘，让灯光正好照亮他们的书本。 “苏珊，我非常敬重；因为她坐在那儿做着针线活。她坐在一间屋子里，借着寂静的灯光缝缝补补，庄稼在窗户的近旁发出簌簌的声响，赐给我安全的感觉。因为我是她们所有人当中最弱最小的一个。我是一个眼睛总是盯着自己的脚板、盯着河水在砾石滩上冲成的小河沟瞧的孩子。我说，这是一只蜗牛；那是一片树叶。我喜欢蜗牛；我喜欢树叶。我老是最小的，最天真无知的，最容易轻信别人的一个人。你们每个人都有依靠。我却是孤立无助的。当那个头发盘成辫子的女招待扭着腰肢走过来时，她立刻就把你们要的杏脯和果冻递了上来，就像一个姐姐似的。你们则是她的兄弟。可是当我掸掸马甲上的面包屑，站起来时，却把一笔太大的小费，一个先令，悄悄地塞到盘子底下，好让她在我离开之前不至于发现它；这样，当我走出弹簧门以后，她一边哈哈笑着一边把它捡起来时所流露的那种轻蔑，才不至于将我戳痛。” “现在风掀起了窗帘，”苏珊说，“那些粗糙无光的碗、罐，和那些已经有了破洞的旧安乐椅，现在都已清晰可辨了。平常消退不见的黯淡条纹又散布在了糊墙纸上。鸟儿的大合唱已经结束，只有一只鸟儿此时正在卧室的窗前啾啁而鸣。我要穿上长袜子，悄悄地迈出卧室的门，然后下楼穿过厨房走出去，从花房旁边穿过花园走到田野上去。这会儿还是大清早。沼泽地上大雾笼罩。天气萧索而又僵硬，俨然一块裹尸的麻布。不过，它会变得柔和起来；它会变得温暖起来。此时此刻，在这个大清早，我感到我就是这田野，我就是这谷仓，我就是这一棵棵的树；这一群一群的鸟儿是我的；还有这只小野兔，在我差点一脚踩在它身上的一刹那跳开的这只小野兔，也是我的。那只懒洋洋地伸展宽大翅膀的苍鹭是我的；那头一边一步一步地往前挪动、一边嘎吱嘎吱地大声咀嚼着的奶牛是我的；还有那只迅疾飞掠而下的燕子；那片挂在天际的淡淡的红晕，和红晕消退之后跟着出现的蓝茵茵的光影；还有这寂静，这钟声，和那个正在田野里牵驾车之马的男人的呼唤；——这一切全都是我的。 “谁也不能将我分裂或是将我一分为二。我曾经被送进学校；我曾经被送到瑞士去完成我的学业。我憎恶亚麻油毡；我憎恶冷杉树和山。让我此刻扑倒在这片平坦的土地上，躺在片片云彩正缓缓漂游的灰白的天空下吧。马车沿着大道向这边驶来，显得越来越大了。羊群麇集在田野当中。鸟儿聚集在大路中央——它们还不需要飞起来。木柴烧出的烟冉冉上升。拂晓时分的清冷感也随之消散了。现在白天已经开始。色彩已经复苏。白天藉着它的各种谷物掀起层层金黄的波浪，大地沉甸甸地悬在我的脚下。 “然而我是谁，我，靠在这扇门上用猎狗似的鼻子警惕着四周的人是谁呢？我觉得有时候（我还不到二十岁）自己不是一个女人，而是洒落在这扇门上、这片土地上的亮光。我就是四季，有时候我想，是元月，五月，十一月；是泥泞，迷雾，清晨。我不能任人摆布，也不能温雅地随波逐流，或是与别的人融合相处。但是现在，当我靠在这儿，直到门框在我的胳膊上压出印子，我便感觉到我身上所增加的体重。在学校的时候，在瑞士的时候，我身上已经增加了某种东西，某种实实在在的东西。那不是叹息和大笑，也不是绕圈子和随口乱说；不是罗达的眼光越过我们的肩头、望向我们身后时，她脸上出现的那副奇怪表情；也不是珍妮那种身子和四肢浑然连成一体的脚尖立地的旋转舞。我的一举一动都是凶猛的。我不能和其他人搅混在一起，轻轻地飘来飘去。我最喜欢的是路上相遇的牧羊人的那种凝视；是在壕沟里的一辆大车旁边给孩子喂奶的吉卜赛女人的那种凝视，将来我也会那样给我自己的孩子喂奶。因为过不了多久，在蜜蜂围着蜀葵花嗡嗡嗡地飞舞的燠热的正午时分，我的情人就会来到。他将站在那棵雪松下面。他对我说一句话，我就回答他一句话。我要把我身上所形成的东西全部交给他。我会生孩子；我会拥有扎着围裙的女用人；拥有手持干草叉的雇工；拥有一间厨房，在那儿，他们会把生病的羔羊抱进来，放在筐子里暖和暖和；在那儿，一根根火腿悬挂着，一棵棵大葱闪着亮光。我会像我的母亲，围着蓝色围裙，不声不响地锁上食品柜。 “现在我觉得饿了。我要唤来我的塞特狗。我心里想着摆放在一间明亮房间里的干面包片、新鲜面包、黄油和一个个洁白的盘子。我要穿过田野回家去。我会沿着这条长满草的小径，迈着坚定有力的大步走去，时而转个弯避开一个泥坑，时而轻轻地跳上一个土堆。我的粗布衬衫沾上了湿漉漉的水珠；我的鞋子变得柔软而且发黑。白天丢开了僵硬的面孔，不时变幻着灰暗、碧绿和赭褐色的光影。那些鸟儿早已不再在大路上麇集了。 “我走回来，就像一只猫咪或一只狐狸回到窝里，皮毛上蒙着一层白花花的霜，脚爪上因为沾满了粗硬的泥土而变得有些麻木。我穿过白菜地走回来，脚碰得菜叶子咯吱咯吱直响，使叶子上的露珠四溅散落。我坐下来等候我父亲的脚步声，他就要沿着小径慢吞吞地走来，手里捏着一簇采摘的药草。我一杯接一杯地冲着咖啡，尚未绽开的花直挺挺地竖立在餐桌当中，周围是果酱罐、面包和黄油。我们都沉默着，谁也不说话。 “然后我走到食品柜跟前，拿出几袋滋润可口的无核葡萄干；我把沉甸甸的面粉袋提起来放在擦得干干净净的厨房桌子上。我又是揉，又是拽，又是拉，我把两只手插进暖乎乎的面团里面。我让冷水呈扇形地从我的手指缝里流过。炉火呼呼地燃烧；苍蝇营营地翻飞。我把那些葡萄干、大米、银色的和蓝色的口袋，全都又锁进了食品柜。肉块竖在烤炉里；面包蒙着干净的毛巾，像一座平坦的圆屋顶似的鼓起来。下午，我沿着河边漫步。整个世界都在养育繁衍。苍蝇从一片草地飞往另一片草地。每朵花儿都饱含着花粉。天鹅排列有序地在小溪里逆流前进。云朵，此时已变得暖洋洋的，透出了斑斑日影；它们从小山上飘过，把溪水和天鹅的颈项映得金光熠耀。那些牛悠闲地嚼着草，慢腾腾地在田野上往前踱着。我分开草丛寻找着白色蘑菇；我采下它们的茎盖，和它们附近的兰草，连着根上的泥土放在蘑菇旁边。然后我就回到家里，为我的父亲把水壶烧开，放到茶桌上刚刚绽露出红色的玫瑰花中间。 “但是夜幕降临了，灯都点亮了。而一旦夜幕降临，灯点亮，常春藤就会蒙上一层明亮的黄灿灿的光影。我坐在桌子旁边，做着针线活。我想起了珍妮；想起了罗达；并且听见石板路上响起了辚辚的车轮声，在田里干活的马拉着车回来了；我听见晚风中传来车辆行人的嘈杂声。我望着颤抖的树叶在黑黢黢的花园里瑟瑟地摇曳，心想：'他们正在伦敦跳舞呢。珍妮正在吻路易斯呢。'” “多么奇怪啊，”珍妮说，“人得睡觉，人得熄灭灯，走上楼梯。他们脱掉身上的衣服，穿上白色的睡衣。在所有这些房间里，灯火全无。一排耸立的烟囱仿佛直顶着天空；一两盏街灯亮着，就像在没有人需要的时候屋里却点着灯似的。街上仅有的人迹是那些匆匆忙忙来去的穷人。这条街上没有一个人来往；白天结束了。街角零星站着几个警察。不过夜幕已经降临。我感觉到自己在黑暗中熠熠闪光。绸衣紧贴着我的膝盖。我的双腿像绸缎似的光滑地互相摩擦着。项链上的宝石凉丝丝地贴着我的脖子。我感觉到鞋子有些夹得脚痛。我身子笔直地坐着，免得我的头发碰到椅子的靠背。我全身盛装，做好了准备。这是暂时的寂静；是黑暗的时刻。小提琴手们已经举起了他们的弓弦。 “现在汽车滑行着停在一个站上。人行道上的窄窄的一道线被照亮。门打开，关上。人们纷至沓来；他们没有做声；他们都匆匆忙忙地进来。大厅里响起一片脱下斗篷的窸窣声。这是序曲，这是开始。我环顾四周，我悄悄察看，我扑上点粉。所有事情都按部就班，准备停当了。我的头发卷成大波浪形。我的嘴唇涂得鲜红。我已经准备好即刻上楼，加入那些地位身份和我相当的男男女女中间。我走过他们身旁，任凭他们注视，仿佛他们全都属于我似的。我们的目光像闪电一样相互一瞥，但却不动声色或是做出互相熟识的表情。我们用身体相互传情达意。这是我的天职。这是我的世界。一切都已安排停当，准备就绪；使役们恭敬地站在这儿、那儿，听我报了姓名，我那还是生疏的、不太为人所知的名姓，他们就在我前面扬着声调通报。我走了进去。 “在这儿，这些空荡荡的、静候来客的房间里摆着涂金漆的椅子，靠着墙壁摆满盛开的碧绿、雪白的鲜花，比那些长在地里的花儿显得更为恬静，更为端庄。一张小桌上放着一本精装的签名簿。这正是我梦寐以求的；这正是我早已料想到的。我天生就属于这儿。我举止自然地走在厚厚的地毯上面。我轻松自如地飘然走过磨得锃光发亮的地板。我现在在这香风四溢、富丽堂皇的环境中欢畅地舒展开来，就像一株正在伸开叶子的羊齿草一样。我停下脚步。我审视这个世界。我向这群不认识的人望去。望着这些像男人似的身子笔挺，浑身闪着碧绿、粉红、珠灰色彩的女人们。她们全都是千篇一律的；她们在自己的服装的掩盖底下像是一些长年流淌在固定沟槽里的深深的小溪。我又回想起那条隧道映照在窗玻璃上的影子；它在移动。当我探身向前注视时，那些千篇一律的陌生男人也在望着我；我转身去瞧着一幅画时他们也转过身去。他们心绪不宁地伸手去摸摸自己的领带。他们摸摸自己的背心和手帕。他们年纪很轻。他们都急于想给人以好的印象。我觉得自己身上涌出了千百种潜力。我时而狡黠，时而欢乐，时而阴沉忧郁。我既端庄又灵活。我神采飞扬、伶俐活泼地对这一个说：'来呀。'又阴沉别扭地对另一个说：'不行。'有一个断然离开他已经在玻璃橱窗前站了好一会儿的那个位置。他走近来了。他正在向我走来。这是我从未经历过的最激动的时刻。我局促不安。我忐忐忑忑。我像一棵在河里漂游的小草，一会儿漂向这儿，一会儿漂向那儿，但身子岿然不动，使他好继续向我走来。'来吧，'我说，'来吧。'那个正在走近的人面色苍白、头发乌黑，显得神态忧郁、罗曼蒂克。而相反，我却既狡狯，淘气，又应付自如；因为他是忧郁的，是罗曼蒂克的。他就在这儿；他就站在我的身边。 “现在，如同一只帽贝挣脱了岩壁，我身子轻轻一拧，离开原地；我和他一起陷了进去；我被卷走了。我们汇入了这股徐缓的潮流。我们在这缠绵的音乐中进进出出。礁岩不时地阻断这股舞蹈的潮流，使它显得不协调，显得支离破碎。经过一番进进出出，现在我们终于被卷进了这个宏大的舞阵；它使我们紧紧地靠在一起；使我们无法从它那蜿蜒、缠绵、陡峭、严实的围墙里挣脱出来。我们的身体，他的坚实，我的飘逸，在舞阵的整体中被紧紧地挤在一块；它使我们紧贴着对方；接着它又伸延出去，在平缓流畅和蜿蜒起伏中，使我们在它中间不停地旋转。突然间，音乐停止了。我的血液仍然在沸腾，而我的身体却定定地站住了。整个房间都在我的眼前旋转。它停了下来。 “那么，来吧，让我们头晕目眩地走到金漆椅那边去。这个舞阵比我想象的要厉害得多。我头晕得出乎我的意料。我不在乎世上的一切。我不在乎别的任何人，只除了这个我还不知他叫什么名字的男人。月亮啊，难道我们不是挺可意的一对吗？我们这一对，我穿着绸缎，他穿着千篇一律的那一套，难道我们不是非常愉快地坐在一起吗？与我身份相同的那些人现在尽管望着我吧。我也毫不闪避地回望着你们，你们这些男男女女。我是你们当中的一名。这是我的世界。现在，我端起这只高脚杯呷了一口。酒有股辛辣的药味儿。我一边喝一边禁不住做做鬼脸。这是把香味和鲜花、辉煌和闷热，全都提炼在这种强烈的黄色液体里了。原先藏在我的两肩后面的一个刻板乏味、全身警惕的家伙，现在慢慢地阖上了眼睛，渐渐沉入了梦乡。这可真是让人喜出望外，真是叫人如释重负。我喉咙里的那个闸门打开了。话语源源不断地成堆成串地涌出，一句接着一句。究竟是一些什么话都无关紧要。它们推推搡搡，争先恐后地往外挤。一个字眼跟另一个字眼结成团伙，滚翻在一起，然后又生化出很多来。我究竟在说些什么毫无关系。在成堆的话里，有一句话像一只展翅飞翔的鸟儿，飞越我们两个当中的那个空间，停在他的嘴边。我又斟满我的杯子。我喝了下去。我们中间的那道帷幕消失了。我被接纳进另一个心灵的温暖与隐秘的所在。我们两个就像正一起站在高耸的阿尔卑斯山的一道山口。他忧郁地站在山路的最高处。我弯下身子，采摘一朵蓝色的鲜花，踮起脚尖，把它插在他的外套上。好啦！这是我心情欢畅的时刻。现在，它已经过去了。 “现在，慵懒乏味的感觉侵入我们中间。别的人在一旁匆匆走过。我们已经失去我们的身体在桌子下面挨在一起的感觉。我同样也喜欢那些金发碧眼的男人。门打开了。门一直在不停地开了又开。现在我想，当下次门再打开时，我的整个生活就一定会发生变化。谁来啦？哦，只不过是一个送酒杯来的侍者。那儿来了一个老头——跟他在一起我只能算是小孩子。那儿又来了一位贵妇人——在她面前我得装装样子。那儿有一些年龄与我相仿的姑娘，对她们，我感到一种因为体面的敌视而产生的剑拔弩张的气氛。因为她们是一些跟我身份地位相同的人。我天生就属于这个世界。这是我打的一次赌，这是我所冒的风险。门打开了。哦，来吧，我对这一个说，从头到脚洋溢着喜气。'来吧。'于是他朝着我走了过来。” “我要在他们后面走得慢一点，”罗达说，“就好像我看见了一个熟人。但实际上我不认识任何人。我要拉开窗帘，望一望月亮。若干次的忘却将会平息我的焦躁不安。门打开了；老虎扑了过来。门打开了；恐惧冲了进来；恐惧连着恐惧，对我紧追不舍。让我偷偷地去察看一下我独自藏起来的珍宝吧。在世界的另一边有一些池塘，水里映出大理石圆柱的影子。燕子用翅膀点着幽暗的池水。可是在这儿，门打开了，人们走了进来；他们朝着我走了过来。他们故意做出淡淡的微笑以掩饰他们的残酷、他们的冷漠无情，他们抓住了我。燕子用翅膀点着池水；月亮孤单地越过蔚蓝的海洋。我必须握住他的手；我必须做出回应。可是我该做出怎样的回应呢？我被推挤着站在这里，为自己这具笨拙的、不匀称的身体而羞惭发热；我得承受他那箭矢似的冷漠和蔑视；我，一个憧憬着世界另一边的大理石圆柱和燕子在那儿用翅膀掠水的池塘的人。 “在那些烟囱帽上面，夜幕已经缓缓地扩延开了一些。我越过他的肩膀向窗外望去，看见一只泰然自若的猫，它没有淹没在灯光里，也没有束缚在绸缎里，它可以想逗留就逗留一会儿，想伸伸懒腰就伸伸懒腰，想走动走动就走动走动。我厌恶个人生活的所有细枝末节。但是我被钉在这里，被迫去听。在我身上压着一种巨大的压力。如果不能卸掉那数世纪的重压，我就没法移动一步。无数枝利箭将我射穿。蔑视和奚落将我刺穿。我，一个敢于挺胸面对暴风雨、甘愿被冰雹窒息而死的人，却被钉死在这个地方；无处藏身。猛虎扑了过来。各种各样的闲言碎语像鞭子似的落在我身上。它们灵活地、不间断地轻轻抽打着我的全身。我只得支吾搪塞，用谎言来挡开它们。有什么护身符能使我避开这种灾难呢？我又怎么好意思在这种热辣辣的劲头面前装得若无其事呢？我想起了那些箱子上的姓名；想起那些裙子从张开的两膝间垂下的母亲；想起那些与起伏不平的山坡相毗连的林中空地。把我藏起来吧，我哭喊着，救救我吧，因为我是你们当中最小的、最柔弱无告的人。珍妮能够像一只海鸥乘风破浪，机灵地东瞧瞧西望望，说说这说说那，什么都实实在在的。而我却总是说谎；总是支吾搪塞。 “独自一人的时候，我就摇晃我的洗脸盆；我是那支舰队的女主人。但是在这儿，在窗前，我拧着我的女主人花缎窗帘上的穗穗时，我是支离破碎的；我不再是一个完整的人。那么珍妮跳舞的时候，她究竟有什么成竹在胸？苏珊在灯下安静地俯身用白棉线穿进针眼时，她怎么会有这样的自信？她们会说，是的；她们会说，不；她们甚至会举起拳头砰的一声砸在桌子上。而我却总是疑虑重重；总是浑身发颤；总是看见那疯狂的荆棘树在荒野中摇曳它的阴影。 “现在我要假装有什么事儿的样子，穿过房间，走到有遮篷的阳台上。我望见天空中弥散着突然光辉灿烂的月亮的缕缕清辉。我还望见广场那边的栏杆，和两个看不见脸部的人，他们就像两尊塑像，背映着天空，斜倚在栏杆上。那么，是有一个永恒不变的世界存在着了。这间客厅里扑动着许多条利舌，像刀子似的刮割着我，致使我说话口吃，致使我总是说谎。当我穿过这间客厅走出来时，我看到一些轮廓不清、美感全无的面孔。那对情侣蜷缩在那棵梧桐树下面。那个警察正在街口站岗。一个男人走了过去。那么，是有一个永恒不变的世界了。可是我，尽管小心翼翼地站在炉火旁边，仍旧被那灼人的热气给烫伤了，唯恐那扇门一打开，那只猛虎就会扑过来，所以我仍然没法足够镇静地说出一句话。我说的每一句话都会遭到人家的驳斥。每次门打开，我的话就会被打断。我还不到二十一岁。我会被毁掉的。我终生都会被别人嘲弄的。在这些男男女女中间，我会像波涛起伏的大海上的一个软木塞，颠上颠下；他们每个人都有一张抽搐的脸，都有一个撒谎的舌头。每次门打开，我就会像一棵小草似的被远远地抛到一边。我是一堆泡沫，白花花地飘浮着，附着在天涯海角的礁石边缘上；我又是一个姑娘，在这儿，在这个房间里。”