Chapter 12 8

I woke up in a daze, as if my skeleton was about to fall apart.The white light in the corridor shines on the smooth floor.I have not fallen among the immortals, not yet.I'm still on this side of riddles, pains, Steppenwolves, and tormenting intricacies.I couldn't find a good place, I couldn't find a place that was bearable.This must end. In that big mirror, Harry stood facing me.He didn't look very good, not much like he looked the night after he visited the professor and danced at the Black Eagle Tavern.It was a long time ago though, many years, hundreds of years; Harry got old, he learned to dance, saw the Magic Theater, heard Mozart's laughter, he was no longer afraid of dancing, no longer Women, don't be afraid of knives anymore.He was originally a person with mediocre talent. He has experienced hundreds of years and matured.I looked at Harry in the mirror for a while: I still recognized him, he was still somewhat like fifteen-year-old Harry, the young Harry who met Rosa on the hills one Sunday in March and took off his ceremonial letter in front of her. hat worn at the ceremony.Since then, however, he has aged several hundred years.He got into music and philosophy, and then got bored of music and philosophy.He ate and drank at the "Steel Helmet" tavern.Discuss anything with honest academics.He loved Eliga and Maria and became friends with Hermine.He's shot cars and slept with delicate-skinned Chinese women.He met Goethe and Mozart.He tore holes of all sorts in the web of time and false reality that hung over him.He lost those beautiful chess pieces, but he had an honest knife in his pocket.Onward, old Harry, old dark fellow!

Hell, how hard life is!I slapped Harry in the mirror and kicked it to pieces.I walked slowly along the echoing corridors, intently watching the doors of the boxes, each of which promised many wonderful things to experience inside; now the signs on the doors were gone.I walked slowly through the hundreds of doors of the Magic Theater.Did I go to a masquerade today?Hundreds of years have passed since then.Soon there will be no more days and months.Something has to be done.Hermine is still waiting for me.Weddings can be very strange.I swam through the muddy water, my slave, Steppenwolf.To hell!

I stopped by the last door.The turbid waves carried me here.Oh Rosa, oh distant youth, oh Goethe and Mozart! I open the door.I saw a simple but beautiful painting.I saw two naked people lying on the carpet, the beautiful Hermine and the handsome Pablo.They lay close to each other, sleeping soundly and sweetly.Both of them were exhausted from the love-making slapstick, which seemed to never be enough, but in fact quickly became tiresome.These are two beauties, handsome body, wonderful camera.Under Hermine's right breast was a new dark round mole, the love mark of Pablo's beautiful white teeth.I stabbed the knife into Hermine's body from here, and a knife hit her head, and the bright red blood flowed from Hermine's tender skin again.Otherwise, I'd kiss the blood dry.I don't kiss now; I just watch how the blood comes out, and see her eyes open painfully for a moment, looking very surprised. "Why is she surprised?" I thought.Then I remembered to close her eyes.But before I could move, her eyes closed by themselves.She turned her head slightly to one side, and I saw a thin, soft shadow dancing from her armpit to her chest.It seems to remind me to recall something.forgotten!Then she lay motionless on the ground.

I watched her for a long time.Finally, with a shudder, I woke up.I want to get out of there.At this time, I saw Pablo move his body, open his eyes, and move his limbs.I saw him leaning over the beautiful dead man, with a smile on his lips.I thought he was a man who could never be serious, everything would make him smile.Pablo gently turned up a corner of the rug so that it covered Hermione's wound below her chest, out of sight.Then, he quietly walked out of the box.Where is he going?Everyone leave me alone?I was left alone with the half-covered body of the dead, whom I loved and envied.Boy-like curly hair hangs on her pale forehead, her mouth is slightly open and gleaming red on her bloodless face, her hair emits a soft fragrance, and her small delicate shell-shaped ears are shining brightly.

Her wish came true.Before my lover was all mine, I killed her.I did the unimaginable, I fell on my knees and stared blankly, I didn't know what the action meant, I didn't even know if it was a good thing or a right thing to do or the other way around.What would the wise chess player and Pablo say to her?I don't know anything, I can't think anymore.The dead man's face was already lifeless, and his mouth, which was painted with lipstick, was getting redder.All my life has been like this, and my little happiness and my love are like this stiff mouth: a little red painted on a dead man's face.

From the dead face, from the dead white shoulders and arms, there was a slow, silent burst of cold air, the desert and loneliness of winter were gradually expanding, and the room was slowly getting colder and colder. His hands and lips were starting to freeze.I put out the sun?I killed the heart of all life?Has the severe cold of the universe come? Trembling all over, I gazed at the rigid forehead, at the stiff curls, at the cold flickering light above the pinnae.The cold air that emanated from her was both terrible and beautiful: it made a beautiful sound, oscillating in the air, it was music!

Hadn't I already felt this combination of fear and happiness before?Haven't I already heard this music?Yes, with Mozart, with the Immortals. I remembered a poem I had found somewhere: The crystal clear ice of heaven, is where we live, We do not know that there are days and nights, We have no gender, no age. ………… indifferent, never changing, our eternal existence, Indifferent, bright as a star, Our eternal laughter. At this time, the door of the box opened, and a person walked in.I looked at him for a while before I recognized Mozart, who was smartly dressed without braids or buckles.He sat down next to me, and I almost touched him, to stop him, lest he stain his clothes with the blood that ran from Hermine's chest to the floor.The room was littered with small machines and gadgets.After Mozart sat down, he was busy with these gadgets.He looked very serious, twisting here and moving there. I looked at his nimble fingers with great admiration. How I wanted to see him play the piano with these hands!I looked at him thoughtfully, or perhaps rather dreamily, fascinated by his beautiful and intelligent hands.He was next to me, and I felt both warm and a little scared.What the hell was he doing, screwing, I didn't pay attention at all.

He installed a radio, hooked up the amplifier, turned it on, and said, "What I'm listening to now is Munich, Handel's Concerto in F major." The devil-like tin trumpet barrel really made a sound immediately, and my surprise and fear could hardly be expressed in words.What it spits out is a mixture of sticky phlegm and chewed rubber. The owner of the phonograph and those who listen to the radio unanimously call it music. Like an ancient and precious picture hidden under the thick grime, through this thick The phlegm and hissing can really vaguely hear the beautiful and harmonious structure of the sacred music, the solemn structure, the slow and stretching rhythm, and the round and generous sound of the stringed instruments.

"My God!" I exclaimed in horror, "what are you doing, Mozart? Are you really going to torture me and yourself with this nonsense? You're really going to let this damned machine— The victory of our age, the last victorious weapon of our age in its struggle to destroy art—assault on us? Must it be, Mozart?" Oh, how the mystery man laughed!How grotesquely he laughed!His laughter has no sound, but it can destroy everything!He watched me in pain with satisfaction, turned the damn knob, and moved the tin horn barrel.He laughed, letting the twisted, unspirited, poisonous music continue to echo through the room.He smiled and replied:

"Please don't get excited, Mr. Neighbor! Besides, you haven't noticed the slow music? It's improvised, isn't it? Well, you impatient gentleman, listen to the mood of the slow music Do you hear the bass? They are marching like gods, please let this thought of old Handel enter your heart and comfort the restless heart! You little man, don't get excited, don't sneer, calmly let The distant image of the sacred music passes in this ridiculous machine, behind this veil that is indeed very stupid! Note that there is much to be learned in it. Note that this madman's pipe appears to be To do the stupidest, most useless, most forbidden thing in the world, without choice, to stupidly, brutally, pathetically distort the music played somewhere and stuff it into strange rooms where it doesn't belong, But instead of destroying the inherent spirit of the music, it only proves the impotence of technology and the lack of thought in what it does. Listen, little man, you need to hear this. Now, prick up your ears Yes, you are now not only hearing Handel distorted by the radio, who is still divine even in this most horrific form, my lord sir, but you are also hearing and seeing very apt metaphors for the whole of life. If you Listen to the radio, and you know all about the age-old struggle between thought and phenomenon, eternity and time, the divine and the human. My dear friend, the radio throws the most beautiful music in the Throw it into a bourgeois salon, into an attic, into a chattering, gorging, yawning, sleeping audience, and it deprives the senses of music. In the same way that beauty corrupts music, scratches it, smears it with slime, but cannot destroy the spirit of music, so does life—so-called reality—spend nothing but beautiful picture games, followed by Heng Del Concert, where lectures were held on the art of concealing accounts in medium-sized enterprises, which turned a beautiful symphony into a loathsome sound, and everywhere its technique, its busy, brutish Impulse and vanity intersect between thought and reality, symphony and ear. The whole life is like that, my boy, we just let it go and laugh at it if we're not asses. People like you have no right to criticize The radio or life. You should first learn to listen carefully! You should first learn to take seriously what is worth taking seriously, and laugh at other things first! Could it be that you yourself are better than others, nobler, smarter, and more elegant than others? Of course not, Mr. Harry, you are not. You have turned your life into a dreadful history, and your wit into misfortune. Girl, don't know how to use her other than stabbing her to kill her. Do you think that's right?.

"Correct? Oh no!" I exclaimed in despair. "My God, everything is wrong, stupid and terrible! I am a beast, Mozart, I am a stupid and vicious beast, I am sick and beyond repair, and you are right a thousand times. But just this As far as the girl is concerned, she is going to die by herself, and I just fulfilled her wish." Mozart smiled silently, but he kindly turned off the radio. Just now I naively believed that my justification was justified, but as soon as I said it, I felt that my justification was very stupid.It occurred to me that when Hermine spoke of time and eternity, I immediately saw her thoughts as the reflection of my own, and that the thoughts she wanted me to kill were entirely her own thoughts and desires, It is not in the least affected by me, which I take to be self-evident.But why, then, had I not only accepted and believed this horrible, unreasonable idea, but had guessed it in advance?This may mean that this is my own idea?Why did I kill her just when I saw her lying naked in another man's arms?Mozart's silent laugh sounded ironic and omniscient. "Harry," said he, "you're a ridiculous fellow. Doesn't this pretty girl really want anything more from you than to let you stab me? You'll have to lie! Well, at least You stabbed well, and the poor child died at once. It is time, perhaps, for you to think about the consequences of your gallant conduct to this woman. Are you trying to escape the consequences of this?" "No," I growled. "Don't you understand? I want to escape the consequences!? What I want is nothing but punishment, punishment, punishment, to put my head on the scaffold, to be punished, to destroy me." Mozart looked at me with an almost unbearable sneer. "You've always been so impassioned. But you'll also learn humor, Harry. Humor is always the gallows humor, and you really do learn the gallows humor when you have to. Are you going to do that?" Yes? Well, then, go to the prosecutor and be at the mercy of the humorless legal machine until one morning you are beheaded in prison. Would you like to do that? —————— ①Gallows humor: Refers to the humor used to comfort oneself in the face of adversity or in the face of terrible things. Suddenly, a sign flashed brightly and caught my eyes: ┌——————————┐ │The Hanging of Harry│ └——————————┘ I nodded in agreement.Four walls surrounded a forlorn courtyard with iron bars on the small windows, and in the courtyard stood a neat guillotine, and stood a dozen gentlemen in vestments and gowns.I stood in the middle of the courtyard, shivering with cold in the gray morning weather, I felt pain and fear like heartbreak, but I was willing, I took a step forward as ordered, and knelt down as ordered.The prosecutor took off his hat and cleared his throat, as did the other gentlemen.He unfolded a formal document and held it up in front of his eyes.He read: "Gentlemen, here stands Harry Harrell before you, and it has been verified that the defendant deliberately misused our magic theater. Harrell not only desecrated the noble art, but confused our beautiful painting hall with the beautiful reality. A light, killed the image of a girl with the image of a knife, and he also showed his humorless attempt to use our magic theater as a suicide device. Therefore, we sentence Harrell to life punishment , deprive him of the right to be barred from our theater for twelve hours. Nor can he pardon the punishment of being teased once. Gentlemen, come together: one, two, three!" On the count of three, there was an irreproachable roar of laughter from all present, a loud, terrible, unbearable laughter from the other side. When I regained consciousness, Mozart sat next to me as before, patted me on the shoulder and said: "You heard your sentence. You have to get used to it and continue to listen to the radio music of life. You will feel Comfortable. Your intellect is too weak, dear fool, but you will probably gradually understand what is required of you. You should learn to laugh, which is required of you. You should understand the humor of life, the humor of life. Gallows humor. Yet you are ready to do anything in the world except what you are asked to do! You are ready to stab the girl, you are willing to die solemnly, and you are certainly willing to suffer for a hundred years A hundred years of flogging for the poor, right?" "Oh, yes, I do," I exclaimed in this pitiful situation. "Of course! You can be there for any stupid, dull, passionate activity. You are a generous gentleman. I won't ask you to go. I won't give you the slightest for these romantic atonements of yours. Reward. You want to be killed, you want to be beheaded, you desperado! You will kill ten more people for this stupid ideal. You coward want to die, you don't want to live. Damn you! But you should Live! If you are sentenced to the heaviest punishment, it will not be wronged at all." "Oh, what's the worst punishment?" "For example, we can bring that girl back to life and allow you to marry her." "No, I don't want that. It would be unfortunate." "Haven't you caused enough misfortune? But passion and murder should be over now. You should be sensible! You should live, you should learn to laugh. You should learn to listen to the radio music of the goddamn life, you should respect this the spirit behind the music, and learn to laugh at the ridiculous and the worthless in the music. That's all you're asked to do, after all." I gently squeezed out a question between my teeth: "What if I refuse? Mr. Mozart, what if I don't give you the right to command the Steppenwolf, and don't give you the right to interfere with his fate?" Mozart said calmly: "Then I suggest you to smoke another good cigarette of mine." As he spoke, he pulled out a cigarette from his vest pocket and handed it to me.At the same time, he suddenly changed, he was no longer Mozart, he became my good friend Pablo, his foreign black eyes looked at me enthusiastically, he was very like the man who taught me how to play chess , looks exactly like that man, like a twin brother. "Pablo," I called out with a twitch. "Pablo, where are we now?" Pablo handed me cigarettes and matches. He smiled slightly and said: "We are in my magic theater. If you want to learn tango, become a general, and talk to Alexander the Great, next time everything is at your command. But I have to say, Harry, you are a little Let me down. You completely forget yourself, you poke my little theater humor, you do stupid things, you stab people, you splatter the beautiful picture world with the stain of reality. You don't do it well .I hope you see Hermine and I lying down, at least do that out of jealousy. It's a pity you don't know how to play the part. You'll learn the game better, I'm sure. Okay. Yes, it can be corrected next time." Hermine shrunk immediately in his hands, turning into a pawn on the chessboard. He picked her up and put her in the pocket of his vest where he had taken out his cigarettes. The sweet, strong cigarettes were so comforting, I felt as though my body had been hollowed out, ready to sleep on it for a whole year. Oh, I understand everything, I understand Mr Pablo, I understand Mozart, I hear his terrible laugh somewhere behind me.I know I have a thousand pieces of the game of life in my pocket, a horrified premonition of its meaning, and I am ready to start the game again, to taste its pain once more, to shudder at its absurdity once more , traveling again and again and again and again to my inner hell. Someday I will learn to play this game of life better.I will learn to laugh someday.Pablo is waiting for me, Mozart is waiting for me.