Chapter 31 Section 3

There are rumors about the pope circulating in society.Certain claims, certain underground rumours, spread from one parish to another, and spread throughout a country.Pope Pius had mystical hallucinations.This is the rumor in the market.The pope saw a series of supernatural activity, saw something in the dead of night.That's what some people say.I don't know what that person is, maybe a nun, maybe an old lady who holds prayers for nine days in a row, maybe a ruddy, healthy rich Christian, maybe a member of the Knights of Columbus.When one hears this, one feels that something is restless in one's soul, that something has sprung from the very old monotony of life into something else to read.

In class, during a discussion involving thaumaturgy performances or the study of holy places, a student mentioned these rumors to Father Paulus. The old priest stared out of the window. "If you drink bad wine all night long, you'll be hallucinating at three o'clock in the morning." Later that day, I met the priest in his office.I walked three hundred yards, and on the way there was a strong wind and a blizzard.I lowered the brim of my thermal fleece hat to cover my ears, raised one forearm to block the freezing rain, and headed forward against the gusts of wind.A blizzard was raging in this open field.This was the first time in my life that I encountered such a situation in this piece of land called North America.

I hadn't taken off my shirt when the priest spoke. "Whenever this happens, my nose hair starts to get stiff. Every time this happens, I really want to retire and go to the south of France." "The snowstorm is like a big parade." "Ok, I know." "The stools outside were all buried by heavy snow." "Yeah," he said. "It was just outside the window, and I just walked over the stool before I realized what was going on." "Well. Sit down, thank you, and tell me about the recent situation. The progress made by young people, this is today's topic."

"I borrowed a pair of boots." He likes that response. "Do the boots fit?" "It doesn't fit." He prefers it.When he asked me about my state of mind and soul--which was rarely the case--I always answered irrelevant questions, full of real-life problems.He seemed to feel that I was instinctively giving him tangible answers.Actually, I'm just confused and trying to find the right words. "What have you been reading lately?" I memorized a long list of book titles. "Do you understand what these books mean?" "I don't understand." I replied.

He smiled again.He's tired of smart kids.He had seen quite a few kids who excelled academically, and now wanted to talk to other kinds of socially misfit teens, the ones who caused trouble for themselves and others. "Maybe some don't understand. If I don't understand, I will memorize it by rote." He leaned one arm on the table, supporting his head.He didn't smile this time. "That's not why we set up this agency, is it?" "I study hard, Father." "But you can't memorize meanings from books the way you memorize Latin endings."

His hands are relatively small and well washed.Some of the other priests wore flannel shirts over heavy sweaters.Father Paulus, unlike them, was unaffected by the weather, the geography, and the sense of freedom peculiar to Vojajer. He always wore a black jacket with the white stiff collar of a Catholic priest.I respect that and think it gives a sense of security. "One of the things we hope to do here is to produce serious people. What kind of people is this? It's hard to say in a few words. For example, the people we cultivate will eventually reach a depth that will Have a quality of generosity that will respect other ways of thinking and believing. We want to develop the basic qualities of human beings, helping young people to gain a moral strength, let him be decisive, display due character, let him understand How to deal with things in life."

You are always worried that you will let the priest down and live up to his high expectations.You are always worried that when he hopes to get feedback from a higher spiritual level, your answers will be boring, or even irrelevant, pretending to be smart or listless.You worry that your answers will be dry and long-winded when he expects an open-ended argument that has been thought out for himself. "About my own life, I should confess - yes, why not? Thank you, you are going to hear my confession. You are the best person to know my confession. It took me all these years to understand, I'm not a serious person. I do too many ironic things, I'm too vain. Other things are too lacking--I don't know what, a lot of things. You see, I don't get angry, or Say, I have very little anger and very little frustration in my heart. In the future, you will gradually understand these things. Are you principled in doing things? Or, do you make up reasons to justify your bad behavior? This is My confession is not yours. Therefore, there is no need for you to answer. It is not necessary now anyway. In the future, of course it is necessary. You will understand to what extent you yourself have met the necessary conditions to be a real human being."

"No wrath," I said, "what does that mean?" "There is no rage. In the soul, rage and violence are the things that create tension. They serve the integrity of a person's identity. The way a person makes himself extraordinary is by punching another in the mouth." I must have stared at him dumbfounded. "You can't doubt that, can you? I don't like violence. Violence scares me. However, I see violence as an expansive force in the personality. I think that a person's ability to act against these tendencies can To be a source of virtue, an expression of one's character and restraint."

"So, what do you do? Do you punch the guy in the mouth, or do you resist the burning rage inside of you?" "That's a very good question, and I don't have an answer. You have an answer," he said, "but if one doesn't fully experience the rages and passions of one's own people, and somehow control or direct them, Let them develop in a useful direction, how can he be a serious man?" You are the best person to understand my confession.He said so, right?Someone in reformatory, someone who knew the answer.Of course, I didn't know the answer at all, and wondered why he thought I had some special ability to know what I was doing.

"Have you heard of the word velleity? It carries some meaning of Thomas Aquinas's philosophy. It means the lowest level of will, a small thing that the heart wants, a hope, a tendency. Understand Right? If you lack will, you’re at the most superficial level of self-focus. Do you understand me when I say that?” "This is your confession, Father." His office is in an old simple house, the beams of which are shaken by strong winds. "Aquinas once said that habit is strengthened only by intense action, not mere repetition. Intensity forms morality. A strong will to persevere. This is the element of conscientiousness. The characteristic of permanence. This is also An element. A sense of purpose, a self-chosen goal. Tell me I was vague. I respect your judgment."

We were about thirty miles from the Canadian border, surrounded by rambling encampments.Most of the buildings are abandoned military barracks, and there are some old wooden houses.Perhaps, this is reminiscent of the situation when the Jesuits were preaching.However, it is us who are being taught now.Among us are urban children who once gave people hope, there are people who are physically weak but have a strong memory and have some kind of taint, there are people who are born smart but mentally unstable, there are people who cannot adapt to society, and there are people who are forced by the government. Those who came to fit in were a group of Latin Americans sent by a Jesuit center in Venezuela—young, bright, cosmopolitan in their ways, far from the girls they loved, and a few A very shy country kid from the neighborhood. "I sometimes feel like we're teaching fifty-year-olds who feel like they've missed the boat. There's too much abstraction in what we're teaching, too many basic moral principles. If you look You get more out of walking your shoe and telling what its parts are made of than listening to it. Thank you, especially for someone who comes from your family’s background.” This seemed to agitate him a little.He leaned forward and looked at—yes, that's the word—my wet shoes. "Those things are nasty, aren't they?" "Yes, very annoying." "Call those parts one by one. Go ahead. We're not going to be so pretentious, so caught up in the fashion of our minds, that we can't test students face to face." "Name those parts," I said, "OK. Shoelaces." "Shoelaces, only one each. Go ahead." I lifted one leg and turned it, awkwardly. "Soles and heels." "Yes, go on." I put my legs down and stared at the boots as if they were a sealed brown box with nothing to say. "Go on, kid." "There's nothing to talk about, right? Toe and vamp." "Toe and vamp, you make me want to cry." "The circular part in front." "You're very talkative, maybe I have to stop and reconsider asking. You said shoelaces. What's that thing under the shoelaces called?" "Tongue." "what?" "I've known this name for a long time, I just haven't seen this thing before." He slumped on the table in a pretentious posture, twisting his body slightly, as if he was in some kind of terrible pain. "You don't know how to see, so you don't see. You don't know the name, so you don't know how to see." In the process of criticizing, he tilted his chin, with many elements of deliberate performance, lifted his body from the surface of the table, and sat down on the swivel chair.Then, looking at me again, he turned his body 45 degrees abruptly, raised his right leg high, and placed his leg and shoe on the edge of the table. A simple black shoe, worn by the clergy every day. "Okay," he said, "we know the sole and the heel." "Ok." "Also, we nailed the tongue and laces." "say to me. He ran a finger along a piece of leather on the upper edge of the shoe, under the laces. "What's it called?" I asked. "Tell me, what's it called?" "I have no idea." "This is the back gang." "The counter. That's the hard part above the heel. That's the main heel." "That's the main heel." "This part is between the back and the piece above the sole. It's called the waist." "Shoe waist." I said. "The piece above the sole is called the shoe welt. Say it again, boy." "Shoe welt." "Everyday things are hidden in this way. Because we don't know their names. What is the piece that covers the front of the shoe?" "I have no idea." "You don't know. It's called the vamp." "vamp." "Say it again." "Vamp, covering the front part of the back of the shoe. I thought I wasn't supposed to remember those names." "Don't memorize ideas. Sometimes we scoff at rote memorization, and you shouldn't take us too seriously. Mechanical memory helps increase knowledge. What's the name of the place where the shoelaces go through?" "I should know that." "Of course you do. There are holes on the sides and top against the tongue." "I don't know that word. Shoe eye?" "Maybe, I should let you live." "Shoe eyes." "By the way. What's the name of the metal sheath at the ends of the shoelaces?" He flicked the thing with his middle finger. "I don't know what this thing is called for a million years." "Hoop." "I don't know for a million years." "Headband or bandage." "Hoops," I said. "What's this little metal ring that reinforces the edge of the eyelet and the strap goes through it? What's it called? We're talking about the physics of language, thank you." "The little circle?" "you saw it?" "Saw." "It's called a buttonhole," he said. "My God." "Buttonhole. Learn it, know it, love it." "I'm going crazy." "This is the last esoteric knowledge. When I send the shoe to the shoemaker, he puts it on top of something to mend it. A piece of wood shaped like a foot. What's it called?" "I have no idea." "Shoe tree." "My head is about to explode." "Everyday objects represent the most neglected knowledge. These names have played a very important role in the process of human progress. quotidian (everyday) things. If they were not important, we would not use the awkward Latin word quotidian Let’s express it. Say it again,” he said. "quotidian." "The word quotidian is extraordinary, suggesting the depth and breadth of everyday things." The collar of his white shirt was undone, revealing his Adam's apple, where the skin had loosened.Although aging was long overdue, his pace was fast now, which seemed to catch him off guard. I get dressed. "I was going to bring you a book," he said. However, his hands were still young, soft and white, with the rosy color of a baby's skin.On the table in the corner of the room, there is a chess board, and the chess pieces on both sides are arranged opposite each other. "Come to the Upper Red Zone tomorrow, and I'll find that book for you." The upper red area is a residential area for teachers.They named buildings in the place of Voyajer after local landmarks—lakes, towns, rivers, forests—rather than after saints, theologians, or Jesuit martyrs.According to Paulus, the Jesuits were roughed up in many places as they tried to convert people to God and change society.They were beheaded in Japan, dismembered in Somalia and Ethiopia, eaten alive in North America, crucified in Siam, dismembered by horses in England, and thrown into the sea in Madagascar.So the founders of our little experimental college thought that by doing so they would avoid some of the bloody marks of the history of the Jesuits in this place. "By the way, thanks." "What?" I asked. "I saw you yesterday, with that gang, signing a petition in support of Senator McCarthy." "Yes, I am going, Father." "Sign the petition." "It seems to be no problem." I said. He nodded, then looked away. "Do you know why the Senate condemned him?" "Someone else signed it," I said, "and some South American signed it." I explained, a little eagerly, knowing it sounded stupid, but feeling like it would save me from the blame. "So, I signed it. Others did that, Father, so I did." He looked away, nodded his head in understanding, and I turned to leave. I braved the heavy snow that was flying all over the sky, and walked back and forth on the parade ground.Later, I went back to my room, took off my coat, and hoped to look it up in a dictionary.I took off my boots and wrung out my hat in the sink.I want to look up the dictionary, want to look up the words velleity and quotidian, remember the names of these two bastards forever, spell it out, get the meaning, read it syllable by syllable, say it out loud, make it sound, remember it when you recite it their meaning. It's the only way in this world to be able to escape from the things that affect you. They arrived in the rain, mostly young men, columnists from the Chronicle and the Examiner, and two gray-whiskered poets from City Lights.They waited for Lenny Bruce to appear on stage. This is Basin West Street, and the small stage uses fake stones as the background.The wall was supposed to set off a warm atmosphere, but it was like a raised boulder, very ugly, giving the whole club the feeling of being in a dungeon or a bunker. They sat there, waiting for Lennie, the jazz player who exuded a faint scent.A few chicks dressed in black state-of-presence babbled monosyllabic words.A couple of well-dressed college boys with secret and undisclosed sexual inclinations.The entire crew of a magazine called Dacron Wok was there—five righteous souls resentful of the world, hurt by the events of the past few days. Suddenly, without any introduction, Lenny stepped from the darkness into the spotlight.He didn't even have time to remove the microphone from the stand before speaking. "They evacuated people from Norfolk, Virginia. Do you guys know the news? Norfolk. There's a big naval base there, and all sorts of ships sail from there, destroyers, and cruisers, to fight against the Cuba forms a blockade. They evacuate military families and all non-essential personnel. The question here is," he turned his head to the side of the stage so that he could observe the audience indirectly with a sense of eerie exaggeration, "after they evacuate, who will come in Yes, the people who live nearby will come in. Within three hundred miles, bad guys will swarm in and loot the contents of those houses and destroy the property value there. Then the Navy will say, fuck Yes, these bastards. Never mind the Russian subs and cargo ships, let's turn our guns on Norfolk." Lenny looked puffy tonight, pale as a muffin, and nervous in his body language, like an amateur actor. "It's all about real estate. You're a product of where you are. If you're a Catholic from New York, you're Jewish. If you're a Jew from Butte, Montana, you're a total mixture of non-Jews. You're like A serving of fast food mashed potatoes. By the way, that's exactly the nature of this crisis. Fast food mashed potatoes. Man, we're going to use all the technology that's fast and in time because we don't have enough attention to pay attention to conventional wars anymore. In the movie version, Rod Steiger plays Khrushchev, as the chairman of the National Actors Studio. Awesome, he's deep, he's misunderstood, he has a perfect accent, he's shaved, he's often hysterical Scream, shows the character's motives vividly. Khrushchev is a young man from the coal mines, who fought alone and finally reached the upper class of society. In fact, he really wants to find a girl who loves wisecracks, and sometimes talks back to him , makes him smile sometimes. He's not some redneck, half man, half sausage. Steiger's lonely character is moody, very sensitive, influenced by the follies of Russian history. In the closet, He has a physical relationship with Kim Novak's American double agent with a manly crew cut. It shows us that there is a tender feminine tendency in him." Rennie mimicked the tone and accent of the character's speech.Technically speaking, his performance is not perfect, but it is a fusion of different cultures, places and cross-referenced information, and the subject of parody is vividly portrayed. There was a Beat Generation vibe in the audience.A few people were wearing old jackets with stylized patterns, styles that were once popular in the 50s.There is a sense of detachment in their eyes, but they are still sensitive to the strange things that appear in the world.A woman in a patchwork blouse carries a baby in a pouch.Perhaps, this is an unprecedented spectacle on the Rennie show scene.Still, that was exactly what happened that week in San Francisco. "Kennedy was out in public and you heard people say I saw his hair, people said I saw his teeth! It was so dizzying, they couldn't see it all. I saw his hair! They Worship the sacred relics left by the man while he was alive." According to the Beat Generation classic, it was America's sickness that made possible the atomic bomb.Lenny riffs on ethnic Russians, the stuff like sparkling mineral water that pours out of an ancient soda canning factory in Kannarsi.If the Beats accepted Lenny's attack on hypocrisy, if they deplore the fact that he was raided in a police drug bust and tried for obscene language, then hearing him imitate a Russian accent , Seeing his impromptu performance, they may be indifferent.The whole picture constructed by the beat generation has been lingering in the shadow of the atomic bomb.The Beat Generation didn't need a missile crisis to make themselves think about the atomic bomb.Atom bomb is the word they find most convenient to use, which means many things.American morality has a dirty side, America is full of smokestacks, robot manufacturing companies, influenced by Time and J. Edgar Hoover, it is a problematic place.In many of the sun-baked truck parks, people hunker down, coffee in hand, to live jazz.Trotskyites operate undercover, sad-looking nymphomaniacs baring their pussies.This is the phenomenon that Lennie is poking fun at.Rennie provided entertainment, often in suits, grooming, cool demeanor, obscenity, and part funeral director and buffoon.The atomic bomb was part of a frightening advertising campaign that had gotten out of hand. This evening, he wore a Nehru-style top, a black turtleneck, dirty and wrinkled, and a white raincoat.Either he forgot to take off before going on stage, or he planned to leave quickly after the performance. At this time, he began a kind of impressionistic rambling, the topic changed frequently, and it was difficult for people to follow.He spoke of the case, the lawyer, and the judge, as if speaking to someone else who was not there. Later, he stopped talking and said to the audience: "Love me, I'm here to be loved by you. This night, and forever. You don't love me anymore, and I will die immediately." That's not the end of tonight's show, it's what comes next.Sitting on the little plastic toilet in the bathroom on the flight from Los Angeles to San Francisco, he thought about the ending.At that time, the red light on his right kept flashing: Please go back to your seat, please go back to your seat. "The Archangel Gabriel appeared over Cuba, and the bodyguards woke Castro. Castro told them, don't disturb me. The bodyguards told him that the Archangel was God's messenger. So, Castro Luo got into a helicopter and flew into the sky. The archangel wore a white robe and held a shiny trumpet. Castro was secretly pleased when he found out that Gabriel was black. I said to myself, great , black people like to talk, we can have a good chat, don't talk nonsense. He said to the Archangel, I don't believe in God, but let me ask you a question, which side are you on in this crisis? The Archangel said, I'll just say it again, I'm on the side that has baseball and jazz. Castro says we've got baseball and jazz, we call it Afro-Cuban music, think about it, man. People keep rockin', Like crazy. Gabriel said, don't talk to me in such a condescending tone, motherfucker. You know, I have separated from the bird Charlie Parker. Yes, we used to be together in Minton Been in the bar. Well, you want to know which side I'm on? There's the side of mum and apple pie. Castro said, no problem. The Russians have mum and apple pie, they call it yablochy pirog (pirogy pie). The archangel said, well, you have a tongue. I'm on the side with Donald Duck, Mickey Mouse and the Mafia. Castro said, fuck, we've already Get the Mafia out of Cuba. But how do you hang out with them? My Lord Jesus is kind to the mob, says the Archangel. What's the matter, says Castro? What do you think, says the Archangel , buddy? He's Italian. Castro said, wait a minute. Is Jesus Italian? The archangel asked: Isn't it? He had an uncertain look on his face and started shaking off the glue on the trumpet. Spit on the mouth—Gabriel used to make this gesture when he felt uneasy. He was very sensitive about his education, and said in a defensive tone that all popes are Italians. People know this, man. jesus is italian too, the name jesus comes from an italian word that means to go. look at his color man. castro said jesus lived in the middle east. gabriel said give me You must be out of your head for such nonsense. He's from Neapolitan and he gestures with his hands when he talks. Castro says he's a Jew if you want to know the truth. The Archangel says I know he's a Jew— — Italian Jews. There are Italian Jews, right? Castro said: Why am I standing here listening to your crap? You're totally out of your mind, man. Archangel said: Are you telling me, All my life I've believed that Jesus turned water into wine at an Italian wedding? He didn't." Lennie spoke distraughtly and slurred at times, but it was no different from what he used to do, as jazz fans tend to speak, in a kind of drug-induced other-worldly fugue. "I see his hair! I see his teeth!" At this time, he finally remembered the sentence he liked.He made a half-squat position, pulled the raincoat over his head, and almost put the microphone in his throat. "We're all screwed!" Yes, he liked to say that, howling at the top of his lungs.It was a wonderful sound, lifting his spirits, removing his fears, and at the same time allowing him to be open to the light of day.The voice was weak, sick, cowardly, powerless, pitiful, but somehow grandiose.It's a drawn-out, loud, heart-pounding howl, full of grief and anguish, with a delightful element of confrontation. His voice formed a strange shock, which suddenly passed through the hearts of the listeners.They felt the howl entering their bodies, jumping in their blood, uniting them.This is the rebellion of the soul, a kind of wail similar to the id.It comes from the depths of their soul, from that hopeless burial place where you will demand recognition of your primal rights and needs. Then an idea popped into Lennie's head, and he moved briskly and acted like a boxer, with an expert jab and a smile on his face. "However, some of us may be more helpless than others. Come to think of it, this is a white atomic bomb." He changed his voice when he said this, his neck was red, and his voice was drawn slowly. "It's our A-bomb. Moscow and Washington. Think about it, man. The white man controls the A-bomb." The thought gave him a pang of pleasure. "You look at what's going on in Watts, look at what's going on in Harlem. You're going to say, they're going to fuck our women, damn it. Let's drop the bomb. Better the world be destroyed than the races intermingled." He snapped his fingers like a bebop player, looking resigned. "Because we'd rather die together than share our women with them." At this time, the lights of the audience were turned off, and that was the effect.The spotlights went out, the bar lights went out, the exit sign lights went out, they all went out.A vague figure—the figure of Lennie—moved tentatively toward the large metal gate that opened directly into the street.Customers sitting in the front might have heard him muttering, "Please take your seat, please take your seat." There was a commotion in the audience, several people turned their heads, and several people stood there, not knowing what happened.Are they thinking: Maybe this is the end, the atomic bomb goes off?Exploded in the air?Recently, a nuclear test in the Pacific created a huge wave of electromagnetic waves that hit Honolulu's power lines, darkened the entire island, and set off all the burglar alarms, right? The lights came on, and the spotlight shone on the empty stage, making the stone wall stand out even more, revealing the fake material.Lennie stands there, 1.5 yards from the exit.He walked slowly towards the stage, imitating the appearance of people slipping into the room, relieved and slightly embarrassed.The audience waited for him to speak again, to say something, to relieve the long tension that had just arisen, to cheer them up with laughter.He walked up to the stage, raised the dangling mic, and held it to his face.The microphone started whistling, followed by a rattling sound.At this moment, the lights went out again, and the afterimage of Lennie's pale face remained on the retinas of everyone present—a terrified smirk flickered across his mouth.A baby starts crying. Twenty seconds later, the lights came on, the stage was empty, the metal doors were ajar, and the show was apparently over. For weeks on end, we barely slept.For three or four weeks we spent night and day together, many times—most of the time—in her car.We eat, drink, sleep and have sex in the car.When I woke up and looked around, it was still dark outside, or, depending on the situation, sometimes it was still bright outside.Then, for some reason—reasonable or not—we finally stopped.The pace of life has slowed down and it is possible to have normal sex in the room.Soon, though, it's time to hit the road again.She got into the 1950 Mercedes and slammed on the accelerator.That car had been lowered a bit, and the drivetrain had slightly more horsepower.We continue west. "Don't tell me what dream you had," I said. "But you must listen." "I do not want to hear." "Oh, you bastard, you must listen," said Amy, "because everything that happens on the road is about the two of us." "Don't you know that people don't want to hear about other people's dreams?" "Oh, you bastard, who is that other? Who is that other?" "Look at the road." "We said that we should tell each other even trivial thoughts." "Watch the road. Let's drive," I said to her. She got off in Santa Fe, where there were friends of her family.I drive my own car and don't turn on the radio or read a newspaper.A week later, she was in Arizona, and we met at a miners bar.We played a flirting game called Liar's Poker and climbed up high, house-lined streets with a very strong feeling that our partner felt the same way, that we might be flushed. "What I had that day was a dream about the mountains. I was by a lake in the mountains, and the sun was shining all around." "Dreams are interesting only to dreamers. Don't you know that?" "I think you know a lot. As a foreigner, you know this is already very remarkable." "Be careful and drive." "Who ever left New York and only studied English?" Amy is very capable, tall and sexy in jeans.She knew how to do things, how to make things, and even her pretty looks gave off an air of sophistication, a flair for being straightforward and open-minded.Her eyes are bright, with a little freckle around them, and she smiles lewdly. Early that summer, we were in Yankton County, South Dakota, where a movie called "Dakota" was playing in a movie theater.The movie theater had brightly colored tiles on the front and a picture of Audie Murphy on the canopy over the entrance.The young man in Yankton got into his car and drove down Main Street.We joined them and nearly fell asleep while driving.We went to the drive-in and talked about life.We drove across the prairie and talked about movies.We drove into automatic car washes, read poetry to each other as the car was washed, and watched soapy water trickle down the windows. Her car is black and has a large hood.We both thought we were road phantoms, road gods, peeing in the dust of country roads unseen.She didn't want me to know that car was given to her by her father as a graduation present.However, one of her younger brothers told me, so I know.I also knew that when the journey was over, she would abandon me. "You know what's the funniest thing about you? You keep saying you'd tell me every little thought. But the funniest thing about you," I said, "is that you'll soon forget what we said, do past events, common thoughts.” "Won't." "soon." "Won't." "You forget when you break up. Do you know what kind of person you are? You are materialistic, stubborn, thinking about your own things every second." "what?" "You rack your brains for things you want, but you forget them the next morning." 有一次，我们在某个马厩停车。她教我骑马，可是我一上去就掉了下来，后来无论如何也上不去了。她和担任考察队领队的那个印第安人一起，骑马进入阴森的山麓。 她问：“这有什么不对的呢？” "I'm just talking." 她问：“这有什么不对的呢？” “我说说而已。” “我并未告诉你一切，你不要谴责我。”她说。 “你已经说过两次了。” “你竟然是这样的杂种。” “把没有说过的全都告诉我。说吧，看我的激烈反应，”我说，“我不会大吃一惊的。” 她可以编造故事，喜欢说布鲁克海舍尔一家的事情，说他们的祖父母、拓荒的女人、淘洗沙金的人，还有那个顽强的古老家族散落在各地的后代。 我们曾在她大哥家停留，分别住在不同的房间。她大哥是建筑师——她的兄弟似乎遍布各地。这个大哥住在印第安尤马人的部落附近。房子远离铁路，他自己设计的，建筑材料是灰泥和旧铁皮，刻意让外形略显歪斜。艾米非常兴奋，在一旁欣赏那一幢房子。 我们长时间开车，在一定程度上已经失去理智。我们几乎马不停蹄，穿越一个幅员辽阔的大州，在旅程中一直聊着。我们将残酷、漫长的婚姻生活压缩成短短几周时间，体验了其中的变化，感受到没有经过调整的东西产生的影响。我们也有这样感觉：一起睡觉是错误的，因为我们可能在睡觉前谈到某个可怕和重要的问题。 在亚利桑那州鲁比市附近的一条土路上，我们看见四个男人骑着马，驱赶着一头牛。那是一头体型硕大的驼背公牛，看上去几乎不是真实的动物。我们停下车，不仅是想看一看，不仅是因为我们觉得那畜牲可能追赶正在移动的汽车，而且也是出于一种不可思议的异教徒式尊重。一头牲畜，一头巨型公牛，令人敬畏，四个牛仔挥舞鞭子，驱赶它，顺着红土道路慢慢离开。 “我心里有些感到恼火的想法，”她说，“它们涉及性爱、嫉妒和恶意，我希望与自己亲近的人遭受最剧烈的痛苦，然后慢慢死去。假如我告诉你这些令人勃然大怒的事情，你会恨我的。” “说一说吧。” “我不会说的，对你也不会说，对你最不能说。” “我希望你告诉我。” “除非你强迫，我是不会的。”她说。 有时候，艾米的举止显得欲迎却拒，带有一种仪式的意味，一种反射，不是害羞，而是谨慎和狡猾。她表现出来的需要强烈时，这一点更为明显，她欲迎却拒，两眼放光，用肩膀把我撞开。甚至在做爱过程中，她也可能显得怯懦，几乎假装我们不是在做爱，而是干别的什么事情，仿佛在学校走廊里和我牵着手。这一点我弄不明白。有时候，她把我推倒在床上，嘴里念叨着，你不能这样，不，我不愿意。甚至在我伸开四肢，趴在汽车座位上和她做爱时，她也会有这样的反应。 六月中旬的那天晚上，在亚利桑那州的比斯比市，我们沿着阶梯，顺着狭窄的街道上行。一家阴暗的酒吧里坐满铜矿工人，还有他们得了犬心虫病的小狗。我们在那里喝了啤酒，吃了三明治。爱情让我们一反常态，几乎失去了自我。当时我觉得，我们有可能突然大吵，然后各奔东西。我之前并不知道自己可能出现那样的感觉，后来我们两人滚在一起，脑袋里几乎一片空白，心里别无它念，完全沉浸在性爱之中。 她说：“我知道你做的事情。我睡觉的时候，你一直醒着，看着我。” “你什么时候睡觉？” “你想要的太多了。其实，你就想进入我的身体，跟随你那东西，进入我的身体。我曾经想过没有？” “注意开车吧。” “别打岔。我曾经想过没有？” “开车时不要看着我。” “别打岔。我曾经想过没有，自己那一天会认识一个男人，他会跟着我进入浴室？” “注意开车吧。” 她说：“你想和我一起进入那个加油站的狭窄的厕所。我几乎把这事给忘了，刚才想起来了。因为你觉得你可能漏掉什么东西。” 我们开车经过加利福尼亚州的贝克尔斯菲市，汽车引擎过热，我们在一个活动房屋营地停下来，准备加水。眼前出现的情景我以前绝对不知道。一排一排的活动房屋，有人冒着华氏107度的高温，在车外做热狗。一个女人穿着泳装，在她家的活动房屋外面的一块熨衣板上熨烫衣服，几个穿着内裤的孩子在附近骑三轮玩具车。我以前根本不知道还有这样的事情，而且做梦也不可能想到。我完全没有注意到这样的情况：有人长期住在活动房屋里。艾米说，我是来自纽约的外国人。 我准备到加利福尼亚的帕洛阿托市去，我是一个教材编辑，刚刚起步，雄心勃勃，希望改变传统教室的性质，让它变得开放，流动，随意，体现加利福尼亚的特点。她准备到西雅图或者波特兰去，不过尚未确定其中的哪一个。也许，她会原路返回，到丹佛去。她有地球科学的硕士学位，还有一些她没有承认的专业背景。 “我既不知道我在这里和你一起做什么，也不了解你的任何背景。一起待了这么久，聊了这么多，我基本上并不了解你，”她说，“当然，我知道这样一点，你晓得怎样让我生气。” “好。这对你有好处。生气可以净化血液，”我对她说，“这是我的爱尔兰母亲说的。” “你有母亲，这还算不错。” “生气吧，继续生气。”我对她说。 我不想她开车时看着我，可是我有时候会看她，这会吸引她的目光。 “我希望路上发生的一切都与我们两个有关。”她说。 “我也是这样的。”我说。那时我真的这么想。 她感觉到我注视的目光，回望我一眼。路上空无一人，在矿山上特有的那种破旧小屋旁，熏衣草堆积如山。她那目光让我觉得非常亲昵，触及心灵，存在于我们所做的事情之中，它变为一种疯狂的挑战，一种形式的干鸡肉。我们两人之中，哪一个会打断恋人之间的这种注视，把目光转向别处，看一看汽车是否偏移到对面的车道上了？这时，一辆颜色耀眼的皮卡正在靠近，我们距离那眩目的死亡只有半秒钟时间。 “谁奇怪？” “我睡觉时，你一直醒着，两眼看着我。我知道你在看，我在梦中感觉到的。” “是我奇怪，还是你奇怪？” “你跟着我进入女厕所。” “不，慢着，慢着，慢着，慢着。你睡觉时可以感觉到我在看你，你却认为我奇怪？谁奇怪呢？”我问。 有时候，你让自己从非常急促的呼吸中解脱出来，感觉到一种白色阴影，一种滑动，进入一个与你类似的人。那个人由心灵之光构成，似乎可以代替你说话。 或者，“你不能强迫我这样做”，她会这样说，然后把手伸进我的裤子拉链里。我尽量控制汽车方向。 有一次，我自己一个人单独待了一天一夜，既没有听收音机，也没有看报纸。我开车闲逛了几个小时，没有具体的目的。后来，在弗雷斯诺市郊外的某处，我停下来，把车摆好，在一个野餐营地里散步。树干上挂着白色的树皮，地上摆放着垃圾桶。一个男人坐在椅子上，神情不安。也许，他只是在沉思之中，也许，他担心什么事情。我心里涌起一阵悲凉，一时无法确定是何原因。那种感觉可能是我的，也可能是他们的。那些可怜的家庭用纸盘盛装食品，那个闷闷不乐的男人无精打采地坐在椅子上。还有那个地方，那椅子，那些没有盖子的垃圾桶。 我们两人分道扬镳之后，我买了一张明信片，打算寄给她。在那张明信片上，树林中摆着一张野餐桌。我把它插入书里，放进背包，看什么时候有时间，想想该在上面写点什么话。