Chapter 3 Chapter two

I don't know if the bustard's album was another link in the lucky daisy wreath; but soon, for my own safety, I decided to marry.A regular life, home-cooked dishes, the whole pact of marriage, bed-bed activities that prevent disease, and, who knows, the final maturity of some moral value or spiritual substitute, I think, if not cleanse me. Shameful and dangerous desires, at least maybe I can help me keep them in a state of peace.The sum left to my name after my father's death, together with my attractive, if somewhat brutish, handsome face, would permit me to embark on my quest with equanimity.After considerable deliberation, my choice fell on the daughter of a Polish doctor: this good fellow happened to be treating me for vertigo and tachycardia.We played chess; his daughter peered at me from behind her easel, put eyes and elbows that I had borrowed from me into her cubist garbage, and painted girls instead of purple Cloves and lamb.Let me repeat it calmly:

My misfortune aside, I was, and still am, a remarkably handsome male; solid, tall, with soft black hair, and a depressing but alluring demeanor.A peculiar masculinity is symptomatic of something gloomy, congested, something he has to hide.This is my case.I know very well that, ah, I can easily get her all the grown women I choose; in fact, I have almost acquired the habit of not paying attention to the women lest they sit floating and flushed on my cold lap.If I were an ordinary Frenchman with a taste for flashy women, I could easily find a living being more attractive than Valeria among the many beauties who are intoxicated.But what drove my choice was a thoughtful consideration of who was pitifully implicated, which I found out too late.All this will prove how unfortunate and stupid poor Hensit has always been in sexual matters.

Although I told myself I was only looking for a comforting face, a glorious housekeeper, and a thriving pussy, what really attracted me to Valeria was her talent for groping little girls.She wasn't defensive because she surmised my privacy; that was her style - and I felt it.In fact, she was at least approaching thirty (I've never been able to find out her exact age because she even lied about her passport) and lost her virginity.I, for my part, are as frank as a psychopath.Her face is covered with fluffy hair, she looks playful, she is dressed like a doll, and most of her smooth pink legs are generously exposed, she knows how to use the black of the velvet slippers to greatly highlight the white of her bare feet, and Pursing her lips, dimpled, and running and barking playfully, she'd toss her little blond curls back and forth in the most ham-fisted, corny gestures imaginable.

After a simple ceremony at the city hall, I took her to my new rented apartment and, to her surprise, put her in an ordinary girl's pajamas before touching her, which I managed to get from a Stolen from the linen closet at the orphanage. I had some fun on our wedding night, and the idiot went hysterical when the sun came up.Reality was quick to claim its own rights.The faded little curly hair reveals the black hair roots; Her dead, toad-like mother resembled her counterpart in a portrait; and now, instead of a fair, mischievous little girl in Humbert's hands, a tall, plump, short-legged , big boobs, no-brainer rum fruitcake.

This situation lasted from 1935 to 1939.Her only worth is her easing nature, which really helps to establish a sense of impromptu comfort in our small, dingy suite: two rooms, one with a blurred view, the other with a A brick wall, a small kitchen, a shoe-shaped wooden tub, and sitting in it, I felt like Marat, only without a pink-necked girl to assassinate me.We had one of the few warm and peaceful evenings together, she contemplating her Le Soir de Paris and I crouching over a rickety desk to work.We go to the movies and watch boxing on our bikes.I seldom woo her no longer fresh flesh. Except when you are particularly anxious and sad and disappointed.The shopkeeper opposite had a young daughter whose beauty drove me mad; but with Valeria's help, my frenzy was nevertheless legally vented.As for cooking, we silently gave up our small pots of vegetable and beef soup, and mostly ate in a crowded place on the Rue Bonaparte, where the tablecloths were stained with wine, and there were many foreign accents.Next door, an art dealer displayed in his cluttered window a gorgeous, bright, painted green, red, golden, dark blue, ancient American steel engraving—a locomotive with a huge chimney, baroque and grotesque Headlights, and a gigantic wreck dragged its lavender passenger coach through the snowy prairie night, sparkling smoke mingling with brocade clouds of lightning and thunder.

These are all broken.In the summer of 1939 my American uncle died and left me an income of several thousand dollars a year on the condition that I immigrate to the United States and take an interest in his business, which was my expectation.I feel like my life needs some commotion.Plus, one more thing: Moth holes are beginning to appear in the velvet cloth of marital comfort.For the last few weeks, I have been noticing that my fat Valeria is not what she used to be, that she is always stuck in some strange restless state; The imitated pedigree characteristics are highly disproportionate.When I told her we would soon be sailing to New York, she looked anxious and bewildered.Her papers were still a little shaky.Since her husband is a Swiss citizen, a passport cannot be easily obtained; I then decided that it was necessary to queue at the provincial office and other formalities, which made her listless, although I patiently described America to her, a child with roses. The country of trees and trees is much better than the boring and dirty Paris.

We emerged from an office building one morning, her papers almost complete, when Valeria, staggering beside me, shook her poodle-like head violently, but said nothing.I let her hold on for a moment, then asked her if something was on her mind, and she replied (I translated her French, I think, must be a Slavic cliché): "There is another man in my life." To my current husband, this is the ugliest language.They make my head spin, I admit.If you're an honest hustler, you can beat her up anywhere in the street, but it's not advisable.Years of hidden pain have taught me superhuman self-control.So I took her into a taxi that had been slowing down the side of the road for a long time, and gently suggested that she explain her foul language in such a more secret place.

I was suffocated by a sudden surge of anger--not because I had any special interest in that ridiculous figure, Mrs Humbert, but because the decision of legal and illegal unions was entirely my own, and she, Va. Lyria, the comic wife, now has the audacity to set my ease and my fate in her way. I want her lover's name.I repeated my question; but she persisted in muttering like a burlesque, describing her unhappiness with me, and affirming her plans for an immediate divorce. "Who the hell is he?" I finally yelled out, pounding her knees with my fist; and she; Refers to the fat neck of the taxi driver.

He stopped at a small coffee shop and introduced himself.I can't remember his ridiculous name, only what he looks like after all these years - a stocky former White Russian colonel with a shaggy beard and a crew cut; there are always thousands of them in Paris, Often engaged in this fool's business.We sat down at a table; the tsarists ordered wine; Valeria put a damp napkin on her lap, and began talking again—pointing at me, not just at me; I never expected That she would have such eloquence, that words could be poured into such a noble vessel.And from time to time she fires a burst of Slavic at her unflappable lover.The situation was absurd, especially when the taxi colonel interrupted Valeria with a smug smile and began to state his views and plans.In his precise French with a bad accent, he described the world of love and work, and decided to walk in it hand in hand with his baby wife Valeria.Now she's grooming herself, sitting between him and me, painting her puckered lips, flirting with her head, picking at the bosom of her loose blouse, etc., and he's talking about her as if she wasn't there at all, okay? As if she were a warded child, transferred for her benefit from one wise protector to another still wiser; though my hopeless rage had exaggerated and spoiled a certain impression, I would swear he actually She was asking me about her diet, periods, clothes, and what she's read and should read. "I think," said he, "she'd like John Christopher?"

Oh, he's quite a scholar, Mr Dahovich. I interrupted the babbling to suggest that Valeria pack up her little belongings without delay, to which the mediocre colonel bravely offered to load them into the car.So he resumed his duties and drove the Humberts to their apartment.All the way, Valeria talks, while the hapless Humbert discusses with little Humbert whether Humbert Humbert should kill her or her lover, or both, or a nor.I remember once playing with an automatic pistol owned by a young schoolmate (I didn't mention this, but it's irrelevant), and then I actually had a little sister to enjoy him first, a most transparent nymphet, Had curly black hair and thoughts of suicide.I doubt now whether Valechka (as the colonel called her) was really worth shooting, or strangling, or drowning.She had very weak legs and I decided that once it was just the two of us I was going to punch them.

But we never have that chance again.Valechka—her rainbow-colored makeup was messed up by tears now—had filled a large wooden trunk, two small leather trunks, and a bulging cardboard box.There's nothing I can do about that damned Colonel walking up and down, wearing my boots, and kicking her ass.I can't say there was anything rude or arrogant about his behaviour; on the contrary, as if in an extra scene in which I was woven, he displayed the wise and discreet politeness of the old days everywhere, and every move was preceded. Accompanied by various mispronounced apologies (I beg forgiveness - sorry - can I - can I - etc.), when Vallechka yanks her from the clothesline above the tub pink underpants, he turned sharply; but at once he seemed to occupy every corner of the room, and the rascal, thinking his bones suited the configuration of the room, sat in my chair reading my newspaper, untied a tie, lit a cigarette, counted teaspoons, visited the bathroom, helped his dame wrap up the electric fan her father had given her, and carried her luggage down the street .I sat half-ass on the windowsill, arms crossed, hated and bored to death.Finally, both of them walked out of the vibrating room—I slammed the door behind them, the tremor of the door still knocking on every nerve in me, and this slamming door pitifully replaced the backhand punch, according to the rules of the movie, I should have slapped it on her cheekbones.Having botched my part, I stepped into the bathroom to see if they had taken my English perfume; they hadn't; The former staff member of the tsarist government did not flush the toilet after completely comforting his bladder.A puddle of alien piss, warmed by a sticky, tawny cigarette butt, swelled in that majestic pool, and the humiliation hit me so hard that I frantically searched for a weapon.Actually, I dare say, it was nothing more than Russian bourgeois politeness (perhaps with an oriental flavor) that inspired the kind colonel (Maximovich! whose name suddenly sent me back in a taxi ), a man as grave and serious as anyone else, repressing his personal needs in polite silence, letting all his torrents rush down close to his own quiet rivulets, so as not to stand out The smallness of his master's dwelling. But at that moment, the thought didn't cross my mind, and I searched the kitchen in a fit of rage, looking for something better than a broom.Immediately, I gave up the search again, rushed out of the room, and bravely decided to fight him with my bare hands. Although I am strong, I am not a boxer after all, and the short, broad-shouldered Maximovich looked like a Generally cast iron.The street is empty, and there is no sign of my wife's departure, except for a rhinestone button she dropped in the field, which she kept in a broken box for three years.All this prevented my nosebleed at that time.But that's all right, I'll get my revenge in due time.A gentleman from Pasadena told me one day that Maksimovich, who was born in Zoporovsky, lost his wife in childbirth around 1945; , was used there by a prominent American ethnographer for a year-long experiment she conducted, and was paid handsomely.This experiment studies how humans will react if they take banana food for a long time and are always in a crawling state.My reporter, a doctor, swore that he had seen Valychka and her colonel, then grizzled and swollen, in a set of brightly lit rooms (one was fruit, the second water in the third, straw mats in the third, etc.), crawling on the swept floor with nine other hired barefoot beasts, all picked from among the destitute.I thought of looking up the results of these experiments in the journal Anthropological Review; but it seems that they have not been published yet. These scientific results will of course take time to emerge.I wish I could have published it with nice photographs to illustrate it, but a prison library probably wouldn't be able to collect such scholarly books.This prison where I'm being held these days is a perfect example; although my lawyer admires it, it has the stupidest management of a prison library's selection of books. And, of course, Dickens; and the Children's Encyclopedia, and a copy of Agatha Christie's Murder Exposed; Tramps in Italy," and a more recent (1946) "Lexicon of Literary Men and Artists"—photographs of actors, producers, playwrights, and many still scenes.After finishing the last book, I was fascinated last night by some baffling coincidences that logicians must loathe and poets must love. I was hopelessly and painfully shocked to see my lover's name after some actress old hag!Perhaps she had also been an actress. Born in 1935.Take the show (I noticed my clerical error in the previous paragraph, but please don't correct it, Clarence) The Murdered Playwright.Bitch Quinn.Guilty of Quilty's murder.Oh my Lolita, these are the only lines I have! Divorce proceedings had delayed my trip, another world war had settled over the planet, and after another winter of pneumonia and burnout in Portugal, I finally arrived in the United States.In New York I eagerly accepted an easy job that fate offered me: It consisted of using my brain to write cosmetic ads.I love its rambling quality and pseudo-literary exterior, and will do it if there is nothing better to do.Also, I was urged by a wartime university in New York to undertake a comparative history of French literature for Anglo-American students.The compilation of the first volume took me several years, and the daily workload was very small, less than fifteen hours.When I look back on these days, I see them split neatly into ample light and narrow shadow: the light of the consolation of my studies in the great library, the shadow of my nagging desires and insomnia, This has already been said a lot.Knowing me by now, readers can easily imagine how sleepy and hot I get when I'm eager to catch a glimpse of a nymphet frolicking in Central Park (ah, usually far away); How would I be repelled by those deodorant professional girls who kept pushing me at me by some jovial guy in some office.Let's skip all that.Once I fell ill and nearly died, which put me in a nursing home for over a year; I went back to work and ended up in the hospital again. Outdoor activities that require physical strength seem to be very beneficial to me.One of my favorite doctors, a charming, sarcastic guy with a thick brown beard, had an older brother who was leading an expedition to the Canadian arctic. I was assigned to be its "Medical Reaction Recorder".I shared occasionally (never very successfully) with two young botanists and an old woodworker that one of ours, AnitaWell done to John Johnson's nutritionist -- he's flying home shortly, I'm happy to say; I know very little about the purpose of the expedition.Judging by the number of meteorologists engaged, we may be tracking that wobbly north magnetic pole all the way to its lair (somewhere on Prince of Wales Island, I think.) A small group, with the Canadians in Melville A weather station was established at Peel Azimuth of the Channel.Another group, also going astray, collected plankton.The third group studied tuberculosis in the tundra.Bert, a cinematographer--an unreliable lad with whom I was once tasked with sharing the duties of a bunch of servants (he, too, was a bit mentally ill)--insists that the big men on our team, the ones we never An unseen real leader whose main task is to investigate the effect of weather improvement on arctic fox fur. We live in pre-built log cabins in a granite post-Cambrian world.We have plenty of supplies -- Reader's Digest, ice cream mixers, drug toilet paper, paper hats for Christmas.My health miraculously improved, perhaps because of the lack of illusions and the emptiness of the days.All around are wilting vegetation, such as willow bushes and moss, which, I suppose, have been permeated and blown away by the howling wind; On a large pebble, I felt strangely alienated from my own soul by the body.No lure drives me mad.Those little filthy red-cheeked Eskimo girls, with their fishy smells, their horrible black hair, and their guinea-pig faces, aroused even less desire in me than Dr. Johnson.Around the poles, nymphets are out of the question. I gave my elders my salary to analyze glacial deposits, ice ovals, leprechauns, Russian castles, and at one point tried to jot down what I liked to think of as "reactions" (e.g., I noticed that late at night the sun The underlying dream objects tend to be highly coloured, and I also thought it necessary to quiz my various companions on many important questions, such as nostalgia, fear of nameless animals, phantom eating, nocturnal emissions, hobbies, radio channel selection, Changes in expression, etc. Everyone was so sick of it that I had to throw the project out of the way right away, however, towards the end of the twenty months of cold labor (so named by a botanist), I have concocted another elaborate and very interesting report, which the reader may read in the Annual Review of Psychophysics for Adults in 1945 or 1946, and in the magazine Polar Exploration for It was also published in the special issue of that expedition; in short, the expedition had nothing really to do with the copper-winged butterflies on Victoria Island, as I later learned from my kind doctor; its true nature was It's been called "secret," so let me just add that whatever it is, the purpose is well served. The reader will surely feel sorry for me when, not long after my return to civilization, I suffered another bout of insanity (if it was melancholia or an unbearable sense of oppression, that cruel word would be appropriate).I've completely recovered from one of the things I discovered during my previous treatment in the extremely expensive nursing home.I find it a lot of fun to tease psychiatrists: to slyly lead them astray; also dream, and wake up screaming); fool them with imaginary "prime scenes"; never give them even the slightest glimpse of one's true sexual state.By bribing a nurse I was able to gain access to some files and was delighted to find cards stating that I was "latently gay" and "completely sexually incapable".The game was so good that it turned out - in my case - to keep me a full month longer after my recovery (sleep soundly, schoolgirl appetite).Then I added another week just for a strong newcomer, a deposed (and, of course, mentally ill) celebrity known for his knack for convincing patients that they could Turning imagination into concrete reality; I had a lot of fun wrestling with him. Once signed, I wanted a place in rural New England or some sleepy town (Elm Grove, Whitechapel) where I could devote myself to my research all summer with a box of notes I had collected, and You can bathe in the nearby lake.My work rekindled my interests—I mean my academic endeavors; and my uncle's posthumous perfume business, my share of the profits, had been cut to the bare minimum. A former employee of his, a scion of a prominent family, suggested that I stay for a few months with his poor relation, Mr. McCoo, who was retired, and whose wife wanted to let the second floor where their late aunt lived. go out.He said they had two daughters, one was a baby and the other was twelve, and they had a beautiful garden and a lake not far away, and I said, that sounded pretty nice. I corresponded with them, and they were satisfied with my good habits; and so spent a dreamy night on the train, imagining all the details I would give to that enigmatic nymphet, training her in the French way, Humbert way caresses her.I got out of the car with my expensive bag, and the little toy station was unanswered, and my phone calls went unanswered; finally, a disturbed, soaked McCoo appeared in the green-purple At the door of the only inn in Ramsdale, I brought word that his house had just burned down--probably, from the fire that had been raging inside me all night.He said his family had flown to his farm, and the car was being used; but his wife had a friend, a noble person, Mrs. Haze, of 342 Lawn Street, who would take me for lodging.A woman who lived across from Mrs. Haze lent McCoo her limousine, a very handsome old box-top sedan, driven by a jovial Negro.Now that the only purpose of my being here has been completely lost, the arrangement above sounds ridiculous.Yeah, his house will be fully restored, so what?Isn't he fully assured?I was angry, disappointed, and bored, but being a polite European I couldn't refuse to be sent off to Lawn Street in that funeral car, lest McCoo would think of a more ingenious way of getting rid of me.Watching him run away in a hurry, my driver shook his head and smiled softly.As the car drove, I swore to myself that under no circumstances would I ever dream of staying in Ramsdale, that I would be flying to Bermuda or the Bahamas or Bullets the same day.The fresh scents that might be encountered on the colorful shores used to trickle down my spine, and McCoo's cousin had actually turned me hard with his well-meaning, but now utterly meaningless advice. A series of thoughts. Speaking of tough turns: we almost ran into a nosy country dog ​​(the kind that sleeps in waiting for a car) as we pulled onto Lawn Street.Not far away, the Haze House, a self-framed misery emerges, dirty and old, more gray than white--the kind of place, you know, where you have to add a rubber hose to the tub faucet instead Shower head.I tipped the driver, hoping that he would quietly take me back to the hotel on the same route and let me pick up my luggage; but he just crossed to the other side of the road and greeted an old lady who was standing on the balcony. drive away.What else can I do?I rang the bell. A black maid took me in--leaving me sitting on the mat, and she ran back to the kitchen as if something had been mushy. The front hall was decorated with a doorbell, a white-eyed dork of Mexican businessman blood, a petty but lovable member of the arty middle class, and Van.Gao's "Landscape of Arles".A door on the right is ajar, and there's a glimpse of the bedroom, with more Mexican scraps in the corner cabinet, a striped sofa standing against the wall, and the stairs at the end of the hallway, where I stand wiping my brow ( Only then did I realize how hot it was outside), looking around, I saw an old gray tennis ball sitting on top of an oak box, Mrs Haze's alto descended from above, she leaned on the railing and asked gracefully He asked, "Is that Mr. Humbert?" Then, a trace of soot also fell down.Afterwards, the woman herself—sandals, maroon slacks, silver shirt, square face, in this order—went downstairs, her index finger still flicking the cigarette. I think I'd better describe her in a straightforward, clear and understandable way.The poor woman was in her mid-thirties, with a shiny forehead, plucked eyebrows, regular but unattractive features, which might be described as an unstable disintegration of Marlene.She patted her copper-brown curls and led me into the living room, and we chatted for a while about the McCoo fire and the privilege of living in Ramsdale.Her extra-large sea-green eyes move up and down all around you very interestingly, and carefully avoid your gaze.Her smile was just a provocative jerk of an eyebrow; and as she spoke, she stretched herself on the sofa, striking now and then at the three ashtrays and the fender next to her (on which lay a brown apple core), Then he sat down again, one leg under the other.She was evidently one of those women whose polished speech might well represent a book club or a bridge club or any prim party, but could never reflect their soul; Chu was completely indifferent to all subjects of drawing-room conversation, but was very particular about the form of such conversation.Through the cellophane under the sun, her frustration is clear at a glance.I know very well that no matter how accidental I become her lodger, for me, she will do everything that she can do to a lodger step by step; very. But I have no problem staying.The housework with scruffy magazines piled on every chair, and the horrific tension between the comedy of so-called "utility modern furniture" and the tragedy of the old rocking chair, the rickety lamp on the table with the rickety lamp Hybridization, I couldn't be happier.I was led upstairs, to the left - into "my" room.I look at it with absolute resistance; but I do recognize René above "my" bed.Prinet's "Kreutzer Sonata".She called the servants' room a "studio"!As I tried to contemplate how absurd and even more inauspicious it was for my cunning hostess to charge me such a low price for my board and lodging, I said firmly to myself, Let us get out of here quickly. But old-time politeness compelled me to continue this ordeal. We walked through the corridor at the top of the stairs to the right half of the house ("Lo's and I's room" was there - Lo was presumed to be the maid); It was impossible to hide his shudder after inspecting the only bathroom, a small rectangle between me and "Lo's" bedroom, suspended in a soft, damp mass of unknown purpose. There is a curly hair in the bucket above the toilet bowl (there is a curly hair in the bucket); as expected, there is a curl of hair like a rubber snake in the bucket, and the bucket accessory-a fuchsia cotton pad shyly covers the toilet lid. "I see you don't have a very good impression," said the woman, letting her hand rest for a moment on "my sleeve: she combined a cold audacity--what I call the flood of balance--with a A combination of shyness and a melancholy which determined the refinement of her words and sentences, as different and natural as the intonation of a professor's "lecture". "This home is not clean, I admit," continued the poor doomed creature, "but I assure you (she looks at my lips) that you will be very comfortable, very comfortable, absolutely, let I'll take you to the garden (the last one is louder, with a charming tremor)". Reluctantly, I followed her downstairs again; then through the kitchen at the end of the hall to the right half of the house—this part is also where the dining room and corridor are located (the left half under the "me" house is nothing but a car room.) In the kitchen, the grubby young black maid said, "I'm leaving now, Mrs. Haze, as she took her shiny black bag from the handle of the door leading to the back porch. "Yes, Louise," replied Mrs. Haze, with a sigh, "I'll settle it with you on Friday. " We passed again through a small pantry into the dining room, which ran parallel to the corridor we had already admired.I saw a pair of white socks on the floor.Mrs. Haze snorted a word of apology, bent down immediately, and threw it casually into the sideboard. We briefly inspected the mahogany dining table with a fruit bowl in the middle. There was only one gleaming plum pit in the fruit bowl.I fumbled for the train timetable in my pocket, took it out secretly, and found a train as quickly as possible.Through the dining room, I was still following Mrs. Haze, when suddenly a green leaf appeared before me--"The verandah," sang my guide, and then, without the slightest prompting, a row of blue waves surged from the bottom of my heart. Rising, half naked, kneeling, turned on my knees, on a straw mat bathed in the sun, my Riviera love peered at me through dark glasses. It was the same child--same girl, same honey shoulders, same silky back, same chestnut hair.A polka-dot turban is fastened around her breasts, hidden from my old greedy eyes, but not from the gaze of my youthful memories, the adolescent breasts I once fondled one immortal day.As if I were the protector of the little princesses in the Word of God (who disappeared, were kidnapped, and were found in gypsy rags, under which her naked body smiled at the king and his hounds), I Found a tiny dark brown mole on her side.With awe and joy (king begging for treats, horns beeping, protector drunk), I see her lovely taut belly again.My mouth just rested on it; and that immature little ass where I'd kissed the scalloped scallop left by the straps of her shorts -- that's the last crazy and Immortal days.In the twenty-five years of my life since then, I have gradually shrunk to a shivering spot, which finally disappeared. I found it most difficult to properly express that momentary shudder, that collision of emotional discovery.In the moment of sun projection, my eyes passed the kneeling child (her eyes flickered behind the serious dark glasses - the little doctor will cure all my pains), and I walked past her, fighting adult (a tall, handsome Eastern European, a gentleman in film circles), but the vacuum of my soul sucked in every detail of her shimmering beauty, and compared it to my dead beloved—对比。当然，片刻之后，她，这个新人儿，这个洛丽塔，我的洛丽塔，便要彻底遮蔽她天体的原色。我想强调的是，我对她的发现乃是在扭曲的过去里建筑的那座"海边王国"的致命后果。在这两件事之间的一切只是一系列的摸索和失策，以及误入歧途的享乐。 但是，我没有错觉。我的判断仅把所有这一切都视作由一位癖嗜未成熟果子的狂人演出的一场哑剧。说实在的，对我来说全都一样。我所知道的是，当那叫黑兹的女人和我走下楼梯，走进透不过气的花园时，我的双膝便象潺潺微波中那双膝盖的倒影，我的唇便象沙，还有--"那是我的洛，"她说，"这些是我的百合花。" "是的，"我说，"是的。它们很美，很美，很美。"