Chapter 10 Chapter nine
Now, the sun has set.The sea and the sky are of the same color, and it is difficult to distinguish each other.Breaking waves pushed white fan-shaped heads far across the beach, sending white-glowing shadows to the depths of the rumbling grottoes, and rolled with sighs from the pebbly beach withdraw.
The branches of the trees swayed and scattered, and scattered leaves fell down.After that, they lie on the ground with peace of mind, waiting to die.Gray-black light and shadow reflected into the garden from the broken vessel that used to flash red.Pale shadows darken the passages between the stems.The thrush ceased its song, and the maggot retreated into its tiny burrow.Now and then a whitish hollow straw was lifted by the wind from the battered bird's nest, and fell in the dusky grass strewn with rotten apples.The light and shadow on the wall of the tool room had faded, and a piece of viper skin hung empty on a nail.The various colors in the room have already overflowed their respective boundaries and penetrated into each other.The delicate brushstrokes now seemed swollen and uneven; and the brown shapes of the cupboards and chairs all melted into a vast, indistinct gloom.From ceiling to floor there seemed to be a great billowing curtain of gloom hanging all over.The mirror grew dim, like the mouth of a cave obscured by overhanging creepers.
The solid solidity of the mountains is gone.Between the roads that had faded into darkness and indistinctness, the erratic light cast vague wedges of light; And save for the chirp or two of a bird seeking shelter in a more secluded branch, there was silence.On the brink of the precipice echoed simultaneously the murmur of the wind through the forest, and the murmur of the tide calming down in the sea's innumerable quiet valleys.
It was as if a wave of darkness had risen in the air, and the darkness continued to spread, covering houses, mountains, and woods, like a raging tide surging around a sunken ship.Darkness washed over the street, swirling around and engulfing the solitary figures until they were utterly drowned; it hid from sight a couple embracing in the shade of the leafy elms in midsummer.The dark tide has flowed over the overgrown forest roads, over the rolling turf of the racetracks, swallowed up the solitary thorn trees and the empty snail shells clinging to their feet.Darkness climbed the slopes, and drifted along the sloping heights, till they met the jagged summits; Yellow grape leaves can be seen everywhere, and when the girls sitting on the balcony use fans to set up awnings to look at the snow on the mountains, the snow will not melt.And all of these were submerged by the tide of darkness.
"To sum it up now," said Bernard, "to explain to you the meaning of my life. Since we don't know each other (although I think I saw you once on a ship to India) ), we can talk freely. I always have a hallucination, as if there is something that lasts for a moment, has contours, weight, depth, and is complete. This, so far, seems to be My life. I would give it to you whole if possible. I would pick it like a man picks a bunch of grapes. I would say: 'Take it. This is my life.'
"Unfortunately, however, what I see (the sphere, filled with figures) you do not see. You see me sitting across the table, a somewhat stout, elderly man with graying temples. ...you saw me pick up my napkin and unfold it. You saw me pour myself a glass of wine. And you saw me behind me with the door open and people coming and going. But to make you understand, put my Life is given to you, and I must tell you a story—there are so many, too many stories in the world—stories about childhood, stories about school, love, marriage, death, etc., etc.; But none of the stories were true. Yet we were always like children, telling stories to each other, and to embellish them, we made up these wild, colorful, beautiful words. How tired I am of those stories, how tired Words that always come down neatly and beautifully! And how I disbelieve in the neat designs of life sketched out on half-slips of letter paper! I began to yearn for some brevity of language, like lovers The staccato, the slurred words, the shuffling of footsteps on the pavement. I began to search for a design more in keeping with the moment of humiliation and triumph that was sure to occur from time to time. In a On a stormy day, lying in a field ditch, just after it rained, then a large number of dark clouds floated over and filled the sky, with broken clouds and wisps of cloud. At this time, I feel happy It was the disorder, the loftiness, the stillness and the fury. Great clouds are always shifting, and so are the motions of things; something menacing, ominous, rolling up, and hurrying; Sometimes it stands tall, sometimes it spreads and stretches, and sometimes it suddenly floats away without a trace, and I lie in the ditch, forgetting everything in an instant. At that time, what story, what design, to me, there is not even a shadow No more.
"But for now, while we're eating, let's turn those scenes over, like kids flipping through the pages of a picture book, and the nanny is pointing and saying 'this is a cow, that's a boat'. Let's go over a few pages, but to keep you entertained, I'll add a little note in the margins.
"At first there was a nursery with windows looking out on to a garden and beyond the sea to the sea. I saw a shiny thing - no doubt a brass handle on a cupboard. Then I saw Constable The lady held the sponge over her head and squeezed it, and arrows of sensation shot down from the left and right, down the back. Henceforth, as long as we are breathing, every time we hit a chair, a We are all pierced by the arrows of feeling when we are on a table or in a woman--whenever we walk in the garden, whenever we drink this wine. Indeed, sometimes when I Passing a cottage with lights in the windows, and seeing a baby just born inside, I would beg them not to squeeze a sponge on the newborn body. Then there was the garden and the shaded, The leaves of the vine that covered almost everything; the flowers that flickered like sparks in the depths of the shade; The constant flies, and the trays of harmless bread and butter. It all happened in an instant, but it was unforgettable. The faces were looming. Running around the corner, 'Hey ,' said one, 'This is Jenny. That's Neville. That's Louis in a gray flannel uniform with a snake's head belt. That's Rhoda.' She has a water basin she uses to sail the white the petals. It was Susan who wept, and Neville and I were in the tool-shed that day; and I felt at once my indifference softened. But Neville was not softened.' Therefore,' said I, 'I am me, not Neville.' It was a marvelous discovery. Susan cried, and I followed her. Her handkerchief wet with tears, her handkerchief crying like a pump handle from displeasure I felt uncomfortable with the slender shoulders. 'This is unbearable,' I said as I sat next to her on a tree root as hard as a skeleton. At that moment, I Realizing for the first time that there are enemies in the world, they are always changing, but they will never disappear; that is the forces we are always fighting against. It is unthinkable to allow ourselves to be passively at the mercy of them.' That's where you go road, into the world,' someone would say, 'This is the way I'm going.' So I yelled, 'Let's go explore.' Then I jumped up, ran down the hill with Susan, and went I saw the little stable-boy trotting about in the yard in his big boots. Looking down, through the thick leaves, I saw the gardeners sweeping the lawn with their big brooms. The lady was sitting writing a letter. I was taken aback, dumbstruck, and thought: "I must not disturb them, stop those brooms even for a moment. They sweep, let them sweep. I can't disturb the quietness of the woman who is writing." Strange that one can't stop a gardener from sweeping, or disturb a woman's peace. So they've stayed there all my life. It's like a man waking up at Stonehenge, fourZhou was surrounded by a circle of huge stones, by those enemies, by their existence.Then a turtledove flew out of the woods.And I, because I was in the first love, made up a string of words - a poem about turtledoves - only one line, because I had an opening in my head, that is, the kind that makes people see everything clearly Sudden clarity of mind.Then more bread and butter, more flies buzzing around the nursery ceiling, where flecks of light flickered, flickering and milky, while some fingers Spots of light fell on the corners of the mantelpiece like prints, forming small blue pools.We see these sights every day as we sit and drink tea.
"However, we are all different. The beeswax, the virgin beeswax that goes on the back, melts into patches of different shapes on each of us. The man with the boots on the gooseberry The howl of the boy who made love to the kitchen maid in the bushes; the clothes hanging on the line and blown up by the wind; the dead man lying in the gutter; the apple tree chiseled in the moonlight; the Rats covered in maggots; shadows of light dripping down little blue pools—everything like that taints our white beeswax with different effects.Louis hates the nature of human lust;Rhoda hates our Cruel and ruthless; Susan's inability to get along with others; Neville's desire for order; Jenny's desire for love; etc., etc. We each suffer terribly when we are all turned into separate bodies.
"But I avoided these extremes and lived longer than many of my friends, only a little fatter, grayer, and weathered, as it were, because it was the panorama of life that made me happy, not the What a certain woman said to a certain man, even if that man is myself; the panorama of life is not seen from the roof, but from the window on the third floor. So when I was in school, How could I be intimidated by anyone? How could they confound me with anything? And the Doctor staggered into the chapel as if he were walking on a warship against a high wind, He's calling the shots into a microphone, and since powerful people always get airy - so I don't hate him like Neville, I don't revere him like Louis. When we sat together in the chapel, I take notes. There are columns, shadows, brass offerings, prayer books shielding boys squabbling or exchanging stamps; there's the sound of rusty water pumps; being manly; and Percival scratching his thigh. I make all sorts of notes to make up stories; I draw portraits of people in the margins of my notebooks, which makes them all the more distinctive. Here's me The appearance of a few people I saw at the time.
"Percival was in the chapel that day, staring straight ahead. He also had a habit of patting the back of his neck with his hands. He always looked different in every way he moved. We all slapped the back of our necks too— —Very unsuccessfully. There was an awe-inspiring beauty about him. As he was not precocious, he always read without objection all the books written for our instruction, and developed a remarkable poise Equanimity (that Latin word 'equanimity' came naturally) saved him from much humiliation and trouble; He regarded his face as the supreme example of female beauty. Because of this conformity, his later taste became extremely refined. Of course there will be some music, some unrestrained songs of joy. Through the window, it is inevitable to hear a couple of The hunting song of some quick and strange life—a sound that echoes loudly over the mountains and fades away. Those things that startle us, those things we don’t expect, things we don’t Something inexplicable, almost absurd—happened while I was thinking about him. The little viewing glass failed instantly. The columns fell; the doctor disappeared; I All of a sudden I was in a state of sudden excitement. He had fallen to his death in a horse race, and as I walked down Shaftesbury Avenue this evening, all those insignificant things pouring out of the tube gates People whose faces are almost indescribable, and the many lowly Indians, those who died of hunger and disease, the deceived women, the whipped dogs and weeping children--all this, in It all looked bereaved to me. He was supposed to be just. He was supposed to protect the weak. By the time he was in his forties, he was supposed to shake the powerful. It never occurred to me that there was any lullaby in the world that could lull him to sleep.
"Let me dig in, though, and let me use my spoon to whip out another one of these image notes we optimistically call 'our friend's profile'. This is Louis. He sits There, staring intently at the preacher. His whole mind seemed to be concentrated on his brow, his lips drawn together; his eyes intent, but suddenly flashing with mocking brilliance. Besides, He suffered from chilblains, the result of poor circulation. He was often morose and friendless; sometimes, in the midst of his alienation, he gave occasional heart-to-heart accounts of how the waves lapped on the shores of his homeland. The young man's impassive eyes rested on his swollen joints. Yes, but we were keenly aware, too, how sharp his words were, how quick his wits, how serious his affairs; How naturally we yearn for the admiration he seldom bestows on us, when we watch cricket bawdy. As Percival's superiority is admired, so Lewis' is always resented. He is prim, suspicious, He raised his feet high when he walked, looking like a crane, but despite this, it was said that he once smashed a door with his bare fist. However, his peak was too bald, too unique The stone is visible, so this kind of mist is not suitable for it. There is no intimacy in him that makes people approach each other. He is always cold; always inscrutable; almost like a A scholar who is good at putting on an air of meticulousness to be intimidating. My flowery rhetoric (such as how to describe the moon) has never been appreciated by him. On the other hand, he is very jealous of my handling of servants. Freedom. But this does not mean that he is ignorant of his own strengths. It is comparable to his respect for order. It is because of this that he later succeeded. Even so, his life is Not happy. But look—he's lying in the palm of my hand, his eyes are white. The idea of what's up with people, suddenly disappears. I'm going to put him back in that pool, in the There he will be honored.
"Next was Neville—he was lying there on his back, looking intently at the summer sky. He floated among us like a wisp of catkins, lingering in the sunny part of the playground, never I never listened attentively, and never showed aloofness. It was under his influence that I wandered aimlessly and widely without ever seriously touching the classics in Latin; In his view, our ambiguity and ambiguity in regard to those habits of mind which lead us to hopelessly one-sided views—crosses, for example, which we consider to be symbols of sin , an unforgivable act of treachery. The swaying, bombastic Doctor who, in the story I made up, sits by the gas stove shaking his suspenders was, in Neville's eyes, nothing more than a member of the Inquisition. Tools. So Neville, contrary to his usual indolence, studied Catullus, Horace, Lucretius with enthusiasm; Watching the cricketers, while using his quick, quick, grasping mind like an anteater's tongue, to work out all the twists and turns of those Roman phrases, and he had to find Alone, and always find someone to sit next to him.
"Besides, the teachers' wives will come majesticly dragging their long trains; then we will touch hats in a hurry. And the endless dullness will cover everything. Everything, tiresomely unchanged. Never, never, never will anything scratch its fins through that gray expanse of water. Nothing will ever happen to remove the unbearable heaviness. We are bored. Term after term goes by. We grow up; we change; for, needless to say, we are all animals. We are not always awake anyway; .We not only exist independently, but also as a chaotic mass with no distinction between each other. One push can start a big coach of lads and go out to play cricket and football. It's like a whole army going out To sweep across Europe. We met in parks, in public restaurants, standing firm against any traitor (like Neville, Louis, Rhoda) who would try to be alone. If there are clearly identifiable songs, such as those by Lewis, or those by Neville, I can't help but be intoxicated by the chorus of voices singing those old songs, singing songs that have almost no words and no words. Songs of any meaning, sent through courtyards at night; and now we hear that song still echoing all around us, as cars and cars drive people to the theater. (Listen; those cars go fast and down the river every now and then a steamer whistled, and it was a steamer about to pull anchor.) If a traveling peddler offered me a pinch of snuff on the train, I would have accepted it. I like people's rich and plump, shapeless, kind and gentle, not so particularly elegant and smart, but very simple and even a bit vulgar; The talk of the miners in the underpants—the miners who are frank and unaffected, who want nothing but food, love, money, and a decent life; Ambitious people talk like that; like the kind of just trying to get things done without putting on airs, etc. I like all of that. So I join them and Neville gets mad, and as for Louis, I totally agree, he will turn around and walk away.
"So the waxed waistcoat on my body melted unevenly and irregularly. It melted away in chunks, here and there. Now, through this transparent layer , came into view those wonderful pastures, untouched by man, so bright and radiant as the moon at first sight; There were rocks and snakes, too; the piebald viper; there was something embarrassing, something to stumble and stumble over. Someone jumped out of bed and threw open the window; with what noise the birds should scatter Ah! you know that sudden flapping of wings, that frightened call, and mellow chirp, and tumultuous flight; a tumult and a babbling; A disjointed, faintly glowing mosaic; not yet formed into a whole; then a bird chirped near the window. I heard the songs. I watched the phantoms. I saw Joan the Dorothys, the Miriams; I forgot the names of them all again, as I passed the avenue and stopped at the bridge to look at the water. Then one or two of them appeared A clearer image, those birds singing at the window with adolescent narcissism; they smashed the snails on the stones, pierced their sharp beaks into the soft, sticky thing; cold, greedy , mercilessly; Jenny, Susan, Rhoda. They were either educated on the East Coast or on the South Coast. They wore long braids and looked like frightened ponies, which are young girls their characteristics.
"Jenny was the first to come timidly sideways to the gate to eat the candy. She shot the candy gun out of your hand very deftly, but her ears were pressed back as if she would Biting. Rhoda is capricious—no one can catch her. She is timid and stupid. The first to become like a real woman, purely feminine, is Susan. It is she who puts those hot Tears fell on my face, and it was scary and wonderful; both, and neither. She was a natural idol for poets, because poets always crave safety; a man was sitting and sewing , this person said: "I love and hate at the same time", this person lives neither comfortable nor rich, but has a certain temperament, which is both noble and unpretentious, which is what people who write poems especially yearn for Her father, in a baggy dressing gown and battered slippers, walked slowly from room to room and down a flagstone corridor. In the stillness of night, one could Hear a wall of water cascading down a mile away. The old dog can hardly jump up to the chair he's sitting in. Can hear the stupid The servants were talking and laughing loudly.
"I mentioned it even when Susan was wringing her little handkerchief and crying 'I love and hate again' while I was in agony.' A mean servant,' I commented, 'talking and laughing in the attic above.' And this little dramatic episode shows how often we don't fully engage when we're immersed in our lived experience. Whenever I'm in the throes of agony, there's always a commentator around there pointing; this guy always whispers, like the crops growing fast enough outside that summer morning. In the room with the window, he whispered to me: "The weeping willow is growing on the grass by the river. The gardeners are sweeping the floor with big brooms, and the lady is sitting there writing letters." So saying , he led me to a realm entirely beyond our own immediate predicament; to a symbolic, and therefore perhaps eternal, realm where we sleep, eat, and breathe, so sensual and so spiritual. In the chaotic life, there really exists some kind of eternal state.
"There were weeping willows by the river. I sat on the flat grass with Neville, Lapont, Baker, Romsey, Hughes, Percival, and Jenny. Through the Spikes, autumn is dotted with orange downy thin leaves, I see boats; houses; I see women who are busy and old and fading. I stick one match after another very conspicuously on the grass to mark This or that stage in the process of coming out of cognition (maybe philosophy; maybe science; maybe myself) in which the ends of my senses, moving freely and freely, are catching vague perceptions, and then revisiting them in a split second. Let reason absorb and assimilate them; harmonious bells; a girl on a bicycle, as she rides, seems to raise a corner of the curtain behind which hides an indiscernible, tumultuous life, It was a life that was turbulent outside the circle of my friends and the willow tree.
"Only the tree resists our perpetual change. For I am always changing, changing; now I am Hamlet, now Shelley, now the hero of one of Dostoevsky's novels, I Has forgotten his name; and, unbelievably, I once was Napoleon from start to finish for a term; but mostly Byron. There were times when I strode around in the role of Byron for weeks at a time Entering the room, throwing gloves and overcoat on the back of the chair, frowning slightly. I often go to the bookshelf and take another sip of the magic potion. So I let my amazing rhetoric poured upon some very unsuitable object--some girl now married, some girl now buried; in every book, in every window-seat, random Letters to some woman who made me Byron, never finished. For it is so hard to finish a letter in someone else's style. I was so excited that I went to Her family; although the tokens were exchanged, they did not marry her, no doubt because the timing was not yet ripe for such a passion.
"There needs to be some music here again. Not some wild hunting song, Percival's music; but something painful, visceral, raspy, and at the same time high-spirited, crisp like a lark, Loud singing, instead of these dry, downright stupid descriptions—these descriptions are too deliberate! Too intellectual! It's impossible to describe the fleeting moment of first love like this. A layer of purple A red mist hung over the day. See how a room changed before she came and after she came. See how the innocent people go on their way outside. They can neither see nor hear, but they still how sensitive a man must be to his own actions in such an atmosphere of joy and oppression—even when he picks up a newspaper, he feels Something sticky stuck to the hand. Then there was a hollowing out of the guts - something elongated, woven into a spider's web, tangled painfully around a thorn. And then There was a moment of indifference like a thunderbolt of lightning; the light went out suddenly; then the great sense of unencumbered joy returned; There were pictures of pure vistas--for example, the green of Hampstead; and every face lighted up, as if all were sharing in some secret, subtle joy. plotting; and then there was that mysterious feeling that it was all over, and then there was that dog-shark hideousness that happened whenever she delayed answering letters, whenever she missed appointments. That unsettling feeling—that shuddering feeling like a thousand arrows piercing through the heart. A sudden and unbearable series of suspicions, fears, fears, fears—but if one needs What is the use of such painstakingly concocting coherent phrases, but a cry, a groan? And it will appear many years later that a Chinese man is taking off his cloak in a restaurant The feeling of being a young woman.
"However, let's go back. Let's imagine again that human life is a solid substance, shaped like a sphere, which we can hold in our hands and play with. Let's imagine that we can make up a A story of logic, so that when one thing is hurriedly told--love, say, we can move on to another in an orderly way. I said there was a willow tree there. Its branches drooping like torrential rain, Its wrinkled, crooked bark gives the impression of being outside our imagination, but at the same time unable to restrain our imagination, and still being transformed by it; but Even so, it reveals itself still, and has an unwavering quality that our life lacks. And the evaluation it makes, the standard it provides, is in the this; and that is why it appears to be a measure when we are always shifting and changing. Neville - say - sat with me on the grass. But I would ask, what if Does everything become as clear as all this, as he gazes through the willow branches at a boat on the river, at a young man eating bananas from a paper bag? and so full of his vivid imagination that for a moment I could see it too; the boat, the banana, the young man. But then it was gone.
"Rhoda walked over vaguely. If she put on a robe fluttering in the wind, she would surely be able to play tricks on any scholar. If she covered those feet in slippers, she would surely be able to play tricks on a student who was rolling flattened. Donkey of the meadow. What dreadful thing, and flashes like sparks, looms in the depths of her dreamy, terrified gray eyes? Even cruel and malicious as we are, We're not that bad either. We sure have our bare minimum of goodness; or like me, it's just out of the question to have a casual conversation with someone I barely know - so we should stop , let alone. As she saw, the willow tree grew on the edge of a gray desert, where not a single bird sang. The leaves, which shriveled and shriveled as she watched, She would heave painfully as she walked by. The trams and buses roared hoarsely down the street, roaring past the curbs. Perhaps in the sun, a The Stone Pillar stands beside a small pond in her desert where wild beasts often come quietly to drink.
"Then came Jenny. She flickered her fire above the tree. She was like a crumpled poppy, wild and eager to drink the dry dust. Fiery, stubborn, never On the slightest impulse, she came confidently. And there were many little flames, winding and spreading over the cracks in the dry earth. She made the willows dance, but not in imagination; for she couldn't see Anything that isn't actually there. That's a tree; the river is over there; it's afternoon; we're here; I'm in my serge suit; she's all green. There's neither past nor future ; just this moment in the halo of time, and our bodies; and that inevitable orgasm, and that state of ecstasy.
“而路易斯，当他小心谨慎地（我绝对不是夸张）把一件雨衣平整地展开，并在草地上躺下来的时候，他就会使人不得不承认他的在场。这真是让人敬佩感叹。我还是具有那样的明智，懂得对他的正直诚实表示敬意；懂得尊重他用那双瘦骨嶙峋的、因为生冻疮而裹着破布的手去摸索研究一颗钻石是否货真价实。我把一盒盒用过的火柴埋在他脚边草地上的坑里。他咧嘴笑笑，用刻薄的口吻责备我的懒散无聊。他那污秽可怜的空想强烈地吸引着我。他的故事中的人物总是戴着圆顶硬礼帽，谈着用十英镑价钱出售钢琴的事。在他描述的背景中，电车总是发出嘎吱嘎吱的声音；工厂总是冒着辛辣刺鼻的浓烟。他经常出没在一些寒酸的街道或小镇上，每逢圣诞节，那里的女人就会喝得酩酊大醉，赤身裸体地躺在床罩上。他的话语就像一座制弹塔上落下来的一滴铅，坠到水里又喷射出来。他找到一个字眼，一个仅有的字眼，来形容月亮。后来，他起身走了，我们所有的人也都站起身走了。但是我停留了片刻，望了望那棵树，而且就在我望着秋天里那如火如荼的黄色树枝的时候，某种沉淀物凝结而成了；我凝结而成了；有一滴东西滴落下来；我滴落了下来——就是说，我从某种已经完结的经验中挣脱出来了。
“我站起身，走开了——我，我，我；不是拜伦、雪莱、陀思妥耶夫斯基，而是我，伯纳德。我甚至把我的名字重复了一两遍。我摇着我的手杖，走进一家商店，买了——我并不是说我喜欢音乐——一幅镶着银色画框的贝多芬画像。这样做，绝不是说我喜欢音乐，而是由于当时整个的人生，它的大师们，它的探险者们，全都以一长列光辉人物的形象出现在我的身后；而我就是那个继承者；我，就是那个延续者；我，就是那个不可思议地被指定为将他们的事业进行下去的人。所以，泪水模糊了我的双眼，与其说是因为骄傲，不如说是因为谦卑，我一边摇着手杖，一边沿着大街往前走去。翅膀振动的呼呼声已然响起，鸟儿鸣啭啼叫的歌声也已开始；而现在我走了进去；我走进那间房屋，那间枯燥乏味、永不妥协、居住过人的房屋，那个桌子上陈列着它的所有传统、它的各种常用物品、它的成堆成堆的垃圾以及种种珍贵物品的地方。我拜访了那个普通服装成衣匠，他还记得我的叔叔。许许多多的人都被发掘出来，然而他们的面目都不像那几张最基本的面孔（奈维尔、路易斯、珍妮、苏珊、罗达）那样轮廓鲜明，而是模糊不清、特征难辨的，或者说他们的面目特征是那样的变幻不定，以致他们仿佛根本就没有什么面目。于是，羞愧脸红但又同时感到轻蔑，我就在这种赤裸裸的狂喜与怀疑互相缠杂的极其古怪的情况下，承受着这种打击；这种混乱的感觉；这种复杂的、骚动的、突如其来地同时来自四面八方的生活的冲击。而在珍妮相当安闲自得、光艳照人地坐在描金椅子上的那个晚会上，倘若总是不知道接下来该说些什么话，并且弄出一些令人尴尬的冷场，一些像干涸沙漠里的每一粒卵石都非常清晰显眼那样惹人注目的冷场；而随后又说了一些不该说的话，并且自觉好比一根通条似的绝对诚恳，这种诚恳你宁愿换成一堆闪光发亮的硬币，可是又根本做不到——哦，在这样的晚会上，这一切是多么令人丧气！多么令人难堪啊！
“接着，有一位夫人打了一个令人难忘的手势，说：'请随我来。'她把你领进一间隐秘的斗室，让你有幸跟她亲密地相处。称呼由姓氏改成了教名；教名又改成了昵称。关于印度、爱尔兰或摩洛哥究竟该怎么办？上岁数的绅士们全身盛装，站在枝形吊灯下面回答着这些问题。你会发现自己令人惊奇地知道了许多事情。在户外，那些没有什么差别的队伍正在高声歌唱；在屋里，我们却非常隐蔽，非常直率，确确实实有一种感觉，那就是在这儿，在这间小小的屋子里，我们尽可以把这一天看作一个星期当中的任何一天。比如星期五或者星期六。一层外壳覆盖在脆弱的心灵上，像珍珠似的，光彩闪闪，激情的利啄拿它毫无办法。这层外壳在我身上形成得比大多数人都要早。我不久就可以在别人已经吃完水果的时候削我的梨了。我就可以在周围一片沉默时从容地说完我的话了。也就是在这段时期，尽善尽美具有一种诱惑力。你会认为，借助在右脚脚趾上拴一根绳子，从而早一些起床的办法，可以学会西班牙语。你在自己约会手册上的那些小格子里填写上，八点钟吃早餐；一点半赴午餐会；等等。你把你的那些衬衣、短袜、领带摊放在你的床上。
“然而，这种过分的一丝不苟，这种有条不紊的军事般的进程，完全是一种错误；是一种贪图便利行为，一种谎言。甚至是当我们身着白色坎肩，礼节周全地在约定时间按时到达的时候，这种行动的下面也总是潜藏着一些东西，总是涌动着一股由破碎的梦境、摇篮曲、大街上的叫喊、不完整的语句和种种情景——一些榆树，一些柳树，正在扫地的园丁，正在写信的女士——汇成的潜流，这股潜流即使在我们扶着一位太太去赴宴会的时候也会不断地起伏隐现。就在你那么一丝不苟地把桌布上的刀叉摆放整齐的同时，会有无数张面孔装扮鬼脸。没有任何东西是你可以用勺子捞起来的；没有任何东西是你可以称之为一件大事的。但是这股潜流，却是存在着、潜藏着的。当我沉浸在这股潜流中的时候，我就会在一句妙语和另一句妙语之间停顿下来，目不转睛地观察一个也许插有一枝红花的花瓶，同时为某个道理、某个突然的新发现所沉迷。或者，当我正在斯特兰德大街散步时，我会忽然说：'这正是我所需要的辞句，'因为有一种美丽的、犹如传说中的幻影似的鸟儿，鱼或者边缘火红的云朵突然出现，一劳永逸地将某个总是缠绕着我的念头圈囿起来；随后，我就一边重新兴致勃勃地浏览摆在商店橱窗里的领带和别的各种东西，一边匆匆地向前走去。
“那生活的结晶，那生活的圆球——就像我所称呼的那样，摸上去绝不是坚硬的、冰凉的，而是包裹着若干层薄薄的气膜。如果我对它们进行挤压，它们就会马上全部爆裂。我从这口大锅里完完整整提炼出来的无论什么语句，都只不过是连成一串的六条小鱼，它们被我捉住了，而千百万条别的鱼却在噗通噗通地跳跃，致使这口大锅里的东西像滚沸的银水似的沸腾不已，并且纷纷从我的手指缝里溜走。一张张面孔重又浮现出来，一张张面孔，一张张面孔——他们把他们的美丽容貌紧贴在我的气泡壁上——奈维尔，苏珊，路易斯，珍妮，罗达，以及千百万别的人。真是很难把他们有条不紊地排列整齐；很难把其中的某一个单独分离出来，或是把总体的效果讲述出来——这就又像是在谈论音乐。这是多么美妙复杂的一曲交响乐啊，包含着和谐音与不谐和音，包含着高音部和复杂的、时而低沉时而昂扬的低音部！每个人都在演奏他自己的曲调，用小提琴、长笛、小号、鼓或者随便什么其他的乐器。奈维尔的曲调是：'让我们来谈谈哈姆雷特吧。'路易斯的，是科学技术。珍妮的，是爱情。随后忽然间，在一阵愤怒情绪的冲动下，跟一个性情温和的男人一起到坎伯兰，在那儿的一家小客栈呆上整整一星期，不停的雨水沿着窗户玻璃流淌下来，而且每顿饭吃的除了羊肉，羊肉，还是羊肉。尽管这样，这个星期仍然是未被记录下来的激情旋涡中一块坚固的里程碑。就是在那时，我们玩了多米诺骨牌；就是在那时，我们为老得咬不动的羊肉而发生了争吵。那时，我们曾在荒野上漫步。后来，一个在门口探头探脑的小女孩把那封用蓝色信纸写的信交给我，从那封信我得知那个曾经使我成为拜伦的姑娘即将嫁给一位乡绅。一个穿着带护腿高筒靴的男人，一个总是拿着鞭子的男人，一个经常在饭桌上大谈肥胖阉牛问题的男人——我冷嘲热讽地大声叫嚷着，同时又仰望着天上快速漂游的云块，痛感到我自己的失败；意识到自己渴望自由；渴望逃避；渴望受到束缚；渴望有个了结；渴望继续下去；渴望成为路易斯那样的人；渴望保持我自己；而后我就披着雨衣独自走了出去，在永恒的群山下面感到自己脾气太坏，一点也不值得崇敬；后来就回到住处，抱怨羊肉，打起行囊，并就此又重新回到那旋涡之中；回到那痛苦的磨难之中。
“然而，生活还是令人愉快的，可以忍受的。星期一后面跟着星期二；然后是星期三。精神上的年轮增加了；个性变得坚定了；痛苦被年龄的增长吸收了。开开合合，合合开开，越来越嘈杂，越来越坚定，青春的匆忙和狂热全都被发动起来，进行运转，以致整个生命似乎都在不停地扩张收缩，就像一座钟的主发条。从一月到十二月，生活的流水流逝得多快啊！我们被事物的激流卷携着，那些事物是那么司空见惯，从不留下任何阴影。我们不停地漂流，漂流……
“可是，鉴于一个人必须有所跳跃（为了向你讲述这个故事），那么我就在这儿，在这个问题上来个跳跃，于是现在就跳到一个完全是平淡无奇的话题上——比方说拨火棍与火钳，那是在那位使我成为拜伦的女士嫁人之后又过了一些时候，我借助一个我愿意称她为琼斯小姐第三的人的眼光所看到的东西。她是这样的一位姑娘，每当期望着与你一起吃饭时，她就总是穿着某一套衣服，总是采摘某一种样子的玫瑰戴在身上，而且当你正在刮胡子的时候，她总会使你想到：'稳当点儿，稳当点儿，这可是件乱来不得的事情。'于是你就会问：'她对待小孩子们如何？'你会注意到，她使用她的那把雨伞时显得有那么一点手脚笨拙；然而，当一只鼹鼠被夹子夹住时，她却显得很有头脑；而且最后一点，她不会让早餐吃的面包（我一边刮着脸，一边想着婚后生活中那没完没了的早餐）总是平淡乏味——要是吃早餐的时候坐在这位姑娘的对面，看见一只蜻蜓停在面包上，那你是绝对不会感到吃惊的。另外，她还激起了我飞黄腾达的愿望；同时她也使我充满好奇地去打量从前一直觉得讨厌的新生婴儿的面孔。于是你头脑中脉搏的那种细微而有力的搏动——突突，突突——便呈现出一种非常庄重的节奏。我徜徉在牛津大街上。我们是延续者，我们是继承者，我一边说，一边想着我的那几个儿女；而且即使这种心情浮夸到了荒谬绝伦的地步，你需要通过跳上一辆公共汽车或是买一份晚报来加以掩饰，它也依然是你炽热激情中的一个古怪的因素，怀着这种心情你系好自己的鞋带，怀着这种心情你现在写信给那些正在从事各种事业的老朋友们。路易斯，那个阁楼栖居者；罗达，那个总是湿淋淋的泉水仙女；他们两个全都否定那些从前对我来说乃是无可怀疑的事情的真实性；全都代表着跟那些在我看来是那么显而易见的事情（例如：我们总要结婚，总要过家庭生活）截然相反的另一面；我为此爱过他们，可怜过他们，而且也深深地妒忌过他们那种不一样的命运。
“从前我有过一个为我写传记的人，他很久以前死了，但是假如他依然怀着他先前那种奉承讨好的感情追踪我的足迹的话，他肯定会在这儿这样写道：'就在这个时期，伯纳德结了婚，买了房子……他的朋友们发现他热爱家庭生活的倾向越来越强烈……儿女们的出世使得增加收入成了他极大的愿望。'这便是传记式的文体，这种文体也确实把那些支离破碎的素材、那些边缘参差不齐的素材拼合在了一起。毕竟，假如你写信总是用'亲爱的先生'来开头，用'您的忠实的某某'来结尾，你就不能对这种传记式的文体吹毛求疵了；你不能瞧不起这些像一条条罗马大道一样穿过我们的纷乱生活的辞句，因为它们迫使我们要像文明人那样，踏着那种警察们所走的缓慢而整齐的步子走路，虽然与此同时你可能会低声嘟囔着随便什么废话——'听呀，听呀，狗正在吠叫呢'；'走开，走开，死亡'；'不要让我相信世上有什么诚心实意的婚姻吧'，等等。'他在事业上取得了一些成就……他从一个叔叔那儿继承了一小笔遗产'——那个传记作者会这样写下去，而且如果一个人总是穿着长裤、系着背带，你也得说说这些事儿，尽管它会诱使你像去采摘黑莓一样劳而无功；诱使你用这些词句去做一些打水漂的游戏。但无论如何你都得说说这些事儿。
“我想说的是，我已经变成了这样一种人，即：我在生活中留下了自己的足迹，就像一个人在田野上踏出了一条小路。我的长筒靴子的左侧已经有点磨损。每当我走进去的时候，房间里就会出现一阵忙乱。'伯纳德来了！'不同的人说这句话的口气又是多么的互不相同啊！有很多很多的房间——因而也有很多很多的伯纳德。有模样可爱但却虚弱的；有身体强壮但却目空一切的；有才华横溢但却冷酷无情的；有涵养颇佳但却特别令人厌烦的——我对此毫不怀疑；有富有同情心但却态度冷淡的；有衣冠不整但却——当走进另一间屋子里时——矫揉造作、老于世故、衣着太过讲究的。对我自己来说，我究竟是个什么样的人却又与此迥然不同；全然不是刚才所说的这些样子。我特别乐意在吃早餐的时候让自己稳稳当当地坐定在面包跟前，面对着我的妻子，鉴于她现在已完全是我的妻子，而绝不再是那个从前每当渴望和我见面就戴着某一种样子的玫瑰花的姑娘了，所以她总是让我有一种仿佛置身在无忧无虑之中的感觉，就像雨蛙蹲伏在一片惬意的绿叶下面肯定会产生的那种感觉。'请递给我……'我会说。'牛奶……'她会这样应答，或者说：'玛丽就要来了……'——对于那些已经把所有时代的一切战利品全都继承下来的人而言，这只是一些简简单单的交谈，而对于那些当时正天天处在生活的高潮之中的人来说，却又并非如此，因为那时每天吃早饭的时候，你会感到生活是完美的和纯粹的。肌肉，神经，肠子，血管，所有这些构成我们生命的线圈和发条，这架机器的不知不觉的嗡嗡运转，还有舌头的伸缩弹动，都在极好地发挥作用。开开合合；合合开开；吃东西，喝东西；有时候还要说说话——整个机器装置似乎就像一只闹钟的主发条，一会儿伸展，一会儿收缩。吐司和黄油，咖啡和熏肉，《泰晤士报》和信件——突然，电话铃非常紧急地响了起来，我不慌不忙站起身，向电话机走过去。我拿起黑色的话筒。我注意到我的脑子从容不迫地调整着自己，准备接受电话传来的信息——没准是（人总是会出现诸如此类的幻想）要你去接受大英帝国国王的邀请呢；我注意到自己非常镇静自若；我发现我那注意力的原子是以多么令人惊奇的活力扩散开来，将干扰物团团围住，吸纳电话里的信息，使它们自己适应新的形势，以致我还没有挂上电话，它们就已创造出一个更为丰富、更为强大、更为复杂的世界，有人邀请我到这个世界上去担当我的角色，而且毫无疑问我肯定会胜任我的角色。我把帽子按在头上，大步跨进一个人口稠密的世界，那些人也都戴着帽子，当我们在火车上、地铁里比肩接踵，碰在一起时，我们就用既是竞争者又是伙伴的目光互相会意地眨眨眼，然后振作精神，怀着许许多多的圈套和诡计去实现那个同样的目的——谋生。
“生活是愉快的。生活是美好的。单单生活的进程就是令人满意的。就拿一个身体健康的普通人来说吧。他喜欢吃饭和睡觉。他喜欢用鼻子吸吸清新的空气，喜欢踏着轻快的脚步走过斯特兰德大街。或者比如说在乡村，有一只公鸡正站在大门顶上鸣啼；有一匹马驹正绕着一片牧场奔驰。总会有些事情等着去做。星期一后面紧跟着星期二；然后是星期三，星期四。每一天都会荡漾起同样的生活涟漪，重复着同样的韵律曲线；给新的沙滩带来一层寒潮，或是缓缓地退潮而不留下一点寒气。就这样，生命的年轮增加了；个性变得坚定了。原来那种匆匆忙忙、鬼鬼祟祟的举动，简直就像把一把谷子撒向空中，任其被来自四面八方的生活的狂野之风刮得东飘西荡，如今已变得有条不紊和秩序井然了，而且抛撒得目标明确——至少看起来是这样。
“天啊，多么愉快！天啊，多么美好！当火车从郊区驶过，我看见那些卧室的窗户上辉映着的灯光时，我肯定会说，那些小店主的生活过得可真是不错。当我站在窗前，瞧着那些提着提包、络绎不绝地拥进城里来的工人时，我就说，多么像一群蚂蚁一样生机勃勃、精神饱满啊！当我看见一些人穿着白色的球裤正在一月份的雪地里追着一个足球奔跑时，我就说，多么结实、多么动作灵活而激烈的四肢啊！现在，由于经常为一些琐碎的事情闹脾气——也许是为那些肉——好像在我们婚后生活那无边无际的宁静中搅起一点微澜，就会非常令人愉快似的，因为我们的孩子快要出世了，让生活产生一些波动会给我们的生活增加乐趣。我在吃饭的时候粗声恶气地说话。我不讲道理地信口胡诌，好像我是一个百万富翁，可以不当回事儿地随便扔掉五个先令；或者好像我是一个本领高强的高空作业工人，故意在一只脚凳上绊了一下腿。直到要上楼睡觉的时候，我们才在楼梯上停止争吵，然后站在窗户跟前，望着那像蓝宝石的内部一样清澈的天空，'赞美上帝，'我说道，'我们无需把这种无聊的议论融合到诗里面。琐碎的话语就已足够了。'因为前景的辽阔及其明澈似乎不会出现什么障碍，而是允许我们的生活伸展开去，越过所有那些鳞次栉比的屋顶和烟囱，一直伸展到一望无际的天边。
“直到陷入那猝然发生的死亡——珀西瓦尔的死。'哪边是幸福？'我自问（我们的孩子已经出世），'哪边是痛苦？'当我走下楼梯的时候，我一边想着那属于我的身体的两半，一边做出一个纯粹的身体性的陈述。同时，我也注意到了房间里的情况；窗帘迎风飘动；厨子哼着小曲；衣橱里的衣服透过半开半掩的橱门露了出来。'再给他（我自己）一点延缓的时间吧。'我下楼的时候这样说道。'现在，在这间客厅里，他就要承受痛苦了。根本不会有任何逃避。'但是仅仅用语言尚不足以表达痛苦。需要大声叫喊，天崩地裂，印花布床罩变得一片空白，对时间和空间的感觉变得迟钝模糊；还需要感到移动的东西完全凝固不动；声音时而显得很远，时而又显得很近；皮肉好像已经绽裂，鲜血好像正在喷出，有个关节猛然抽搐起来——在这一切下面，有某种非常重要的东西显露出来，但是还很遥远，还只能孤独地保存着它。所以我走到外面。我看到了第一个他将再也不会看到的清晨——那些麻雀就像被一个孩子用线拴着的玩具。无动于衷地从旁边观看着事物，而且能够发现它们身上的美——这是多么不可思议啊！还有那随后而来的如释重负的感觉；装腔作势，弄虚作假和虚幻不实，全都消失不见了，一种光亮透明出现了，使得在你走路的时候，你自己一下子销踪匿影，而别的事物一个个全都变得清晰可见——这是多么不可思议啊。'现在还会有些什么别的发现呢？'我说道，并且为了将它紧紧地抓住，我对阅报栏视而不见，继续往前走去，然后瞧着那些画像。圣母像和圆柱，拱门和橙树，全都像创世第一天一样平静，然而它们已经知道了人世间的悲伤，它们就悬在那里，而我目不转睛地望着它们。'在这儿，'我说，'我们不受任何干扰地呆在一起。'而且这种自由自在、无所挂碍，就像是一种胜利，在我的内心激发起强烈的兴奋，以致我即使现在也会时而到那里去，在我的内心重新唤回这种兴奋和珀西瓦尔。但是这种情况不会维持多久。使你遭受折磨的是你头脑里的那只眼睛总在可怕地活跃着——他是怎么摔下去的，他变成了什么样子，人们把他抬到了什么地方；那些人围着腰布，拉着绳子；那些绷带和那些泥巴。随后出现的是一个可怕地猛然涌上来的回忆，既出乎意料，又无法回避——那就是我没有跟他一起去汉普顿宫。这只利爪抓挠着我；这颗利齿撕咬着我；我竟然没有去。尽管他急不可耐地申明这并没什么关系；为什么要打断，为什么要破坏我们之间那持久不变心心相印的时刻呢？——然而，我还是懊丧地反复说，我竟然没有去，而且就这样，我被这些缠磨人的魔鬼逼出了神圣的殿堂，跑到了珍妮那里，因为她有一间房子；一间里面摆着几张小桌子，桌子上凌乱地放着许多小装饰品的房子。在那儿，我泪流满面地进行了忏悔——我竟然没有去汉普顿宫。而她，因为回想起其他一些在我看来微不足道，但对她来说却非常折磨人的事情，就向我解释，每当碰上一些我们没法参与分享的事情时，生活便变得怎样的暗淡无光。另外，没过多久，一个侍女送来一张便条，然后就在珍妮转身去写回信而我则充满好奇地想知道她在写些什么以及写给什么人的时候，我仿佛看见了落在他的坟墓上的那第一片树叶。我看见我们奋力越过当下这个时刻，将它永久地丢在我们的身后。然后我们肩并肩地坐在沙发上，无可避免地回想起别人早已说过的话：'现在的这棵百合花在五月里会开得更为茂盛。'我们曾经把珀西瓦尔比作一朵百合花——而这个珀西瓦尔，我一直希望他蓬乱着头发，颠覆各种权威，跟我相携到老；他已经被百合花淹没了。
“于是，当下这一刻的真诚感消失了；于是，这种真诚变成了某种象征；而我对此根本无法忍受。我们与其让这些百合花的甜蜜的汁液散发出来，并且用各种各样的辞藻将他覆盖起来，还不如亵渎神明地嘲笑一番、议论一番呢，我嚷嚷着说。因此，我便突然沉默下来，不再说话，而珍妮，这个心中既无未来也无远虑，只是全身心地关注眼前这一刻的珍妮，这鞭子只是轻轻地抽了她一下，她往脸上扑了些粉（我就爱她这一点），然后站在门口的台阶上向我挥手道别，同时还用一只手按着她的头发，以免被风吹乱了，正是这个姿势令我对她感到敬重，仿佛它使我们的决心更加坚定了——绝不再让百合花生长。
“我怀着幻想破灭的清澈心情观察着大街上那些卑劣的虚幻景象；它的一座座门廊；它的一扇扇挂着窗帘的窗户；购买东西的妇女身上穿着的黄澄澄的衣服，贪婪吝啬、洋洋自得的神气；裹着羊毛大围巾出来呼吸新鲜空气的老头子；行人穿过马路时的小心谨慎；人人怀有的要继续活下去的决心，而实际上，你们都是些傻瓜和笨蛋，我说，随时都可能有一块瓦片从屋顶上飞下来，随时都可能有一辆汽车突然出事儿，因为要是一个喝醉酒的人手里握着一根棍棒摇摇晃晃地走来走去，根本就没有任何道理可言——如此而已。我就像是一个获准走到后台去的人，一个得以看清那些舞台效果是怎样产生出来的奥秘的人。但不管怎样，我还是回到了自己那个温暖舒适的家里，客厅女仆提醒我要穿着袜子蹑手蹑脚地上楼。孩子正在睡觉。我走进我自己的房间。
“难道就没有一把利剑或者别的什么东西，可以用来摧毁这些墙壁，这个藏身之所，这种生儿育女和藏在窗帘后面的生活，以及日复一日地越来越陷入和沉湎于图书和画册之中的生活吗？真还不如像路易斯那样，为了追求完美而耗尽心血呢；或者像罗达那样撇下我们，越过我们的头顶，飞向荒漠；或者经过成千上万此的选择，最终只选了一个像奈维尔的人；或者还不如做一个像苏珊那样的人，对太阳的酷热或霜打过的草地，又是爱又是恨；或者做一个像珍妮那样的人，诚实无欺，像个动物似的。他们每个人都有自己着迷的事情；他们对死亡都抱有同样的感受；这些都会给他们带来好处。所以，我就一一拜访了我的这些朋友，用手指摸索着试图撬开他们那些紧锁着的小匣子。我手里捧着我的忧伤——不，不是我的忧伤，而是我们这人生的难以理解的答案——依次走到他们跟前，请他们检验。有的人去找牧师；有的人依靠诗歌；而我则依靠我的朋友，依靠我自己的心，在各种辞藻和断简残篇当中，寻觅某种完整无缺的东西——对我来说，月亮和树木中的美还显得不够；对我来说，一个人与另一个人的接触就是一切，然而我感到连这个也是难以捉摸的，因为我是那么的不完整，那么的脆弱，那么难以言喻的孤独。我就是这样坐在那里。
“这是这个故事的结尾吗？一声长叹？海浪的最后一次波动？一条细流流进一道阴沟，汩汩地消失了踪影？让我赶快摸摸这张桌子吧——就这样——由此来恢复我对当下时刻的感觉。一个摆满各种调味品瓶子的餐具柜；满满一篮子圆面包；一盘香蕉——这些都是看了使人感到惬意的情景。然而，如果根本就不存在什么故事，那又怎么可能存在结尾或开端呢？当我们试图讲述生活的时候，它也许根本就不愿意让我们这样来对待它。深夜难以入眠的时候，竟然不能对自己更加克制一些，这似乎颇为不可思议。于是，分门别类也就显得不是那么很有价值了。真是不可思议啊，浪潮的推动力会渐渐消失在一条干枯的河沟里。深夜独坐，就会感到我们似乎已经精疲力竭；我们的这一点水只能勉强淹着那些海冬青的穗穗；我们甚至都无法够着那些稍远一点的卵石，将它们打湿。全都结束了，我们走到了尽头。只能期待着——我整夜都在期待——我们全身再涌起一点活力；我们站起身来，我们把白色浪花似的鬃毛向后一甩；我们步履沉重地在岸上行走；我们决不愿意受到束缚。这就是说，我刮过胡子，洗过脸；没有弄醒我的妻子，独自吃过早餐；戴上帽子，走出家门去谋生了。星期一过后，星期二就来了。
“但是某种疑惑，某种质疑的语气依然存在。当我打开一道房门时，我会惊奇发现人们都在这么忙碌着；当我端来一杯茶时，我常常会犹疑不决，别人要的是牛奶还是糖呢。而现在，当星光经过了千百万年的穿行之后，终于落在我的手上时——我所能得到的只是稍稍打个冷战——仅此而已，我的想象力已经变得太苍白了。可是某种疑惑的心情依然存在。一个阴影从我的头脑中掠过，就像夜间在一所房子里，飞蛾扇动着翅翼在桌椅间飞过。例如，当我在那年夏天到林肯郡去看望苏珊，而她穿过花园，像一艘半张开风帆的船一样慢慢腾腾，用一个怀孕女人的蹒跚姿态，迎着我走来时，我就想：'事情一直在这样发展，可是为什么呢？'我们在花园里坐下；农场的马车一路掉着干草走了过来；四周是乡间常有的那种白嘴鸭和鸽子的鸣叫声；水果全都罩着网，遮盖着；园工正在翻土。蜜蜂在花丛里的紫色通道间嗡嗡地飞来飞去；有的蜜蜂则一头扎在向日葵那金光闪闪的花盘上。细小的树枝儿被风卷携着掠过草地。这一切是多么富有韵律，而又朦朦胧胧，犹如笼罩在一层雾里面；但是在我看来，却非常可恨，它就像一张网，把你的四肢紧紧地束缚在它的网眼里。她，这个曾经拒绝过珀西瓦尔的人，竟然让自己屈从于这个，屈从于这种被严严实实蒙在里面的生活状态。
“我一边坐在河岸上等火车，一边沉思我们是怎样放弃抵抗，怎样屈从于自然的愚蠢行为的。绿叶葱茏的树林展开在我的面前。由于某种气味或者某个声音对神经的轻轻触动，那个很久以前的幻象——正在扫地的园丁，正在写字的太太——又重新浮现出来。我又看见埃弗顿山毛榉树下的那几个身影。扫地的园丁；坐在桌子前写字的太太。不过，现在我把成年的贡献融进了童年的直觉之中——厌腻和听天由命；对我们命中注定无法回避的事情的领悟；死亡；对种种局限性的认识；生活是怎么比一个人曾经想象的那样更为冷酷无情的。那时，当我还是个小孩子时，就已确切知道世上存在着仇敌了；反抗的需要一直激励着我。我曾经跳起身来大声叫喊：'让我们去探索吧！'于是，对这种状态的恐惧便不复存在了。
“那么，现在究竟有些什么状态已不复存在了？麻木迟钝和听天由命。又有些什么有待去探索呢？那些树叶和林子什么也没有隐藏。如果有一只鸟儿飞起来，我决不会再去做诗了——我只会重复我从前看过的东西。因此，如果我有一根手杖，可以用它来指点人生曲线的坎坷曲折，那么这就是人生的最低点；在这儿，它徒劳无益地盘旋在潮水不会抵达的泥淖里——就在这儿，在这个我背靠一道树篱而坐的地方，我的帽檐低低地拉到眉梢，而那群绵羊一个个露出呆头木脑的蠢相，正迈着它们那僵硬、细长的四条腿漠然地一步步走了过来。然而，如果你在一块足够长的磨石上去磨一把钝刀，就会迸出一些东西——一道尖锐的火光；相反，如果拿到那些通常可见的、既缺乏理性又毫无目的的、混乱一团的东西上去磨，就只能迸出一种仇恨、轻蔑的怒火。我拿起我的头脑，我的生命，这沮丧疲惫、几乎奄奄一息的老朽货，朝着这些漂浮在油腻腻水面上的乱七八糟的鸡零狗碎、枯枝败叶、可恶的破船碎片、残骸朽骨，猛烈地砸了过去。我跳起身来。我喊道：'奋斗，奋斗！'我一遍又一遍地喊着。这意味着努力和抗争，意味着永无休止的战争，意味着不断的破坏和修复——此乃无论胜败如何，每一天都在进行的战斗，此乃全力以赴的跟踪追击。让零乱不齐的树木变得井然有序；让浓荫蔽日的树叶变得疏朗，漏下摇曳的光线。我用一个突如其来的词句便将它们全都网罗住了。我用词句使它们重新现出明晰的形状。
“火车开来了。火车慢慢地驶进车站，在月台旁边停了下来。我赶上了这班火车。所以傍晚就回到了伦敦。多么令人惬意啊，这平淡无奇的气氛和烟草味；一些老太婆提着她们的篮子爬上三等车厢；吸烟斗的声音；在一些小站上，亲友们道别时的互道晚安和明天见，随后就可以看见伦敦的灯光了——既没有青春时代炫目的欣喜若狂，也没有褴褛的紫色旗子，但是无论如何依然是伦敦的灯光；强烈的电灯光高高地亮在大楼办公室里；街灯沿着冷清的人行道依次排列过去，照明灯在街头市场上热闹地闪烁。在我把仇敌暂时赶走的这段时间，所有这一切都我使感到心旷神怡。
“另外，我喜欢看到那种喧闹的人生庆典，比如说在剧院里。在这种地方，一头浑身土色、粗俗不堪的田野上的动物会直立起来，机智多谋、不遗余力地跟那些绿色的树林、绿色的原野，以及那些一边咀嚼一边迈着整齐的脚步往前走的绵羊进行战斗。而且，不用说，灰色长街上的那些窗户也都灯光明亮；一条条地毯横在人行道上；有打扫干净、布置一新的房间，有炉火、食物、美酒和闲谈。两手已经干瘪的男人，耳朵上戴着宝塔式珍珠耳坠的女人，进进出出。我看见一些老人的面庞被世俗的劳累刻满了衰老的皱纹和冷嘲的神色；美貌受到人们的珍爱，所以即使在上了年纪的人身上，它也犹如新生之物；而年轻人又是那样地耽于追求欢乐，以致你会真的认为欢乐肯定是存在的；仿佛草地被修整平坦就是为了这个；大海上荡起微波；沙沙响的树林里雀跃着毛羽鲜亮的小鸟，全都是为了年轻人，为了对生活怀着期望的年轻人。在那里，你可以遇见珍妮和哈尔，汤姆和贝蒂；在那儿，我们互相开着玩笑，吐露着各自内心的秘密；而且每次在门口分手之前，必定会约好再会的日期，在另外一家屋里，根据不同的情况，比如一年中的不同季节而定。生活是愉快的；生活是美好的。星期一过后，来的是星期二，然后紧跟着星期三。
“是的，不过每过一段时间就会出现一点异样。这也许会表现在某一个晚上房间里的某件东西的样子上，比如说椅子的布置。深深地陷在屋角里的一张沙发上，观察，倾听，这似乎是非常惬意的事情。这时，碰巧有两个背对窗户站着的身影来到一棵枝叶纵横的柳树前面。你的心情会有所触动，觉得：'世上的确有一些人，虽然穿的衣服很漂亮，但却没有长一副漂亮脸蛋。'接着，当波纹蔓延开来的时候，出现了一阵冷场，随后那个你本来应该跟她交谈的姑娘会在对自己说：'他老了。'然而她错了。老的并不是年纪；而是说时间的一滴滴落了；现在又是一滴。时间又一次使事物的秩序发生了震荡。我们从葡萄藤架起的拱门下面钻出来，跨入一个更为宽阔的世界。现在，事物的真实秩序——我们永远都有这样的幻想——显得清晰明白了。所以很快地，在一间客厅里，我们的生活做出调整，使自己跟正在庄严地走过天空的白昼保持相同的步调。
“正是因为这个原因，我既没有穿上我的漆皮鞋，也没有找一条还能过得去的领带，而是寻找奈维尔去了。我去寻找我的老朋友，他很早就已认识我了，那时我正是拜伦，正是梅瑞狄斯笔下的一个年轻人，而且又是陀思妥耶夫斯基的一部书里的那个我已经记不起其名字的主人公。我找到他时，他是一个人，正在读书。一张非常整洁的桌子；一张井井