Chapter 8 Chapter VII

The sun had set lower in the sky now.Islets of cloud grew thicker and thicker as they moved slowly past the sun, so that the reef below suddenly became dark, and the swaying sea hollies lost their blue color and became silvery white; all shadows hang over the sea like a gray cloth.The tide no longer visits the distant pond, nor does it approach the intermittent black line that twists and turns across the sandy shore.The grains of sand seemed to have become white pearls, smooth and gleaming. The bird swooped down for a while, and then circled straight up into the sky for a while.Some birds sometimes chased against the wind, and sometimes turned and flew, breaking the flock of birds at once, as if they were originally a whole and were washed into countless pieces.The flock of birds that flew down was like a net, landing on the treetops.Occasionally a bird flew alone to the marsh, and then perched alone on a white stump, its wings opening and closing.

A few petals fell from the garden.They lie on the ground like shells.The dry leaves are no longer slanted on the ground, but are blown by the wind to a certain flower stem from time to time and sometimes stop.A wave of light suddenly blazed through all the flowers, like a fin of a fish cutting the green grass in the lake.Now and then there was a strong gust of wind that heaved the various blades of grass, and then, as the wind abated, each blade regained its dignity.The bright flower discs of those flowers are scorching and shining in the sun. Whenever they sway in the wind, they will temporarily hide from the light, but then some corollas that are too heavy to stand upright will slowly wither .

The afternoon sun warmed the fields; it made all the shadows blue and the crops red.A deep sheen spread over the fields like a coat of paint.A cart, a horse, a flock of rooks—whatever passes across a field is gilded.If a cow moved one of its legs, it would immediately cause a ripple of red-gold light, and its two horns would seem to be connected by a halo.The ears of corn with pale yellow thorns hung on the hedges, all of which were wiped down when the low and primitive-looking carts came full from the pasture.Those chubby clouds never shrink when they are tumbling and drifting all the way, but always maintain their respective fat and chubby images.Now, as they float by, they enclose a whole village in the net they cast; then, as they float past, they throw the village out of the net.In the far distance, among millions of blue-gray motes, a pane of glass reflected light, or there loomed the dim shadow of a steeple or a tree.

The pink curtains and white shutters were lifted by the wind, floating in and out, and flapping against the window sill; the sunlight shining into the room in strips or patches, when passing through the curtains lifted by gusts again and again, brought a certain kind of Tan, and looking a little unscrupulous.Here it browned a cupboard, there it flushed a chair, here it made the shadow of a window flicker on the side of a green jug. For a moment everything was indistinctly and dimly swaying, like a gigantic moth flitting across the room, its flapping wings making the large solid tables The chairs were all cast in shadow.

"Oh," said Bernard, "the drops of time are dripping. On the eaves of my soul are dripping the drops that condense. On the roof of my soul time is condensing and dripping its waters. Beads. Last week, as I was standing shaving, the drops of time dripped. I was standing there with the razor in my hand, and suddenly I realized that my movements were purely conditioned ( That's how the drops of time are formed), and I congratulate my hands ironically on their persistence in this habit. Scrape, shave, shave, I say. Go on and on. Time drops. Throughout the day's work, during breaks, my mind would go blank; I would ask myself, 'What's lost? What's finished?' And then,' It's over,' I muttered under my breath, 'It's over,' comforting myself with these words. People noticed the blank look on my face and the lack of clues when I spoke. I often didn't finish a sentence, It's over, hesitantly. And as I button up my overcoat and get ready to go home, I'll say, even more dramatically: 'My youth is lost.'

"It is especially curious how eagerly some inappropriate rhetoric comes to the rescue whenever there is a crisis--a punishment for living always by the old civilized habit of carrying a notebook. This constant dripping of time drops has nothing to do with my loss of youth. This dripping of time drops means that time is gradually shrinking towards a certain moment. Time, if it is a sunny pasture with swaying light and shadow; Time, if it were as vast as the field at noon, would be something in suspense. Time is gradually shrinking towards a certain moment. When a drop of water drips heavily from the windowpane with sediment, time is also dripping. These are the real cycles; these are the real events. Then, as if all the light in the atmosphere faded, I saw the naked underside. I saw that which habit obscured. I was in Days of lounging in bed. I went out to eat with my mouth open like a cod. I didn't want to bother trying to complete a sentence; my usual hesitant actions, now It also became machine-like accurate. In this case, when I walked past a ticket office, I just walked in and bought a ticket to Rome, with the poise of a robot.

"Now, sitting on a stone bench in these gardens, I look out on the eternal city; and that little man who five days ago was shaved in London, now looks as if he had been reduced to a heap of old clothes. London, too, has disappeared. London is just a few dilapidated factories and a few gas tanks. But at the same time I am not part of the spectacle. I look at the priests with purple sash and the graceful I only pay attention to appearance. I sit here like a convalescing patient, like a very simple-minded man who can only speak monosyllabic words. 'The sun is hot,' I said. 'The wind It's cool.' I felt myself whirling about on the ground like an insect, and I could swear, sitting here, I felt the hardness of the ground, felt its whirling motion. I didn't leave the ground To wish. I have a hunch that if I can extend that perception forward another six inches, I'll reach something strange. But I only have a very limited nose. I never I aspire to prolong these detached states of mind; I don't like them; I even despise them. I don't expect to be someone who sits in the same place for fifty years, concentrating on his dantian. I just want to be trapped in a The carriage, harnessed to a vegetable cart, crunched along the cobbled road.

"To tell you the truth, I am neither one who is content to be alone nor one who is content to be with the infinity. A room alone bores me, and so does the sky. My life is only when it It shines brightly when it is open to many people in all its aspects. Let them fail, let me be riddled with holes, and die like burning paper. Oh, Mrs. Moffat, Moffat Mrs. Tet, I said, come and clean it up. I've lost a lot of things. I've lost some wishes by living too long; Val - some from the sheer inability to cross the street. I don't look brilliant like I once did. Some things are just beyond my horizon. I'll never get my head around the hard philosophical questions. Rome is the farthest place I have ever traveled. When I fall asleep at night, I often have a sudden pang with a sudden thought that I will never see how the natives of Tahitian The light of a lamp spearing a fish, or how a lion leaps in the jungle, or how a naked man eats raw meat. I will never learn Russian, and I will never read the Vedas. I no longer bump into a post-box as I walk. (However, because of that violent collision, in my night dreams a few stars still often fall down beautifully and charmingly.) Yet in my silent As I thought about it, the truth became clearer. For many years I had been humming smugly, 'My children...my wife...my house...my dog Yeah.' Whenever I unlock a door with a latch key and come in, I always do this old ritual first, wrapping myself in that warm atmosphere. Now that lovely veil has come down. I Wealth is no longer needed. (By the way: an Italian washerwoman is as physically graceful as an English duke's daughter.)

"But let me think about it. Time drops; time passes into another phase. Phase after phase. Why do these phases of time have an end? Where do they lead? To what The end? Because they always appear in solemn cassocks. On such difficulties, pious people always ask for advice from those purple-sashed, lust-faced fellows who are now strutting past my eyes. But personally, we hate the teachers. As long as a man stands up and says, 'Look, this is the truth,' I'll find a sand-colored cat stealing a fish behind him. I'd say, look, you forgot about the cat. So at school Neville got very annoyed when he saw the Doctor wearing a crucifix in that dark chapel. And I, though I was always A cat, or a bee buzzing around the bouquet that Mrs. The majestic edge of the crucifixion is utterly extinguished. I have made up thousands of stories; I have filled countless notebooks with words, to be used when I find the true story, which is one in which all these words A worthy story. But I haven't found that story yet. So I have begun to wonder: Are there really any stories in the world?

"Now, from this terrace, look at the swarming crowds below. Look at the activity and tumult that is everywhere. The man is being tossed about by his mule. Five or six good-natured loafers are Help. Others scurry by without looking. Their own concerns are like a tangled mess. Look at the vast sky, billowing with snow-white clouds. Imagine Take a look at the continuous plain, the ditches dotted with ditches, the rough ancient Roman roads, and the numerous graves on the suburban plain; and beyond the suburban plain is the sea, and beyond the sea are some lands, and then It's the sea. I could grab any detail of the whole picture - the mule cart, for example - and paint it with ease. But why would I want to paint a man who's being tossed about by his own mules? People? And I could make up stories about the girl who was coming up the steps: 'She met him under that dark archway...' Turning his face away, he said.' Or put it more concisely: 'This is the end of the matter.' But why do you want to splicing all the plots I arbitrarily come up with? Why knead this, knead that, and finally twist out Some little people, like those toy dealers who peddled the streets with their pallets? Why was this detail chosen out of everything?

"I'm shedding a layer of my life here, and all they're going to say is: 'Bernard spent ten days in Rome.' Here I'm aimlessly alone on this terrace. up and down. But watch how the dots and dashes slowly form a line as I walk, and how things gradually lose what they had as I go up those steps. Undisguised, separate qualities. That big pink flower pot is now a bright red stripe in the waves of yellow and green. Like the hedges on both sides of the railway when the train moves, the waves of the sea when the ship moves, the world began to change from Moved beside me. I moved myself, getting drawn into the general order of that thing after that, and it seemed inevitable that the tree would move, and then the pole, And then there's the gap in the hedge. As I'm surrounded, drawn in, and moving together, the words I use so often start pouring out, and I hope to open the trapdoor in my head so that The blisters of rhetoric were freed so I walked right up to the guy with the back of his head who looked a little familiar. We used to be in school. We should meet without a doubt. Of course we're going to have lunch together. We're going to talk .but wait a second. "These moments of avoidance should not be despised. They are too rare. The trip to Tahiti became possible. Leaning on this railing, I can see the ocean in the distance. A fin is Paddle. This mere visual impression has nothing to do with any reasoning, it comes out of nowhere, just as one might see a dolphin's fin popping out of the sky. So often the visual impression conveys a brief cue , telling us that we should unmask in time to attract people to talk. Therefore, I wrote down in column F: 'a fin in the vast ocean.' Last statementr, I have now noted this sentence for use on a winter evening. "Now I'm going somewhere to have lunch, I'm going to hold my glass up, I'm going to look out through it; I'm going to look around with more detachment than usual, when a pretty woman walks into a restaurant , and walking across the tables, I'll say to myself, 'Look where she's going in the middle of an ocean.' A meaningless statement, but a serious one to me , dark blue-gray, with the sound of the world collapsing and flowing water falling to the ground and flying away. "So, Bernard (I think of you, of you, my inseparable companion in all my endeavors), let us begin this new chapter; let us see this new Experience, this strange, strange, and at the same time vague and terrible experience—that is, this new drop of water that is forming—how to become a reality. La Puente is the name of the man." "On this hot afternoon," said Susan, "here, in this garden, in this field where I am walking with my son, I have fulfilled my highest wish. The hinges of the garden gate rusted he pushed it away. The intense passions of childhood; the tears I shed in the garden when Jenny kissed Louis; the tantrums I lost in that pine-smelling classroom; The lonesomeness I felt when the mules came on pointy hoofs, and the band of Italian women in shawls and carnations chattering by the spring, was all replaced by safety. , a feeling of fullness and intimacy. I have lived a peaceful, fruitful life for many years. I have everything I have seen. I have planted trees from seeds, I have built ponds where goldfish The broad-leaved water lilies dived. I veiled the strawberry nursery and the lettuce nursery, and covered the pears and plums with white bags to protect them from wasp stings. I watched my sons and daughters once like young fruit Covered with gauze nets and lying in their cradles, and now they have broken through the nets, walking beside me, one by one taller than me, casting long shadows on the grass. "I'm like a tree I planted, surrounded by a fence, planted here. I hum: 'My son.' I hum: 'My daughter.' Even the owner of the hardware store, he never Looking up from behind the counter piled with nails, paint and barbed wire, I also have a lot of respect for this old van full of butterfly nets, fruit baskets and bee boxes parked at the gate. Every Christmas, we hang on the alarm clock Mistletoe branches, weighed our blackberries and mushrooms, counted our jam jars, and measured everyone's height with their backs against the shuttered panels in the living room every year. Weaving silvery branches and tying my card with sorrow to the dead shepherds, and condolences to the widows of the dead wagoners; Whispering of dying terrors, let them clasp my hands; and I used to be a guest in houses which, except for a man of my birth, were almost unbearable, but which I had grown accustomed to The farmyards, the dunghills, the hens running around, and the two huts where the mother lived with her growing children. I'm used to seeing the steaming windows, I'm used to smelling the The breath of poverty. "Now, holding the scissors in my hand, I stand among my flowers and ask myself: Where did that shadow come from? What kind of vibration can make the stubborn backlog of vitality that I have gathered so hard to unleash again? Yet there is When the pleasures of nature, ripening fruit, and children filling the room with oars, shotguns, skeletons, prized books, and other trophies of all sorts, bore me. The body bores me too, My own ability, industriousness, and shrewdness, and that of the mother who shields her child, and calls her own child--her own child at all times--to a long table with suspicion All kinds of indiscriminate efforts also make me tired. "It was at the beginning of the cold and rainy spring, when the yellow flowers burst into bloom--at that time, under the blue awning, I inspected the pieces of meat lying there, and pressed my hands heavily filled with tea leaves, currants, etc. And that's when I thought of how the sun came up, how the swallows flew across the grass, and the words Bernard said when we were children, and the words that swayed over our heads The leaves of the trees pierced the blue sky and cast erratic shadows on the bony roots of the beech trees where I sat weeping. A pigeon flew up. I jumped up and hurried to chase the words that rose higher and higher like a rope hanging from a balloon, and fled from treetop to treetop. And so, like a broken bowl, I spent the whole morning My peace of mind was shattered; I put down the flour-sack and thought: the life that surrounds me is like a grass that grows around an imprisoned seed. "I took the scissors and cut some hollyhocks. I've been to Elveton and walked over the rotten acorns and seen the lady writing the letter and the gardeners with the big brooms. We were out of breath I ran back for fear of being shot and nailed to the wall like a weasel. Now I weigh food regularly and store it. At night, I just sit in an armchair and reach for what I'm sewing ;I used to hear my husband snoring; when the lights of a passing car shone blindly on the window, I would look up and feel the tides of my life swirling around this firmly rooted People heaved and fell apart; and as I poked needles in and out, and thread in white cloth, I heard shouts and saw other people's lives whirling like grass around the piers. "Sometimes I think of Percival who once loved me. He fell off his horse in India. Sometimes I think of Rhoda. Often I wake up in the middle of the night by screams of panic. Most of the time, though, I Walking contentedly with my sons. I cut off the withered petals of the hollyhocks. Despite my premature body fat and gray hair, my eyes are still clear and bright like pearls, so I walk in peace In my fields." "Right now," said Jenny, "I'm standing in the tube station where all the attractions converge - South Piccadilly, North Piccadilly, Regent Street and Haymarket. I'm in central London I stood for a while at the bottom of the street. Over my head, countless wheels were passing, and countless feet were treading. Several civilized avenues met here and stretched out in all directions. I was in the center of life. But , lo and behold—I am reflected in that mirror. How lonely, how haggard, how old! I am no longer young. I am no longer of this rank. Thousands of people ride the elevator in terrible The rate of descent slowed down. The gigantic gears churned mercilessly, driving them straight down. Thousands of men were dead. Percival was dead. I was still moving. I was alive. But now if I hit signal, who will come? "I stand here like a feeble animal; my ribs are heaving with fear, my heart is pounding and quivering. Yet I will be fearless. I will tear the skin from my sides I was not a little animal whining and hiding in the shadows. It was just because I saw myself before I had time to prepare myself before looking up at myself as I usually do. A momentary flinch. Indeed, I am no longer young - I shall soon raise my hands in vain, and my shawl shall fall by my side without a signal. I shall hear no more of the night I suddenly heard a sigh and felt someone coming towards me in the dark. In the dark tunnel, there will be no more people reflected in the car window. I will look at the faces of others, and I will find them Searching for faces, too. For a moment, I admit, the upright bodies floated down the escalator soundlessly, like an army of the dead falling involuntarily, with terrible speed, To have those gigantic, churning machines relentlessly pushing us, all of us, straight ahead; it really frightened me and made me want to run to a shelter and hide. "But now I swear, after looking in the mirror with a few meticulous touch-ups that arm me up, I don't have anything to fear anymore. Think of those gorgeous red and yellow cars that start and stop on time. Buses. Think of those powerful and beautiful cars that sometimes slow down to walking speed and sometimes shoot straight ahead; This is the triumphant procession; this is the victorious army, with banners unfurled, brass eagles shining brightly, and every man crowned with the laurels of battle. Loincloth savages, women with sweaty hair and sagging breasts with sucking babies hanging from elongated nipples, they are indeed superior. These broad thoroughfares—South Piccadilly, Pickup Dilly North Street, Regent Street and Haymarket—the sandy road to victory through the jungle. I wore tiny patent leather shoes, a thin tulle turban, painted lips bright red, eyebrows drawn Fine, also marched towards victory with the military band. "Look, even here in the ground, they're still radiantly showing off their fine clothes. They don't even let the dirt get wet and wormy. Tulle and satin, and underwear densely sewn with innumerable fine lace. Red, green, purple, they are dyed colorful. Think how they organize, remove, flatten, color, and explode at the same time Rocks, open tunnels. Elevators go up and down; trains stop and go, as regular as the waves of the sea. This is what I follow. I am a born resident of this world, and I follow its flag Excuse me. They're all so imposingly adventurous, brave and curious; and they're so bold, they'll try to stop mid-way, and paint a joke on the wall with great ease. How can I escape at a time like this? Come on, go hide? So I'll powder my face and put lipstick on my lips. I'll draw my brows even more arched than usual. I'll make a decisive gesture and hail a cab; The driver will show with an indescribably quick gesture that he understands my gestures. For I can still arouse desire. I can still feel the men on the street bowing to me like the one who was The bright red crops blown by the breeze nodded silently. "I'll ride back to my own house. I'll fill vases with bouquets of colorful, costly, ostentatious flowers. I'll put a chair here and a chair there. I'll Set out cigarettes, glasses, and a few new books with bright covers in case Bernard arrives at any moment, or Neville or Louis. Maybe it's not Bernard, Neville, or Louis, but someone who doesn't Someone familiar, someone unfamiliar, someone I ran across in a stairwell and as we passed each other I whispered: 'Come on.' He's coming this afternoon here; this man I do not know, do not know well. Let the silent procession of the dead descend. I will go on." "I don't need a room now," said Neville, "nor walls and a fire. I am no longer young. I walked past Jenny's room without the slightest feeling of envy, and stood towards the The young man on the front steps, who adjusted his tie a little nervously, smiled. Tell this well-dressed young man to ring the doorbell; let him see her. If I want to see her, I can see her ;if I don't want to see, I'll walk over. The old caustics no longer sting--envy, scheming, and worry are all gone. Our pride is gone. When we were young, we could Sitting somewhere, on a bare bench in an airy hall, while those doors slammed incessantly. We used to toss and turn half-naked, like the ones on the deck of a boat that hosed each other up. Water boys. Now I can swear that I'm like these people who scurry out of the subway station after a day's work, identical, indistinguishable, uncountable. I've taken mine Fruit. I'm so indifferent to everything. "After all, we have little responsibility. We are not judges. We are not called upon to torture our own kind with thumbtacks and shackles; Way. It would be better to look at the roses, or read Shakespeare, as I often do here, in Shaftesbury Street. Look at the fool, look at the rascal, look at Clay Opetra comes in a car, and she's burning in her royal boat. There are some damned figures here too, noseless people who stand against the wall in the police court; Burned at the stake, wailing. It's poetry if we don't write it. They're ready to play their part, and almost before they open their mouths, I know they'll be Say something; so I wait for the holy moment when they will speak the dialogue that must have been written. If it's just for the theater, I can walk down Shaftesbury Street. "Then, off the street, into a room where some people are talking, some just don't bother to talk. He's talking, she's talking, and somebody's talking about things that everyone else is tired of talking about. ;those things, a single word now saves all the trouble. Arguments, mirth, old-fashioned complaints, complaints—these are all in the air, suffocating. I pick up a book, carelessly Read the first half page. They haven't closed the conversation yet. The child is dancing and wearing her mother's clothes. "But this time Rhoda, or Louis, anyway, an empty stomached, anguished elf, has been walking around. They need a plot, don't they? Do they need a reason? To them , such an ordinary scene is not enough. Waiting for people to say something that seems to have been written; seeing a sentence accurately paste a small piece of cement in the intended place to form a character; suddenly find that in the sky all of which are unsatisfactory. However, if what they need is violence, I have seen death, murder, and suicide in the same room. Someone walks One came in and another went out. There was a sobbing sound from the stairwell. I heard a woman with a piece of white cloth on her lap tearing off threads and tying knots, quietly mending one stitch after another. .Why do you have to search for a reason like Louis, or fly to some distant pasture like Rhoda, and part the leaves of the laurel trees to find the stone statue? They say that one must soar against the storm, believing that Beyond the waves must be a sunlit world; the sun shoots straight into the ponds fringed with weeping willows. (Here, it's November; the poor man holds boxes of matches in his wind-cracked hands peddling.) They say there's pure truth to be found there, and virtue, here staggering and wandering along a blind alley, there exists perfectly. Rhoda stretches her neck , blindfolded by her psychedelic eyes, flew past us. Louis, now very well-to-do, went up to his attic window on the bumpy roof, and gazed at the place where Rhoda's figure had disappeared; but , he must go to his office, to sit among the typists and the telephones, and work with all his might for our upbringing, our new birth, and the transformation of the unborn world. "But now, in this room where I entered without knocking, what was said seemed to be written. I made my way to the bookshelf. If I had a choice, I would read the first half of the page without paying attention. ...I don't need to talk. But I listen. I am preternaturally engrossed. Of course, one cannot read this poem without effort. The pages are often torn, muddy, torn, and Leaf petals long faded stick together, with fragments of verbena or geranium. To read this poem, you must have a thousand eyes, like the lamp that shines on the rough waves of the Atlantic at midnight , sometimes maybe just a wisp of seaweed breaks out of the water, sometimes the wave suddenly breaks a gap, revealing the shoulder of a monster. You have to set aside all resentment and jealousy, and never interfere. You have to be patient and infinitely careful , let those little noises, whether it's the scrape of a spider's slender feet on a leaf, or the gurgling of water flowing into some unrelated drain, come to the fore. Nothing should be done because repelled by fear or dread. The poet who wrote this page (which I read while others were talking) is out. There is neither a comma nor a semicolon on it. Nor does the line on it normally see的那种长度。很多行诗句纯粹是胡言乱语。你心里必定充满怀疑，可是到头来又把谨慎之心抛到了九霄云外，等那扇门一打开，就全盘接受了。你有时候也会哭；也会冷酷无情地利刃一挥，把那些煤灰、树皮和各种生硬的附加物全部铲除。因此就这样（在他们谈话的时候）把你的网愈来愈深地沉下去，然后小心翼翼地往回收，把他所说的和她所说的那些话拉出水面，写成诗篇。 “现在，我已经听过他们的谈话。现在，他们已经走了。只剩下我一个人。我可以心安理得地看着这炉火永不熄灭地燃烧，就像一座大厦，就像一座高炉；而现在有些长而尖的木头看上去就像脚手架，或者像矿井，像幸福之谷；现在，它又变成了一条蛇，身上披着白色的鳞片，猩红地盘在那里。窗帘上的那个果子在鹦鹉的啄食下膨胀得越来越大。吱嘎，吱嘎，火在吱吱嘎嘎地燃烧，就像树林深处的虫子在吱吱地鸣叫。噼噼，啪啪，当树枝弹出来震动空气时，它就发出噼噼啪啪的爆裂声，而这会儿，就好像一阵枪弹齐发，一棵树倒了下去。这些就是伦敦夜间的声音。这时，我听到我期待已久的那个声音。那个声音越来越响，越来越接近，它犹豫片刻，在我的门口停住。我喊道：'快进来呀。快来坐在我的身边。坐在这把椅子旁边。'一点也不新鲜的幻觉使我忘乎所以，我喊着：'快来走近一点，走近一点啊。'” “我从办公室回来，”路易斯说，“我把我的大衣挂在这儿，把我的手杖搁在那儿——我喜欢想象：黎塞留走路时也曾用过这样的手杖。这样，我就剥夺了我自己的权威。刚才我曾靠着一张漆得发亮的桌子，坐在一位经理的右边。表现我们兴旺发达事业的地图挂在我们对面的墙上。我们一起把我们的船只派出去满世界地航行。地球上布满了我们的航线。我获得了非常高的声望。办公室里的所有年轻女士在我进去时全都跟我打招呼。现在，我爱上哪儿去吃饭就可以上哪儿去吃饭，而且可以毫不夸耀地预料我不久就会在萨里郡拥有一幢房子、两部汽车、一座暖房和一些品种罕见的甜瓜。但是我仍旧回来，仍旧回到我的阁楼，挂好我的帽子，然后独自重新开始那个荒谬的尝试，那个自从我用拳头敲过我老师的仿橡木门之后就已开始的荒谬尝试。我打开一册袖珍本的书。我开始读一首诗。一首就够了。 西风啊…… 哦西风，你跟我的红木桌子和鞋罩格格不入，而且唉，也跟我那个庸俗不堪的情人，那个从来不能把英语说正确的小巧玲珑的女演员格格不入—— 西风啊，你究竟何时吹来…… 罗达，她一副极度出神样子，茫然的双眼有着蜗牛肉似的颜色，无论她是在星光灿烂的午夜时分到来，还是在正午最为平淡的时刻到来，西风啊，她绝不会使你遭到破坏。她伫立在窗前，望着那些穷人们房顶上的烟囱帽和打破了的窗子—— 西风啊，你究竟何时吹来…… “我的使命，我的负担，一直都比其他人的重大。我的肩上压着一座金字塔。我曾经努力去干一项巨大的工作。我曾驱策着一支狂野的、没有秩序且又邪恶的队伍。我曾经坐在小饭馆里，带着我那澳洲口音，竭力想使那些小职员们接受我，但却从来没有忘记我那又庄重又严肃的信念，还有那些非解决不可的不一致和不连贯。少年时代，我曾经梦想过尼罗河，而且不肯清醒过来，然而我还是伸出拳头敲了那扇仿橡木的房门。假如我能像苏珊，或者像我最钦佩的珀西瓦尔，天生的没有宿命感，那么我一定会快乐许多。 “西风啊，你究竟何时吹来， “让细雨飘落滋润地面？ “生活对我来说一直是件可怕的事情。我就像一个庞大的乳兽，长着一张黏乎乎的、吸劲很大的、贪得无厌的嘴巴。我曾经努力要把长在神经中枢的那颗结石从活生生的肉里取出来。我对自然的乐趣知之甚少，我想我之所以喜欢我的情人，是因为借助她那伦敦腔的口音，她可以使我感到自在无束。但是她只会穿着内衣在地板上打滚，而且每天那些打杂的女工和商店里的小子总会跟在我的身后叫喊无数次，大加嘲弄我的一本正经、目空一切的走路姿势。 “西风啊，你究竟何时吹来， “让细雨飘落滋润地面？ “我命中注定的宿命，这些年来一直压得我喘不过气来的带尖顶的金字塔，它究竟意味什么？但愿我永远铭记着尼罗河和那些头上顶着水罐的女人；但愿我永远感觉到，随着那使麦浪翻滚的漫长夏日和使河水冰冻的漫漫严冬的不断变迁，我在编织我的生命。我并不是一个孤独的匆匆过客。我的生命也并非像钻石表面上的光泽，转瞬即逝。我在地底下曲折前行，就像一个看守提着灯在一间间囚室里穿行。我命中注定的宿命就是我要铭记不忘，尽力编织，尽力把我们漫长的历史和纷纭复杂的一天当中的那许许多多的线，所有粗的、细的、断的、未断的线，统统编织成一条缆绳。总是有多之又多的事情需要了解；有混乱纷扰需要倾听；有弄虚作假需要申斥。这些屋顶全都是破破烂烂，烟熏火燎的，上面到处可见烟囱帽、凌乱不齐的石板瓦、蹑足潜行的猫和阁楼窗户。我小心翼翼地从那些破玻璃和旧瓦片中间望进去，眼之所见只有邪恶和饥饿的面孔。 “让我们假设我能够解释所有这一切——在一页纸上的写一首诗，然后死去。我可以向你保证，这并非不值得的去做。珀西瓦尔已经死了。罗达离开了我。而我却要憔悴衰萎地活下去，拄着镶金头的手杖，在这座城市的人行道上，令人尊敬地走我的路。也许我永远不会死，也许甚至连这种持续不断和这种永久不变都永远无法抵达—— “西风啊，你究竟何时吹来， “让细雨飘落滋润地面？ “珀西瓦尔正在绿叶的衬托下鲜花怒放，他埋在泥土里，全身的枝条依然在夏日的阵风中呼啸。罗达，当别人都在说话时，我曾跟她一起分享过宁静，当羊群聚集起来循规蹈矩地悄悄奔回丰饶的牧场时，她就转身跑到一旁去，现在，她像荒漠里的热风一样消失了踪影。当阳光晒得城里的屋瓦发热膨胀时，我会想起她；当干枯的树叶啪哒啪哒地落在地上时，我会想起她；当老人们带着尖头棍子，像我们从前刺她那样刺着地上的碎纸片时，我会想起她—— “西风啊，你究竟何时吹来， “让细雨飘落滋润地面？ “上帝啊，愿我的爱人投入我的怀抱， “让我能够重新在床上安眠！ “现在我回到我的书上来；现在我重新做出我的尝试。” “生活啊，我一直是多么惧怕你！”罗达说，“人类啊，我一直是多么憎恨你们！你们是多么的拥挤不堪，你们是多么的碍手碍脚，你们在牛津大街上的样子是多么的丑陋讨厌，你们在地铁里呆睁着双眼，面对面坐在那儿，那样子又是多么的猥琐啊！现在，当我爬上这座高山——从这座山的峰顶我可以望见非洲，我的脑海里还深深印着那些牛皮货袋和你们的面孔。我曾经受你们的沾染而弄脏了身体。你们在门口排着队买票时，发出的气味也一样是那么难闻。所有的人都穿着灰不灰、棕不棕的颜色模糊不清的衣服，甚至从来不在帽子上插根蓝羽毛。没有一个人敢做到与众不同。为了熬过一天日子，你们是多么的需要泯灭天良，撒谎欺骗，打躬作揖，阿谀奉承，口若悬河，奴颜婢膝啊！哦，你们曾经将我囚禁在一个地方，囚禁在一把椅子上，囚禁整整一个小时，而你们自己则与我相对而坐！你们曾经用你们那龌龊的爪子，从我身上抢去一个钟点至下一个钟点之间的那段清白的时间，把它们卷成脏污的一团，丢进了废纸篓里。然而，这就是我所过的生活。 “但是我屈服了。我用手把冷笑和哈欠遮掩起来。我并没有跑到街上，为了表达愤怒，把一只酒瓶摔碎在阴沟里。虽然激动得浑身颤抖，我却装出毫不惊讶的样子。你们干什么，我也干什么。要是苏珊和珍妮像这样穿袜子，我就也这样穿上我的袜子。生活是那么可怕，所以我把遮光帘装了一层又一层。透过这儿窥视生活，透过那儿窥视生活；随便它是玫瑰花叶子也好，葡萄藤叶子也好——我用我一时的心血来潮，用葡萄叶或玫瑰叶，把整个大街，牛津大街，皮卡迪里广场，全部遮掩起来。还有那些学校期末结束时，竖在走廊里的箱子。我曾经悄悄地走过去，看上面的那些标签，想象各种名字和面孔。也许是哈罗加特，也许是爱丁堡，上面镶嵌着金灿灿的光边，因为有一个我已记不起名字的姑娘曾经站在那儿的人行道上。然而，那只是一个名字。我离开了路易斯；我害怕拥抱。我曾经试图用毛毡、用衣服把那蓝茵茵的刀锋遮盖起来。我曾经祈求白昼突然变成黑夜。我曾经渴望看到食橱逐渐消失，感到床铺变得软乎乎的；或者渴望悬浮在半空中，去观察那拉长了的树木，拉长了的面孔，沼泽地绿葱葱的边缘，以及两个正在痛苦诀别的人的身影。我抛撒词句，就像大地上光秃秃的时候，那些播种的人把种子撒在翻耕过的田野上一样。我总是希望黑夜被延长，用越来越多的梦境把它填充得满满当当。 “接着在某个大厅里，我拨开音乐的树枝，看到我们建造的那所房子；正方形的东西架在长方形的上面。'那座房子里面什么都有，'珀西瓦尔死后，我在一辆公共汽车上斜靠着别人的肩膀，这样说过；但我还是去了格林威治。我一边在堤岸上行走，一边祈愿我能永远像响雷似的在天涯海角轰鸣，在那里没有蔬菜之类的东西，但却到处矗立着大理石圆柱。我把我手上的花束掷进正在蔓延开的浪潮里。我说道：'毁灭我吧，把我带到天涯海角吧。'浪涛已经迸碎；花束也已凋枯萎。现在，我已很少再想起珀西瓦尔了。 “现在，我登上西班牙的这座山峰；我要假想这匹骡子的脊背就是我的床，假想我正躺在上面，即将死去。现在，我和那个深渊之间只隔着一张薄薄的床单。我身下的床垫上那些隆起的地方都显得软乎乎的。我们磕磕绊绊地向上攀登——磕磕绊绊地往前行进。我脚下的山路不断向上延伸，一直通向山巅上一棵孤零零的树，树旁边有一个小水池。当夜晚降临，群山像鸟儿收拢起翅膀那样聚拢在一起时，我曾经剖析过海水的美丽。有时，我会采摘一朵粉红的康乃馨，或是捡起几束干草。我曾经一个人躺在草地上，用手指触摸一块陈腐的骨头，并且想：要是风从这片高地上扫过，也许除了一撮灰尘什么也不会留下。 “骡子一直在磕磕绊绊地往上爬着。山脊像升腾的雾霭一样上升；不过，从山顶上我却可以望见非洲。现在，床在我的身下沉陷。床单上散布着的黄色洞眼使我漏了下去。床脚边那个善良女人长着一张白色马脸，她做了一个告辞的动作，就转身走开了。那么谁能陪着我一起去呢？只有花，牵牛花和那月光色的五月花。我把它们松松地集结成一束，编成一个花冠；哦，献给谁呢？这会儿，我们的脚已经跨出悬崖峭壁的边沿。在我们下面，闪烁着捕鲱鱼船队的灯光。悬崖峭壁消失不见了。细浪潺潺，涟漪灰暗，数不清的浪波在我们脚下蔓延。我什么也摸不到。我什么也看不到。我们会坠下去，落在浪波上。海水会在我的耳边轰鸣。白色花瓣会在海水中变黑。它们会漂浮一会儿，随后沉入水中。把我在海浪上翻一个身就会把我挤沉。一切全都可怕地纷纷坠落，把我淹没在里面。 “不过，那棵树上长着枝枝丫丫的枝条；那是一座村舍屋顶上的僵硬线条。那些涂着红色和黄色的气泡似的东西，是人的脸。我伸脚踏在地面上，小心翼翼地跨出脚步，然后把手按在一家西班牙客栈硬邦邦的房门上。”