It's the story of an idea and how it got tossed in the brains of a bunch of smart people. As to whether there is any truth behind this idea, that's none of the storyteller's business.The reader must make his own judgment.There is one man who has not the slightest doubt about it, and he will be the hero of this story. Maybe we don't know anything about the idea yet.It spread first through the mouths of the few, then in magazines and best-selling publications.It became a fashionable topic for a while.You must have heard of it at the time, although you may have forgotten it.The public's attention is always shifting.The idea is still flashing through people's minds now and then, neither quite dead nor very active, without connection or influence.It's a bizarre and almost unbelievable idea, but not impossible.It is possible for this to happen.

This idea was born in the brain of Mr. Joseph Davies.Davis was a man of letters, sensitive, intelligent, and well educated.This idea came about when he was in a state of numbness, which is the easiest way for strange thoughts to enter the brain and settle down. Speaking of which, the idea was born one morning in August in the astronomy club. However, before we describe what effect this idea had on Mr. Joseph Davies, who sat in the club smoking room after lunch, it may be best to tell the reader a little about him. Let's start at the beginning.He was born on the vernal equinox at the turn of this century and the last.From the moment he came into this world he showed vigor and precociousness, and his "smartness" had brought joy to mothers and nannies.According to the way we humans behave, he landed in this world. As soon as he opened his eyes, he stared at everything around him, grabbed things and put them in his mouth, and began to imitate, make sounds, and distinguish sounds. In this way, we Images of this strange world in which he lived gradually formed in his mind.

The nanny sang and sang stories to him, the mother sang and sang stories to him, the governess came on time for his lessons, then another governess and another school, and many people, many pictures, little books with monosyllabic words, and then normal Polysyllabic books, big priests with wonderful voices, little boys with husky voices, and all kinds of people kept telling him these and other things.So, gradually, the appearance of the world, his understanding of himself, what he will do, what he should do, and what he is expected to do, become more and more clear in his brain. Only slowly, however, did he realize that there was something in that picture of the world in his head that might not exist in other people's heads.On the whole, the world they showed him seemed real, exact, just there, that's all.They told him that there are purely good things in this world, terrible bad things, and barbaric and vulgar things you can't think of at all; there are good people in this world, bad people, and great people; there are people you like, envy, and obey There are people; there are people you don’t like; there are rich people who will sue you if you offend them, and people who drive you if you are not careful; there are poor people who only ask for a small reward for doing things for you; Clearly, clearly.You are careful and live happily in this world, so you are naturally carefree.

Only, a feeling had crept in his head—so imperceptible that it was impossible to ask questions about it—as if the very sure world was eluding and blurring at one point or another. , covertly, as if hiding something completely different behind it.It's never transparent.Usually for nine days out of ten the world was intact, but then there was a moment, a phase, a bewildering period, when the world was like a painted screen hiding something—what was it hiding? They told him of the God from the Levant, the God of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob who created the whole universe, stars and atoms, in six days from beginning to end, and made the world Fabulous, perfect, and set all things in motion, and after some necessary processes called the Fall and the Flood, further adjusted the arrangements, to the utmost happiness and safety on earth, and to the eternal blessing of our Joseph, This is something Joseph is very happy to accept.Next, they showed him the most convincing portraits of Adam, Eve, Cain, and Abel, let him play with Noah's Ark, and told him abbreviated Bible stories about Samuel, about Solomon and David, and their great teachings to us, and the promises of salvation that spread from the nations and islands of the Levant to the whole world, he believed, because he had not compared them then.Anything could be true, except the difference in color he felt as he was led into the great green meadow.He's been trained to be a little Anglo who simply believes in everything.

At the same time, however, he found a book at home that contained many pictures of animals that were quite different from those that entered and exited the Garden of Eden and boarded Noah's Ark.There are also portraits of sad-faced men who appear to have lived there long before Adam and Eve were created.It seems that everything existed before Adam and Eve were created, but when he began to be curious about this world without written records and asked questions, his tutor gave him a slap in the head and put this A disturbing book is hidden.They were nothing more than "biblical pre-flood animals," she said, and Noah didn't bother to save them.And when he said that many of these animals could swim, she told him not to be Mr. Cloverkins.

He did his best not to be Mr. Clay Forkins, and did his best to love the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and be afraid of him, grateful for the wisdom and beauty of creation, as it was first Throwing him into the fires of hell before he was born, and then sending God to save him by putting him through a lot of pain that he didn't think was necessary.Why would God do this?What needs him to do this?In fact, all he had to do was talk.He created the whole world just by moving his mouth. Joseph did his best to adjust his feelings to fit the established view of the world.Since most of the events that the Bible says are now obsolete, since his mother, governess, pastor, schoolteacher, all those who have authority in his eyes have convinced him that with a little faith and obedience all will be well All right, all right.After that, as far as he was concerned, he did live comfortably for a few years.He didn't bother with the question.He put it behind him--until he was a teenager, and the magic winds of the years sent the strange wind of inquiry to blow open the jumbled lockers of his brain once again.

He went to St. Hobart's School, and then to Cambone, Oxford.There are many unjustified criticisms of British public schools, but it cannot be disputed that they do give some kind of education to some children.In those days there was often lively discussion at St. Hobart's, it was not a school of games and exams, where the anti-materialism of the late ninth century was very strong.Both principals and teachers face up to the fact that there is a question, and children should learn about it. The science teacher was one of the minority on the staff, and he went to St. Hobart from a technical school; the spirit of the public school overwhelmed him.St. Hobart did not neglect the sciences, but it had a slight disdain for the faculty.All the kids here are given some science education so that they can understand what science is.

Because of his intellectual prowess, Davis specialized in classical science; however, he was extremely poor at public school science.Burned his fingers with flasks, or broke several glass containers during breaks in chemistry class; biology, he thought, was the worst.He likes rabbits outdoors, but caged ones make him uncomfortable, physically uncomfortable.For this he was ridiculed a lot.As he sets out to find answers with questions, he realizes that his early doubts about the Bible story and the plan of salvation and all were rash.As a statement of fact, it may not have a sense of truth in the general sense, but that is due to the defects of the language and the special low intelligence and moral concepts of the people in the eastern Mediterranean countries at the time of the rise of religion.To explain symbols, allegories, and imprecise but instructive stories, a great place of pilgrimage had to be created.Guys like David and Jacob aren't fit for performance purposes, but that's best ignored.

The story of creation is symbolic, it has nothing to do with the fact that life on earth is inconsistent, the fall is symbolic of something mysterious and unexplainable, why in history when the event of the fall has disappeared into thin air There is a remedy, which no theorist would dream of discussing.Such things as faith and preaching bewildered Joseph Davies quickly, and instead of convincing him, faith and preaching kept him busy and confused. It is strange, however, that another set of views on a completely different level always emerges as a whole revision of the original interpretation of the Bible, the church, and the preaching.It told him that it didn't matter what mythology the existing system of Western civilization was based on, but the fact that it was based on that foundation and the grand ceremony of commemoration, though logically meaningless, and a On top of this moral code, which may be the final arbiter, constitutes the web of threads of contemporary social life, without which social life cannot proceed.So all freethinkers and rationalists are either insensitive or supercilious.Reasonable people don't express opinions, they don't deny them.They think and live on another level.You can no more recreate religion, social mores, or political traditions than you can remake a human skeleton.

All this made Joseph Davis dare not speak nonsense.The argument over Eden and Jonah is over.He can only face up to history and society.Christianity and churches, dictatorships and political institutions, social hierarchies, all seemed to stare at him in a blur. "It's no good questioning us", they seem to say, "we're here, we're functioning (they seem to be functioning)".What other facts? While studying at Oxford, he occasionally talked or thought, and seemed to think a lot and believed that he did.The problem of dualism that has been puzzling since childhood does not seem to be resolved at all.The view that the world is this is no longer the main object of his criticism, but it leads him to create another view that the world might be this.This seemingly logical world may be fundamentally contradictory, but it is structurally consistent.It not only accommodates vast lies, but also makes people worry about it constantly.That's the way it is.

This thing went on for so long.For a while he wobbled a bit.On the one hand, there are brightly colored stories about life in the present, stories at the window, stories at the mother's lap, about an accepted world where people can be guided in life, where there is stable government, Reasonable social order, institutions that can overcome any challenge, good deeds praised, right from wrong, knowing what is right and wrong, knowing what is right and wrong; whispers, and vague threats to tell a veiled story.There was no place for him, and nothing offered to him, in that world that critiqued real life in the shadows.There is no specific shape, only doubts.The brightly colored stories seemed the safest, the clearest, and the most suitable for his mature imagination; so he tried his best to tell himself that the little dissent and discordant thoughts were best left in his brain to wait for maturity. During our three or four years at university, we all have to make important decisions; we choose our own paths, and the chances of turning back later are slim.Mr. Joseph Davies has a quick mind and a fluent writing style. He has already started writing, and he has written very well before coming to Oxford.In short, he chose to write.His father had left him a handsome fortune, and he wasn't under pressure to work for the front line.He decided to write about the brave and confident aspects of life.He wants to make himself famous.So he began writing inspiring books, relentlessly mocking dissent and doubt. “What I write,” he said, “should be flag-flying and horn-contesting. Not fault-finding, not subversive.” Sociology is going out.So he committed himself to it.He began with the successful and courageous historical stories, and went on to write the glorious and magnificent historical fragments recorded in history. "King Richard and Saladin" was his first book, followed by "The Singing Sailor", then "The Hammer and Sword Dance", and later, he told the happy adventures of Alexander, Caesar and Genghis Khan around the deeds of people , and Elizabethan pirates and explorers and stuff like that.However, because he was a natural writer and had a peculiarly sensitive nature, the more he wrote, the more he read, the more he knew, and the more he thought—and this was the worst—the more. He shouldn't be thinking.When he chooses a position, he should stop thinking like a rational person. In addition, some people have been very critical of him, and for a complete winner, he cares too much about criticism. He began to hesitate about what he was going to do.Perhaps he was in the first delicate slump of youthful "growth," a stage that can occur at any age.The ease and confidence with which he writes is diminished, and distinct shadows appear on his heroic figures.He sometimes accepts very damaging events, but then apologizes for it.He found that this made some of his figures fuller, but it affected his straightforward style.He didn't tell anyone he had lost his inner flexibility, but secretly worried about it. He then courageously, but perhaps unwisely, decides to launch the most violent attack on the doubtful, on materialism and pessimism, in a form that deliberately romanticizes human history.It will be a history of the world that proves to man the actions of God, and at the same time proves to man himself how he has behaved.It will be a great parade - a demonstration of humanity. For some reason that he himself has never figured out, he does not start from the day of creation but from the Sana Plain, telling the early history through the mouth of the wise old man looking back at history.Start with the towers of Babel of Babylon that are all over the world. History, viewed with an impartial mind, often leaves room for analysis of complex entanglements, and does not show that everyone is winning, that what is right always prevails—and in the long run, it is true. "Human Traditions, Promises and Struggles" - one of several titles he was considering - meant, among other things, a struggle with evil facts.Sometimes the truth can be very stubborn and wicked. He was baffled by the fact of the Black Death.He wrote a chapter on the ennobling of disasters—today considered too hasty—three disasters in that order: Flood, Fire, and Plague.For this he had to read a lot of books about it.He finally found an entry point for writing, and was encouraged by Paul Kroff's book "The Hunter of Microorganisms", borrowing the author's materials, injecting religious beliefs, and then expanding his work to explain these strictly guarded black scourges How has been a stimulant for the human soul throughout history (thankfully no longer needed so desperately).However, he found that there are very few records of human heroism during the spread of the Black Death.All that is recorded is how horrific that period was, and how we humans behave, at best, are no better than the panic-stricken rats that ate poison.Anyway, that's what the history shows.Despite his painstaking efforts to find heroic deeds between the lines, although he added a touch of innovation to his research with poetic sensibilities—intuition, let us say.Although he knew it was a dangerous emotion.Too much intuition can detract from his academics, making him a talker that others in his profession are only happy to learn from. But suddenly his mind began to wander.He realized he was overworked and he couldn't get rid of it, which is the usual sign of overwork.Overwork brings with it a cascade of worries and insomnia.He lay in bed thinking about the Black Death and the deplorable deeds into which tortured humanity could descend.Those vivid descriptions from the old records played over and over in his mind.At first it was only the Black Death that tormented him, and then his faith in human magnificence began to crumble.A cracked handbell announced that an open carriage was passing through the streets of Black Death-infested London, and men were once again called out to carry the dead.It reminded him again of Napoleon's career and the piles of dead bodies in the war.Why write, he asked himself, "The Great March of Man" when Winwood Read had already written "The Martyrdom of Man"?He found himself criticizing his own earlier work, "The Young Conqueror" about the great Alexander. He had told that story with pride.Now on this dark morning it made him feel the opposite.Something in his head was conflicting with him, challenging him. "Your Alexander," it said, "your great Alexander, pupil of Aristotle, is, according to you, the wisest man in the world, but really, you know, he is only an ill-bred Prodigal. Why would you turn the facts upside down? Purely by accident—most historical stories are accidental. He found himself in a rotten, self-serving world where no grown-ups could keep him in check. He deserved his lesson, he was lucky to have a well-armed army at his disposal. He didn't make any effort, everything was easy. He told the fools to go where they went. When you write By the time he brought Greek civilization to Persia, Egypt and India, you're just putting credit on his books for what happened earlier. Why? Hellenic civilization had nothing to do with him. He used it. He picked it up , over the head of poor Darius. Smash it--as the dictators of today may well destroy your civilization--and no one dares to stand against them. Man picked it up. He wasted Macedonian cavalry and infantry phalanxes like our fools today are wasting aviation. No good; Accidents. Think of his massacres and pillages and the wretched lives of women and children, the lives of ordinary people in the world. Why do you write all this pompous stuff about Alexander? And about Caesar—about all the poor human heroes Why do you insist on doing this, Joseph? If you didn't know before, you do now. The newspapers should tell you. But why do you pretend that fate is unfolding? That's what led to the British way, cricket, And the Kingdom of Britain. What more is there to say? Why do you continue like this? The great men you sing about never existed. Human affairs are much more complicated and subtle than what you write about. Saints are sinners and philosophers are fools , Religion is bullshit. If there is gold, it's in quartz. Let's face it. Maybe something can be done about it." He got up and walked up and down the room. "But I thought that these questions would have disappeared a few years ago," he said. "If I thought so, how could I continue to write 'The Gala of Humanity'? I have been working on this book for nearly a year." He felt like an ancient hermit being blamed by a demon.But ancient hermits could at least pray, sign the sign of the cross on their chests, and drive away demons. Mr. Joseph Davies tried to do the same when he was alone.But when he was kneeling, it felt like he was acting.He didn't believe anyone would listen to what he had to say.He didn't believe anyone would believe anything these days--except priests, priests, popes.These people are used to kneeling and their minds are full of empty platitudes. He only prayed halfway, then stood up again.He cannot pray. But this strange feeling—could it be called spiritual duality? —this self-doubt, this struggle to make sure the choice is right, is not the only thing that disturbs Davis' tranquility.Other matters not directly related to his literary work also affected his extremely sensitive mind. As he walked down Regan Street from Picodilly Station to the club, unsatisfactory things, old and new, overlapped and entangled each other.Each stimulated him, troubled him, and entered his subconscious, and every time he tried to dismiss one, the other appeared immediately.The sky was gray and cloudy, and the weather didn't help him at all—in fact, it didn't do him any favors.It occurred to him naturally that he would be smarter if he had worn a coat instead of a thin Burberry today, and he felt the air was damp and stuffy. Chief among all these troubles was the fact that for the first time in his life he was going to be a father.Few men face this situation with great equanimity; it awakens all sorts of neglected and untapped areas of the brain.No psychoanalyst has yet investigated the undercurrent of imagination in the brain of a would-be father.No one tried to interview the father-to-be.Here we must focus our attention on Mr. Joseph Davis.He already had a strangely vague feeling for his wife, and Davis's confusion was compounded by anticipation that she was so quick to impose paternal responsibilities and anxieties on his already feverish mental activity. At this time, the subtle feeling of imagination appeared again.A lot of sharp tools called vocabulary accumulated in the brains of literati cut themselves from time to time.Two or three years ago, when he thought of his wife, the word "unbelievable" popped into his mind.And "out of this world".She was fifteen years his junior, a little girl when she got married, and yet he had to realize that she was unbelievable, very unbelievable. At first, he loved her simply, directly, earnestly, and she seemed to love him too.He didn't think much of her; he just loved her as a man loves a woman.Their early married life was naturally happy; she learned to type for him, and the two loved each other and were inseparable.Later, unconsciously and gradually, there was a change.His satisfaction with her was gone, and she seemed to be far away from him.More and more he felt that he was getting no response from her. Then came that memorable night when she said, "Unless I have a baby, I don't know if I'll care about that sort of thing." That sort of thing!Roses, tenderness, whispers, evenings, moonlight, nightingales, love poems—things of that kind!I see! "Your finances are fine," she said. Things seemed to be decided that way. There have been many disputes, but euphemistic language always affects precise expression.Then her goal was achieved.He made it clear to her that his initial reluctance was entirely due to her, but that now the two of them would be tied together in a boat through the experience.They will make life "richer".As soon as this suggestion was accepted, his imagination seemed to open and close like water at once.He buried "that sort of thing" deep under a flowerbed of emotion, and did his best to forget her strangely inhuman speech. However, after everything was arranged, his uneasiness still deepened, and she was further away from him. Everything seemed to be growing, but just as it was, another strange worry came over him.What if she had always had some or all of it, if he hadn't been able to discover it?During the first few months of their marriage, when his eyes were on hers and hers were on his, their eyes met, their hearts beat on the same beat, it was as if their hands touched.But now, her hand is like an illusion there, his hand can't touch it, and his gaze can never meet her deep gaze.Her dark eyes became inaccessible, and the word "unfathomable" immediately came to his mind.She looked him over carefully, but showed nothing.Husband and wife should become more relaxed and familiar the longer they live together, but she is becoming more and more strange. Most dissatisfied husbands, the baggage of comic literature, the wisdom of proverbs, all testify to the horror of a talkative wife, but that horror is nothing compared to a silent woman, a silent thinking woman .A swearing wife will go on and on about annoying things, but love goes back to love, while a silent woman says it all. Lately she seemed to be watching him.Her silence was filled with condemnation of his paranoid self-consciousness, for which he could not justify himself. When he married the young, dark, shy girl, he took her all under his protection.He would never have been afraid then—a strange word to apply to a wife, and we use it here in its weakest and gentlest sense.But then his anxiety and uneasiness toward his wife grew to such an extent that he almost had it. Of course from the very beginning he had noticed something subtly unusual about her, including her looks.But then he just thought that was what made her attractive.She was neither tall nor bulky, but broad-boned; her thick eyebrows and dark gray eyes were set wide apart; her full lips, curved down at the corners, had a solemn look that sometimes moved absent-mindedly.At first he thought it was all "remarkable", but later he preferred to think of it as "abnormal".Her anomalies far outweighed the tinge of exoticism of her Scottish blood. He had never liked her family, they were so strange that he hardly ever saw them at all.Her first appearance in his world is a romantic one.He had met her at a publisher's cocktail party, where she had been invited not for her accomplishments but for her ambition, when she told him that her family, who lived in the suburb of Hope Ridge, were against her studying and studying. The desire to write.She just called them "people."She had won a scholarship to Grath High School, and she went to college in spite of her family's objections, to London.She had written poetry, she told him, and hoped to publish a book. Still, London, she says, isn't quite what she imagined it to be.London surprised her, scared her, overwhelmed her.London is looking weirder and weirder.She still can't get used to it here.People always say the most unreliable things and do the most unreliable things. "I often feel," she said, "that I'm from another world. But, you know, it makes me feel at home on the island where I was born. Have you ever felt that way? People here seem so confident in the world and in themselves." It was these words of hers which made Mr. Joseph Davies think of directing this quiet, indecisive, lovely young man in his life.It was a surprise to meet such a bright young woman, so simple, so willing to be taught, and who had not yet begun to rush into life irrationally.It's not very fair to see a white girl as an elf.In his eyes, she is like a piece of white paper that can be painted with ink and color. He thought more and more about her, filled with the urge to dig a gold mine, and fell in love with her.He was completely in love. When he asked to read some of her poems, she said she didn't want others to read her poems, she just wanted to print them in a book and read them herself.Her poems are like Chinese poems translated by a missionary, mostly vivid freehand paintings.From a publishing point of view, looking at the critics of contemporary poets, and those critics who turn their hands into clouds and turn their hands into rain, he doesn't think these poems will be successful.However, her poems have a characteristic brevity, frankness and slightly melancholy taste. Knowing that she lived in Brucebury's halls of residence, he established a bond with her and was free to show her around.Perhaps, for a while, he just wanted to be her first lover, but she insisted that marriage was the only way she could get along with him. When marriage came up on the agenda, two scrawny fishermen in hats and muslins popped into London to "see him".The two family members she conjured up were the most amazing and unimaginable, except that they had the same dark complexion and dark gray eyes as her, they had nothing like her.Although they were also strong, they didn't have the grace and restraint that she displayed. "Take good care of her," they said to him, "for she's the apple of our eye. She's better than we are, we know that. We don't know why we listened to her and let her come to London, but it's irreparable. , you got her." "She's cute. Are you guys telling me that?" Davis said.The elder brother had a sullen expression on his face, and replied, "Yes. We are telling you." They stayed in London until the wedding, and treating them was a bit like using seaweed as livestock feed.They seemed to be constantly watching him, constantly exchanging opinions about him from Hebrey Kashima.They are full of unspeakable things. No matter what he said to them, their answer was always "Oh" - and only "Oh".Not a questioning "oh," but a vague answer. Responsible, dubious and apprehensive, they got very drunk at the registry office.Davis had last seen them on the Victoria platform, as he took her on a train ride to see the sights of Paris.They stood together solemnly and distrusting everything, neither gesticulating nor waving goodbye, but they all raised their big red hands, as if to say, "Here we are." When the guardrail finally covered them, he opened the car window and turned to meet her loving gaze as she said to him, "Now you're going to show me the real world, all those Cities, lakes, mountains, where we will feel at home." It's just that she never seems to feel at home. Since those two family members left, she never told him about her family, but only occasionally communicated with them by letter.She never seemed to care much about them.But she seemed closer to them by the fact that soon became clear, the fact that, unlike him, she was a skilled sailor who loved the stormy sea.Many a husband is dissatisfied with his relationship with his wife because they are too close together; he is dissatisfied with her because they are too far apart.Moreover, she also likes mountains, cliffs and steep places.And he doesn't.They spent a lot of money climbing the Matterhorn, and he ended up causing far more trouble for the guide than she did.At the top of the hill, she looked happy, but still not enough. Once when they were on vacation in Cornwall, they were basking in the sun on the beach after lunch, and her posture of sitting and contemplating suddenly reminded him of a portrait of An Ding that he had seen somewhere, sweet, independent, looking into the distance. at sea level, immersed in unimaginable thoughts.The hit also has several brothers.In a trance, he felt that Mary was like a figure in mythology, far away from the world, half-human and half-god.At this time, the word "extraordinary" jumped out of his vocabulary. The idea persisted for several months.At first he exaggerated the idea in his head, then he tried to suppress it, trying to get it out of his mind.Sometimes he comforted himself by saying that every man's wife is an An Ding, but he never convinced himself.Perhaps, he thought, it was because he had never been close to other women except his wife, and therefore did not understand their inseparable situation. There are many different interpretations of "otherworldly".He weaves all these explanations on her like weaving a web.This avoids the perception that she is simply simplistic and aesthetically unaware.In the beginning, "extraordinary" was a whimsical exaggeration, but later it became more and more the best explanation for her alienation from him.He struggled between conjecture and suspicion, walking on thin ice.She confidently maintained peace and contentment, but in the depths of her heart - there was something, whether she knew it or not, she would not say it. There was no malice in her estrangement from him.He should understand this.他在他许多已婚朋友中见过太多的互相妒忌，互相损害。越是艺术家就越不是好爱人。他懂得那种为自我的争斗，它使得爱情成为不现实的东西，成为一种幻想和庸俗的混合物。爱情不是个人意志的产物，它与个人的价值无关。对这个世界来说，它是异域的东西。 无论何时，每当戴维斯先生感到精神萎靡，他便会更加痛切地认识到妻子越来越明显地疏远。潮退得越低，认识就越深。有一天，他的这种认识尤其深刻……。 那天早上她说的话使得他又捡起在绝望中放弃的抗议。在潘太可尼音乐厅有一场罗德汉莫指挥的大型音乐会。他兴奋地准备前往，而她则不愿意去。 他责怪她道：“你以前是喜欢音乐的。” “可我已经听过音乐了，亲爱的。” “听过音乐了？亲爱的，你这样说真奇怪！” 她什么也没说，只是摇头。曾经，她那自信的微笑让他觉得十分可爱，让他想起蒙娜丽莎，以及所有此类油画。但现在它却带有不可战胜、不可接近的神色，让他十分生气。 “可是你只听过一次罗德汉莫指挥的音乐！” “我为什么还要再听一次罗德汉莫——是因为更好一些，还是不如以前？” “音乐是不会变的！” “音乐也有极限。”她说。 “极限？” “我觉得我已经将音乐都听完了。非常美妙，迷人，持久，所有我们听过的音乐都这样。我喜爱音乐就像喜爱其他东西一样。但如果有人拿音乐当饭吃——是不是有人这样？” “拿音乐当饭吃！你的意思是……？”他询问道。 “我的意思是，你不要总是听过以后还要再坐在那里听。我们不是职业音乐家。” 职业音乐家！每当她用一些词汇时，总是将它们用在可怕的情况之中。“我绝不会对音乐生厌。”他说。 “可是，这里演奏的音乐说出了什么没有——有没有什么新鲜的东西？” “音乐永远是新鲜的。” "yes?" 他做了个无可奈何的手势。“可你为什么变得对音乐不感兴趣呢？” “你为什么这样执迷？” “可是，难道你没有觉得听音乐有多美好？让人觉得得到一种升华？使人走进一个纯粹感情的世界？” “没有。一开始有过。一种心灵的升华，我同意。我一直喜欢韵律。听音乐是很愉快，对我来说，就像去画廊看画展一样……或者像读文选……或在博物馆里看收集的蝴蝶……一个时代到来了……” “那么，简而言之，你不去音乐会了？” “我不太有兴趣，但如果你希望，我就去。” “哦！别这样。”他说完便不再继续他们的谈话了。 但他在自己的头脑里又将这件事想了一遍，现在他还要再想一遍。他了解酷爱音乐的人和不爱音乐的人。但像玛丽那样对待音乐，先是兴趣盎然，然后又像放弃不重要的小说一样将音乐放下，则让他十分苦恼。可是她似乎就是这样对待生活中的任何一件事，甚至包括对待友谊和爱情。她总是先有一阵子兴趣，短暂的喜好，然后又转身而去。Why is this? 他朝着瑞根大街喊道：“你怎么可能像那样放弃音乐？你不可能放弃艺术啊。” 他因无法说而没有说出来的话是：“你怎么可能放弃爱情？” 孩子出生后，她也会放弃吗？ 或许她将一直爱那孩子。是否把我丢在身后？是否我这部分的工作做完了？ 这个没完没了的持续。这个价值的全然不稳定。 在这里我们必须注意戴维斯先生烦恼中的一个独特的成分，一个奇特而又细微的，对一个缺乏想像力的人来说不算什么的东西，但它却将贯穿他很快就要开始的全部思想。它确实非常细微，且如此非理性和荒唐以至于提到它对他几乎有些不公平。然而，在他产生那个奇怪想法的过程中，它无疑起着一点偏航的作用。因此它不应该被完全忽视。 自他上学起，他就暗暗地厌恶自己的教名。好恶作剧的高年级男孩早就说了，这名字有不好的意思。不论在旧约还是在新的里面，约瑟夫这个名字都没有每个青年男子希望得到的雄健威武，具有英雄气概的那层意思。他曾努力坚持要人们称他“乔”。然而，人们仍能意识到“乔”是从约瑟夫那里演化来的，因此他的更改仍是无效。 周围环境没有一点能解释他对婚姻的不安心情。没有一个神志清醒的人会怀疑他的玛丽有何异常——他自己也不，在他思想的深处。然而，如果他的名字不同，他会更高兴些。 Indeed it is. 在他朝天文俱乐部大门走去的路上，各种微弱的想法、半个念头、幻想、联想、梦吧，以及几乎完全没有象征意义的感受，都在他脑海中回旋。在这些杂乱无章的思考中，上述内容就是主要因素，它同时也造成那个奇怪想法的产生，这个奇怪的想法像一把匕首刺穿他的想像，在他的生活中引起一场革命。