Chapter 6 Fives
Aiming at the unworthy of the impossible.
After looting Michaelis, the bourgeois, we left without hesitation.We had to go straight to Poland, because Michaelis knew many Polish counterfeiters.We managed to get counterfeit zlotys into the market.
As much as I miss Stilitano, there is a new love in my heart and beside me, who has taken his place.The old love is still there, and it still affects my smile subtly.When I laugh, I always think of his voice and smile, and even my every move is inevitably a little cold and severe.I have been favored in every way by the gallant goshawk and the noble falcon.To deal with a handsome guitarist, I can still do my best, as long as I don't let him see through my flaws at a glance.I dare not sell Stilitano's image, but I have reproduced in all my friends the qualities you see in it. (These lads I was talking about suddenly disappeared, with a lot of excuses, saying that I have rainbowness, transparency, non-existence, etc. He exists in them only because something in common exists in me, And I exist only through them. But they are nothing but existence through me. They inspire me, but I am the interference zone. The lads are my guard at dusk.) Michaelis may be more Playing a cute little trick, he was so graceful when he was trembling all over, I might as well repeat the same old tune to better describe him:
"It's a lovely violin."
The rich man had suspected us, and we crossed the border with very little money, and we came to Katowice.We found Michaelis' friend there, but the next day the police arrested us for smuggling counterfeit money.We were put in jail, he spent three months, I two months.Here something happened that concerns my moral life.I love Michaelis.It wouldn't have been rude to stare at the lads when they sang.It has become a habit in Central Europe. Young bands sing, everyone is young, it is inevitable to get carried away, and it is not surprising that they are flirting.I could love Michaelis without shame, be tender and considerate to him, and make love to him.Later, he simply went to his lover's house to secretly spend a few hours of luxurious nightlife.We were held together in the Katowice police station for a month before we ended up in jail.We each had a cell, and before we went to work in the morning, two policemen came and asked us to empty the toilet and wipe the floor for them.It was an obvious humiliation to us, and the local police deliberately took revenge on the French and Czechs for their good manners, but we could only meet at this humiliating moment.Early in the morning, they woke us up and forced us to empty the toilet.We're going down five flights of stairs.With each step down, the urine fluctuated and got on our hands, and the police forced me to call Michaelis Andric instead.We also want to have a laugh and add a lighthearted sense of humor to the moment.But the smell of urine smelled so bad that we had to cover our noses, not to mention that we were so exhausted that we were already grinning from the torture.Besides, we still have difficulty conversing in Italian, often slurring our words.We solemnly carried the big metal urine bucket downstairs, step by step, solemnly, slowly, and cautiously.The steaming filth and scum of the able-bodied policemen who excreted so much at night was already cold in the morning.We poured our urine into the toilets in the courtyard and went upstairs with empty buckets.We were afraid to look at each other.If I had known Andric in distress, or if I hadn't made a glorious impression on him, I'd probably have swallowed the burden of carrying the guard's excrement with him.But to keep him from being ashamed, I had to put on a straight face, a dead note, a sublime hymn to him, able to raise the pariah to revolt and become a hero.After emptying the toilet, the police threw us a ball of sackcloth, and we mopped the floor again.Under their surveillance, we knelt on the ground and wiped the floor tiles.They kicked us with the heels of their boots at every turn.Michaelis must understand my pain.But from his eyes and actions, I really can't tell whether he is willing to forgive me for my temporary slump.One morning, I suddenly had the idea of resisting, and I really wanted to throw a bucket of excrement on the feet of the police, but then I realized that these rough guys must retaliate.
"They're going to drag me into the shit," I thought to myself, "they're all in a rage, and they're all flexing their muscles, forcing me to lick the shit out of the ground."
I decided to swallow my anger, because the situation was special, and I had to bow my head under the eaves of others.If it was changed to another place, it would never be the same.
"After all, the situation is too rare, too special." I thought to myself.
In front of the person I love, in the eyes of my lover, I am simply an angel, how can I let him watch me being knocked to the ground, with my mouth full of mud, watching me at the mercy of others, I used to be "unrecognizable".Having said that, why can't I also have a "beyond recognition"?In fact Michaelis's love for me--or rather, appreciation--was only possible at the time, and it was a love that had faded into obscurity.
Thinking of this, I straightened my face again.A man can stretch and bend, and I know how to return to that cruel and ruthless world, where any warmth will be expelled, and no sublime or beauty will be tolerated.In the material world, this cruel world is connected with the base and base world.Michaelis was not ignorant of the adversity he was in, but he took it lightly.He joked with the guards from time to time, with a playful smile and an innocent look.The way he fawns over me annoys me.He never let me do heavy work, but I rudely refused.
To further alienate him, I had to find an excuse.The excuses didn't take long for me to come.One morning a policeman dropped a pencil, and Michaelis groveled to pick it up for the policeman.On the stairs, I scolded him.He replied that he did not understand what was going on.He wanted to comfort me, and he was so eager to comfort me that he irritated me.
"Bitch, pig." I scolded him until he spit blood. "The guards have spoiled you. Go lick their boots some other day! Maybe they'll visit you in your cave!"
I hate him for witnessing my loss, thinking that I was the savior in his eyes back then.But now my clothes are shabby, dirty, unshaven, disheveled, ugly, and I have returned to my old rascal appearance. How can this not disgust Michaelis who is still the same.Still, I've been mired in shame.I don't love my friends anymore.However, this love - the first thing I experienced was the taste of the protector - went to the opposite, and turned into a wicked hate, because there is still a tender feeling in the hate.If I was the only one locked up here, I might stick to these cops.As soon as I got back under my prison window, I dreamed of their powerful influence, dreamed of their friendship, and hoped to conspire with them, so that I could conduct moral transactions with them on the spot, and they would show their true colors.They are hooligans and I am a traitor.
"It's too late," I said to myself, "when I was well-dressed, with a designer watch and shiny shoes, I might have been on an equal footing with them. It's too late now, and I'm a big fool."
It seemed to me that it was a foregone conclusion, that I was destined to endure humiliation, although a few months of trickery might turn it around and allow me to see the light of day again.I simply hung my head down, swallowed my anger and endured the time, chasing my destiny in the direction of the night, running counter to you, and developing the opposite of your virtues.
The thinking of many literati and inkmen often stays on the concept of gangs and gangs.When people mention France, they say "the gangs of the state are in trouble".So people think of the gang of robbers who are robbery, inhumane, and hate to the marrow.is it possible?It seemed impossible that people like us could organize into gangs.The link that can connect the gang, I am afraid that the possibility of greed is high, but the greedy nature is covered up by the raging anger and the request to do justice for the sky.Therefore, similar excuses must be found to advertise themselves, so the robbers quickly worked out a set of corresponding moral norms.Unless it is children's mischief, it is impossible to unite lawless people into gangs and gangs by evil that runs counter to your morality.In prison, every criminal fantasizes that there is a good, tight and powerful organization to stand against your world and morals, but this is just a dream.A prison is a strong fortress, an ideal cave, and a lair of robbers. In a prison, any power in the world dares to invade, and it will never return, and its reputation will be ruined.Therefore, as long as the criminal is associated with some gang, he obeys the prevailing law instead.Although today's news media likes to talk about American deserters and French gangsters forming a gang, it is not an organization, but in fact it is at most a partnership of three or four people who meet by chance and play on the spot.
When Michaelis came out of Katowice prison, I found him again.I was free a month ago.After I got out of prison, I went to the nearby villages to live by petty crime from time to time, and spent the night in parks on the outskirts of the city.It is the hot summer season.Other hooligans also came to the park grass to find a shady spot or to sleep under the low-hanging cedar branches.In the early morning, from time to time, a thief or a young beggar would suddenly appear from among the thousands of flowers to stretch out in the rising sun.I don't deal with anyone.I walked several kilometers alone, entered a church, and used a small stick coated with glue to steal money from the collection box.In the evening, I walked back to the park again.This "miracle garden" has beautiful scenery.All its regular customers are all young people.If it is in Spain, when beggars gather together, they must ask each other which places are rich and prosperous.But beggars and thieves here don't communicate with each other.There was a strange man who slipped quietly into the park through a hidden door and snaked silently along the slope or the bushes.Only the spark of a cigarette and the rustle of footsteps indicated his presence.At daybreak, no trace of him disappeared.Oh, how many absurd ideas make me fly.I curled up in a dark corner, looking at the sky full of stars and sighing. Alexander and Caesar also looked at the sky and sighed, but now I am just a lazy beggar and a lazy thief.I have also straddled the whole of Europe, but my methods are opposite to their illustrious exploits, and I am writing a precious secret history for me, the plot is as bizarre as the history of the great conquerors.These details will shape me into the world's most amazing person, who has never been seen before or since.I continued on my crooked way, to see the sad scene of the bottomless abyss.I may still lack a disgraceful whore outfit, and I regret not having put it to good use, rather than lying idle in a trunk or underclothes.In fact, it was those tulle evening gowns adorned with sequins.At night, after climbing over the park wall, I put them on secretly.
Putting on a gauze scarf, one can imagine that the bare shoulders must be unclear, and the past will come to mind unconsciously.It was that early morning that the Caroline sisters of Barcelona went in droves to lay flowers in the public urinals to bid farewell.Cities are waking up.The workers went to work one after another.Every time they passed a door, people poured water on the sidewalk.Sister Caroline's clothes are very funny, and they are afraid to hide and avoid them.No matter how much people ridicule, they can't hurt them.The filthiness of their gaudy old clothes proved that they had been stripped to pieces.The sun shines on the garland, and the garland glows with its own splendor.All the Caroline sisters are actually dead.The wandering things we see on the streets are actually innocent souls slaughtered by the world.Homosexuals are a pale, gaudy rabble who toss their days between the faith and conscience of good people, never entitled to the broad daylight.They retreated to the brink of hell, bringing with them strange misfortunes that heralded new virtues.One of them, Thales the Great, often solicits clients in coffee shops.In a dark corner of a circular public urinal near the pier, she brought a folding chair, unfolded it, and sat down, knitting and crocheting.She stops sometimes for a sandwich.She seemed to be at home.
①The reader has already heard--it is time to repeat the old story--that the description of my private life, or the associations that my private life arouses, is only a love song.Rather, my life was a prelude to an affair, not a gamble.I'm now about to discover the meaning of it.Unfortunately, it seems that only heroism is the most qualified to express the virtue of love, but he can only dominate in our minds, so he has to be a hero.So I turned to rhetoric for help.The vocabulary I use will definitely sing, even if it is borrowed from the mouths of heroes.Is what I wrote true?Or is it fake?Only this book of love is true.Could the facts used be a subterfuge?I am supposed to be the custodian of these facts, I do not fix them. -- original note
The other was Miss Dora.Dora suddenly screamed:
"They're so bad...these men!"
The cry I recall caused me to reflect briefly but deeply on my disappointment.Escape--how long! --After being dirty, I'm going back to being dirty.At least the days I spent in your world were long enough for me to write a book about Sister Caroline.I hope so.
I am innocent.My gown protects me.I put on an artistic posture and wait for the god of sleep to come.I gradually leave the ground.I fly over the earth.I believed in being able to walk the earth with such ease, and my burglary in a church made me even more ecstasy.Michaelis came back and added to my burden.Because, if he cooperates with me in stealing, he will laugh all the time and be easily recognized.
I admire the mystery of darkness, and even hope that the earth will be dark in broad daylight.Although I know poverty very well, knowing that it is terminally ill and has turned into pus, but here, under the hazy moonlight, the poverty I see is indistinct, and in the shadow of the whirling trees, it is like a Chinese shadow play.Poverty has lost its depth, it is only a silhouette, the shadow of which my dying genius soaks in my thick pain and blood.It is said that even the flowers are dark at night. I want to pick some flowers and put them on the altar, because I have to search the donation box of the altar every morning.In offering these bouquets, I am not seeking the protection of some saint or the Virgin Mary, I just want to give my body and my arms a chance to perform traditional virtues so that they can be at one with your world.
The reader will be surprised how seldom I have written about romantic people.My eyes were full of love, and it was difficult, as it was then, to discern the astonishing reasons for treating a lover as a heartless being.I can justify any behavior, no matter how outlandish it may seem, without thinking about it.I feel that any peculiar behavior or attitude must satisfy an internal need: I couldn't, and still can't, joke.He frowned, thinking about it, even if it farted faster, it was ridiculous.Because of this, I went to a correctional school, went to prison, went to bars, and wandered around in the streets and alleys.What kind of messy places have you never seen before?Nothing to be surprised about.There are characters upon whom the reader might stare with great interest, and yet, even if I were to recall such places, I cannot at any rate find a character of such character in my recollection.This book is likely to be a disappointment.In order to break the tedium and monotony, I always try to tell a few episodes, let's just take it in one go.
in the court.
Judge: "Why did you steal this bronze?"
Prisoner: "Because of poverty, Mr. Judge."
Judge: "That's not a reason."
"I traveled all over Europe," Stilitano told me. "I've even been to Greece."
"Do you like Greece?"
"Not bad. Just the ruins."
Michaelis was a handsome man, but he admitted to me that he was more proud of being favored by men than by women.
"I'm more than that."
"But you don't like men."
"It doesn't matter. Seeing men salivate in front of my pretty face, I feel unspeakably happy. That's why I'm gentle and considerate to them."
On Crown Street, the plainclothes police were chasing me, and I was terrified by the horrible rustle of their rubber boots.Every time I hear this voice, my heart goes up.
I got to know B during the manhunt involving the theft of documents from the Fourth International.He was about twenty-three years old.He is afraid of being exiled.Just as the criminal was waiting for anthropometric registration, he came to me.
"Me too," I said, "I might be exiled."
"Really? Don't leave me. 'They' probably locked us in a bridal chamber. (The prisoner dubbed the cell a bridal chamber.) If we do hit the road, we can try to have a good time."
We were found to be behind us, and he really did a secret business with me as promised.
"Me, I know a 20-year-old guy. One day, he asked me to help him find a tough guy."
That same evening, he spoke the truth:
"I'm talking nonsense. I wanted to do it myself."
"You'll get what you want here," I told him.
"That's why I'm not too nervous."
B is not exiled.I saw him again in Montmartre.He introduced me to one of his friends, a pastor, and they hang out together at night.
"Why don't you let your priest fly?"
"I don't know. He's so handsome."
As soon as I saw him, he beamed and said his priest.He said "my priest" in a slightly whiny tone.His beloved pastor had promised him a commissioner of estates for my fellow sufferer in his parish.
The police didn't suspect what they were destroying, tearing up 10 or 12 drawings related to me.These Arabic patterns, they can't guess what they are, they are nothing more than showing ironware, plates, shoulders, hardcover ancient book covers and so on.Once, A, G and I, we were going to rob the museum of C city.I'm in charge of scouting the terrain and looking for loot.Although this theft was done by others, because it happened recently, I still remember the exact details.I had to scout the museum many times, but couldn't find a good excuse.Listening to the narrator chattering about the ancient books locked in the glass cabinet, I suddenly had a plan and asked the administrator to let me copy it by hand. The time is very fast, as long as the outline and the hardcover cover are enough.For several days in a row, I came to the museum every day, flipping through the ancient books one by one, and spent hours looking at them, copying the pictures as much as possible.Back in Paris, I went to inquire about the value of these works, and I was astonished that they were priceless.In the past, it never occurred to me that books could also be targeted for theft.We did not steal these ancient books, but since then, I have the idea of visiting bookstores.I carefully crafted a schoolbag for the crime, and became an expert at stealing books, often stealing them from under the noses of booksellers without anyone noticing.
A high-end limousine started quietly and drove gently in front of my eyes.I thought of Zawa, and I couldn't help but feel excited. I saw Stilitano walking with a heavy gait, walking with his body swaying like a mound, braving the bitter north wind.It must be Stilidano who is leaving, and Zawa must be going out.Walking quietly on the ground.Among the crowd, he looked at me, with a hint of sadness and cunning intertwined in his eyes.
"People will say we sold ourselves to Hitler, I don't care."
After speaking, he laughed.His eyes are blue, protected from the sun by thick lashes.He braved the cold wind, separated the crowd, spoiled the atmosphere, and acted so powerfully that he forced me to bear his shameful behavior.
I met Eric, fell in love with him, and lost him when I met... ①.One by one, they joined the damn army with murderous joy.He was a German general's bodyguard, but had a mild temper.He was trained for a few short weeks in a barracks, learning how to use a dagger, how to remain on the alert forever, and how to protect an officer at the expense of himself.He is familiar with the snow fields of Russia, and the places he passed have been looted: Czechoslovakia, Poland, and even mainland Germany is no exception.He didn't keep any of his wealth.The court sentenced him to two years in prison.He had just finished his life behind bars.Sometimes he told me about the experience, recalling other people, how he felt elated when he was about to kill, seeing the terrified, dilated pupils of his victims.On the street, he pretends to be a hero: he only walks on the road and not on the sidewalk.At night, he tossed coins for luck and made choices.
①I have to withhold his name. -- original note
Murder isn't the most effective way to join the dirty underworld.On the contrary, after the blood flow, the danger still exists, because there is a possibility that his head will fall to the ground and the body will be separated at any time (the murderer takes one step back, and then steps back step by step).He must do his best to confuse others, and always go against the laws of life.The French Open has been restored, and no one will let this criminal go easily.Other crimes are more likely to make people degenerate: stealing, begging, betrayal, abuse of reputation, etc., I chose these crooked ways, but I always have the idea of a murderer in my mind. .
My good times in Poland are short-lived, and my chic appearance is obvious to all. Although the Poles did not arouse suspicion, the French consul was not fooled. Please leave the consulate immediately, leave Katowice within 48 hours, and leave Poland as soon as possible.Together with Michaelis, I decided to return to Czechoslovakia, but we were refused entry visas, neither for me nor for Michaelis.So we rented a small car and asked the driver to take us to the border on a mountain road.I carried a pistol with me.
"If the driver refuses to drive us, we shoot him and we drive ourselves."
I sat in the backseat with one hand on the gun and Michaelis's in the other.He was as young as I was, but stronger and more powerful than I was, and I could successfully shoot a driver in the back if necessary.The car drove slowly along the side of the road.The driver didn't notice us, but suddenly came to a sudden stop in front of a border guard station, and Michaelis was almost knocked onto the steering wheel.It is impossible for me to commit murder.We were escorted back to Katowice by two gendarmes.it's getting dark.
"If the gun in the pocket is found," I thought, "they will surely arrest us and possibly sentence us."
The stairs leading to the Chief of Police's office were dimly lit.As I went upstairs, it occurred to me that I should put the gun on a certain step.I dodged on purpose, squatted down, and hid the gun in a corner against the wall.During the interrogation (why did I go to Czechoslovakia? What am I doing here?), I was afraid that they would discover my tricks, and I trembled all over.At this moment, there is a kind of frightening joy in me, very fragile, as untouchable as hazelnut pollen, the joy of a murderer who has escaped guilt, joyful in the golden morning light.At least, I have attempted to kill, and I can quietly bathe in the tassel morning light.
Michaelis still loves me.He has a deep understanding of my miserable situation and has already turned love into pity.There are many mythical heroes who become slaves when they are in trouble.Maybe he secretly thought, don't look at me being wronged like a reptile now, maybe I'm hiding my strengths and biding my time, thinking for a long time, and finally one day I will change my body and suddenly grow wings and fly high.Just as the deer miraculously escaped the siege of hounds under the blessing of God, my guards will be scared out of their wits by my supernatural powers and boundless spells.It's not good for a murderer to go to the execution ground. Although Michaelis looks at me as always, I don't love him anymore.The reason why I tell this story of my adventures with him is to let everyone know that bad luck is corrupting my posture more and more, or that my hero is ruined, or that I am myself in the mire of misery. .Zawa was also doomed.I have already discovered that his toughness is only a superficial phenomenon, and it cannot even be said to be a posturing. It is originally made of transparent glue that softens when it is baked.
Talking about my work as a writer is superfluous.Life behind bars feels like years, and I can't help recalling the wandering, miserable and even tragic life in the past, in order to escape endless troubles.Later, when I was free, I still found time to write, in order to earn some money.I just shrug my shoulders when I think of literature.But if you look at what I have written, it is not difficult to see today in my indefatigable quest to right the names of beings, things, and feelings that have been discredited in the past.It is naive and naive to use the usual eulogizing words to whitewash the name, and it is also easy: I can do it in one go.Even if I took shortcuts, it would be in vain, because in my heart these things, these emotions (betrayal, stealing, baseness, fear) do not call upon the derogatory adjectives you are accustomed to use.When I was about to start writing, I bent my knees for beauty, and I really wanted to praise the handsome guy, maybe I love my house, and I should also praise his emotions, attitudes, and things.But when I reread them today, I have forgotten these boys, and all that remains of them is the quality that I have celebrated, and it is this quality that shines in my book, with a light comparable to pride, heroism and bravery. Fearless rivals.I'm not trying to excuse them.There is no question of justifying them.I just wish they had a reputation.My efforts were not in vain.I have received results.To beautify what you despise, my reason is tired of this kind of word game, how can I put the heart-wrenching things with grand names, my thoughts are incompatible with all modifiers.No matter whether it is people, things or things, as long as they are all in a state of naked equality, my thoughts will embrace everything without confusion.But my thoughts will not cover up people, things, and things.So I don't want to write any more, I quit.Yet, for several days now, the newspapers have told me at length that the state of the world is disturbing.Everyone was talking about war again.Anxiety was mounting, preparations for war were becoming increasingly clear (not plausible statements by politicians, but convincing analysis by experts), but I was unusually calm.I retreated into my own inner world.There I set up a pleasant but cruel observation post, and watched the wrath of man with unafraid detachment.I would have liked to hear the rumble of cannon, the clarion call of the death battle, to set up a silent shelter of repeated construction.I want to strengthen the bunker layer by layer, and continue to thicken it, so that the old adventures I have chewed and relished repeatedly will be kept away from the flames of war.Like a spring silkworm spinning silk, it binds itself in a cocoon, wrapping itself layer by layer.I shall endeavor to create and experience my solitude and my immortality, unless I have a foolish desire to sacrifice that takes me out of my old adventures altogether.
My solitude behind bars is total.Even talking about this part of my life now does not lessen my sense of loneliness.I was so lonely.At night, I had no choice but to think wildly, drifting down with the wind.The world is a mighty torrent, a torrent of united forces, which has carried me into the sea and into death.Knowing that I have no relatives, I have to make fun of it.I felt very familiar when I heard the movement above: in the cell, I was dreaming, and my thoughts were drifting, but above my head, a prisoner suddenly got up, walked up, and paced back, always with a regular pace.My dream is still fluctuating with the waves, but this sound (like the close-up of a movie, it sounds very clear) reminds me that the body I rely on to dream and dream away is still imprisoned in the prison, and has become a prisoner alone. .The footsteps appeared suddenly, clearly and regularly.I really want to hang out with my old friends who are poor and poor children who have suffered misfortune.I envy the glory they exude, and I can use some tricks for my own use.The so-called talent is to be polite to material things, including a song dedicated to the silent world.My genius will be love, which I bring to the whole world of bars and penal camps.I am not trying to transform them, to bring them into your lives, or to bring them tolerance and mercy.I see in the thief, the traitor, the murderer, the rogue, the liar a hidden beauty--a beauty of the cave--that I do not see in you anyway.Soclay, Weidmann, Serge de Lunz, gentlemen of the police, and insidious prosecutors, it seems to me that you sometimes dress up in black funeral gowns, in beautiful I adorn myself with crimes, so that I envy some who draw inspiration from the horrors of the Arabian Nights, others who are tortured and tormented, and that all are equally vile.They ended up being inseparable from each other at this point.As long as I look back, there is a string of dastardly actions going on.My books will come one by one.I used modifiers to describe them in the book, and thanks to these adjectives, I can recall them one by one.I am but a poor little wretch who knows nothing but hunger, abuse, poverty, fear, and obscenity.How many times have I frowned, racked my brains, and finally found a reason to be honorable.
"No doubt that's what I am," I said to myself, "but at least I have self-knowledge, and so much of it, that it sweeps away the shame and endows me with a little-understood emotion: pride."
Fives
You despise me, even though you are not of noble birth, but of the same poor heritage.But you are still obsessed with your obsession, because without this awareness, you don’t know what arrogance is.In other words, you simply don't understand that there is a force that can enable you to withstand the pressure of poverty-not your own poverty, but the common poverty of mankind.
Can a few books, a few poems prove to you that I have exhausted all my suffering?Can I prove to you that these misfortunes are essential to my beauty?I kept writing and writing, and I was tired.I have worked so hard that I always feel powerless, and I can't express what my heroes can do with ease.
Zawa looked extraordinarily beautiful when he was frightened.It is thanks to him that terror is sublime.It restores the dignity of natural movement, meaning nothing more than physical fear, the dread and dismay of death or the spectacle of suffering.Zawa trembled all over.I saw with my own eyes how miserable he was, and I was so frightened that yellow water dripped down from his two monumental thighs.His face was very impressive, with his head bowed softly or droolingly, and fear swayed on his face, ruining his clear eyebrows and eyes.Misfortune fell from the sky, and a catastrophe was imminent. How dare you crazily disrupt such an elegant and dignified symmetry, such a breathtaking layout, and it is completely integrated and extremely harmonious.Whether it is well-proportioned or structured, it all stems from mental panic and bears the consequences of panic.Perfect proportions and perfect layouts have become their usual expressions.I call him Zawa, both because Zawa is his own master and because Zawa is responsible for his own fears.His fear is aesthetically pleasing.Hair, muscles, eyes, teeth, genitals, and boyish delicacy, all marked by fear.
Thereafter he ennobled the shame.He endured the humiliation in front of me, and took the shame as a heavy burden, and carried it on his shoulders like a tiger. The tiger threatened him that he would obey every move he said, and be obedient!Immediately after his demeanor softened, it manifested itself in a subtle and pleasing humility.His ambition, his rashness, were like the rays of the sun in the black veil of a funeral.When I saw him fighting and struggling, I knew he didn't want to fight at all.Maybe he was afraid that he would be vulnerable, or maybe he was worried that the other party would be strong and young, and he would ruin his face all at once.I saw him terrified, his face ashen.He curled up like a reptile, trying to sleep for a long time. When he woke up, he had already arrived in India or Java. Otherwise, he would simply sit there and be caught by the police and sentenced to death.He was disheartened and tired of everything.But I learned from him that fear and boredom can often be expressed through coquetry, pouting, frowning, and grimacing.
"I'll let you go." The young man said provocatively, not paying attention to him at all.
Zawa said nothing.他接受了凌辱。他从尘土中站起来，捡起了他的贝雷帽，连膝盖上的灰土都不弹掉就走了。但他仍然很英俊。
马克·奥贝尔教唆我说，形体美，好卖弄。假如能用同时包含背叛和出卖的符号加以标记，读解起来就一目了然。金色的头发，明亮的眼睛，镀金般的皮肤，温情脉脉的微笑，脖子、上身、胳膊、大腿、性器官都有叛卖的流露，我为此追求了一生并积累着叛卖。
“这些英雄应当达到一定程度的完善，”我自忖道，“一直完善到我不再想看见他们还活着，直到他们勇敢的遭遇修得尽善尽美。一旦功德圆满，他们也就濒临死亡了，也就不再害怕人类的审判了。无论什么力量都无法改变他们的惊人成就。但愿他们因此允许我去做你们不允许苦难者做的事情。”
我几乎总是孑然一身，但由于有一个理想的伴侣神助，我又分别在几个地方穿越边境。每次行动都令我激动不已。我从四面八方翻越阿尔卑斯山，远近高低各不同。从斯洛文尼亚到意大利，帮助我的是海关人员，但随后抛弃我的还是海关人员。我顶着狂风，冒着严寒，踩着荆棘，不顾阿尔卑斯山11月恶劣的天气，终于登上了高峰，山背后意大利已遥遥在望了。为了到达目的地，我不时要与夜间觅食的野兽遭遇，它们隐藏在暗处，我倒暴露在夜色中。有时候，我被要塞的蒺藜铁丝网挂上了，清楚听见哨兵走动的声音和彼此交头接耳的低语声。我躲进暗处，心跳得厉害，多么希望他们开枪打死我之前，能亲一亲我，爱一爱我。因此，一到夜晚，我就企盼夜色中四面埋伏着好色的卫士。我在一条山路上踉踉跄跄摸索前进。路还不错。我脚踏实地早有感觉。后来，我又离开了意大利奔奥地利。我夜穿白雪皑皑的田野。月光把我的身影投放到雪地上。我每路经一个国家，免不了要偷窃一番，也少不了蹲进班房。我岂是在横穿欧洲旅行，而是在漫游五花八门、千奇百怪的物境世界，拿手好戏花样不断翻新。尽管我也担心奇迹太多，乐极生悲，但我还是欲罢不能，反而变本加厉深入寻常的奥秘，领略无限奇观，并保我自己不出危险。
但我很快发现，在中欧，很难进行无风险偷盗，因为警察制度无懈可击。各国边境岗哨林立，看管有方，休想越雷池一步，而我又缺乏联络手段，很难见势不妙就溜之大吉，何况我一身法国人气质，更容易显山露水。我还注意到，我的同胞在国外行乞行窃者寥寥无几。于是我决定返回法国，重操小偷旧业，也许我的活动范围仅限于巴黎。但我仍然向往继续周游列国的流浪生活，沿途且偷且盗，收获不论多少，何乐而不为。但经过深思熟虑，我还是选择了法国。我对法国毕竟知根知底，可以放心地进行偷盗活动，集中一切注意力，确保万无一失；就像能工巧匠精雕细刻一块绝无仅有的材料。此时，我约二十四五岁光景。为了追逐精神冒险，我宁可牺牲远走四方的计划和光芒四射的光彩。我当时做出的选择理由并不明确，也许因为今天我要将它落成文字时，其中的原因才昭然若揭。我想，我需要刨根问底，需要钻探发掘语言的宝藏。只有进入语言的宝库，我的思想才能自由飞翔。也许我愿意用母语出人头地。阿尔巴尼亚、匈牙利、波兰、印度或巴西，不可能向我提供像法国那样丰富多彩的语言材料。的确，偷盗--以及随之而来的铁窗监禁和小偷职业的耻辱--已经成了一种公然存在的行业，成了一种有价值的艺术品和精神产品。必须借助语言，借助我的母语才能功成名就，才能对比研究用母语写成的法律条文。在国外，我好赖算得上是一名熟练的小偷，但我用法语思维，就得承认自己是外国人中的法国人，此外没有别的可能。在我自己的国家当小偷，使用失主--他们与我是同语同胞--的语言，我就可以成为国偷，也就可以证实我是名副其实的国偷。这就使得我这个小偷有幸脱颖而出，具有独一无二的特质。这样一来，我又变成了法国人中的外国人了。
中欧地区政局混乱，可能造成了社会不安，迫使各国完善警察机制，提高办案水平。我说的自然是警察快速破案问题。一名罪犯，可能因为有人告密，在作案之前就登记在案了，但当地警察显然不如我们法国警察精细。有一次，我从阿尔巴尼亚进入南斯拉夫国境，有奥地利人安东做伴，通过海关时我出示了护照，所谓护照其实不过是一本法国军人证，只是我在里面夹了四页奥地利护照的空白签证（由安东提供），其中一页盖有塞尔维亚领事馆的签证用章。在火车上，在街道上，在旅馆里，我已经多次向南斯拉夫宪兵出示过这本古怪的证件，他们居然都放行了。有签证，有印章，他们就信以为真了。后来我被抓了起来--因为向安东开了一枪--警察竟把证件还给了我。
我爱法兰西吗？我当时头上一直戴着法兰西的光环。驻贝尔格莱德的法国武官曾多次要把我引渡回国--这是违反国际法规定的--南斯拉夫警方来了个折中处理：警方负责把我押送到与法国毗连的意大利边界上。我从一个监狱转到另一个监狱，横穿了整个南斯拉夫。我因此结识了不少罪犯，有的脾气火暴，有的阴险狡诈。破口大骂的语言粗野之极，不失为世界一流的下流话。
“我舔上帝他妈的屁股！”
“我贴他娘的墙！”
没过几分钟，他们哈哈大笑，露出满口白牙。当时南斯拉夫的国王是一个年仅12岁（一说15岁）的翩翩少年，头发整齐地梳向一边，他就是皮埃尔二世，其肖像画印上了邮票，也挂在所有监狱的看守室和警察局办公室里。流氓、窃贼怒气冲天，一股脑儿往这小孩头上撒泼。他们骂骂咧咧。他们牢骚满腹。这些坏人声嘶力竭的恶毒咒骂，就像对残酷无情的情人公开发泄兽性，他们把国王骂作婊子。我来到意大利边境的苏撒克监狱时--我已经辗转领教了十来个监狱，每个监狱只呆了几夜--被关进了一间大牢房，里面关押了不下20人。我与拉戴·佩里斯一见如故。这是一个克罗地亚人，因偷盗被判了2年监禁。我有一件大衣，他想沾点光，就让我睡在他身边的地铺上。他有褐色的皮肤，健美的形体。他穿着蓝色工装裤，洗得褪了色，当胸有一个大口袋，他喜欢把双手插进口袋里。我在苏撒克监狱只呆了两夜，但我已恋上了拉戴。
监狱外面没有高墙，但有一条壕沟与大路隔开，我们牢房的窗户就开向壕沟。开始是警察后来是海关人员把我押送到边境，让我进入意大利国界，我在冰天雪地里翻山越岭，连夜赶到的里雅斯特。我在法国领事馆的门厅里偷了件外套，立刻出手卖掉了。我用这笔钱买了10米长的绳子，一把钢锯，沿着皮耶迪卡公路回到了南斯拉夫。我乘一辆车子返回苏撒克监狱，已是夜深人静时刻。我从路上打了声口哨。拉戴立即出现在窗口上，我很容易就把整套工具递给了他。第二天夜里，我又去了，但他拒绝冒险越狱，其实这次行动易如反掌。我一直等到黎明，最终未能说服他。没办法，我打着寒战，再次登上山路，我很伤心，这个彪形大汉宁可稳蹲监狱，也不肯跟我到处冒险。我翻过了意大利边境，回到的里雅斯特，接着去了威尼斯，尔后去了巴勒莫，在那里又被抓进了监狱。回忆使我突然想起了一件有趣的细节。我进入巴勒莫监狱的牢房时，已经关在里面的罪犯问我：
“王妃玉体安康吧？”
“我也不知道。”我回答说。
早上院子里放风，有人又提出同样的问题。原来说的是国王的儿媳妇皮埃蒙太子妃的健康，但我对此的确一无所知。后来我才弄明白了，太子妃怀孕了，凡王室生孩子必有大赦，如何赦免则必须由孩子的性别来定。意大利监狱的房客们竟然和宫廷的权贵们操着同样的心。
人家把我押送到奥地利边境释放了，我在维拉茨附近翻越边界。拉戴幸好没同我一起逃跑。但他的音容笑貌，无时无刻不在陪伴我浪迹中欧各国。他不仅和我一起走路，陪伴我睡觉，就是在我当机立断时，我也要无愧于我在他心目中树立的勇敢形象。又一个倾国倾城、体貌具佳的美男子给了我显示勇气的机会。
我反复列举事实，纵横交错，山重水复--但我并不知道事情的来龙去脉，也不知道它们在时空中受到什么限制--尽管对事实进行了推陈出新的说明，但我至今未能找到开启事实的钥匙，也未能通过事实找到开启我自己的钥匙。一张巴罗克式的古怪图案提示了我，我得重提某些往事，也算是弥补一下疏漏，以对它们--我生命表层轨迹最原始的脉络--绚丽多彩的情结表示重视。如果说法兰西是艺术家或艺术家式的激情长河，有种种承上启下的艺术细胞神经元，而我说到底只不过是一串兴奋的浪花，我至今说不出最初的发端。犹如要用一根带钩的长蒿把一个溺水者从水荡里救出来，我为我的童年肉体感到痛苦，真的可以用鱼叉来寻找尸体吗？我在原野中跋涉，在麦浪中，在冷杉棺木下，发现了一些溺水者，我对死者举行了非现实的葬礼。难道我可以说，这就是过去？或者说，这就是未来？一切已成定局，直到我死了，在一块是非的大浮冰上，我为历历往事浑身战栗：一个狂欢之夜，有一个彪形大汉自告奋勇要做我的老公（我发现他的欲望就是我的哆嗦）；在茫茫夜色中，从一个沙丘看到阿拉伯游击队正向法国将军们投降；我的手背搁到一个大兵的裤裆开口上，战士则用讥讽的眼光看着我的手；在比亚里茨两栋房屋之间我突然看见大海；我从听告罪神功的神甫那里蹑手蹑脚逃脱，惊慌失措，并非害怕被再抓回去，却担心成了自由的猎物；在外籍军团，我骑在一个金发大兵的大屁股上，他沿着墙根把我驮出20米远；我似乎不是英俊的足球运动员，也不是运动员的脚，也不是他脚上的球鞋，而是圆滚滚的足球。我摇身一变成了开场“第一球”，开球以后我又不是球了，产生了飞脚踢球的意念；在大牢房里，素昧平生的小偷们竟然亲切地叫我的大名；光脚穿着凉鞋，在茫茫雪地上星夜跋涉，翻越奥地利边境，但我仍然毫不泄气，只是独自思忖，应该用这痛苦的经历丰富我人生的壮丽，切不可把这段光阴和余生变成一堆堆废渣。我要化痛苦为神奇，以精神威力一飞冲天。在波尔多码头上，一些黑人给我送吃的；一位著名诗人让我的双手抚摸他的前额；一个德国士兵被杀死在俄罗斯雪地里，他的兄弟写信告诉了我这件事；在布列斯特军团，一个图卢兹青年帮助我把军官和士官的宿舍洗劫一空，后来这青年死在监狱里；我得提到一个人--顺便说一下，在监狱中，在谈情说爱的放风时间里，一天晚上，听着为开赴苦役营的船队送行的歌曲，我爱上了一个戴白手套的高手--他早已死了，也就是说盖棺定论了。我此生别无他求，只希望为我最初的苦难伸张：我的人生应是一部传奇，可歌可泣，而且常读常新，会产生新的激情，我把这种新的激情称之为诗。我早已一无是处，只不过是一种寄托而已。
史蒂利达诺缓慢地运动着身体，像晒太阳一样享受爱情。他辗转反侧，接受阳光的全方位沐浴。我在安特卫普与他重逢时，他已是脑满肠肥模样。不能说他是肥胖，只是丰厚多了，身上的棱角圆滑了。但从他的举手投足的行动上看，仍然保持着那股野性的灵活和神经质，虽有些缓慢，却更威风了。那天天灰云暗，在安特卫普埃斯科河岸边一条最肮脏的街道上，他的后背活像斑马，有西班牙百叶窗明暗相间的条纹。与他同行的女人穿着一袭黑缎紧身衣，真是天生的雌雄配对。他看到我大吃一惊，似乎喜出望外。
“让诺！你在安特卫普？”
“你好呀？”
我握了握他的手。他给我介绍了西尔维娅。在欣喜重逢的寒暄中，我却对他陌生起来。突然他吐出了一句悄悄话，刚一张口，就满口白沫，我一直弄不明白那黏糊糊的口液是什么成分构成的，而且未曾枯竭，但我从他的白齿白痰中，找回了原来的史蒂利达诺。我也没有客气，劈头就说：
“你保持了老样子。”
史蒂利达诺一听就明白了。他顿时脸红了一下，笑了。
"You see it?"
“还用说吗。你对此骄傲得不得了。”
西尔维娅不解地问道：
“你们说什么呀？”
“宝贝，人家聊聊天。你甭操心。”
心有灵犀一点就通，我与史蒂利达诺重温旧梦。他原来所有的魅力，又在我身上春风化雨：强壮的肩膀，灵活的屁股，在丛林中可能被另一只野兽砍断了手，以及那具久违了的阳物，殊不知它一夜险象环生，深藏不露，臭气熏人。我任他摆布。我对他的用心一无所知，但我肯定，他是下九流的头目，码头、酒吧间都是他的领地，他甚至君临整个城市。一旦臭味相投，必显出登峰造极的风度。史蒂利达诺一身打扮可谓精心挑选，无可挑剔：黄中透绿的鳄鱼皮鞋，一袭褐色西装，白绸衬衫，玫瑰色领带，五颜六色的围巾，碧绿的礼帽。服饰点缀一应齐全，该夹的夹，该扣的扣，该修饰的地方有金链显耀，史蒂利达诺好一派花花公子风度。在他面前，我寒酸依旧，无地自容，但他并没有因此显得尴尬。
“我来这里三天了。”我说。
“你还能应付吧？”
"as usual."
he laughed.
“你还记得吗？”
“你瞧这小子，”他对女伴说，“他与我是患难之交。是我的铁哥们。只要他愿意，随时可以上我们窝里来。”
他们把我带到港口附近的一家饭店吃了晚餐。史蒂利达诺告诉我他正在走私鸦片。他的老婆是一个妓女。一听到可卡因和鸦片一类字眼，我的想像力就关不住了。在我看来，史蒂利达诺已是无法无天的冒险家，大富翁了。他是一只在空中盘旋的猛禽。不过，鹰界鹞眼虽然有时极其凶狠，但他并不贪得无厌。相反，财富对他似乎是手中玩物。我很快就发现，他只不过是装装门面、摆摆阔气而已。他住在一家小客店里。我一眼就在壁炉上看到一大摞彩色儿童画刊。只是画报语言变了，从西班牙文变成了法文，但幼稚浪漫的格调依旧。主人公英俊，勇猛，精力过人，几乎一丝不挂。每天早上，西尔维娅带回新的画报，史蒂利达诺就躺在床上看个没够。可想而知，这两年他是读花里胡哨的儿童故事过来的。然而，离开了儿童世界，他的肉体--也许还有思想--却日见成熟。他从海员那里买来鸦片，然后转手卖出去，也要看管他老婆。他的财富全穿在身上：服装，首饰和钱包。他要我在他手下干活。有那么几天，我揣着几小袋毒品到顾客那儿去兜售，他们个个既焦急又阴险。
同在西班牙一样，史蒂利达诺很快与安特卫普的流氓混在一起。在酒吧间，有人请他喝酒，他常同妓女和男妓打情卖俏。他身上有一股新的魅力，加上发财又发福，也许还有旧情难忘的因素，很是让我着迷，叫我不能不爱他。我跟着他到处转悠。我妒忌他的狐朋狗友，也嫉妒西尔维娅，他的模样有时使我很难受。特别是快到中午的时候，我发现他春风得意，浑身散发着香水味，但眼圈却无精打采快发黑了。我们经常到堤岸上闲逛。我们不时提起往事。他特别喜欢炫耀他的丰功伟绩，因为他喜欢吹牛。不过，我从来没有想责备他诡计多端，对他的卑劣行径和出卖行为只字未提。相反，我倒暗自佩服他竟能对过去的劣迹心安理得。
“你一直喜欢男人吗？”
“当然啦。为什么提这个问题？使你难受了？”
他笑了笑，既和蔼又狡黠地回答道：
“说我？你疯了。正相反。”
“为什么正相反？”
他犹豫片刻，故意拖延回答。
"Ok?"
“你说正相反。就是说你喜欢男人。”
"I?"
"That's right."
“不，但有几次我琢磨这是怎么回事。”
“这对你很刺激。”
“瞧你想得出来。我是说这玩意儿……”
他不好意思地笑了。
“西尔维娅呢？”
“西尔维娅嘛，她挣钱糊我的口。”
“如此而已？”
“如此而已。这就够了。”
史蒂利达诺故意煽起我对他的疯狂希望，以便更好地对我施加威力，使我沦为他的奴仆。我深陷感情悲哀的泥潭而无法自拔。史蒂利达诺一旦发起脾气来，我会有什么好果吃？于是我索性把话挑明了：
“你晓得，我总有男人作伴，我还想同你做爱。”
他不敢看我，只是笑了笑，回答说：
"tell you later."
他沉吟片刻，又说：
“你喜欢干什么？”
“同你在一起。没别的。”
“再说吧。”
他无动于衷。他对我没有任何动作表示，尽管我对他一往情深，想全身心地投入他的怀抱；尽管我想扭捏腰肢，千方百计打动他的春心；尽管我想委身于他，对他体贴发嗲。安特卫普城真讨厌。港口的气味和喧闹搅得我心慌意乱。我们遇见几个佛拉芒族码头工人，可有残疾的史蒂利达诺却比他们更强硬，他一向谨慎入微，在他的口袋里说不定揣有几粒毒品。这既抬高了他的身价，也成了谴责他的把柄。
我抵达安特卫普之前，曾路经希特勒德国，并在那里混了几个月。我从波兰的布雷斯劳步行到柏林。我想下手行窃。但有一股奇怪的力量阻止了我。德国使整个欧洲陷入恐怖之中。德国成了惨无人道的象征，我耳闻目睹进一步证实了这点。这是一个无法无天的国度。即使站在菩提树下，我也有在强盗营里走动的感受。我相信，一贯谨小慎微的柏林市民头脑里，早已窝藏着伪善、仇恨、邪恶、残酷和贪婪的珍宝。人们对德国民族谈虎色变，我却能在其中自由自在，着实让我兴奋不已。我当然主张行窃不分国度，在德国同在其他国家一样下手。但我在德国却感到特别别扭，因为无论从盗窃活动的动机和后果看，本来偷窃是一种特殊的道德态度，但在德国却成了公民的道德标准，整个民族熟视无睹，并以此加害他人。
“这是一个全民皆偷的民族，”我深有体会，感叹不已。“即使我在这儿行窃，根本算不上走旁门左道，也无法让我大显身手：我不过遵从常规秩序罢了。我不破坏现行秩序。我不造成危害。我对别人毫无影响。轰动效应是不可能的。偷了也白偷。”
我似乎觉得，主管法律的天神们并未暴跳如雷，他们只是感到奇怪。我因作案无人过问而感到羞耻。我不如投奔他国，在那里，通常的道德规范具有神圣的地位，人们按照道德规范生活。在柏林，我选择卖淫为生。我胡闹了几天，很快又玩腻了。安特卫普令我眼花缭乱，有神奇的珠宝，佛拉芒博物馆，犹太钻石珠宝商，迟迟夜归的船老大，来往如梭的大西洋旅客。我为我的爱而怦然心动，我渴望与史蒂利达诺一起过出生入死的冒险生活。而他似乎喜欢玩弄游戏，一味向我炫耀他的勇气。有一次，他独手驾驶着一辆警用摩托车回到客店。
“我刚从一个警察那里摸来的。”他笑嘻嘻地对我说，迟迟不肯下车。他明明知道，骑车兜风会令我发狂，他离开车座，假装检查发动机，然后带上我又开走了。
“我们马上脱手。”他对我说。
“你真傻。还能用来干它几下子……”
迎风飞车好不痛快，我好像卷入惊心动魄的大追杀中。一小时后，摩托车卖给了一个希腊船员，他立即把车装上了船。车虽卖掉了，但我有幸目睹了史蒂利达诺真正主演的一举成功的一幕：卖车，讨价还价，成交结账。整个过程堪称抢劫案后又一精心炮制的杰作①。
①皮埃尔·菲埃弗尔是国民别动队某队员之子，21岁，步其父后尘，正在做见习警察。他最近告诉我说，他当警察的目的就是要骑摩托车，我不胜感动。我仿佛又看见史蒂利达诺的大屁股往那辆偷来的摩托车皮坐垫上使劲一压的情景。--原注
史蒂利达诺并不比我强多少，谈不上是一个真正成熟的男子汉。尽管他表演强人歹徒惟妙惟肖，但不过是装腔作势，拿大旗做虎皮罢了，我还没有见识过流氓不装孩子气的。他路经一家珠宝行或一家银行，一下子就郑重其事、煞有介事地构思抢劫或盗窃的细枝末节。干吗那么“一本正经”？要想建立一种以友情为重，互相帮助，配合默契的伙伴关系，而不是建立在合作者的利益基础上，这对他岂不是痴人说梦，无本生意，太罗曼蒂克了？史蒂利达诺在表演。他喜欢无法无天，明知山有虎，偏向虎山行。以身试法，身临绝境，不失为一种美学追求。他企图模仿一位理想的英雄，史蒂利达诺的形象便早已享誉天下了。正因为如此，他顺应制服流氓的法则，并加以具体化。没有这些规定，他可能什么也不是。开始，我被他的孤家寡人气势，他的冷静沉稳的性格，他的从容不迫的行动蒙蔽了眼睛。我以为他是我行我素，自成一格，一味厚颜无耻，胆大妄为而已。哦，他是在寻找一种典型。莫非就是儿童画报上那位所向无敌、百战百胜的主人公？但不管怎么说，史蒂利达诺的浮云美梦与他发达的肌肉和对离奇情节的追求简直是机缘巧合，天衣无缝。小人书的主人公无疑已经铭刻在史蒂利达诺的心中。我仍然敬重他，因为尽管他现在表面上彬彬有礼，行为规范，但在他灵魂深处，他的身心正忍受着束缚，拒绝自己老婆的温柔体贴。