TO ANAIS NIN
TO ANAIS NIN
Can I be as I believe myself or as others believe me to be? Here is where these lines become a confession in the presence of my unknown and unknowable me, unknown and unknowable for myself. Here is where 1 create the legend wherein I must bury myself.
献给阿那依斯·宁
献给阿那依斯•宁
我能是我相信自己所是或别人相信我所是的人吗?我在这里用这些话作为面对未知的和不可知的我所做的自白。这个我对我自己来说，也是未知的和不可知的。我在这里创造出我必须将自己埋葬于其中的传说。
——米盖尔•德•乌纳穆诺
The Fourteenth Ward
The Fourteenth Ward
What is not in the open street is false, derived, that is to say, literature.
I am a patriot-of the Fourteenth Ward, Brooklyn, where I was raised. The rest of the United States doesn’t exist for me, except as idea, or history, or literature. At ten years of age I was uprooted from my native soil and removed to a cemetery, a Lutheran cemetery, where the tombstones were always in order and the wreaths never faded.
But I was born in the street and raised in the street. “The post-mechanical open street where the most beautiful and hallucinating iron vegetation,” etc…. Born under the sign of Aries which gives a fiery, active, energetic and somewhat restless body. With Mars in the ninth house!
To be born in the street means to wander all your life, to be free. It means accident and incident, drama, movement. It means above all dream. A harmony of irrelevant facts which gives to your wandering a metaphysical certitude. In the street you learn what human beings really are; otherwise, or afterwards, you invent them. What is not in the open street is false, derived, that is to say, literature. Nothing of what is called “adventure” ever approaches the flavor of the street. It doesn’t matter whether you fly to the Pole, whether you sit on the floor of the ocean with a pad in your hand, whether you pull up nine cities one after the other, or whether, like Kurtz, you sail up the river and go mad. No matter how exciting, how intolerable the situation, there are always exits, always ameliorations, comforts, compensations, newspapers, religions. But once there was none of this. Once you were free, wild, murderous….
The boys you worshiped when you first came down into the street remain with you all your life. They are the only real heroes. Napoleon, Lenin, Capone-all fiction. Napoleon is nothing to me in comparison with Eddie Carney, who gave me my first black eye. No man I have ever met seems as princely, as regal, as noble, as Lester Reardon who, by the mere act of walking down the street, inspired fear and admiration. Jules Verne never led me to the places that Stanley Borowski had up his sleeve when it came dark. Robinson Crusoe lacked imagination in comparison with Johnny Paul. All these boys of the Fourteenth Ward have a flavor about them still. They were not invented or imagined: they were real. Their names ring out like gold coinsTom Fowler, Jim Buckley, Matt Owen, Rob Ramsay, Harry Martin, Johnny Dunne, to say nothing of Eddie Carney or the great Lester Reardon. Why, even now when I say Johnny Paul the names of the saints leave a bad taste in my mouth. Johnny Paul was the living Odyssey of the Fourteenth Ward; that he later became a truck driver is an irrelevant fact.
Before the great change no one seemed to notice that the streets were ugly or dirty. If the sewer mains were opened you held your nose. If you blew your nose you found snot in your handkerchief and not your nose. There was more of inward peace and contentment. There was the saloon, the race track, bicycles, fast women and trot horses. Life was still moving along leisurely. In the Fourteenth Ward, at least. Sunday mornings no one was dressed. If Mrs. Gorman came down in her wrapper with dirt in her eyes to bow to the priest-“Good morning, Father!” “Good morning, Mrs. Gorman!”-the street was purged of all sin. Pat McCarren carried his handkerchief in the tailflap of his frock coat; it was nice and handy there, like the shamrock in his buttonhole. The foam was on the lager and people stopped to chat with one another.
In my dreams I come back to the Fourteenth Ward as a paranoiac returns to his obsessions. When I think of those steel-gray battleships in the Navy Yard I see them lying there in some astrologic dimension in which I am the gunnersmith, the chemist, the dealer in high explosives, the undertaker, the coroner, the cuckold, the sadist, the lawyer and contender, the scholar, the restless one, the jolt-head, and the brazen-faced.
Where others remember of their youth a beautiful garden, a fond mother, a sojourn at the seashore, I remember, with a vividness as if it were etched in acid, the grim, soot-covered walls and chimneys of the tin factory opposite us and the bright, circular pieces of tin that were strewn in the street, some bright and gleaming, others rusted, dull, copperish, leaving a stain on the fingers; I remember the ironworks where the red furnace glowed and men walked toward the glowing pit with huge shovels in their hands, while outside were the shallow wooden forms like coffins with rods through them on which you scraped your shins or broke your neck. I remember the black hands of the ironmolders, the grit that had sunk so deep into the skin that nothing could remove it, not soap, nor elbow grease, nor money, nor love, nor death. Like a black mark on them! Walking into the furnace like devils with black hands-and later, with flowers over them, cool and rigid in their Sunday suits, not even the rain can wash away the grit. All these beautiful gorillas going up to God with swollen muscles and lumbago and black hands….
For me the whole world was embraced in the confines of the Fourteenth Ward. If anything happened outside it either didn’t happen or it was unimportant. If my father went outside that world to fish it was of no interest to me. I remember only his boozy breath when he came home in the evening and opening the big green basket spilled the squirming, goggle-eyed monsters on the floor. If a man went off to the war I remember only that he came back of a Sunday afternoon and standing in front of the minister’s house puked up his guts and then wiped it up with his vest. Such was Rob Ramsay, the minister’s son. I remember that everybody liked Rob Ramsay-he was the black sheep of the family. They liked him because he was a good-for-nothing and he made no bones about it. Sundays or Wednesdays made no difference to him: you could see him coming down the street under the drooping awnings with his coat over his arm and the sweat rolling down his face; his legs wobbly, with that long, steady roll of a sailor coming ashore after a long cruise; the tobacco juice dribbling from his lips, together with warm, silent curses and some loud and foul ones too. The utter indolence, the insouciance of the man, the obscenities, the sacrilege. Not a man of God, like his father. No, a man who inspired love! His frailties were human frailties and he wore them jauntily, tauntingly, flauntingly, like banderillas. He would come down the warm open street with the gas mains bursting and the air full of sun and shit and oaths and maybe his fly would be open and his suspenders undone, or maybe his vest bright with vomit. Sometimes he came charging down the street, like a bull skidding on all fours, and then the street cleared magically, as if the manholes had opened up and swallowed their offal. Crazy Willy Maine would be standing on the shed over the paint shop, with his pants down, jerking away for dear life. There they stood in the dry electrical crackle of the open street with the gas mains bursting. A tandem that broke the minister’s heart.
That was how he was then, Rob Ramsay. A man on a perpetual spree. He came back from the war with medals, and with fire in his guts. He puked up in front of his own door and he wiped up his puke with his own vest. He could clear the street quicker than a machine gun. Faugh a balla! That was his way. And a little later, in his warmheartedness, in that fine, careless way he had, he walked off the end of a pier and drowned himself.
I remember him so well and the house he lived in. Because it was on the doorstep of Rob Ramsay’s house that we used to congregate in the warm summer evenings and watch the goings-on over the saloon across the street. A coming and going all night long and nobody bothered to pull down the shades. Just a stone’s throw away from the little burlesque house called The Bum. All around The Bum were the saloons, and Saturday nights there was a long line outside, milling and pushing and squirming to get at the ticket window. Saturday nights, when the Girl in Blue was in her glory, some wild tar from the Navy Yard would be sure to jump out of his seat and grab off one of Millie de Leon’s garters. And a little later that night they’d be sure to come strolling down the street and turn in at the family entrance. And soon they’d be standing in the bedroom over the saloon, pulling off their tight pants and the women yanking off their corsets and scratching themselves like monkeys, while down below they were scuttling the suds and biting each other’s ears off, and such a wild, shrill laughter all bottled up inside there, like dynamite evaporating. All this from Rob Ramsay’s doorstep, the old man upstairs saying his prayers over a kerosene lamp, praying like an obscene nanny goat for an end to come, or when he got tired of praying coming down in his nightshirt, like an old leprechaun, and belaying us with a broomstick.
From Saturday afternoon on until Monday morning it was a period without end, one thing melting into another. Saturday morning already-how it happened God only knows-you could feel the war vessels lying at anchor in the big basin. Saturday mornings my heart was in my mouth. I could see the decks being scrubbed down and the guns polished and the weight of those big sea monsters resting on the dirty glass lake of the basin was a luxurious weight on me. I was already dreaming of running away, of going to far places. But I got only as far as the other side of the river, about as far north as Second Avenue and Twenty-eighth Street, via the Belt Line. There I played the Orange Blossom Waltz and in the entr’actes I washed my eyes at the iron sink. The piano stood in the rear of the saloon. The keys were very yellow and my feet wouldn’t reach to the pedals. I wore a velvet suit because velvet was the order of the day.
Everything that passed on the other side of the river was sheer lunacy: the sanded floor, the argand lamps, the mica pictures in which the snow never melted, the crazy Dutchmen with steins in their hands, the iron sink that had grown such a mossy coat of slime, the woman from Hamburg whose ass always hung over the back of the chair, the courtyard choked with sauerkraut…. Everything in three-quarter time that goes on forever. I walk between my parents, with one hand in my mother’s muff and the other in my father’s sleeve. My eyes are shut tight, tight as clams which draw back their lids only to weep.
All the changing tides and weather that passed over the river are in my blood. I can still feel the slipperiness of the big handrail which I leaned against in fog and rain, which sent through my cool forehead the shrill blasts of the ferryboat as she slid out of the slip. I can still see the mossy planks of the ferry slip buckling as the big round prow grazed her sides and the green, juicy water sloshed through the heaving, groaning planks of the slip. And overhead the sea gulls wheeling and diving, making a dirty noise with their dirty beaks, a hoarse, preying sound of inhuman feasting, of mouths fastened down on refuse, of scabby legs skimming the green-churned water.
One passes imperceptibly from one scene, one age, one life to another. Suddenly, walking down a street, be it real or be it a dream, one realizes for the first time that the years have flown, that all this has passed forever and will live on only in memory; and then the memory turns inward with a strange, clutching brilliance and one goes over these scenes and incidents perpetually, in dream and reverie, while walking a street, while lying with a woman, while reading a book, while talking to a stranger … suddenly, but always with terrific insistence and always with terrific accuracy, these memories intrude, rise up like ghosts and permeate every fiber of one’s being. Henceforward everything moves on shifting levels-our thoughts, our dreams, our actions, our whole life. A parallelogram in which we drop from one platform of our scaffold to another. Henceforward we walk split into myriad fragments, like an insect with a hundred feet, a centipede with soft-stirring feet that drinks in the atmosphere; we walk with sensitive filaments that drink avidly of past and future, and all things melt into music and sorrow; we walk against a united world, asserting our dividedness. All things, as we walk, splitting with us into a myriad iridescent fragments. The great fragmentation of maturity. The great change. In youth we were whole and the terror and pain of the world penetrated us through and through. There was no sharp separation between joy and sorrow: they fused into one, as our waking life fuses with dream and sleep. We rose one being in the morning and at night we went down into an ocean, drowned out completely, clutching the stars and the fever of the day.
And then comes a time when suddenly all seems to be reversed. We live in the mind, in ideas, in fragments. We no longer drink in the wild outer music of the streets-we remember only. Like a monomaniac we relive the drama of youth. Like a spider that picks up the thread over and over and spews it out according to some obsessive, logarithmic pattern. If we are stirred by a fat bust it is the fat bust of a whore who bent over on a rainy night and showed us for the first time the wonder of the great milky globes; if we are stirred by the reflections on a wet pavement it is because at the age of seven we were suddenly speared by a premonition of the life to come as we stared unthinkingly into that bright, liquid mirror of the street. If the sight of a swinging door intrigues us it is the memory of a summer’s evening when all the doors were swinging softly and where the light bent down to caress the shadow there were golden calves and lace and glittering parasols and through the chinks in the swinging door, like fine sand sifting through a bed of rubies, there drifted the music and the incense of gorgeous unknown bodies. Perhaps when that door parted to give us a choking glimpse of the world, perhaps then we had the first intimation of the great impact of sin, the first intimation that here over little round tables spinning in the light, our feet idly scraping the sawdust, our hands touching the cold stem of a glass, that here over these little round tables which later we are to look at with such yearning and reverence, that here, I say, we are to f eel in the years to come the first iron of love, the first stains of rust, the first black, clawing hands of the pit, the bright circular pieces of tin in the streets, the gaunt sootcolored chimneys, the bare elm tree that lashes out in the summer’s lightning and screams and shrieks as the rain beats down, while out of the hot earth the snails scoot away miraculously and all the air turns blue and sulphurous. Here over these tables, at the first call, the first touch of a hand, there is to come the bitter, gnawing pain that gripes at the bowels; the wine turns sour in our bellies and a pain rises from the soles of the feet and the round tabletops whirl with the anguish and the fever in our bones at the soft, burning touch of a hand. Here there is buried legend after legend of youth and melancholy, of savage nights and mysterious bosoms dancing on the wet mirror of the pavement, of women chuckling softly as they scratch themselves, of wild sailors’ shouts, of long queues standing in front of the lobby, of boats brushing each other in the fog and tugs snorting furiously against the rush of tide while up on the Brooklyn Bridge a man is standing in agony, waiting to jump, or waiting to write a poem, or waiting for the blood to leave his vessels because if he advances another foot the pain of his love will kill him.
The plasm of the dream is the pain of separation. The dream lives on after the body is buried. We walk the streets with a thousand legs and eyes, with furry antennae picking up the slightest clue and memory of the past. In the aimless to and fro we pause now and then, like long, sticky plants, and we swallow whole the live morsels of the past. We open up soft and yielding to drink in the night and the oceans of blood which drowned the sleep of our youth. We drink and drink with an insatiable thirst. We are never whole again, but living in fragments, and all our parts separated by thinnest membrane. Thus when the fleet maneuvers in the Pacific it is the whole saga of youth flashing before your eyes, the dream of the open street and the sound of gulls wheeling and diving with garbage in their beaks; or it’s the sound of the trumpet and flags flying and all the unknown parts of the earth sailing before your eyes without dates or meaning, wheeling like the tabletop in an iridescent sheen of power and glory. Day comes when you stand on the Brooklyn Bridge looking down into black funnels belching smoke and the gun barrels gleam and the buttons gleam and the water divides miraculously under the sharp, cutting prow, and like ice and lace, like a breaking and a smoking, the water churns green and blue with a cold incandescence, with the chill of champagne and burnt gills. And the prow cleaves the waters in an unending metaphor: the heavy body of the vessel moves on, with the prow ever dividing, and the weight of her is the unweighable weight of the world, the sinking down into unknown barometric pressures, into unknown geologic fissures and caverns where the waters roll melodiously and the stars turn over and die and hands reach up and grasp and clutch and never seize nor close but clutch and grasp while the stars die out one by one, myriads of them, myriads and myriads of worlds sinking down into cold incandescence, into fuliginous night of green and blue with broken ice and the burn of champagne and the hoarse cry of gulls, their beaks swollen with barnacles, their foul garbaged mouths stuffed forever under the silent keel of the ship.
One looks down from the Brooklyn Bridge on a spot of foam or a little lake of gasoline or a broken splinter or an empty scow; the world goes by upside down with pain and light devouring the innards, the sides of flesh bursting, the spears pressing in against the cartilage, the very armature of the body floating off into nothingness. Passes through you crazy words from the ancient world, signs and portents, the writing on the wall, the chinks of the saloon door, the cardplayers with their clay pipes, the gaunt tree against the tin factory, the black hands stained even in death. One walks the street at night with the bridge against the sky like a harp and the festered eyes of sleep burn into the shanties, deflower the walls; the stairs collapse in a smudge and the rats scamper across the ceiling; a voice is nailed against the door and long creepy things with furry antennae and thousand legs drop from the pipes like beads of sweat. Glad, murderous ghosts with the shriek of night-wind and the curses of warm-legged men; low, shallow coffins with rods through the body; grief-spit drooling down into the cold, waxen flesh, searing the dead eyes, the hard, chipped lids of dead clams. One walks around in a circular cage on shifting levels, stars and clouds under the escalator, and the walls of the cage revolve and there are no men and women without tails or claws, while over all things are written the letters of the alphabet in iron and permanganate. One walks round and round in a circular cage to the roll of drum-fire; the theater burns and the actors go on mouthing their lines; the bladder bursts, the teeth fall out, but the wailing of the clown is like the noise of dandruff falling. One walks around on moonless nights in the valley of craters, valley of dead fires and whitened skulls, of birds without wings. Round and round one walks, seeking the hub and nodality, but the fires are burned to ash and the sex of things is hidden in the finger of a glove.
And then one day, as if suddenly the flesh came undone and the blood beneath the flesh had coalesced with the air, suddenly the whole world roars again and the very skeleton of the body melts like wax. Such a day it may be when first you encounter Dostoevski. You remember the smell of the tablecloth on which the book rests; you look at the clock and it is only five minutes from eternity; you count the objects on the mantelpiece because the sound of numbers is a totally new sound in your mouth, because everything new and old, or touched and forgotten, is a fire and a mesmerism. Now every door of the cage is open and whichever way you walk is a straight line toward infinity, a straight, mad line over which the breakers roar and great rocs of marble and indigo swoop to lower their fevered eggs. Out of the waves beating phosphorescent step proud and prancing the enameled horses that marched with Alexander, their tight-proud bellies glowing with calcium, their nostrils dipped in laudanum. Now it is all snow and lice, with the great band of Orion slung around the ocean’s crotch.
It was exactly five minutes past seven, at the corner of Broadway and Kosciusko Street, when Dostoevski first flashed across my horizon. Two men and a woman were dressing a shop window. From the middle of the upper legs down the mannikins were all wire. Empty shoe boxes lay banked against the window like last year’s snow… .
That is how Dostoevski’s name came in. Unostentatiously. Like an old shoe box. The Jew who pronounced his name for me had thick lips; he could not say Vladivostok, for instance, nor Carpathians-but he could say Dostoevski divinely. Even now, when I say Dostoevski, I see again his big, blubbery lips and the thin thread of spittle stretching like a rubber band as he pronounced the word. Between his two front teeth there was a more than usual space; it was exactly in the middle of this cavity that the word Dostoevski quivered and stretched, a thin, iridescent film of sputum in which all the gold of twilight had collected-for the sun was just going down over Kosciusko Street and the traffic overhead was breaking into a spring thaw, a chewing and grinding noise as if the mannikins in their wire legs were chewing each other alive. A little later, when I came to the land of the Houyhnhnms, I heard the same chewing and grinding overhead and again the spittle in a man’s mouth quivered and stretched and shone iridescent in a dying sun. This time it is at the Dragon’s Gorge: a man standing over me with a rattan stick and banging away with a wild Arabian smile. Again, as if my brain were a uterus, the walls of the world gave way. The name Swift was like a clear, hard pissing against the tin-plate lid of the world. Overhead the green fire-eater, his delicate intestines wrapped in tar paulin; two enormous milk-white teeth champing down over a belt of black-greased cogs connecting with the shooting gallery and the Turkish Baths; the belt of cogs slipping over a frame of bleached bones. The green dragon of Swift moves over the cogs with an endless pissing sound, grinding down fine and foreshortened the human-sized midgets that are sucked in like macaroni. In and out of the esophagus, up and down and around the scapular bones and the mastoid delta, falling through the bottomless pit of the viscera, gurgitating and exgurgitating, the crotch spreading and slipping, the cogs moving on relentlessly, chewing alive all the fine, foreshortened macaroni hanging by the whiskers from the dragon’s red gulch. I look into the milk-white smile of the barker, that fanatical Arabian smile which came out of the Dreamland fire, and then I step quietly into the open belly of the dragon. Between the crazy slats of the skeleton that holds the revolving cogs the land of the Houyhnhnms spreads out before me; that hissing, pissing noise in my ears as if the language of men were made of seltzer water. Up and down over the greasy black belt, over the Turkish baths, through the house of the winds, over the sky-blue waters, between the clay pipes and the silver balls dancing on liquid jets: the infra-human world of fedoras and banjos, of bandannas and black cigars; butterscotch stretching from peg to Winnipeg, beer bottles bursting, spun-glass molasses and hot tamales, surf-roar and griddle sizzle, foam and eucalyptus, dirt, chalk, confetti, a woman’s white thigh, a broken oar; the razzle-dazzle of wooden slats, the meccano puzzle, the smile that never comes off, the wild Arabian smile with spits of fire, the red gulch and the green intestines….
0 world, strangled and collapsed, where are the strong white teeth? 0 world, sinking with the silver balls and the corks and the life-preservers, where are the rosy scalps? 0 glab and glairy, 0 glabrous world now chewed to a frazzle, under what dead moon do you lie cold and gleaming?
第十四区
第十四区
凡不在那条大街上的东西，便都是虚假的、派生的，也就是说，是文学。
我是一名爱国者——布鲁克林第十四区的爱国者，那是我长大的地方。美利坚合众国的其余部分对我来说是不存在的，除非是作为一种观念、作为历史、作为文学而存在。十岁的时候，我就从土生土长的家园被赶了出去，搬到了一个公墓那里，一个路德派教堂公墓，那里的墓碑总是整整齐齐，花环的鲜花从不凋零。
但是我生在那条街，长在那条街。“后机械化的阳关大道，那里有最美丽最令人想入非非的钢铁生活方式”……诞生于白羊宫[1]之下，它赋予了一个火一般活跃的身子，精力充沛，又有点儿躁动不安。还有火星在黄道第九宫哩！
生在那条街上，意味着你一生游荡，自由自在，也意味着意外与偶然、戏剧性及运动，更意味着梦想。一种不相关事实的协调一致，这赋予你的游荡一种形而上的确定性。在那条街上，你懂得了人类究竟是什么；而不在那条街上，或离开那条街之后，你就虚构他们。凡不在那条大街上的东西，便都是虚假的、派生的，也就是说，是文学。被称之为“冒险”的东西，没有一样接近过那条街的风格。无论你飞到北极去，还是手上戴着衬垫坐在海底，或者驱车去九个城市，一个接一个，或者像库尔茨那样，向河的上游航行，去发疯，这些都无关紧要。无论形势多么激动人心，多么难以忍受，总会有退路，总会有改善，有安慰，有补偿，有报纸，有宗教。但是一旦没了这一切，一旦你自由、疯狂、杀气腾腾……
你最初在这条街上所崇拜的男孩们，会留在你整整一生中。他们是唯一真正的英雄。拿破仑、列宁、卡彭[2]——全是虚构出来的。同第一次把我眼睛打青的埃迪•卡尼相比，拿破仑算得了什么！在我遇到的人中，似乎没有人像莱斯特•瑞尔顿那样高贵，那样有帝王风度，他只要一走到街上，就引起敬畏和赞美。儒勒•凡尔纳从来没有领我去过的地方，斯坦利•博罗夫斯基在天黑时让我拽着他的袖子领我去过。同约翰尼•保罗相比，鲁滨逊•克鲁索的想象力很贫乏。所有这些第十四区的男孩现在仍然形象鲜明。他们不是发明或想象出来的，他们是真实的。他们的名字就像金币一样掷地有声——汤姆•福勒、吉姆•巴克利、麦特•欧文、罗伯•拉姆塞、哈利•马丁、约翰尼•邓恩，更不用说埃迪•卡尼或了不起的莱斯特•瑞尔顿了。嘿，就是现在，我一说起约翰尼•保罗的名字，那些圣徒的名字就在我嘴里留下了臭烘烘的味道。约翰尼•保罗是第十四区活生生的奥德赛[3]，而他后来成为一个卡车司机，这不过是无关紧要的事实而已。
在发生大变化[4]以前，似乎没有人注意到那些街是丑陋还是肮脏。如果阴沟主排污道被打开，你就得捂着鼻子。如果你擤鼻子，你在手帕里看到的是鼻涕而不是鼻子。更多的是内在的宁静和满足。这儿有酒馆，有跑道，有自行车，有放荡女人，有遛蹄子的马，生活照样过得悠闲自在。至少在第十四区是这样。星期日早晨没有人梳洗打扮。如果戈尔曼太太穿着晨装，眼睛里带着眼屎，对神父鞠躬——“早上好，神父！”“早上好，戈尔曼太太！”——这也无妨，这条街已经清除了所有的罪孽。帕特•麦凯伦在他礼服大衣的后衣襟里带着他的手绢；它放在那里很不错，很实用，就像他纽扣洞里的三叶苜蓿花。啤酒冒着泡，人们停下来互相聊着天。
我在梦中回到了第十四区，就像一个偏执狂回到他的迷狂中。当我想起海军造船厂里那些蓝灰色的军舰时，我看见它们躺在那里，处在星相学的维度空间中。而我在这个空间中，则是军械工人、化学家、烈性炸药贩子、丧事承办人、验尸官、戴绿帽子的家伙、施虐狂、律师和争论者、学者、躁动不安者、蠢汉、厚颜无耻者。
别人想起他们的青年时代，就会想到一座美丽的花园、一位慈祥的母亲、一次海岸边的旅游，而我却生动地，就像用酸液蚀刻了一般清晰地记得，我家对面那家锡工厂面目可憎、被煤烟熏得黑不溜秋的墙和烟囱，以及散布在街上的亮晶晶、圆滚滚的锡块。其中有一些闪闪发光，另一些生了锈，色泽发暗，有点儿像铜的颜色，会在手指上留下锈斑；我记得火红的高炉发着灼光的钢铁厂，人们手中拿着大铲子走向火热的炉口，而在外面，浅浅的木制模型就像有竿子从中穿过的棺材，碰在上面，你会擦伤你的小腿，或是折断你的脖子。我记得那些满是铁锈迹的黑手，铁锈渣已深深地嵌入了皮肤里面，没有东西可以把它除去，无论是肥皂，还是拼命搓洗，还是金钱，还是爱情，甚至死亡，都无法将它除去。就像手上有一个黑色的标记！两手黑不溜秋，像鬼似的走进高炉——后来，又捧着鲜花，冷冰冰、一板一眼地穿着星期天的套装，可就是雨水也冲洗不掉那铁锈渣。所有这些漂亮的猩猩带着隆起的肌肉，带着腰部风湿痛，带着黑不溜秋的双手，去见上帝……
对我来说，整个世界都包括在第十四区的范围之内。区外发生的任何事情，不是没有发生过，就是无足轻重。如果我父亲到那个世界之外去钓鱼，我对此也毫无兴趣。我只记得他晚上回家时酒气熏天，他把大绿篮子打开，让那些眼珠凸出的怪物撒了一地，在地板上扭来扭去。如果有人去打仗，我只记得这人在一个星期天下午回来，站在牧师家门前，把肚子里的东西全吐出来，然后用背心把它擦干净。这就是罗伯•拉姆塞，牧师的儿子。我记得每个人都喜欢罗伯•拉姆塞——他是败家子。他们喜欢他，是因为他是个饭桶，他对此供认不讳。是星期天还是星期三，对他来说毫无区别：你会看到他来到街上的遮篷下，手臂上挂着他的上衣，汗流满面；他的腿摇摇晃晃，就像一个水手在海上长期航行之后，上了岸，腿还是长时间不断地颤颤巍巍；他嘴里滴下烟草色唾液，伴随着热烈而又不出声的诅咒，还有一些大声说出的脏话。一个懒惰透顶、满不在乎的人，淫秽不堪、亵渎神圣的事他都做得出来。不像他的父亲，是一个上帝的人。不，一个唤起爱的人！他的弱点是人性的弱点，他有了这些弱点还自得其乐，骂骂咧咧，得意扬扬，像一支斗牛用的短标枪。他会来到暖洋洋的大街上，街上的煤气总管道爆裂，空气中满是阳光、大粪味儿和骂人的话。也许他的裤裆松开着，背带掉了下来；也许他的背心上吐满了亮晶晶的东西。有时候他冲到街上，像一头公牛冲过来四脚着地地滑行，然后整条街道像着了魔似的，人全跑光了，好像检修孔一下子打开，把人渣全部吞下。疯维利•曼会站在涂料店上边的小棚子上，把裤子扒下，玩那玩意儿想好事哩！他们在那里，站在干巴巴的电一般的爆裂声中，大街上的煤气总管道爆裂了。这一连串事情使牧师的心都碎了。
这就是他那时候的模样，这个罗伯•拉姆塞。一个永远处于狂饮欢闹中的人。他佩戴着奖章从战争中回来，肚子里有一团火。他在自家门前呕吐，又用自己的背心把呕吐的东西擦去。他比一挺机关枪更快地让街上的人全部跑光。开路！这就是他的方式。一会儿之后，他带着一腔热血，以他通常那种出色的、无所谓的方式，从码头的一端走下去，溺死了自己。
我那么清楚地记得他，记得他住的那所房子。因为我们在热烘烘的夏夜经常集会的地方，正是在罗伯•拉姆塞家门前的台阶上，我们在那里注视着街对面酒馆那边的动静。整夜人来人往，没有人费心去把百叶窗拉下。在举步之遥的地方，是一个叫作“巴姆”的脱衣舞小酒吧。“巴姆”周围都是酒馆。星期六晚上，“巴姆”外面排着长队，人们你推我挤地拼命挤到卖票的窗口。星期六晚上，蓝衣女郎真是得意之极，这时就必然会有某个从海军造船厂来的疯狂水手从座位上跳起来，抓掉了米莉•德•莱昂的一个吊袜带。那天晚上，一会儿工夫之后，他们肯定会漫步走到街上，拐进住家的入口。不久他们就站在酒馆上边的卧室里，扒掉他们的紧身裤衩，女人们使劲扯下她们的紧身胸衣，像猴子似的抓来抓去。而楼底下，他们正拼命灌着啤酒，互相咬耳朵，发出这样一种尖声尖气的笑声，充塞在那酒馆里面，就好像冒着烟的烈性炸药。所有这一切都是从罗伯•拉姆塞家的门前台阶上看到的，这时他父亲正在楼上的煤油灯前做祷告，像一只可憎的雌山羊一般祈求有一个结束。在厌倦了祷告的时候，他就穿着睡衣下来，像一个老妖婆似的，用扫把伏击我们。
从星期六下午起，一直到星期一早上，这是一段没有尽头的时间，一件事情融入到另一件事情中。星期六早晨就已经——这是怎么发生的，只有天知道——让你感到军舰停泊在大水坞里。星期六早晨我的心就已经蹦到喉咙口了。我会看见甲板被擦洗得干干净净，大炮被擦得锃光瓦亮，停泊在水坞肮脏而平静的水面上的那些海上大怪物的重量，沉重地压在我身上。我已经在梦想逃走，梦想到遥远的地方去。但是我最远只去了河的那一边，坐环行地铁到过北面的第二大道和第二十八街路口。在那里我演奏了香橙花华尔兹舞曲，幕间休息时，我在铁洗涤槽那里洗了洗眼睛。钢琴放在酒吧的最里面，琴键的颜色已经发黄，我的脚够不着踏板。我穿了一套天鹅绒的西服，因为当时穿天鹅绒很时髦。
河那边所进行的一切都是纯粹的疯狂：沙子地面，阿尔干灯[5]，云母画——画中的雪从不融化，手上沾满污点的疯狂德国佬，长了厚厚一层黏质苔藓的铁洗涤槽，屁股总是凸出在椅背上方的汉堡女人，弥漫着令人窒息的酸菜味的院子……一切事物都永远以四分之三节拍的节奏进行着。我走在父母中间，一只手插在我母亲的皮手笼里，另一只手插在我父亲的袖子里。我的眼睛紧闭着，就像壳一张开就要渗出液体的蛤蜊一样。
河那边进行的一切变化无常的潮流与气候全渗透在我的血液中。我仍然可以感觉到我在雾中、雨中倚靠的大栏杆上的滑溜，把我的额头弄得凉冰冰的雾和雨送来了渡船尖厉的汽笛声，它正徐徐开出渡船码头。我仍然可以看见渡船码头上长满苔藓的木板，当大圆船头的侧面擦过时，木板拱起，而绿色的汁液般的水则拍打着上下起伏、吱嘎作响的木制码头。头顶上海鸥在盘旋俯冲，用它们脏兮兮的嘴发出脏兮兮的噪音，一种非人类的吃喝享乐声，嘶哑而凶猛，它们的嘴不遗余力地攻击垃圾，它们的脏腿掠过翻腾的绿色水面。
人们不知不觉地从一种背景、一种年纪、一种生活，转向另一种。当人们走到街上，无论这是真的，还是南柯一梦，突然之间，他们会第一次明白，岁月在飞逝，所有这一切已经永远成为过去，将只会继续活在记忆当中；然后，记忆就会以一种夺人心魄的奇异光辉向内发展，人们会永远重复这些背景和事件，在梦中，在沉思冥想中，在街上行走时，在同女人睡觉时，在读一本书时，在同一个陌生人谈话时……这些记忆突然之间，然而又总是十分顽固、十分精确地侵入进来，像鬼魂一样出现，并渗透到每一个人的每一个毛孔中去。从此以后，一切都在变幻莫测的层次进行——我们的思想，我们的梦幻，我们的行为，我们的全部生活。我们以一种平行四边形的方式，从我们脚手架的一个平台掉到另一个平台。从此以后，我们呈分裂状地走进无数片断中，就像一条百脚昆虫，一条蠢蠢欲动的蜈蚣，拼命吸取周围的空气；我们带着感应丝行走，这感应丝贪婪地吸取过去与未来，所有事物都融入了音乐和哀伤；我们向着一个联合的世界走去，坚持我们的分裂。当我们行走的时候，所有事物都同我们一起分裂成无数五颜六色的片断。成熟期的大分裂，大变化。在青年时代，世界的恐怖与痛苦里里外外渗透了我们。在欢乐与悲哀之间没有明显的区分：它们融合成为一体，就像我们平时清醒的生活同梦幻与睡眠融合在一起一样。我们作为一个人在早上爬起来，晚上又走进海洋里，被彻底淹没，抓住星星与一时的狂热。
然后，突然之间，似乎一切都翻转过来的时候来到了。我们生活在心理中、观念中、片断中。我们不再吸取外面街上的疯狂音乐——我们只记得。像一个发狂者那样，我们复活了青年时代的戏剧。有如一只蜘蛛，一而再，再而三地按照某种迷幻的、对数式的图案继续吐丝。如果我们对一个胖乎乎的胸部动了心，那么这就是一个婊子胖乎乎的胸部，她在一个雨夜里弯下身子，第一次让我们领略了两个圆滚滚的大奶球的奇迹；如果对湿漉漉的铺石路的沉思激发了我们，那么这是因为我们七岁的时候，当我们心不在焉地凝视那条街明亮清澈的影像时，关于未来生活的预感突然像长矛一般刺中了我们。如果看到一扇正关上的门，我们对此很感兴趣，那么这是因为想起一个夏天的夜晚，所有的门都轻轻关上，在光线屈尊拥抱影子的地方，有金牛犊、金饰带和闪闪发光的阳伞。从关上的门缝里，像从细纱网中渗漏过一层红宝石那样，飘来音乐和不知是什么美妙东西的香味。也许当那扇门打开一点儿让我们窥见一小眼世面时，也许，我们这才第一次多少知道一点儿罪恶的巨大冲击力；第一次多少了解到在这里，在光中旋转的小圆桌上面，我们的脚悠闲地蹭着锯末，我们的手摸着玻璃酒杯冰凉的高脚；这里，在这些小圆桌上面，我们将带着这样的向往和敬畏看这些桌子；在这里，我说，我们将在未来的岁月里，第一次感受到爱的意志，锈斑，从炉坑里爬出来的爪子似的黑手，街上亮晶晶的圆锡块，令人生畏的煤烟色烟囱，在夏天的闪电中猛烈地甩来甩去的秃榆树，大雨倾盆而下时人们发出的尖叫声，而蜗牛则从热烘烘的地里爬出来，奇迹般地逃之夭夭，整个天空变成蓝色、黄绿色。这里，在这些桌子上面，听到第一声召唤，第一次遇到手的触摸，就会有痛苦的肠绞痛。酒在我们的肚子里变酸，痛苦从脚底心升起，在一只手的柔软而炙热的触摸下，圆桌面同我们骨子里的痛苦和狂热一起旋转。这里，有着一个又一个被埋没的传说，关于青春与忧郁，关于野性的夜晚和在湿路面反光中舞动的神秘胸脯，关于正抓来抓去、轻声嬉笑的女人，关于狂野水手的叫喊，关于在门厅前排着的长队，关于在雾中互相擦边的小艇和呼哧呼哧拼命喷着气、迎着浪潮而去的拖船，而在布鲁克林桥上，有一个人正痛苦地站着，等着跳下去，或等着写一首诗，或等着血液离开他的血管，因为如果他再前进一步，爱的痛苦就会杀死他。
梦的原生质是分离的痛苦。在肉体被埋葬后梦继续活着。我们用一千条腿、一千只眼睛走在街上，用毛皮似的触须寻找关于过去的最微不足道的线索和记忆。在漫无目的的来来回回当中，我们不时停下来，就像一些长长的、黏糊糊的植物。我们囫囵吞下了活生生的过去。我们柔顺地开始在夜间，在淹没了我们青春睡眠的血海当中畅饮。我们以一种不知满足的干渴畅饮。我们不再完整，我们生活在片断中，我们的各个部分都被最薄的膜隔开。这样，当舰队在太平洋里演习时，从你眼前闪过的，是关于青年时代的整部传说，是那条大街上的梦幻，是嘴上叼着垃圾在空中盘旋俯冲、发出声响的海鸥；要不，这是喇叭的声音和旗帜飘扬的声音，地球上所有未知的部分都在你眼前飘然而过，没有日期，没有意义，像那桌面一样在权力与荣耀的五光十色当中旋转。白天来临时你站在布鲁克林桥上，往下看那军舰上冒着烟的黑色烟囱，炮筒闪闪发亮，纽扣闪闪发亮，水奇迹般地在尖利的舰头下分开，发绿发蓝的水带着一种冷冷的白炽，带着香槟酒和火辣辣嘴巴的寒气，翻滚着，像冰和饰带，像破裂与烟雾，舰头以一种无尽的隐喻乘风破浪：沉重的舰身前进着，舰头始终在划破波浪，它的重量就是无法过磅的世界的重量，下沉到未知的大气压中，下沉到未知的地质裂缝和洞穴中，那里的水流发出音乐旋律的隆隆声，星星翻转消失，手伸上去抓，从来没有抓着，也没有挨近，只是抓，而星星却一个接一个地熄灭，无数个星星，数不清的世界下沉到冷冷的白炽中，下沉到发绿发蓝的漆黑夜晚中，有碎冰，有香槟酒的灼伤，有海鸥嘶哑的叫声，它们的尖喙上因缠满了藤壶而显得肿大，它们脏兮兮的垃圾嘴在寂静的船龙骨底下永远塞得鼓鼓的。
人们从布鲁克林大桥上往下看一点儿泡沫，或一小摊汽油，或一块碎片，或一条空驳船；世界颠倒着经过，带着吞噬内脏的痛苦和光亮，肉体的两胁破裂，长矛扎向软骨，防身盔甲飘入虚无之中。从你身上经过的，有古代世界的疯狂语言、标记和预兆，墙上的文字，酒馆门上的裂缝，拿着陶土烟斗的玩牌人，衬托着锡工厂的那棵形容憔悴的树，带进棺材里的有锈斑的黑手。人们夜间走在街上，大桥衬着天空，像一架竖琴，溃烂的睡眼烧着了棚屋，糟蹋了墙壁；楼梯在浓烟中坍塌，耗子在天花板上奔逃；一个声音钉在门上，一些长长的爬行物有着毛茸茸的触须和一千条腿，从管子里掉下来，像汗珠一般。喜气洋洋、杀气腾腾的鬼魂，伴随着晚风的尖叫和下流男人的诅咒；有竿子从中穿过的低矮的、浅浅的棺材；倾吐悲哀的口水流到冰冷的、蜡一般的肉里，烧灼了死亡的眼睛，死蛤蜊被凿碎的硬壳。一个在变幻的层次上的圆形笼子，人们在其中来回走动，星星和云彩在自动扶梯下面，笼子的四壁旋转，有尾巴和爪子的男女，而在一切事物之上的是用钢铁和高锰酸盐写的字母。人们在圆形笼子里随着炮火猛烈的隆隆节奏，走了一圈又一圈；剧院着火，演员们继续说着他们的台词。膀胱胀破，牙齿脱落，但是小丑的恸哭就像头皮屑掉下的声音。人们在没有月光的夜晚，走在火山口形成的山谷中，死火和白骨堆的山谷，没有翅膀的飞鸟的山谷。人们走了一圈又一圈，寻找中心点，然而火已经烧成了灰，事物的性隐藏在手套里的手指中。
然后有一天，皮肉好像突然之间松开，肉下的血液和空气结合在一起，突然之间整个世界又咆哮起来，身体的骨骼像蜡一样熔化。这样的一天，也许就是你碰上陀思妥耶夫斯基的那一天。你记得那本书下面的桌布的味道；你看钟，这时候离永恒只有五分钟；你数壁炉架上的东西，因为数字的声音在你嘴里是一种全新的声音，因为新与旧、被触动与被忘却的一切都是一团火，是一种催眠。现在，笼子的每一扇门都敞开着，无论你走哪一条道，它都是一条通往无限的直线，一条疯狂的直线。在这条线上，激浪咆哮，大理石和靛青制成的大鸟猛扑下来，放下它们发热的蛋。从泛着磷光的波浪中，雄赳赳气昂昂地腾跃出随亚历山大大帝行军的搪瓷马，它们紧绷绷的健壮肚皮发出钙的灼光，它们的鼻孔浸在鸦片酊里。现在到处是雪和冰，猎户座的大饰带挂在海洋的胯部周围。
陀思妥耶夫斯基第一次从我的视野一闪而过的时候，正好是七点零五分，在百老汇大街和柯修斯科街的拐角上。两个男人和一个女人正在装饰一家商店的橱窗。那些人体模型从大腿中间往下全是铁丝。空鞋盒靠橱窗排成一行，像是去年的雪……
陀思妥耶夫斯基的名字就是这样闯了进来。毫不显眼地，像一只旧鞋盒。把他的名字告诉我的那个犹太人是个厚嘴唇；例如，他不会说符拉迪沃斯托克，也不会说喀尔巴阡山脉——但是他能神圣地说出陀思妥耶夫斯基。甚至现在，在我说陀思妥耶夫斯基的时候，我又看见他那肥厚的大嘴唇，在他发这个名字的音时，他喷出的唾液形成的一条细线就像拉长的一根橡皮筋。在他的两个门牙之间有一个大于通常情况的空隙；正是在这个空隙中间，陀思妥耶夫斯基这个词颤抖着、伸展着，一层五彩缤纷的唾液薄膜，在其中集中了黄昏时日光的全部金色——因为太阳正从柯修斯科街落下去，高架桥上的交通局面突然成了一种春天的解冻，一种嚼和磨的声音，就好像带铁丝腿的人体模型正在互相生吞活嚼。不久以后，在我来到慧骃国[6]的时候，我听到头顶上有同样的嚼和磨的声音，又有唾液在一个人的嘴里颤抖、伸展，在消失的阳光中五彩缤纷。这次是在龙之峡：一个男人拿着一根藤杖站在我的上方，脸上露出一种野蛮的阿拉伯人的微笑，啪啪啪地抽打着藤杖。好像我的大脑是一个子宫，世界的四壁再一次坍塌。斯威夫特的名字就像对着世界的锡板盖子拼命撒了一泡清脆响亮的尿。头顶上，那绿色的吞火魔王，他的美味肠子包裹在油布中；两颗巨大的乳白色牙齿大声咬在同打靶场和土耳其浴室相连接的抹了黑色油脂的嵌齿带上；嵌齿带滑过一个白色骨架。斯威夫特的绿龙带着一种无尽的撒尿声，从嵌齿上运动过去，将像通心粉一样被吸入的人类大小的侏儒碾细碾小。在食管的里外，在肩胛骨和乳突的上下左右，穿过无底的脏腑，汹涌澎湃，完全汹涌澎湃，胯部伸展滑动，嵌齿不断无情地运动，生吞活嚼所有挂在龙须上的细小通心粉。我观察那发出轰响的乳白色微笑，那种狂热的、来自梦乡之火的阿拉伯式微笑，然后我默默走进敞开的龙肚子里面。在骨骼上那些咬住旋转嵌齿的疯狂肋骨之间，慧骃国伸展在我的面前；我耳朵里那种咝咝的撒尿声，就好像人的语言是由矿泉水构成的。上上下下，在抹了油脂的黑带子那边，在土耳其浴室那边，穿过管乐演奏者之家，在天蓝色的水面上，在陶土烟斗和液体喷嘴上跳舞的银球之间：低于人类的浅顶软呢帽和班卓琴的世界，印花大手帕和黑雪茄的世界；从聚乙二醇[7]到温尼伯市场的黄油硬糖，爆破的啤酒瓶，玻璃丝糖浆和热玉米粉蒸肉，激浪咆哮和烘烤铁盘的咝咝声，泡沫和桉树，污垢，白垩，糖果，女人的雪白大腿，断桨；木制肋骨令人眼花缭乱地飞舞，麦卡诺拼图，永无休止的微笑，喷着火的野蛮阿拉伯人的微笑，血盆大口和绿色的肠子……
哦，窒息的、崩溃的世界，强健的白牙齿在哪里?哦，同银球、软木塞、救生圈一起下沉的世界，玫瑰色的头皮在哪里?哦，蛋，蛋白状的，哦，现在被嚼烂了的、光秃的世界，你冷冰冰、亮晶晶地躺在什么样的死亡之月下?
【注释】
[1]占星术中黄道十二宫的第一宫。——译者注，下同。
[2]艾尔•卡彭（1899——1947）：美国黑手党首领。
[3]原是荷马的两部史诗之一，在这里泛指冒险，或讲冒险故事。
[4]指犹太人大量迁入这一地区。
[5]瑞士人阿尔干发明的一种结构科学的油灯。
[6]英国18世纪作家斯威夫特的长篇小说《格列佛游记》中描写的一个幻想国度。
[7]一种食品添加剂。
Third or Fourth Day of Spring
Third or Fourth Day of Spring
To piss warm and drink cold, as Trimalchio says, because our mother the earth is in the middle, made round like an egg, and has all good things in herself, like a honeycomb.
The house wherein I passed the most important years of my life had only three rooms. One was the room in which my grandfather died. At the funeral my mother’s grief was so violent that she almost yanked my grandfather out of the coffin. He looked ridiculous, my dead grandfather, weeping with his daughter’s tears. As if he were weeping over his own funeral.
In another room my aunt gave birth to twins. When I heard twins, she being so thin and barren, I said to myself-why twins? why not triplets? why not quadruplets? why stop? So thin and scraggly she was, and the room so small-with green walls and a dirty iron sink in the corner. Yet it was the only room in the house which could produce twins-or triplets, or Jackasses.
The third room was an alcove where I contracted the measles, chicken pox, scarlet fever, diphtheria, et cetera: all the lovely diseases of childhood which make time stretch out in everlasting bliss and agony, especially when Providence has provided a window over the bed with bars and ogres to claw at them and sweat as thick as carbuncles, rapid as a river and sprouting, sprouting as if it were always spring and tropics, with thick tenderloin steaks for hands and feet heavier than lead or light as snow, feet and hands separated by oceans of time or incalculable latitudes of light, the little knob of the brain hidden away like a grain of sand and the toenails rotting blissfully under the ruins of Athens. In this room I heard nothing but inanities. With each fresh, lovely disease my parents became more addlepated. (“Just think, when you were a little baby I took you to the sink and I said baby you don’t want to drink from the bottle any more do you and you said No and I smashed the bottle in the sink.”) Into this room softly treading (“treading softly,” said General Smerdiakov) came Miss Sonowska, spinster of dubious age with a green-black dress. And with her came the smell of old cheese-her sex had turned rancid under the dress. But Miss Sonowska also brought with her the sack of Jerusalem and the nails that so pierced the hands of Jesus that the holes have never disappeared. After the Crusades the Black Death; after Columbus syphilis; after Miss Sonowska schizophrenia.
Schizophrenia! Nobody thinks any more how marvelous it is that the whole world is diseased. No point of reference, no frame of health. God might just as well be typhoid fever. No absolutes. Only light years of deferred progress. When I think of those centuries in which all Europe grappled with the Black Death I realize how radiant life can be if only we are bitten in the right place! The dance and fever in the midst of that corruption! Europe may never again dance so ecstatically. And syphilis! The advent of syphilis! There it was, like a morning star hanging over the rim of the world.
In 1927 I sat in the Bronx listening to a man reading from the diary of a drug addict. The man could scarcely read, he was laughing so hard. Two phenomena utterly disparate: a man lying in luminol, so taut that his feet stretch beyond the window, leaving the upper half of his body in ecstasy; the other man, who is the same man, sitting in the Bronx and laughing his guts out because he doesn’t understand.
Aye, the great sun of syphilis is setting. Low visibility: forecast for the Bronx, for America, for the whole modern world. Low visibility accompanied by great gales of laughter. No new stars on the horizon. Catastrophes … only catastrophes!
I am thinking of that age to come when God is born again, when men will fight and kill for God as now and for a long time to come men are going to fight for food. I am thinking of that age when work will be forgotten and books assume their true place in life, when perhaps there will be no more books, just one great big book-a Bible. For me the book is the man and my book is the man I am, the confused man, the negligent man, the reckless man, the lusty, obscene, boisterous, thoughtful, scrupulous, lying, diabolically truthful man that I am. I am thinking that in that age to come I shall not be overlooked. Then my history will become important and the scar which I leave upon the face of the world will have significance. I can not forget that I am making history, a history on the side which, like a chancre, will eat away the other meaningless history. I regard myself not as a book, a record, a document, but as a history of our time-a history of all time.
If I was unhappy in America, if I craved more room, more adventure, more freedom of expression, it was because I needed these things. I am grateful to America for having made me realize my needs. I served my sentence there. At present I have no needs. I am a man without a past and without a future. I am-that is all. I am not concerned with your likes and dislikes; it doesn’t matter to me whether you are convinced that what I say is so or not. It is all the same to me if you drop me here and now. I am not an atomizer from which you can squeeze a thin spray of hope. I see America spreading disaster. I see America as a black curse upon the world. I see a long night settling in and that mushroom which has poisoned the world withering at the roots.
And so it is with a premonition of the end-be it tomorrow or three hundred years hence-that I feverishly write this book. So it is too that my thoughts sputter out now and then, that I am obliged to rekindle the flame again and again, not with courage alone, but with desperation-for there is no one I can trust to say these things for me. My faltering and groping, my search for any and every means of expression, is a sort of divine stuttering. I am dazzled by the glorious collapse of the world!
Every evening, after dinner, I take the garbage down to the courtyard. Coming up I stand with empty pail at the staircase window gazing at the Sacre’ Coeur high up on the hill of Montmartre. Every evening, when I take the garbage down, I think of myself standing out on a high hill in resplendent whiteness. It is no sacred heart that inspires me, no Christ I am thinking of. Something better than a Christ, something bigger than a heart, something beyond God Almighty I think Of-MYSELF. I am a man. That seems to me sufficient.
I am a man of God and a man of the Devil. To each his due. Nothing eternal, nothing absolute. Before me always the image of the body, our triune god of penis and testicles. On the right, God the Father; on the left and hanging a little lower, God the Son; and between and above them the Holy Ghost. I can never forget that this holy trinity is man-made, that it will undergo infinite changes-but as long as we come out of wombs with arms and legs, as long as there are stars above us to drive us mad and grass under our feet to cushion the wonder in us, just so long will this body serve for all the tunes that we may whistle.
Today it is the third or fourth day of spring and I am sitting at the Place Clichy in full sunshine. Today, sitting here in the sun, I tell you it doesn’t matter a damn whether the world is going to the dogs or not; it doesn’t matter whether the world is right or wrong, good or bad. It is-and that suffices. The world is what it is and I am what I am. I say it not like a squatting Buddha with legs crossed, but out of a gay, hard wisdom, out of an inner security. This out there and this in me, all this, everything, the resultant of inexplicable forces. A chaos whose order is beyond comprehension. Beyond human comprehension.
As a human being walking around at twilight, at dawn, at strange hours, unearthly hours, the sense of being alone and unique fortifies me to such a degree that when I walk with the multitude and seem no longer to be a human being but a mere speck, a gob of spit, I begin to think of myself alone in space, a single being surrounded by the most magnificent empty streets, a human biped walking between the skyscrapers when all the inhabitants have fled and I am alone walking, singing, commanding the earth. I do not have to look in my vest pocket to find my soul; it is there all the time, bumping against my ribs, swelling, inflated with song. If I just left a gathering where it was agreed that all is dead, now as I walk the streets, alone and identical with God, I know that this is a lie. The evidence of death is before my eyes constantly; but this death of the world, a death constantly going on, does not move from the periphery in, to engulf me, this death is at my very feet, moving from me outward, my own death a step in advance of me always. The world is the mirror of myself dying, the world not dying any more than I die, I more alive a thousand years from now than this moment and this world in which I am now dying also more alive then than now though dead a thousand years. When each thing is lived through to the end there is no death and no regrets, neither is there a false springtime; each moment lived pushes open a greater, wider horizon from which there is no escape save living.
The dreamers dream from the neck up, their bodies securely strapped to the electric chair. To imagine a new world is to live it daily, each thought, each glance, each step, each gesture killing and recreating, death always a step in advance. To spit on the past is not enough. To proclaim the future is not enough. One must act as if the past were dead and the future unrealizable. One must act as if the next step were the last, which it is. Each step forward is the last, and with it a world dies, one’s self included. We are here of the earth never to end, the past never ceasing, the future never beginning, the present never ending. The never-never world which we hold in our hands and see and yet is not ourselves. We are that which is never concluded, never shaped to be recognized, all there is and yet not the whole, the parts so much greater than the whole that only God the mathematician can figure it out.
Laughter! counseled Rabelais. For all your ills laughter! Jesus but it’s hard to take his sane, gay wis dom after all the quack medicines we’ve poured down our throats. How can one laugh when the lining is worn off his stomach? How can one laugh after all the misery they’ve poisoned us with, the whey-faced, lantern-jawed, sad, suffering, solemn, serious, seraphic spirits? I understand the treachery that inspired them. I forgive them their genius. But it’s hard to free oneself from all the sorrow they’ve created.
When I think of all the fanatics who were crucified, and those who were not fanatics, but simple idiots, all slaughtered for the sake of ideas, I begin to draw a smile. Bottle up every avenue of escape, I say. Bring the lid down hard on the New Jerusalem! Let’s feel each other belly to belly, without hope! Washed and unwashed, murderer and evangelist, the whey-faced guys and the three-quarter moons, the weather vanes and the bullet-heads-let them only get closer together, let them stew for a few centuries in this cul-de-sac!
Either the world is too slack or I am not taut enough. If I became unintelligible I would be understood immediately. The difference between understanding and non-understanding is as fine as a hair, finer, the difference of a millimeter, a thread of space between China and Neptune. No matter how far out of whack I get, the ratio remains the same; it has nothing to do with clarity, precision, et cetera. (The et ceterais important!) The mind blunders because it is too precise an instrument; the threads break against the mahogany knots, against the cedar and ebony of alien matter. We talk about reality as if it were something commensurable, a piano exercise, or a lesson in physics. The Black Death came with the return of the Crusaders. Syphilis came with the return of Columbus. Reality will come too! Reality prime, says my friend Cronstadt. From a poem written on the ocean floor….
To prognosticate this reality is to be off either by a millimeter or by a million light years. The difference is a quantum formed by the intersection of streets. A quantum is a functional disorder created by trying to squeeze oneself into a frame of reference. A reference is a discharge from an old employer, that is to say, a mucopus from an old disease.
These are thoughts born of the street, genus epileptoid. You walk out with the guitar and the strings snap -because the idea is not embedded morphologically. To recall the dream one must keep the eyes closed and not budge. The slightest stir and the whole fabric falls apart. In the street I expose myself to the destructive, disintegrating elements that surround me. I let everything wreak its own havoc with me. I bend over to spy on the secret processes, to obey rather than to command.
There are huge blocks of my life which are gone forever. Huge blocks gone, scattered, wasted in talk, action, reminiscence, dream. There was never any time when I was living one life, the life of a husband, a lover, a friend. Wherever I was, whatever I was engaged in, I was leading multiple lives. Thus, whatever it is that I choose to regard as my story is lost, drowned, indissolubly fused with the lives, the drama, the stories of others.
I am a man of the old world, a seed that was transplanted by the wind, a seed which f ailed to blossom in the mushroom oasis of America. I belong on the heavy tree of the past. My allegiance, physical and spiritual, is with the men of Europe, those who were once Franks, Gauls, Vikings, Huns, Tatars, what not. The climate for my body and soul is here where there is quickness and corruption. I am proud not to belong to this century.
For those stargazers who are unable to follow the act of revelation I append herewith a few horoscopic brushstrokes in the margin of my Universe of Death….
I am Chancre, the crab, which moves sideways and backwards and forwards at will. I move in strange tropics and deal in high explosives, embalming fluid, jasper, myrrh, smaragd, fluted snot, and porcupines’ toes. Because of Uranus which crosses my longitudinal I am inordinately fond of cunt, hot chitterlings, and water bottles. Neptune dominates my ascendant. That means I am composed of a watery fluid, that I am volatile, quixotic, unreliable, independent, and evanescent. Also quarrelsome. With a hot pad under my ass I can play the braggart or the buffoon as good as any man, no matter what sign he be born under. This is a selfportrait which yields only the missing parts-an anchor, a dinner bell, the remains of a beard, the hind part of a cow. In short, I am an idle fellow who pisses his time away. I have absolutely nothing to show for my labors except my genius. But there comes a time, even in the life of an idle genius, when he has to go to the window and vomit up the excess baggage. If you are a genius you have to do that-if for no other reason than to build a little comprehensible world of your own which will not run down like an eight-day clock! And the more ballast you throw overboard the easier you rise above the esteem of your neighbors. Until you find yourself all alone in the stratosphere. Then you tie a stone around your neck and you jump feet first. That brings about the complete destruction of anagogic dream interpretation together with mercurial stomatitis brought about by inunctions. You have the dream for nighttime and the horse laugh for daytime.
And so, when I stand at the bar of Little Tom Thumb and see these men with three-quarter faces coming up through the trapdoors of hell with pulleys and braces, dragging locomotives and pianos and cuspidors, I say to myself: “Grand! Grand! All this bric-a-brac, all this machinery coming to me on a silver platter! It’s grand! It’s marvelous! It’s a poem created while I was asleep.”
What little I have learned about writing amounts to this: it is not what people think it is. It is an absolutely new thing each time with each individual. Valparaiso, for example. Valparaiso, when I say it, means something totally different from anything it ever meant before. It may mean an English cunt with all her front teeth gone and the bartender standing in the middle of the street searching for customers. It may mean an angel in a silk shirt running his lacy fingers over a black harp. It may mean an odalisque with a mosquito netting around her ass. It may mean any of these things, or none, but whatever it may mean you can be sure it will be something different, something new. Valparaiso is always five minutes before the end, a little this side of Peru, or maybe three inches nearer. It’s the accidental square inch that you do with fever because you’ve got a hot pad under your ass and the Holy Ghost in your bowels-orthopedic mistakes included. It means “to piss warm and drink cold,” as Trimalchio says, “because our mother the earth is in the middle, made round like an egg, and has all good things in herself, like a honeycomb.”
And now, ladies and gentlemen, with this little universal can opener which I hold in my hands I am about to open a can of sardines. With this little can opener which I hold in my hands it’s all the same-whether you want to open a box of sardines or a drugstore. It’s the third or fourth day of spring, as I’ve told you several times already, and even though it’s a poor, shabby, reminiscent spring, the thermometer is driving me crazy as a bedbug. You thought I was sitting at the Place Clichy all the time, drinking an aperitif perhaps. As a matter of fact I was sitting at the Place Clichy, but that was two or three years ago. And I did stand at the bar of Little Tom Thumb, but that was a long time ago and since then a crab has been gnawing at my vitals. All this began in the Metro (first-class) with the phrase -“l’homme que j’etais, je ne le suis plus.”
Walking past the railroad yards I was plagued by two fears-one, that if I lifted my eyes a little higher they would dart out of my head; two, that my bunghole was dropping out. A tension so strong that all ideation became instantly rhombohedral. Imagined the whole world declaring a holiday to think about static. On that day so many suicides that there would not be wagons enough to collect the dead. Passing the railroad yards at the Porte I catch the sickening stench from the cattle trains. It’s like this: all day today and all day yesterday -three or four years ago, of course-they have been standing there body to body in fear and sweat. Their bodies are saturated with doom. Passing them my mind is terribly lucid, my thoughts crystal clear. I’m in such a hurry to spill out my thoughts that I am running past them in the dark. I too am in great fear. I too am sweating and panting, thirsty, saturated with doom. I’m going by them like a letter through the post. Or not I, but certain ideas of which I am the harbinger. And these ideas are already labeled and docketed, already sealed, stamped and watermarked. They run in series, my ideas, like electric coils. To live beyond illusion or with it? that’s the question. Inside me a terrifying gem which will not wear away, a gem which scratches the windowpanes as I flee through the night. The cattle are lowing and bleating. They stand there in the warm stench of their own dung. I hear again now the music of the A Minor Quartet, the agonized flurries of the strings. There’s a madman inside me and he’s hacking away, hacking and hacking until he strikes the final discord. Pure annihilation, as distinguished from lesser, muddier annihilations. Nothing to be mopped up afterwards. A wheel of light rolling up to the precipiceand over into the bottomless pit. I, Beethoven, I created it! I, Beethoven, I destroy it!
From now on, ladies and gentlemen, you are entering Mexico. From now on everything will be wonderful and beautiful, marvelously beautiful, marvelously wonderful. Increasingly marvelously beautiful and wonderful. From now on no more washlines, no suspenders, no flannel underwear. Always summer and everything true to pattern. If it’s a horse it’s a horse for all time. If it’s apoplexy it’s apoplexy, and not St. Vitus’s Dance. No early morning whores, no gardenias. No dead cats in the gutter, no sweat and perspiration. If it be a lip it must be a lip that trembles eternally. For in Mexico, ladies and gentlemen, it’s always high noon and what glows is fuchsia and what’s dead is dead and no feather dusters. You lie on a cement bed and you sleep like an acetylene torch. When you strike it rich it’s a bonanza. When you don’t strike it rich it’s misery, worse than misery. No arpeggios, no grace notes, no cadenzas. Either you hold the clue or you don’t hold the clue. Either you start with pure melody or you start with listerine. But no Purgatory and no elixir. It’s Fourth Eclogue or Thirteenth Arrondissement!
春天的第三或第四天
春天的第三或第四天
撒热喝凉，如特里马尔奇奥[1]所说，因为我们的大地母亲在中间，弄得像个鸡蛋似的，圆圆的，她身上有所有的好东西，像一个蜜蜂窝。
我在其中度过我一生中最重要岁月的那所房子只有三个房间。一间是我祖父在其中去世的房间。在葬礼上，我母亲悲伤得如此惊天动地，以致她都差不多要把我祖父从棺材里猛拽出来。我祖父的样子十分可笑，淌着他儿媳的眼泪，就好像他在为自己的去世而哭泣。
在另一间房间里，我姑妈生下一对双胞胎。当我听说双胞胎的时候，看到她如此瘦弱无力，我就对自己说——为什么是双胞胎?为什么不是三胞胎呢?为什么不是四胞胎呢?为什么停下?她这样瘦小，这样蓬头垢面，房间这样小——绿色的墙壁，角落里有一个肮脏的铁洗涤槽，然而这是房子里唯一能够生下双胞胎——或三胞胎，或公驴的房间。
第三个房间是一个壁龛，在那里我得了麻疹、水痘、猩红热、白喉等等使时间在幸福和痛苦中无限伸展的儿童时代的可爱疾病，尤其是天意为我在床头上方安了一个带格栅的窗户，还有吃人妖魔的爪子抓住格栅，大汗淋漓，像红宝石一般滚下，有如河水般迅速奔腾，雨后春笋般飞快生长，吃着厚厚的嫩牛排，手脚却比铅还要重，或者像雪一样轻。手脚被时间的海洋或无数光的区域所隔开，脑袋像一粒沙子一样藏起来，脚指甲在雅典废墟下的极乐中腐烂。在这个房间里我听到的只有蠢话。我每一次得了一场这种新的可爱疾病，我父母就变得更加糊里糊涂。（“你就想一想，你小时候我把你领到洗涤槽跟前，我说，宝贝，你不要再从瓶子里喝水了，好吧?你说不，我就在洗涤槽里打碎了瓶子。”）轻手轻脚地（“轻手轻脚地”，斯麦尔加科夫将军说），说不清有多大年纪的老处女索诺夫斯卡小姐穿着一件墨绿色的连衣裙来到这个房间里。她带来了陈奶酪的味道——她的性欲在连衣裙底下变成了陈腐奶酪的味道，但是索诺夫斯卡小姐也随身带来了耶路撒冷之劫以及深深刺穿了耶稣的手以致留下永久窟窿的钉子。在十字军东征以后是黑死病，哥伦布以后是梅毒，索诺夫斯卡以后是精神分裂。
精神分裂！没有人再认为全世界都得了疾病有多么奇妙。没有参照点，没有健康状况。上帝也同样会得伤寒热。没有绝对的东西。只有迟缓进展的光年。当我想起全欧洲都在与黑死病搏斗的那些世纪时，我就明白了，只要我们被咬对了地方，生活就会多么辉煌！在那种腐朽当中的舞蹈与寒热！欧洲也许永远不会再跳舞跳得如此销魂。还有梅毒！梅毒的到来！它在那里，就像一颗晨星悬挂在世界的边缘。
1927年，我在布朗克斯坐着听一个人读一个毒瘾癖的日记。那人几乎读不出来，他笑得那么厉害。两个完全没有联系的现象：一个人吃了镇静剂躺着，神经如此紧张，把脚伸出了窗外，让他的上半身留在狂喜之中；而另一个人，他是同一个人，坐在布朗克斯，把肠子都快要笑出来了，就因为他不理解。
哎，梅毒的伟大太阳正在落下。低能见度：给布朗克斯，给美国，给整个现代世界的预报。由阵阵笑的狂风伴随的低能见度。地平线上没有新的星辰。大灾大难……只有大灾大难！
我在思考着那个上帝再生，人们将为上帝而战、而杀戮的时代，因为现在，而且在未来很长一段时间内，人们都在为食物而战。我在思考着那个工作将被忘却、书本在生活中拥有其真正地位的时代。也许那时候不再有别的书本，只有一本大书——一本《圣经》。对我来说，书即人，我的书就是我所是的这个人，我所是的这个困惑不解的人，这个粗心大意的人，这个草率鲁莽的人，这个精力旺盛、淫秽不堪、吵吵嚷嚷、富有思想、顾虑重重、满嘴谎言、极其真实的人。我在想，在那个未来时代，我将不会被忽视。那时候，我的历史将变得举足轻重，我留在世界面孔上的疤痕将有重要意义。我不会忘记，我正在制造历史，一种像下疳一样蚕食掉其他无意义历史的秘史。我不是将自己视为一本书、一篇记录、一份文件，而是视为我们时代的一部历史——一部所有时代的历史。
如果我在美国不幸福，如果我渴望更多的空间、更多的冒险、更多的表现上的自由，那么，这是因为我需要这些东西。我很感激美国让我明白了我的需要。我在那里服徒刑。现在我没有需要。我是一个没有过去、没有未来的人。我是——这就够了。我不关心你的好恶；你相信我说的话是真是假，对我来说都无所谓。如果你现在就在这里同我断绝关系，我也不在乎。我不是一个喷雾器，你可以挤一下，让它喷出一股细细的希望之雾。我看见美国在传播灾难。我把美国看作世界的邪恶祸根。我看见长夜来临，那个毒害了世界的蘑菇在根部枯萎。
所以，我是带着一种末日——无论是明天，还是三百年以后——的预兆，狂热地写这部书的，所以，由于我的思想不时突然停下，我也只得不仅勇敢地，而且绝望地一再重新点燃火焰——因为没有一个我可以信任的人来为我说这些事情。我的支支吾吾，我的探索，我对任何一种表达方法的探求，都是一种神圣的结巴。我被世界的辉煌崩溃搞得眼花缭乱！
每天晚上吃过饭后，我把垃圾拿到下面的院子里。上来的时候，我拿着空桶站在楼梯口的窗户那里看蒙马特尔高地上的圣心教堂。每天晚上，当我把垃圾拿下去的时候，我就想到自己以辉煌的白色高高耸立在高地上的样子。给我灵感的不是圣心，不是我正想到的基督，而是一种胜于一位基督、大于一颗心的东西，是一种超越了我想到的万能上帝的东西——我自己。我是一个人。这对我来说似乎已经足够了。
我是一个上帝的人，一个魔鬼的人。说哪一个都合适。没有永恒的东西，没有绝对的东西。我面前始终是肉体的形象，我们一个阴茎两颗睾丸的三位一体之神。右面是圣父，左面垂得较低一点的是圣子，在他们中间的上方是圣灵。我永远不会忘记，这神圣的三位一体是人为的，它将经历无限的变化——但是只要我们长着胳膊、腿从子宫里钻出来，只要我们头顶上有星辰驱使我们发疯，脚下有草坪缓和我们身上奇迹的冲击，这个肉体就将一直适合我们吹奏出的所有曲调。
今天是春天的第三或第四天，我在克利希广场坐着，沐浴在充足的阳光中。今天，在这儿坐在阳光里，我告诉你，我才不管他妈的世界毁不毁灭，不管世界是对是错、是好是坏呢！它是——这就足够了。世界就是它所是的样子，我就是我所是的样子。我不是像一个盘腿坐着的菩萨说这话的，而是出于快乐的、不容怀疑的智慧，出于一种内在的安全感。在那里的这个，在我这里的这个，所有这一切，一切，不可解释的力量的合力。一种其秩序超越了理解的混乱。超越了人的理解。
作为人类，在黄昏时，在黎明时，在陌生的时刻，在神鬼出现的时刻，那种独自一人和独一无二的感觉使我强大到如此地步，以至于当我同芸芸众生走在一起，似乎不再是一个人，而只是一个斑点、一口痰的时候，我就想起自己一个人在空间中，在最辉煌的空荡荡大街包围中的一个单一存在，一个走在摩天大楼之间的人类二足动物，这时候其他居民已经逃走，我一个人走着，唱着，支配着大地。我不必到我背心口袋里去寻找我的灵魂；它一直都在那里，撞击着我的肋骨，随着歌声而膨胀、充气。如果我只是离开一个集会，在集会上大家一致认为，一切都已死亡，那么，现在当我一个人以上帝身份在街上走过的时候，我知道这是一个谎言。死亡的迹象不断出现在我眼前；但是，这种世界的死亡，一种不断进行着的死亡，它不是从外向内吞噬我，这种死亡就在我的脚下，从我身上往外移动，我自己的死亡总是领先于我一步。世界是我自己死亡的镜子，世界不比我死得更彻底，我在一千年以后比现在这个时刻更有活力，我现在正在其中死去的这个世界那时候虽然已死了一千年，还是比现在更有活力。当每一件事情都被经历到最后的时候，就没有死亡，没有遗憾，也没有虚假的春天；经历的每一个时刻都打开了更广大、更宽阔的地平线，这地平线只有去经历，它是无法逃避的。
梦想者只是在脖子以上梦想，他们的身体被扎扎实实地捆在电椅上。想象一个新世界就是每天去经历它，每一个思想，每一道眼光，每迈出一步，每做一个杀戮与娱乐的姿势，死亡始终领先一步。唾弃过去是不够的。称颂未来是不够的。人们必须表现得好像过去已经死亡，而未来则不可理解。人们必须表现得好像下一步就是最后一步，实际上它也是最后一步。向前迈出的每一步都是最后一步，一个世界也随之死亡，包括人们的自我。我们在这里属于一个从来没有终结的世界，过去从来不停止，未来从来不开始，现在从来不终结。这个我们抓在手里看见的从来不、从来不的世界，然而它不是我们自己。我们是从来没有结束、从来没有形状可以被人认出的东西，都在那里，然而却不是全部，而是如此大大超出于全部的部分，这种全部只有上帝、数学家才能计算得出来。
笑！拉伯雷提出忠告。为你所有的罪恶而笑！在我们将所有那些假药倒进喉咙之后，就是耶稣也难以施展他那清醒、快乐的智慧。当衬里磨破掉下肚子时，一个人怎么还能笑呢?在他们，那些脸色苍白、下巴突出、悲伤、痛苦、庄严、严肃、天使般的鬼怪，给我们带来所有的痛苦之后，一个人怎么还能笑呢?我理解唆使着他们的那种背信弃义。我原谅他们的天分，但是一个人很难从他们制造的悲哀中解脱出来。
当我想起所有那些被钉死在十字架上的盲信者，想起那些不是盲信者而是纯粹的白痴，因为观念而被屠杀的人时，我开始强作笑脸。我说，封锁住每一条可能逃跑的道路，把盖子使劲盖在新耶路撒冷的上面！让我们一起跳舞，没有希望！洗过的和没洗过的，凶手和福音传教士，脸色苍白的家伙和四分之三的月亮，风向标和子弹头——让他们只是更紧密地聚合在一起，让他们在这种死胡同里焦急烦恼上好几个世纪吧！
要不就是世界太松弛，要不就是我绷得不够紧。如果我变得难以理解，我就会立即被理解。理解与不理解之间的差别只有头发丝那样细，甚至更细，一毫之差，中国与海王星之间的一线之差。无论我变得多么不正常，相差的比例却始终是一样的；这和清晰、精确等等无关。（等等很重要！）大脑会犯错误，因为它是一部过于精确的仪器；丝线碰在桃花心木的节子上，碰到雪松、乌木等硬东西，就会折断。我们谈论现实，就好像它是能用同一标准来衡量的东西，一首钢琴练习曲或一节物理课。黑死病随十字军的归来而至。梅毒随哥伦布的归来而至。现实也将来临！基本的现实，我的朋友克朗斯塔特说。引自一首写于海底的诗……
预言这个现实，要么只有一毫之差，要么就有一百万光年之差。这差别是街道的交叉所形成的量。一个量就是人们试图将自己挤进参照系所造成的功能紊乱。一个参照就是从旧雇主那里被解雇，也就是说，是一场旧的疾病分泌出的一种黏液。
这些是诞生于那条街上的思想，有癫痫症状的那一类。你弹着吉他走出去，琴弦绷断——因为观念在形态上没有被嵌入。要回忆梦境，人们必须闭上眼睛，一动不动。只要稍一动弹，整个结构分崩离析。在街上，我将自己暴露给我周围的毁灭性瓦解因素。我让一切都带我陷入它自己的大混乱中去。我弯下腰暗中监视这些秘密过程，服从而不是支配。
我的生活有很大很大的部分已经永远消失了。很大很大的部分消失、散布、浪费在谈话、行动、回忆、梦想中。从来没有任何时候我是在过一种生活，一个丈夫、一个恋人、一个朋友的生活。无论我在哪里，无论我做什么事情，我都在过着多种生活。因此，我选择来视为我的故事的东西，无论它是什么，它都湮灭，淹没了，不可分解地同其他人的生活、戏剧、故事融合在一起了。
我是一个旧世界的人，一颗被风移植的种子，一颗没有在美国这块蘑菇般迅速发展的绿洲中开花的种子。我属于过去的那棵大树。我在肉体上、精神上的忠贞，是在欧洲人这一边，那些曾经是法兰克人、高卢人、北欧海盗、匈奴人、鞑靼人等等的欧洲人。适合我身心的气候在这里，这里有活泼与腐朽。我不属于这个世纪，我为此感到骄傲。
对于那些不能胜任启示行为的占星家，我要在我的死亡宇宙的边缘附加上一些占星术用的笔画出的道道……
我是下疳，前后左右横行霸道的螃蟹。我在陌生的热带地区活动，经营烈性炸药、尸体防腐剂、碧玉、没药、祖母绿、清澈的鼻涕、豪猪的脚趾。因为天王星越过我的黄道，所以我过于喜欢窟窿眼儿、热猪肠及水瓶。海王星控制了我的星位。这意味着我是由清水般的液体构成的，我容易挥发，充满幻想，靠不住，有独立性，转瞬即逝，而且好争吵。屁股底下放一个热垫子，我可以扮演吹牛家或小丑，扮得像任何人一样好，无论他是在哪一宫下诞生的。这是一幅只画缺失部分的自画像——一只锚，一只开饭铃，一把胡子的残余，一头奶牛的臀部。一句话，我是一个消磨时间的游手好闲者。除了天赋以外，我绝对没有任何东西需要花大力气去显示，但是，即使在一个懒散天才的一生中，也会有这样的时候：不得不跑到窗口去，把多余的行李扔掉。如果你是一个天才，你就必须这样做——即使没有别的理由，而只是要建立一个你自己的可以理解的小小世界，它不会像一只走八天的钟，发条走完后就停下！你扔出去的东西越多，你就越受到邻居的敬仰。直到你发现自己一个人在最高层次。那时候，你就在脖子上绑一块石头，脚朝下跳下去。这会引起神秘解释的释梦同涂油膏所致的汞毒性口炎一起完全毁灭。你有晚间的梦，白天的狂笑。
所以，当我站在小拇指酒吧旁，看见这些人四分之三的脸从地狱的活板门里冒出来，用滑轮和支架拖拉火车头、钢琴、痰盂时，我就对自己说：“妙！妙！所有这些小玩意儿，所有这些放在银盘子上送到我跟前的机械！很妙！妙极了！这是我睡着时创作的一首诗。”
我关于写作学到的一点点东西就是这个：它不是人们认为它是的那个样子。它绝对因人因时而异。例如瓦尔帕莱索[2]。当我说瓦尔帕莱索的时候，它指的是某种同它以前所指的任何事物完全不同的东西。它可以指一个一颗门牙也没有的英国娘儿们和站在街中间招徕顾客的酒吧女招待；它可以指一个穿丝绸衬衫的天使，他那缠绕丝带的手指在一架黑色竖琴上飞舞；它可以指一个土耳其苏丹的宫女，有蚊帐围绕着她的屁股；它可以指这些事物中的任何一件，或者什么也不指；但是无论它指什么，你都可以肯定，它将是某种不同的东西，某种新的东西。瓦尔帕莱索始终是终结前的五分钟，在秘鲁的这边一点儿，或许还要近三英寸。它是你发着烧偶然走完的平方英寸，因为你屁股底下有一个热垫子，还有圣灵在你肠子里——包括矫形术的错误。它意味着“撒热喝凉”，如特里马尔奇奥所说，“因为我们的大地母亲在中间，弄得像个鸡蛋似的，圆圆的，她身上有所有的好东西，像一个蜜蜂窝”。
现在，女士们先生们，用我拿在手里的这把小小的万能开罐器，我正要打开一罐沙丁鱼。用我拿在手里的这把小小的开罐器，这完全一样——你要开一盒沙丁鱼，还是一家药店。这是春天的第三或第四天，我已经告诉你好几次了，尽管这是一个乏味、邋遢、令人缅怀往事的春天，温度计把我逼得像一只臭虫一样发疯。你以为我一直坐在克利希广场，也许是在喝着开胃酒。事实上，我是坐在克利希广场，但那是两三年以前。我确实站在小拇指酒吧旁，但那是很久以前，从那以后一只螃蟹一直在咬我的命根子。所有这一切都是在地铁（头等厢）里以这句话开始的：“我曾经是的那个人，我现在不再是他了。”
走过铁路调车场的时候，有两件可怕的事情把我烦得要命——其一，如果我把眼睛稍稍抬高一点儿，眼睛就会从我的脑袋上迸出去；其二，我的肛门正在掉出来。有一种紧张状态如此强烈，以致全部思维过程立即变成菱形六面体了。我考虑到静止，想象全世界都宣布度假。在那天，有那么多自杀的，以致都没有足够的车来拉尸体。从波特那里的铁路调车场走过，我闻到从牲口列车上传来令人作呕的恶臭。就像这样：今日全天，昨日全天——当然是三四年以前——它们一直身体紧挨，心惊胆战、满身大汗地站在那里。它们的身体满含着厄运。从它们身旁经过时，我的头脑十分清醒，我的思想水晶般清澈。我这样急于要吐出我的思想，以至于竟在黑暗中从它们身边跑了过去。我也十分害怕。我还大汗淋漓，气喘吁吁，嗓子冒烟，满含着厄运。我从它们身边经过，就像一封邮寄的信件。要不然不是我，而只是某些念头，我只是这些念头的通报者。这些念头已经贴上标签，做好记录，已经封好，盖上戳子，印上水印图案。它们——我的念头串联着闪过，像带电的线圈。是超越幻想生活呢，还是带着幻想生活?这是一个问题。在我内心，有一颗令人惊叹的宝石，它不会磨损，一颗我夜间逃走时用来划窗玻璃的宝石。牲口哞哞、咩咩地叫着。它们在那里，站在自己粪便的热烘烘恶臭中。我现在又听到A小调四重奏的音乐，听到琴弦一阵阵痛苦激动的拨弄声。我内心有一个疯子，他乱劈乱砍，直至他最终消除了混乱。完全消灭，同较少的、较模糊的消灭相区别。以后就没有什么东西可以肃清的了。一个光轮迅疾滚到悬崖跟前——从悬崖滚进无底深渊。我，贝多芬，我创造了它！我，贝多芬，我摧毁了它！
从现在起，女士们先生们，你们正在进入墨西哥。从现在起，一切都将奇妙而美好，惊人地美，惊人地妙。越来越惊人地美妙。从现在起，不再有晾衣绳，不再有背带，不再有法兰绒衬衣。总是夏天，一切都忠实于形式。如果是一匹马，那它就始终是一匹马。如果是中风，那它就是中风，而不是圣维特斯舞蹈症。没有凌晨时的妓女，没有栀子花。没有街沟里的死猫，没有汗。如果是一片嘴唇，那它就一定是一片永远颤抖的嘴唇。因为在墨西哥，女士们先生们，始终是正午，发光的是倒挂金钟，死去的就是死去的，而不是鸡毛掸子。你躺在水泥床上，像一支乙炔火炬一样睡觉。当你发现一样东西是丰富的，那它就是富源；当你发现它不是丰富的，那它就是痛苦，比痛苦更糟。没有琶音，没有装饰音，没有华彩段乐章。要么你抓住线索；要么你不抓住线索。要么你以纯粹的旋律开始，要么你以防腐溶液开始。但是没有炼狱，没有长生不老药。这是第四田园诗，或者第十三区！
【注释】
[1]古罗马作家佩特罗尼乌斯的小说《萨蒂利孔》中一位经常大宴宾客的暴发户。
[2]智利中西部港口城市。
A Saturday Afternoon
A Saturday Afternoon
This is better than reading Vergil.
It is a Saturday afternoon and this Saturday afternoon is distinct from all other Saturday afternoons, but in no wise like a Monday afternoon or a Thursday afternoon. On this day, as I ride toward the Neuilly Bridge past the little island of Robinson with its temple at the far end and in the temple the little statue like a cotyledon in the mouth of a bell, I have such a sense of being at home that it seems incredible that I was born in America. The stillness of the water, the fishing boats, the iron stakes that mark the channel, the low lying tugs with sluggish curves, the black scows and bright stanchions, the sky never changing, the river bending and twisting, the hills spreading out and ever girdling the valley, the perpetual change of panorama and yet the constancy of it, the variety and movement of life under the fixed sign of the tricolor, all this is the history of the Seine which is in my blood and will go down into the blood of those who come after me when they move along these shores of a Saturday afternoon.
As I cross the bridge at Boulogne, along the road that leads to Meudon, I turn round and roll down thehill into Sevres. Passing through a deserted street I see a little restaurant in a garden; the sun is beating through the leaves and spangling the tables. I dismount.
What is better than reading Vergil or memorizing Goethe (alles Vergangliche ist nur ein Gleichnis, etc.)?` Why, eating outdoors under an awning for eight francs at Issy-les-Moulineaux. Pourtant je suis a Sevres. No matter. I have been thinking lately of writing a journal d’un Fou which I imagine to have found at Issy-les- Moulineaux. And since that fou is largely myself I am not eating at Sevres, but at Issy-les-Moulineaux. And what does the fou say when the waitress comes with the big canette of beer? Don’t worry about errors when you’re writing. The biographers will explain all errors. I am thinking of my friend Carl who has spent the last four days getting started on a description of the woman he’s writing about. “I can’t do it! I can’t do it! ” he says. Very well, says the fou, let me do it for you. Begin! That’s the principal thing. Supposing her nose is not aquiline? Supposing it’s a celestial nose? What difference? When a portrait commences badly it’s because you’re not describing the woman you have in mind: you are thinking more about those who are going to look at the portrait than about the woman who is sitting for you. Take Van Norden-he’s another case. He has been trying for two months to get started with his novel. Each time I meet him he has a new opening for his book. It never gets beyond the opening. Yesterday he said: “You see what my problem’s like. It isn’t just a question of how to begin: the first line decides the cast of the whole book. Now here’s a start I made the other day: Dante wrote a poem about a place called H H-dash, because I don’t want any trouble with the censors.”
Think of a book opening with H-dash! A little private hell which mustn’t offend the censors! I notice that when Whitman starts a poem he writes: “I, Walt, in my 37th year and in perfect health! … I am afoot with my vision…. I dote on myself…. Walt Whitman, a kosmos, of Manhattan the son, turbulent, fleshy, sensual, eating, drinking and breeding… . Unscrew the locks from the doors! Unscrew the doors themselves from their jambs…. Here or henceforward it is all the same to me…. I exist as I am, that is enough….”
With Walt it is always Saturday afternoon. If the woman be hard to describe he admits it and stops at the third line. Next Saturday, the weather permitting, he may add a missing tooth, or an ankle. Everything can wait, can bide its time. “1 accept Time absolutely.” Whereas my friend Carl, who has the vitality of a bedbug, is pissing in his pants because four days have elapsed and he has only a negative in his hand. “I don’t see any reason,” says he, “why I should ever die-barring an untoward accident.” And then he rubs his hands and closets himself in his room to live out his immortality. He lives on like a bedbug hidden in the wallpaper.
The hot sun is beating through the awning. I am delirious because I am dying so fast. Every second counts. I do not hear the second that has just ticked off -I am clinging like a madman to this second which has not yet announced itself…. What is better than reading Vergil? This! This expanding moment which has not defined itself in ticks or beats, this eternal moment which destroys all values, degrees, differences. This gushing upward and outward from a hidden source. No truths to utter, no wisdom that can be imparted. A gush and a babble, a speaking to all men at once, everywhere, and in all languages. Now is the thinnest veil between madness and sanity. Now is everything so simple that it mocks one. From this peak of drunkenness one rolls down into the plateau of good health where one reads Vergil and Dante and Montaigne and all the others who spoke only of the moment, the expanding moment that is heard forever… . Talking to all men at once. A gush and a babble. This is the moment when I raise the glass to my lips, observing as I do so the fly that has settled on my pinkie; and the fly is as important to this moment as my hand or the glass it holds or the beer that is in the glass or the thoughts that are born of the beer and die with the beer. This is the moment when I know that a sign reading “To Versailles,” or a sign reading “To Suresnes,” any and all signs pointing to this or that place, should be ignored, that one should always go toward the place for which there is no sign. This is the moment when the deserted street on which I have chosen to sit is throbbing with people and all the crowded streets are empty. This is the moment when any restaurant is the right restaurant so long as it was not indicated to you by somebody. This is the best food, though it is the worst I have ever tasted. This is the food which no one but genius will touch-always within reach, easily digested, and leaving an appetite for more. “The roquefort, was it good?” asks the waitress. Divine! The stalest, the wormiest, the lousiest roquefort that was ever fabricated, saturated with the worms of Dante, of Vergil, Homer, Boccaccio, Rabelais, Goethe, all the worms that ever were and have passed on into cheese. To eat this cheese one must have genius. This is the cheese wherein I bury myself, I, Miguel Feodor Francois Wolfgang Valentine Miller.
The approach to the bridge is paved with cobblestones. I ride so slowly that each cobble sends a separate and distinct message to my spinal column and on up through the vertebrae to that crazy cage in which the medulla oblongata flashes its semaphores. And as I cross the bridge at Sevres, looking to the right of me and left, crossing any bridge, whether it be over the Seine, the Marne, the Ourcq, the Aude, the Loire, the Lot, the River Shannon or the Liffey, the East River or the Hudson, the Mississippi, the Colorado, the Amazon, the Orinoco, the Jordan, the Tigris, the Iriwaddy, crossing any and every bridge and I have crossed them all, including the Nile, the Danube, the Volga, the Euphrates, crossing the bridge at Sevres I yell, like that maniac St. Paul-“O death, where is thy sting?” In back of me Sevres, before me Boulogne, but this that passes under me, this Seine that started up somewhere in a myriad simultaneous trickles, this still jet rushing on from out of a million billion roots, this still mirror bearing the clouds along and stifling the past, rushing on and on and on while between the mirror and the clouds moving transversally I, a complete corporate entity, a universe bringing countless centuries to a conclusion, I and this that passes beneath me and this that floats above me and all that surges through me, I and this, I and that joined up in one continuous movement, this Seine and every Seine that is spanned by a bridge is the miracle of a man crossing it on a bicycle.
This is better than reading Vergil…
Heading back toward St. Cloud, the wheel rolling very slowly, the speedometer in the crazy gray cage clicking like a newsreel. I am a man whose manometer is intact; I am a man on a machine and the machine is in control; I am riding downhill with the brakes on; I could ride just as contentedly on a treadmill and let the mirror pass over me and history under me, or vice versa. I am riding in full sunlight, a man impervious to all except the phenomena of light. The hill of St. Cloud rises up before me on the left, the trees are bend ing over me to shadow me, the way is smooth and never-ending, the little statue rests in the bell of the temple like a cotyledon. Every Middle Age is good, whether in man or history. It is full sunlight and the roads extend in every direction, and all the roads are downhill. I would not level the road nor remove any of the bumps. Each jolt sends a fresh message to the signal tower. I have marked all the spots in passing: to retrace my thoughts I have only to retrace my journey, re-feel these bumps.
At the St. Cloud bridge I come to a full stop. I am in no hurry-I have the whole day to piss away. I put my bicycle in the rack under the tree and go to the urinal to take a leak. It is all gravy, even the urinal. As I stand there looking up at the house fronts a demure young woman leans out of a window to watch me. How many times have I stood thus in this smiling, gracious world, the sun splashing over me and the birds twittering crazily, and found a woman looking down at me from an open window, her smile crumbling into soft little bits which the birds gather in their beaks and deposit sometimes at the base of a urinal where the water gurgles melodiously and a man comes along with his fly open and pours the steaming contents of his bladder over the dissolving crumbs. Standing thus, with heart and fly and bladder open, I seem to recall every urinal I ever stepped into-all the most pleasant sensations, all the most luxurious memories, as if my brain were a huge divan smothered with cushions and my life one long snooze on a hot, drowsy afternoon. I do not find it so strange that America placed a urinal in the center of the Paris exhibit at Chicago. I think it belongs there and I think it a tribute which the French should ap preciate. True, there was no need to fly the tricolor above it. Un peu trop fort, ca! And yet, how is a Frenchman to know that one of the first things which strikes the eye of the American visitor, which thrills him, warms him to the very gizzard, is this ubiquitous urinal? How is a Frenchman to know that what impresses the American in looking at a pissotiere, or a vespasienne, or whatever you choose to call it, is the fact that he is in the midst of a people who admit to the necessity of peeing now and then and who know also that to piss one has to use a pisser and that if it is not done publicly it will be done privately and that it is no more incongruous to piss in the street than underground where some old derelict can watch you to see that you commit no nuisance.
I am a man who pisses largely and frequently, which they say is a sign of great mental activity. However it be, I know that I am in distress when I walk the streets of New York. Wondering constantly where the next stop will be and if I can hold out that long. And while in winter, when you are broke and hungry, it is fine to stop off for a few minutes in a warm underground comfort station, when spring comes it is quite a different matter. One likes to piss in sunlight, among human beings who watch and smile down at you. And while the female squatting down to empty her bladder in a china bowl may not be a sight to relish, no man with any feeling can deny that the sight of the male standing behind a tin strip and looking out on the throng with that contented, easy, vacant smile, that long, reminiscent, pleasurable look in his eye, is a good thing. To relieve a full bladder is one of the great human joys.
There are certain urinals I go out of my way to make -such as the battered rattle-trap outside the deaf and dumb asylum, corner of the Rue St. Jacques and the Rue de l’Abbe’-de-l’Epee, or the Pneu Hutchinson one by the Luxembourg Gardens, corner Rue d’Assas and Rue Guynemer. Here, on a balmy night in spring, through what concatenation of events I do not know or care, I rediscovered my old friend Robinson Crusoe. The whole night passed in reminiscence, in pain and terror, joyous pain, joyous terror.
“The wonders of this man’s life”-so reads the preface to the original edition-“exceed all that is to be found extant; the life of one man being scarce capable of a greater variety.” The island now known as Tobago, at the mouth of the mighty Orinoco, thirty miles northwest of Trinidad. Where the man Crusoe lived in solitude for eight and twenty years. The footprints in the sand, so beautifully embossed on the cover. The man Friday. The umbrella…. Why had this simple tale so fascinated the men of the eighteenth century? Voici Larousse:
“… le recit des aventures d’un homme qui, jete dans une lie deserte, trouve les moyens de se suffire et meme de se creer un bonheur relatif, que complete l’arrivee d’un autre etre humain, d’un sauvage, Vendredi, que Robinson a arrache des mains de ses ennemis…. L’in-teret du roman n’est pas dans la verite psychologique, mais dans l’abondance des details minutieux qui donnent une impression saisissante de re’alite.”
So Robinson Crusoe not only found a way of getting along, but even established for himself a relative happiness! Bravo! One man who was satisfied with a relative happiness. So un-Anglo-Saxon! So pre-Christian! Bringing the story up to date, Larousse to the contrary, we have here then the account of an artist who wanted to build himself a world, a story of perhaps the first genuine neurotic, a man who had himself shipwrecked in order to live outside his time in a world of his own which he could share with another human being, meme un sauvage. The remarkable thing to note is that, acting out his neurotic impulse, he did find a relative happiness even though alone on a desert island, with nothing more perhaps than an old shot-gun and a pair of torn breeches. A clean slate, with twentyfive thousand years of post-Magdalenian “progress” buried in his neurones. An eighteenth-century conception of relative happiness! And when Friday comes along, though Friday, or Vendredi, is only a savage and does not speak the language of Crusoe, the circle is complete. I should like to read the book again-and I will some rainy day. A remarkable book, coming at the culmination of our marvelous Faustian culture. Alen like Rousseau, Beethoven, Napoleon, Goethe on the horizon. The whole civilized world staying up nights to read it in ninetyseven different tongues. A picture of reality in the eighteenth century. Henceforward no more desert isles. Henceforward wherever one happens to be born is a desert isle. Every man his own civilized desert, the island of self on which he is shipwrecked: happiness, relative or absolute, is out of the question. Henceforward everyone is running away from himself to find an imaginary desert isle, to live out this dream of Robinson Crusoe. Follow the classic flights, of Melville, Rimbaud, Gauguin, Jack London, Henry James, D. H. Lawrence … thousands of them. None of them found happiness. Rimbaud found cancer. Gauguin found syphilis. Lawrence found the white plague. The plaguethat’s it! Be it cancer, syphilis, tuberculosis, or what not. The plague! The plague of modern progress: colonization, trade, free Bibles, war, disease, artificial limbs, fac tories, slaves, insanity, neuroses, psychoses, cancer, syphilis, tuberculosis, anemia, strikes, lockouts, starvation, nullity, vacuity, restlessness, striving, despair, ennui, suicide, bankruptcy, arterio-sclerosis, megalomania, schizophrenia, hernia, cocaine, prussic acid, stink bombs, tear gas, mad dogs, auto-suggestion, auto-intoxication, psychotherapy, hydrotherapy, electric massages, vacuum cleaners, pemmican, grape nuts, hemorrhoids, gangrene. No desert isles. No Paradise. Not even relative happiness. Men running away from themselves so frantically that they look for salvation under the ice floes or in tropical swamps, or else they climb the Himalayas or asphyxiate themselves in the stratosphere…
What fascinated the men of the eighteenth century was the vision of the end. They had enough. They wanted to retrace their steps, climb back into the womb again.
THIS IS AN ADDENDA FOR LAROUSSE….
What impressed me, in the urinal by the Luxembourg, was how little it mattered what the book contained; it was the moment of reading it that counted, the moment that contained the book, the moment that definitely and for all time placed the book in the living ambiance of a room with its sunbeams, its atmosphere of convalescence, its homely chairs, its rag carpet, its odor of cooking and washing, its mother image bulking large and totemlike, its windows giving out on the street and throwing into the retina the jumbled issues of idle, sprawling figures, of gnarled trees, trolley wires, cats on the roof, tattered nightmares dancing from the clotheslines, saloon doors swinging, parasols unfurled, snow clotting, horses slipping, engines racing, the panes frosted, the trees sprouting. The story of Robinson Crusoe owes its appeal-for me, at least-to the moment in which I discovered it. It lives on in an everincreasing phantasmagoria, a living part of a life filled with phantasmagoria. For me Robinson Crusoe belongs in the same category as certain parts of Vergil-or, what time is it? For, whenever I think of Vergil, I think automatically—what time is it? Vergil to me is a baldheaded guy with spectacles tilting back in his chair and leaving a grease mark on the blackboard; a baldheaded guy opening wide his mouth in a delirium which he simulated five days a week for four successive years; a big mouth with false teeth producing this strange oracular nonsense: rari nantes in gurgite vasto. Vividly I recall the unholy joy with which he pronounced this phrase. A great phrase, according to this bald-pated, goggle-eyed son of a bitch. We scanned it and we parsed it, we repeated it after him, we swallowed it like cod liver oil, we chewed it like dyspepsia tablets, we opened wide our mouths as he did and we reproduced the miracle day after day five days in the week, year in and year out, like worn-out records, until Vergil was done for and out of our lives for good and all.
But every time this goggle-eyed bastard opened wide his mouth and the glorious phrase rolled out I heard what was most important for me to hear at that moment-what time is it? Soon time to go to Math. Soon time for recess. Soon time to wash up… . I am one individual who is going to be honest about Vergil and his fucking rani nantes in gurgite vasto. I say without blushing or stammering, without the least confusion, regret or remorse that recess in the toilet was worth a thousand Vergils, always was and always will be. At recess we came alive. At recess we who were Gentile and had no better sense grew delirious: in and out of the cabinets we ran, slamming the doors and breaking the locks. We seemed to have been taken with delirium tremens. As we pelted each other with food and shouted and cursed and tripped each other up, we muttered now and then-rari nantes in gurgite vasto. The din we created was so great, and the damage so vast, that whenever we Gentiles went to the toilet the Latin teacher went with us, or if he were eating out that day then the History teacher followed us in. And a wry face they could make, standing in the toilet with delicate, buttered sandwich in hand listening to the pooping and squawking of us brats. The moment they left the toilet to get a breath of fresh air we raised our voices in song, which was not considered reprehensible, but which no doubt was a condition greatly envied by the bespectacled professors who had to use the toilet now and then themselves, learned as they were.
O the wonderful recesses in the toilet! To them I owe my knowledge of Boccaccio, of Rabelais, of Petronius, of The Golden Ass. All my good reading, you might say, was done in the toilet. At the worst, Ulysses, or a detective story. There are passages in Ulysses which can be read only in the toilet-if one wants to extract the full flavor of their content. And this is not to denigrate the talent of the author. This is simply to move him a little closer to the good company of Abelard, Petrarch, Rabelais, Villon, Boccaccio-all the fine, lusty genuine spirits who recognized dung for dung and angels for angels. Fine company, and no rari nantes in gurgite vasto. And the more ramshackle the toilet, the more dilapidated it be, the better. (Same for urinals.) To enjoy Rabelais, for example-such a passage as “How to Rebuild the Walls of Paris”-I recommend a plain, country toilet, a little outhouse in the corn patch, with a crescent sliver of light coming through the door. No buttons to push, no chain to pull, no pink toilet paper. Just a rough-carved seat big enough to frame your behind, and two other holes of dimensions suitable for other behinds. If you can bring a friend along and have him sit beside you, excellent! A good book is always more enjoyable in good company. A beautiful halfhour you can while away sitting in the outhouse with a friend-a halfhour which will remain with you all your life, and the book it contained, and the odor thereof.
No harm, I say, can ever be done a great book by taking it with you to the toilet. Only the little books suffer thereby. Only the little books make ass wipers. Such a one is Little Caesar, now translated into French and forming one of the Passions series. Turning the pages over it seems to me that I am back home again reading the headlines, listening to the goddamned radios, riding tin buggies, drinking cheap gin, buggering virgin harlots with a corn cob, stringing up niggers and burning them alive. Something to give one diarrhoea. And the same goes for the Atlantic Monthly, or any other monthly, for Aldous Huxley, Gertrude Stein, Sinclair Lewis, Hemingway, Dos Passos, Dreiser, etc., etc…. I hear no bell ringing inside me when I bring these birds to the water closet. I pull the chain and down the sewer they go. Down the Seine and into the Atlantic Ocean. Maybe a year hence they will bob up againon the shores of Coney Island, or Midland Beach, or Miami, along with dead jelly fish, snails, clams, used condoms, pink toilet paper, yesterday’s news, tomorrow’s suicides… .
No more peeping through keyholes! No more mas turbating in the dark! No more public confessions! Unscrew the doors from their jambs! I want a world where the vagina is represented by a crude, honest slit, a world that has feeling for bone and contour, for raw, primary colors, a world that has fear and respect for its animal origins. I’m sick of looking at cunts all tickled up, disguised, deformed, idealized. Cunts with nerve ends exposed. I don’t want to watch young virgins masturbating in the privacy of their boudoirs or biting their nails or tearing their hair or lying on a bed full of bread crumbs for a whole chapter. I want Madagascan funeral poles, with animal upon animal and at the top Adam and Eve, and Eve with a crude, honest slit between the legs. I want hermaphrodites who are real hermaphrodites, and not make-believes walking around with an atrophied penis or a dried-up cunt. I want a classic purity, where dung is dung and angels are angels. The Bible a la King James, for example. Not the Bible of Wycliffe, not the Vulgate, not the Greek, not the Hebrew, but the glorious, death-dealing Bible that was created when the English language was in flower, when a vocabulary of twenty thousand words sufficed to build a monument for all time. A Bible written in Svenska or Tegalic, a Bible for the Hottentots or the Chinese, a Bible that has to meander through the trickling sands of French is no Bible-it is a counterfeit and a fraud. The King James Version was created by a race of bone-crushers. It revives the primitive mysteries, revives rape, murder, incest, revives epilepsy, sadism, megalomania, revives demons, angels, dragons, leviathans, revives magic, exorcism, contagion, incantation, revives fratricide, regicide, patricide, suicide, revives hypnotism, anarchism, somnambulism, revives the song, the dance, the act, revives the mantic, the chthonian, the arcane, the mysterious, revives the power, the evil, and the glory that is God. All brought into the open on a colossal scale, and so salted and spiced that it will last until the next Ice Age.
A classic purity, then-and to hell with the Post Office authorities! For what is it enables the classics to live at all, if indeed they be living on and not dying as we and all about us are dying? What preserves them against the ravages of time if it be not the salt that is in them? When I read Petronius or Apuleius or Rabelais, how close they seem! That salty tang! That odor of the menagerie! The smell of horse piss and lion’s dung, of tiger’s breath and elephant’s hide. Obscenity, lust, cruelty, boredom, wit. Real eunuchs. Real hermaphrodites. Real pricks. Real cunts. Real banquets! Rabelais rebuilds the walls of Paris with human cunts. Trimalchio tickles his own throat, pukes up his own guts, wallows in his own swill. In the amphitheater, where a big, sleepy pervert of a Caesar lolls dejectedly, the lions and the jackals, the hyenas, the tigers, the spotted leopards are crunching real human boneswhilst the coming men, the martyrs and imbeciles, are walking up the golden stairs shouting Hallelujah!
When f touch the subject of toilets I relive some of my best moments. Standing in the urinal at Boulogne, with the hill of St. Cloud to the right of me and the woman in the window above me, and the sun beating down on the still river water, I see the strange American I am passing on this quiet knowledge to other Americans who will follow me, who will stand in full sunlight in some charming corner of France and ease their full bladders. And I wish them all well and no gravel in the kidneys.
In passing I recommend certain other urinals which I know well, where perhaps there may be no woman to smile down at you, but where there is a broken wall, an old belfry, the facade of a palace, a square covered with colored awnings, a horse trough, a fountain, a covey of doves, a bookstall, a vegetable market… . Nearly always the French have chosen the right spot for their urinals. Off hand I think of one in Carcassonne which, if I chose the hour well, afforded me an incomparable view of the citadel; so well is it placed that, unless one be burdened and distraught, there must rise up again the same surging pride, the same wonder and awe, the same fierce attachment for this scene as was felt by the weary knight or monk when, pausing at the foot of the hill where now runs the stream that washed away the epidemic, he glanced up to rest his eyes on the grim, battle-stained turrets flung against a wind-swept sky.
And immediately I think of another-just outside the Palais des Papes, in Avignon. A mere stone’s throw away from the charming little square which, on a night in spring, seems strewn with velvets and laces, with masks and confetti; so still flows the time that one can hear little horns blowing faint, the past gliding by like a ghost, and then drowned in the deep hammerstroked gongs that smash the voiceless music of the night. Just a stone’s throw away from the obscure little quarter where the red lights blaze. There, toward the cool of the evening, you will find the crooked little streets humming with activity, the women, clad in bathing suit or chemise, lounging on the doorsteps, cigarette in mouth, calling to the passers-by. As night falls the walls seem to grow together and from all the little lanes that trickle into the gulch there spills a crowd of curious hungry men who choke the narrow streets, who mill around, dart aimlessly here and there like tailed sperm seeking the ovum, and finally are sucked in by the open maws of the brothels.
Nowadays, as one stands in the urinal beside the Palace, one is hardly aware of this other life. The Palace stands abrupt, cold, tomblike, before a bleak open square. Facing it is a ridiculous-looking building called Institute of Music. There they stand, facing each other across an empty lot. Gone the Popes. Gone the music. Gone all the color and speech of a glorious epoch. Were it not for the little quarter behind the Institute who could imagine what once was that life within the Palace walls? When this tomb was alive I believe that there was no separation between the Palace and the twisted lanes below; I believe that the dirty little hovels, with their rubbled roofs, ran right up to the door of the Palace. I believe that when a Pope stepped out of his gorgeous hive into the glitter of sunlight he communicated instantaneously with the life about him. Some traces of that life the frescoes still retain: the life of outdoors, of hunting, fishing, gaming, of falcons and dogs and women and flashing fish. A large, Catholic life, with intense blues and luminous greens, the life of sin and grace and repentance, a life of high yellows and golden browns, of winestained robes and salmoncolored streams. In that marvelous cubicle in a corner of the Palace, whence one overlooks the unforgettable roofs of Avignon and the broken bridge across the Rhone, in this cubicle where they say the Popes penned their bulls, the frescoes are still so fresh, so natural, so life-breathing, that even this tomb which is the Palace today seems more alive than the world outdoors. One can well imagine a great father of the Church sitting there at his writing table, with a Papal bull before him and a huge tankard at his elbow. And one can also easily imagine a fine, fat wench sitting on his knees, while down below, in the huge kitchen, whole animals are being roasted on the spit, and the lesser dignitaries of the Church, good trenchermen that they were, drinking and carousing to their hearts’ content behind the comfort and security of the great walls. No schisms, no hairsplitting, no schizophrenia. When disease came it swept through hovel and castle, through the rich joints of the fathers and the tough joints of the peasants. When the spirit of God descended upon Avignon, it did not stop at the Musical Institute across the way; it penetrated the walls, the flesh, the hierarchies of rank and caste. It flourished as mightily in the red light district as up above on the hill. The Pope could not lift up his skirts and pass untouched. Inside the walls and outside the walls it was one life: faith, fornication, bloodshed. Primary colors. Primary passions. The frescoes tell the story. How they lived each day and the whole day long speaks louder than the books. What the Popes mumbled in their
The Angel Is My Watermark!
The Angel Is My Watermark!
The object of these pages is to relate the genesis of a masterpiece. The masterpiece is hanging on the wall in front of me; it is dry now. I am putting this down to remember the process, because I shall probably never do another like it.
We must go back a bit…. For two whole days I am wrestling with something. If I were to describe it in a word I should say that I have been like a cartridge that’s jammed. This is almost deadly accurate, for when I came out of a dream this morning the only image that persisted was that of my big trunk crumpled up like an old hat.
The first day the struggle is undefinable. It is strong enough, however, to paralyze. I put on my hat and go to the Renoir Exhibition and from Renoir I go to the Louvre and from the Louvre I go to the Rue de Rivoli -where it no longer resembles the Rue de Rivoli. There I sit over a beer for three hours, fascinated by the monsters passing me.
The next morning I get up with the conviction that I will do something. There is that fine light tension which augurs well. My notebook lies beside me. I pick it up and riffle the pages absent-mindedly. I riffle them again-this time more attentively. The notes are arranged in cryptic lines: a simple phrase may record a year’s struggle. Some of the lines I cannot decipher any more myself-my biographers will take care of them. I am still obsessed by the idea that I am going to write today. I am merely flipping the pages of my notebook as a warming up exercise. So I imagine. But cursorily and swiftly as I sweep over these notes something fatal is happening to me.
What happens is that I have touched Tante Melia. And now my whole life rushes up in one gush, like a geyser that has just broken through the earth. I am walking home with Tante Melia and suddenly I realize that she is crazy. She is asking me for the moon. “Up there!” she shrieks. “Up there!”
It is about ten in the morning when this line shrieks at me. From this moment on-up until four o’clock this morning-I am in the hands of unseen powers. I put the typewriter away and I commence to record what is being dictated to me. Pages and pages of notes, and for each incident I am reminded of where to find the context. All the folders in which my manuscripts are assorted have been emptied on the floor. I am lying on the floor with a pencil, feverishly annotating my work. This continues and continues. I am exultant, and at the same time I am worried. If it continues at this rate I may have a hemorrhage.
About three o’clock I decide to obey no longer. I will go out and eat. Perhaps it will blow over ofter lunch. I go on my bicycle in order to draw the blood from my head. I carry no notebook with me-purposely. If the dictation starts again, taut pis. I’m out for lunch!
At three o’clock you can get only a cold snack. I order cold chicken with mayonnaise. It costs a little more than I usually spend, but that’s exactly why I order it. And after a little debate I order a heavy Burgundy instead of the usual vin ordinaire. I am hoping that all this will distract me. The wine ought to make me a little drowsy.
I’m on the second bottle and the tablecloth is covered with notes. My head is extraordinarily light. I order cheese and grapes and pastry. Amazing what an appetite I have! And yet, somehow, it doesn’t seem to be going down my stomach; seems as if some one else were eating all this for me. Well, at least, I shall have to pay for it! That’s standing on solid ground… . I pay and off I go again on the wheel. Stop at a cafe for a black coffee. Can’t manage to get both feet on solid ground. Some one is dictating to me constantly-and with no regard for my health.
I tell you, the whole day passes this way. I’ve surrendered long ago. 0. K., I say to myself. If it’s ideas today, then it’s ideas. Princesse, a vos ordres. And I slave away, as though it were exactly what I wanted to do myself.
After dinner I am quite worn out. The ideas are still inundating me, but I am so exhausted that I can lie back now and let them play over me like an electric massage. Finally I am weak enough to be able to pick up a book and rest. It’s an old issue of a magazine. Here I will find peace. To my amazement the page falls open on these words: “Goethe and his Demon.” The pencil is in my hand again, the margin crammed with notes. It is midnight. I am exhilarated. The dictation has ceased. A free man again. I’m so damned happy that I’m wondering if I shouldn’t take a little spin before sitting down to write. The bike is in my room. It’s dirty. The bike, I mean. I get a rag and begin cleaning it. I clean every spoke, I oil it thoroughly, I polish the mudguards. She’s spick and span. I’ll go through the Bois de Boulogne….
As I’m washing my hands I suddenly get a gnawing pain in the stomach. I’m hungry, that’s what’s the matter. Well, now that the dictation has ceased I’m free to do as I like. I uncork a bottle, cut off a big chunk of bread, bite into a sausage. The sausage is full of garlic. Fine. In the Bois de Boulogne a garlic breath goes unnoticed. A little more wine. Another hunk of bread. This time it’s me who’s eating and no mistake about it. The other meals were wasted. The wine and the garlic mingle odorously. I’m belching a little.
I sit down for a moment to smoke a cigarette. There’s a pamphlet at my elbow, about three inches square. It’s called Art and Madness. The ride is off. It’s getting too late to write anyway. It’s coming over me that what I really want to do is to paint a picture. In 1927 or ‘8 I was on the way to becoming a painter. Now and then, in fits and starts, I do a water color. It comes over you like that: you f eel like a water color and you do one. In the insane asylum they paint their fool heads off. They paint the chairs, the walls, the tables, the bedsteads … an amazing productivity. If we rolled up our sleeves and went to work the way these idiots do what might we not accomplish in a lifetime!
The illustration in front of me, done by an inmate of Charenton, has a very fine quality about it. I see a boy and girl kneeling close together and in their hands they are holding a huge lock. Instead of a penis and vagina the artist has endowed them with keys, very big keys which interpenetrate. There is also a big key in the lock. They look happy and a little absent-minded. … On page 85 there is a landscape. It looks exactly like one of Hilaire Hiler’s paintings. In fact, it is better than any of Hiler’s. The only peculiar feature of it is that in the foreground there are three miniature men who are deformed. Not badly deformed either-they simply look as if they were too heavy for their legs. The rest of the canvas is so good that one would have to be squeamish indeed to be annoyed at this. Besides, is the world so perfect that there are not three men anywhere who are too heavy for their legs? It seems to me that the insane have a right to their vision as well as we.
I’m very eager to start in. Just the same, I’m at a loss for ideas. The dictation has ceased. I have half a mind to copy one of these illustrations. But then I’m a little ashamed of myself-to copy the work of a lunatic is the worst form of plagiarism.
Well, begin! That’s the thing. Begin with a horse! I have vaguely in mind the Etruscan horses I saw in the Louvre. (Note: in all the great periods of art the horse was very close to man!) I begin to draw. I begin naturally with the easiest part of the animal-the horse’s ass. A little opening for the tail which can be stuck in afterwards. Hardly have I begun to do the trunk when I notice at once that it is too elongated. Remember, you are drawing a horse-not a liverwurst! Vaguely, vaguely it seems to me that some of those Ionian horses I saw on the black vases had elongated trunks; and the legs began inside the body, delineated by a fine stenciled line which you could look at or not look at according to your anatomical instincts. With this in mind I decide on an Ionian horse. But now fresh difficulties ensue. It’s the legs. The shape of a horse’s leg is baffling when you have only your memory to rely on. I can recall only about as much as from the fetlock down, which is to say, the hoof. To put meat on the hoof is a delicate task, extremely delicate. And to make the legs join the body naturally, not as if they were stuck on with glue. My horse already has five legs: the easiest thing to do is to transform one of them into a phallus erectus. No sooner said than done. And now he’s standing just like a terra cotta figure of the sixth century B.C. The tail isn’t in yet, but I’ve left an opening just above the asshole. The tail can be put in any time. The main thing is to get him into action, to make him prance like. So I twist the front legs up. Part of him is in motion, the rest is standing stock still. With the proper kind of tail I could turn him into a fine kangaroo.
During the leg experiments the stomach has become dilapidated. I patch it up as best I can-until it looks like a hammock. Let it go at that. If it doesn’t look like a horse when I’m through I can always turn it into a hammock. (Weren’t there people sleeping in a horse’s stomach on one of the vases I saw?)
Nobody who has not examined the horse’s skull attentively can ever imagine how difficult it is to draw. To make it a skull and not a feedbag. To put the eyes in without making the horse laugh. To keep the expression horsey, and not let it grow human. At this point, I admit frankly, I am completely disgusted with my prowess. I have a mind to erase and begin all over again. But I detest the eraser. I would rather convert the horse into a dynamo or a grand piano than erase my work completely.
I close my eyes and try very calmly to picture a horse in my mind’s eye. I rub my hands over the mane and the shoulders and the flanks. Seems to me I remember very distinctly how a horse feels, especially that way he has of shuddering when a fly is bothering him. And that warm, squirmy feel of the veins. (In Chula Vista I used to currycomb the jackasses before going to the fields. Thinks I-if only I could make a jackass of him, that would be something!)
So I start all over again-with the mane this time. Now the mane of a horse is something entirely different from a pigtail, or the tresses of a mermaid. Chirico puts wonderful manes on his horses. And so does Valentine Prax. The mane is something, I tell you-it’s not just a marcel wave. It has to have the ocean in it, and a lot of mythology. What makes hair and teeth and fingernails does not make a horse’s mane. It’s something apart. … However, when I get into a predicament of this sort I know that I can extricate myself later when it comes time to apply the color. The drawing is simply the excuse for color. The color is the toccata: drawing belongs to the realm of idea. (Michelangelo was right in despising Da Vinci. Is there anything more ghastly, more sickishly ideational than the “Last Supper”? Is there anything more pretentious than the “Mona Lisa”?
As I say, a little color will put life into the mane. The stomach is still a little out of order, I see. Very well. Where it is convex I make it concave and vice versa. Now suddenly my horse is galloping, his nostrils are snorting fire. But with two eyes he looks still a bit silly, a bit too human. Ergo, rub out an eye. Fine. He’s getting more and more horsey. He’s gotten kind of cutelooking too-like Charley Chase of the movies… .
To keep him well within the genus he represents I finally decide to give him stripes. The idea is that if he won’t lose his playfulness I can turn him into a zebra. So I put in the stripes. Now, damn it all, he seems to be made of cardboard. The stripes have flattened him out, glued him to the paper. Well, if I close my eyes again I ought to be able to recall the Cinzano horse-he has stripes too, and beautiful ones. Maybe I ought to go down for an aperitif and look at a Cinzano. It’s getting late for aperitifs. Maybe I’ll do a little plagiarizing after all. If a lunatic can draw a man on a bicycle he can draw a horse too.
It’s remarkable-I find gods and goddesses, devils, bats, sewing machines, flowerpots, rivers, bridges, locks and keys, epileptics, coffins, skeletons-but not a damned horse! If the lunatic who compiled this brochure had wanted to draw a truly profound observation he would have had something to remark about this curious omission. When the horse is missing there is something radically amiss! Human art goes hand in hand with the horse. It’s not enough to hint that the symbolists and the imagists are, or were, a little detraques. We want to know, in a study of insanity, what has become of the horse!
Once more I turn to the landscape on page 85. It’s an excellent composition despite the geometrical stiffness. (The insane have a terrific obsession for logic and order, as have the French.) I have something to work from now: mountains, bridges, terraces, trees…. One of the great merits of insane art is that a bridge is always a bridge and a house a house. The three little men who are balancing themselves on their canes in the foreground are not absolutely necessary to the composition, especially since I already have the Ionian horse which occupies considerable space. I am searching for a setting in which to place the horse and there is something very wistful and very intriguing about this landscape with its crenelated parapets and its sugar-loaf escarpments and the houses with so many windows, as if the inmates were deathly afraid of suffocating. It’s very reminiscent of the beginnings of landscape paintingand yet it’s completely outside all definitive periods. I should say roughly that it lies in a zone between Giotto and Santos Dumont-with just a faint intimation of the post-mechanical street which is to come. And now, with this as a guide before me, I pick up courage. Allons-y!
Right under the horse’s ass, where his croup begins and ends, and where Salvador Dali would most likely put a Louis Quinze chair or a watch spring, I begin to draw with free and easy strokes a straw hat, a melon. Beneath the hat I put a face-carelessly, because my ideas are large and sweeping. Wherever the hand falls I do something, following the insinuating deviations of the line. In this manner I take the huge phallus erectus, which was once a fifth leg, and bend it into a man’s arm-so! Now I have a man in a big straw hat tickling the horse in the rumps. Fine! Fine and dandy! Should it seem a little grotesque, a little out of keeping with the pseudo-medieval character of the original composition, I can always attribute it to the aberration of the f ou who inspired me. (Here, for the first time, a suspicion enters my head that I may not be altogether there myself! But on page 366 it says: “Enfin, pour Matisse, le sentiment de l’objet peut s’exprinaer avec toute licence, sans direction intellectuelle ou exactitude visuelle: c’est l’origine de l’expression.” To go on…. After a slight difficulty with the man’s feet I solve the problem by putting the lower half of his body behind the parapet. He is leaning over the parapet, dreaming most likely, and at the same time he is tickling the horse’s ribs. (Along the rivers of France you will often stumble across men leaning over a parapet and dreaming-particularly after they have voided a bagful of urine.)
To shorten my labors, and also to see how much space will be left, I put in a quantity of bold diagonal stripes or planks, for the bridge flooring. This kills at least a third of the picture, as far as composition goes. Now come the terraces, the escarpments, the three trees, the snow-topped mountains, the houses and all the windows that go with them. It’s like a jigsaw puzzle. Wherever a cliff refuses to finish properly I make it the side of a house, or the roof of another house which is hidden. Gradually I work my way up toward the top of the picture where the frame happily cuts things short. It remains to put in the trees-and the mountains.
Now trees again are very ticklish propositions. To make a tree, and not a bouquet! Even though I put forked lightning inside the foliage, to lend a hint of structure, it’s no go. A few airy clouds, then, to do away with some of the superfluous foliage. (Always a good dodge to simplify your problem by removing it.) But the clouds look like pieces of tissue paper that had blown off the wedding bouquets. A cloud is so light, so less than nothing, and yet it’s not tissue paper. Everything that has form has invisible substance. Michelangelo sought it all his life-in marble, in verse, in love, in architecture, in crime, in God… . (Page 390: “Si 1’artiste poursuit la creation authentique, son souci est ailleurs que sur l’objet, qui pent etre sacri fie et soumis aux necessites de l’invention.”)
I come to the mountain-like Mahomet. By now I am beginning to realize the meaning of liberation. A mountain! What’s a mountain? It’s a pile of dirt which never wears away, at least, not in historical time. A mountain’s too easy. I want a volcano. I want a reason for my horse to be snorting and prancing. Logic, logic! “Le fou montre un souci constant de logique!” (Les Francais aussi.) Well, I’m not a fou, especially not a French fou: I can take a few liberties, particularly with the work of an imbecile. So I draw the crater first and work down toward the foot of the mountain to join up with the bridgework and the roofs of the houses below. Out of the errors I make cracks in the mountainside-to represent the damage done by the volcano. This is an active volcano and its sides are bursting.
When I’m all through I have a shirt on my hands. A shirt, precisely! I can recognize the collar band and the sleeves. All it needs is a Rogers Peet label and size 16 or what have you…. One thing, however, stands out unmistakably clear and clean, and that is the bridge. It’s strange, but if you can draw an arch the rest of the bridge follows naturally. Only an engineer can ruin a bridge.
It’s almost finished, as far as the drawing goes. All the loose ends at the bottom I join up to make cemetery gates. And in the upper left-hand corner, where there is a hole left by the volcano, I draw an angel. It is an object of an original nature, a purely gratuitous invention, and highly symbolic. It is a sad angel with a fallen stomach, and the wings are supported by umbrella ribs. It seems to come down from beyond the cadre of my ideas and hover mystically above the wild Ionian horse that is now lost to man.
Have you ever sat in a railway station and watched people killing time? Do they not sit a little like crestfallen angels-with their broken arches and their fallen stomachs? Those eternal few minutes in which they are condemned to be alone with themselves-does it not put umbrella ribs in their wings?
All the angels in religious art are false. If you want to see angels you must go to the Grand Central Depot, or the Gare St. Lazare. Especially the Gare St. LazareSalle des Pas Perdus.
My theory of painting is to get the drawing done with as quickly as possible and slap in the color. After all, I’m a colorist, not a draught horse. Alors, out with the tubes!
I start painting the side of a house, in raw umber. Not very effective. I put a liberal dash of crimson alizarin in the wall next to it. A little too pretty, too Italian. All in all, I’m not starting out so well with my colors. There’s a rainy day atmosphere somewhat reminiscent of Utrillo. I don’t like Utrillo’s quiet imbecility, nor his rainy days, nor his suburban streets. I don’t like the way his women stick their behinds out at you either…. I get the bread knife out. May as well try a loaded impasto. In the act of squeezing out a generous assortment of colors the impulse seizes me to add a gondola to the composition. Directly below the bridge I insert it, which automatically launches it
And now suddenly I know the reason for the gondola. Among the Renoirs the other day there was a Venetian scene, and the inevitable gondola of course. Now what intrigued me, weakly enough, was that the man who sat in the gondola was so distinctly a man, though he was only a speck of black, hardly separable from all the other specks which made up the sunlight, the choppy sea, the crumbling palaces, the sailboats, etc.He was just a speck in that fiery combination of colors-and yet he was distinctly a man. You could even tell that he was a Frenchman and that he was of the 1870’s or thereabouts….
This isn’t the end of the gondola. Two days before I left for America-1927 or ‘8-we held a big session at the house. It was at the height of my water-color career.
It began in a peculiar way, this water-color mania. Through hunger, I might say. That and the extreme cold. For weeks I had been hanging out with my friend Joe in poolrooms and comfort stations, wherever there was animal heat and no expense. On our way back to the morgue one evening we noticed a reproduction of Turner’s in the window of a department store. That’s exactly the way in which it all began. One of the most active, one of the most enjoyable periods of my barren life. When I say that we littered the floor with paintings I am not exaggerating. As fast as they dried we hung them up-and the next day we took them down and hung up another collection. We painted on the backs of old ones, we washed them off, we scraped them with the knife, and in the course of these experiments we discovered, by accident, some astonishing things. We discovered how to get interesting results with coffee grounds and bread crumbs, with coal and arnica; we laid the paintings in the bathtub and let them soak for hours, and then with a loaded brush we approached these dripping omelettes and we let fly at them. Turner started all this-and the severe winter of 1927-‘28.
Two nights before my departure, as I was saying, a number of painters come to the house to inspect our work. They are all good eggs and not above taking an interest in the work of amateurs. The water colors are lying about on the floor, as usual, drying. As a last experiment we walk over them, spilling a little wine as we go. Astonishing what effects a dirty heel will produce, or a drop of wine falling from a height of three feet with the best of intentions. The enthusiasm mounts. Two of my friends are working on the walls with chunks of coal. Another is boiling coffee in order to get some nice fresh grounds. The rest of us are drinking.
In the midst of the festivities-about three A.M.-My wife walks in. She seems a little depressed. Taking me aside she shows me a steamship ticket. I look at it. “What’s that for?” I said. “You’ve got to go away,” she answers. “But I don’t want to go away,” I said. “I’m quite happy here.” “So I see,” she says, rather sardonically.
Anyway I go. And when we’re pulling up the Thames the only thought in my mind is to see the Turner collection at the Tate Gallery. Finally I get there and I see the famous Turners. And as luck would have it one of the halfwits there takes a fancy to me. I find that he’s a magnificent water-colorist himself. Works entirely by lamplight. I really hated to leave London, he made it so agreeable for me. Anyway, pulling out of Southampton I thought to myself-“the circle is complete now: from the department store window to here.”
However, to get on… . This gondola is going to be the piece de resistance! But first I must clean up the walls. Taking the bread knife and dipping it into the laque carmine I apply a liberal dose to the windows of the houses. Holy Jesus! Immediately the houses are in flames! If I were really mad, and not simulating the madness of a madman, I’d be putting firemen into the picture and I’d make ladders out of the bold diagonal planks of the bridge flooring. But my insanity takes the form of building a conflagration. I set all the houses on fire-first with carmine, then with vermilion, and finally with a bloody concoction of all three. This part of the picture is clear and decisive: it’s a holocaust.
The result of my incendiarism is that I’ve singed the horse’s back. Now he’s neither a horse nor a zebra. He’s become a fire-eating dragon. And where the missing tail belonged there is now a bunch of firecrackers, and with a bunch of firecrackers up his ass not even an Ionian horse can preserve his dignity. I could, of course, go on to make a real dragon; but this conversion and patching-up is getting on my nerves. If you start with a horse you ought to keep it a horse-or eliminate it entirely. Once you begin to tamper with an animal’s anatomy you can go through the whole phylogenetic process.
With a solid opaque green and indigo I blot the horse out. In my mind, to be sure, he’s still there. People may look at this opaque object and think-how strange! how curious! But I know that at bottom it’s a horse. At the bottom of everything there’s some animal: that’s our deepest obsession. When I see human beings squirming up toward the light like wilted sunflowers, I say to myself: “Squirm, you bastards, and pretend all you like, but at bottom you’re a turtle or a guinea-pig.” Greece was mad about horses and if they had had the wisdom to remain half horse instead of playing the Titan-well, we might have been spared a great many mythological pains.
When you’re an instinctive water-colorist everything happens according to God’s will. Thus, if you are bidden to paint the cemetery gates a clear gamboge, you do it and you don’t grumble about it. Never mind if they are too vivid for such somber portals. Perhaps there is an unknown justification. And truly, when I paint in this bright liquid yellow, this yellow which is to me the finest of all yellows (even yellower than the mouth of the Yangtsze Kiang), I am radiant, radiant. Something dreary, cloying, oppressive has been washed away forever. I would not be surprised if it were the Cypress Hills Cemetery which I passed in disgust and mortification for so many years, which I looked down on from the bend in the elevated line, which I spat into from the platform of the train. Or St. John’s Cemetery, with its crazy leaden angels, where I worked as a gravedigger. Or the Montparnasse Cemetery which in winter looks as if it had been shellshocked. Cemeteries, cemeteries…. By God, I refuse to be buried in a cemetery! I won’t have any imbeciles standing over me with a sprinkler and looking mournful. I won’t have it!
While these thoughts have been passing through my head I have been inadvertently smearing the trees and the terraces with a dry brush. The trees gleam now like a coat of mail, the boughs are studded with silver and turquoise links. If I had a crucifixion on hand I could cover the bodies of the martyrs with jeweled pockmarks. On the wall opposite me is a scene from the wilds of Ethiopia. The body of Christ crucified lies on the floor covered with smallpox; the bloodthirsty Jews -black, Ethiopian Jews-are pounding him with iron quoits. They have a most ferociously gleeful expression. I bought the picture because of the pockmarks, why I didn’t know at the time. It’s only now that I’ve discovered the reason. Only now that I recall a certain picture over a cellar on the Bowery, entitled “Death on Bugs.” Happened I was just coming away from a lunatic, a professional visit which had not been altogether unpleasant. It’s broad afternoon and the dirty throat of the Bowery is choked with clots of phlegm. Just below Cooper Square three bums are stretched out flat beside a lamppost, a la Breughel. A penny arcade is going full blast. A weird, unearthly chant rises up from the streets, like a man with a cleaver fighting his way through delirium tremens. And there, over the slanting cellar door, is this painting called “Death on Bugs.” A naked woman with long flaxen hair lies on the bed scratching herself. The bed is floating in the middle air and about it dances a man with a squirt gun. He has that same imbecilic air about him as these Jews with the iron quoits. The picture is stippled with pockmarks -to represent that cosmopolitan bloodsucking wingless depressed bug of reddish-brown color and vile odor which infests houses and beds and goes by the formidable name of Cimex lectularius.
And here I am now with a dry brush applying the stigmata to the three trees. The clouds are covered with bedbugs, the volcano is belching bedbugs; the bedbugs are scrambling down the steep chalk cliffs and drowning themselves in the river. I am like that young immigrant on the second floor of a poem by some Ivanovich or other who tosses about on the bedsprings haunted by the misery of his starved, wasted life, despairing of all the beauty beyond his grasp. My whole life seems to be wrapped up in that dirty handkerchief, the Bowery, which I walked through day after day, year in and year out-a dose of smallpox whose scars never disappear. If I had a name then it was Cimex Lectularius. If I had a home it was a slide trombone. If I had a passion it was to wash myself clean.
In a fury now I take the brush and dipping it in all the colors successively I commence to smudge the cemetery gates. I smudge and smudge until the lower half of the picture is as thick as chocolate, until the picture actually smells of pigment. And when it is completely ruined I sit there with a vacant enjoyment and twiddle my thumbs.
And then suddenly I get a real inspiration. I take it to the sink and after soaking it well I scrub it with the nail brush. I scrub and scrub and then I hold the picture upside down, letting the colors coagulate. Then gin gerly, very gingerly, I flatten it out on my desk. It’s a masterpiece, I tell you! I’ve been studying it for the last three hours….
You may say it’s just an accident, this masterpiece, and so it is! But then, so is the Twenty-third Psalm. Every birth is miraculous-and inspired. What appears now before my eyes is the result of innumerable mistakes, withdrawals, erasures, hesitations; it is also the result of certitude. You would like to give the nail brush credit, and the water credit. Do so-by all means. Give everybody and everything credit. Credit Dante, credit Spinoza, credit Hieronymus Bosch. Credit Cash and debit Societe Anonyme. Put in the Day Book: Tante Melia. So. Draw a balance. Out by a penny, eh? If you could take a penny from your pocket and balance the books you would do so. But you are no longer dealing with actual pennies. There is no machine clever enough to devise, to counterfeit, this penny which does not exist. The world of real and counterfeit is behind us. Out of the tangible we have invented the intangible.
When you can draw up a clean balance you will no longer have a picture. Now you have an intangible, an accident, and you sit up all night with the open ledger cracking your skull over it. You have a minus sign on your hands. All live, interesting data is labeled minus. When you find the plus equivalent you have-nothing. You have that imaginary, momentary something called “a balance.” A balance never is. It’s a fraud, like stopping the clock, or like calling a truce. You strike a balance in order to add a hypothetical weight, in order to create a reason for your existence.
I have never been able to draw a balance. I am always minus something. I have a reason therefore to go on. I am putting my whole life into the balance in order that it may produce nothing. To get to nothing you have to lay out an infinitude of figures. That’s just it: in the living equation the sign for myself is infinity. To get nowhere you must traverse every known universe: you must be everywhere in order to be nowhere. To have disorder you must destroy every form of order. To go mad you must have a terrific accumulation of sanities. All the madmen whose works have inspired me were touched by a cold sanity. They have taught me nothing-because the balance sheets which they bequeathed to us have been falsified. Their calculations are meaningless to me-because the figures have been altered. The marvelous gilt-edged ledgers which they handed down have the hideous beauty of plants which are forced in the night.
My masterpiece! It’s like a splinter under the nail. I ask you, now that you are looking at it, do you see in it the lakes beyond the Urals? do you see the mad Kotchei balancing himself with a paper parasol? do you see the arch of Trajan breaking through the smoke of Asia? do you see the penguins thawing in the Himalayas? do you see the Creeks and the Seminoles gliding through the cemetery gates? do you see the fresco from the Upper Nile, with its flying geese, its bats and aviaries? do you see the marvelous pommels of the Crusaders and the saliva that washed them down? do you see the wigwams belching fire? do you see the alkali sinks and the mule bones and the gleaming borax? do you see the tomb of Belshazzar, or the ghoul who is rifling it? do you see the new mouths which the Colorado will open up? do you see the starfish lying on their backs and the molecules supporting them? do you see the bursting eyes of Alexander, or the grief that inspired it? do you see the ink on which the squibs are feeding?
No, I’m afraid you don’t! You see only the bleak blue angel frozen by the glaciers. You do not even see the umbrella ribs, because you are not trained to look for umbrella ribs. But you see an angel, and you see a horse’s ass. And you may keep them: they are for you! There are no pockmarks on the angel now-only a cold blue spotlight which throws into relief his fallen stomach and his broken arches. The angel is there to lead you to Heaven, where it is all plus and no minus. The angel is there like a watermark, a guarantee of your faultless vision. The angel has no goiter; it is the artist who has the goiter. The angel is there to drop sprigs of parsley in your omelette, to put a shamrock in your buttonhole. I could scrub the mythology out of the horse’s mane; I could scrub the yellow out of the Yangtsze Kiang; I could scrub the date out of the man in the gondola; I could scrub out the clouds and the tissue paper in which were wrapped the bouquets with forked lightning…. But the angel 1 can’t scrub out. The angel is my watermark.
一个星期六下午
一个星期六下午
一个星期六下午
这赛过读维吉尔。
这是一个星期六下午，这个星期六下午截然不同于所有其他的星期六下午，但又绝对不像一个星期一下午或星期四下午。在这一天，我骑车去纳伊桥，经过罗宾逊小岛。岛的另一头是教堂，教堂里的小塑像有如钟状花冠口中的子叶。我是这样有一种在家的感觉，以至于感到，我竟然出生在美国，这似乎令人难以置信。平静的水面上有渔船，有标明航道的铁桩，有拖着长长的弧度、吃水很深的拖船，有黑色的敞舱驳船和明晃晃的支柱，天空从不变化，河流弯弯曲曲，群山起伏，环抱着山谷，一幅永远在千变万化然而又经久不变的全景图，三色旗固定标志下生活的多样化与运动。所有这一切都是塞纳河的历史，它在我的血液中，并将进入那些在一个星期六下午随我之后沿着岸边而行的人们的血液中去。
当我沿着去默东的路，在布洛涅那边的桥上经过时，我掉转头，驶下山进入了塞夫勒。从一条无人的街道上经过，我看见一个花园里的小餐馆；阳光正从树叶缝里漏下来，照得桌子闪闪发光。我下了车。
什么东西赛过读维吉尔或熟记歌德（一切易逝的东西都只是一种比喻，等等）呢?嘿，在伊西莱穆利诺的室外凉棚下吃一顿八法郎的饭。然而我是在塞夫勒。没关系。近来我一直在想写一本我想象在伊西莱穆利诺发现的《狂人日记》。因为这个狂人主要是我自己，所以我不是在塞夫勒而是在伊西莱穆利诺吃饭。女招待拿着一小瓶啤酒走过来时，狂人说什么?在你写作时不要担心出错。传记作家会解释一切错误的。我想起我的朋友卡尔，他最近花了四天时间着手描绘他正写到的那个女人。“这个我没法做！这个我没法做！”他说。很好，狂人说，让我来为你做这个。开始！这是主要的事情。假定她的鼻子不是鹰钩鼻?假定这是一只很漂亮的鼻子呢?有什么区别呢?如果一幅肖像一开始就弄得很糟糕，这是因为你不是在描绘你心目中的那个女人：你考虑得更多的是那些将观看肖像的人，而不是为你而坐在那里的那个女人。拿范诺登来说——他是另一个例子。他两个月来一直在试着写他的小说。每次我遇见他，他的书都有了一个新的开头，但从来就只是开头。昨天他说：“你看见了我的问题所在。这不光是一个如何开头的问题：第一句话就定下了全书的基调。这里是我几天以前写的一个开头：但丁为一个叫作H——的地方写了一首诗。H加破折号，因为我不想在书刊审查官那里惹什么麻烦。”
想一想一本以H加破折号开头的书吧！一个小小的私人地狱绝不会得罪书刊审查官吧！我注意到，惠特曼开始写一首诗时，他这样写：“我，沃尔特，现在三十七岁了，身体完全健康！……我随兴之所至……我热爱我自己……沃尔特•惠特曼，一个宇宙，曼哈顿的儿子，躁动，丰满，性感，吃喝，繁殖……拆掉门上的锁！从门框上拆掉门本身……在此或从今往后，对我完全一样……我以我的真实面目存在足矣……”
对沃尔特来说，始终是星期六下午。如果那女人难以描绘，那他就承认这一点，在第三句话那里就停下来。下个星期六，天气允许的话，他就可以补上一颗缺掉的牙齿，或踝部。一切都可以等待，可以等待它的时机。“我绝对接受时间老人。”而我的朋友卡尔，他有着臭虫般的活力，却急得尿裤子，因为四天过去了，他手里只有一张底片。“我不明白，”他说，“为什么我会死——不包括不幸的意外事故。”然后他搓着手，把自己关在房间里，实践他的不朽。他就像藏在墙纸背后的一只臭虫。
热辣辣的太阳晒透了凉棚。我神志昏迷，因为我在迅速死亡。每一秒钟都很重要。我没有听见刚才滴答过去的那一秒钟——我像疯子一样依恋着还没有报告自己到来的这一秒钟……什么东西赛过读维吉尔呢?这个！这个还没有在滴答声或节拍中界定自己、不断扩张的时刻，这个摧毁了一切价值、地位、差别的永恒时刻。这个时刻正从一个隐藏的源泉往上往外喷涌。没有真理可言，没有智慧可以传授。喷涌与潺潺声，同时对所有人说话，到处，用所有的语言。现在是疯狂和清醒之间最薄的一层面纱。现在一切都如此简单，以致一切都是骗人的。从这大醉的山巅，人们驱车下到健康的高原，人们在那里读维吉尔、但丁、蒙田以及所有那些只谈论那个时刻、那个永远被听到的扩张的时刻的其他人……同时对所有人谈话。喷涌与潺潺声。这是我把酒杯举到嘴边，同时看到苍蝇停在我的小手指上的时刻；苍蝇对这个时刻来说，就像我的手，像手里拿着的酒杯，像酒杯里的啤酒，像随啤酒一起产生又随啤酒一起消失的想法一样重要。这是一个这样的时刻：我在此时懂得了，一个“去凡尔赛”或“去叙雷讷”的标志，以及所有指示这个或那个地方的标志，都应该不予理睬，人们应该始终走向没有标志指示的地方。这是一个这样的时刻：我选择坐在那里的那条无人街道人山人海，而所有那些人山人海的街道则空空如也。这是一个这样的时刻：任何餐馆都是真正的餐馆，只要它不是别人指给你的就行。这是最好的食物，虽然这是我尝过的最糟糕的食物。这是除了天才以外没有人碰的食物——总是伸手就可以够着，容易消化，让你吃了还想吃。“罗克福尔干酪，味道怎么样?”女招待问。好得不能再好了！自干酪生产以来最不新鲜、蛆虫最多、最劣等的干酪，爬满了但丁、维吉尔、荷马、薄伽丘、拉伯雷、歌德的蛆虫，曾经有过并钻进干酪的所有蛆虫。想吃这块干酪，人们还必须得有天分。这是我将自己埋在其中的干酪，我，米格尔•费奥多•弗朗索瓦•沃尔夫冈•瓦伦丁•米勒。
引桥是用鹅卵石铺的。我把车骑得这样慢，以致每一块鹅卵石都分别向我的脊柱传去一个截然不同的信息，并通过脊椎一直传到那只疯狂的笼子，延髓在其中闪亮着它的信号灯。当我在塞夫勒过桥时，看看我的左右，我在过任何桥，无论它是在塞纳河、马恩河、乌尔克河、奥德河、卢瓦尔河、洛特河、香农河上，还是在利菲河上，无论是在东河上，还是在哈得孙河、密西西比河、科罗拉多河、亚马孙河、奥里诺科河、约旦河、底格里斯河、伊利瓦第河上，我越过任何一座桥时，也就越过了所有的河，包括尼罗河、多瑙河、伏尔加河、幼发拉底河。在塞夫勒过桥时，我像疯子圣保罗一样喊叫——“哦，死亡，你的刺痛在哪里?”我后面是塞夫勒，前面是布洛涅，但是在我脚下经过的这，这在某个地方以无数同时存在的细流发源的塞纳河，这来自亿万个源头的平静的喷涌，这面携着云彩前进并窒息了过去的镜子，奔腾向前，向前，向前，而我则在镜子和云彩之间横向运动，我，一个完全的法人实体，一个结束了无数世纪的宇宙，我和我脚下经过的这，在我头顶上飘过的这，以及我全身奔腾的一切，我和这，我和那，结合成一个连续的运动，这塞纳河和有桥跨过的每一条塞纳河都是一个正骑自行车过桥的人的奇迹。
这赛过读维吉尔……
回头朝圣克卢而去，轮子转得非常慢，疯狂的灰色笼子里的记速器喀哒喀哒地响着，像放新闻片。我是一个其测压计完好无损的人；我是一个机器上的人，机器操纵着一切；我捏着刹车骑车下山；我可以同样心满意足地踩古代惩罚犯人的踏车，让镜子在我头顶上过，历史在我脚下过，或者相反。我骑着车，沐浴在充足的阳光里，一个除了光的现象以外对一切都无动于衷的人。圣克卢山在左面高耸在我面前，树木俯身在我头顶上，用树荫遮蔽着我，道路很平坦，漫长且没有尽头，小塑像像子叶一般在教堂的钟里。一切中世纪或中年都是好的，无论在历史还是在人身上。阳光充足，道路向每一个方向伸展，所有道路都是下坡。我不会把道路铲平，也不会消除任何颠簸。每一次颠簸都给信号塔传去一个新的信息。我记下了经过的所有地点：要追溯我的思想，我只须追溯我的旅程，重新感受这些颠簸。
在圣克卢桥那里我完全停下。我不慌不忙——我有一整天要消磨。我把自行车放在树下的支架里，去小便池撒尿。全是肉汁，甚至小便池里也是。当我站在那里望着房子正面的时候，一个娴静的年轻女人把头探出窗外，盯着我看。有多少次我这样站在这个笑眯眯的仁慈世界里，阳光沐浴着我，小鸟儿叽叽喳喳疯狂啼叫，有一个女人从敞开的窗户往下看我，她的微笑碎成了柔软的小点点，小鸟将它们采集在嘴里，存放在小便池的底部，水在那里富有旋律地汩汩流淌。一个男人走过来，裤裆敞开着将他膀胱里装的热腾腾的东西浇在正溶解的碎屑上。就这样站着，心扉敞开着，裤裆敞开着，膀胱敞开着，我似乎回想起我去过的每一个小便池——所有最愉快的感觉，所有最奢侈的回忆，就好像我的大脑是一个被许多垫子压得喘不过气来的大沙发，我的一生就是在一个使人懒洋洋的炎热下午打了一个长长的瞌睡。美国放了一个尿壶在芝加哥的巴黎展览中心，我一点儿也不觉得奇怪。我认为它应该在那里，我认为这是法国人应该欣赏的一件礼物。对了，倒是没必要在它上面飘扬三色旗。这太过分了一点儿！然而，一个法国人怎么会知道，首先吸引美国参观者的目光，使他激动，使他一直暖到内脏里面的东西之一，就是这只无处不在的尿壶呢?一个法国人怎么会知道，美国人在看一个公共小便池或小便斗或诸如此类随便你愿意叫它什么的东西时，给他留下深刻印象的是这样的事实：他是在一个承认不时有撒尿必要的民族中间，这个民族还知道，撒尿的时候，人们必须得用阴茎，如果不是当众撒尿，就得在背地里撒尿，在街上撒尿并不比在地下让一个老流浪汉盯着你，不准你小便更不合适。
我是一个大量撒尿、经常撒尿的人，他们说这是伟大精神活动的一种标志。无论它怎么样，我知道，当我在纽约街上行走时，我是在不幸之中。我不断想知道，下一步该在哪里停下，我是否能坚持那么久。冬天，在你身上一个子儿也没有、饥肠辘辘的时候，中途停下，在一个暖洋洋的地下公用厕所里待几分钟，真是不错，春天到来时，这就是另一回事了。有人喜欢在阳光里，在盯着你、朝你微笑的人们中间撒尿。虽然蹲下在一个磁壶里放空其膀胱的女性并不怎么雅观，但是，有任何感觉的人都不会否认，看着男性站在一块锡板条后面，带着那种心满意足、悠闲自在的空洞微笑，那种长久的、怀旧的、舒适的眼神往外观望人群，是一件好事。把满满的膀胱放空是人类的一大快乐。
我专门喜欢去某些小便池——如聋哑人收容所外面的破旧车辆，在圣雅克街和拉贝德莱佩街的拐角；或者卢森堡公园附近“赫金森轮胎”那里的那一个，在达萨斯街和基纳美街的拐角。这里，在春天里一个暖和的夜晚，由于什么样一连串互相关联的事情，我不知道，也不关心，只是我重新发现了我的老朋友鲁滨逊•克鲁索。整个晚上都是在回忆、在痛苦和恐怖中度过的，快乐的痛苦，快乐的恐怖。
“这个人一生的奇迹”——原版本的序言这样说——“超过了现在可以发现的一切；一个人的一生几乎不可能经历更大的变化。”这个岛现在大家知道叫多巴哥，在浩瀚的奥里诺科河的入海口，在特立尼达西北三十海里的地方。鲁滨逊在那里孤独地生活了二十八年。沙滩上的脚印如此漂亮地凸现在封面上。那个星期五。伞……为什么这个简单的故事使18世纪的人如此着迷呢?请看拉鲁斯词典：
……关于一个人的冒险故事，他被抛到一个荒岛上以后，找到了自给自足的手段，甚至为自己创造了一种相对的幸福，这在另一个人类——野蛮人星期五——到来之后得以完成，是鲁滨逊把他从敌人手里夺下来的……这部小说的趣味不在于心理上的真实，而在于大量详细的细节，这给人一种强烈的真实印象。
所以，鲁滨逊不仅找到了生活下去的手段，而且甚至为自己建立了一种相对的幸福！妙哉！一个满足于相对幸福的人，因而是一个非盎格鲁撒克逊人！因而是一个前基督徒！把这个故事带到最新的时代，把拉鲁斯词典抛开，我们要在这里讲一个想要为他自己建立一个世界的艺术家，一个关于也许是第一个真正的神经病患者的故事，他自己凿沉了船，为的是在他时代之外生活在一个他自己的世界里，这个世界他可以和另一个人类，甚至一个野蛮人分享。特别要指出的是，在将他的神经病冲动付诸实施的时候，尽管他独自一人在荒岛上，也许除了一支旧猎枪和一条破裤子以外什么也没有，可他确实找到了相对的幸福。一段清白的历史，有两万五千年的后马格德林时代的进步埋在他的神经细胞中。18世纪的相对幸福观念！在星期五到来时，虽然星期五只是一个野蛮人，不说鲁滨逊的语言，但圆却完成了。我想再读一下这本书——将在某个下雨天读。一本卓越的书，达到了我们了不起的浮士德文化的顶点。像卢梭、贝多芬、拿破仑、歌德那样的人刚冒出地平线。整个文明世界用九十七种语言整夜整夜不睡觉读着它。一幅18世纪现实的图画。从此以后不再有荒岛。从此以后一个人无论碰巧生在哪个地方，那个地方就是一个荒岛。每一个人都是他自己的文明沙漠，他在上面遭遇失事的自我之岛：幸福，无论是相对的还是绝对的，都是不可能的。从此以后，每个人都逃离自己去发现一个想象的荒岛，实践鲁滨逊•克鲁索的这场梦。追随着麦尔维尔、兰波、高更、杰克•伦敦、亨利•詹姆斯、D.H.劳伦斯等等成千上万的经典作家。他们当中没有人找到幸福。兰波找到了癌。高更找到了梅毒。劳伦斯找到了结核病。瘟疫——就是它。管它是癌、梅毒、结核病，还是什么别的东西。瘟疫！现代进步的瘟疫：殖民化、贸易、免费《圣经》、战争、疾病、假肢、工厂、奴隶、疯狂、神经病、精神变态、癌、梅毒、结核病、贫血症、罢工、闭厂停工、饥饿、无效、空虚、不安、奋斗、绝望、厌倦、自杀、破产、动脉硬化、夸大狂、精神分裂、疝、可卡因、氢氰酸、恶臭炸弹、催泪瓦斯、狂犬、自我暗示、自我陶醉、心理治疗、水疗、电按摩、吸尘器、干肉饼、粒状麦粉、痔疮、坏疽。没有荒岛。没有天堂。甚至没有相对幸福。人们如此疯狂地逃离自己，以致他们在冰块底下，在热带沼泽地里寻求拯救，要不然他们就爬上喜马拉雅山或者在同温层使自己窒息……
使18世纪人们着迷的是末日的幻景。他们已经活够了。他们要一步一步地追溯着，重新爬回到子宫里。
这是拉鲁斯词典的附录……
在卢森堡公园附近的小便池里给我留下深刻印象的是，书里包含什么内容，真是太无关紧要了；重要的是读书的时刻，是包含着书的时刻，是明确并且始终把书放在一间房间的生活氛围中的时刻。这间房间阳光明媚，有着使人康复的气氛，普通的椅子，破地毯，做饭洗涤的味道，母亲的肖像显得很重要，像图腾崇拜似的，窗户临街而开，投射出懒洋洋伸展的杂乱形象，多节的树木，电车线，房顶上的猫，从晾衣绳上跳下来的零碎噩梦，正关上的酒馆门，打开的阳伞，结成块的雪，滑倒的马，飞转的发动机，结了霜的窗玻璃，发芽的树木。鲁滨逊•克鲁索的故事之所以吸引人是因为——至少对我来说——我在其中发现它的那个时刻。它继续活在越来越大的幻觉效应中，一种充满着幻觉效应的生活的生动部分。对我来说，鲁滨逊•克鲁索和维吉尔的某些部分属于同样的范畴——或者，现在是什么时候?因为无论什么时候我想起维吉尔，我就自动想起——现在是什么时候?我认为维吉尔是一个秃头，戴着眼镜，往后翘着椅子，在黑板上留下了一个油印渍；一个神志不清、张着大嘴的秃头，他连续四年来每星期有五天装作神志不清；一张满口假牙、发出这样一些奇怪的天书般胡言乱语的大嘴：稀稀疏疏有几个人在荒凉的大海上漂浮[1]。我生动地回想起他说这句话的发音中所带有的那种亵渎神圣的欢乐。一句了不起的话，据这个秃头、凸眼珠的婊子养的所说。我们审视这句话，从语法上分析它，我们拾他的牙慧，我们将这句话像鱼肝油一般吞下，我们将它像治消化不良的药一般咀嚼，我们像他那样张开大嘴，我们一年又一年在一周的五天里一天接一天地复制着奇迹，就像磨损的唱片，直到维吉尔完蛋，永远离开我们的生活。
但是每次这个凸眼珠杂种张开大嘴，吐出这个辉煌句子的时候，我听到了那一刻让我听到的最重要的话——现在是什么时候?马上该去上数学课了。马上该去休息了。马上该去洗餐具了……我是一个将对维吉尔和他那句操蛋的“稀稀疏疏有几个人在荒凉的大海上漂浮”诚实的个人。我不脸红，不结巴，没有一点儿不知所措，没有一点儿遗憾或后悔地说，在厕所里的休息值一千个维吉尔，过去值，也将永远值。在休息时我们觉悟起来。在休息时我们这些非犹太教徒，这些没有更好意识的人变得神志不清：我们从小隔间跑进跑出，把门关得砰砰响，把锁弄坏。我们似乎得了震颤性谵妄。在我们用食品互相开火、大叫大骂、互相绊跟头时，我们不时念念有词——稀稀疏疏有几个人在荒凉的大海上漂浮。我们引起的噪音如此之大，造成的损坏如此之多，以致当我们这些非犹太教徒去厕所的时候，拉丁文教师竟跟着我们一起去，或者如果他那天在饭馆吃饭，那么历史教师就跟我们进去。他们会做怪脸，站在厕所里，手里拿着抹了黄油的美味三明治，听我们这些小家伙放屁及发出粗厉的叫声。他们一离开厕所，去呼吸一下新鲜空气，我们就高声唱起歌来，这是不该受到指责的，但是这无疑是一种大受那些戴眼镜的教授们忌妒的状况，尽管他们很有学问，但他们自己也不得不时常使用厕所。
哦，厕所里的奇妙休息！我对薄伽丘、拉伯雷、佩特罗尼乌斯、《金驴记》等的知识，都要归功于这些休息。你可以说，我所有有益的阅读都是在厕所里进行的。最糟糕的情况下，也是读《尤利西斯》，或一本侦探小说。《尤利西斯》中有些段落只能在厕所里读——如果人们想要充分吸取其内容的味道的话。这不是诋毁作者的才能。这只是要使他更接近那出色的一伙：阿伯拉尔、彼特拉克、拉伯雷、维永、薄伽丘——所有那些卓越的、精力充沛的真正精灵，他们承认大粪就是大粪，天使就是天使。卓越的一伙，没有维吉尔的那句话。厕所越是摇摇欲坠，越是要塌似的，就越好。（小便池也一样。）要欣赏例如拉伯雷——像“如何重建巴黎城墙”那一段——我就推荐一个简陋的农村厕所，在一块玉米地里的一个户外厕所，有从门里照射出来的一小片新月状的光亮。没有按钮好揿，没有链子好拉，没有粉红色手纸。就一个做工粗糙的座，大到足够把你的屁股框在里面，还有两个适合于其他屁股尺寸的洞眼。如果你能带一个朋友来，让他坐在你旁边，那就好极了！一本好书在好伙伴中总是会得到更多的欣赏。你可以同一个朋友一起坐在户外厕所里消磨掉美好的半小时——将终生伴随你的半小时，以及它所包含的书，及其味道。
我说，你把一本伟大的书带到厕所去，绝无损于它的伟大。只有渺小的书才会因此而受损。只有渺小的书才会被当作擦屁股纸。《小恺撒》[2]就是这样一本书，现在已被翻译成法语，构成了《激情》系列。翻着书页，就好像我又回到家里，读着大字标题，听着他妈的收音机，坐着铁皮马车，喝着廉价杜松子酒，用玉米棒子操初出茅庐的妓女，把黑鬼吊死，活活烧死。这是让人拉肚子的东西。《大西洋月刊》或其他月刊，都是同样情况，奥尔德斯•赫胥黎、格特鲁德•斯泰因、辛克莱•刘易斯、海明威、多斯•帕索斯、德莱赛，等等，等等，都是这么回事。当我将这些老家伙带到抽水马桶那里去的时候，我并没有听到我内心有钟声响起。我一拉链子，他们就进了下水道。流入塞纳河，进了大西洋。也许一年以后，他们又冒出来——在康尼岛、米德兰海滨、迈阿密的岸边，同死水母、蜗牛、蛤蜊、废避孕套、粉红色手纸、昨天的新闻、明日的自杀在一起……
不再从钥匙孔里窥视！不再在暗中手淫！不再有公开的忏悔！从门框上拆掉门！我想要一个女性生殖器在其中显现为一道天然纯洁缝隙的世界，一个对骨骼、轮廓、天然原色有感受力的世界，一个对其动物起源既害怕又尊敬的世界。我讨厌看所有痒痒的、乔装打扮的、毁形的、理想化的窟窿眼儿。暴露出神经末梢的窟窿眼儿。我不要看少女偷偷在闺房里手淫，或咬指甲，或揪头发，或躺在一张满是面包屑的床上读整整一章书。我要马达加斯加人葬礼上用的杆子，动物叠动物，最上面是亚当和夏娃，夏娃的两腿之间有一道天然纯洁的缝隙。我要两性人，真正的两性人，而不是带着萎缩的阴茎或干窟窿眼儿走来走去的冒牌货。我要一种古典式的纯粹，大粪就是大粪，天使就是天使。例如，英王詹姆斯一世钦定的《圣经》英译本。不是威克利夫[3]的《圣经》，不是拉丁文《圣经》，不是希腊文《圣经》，不是希伯来文《圣经》，而是那部辉煌的、致命的《圣经》。它的产生，是在英语全盛时期，是在两万词汇就足以建立一块永久的丰碑的时候。一部用瑞典语或爪哇语写成的《圣经》，一部给霍屯督人或中国人读的《圣经》，一部不得不在法语的流沙中蜿蜒曲折地流淌的《圣经》，都不是《圣经》——这是假货、冒牌货。英王詹姆斯一世钦定的《圣经》英译本是由一个碎骨机的种族产生的。它复活了原始奥秘；复活了强奸、凶杀、乱伦；复活了癫痫、性虐待狂、夸大狂；复活了魔鬼、天使、龙、海中怪兽；复活了魔术、驱邪、传染病、符咒；复活了兄弟残杀、弑君、弑父、自杀；复活了催眠术、无政府主义、梦游；复活了歌曲、舞蹈、马戏表演；复活了占卜、阴间、神秘、奥秘；复活了权力、邪恶、光荣，这光荣就是上帝。一切都以巨大的规模出现，加了盐、香料，以便一切都能持续下去，直到下一个冰河时代。
一种古典的纯粹，然后——让邮政当局见鬼去吧！因为，如果古典作家们真的一直活下去不死，而我们和我们周围的一切却在死亡，那么究竟是什么使他们能够活着呢?如果不是他们身上的盐保护了他们，又是什么东西使他们不受时间的蹂躏呢?当我读佩特罗尼乌斯或阿普列尤斯或拉伯雷时，他们显得多么接近啊！那种咸味！那种动物园的味道！马尿和狮子粪的气味，老虎的呼吸和橡皮的气味。污秽、欲望、残酷、厌烦、智慧。真正的阉人。真正的两性人。真正的阴茎。真正的窟窿眼儿。真正的宴席！拉伯雷用人类的窟窿眼儿重建了巴黎的城墙。特里马尔奇奥把他自己的嗓子弄得痒痒的，连他自己的肠子都吐了出来，在他自己的泔水中打滚。在圆形剧场里，一个高大、睡眼惺忪的性反常者一般的恺撒心情沮丧，懒洋洋地躺着，狮子、豺、鬣狗、老虎、金钱豹都在嘎吱嘎吱地嚼着真正的人骨头——而前来的人——殉道者和低能儿，正走上金色的楼梯，高呼哈利路亚！
当我涉及厕所的主题时，我重新经历了我的某些最好的时光。站在布洛涅的小便池那里，圣克卢山在我的右边，窗户上的女人在我上边，太阳晒在平静的河水上，我看见我这个古怪的美国人正将这种宁静的感受传递给那些将随我而来的其他美国人，他们将在法国某个迷人的角落站在充足的阳光里，把他们饱满的膀胱放空。我祝愿他们一切都好，不要有肾结石。
我顺便推荐一下我很了解的某些其他小便池，那里也许没有女人对你微笑，但是那里有一堵断墙、一座旧钟楼、一座宫殿的正面、一个满是彩色遮篷的广场、一个马槽、一座喷泉、一群鸽子、一个书摊、一个蔬菜市场……法国人几乎总是选对了地方来建他们的小便池。我立即想起在卡尔卡松的一个小便池，如果我选好时间，它会让我看到那个城堡无可比拟的景象。它的位置如此之好，除非一个人有负担，或心神错乱，不然它必然会令人升起同样的汹涌澎湃的自豪感，同样的惊奇与畏惧，同样的对此景象的强烈依恋。疲惫的骑士或修道士曾歇在山脚下，那里现在奔腾着冲刷掉时代风尚的小溪，当他们抬头注视在风卷残云的天空映照下被炮火熏黑的可怖塔楼时，他们曾有过同样的感受。
我立刻又想到另一个小便池——就在阿维尼翁[4]的教皇宫外面。离那个迷人的小广场仅一箭之地。在春天的夜晚，广场上几乎尽是天鹅绒和花边、面具和五彩纸屑；时光如此静静流淌，以至于人们可以模糊听见小号吹响，过去像幽灵般溜过，然后淹没在深沉的击锣声中，粉碎了夜晚的无声音乐。离那个红灯闪耀的朦朦胧胧的小区仅一箭之地。在那里，你会在傍晚的清凉中发现弯弯曲曲的小街道上有忙忙碌碌的活动，女人们穿着泳装或者衬衣，懒洋洋地在门前台阶上，嘴里叼着香烟，招呼过路行人。夜幕降临时，墙壁似乎长到一块儿去了，从汇集到广场的各个小巷里拥来一帮好奇的饿汉，他们堵住了狭窄的街道，成群结队地到处乱转，像拖着尾巴寻找卵细胞的精子一样，无目的地冲到这里，冲到那里，最后被妓院敞开的无底洞吸了进去。
现在，当人们站在教皇宫旁边的小便池那里时，他们几乎不知道这另一种生活。教皇宫巍然屹立，冷冰冰的，像坟墓一般，面对着一个荒凉空旷的广场。它对面是一幢样子可笑的建筑物，叫作音乐学院。它们立在那里，隔着一块空地面面相觑。教皇们离去了。音乐没有了。一个辉煌时代的一切光彩和言论全消失了。要不是因为学院后面的那个小区，谁会想象教皇宫高墙里面的那种生活曾经是什么样子?在这座坟墓曾经活着的时候，我相信，教皇宫和底下弯弯曲曲的小巷是不分开的；我相信，那些肮脏破旧，用碎瓦做屋顶的小房子一直排列到教皇宫门前。我相信，教皇从他豪华的窝里走出来，进入明媚的阳光中时，他立即就和他周围的生活沟通了。壁画上仍然保留了那种生活的某些痕迹：户外的生活、狩猎、钓鱼、赌博、鹰、犬、女人、闪光鱼。一种奔放的天主教式的生活，有强烈的忧郁，也有焕发的青春，由罪恶、慈悲、悔悟构成的生活，一种由浅褐色和金棕色、由染有酒渍的袍子和橙红色流体构成的生活。教皇宫一个角落里有一间神奇的小房间，在那里人们可以俯瞰阿维尼翁各种令人难忘的屋顶和罗讷河上的断桥。在这间他们说教皇写训令的房间里，壁画仍如此之新，如此自然，如此充满生气，甚至这个今天是教皇宫的坟墓也似乎比户外世界更生气勃勃。人们可以想象，教会的一位伟大神父坐在他的写字台旁，面前放着一份教皇训令，胳膊肘旁边有一只大酒杯。人们还可以很容易地想象一个胖乎乎的漂亮荡妇坐在他的大腿上。而楼下，在那宽敞的大厨房里，各种动物正被叉子叉着在火上烤，教会的其他上层人物——一帮饕餮之徒，正在高墙深院的舒适与安全感中心满意足地狂喝滥饮。没有教会宗派，没有无益而琐细的分析，没有精神分裂。当疾病来临时，它横扫了贫民窟和宫殿，横扫了富有的教皇住地，也横扫了穷困的农民住地。当上帝之灵下凡到阿维尼翁时，它没有在路对面的音乐学院那里止步，它穿透高墙、肉体、等级。它在红灯区和山上都同样声势浩大地蔓延。教皇不可能把他的女人们抱起来放到一边就没事了。墙里墙外是一种生活：信仰、私通、流血。基本的色彩。基本的激情。壁画讲述着故事。它们如何经历了每一天，而一个整天就比书本更有吸引力。教皇咕噜着说出来的话是一回事——他们命令画在墙上的东西是另一回事。语言已经死亡。
【注释】
[1]该句出自罗马诗人维吉尔的史诗《埃涅阿斯纪》卷一。
[2]威廉•赖利•伯内特（1899——1982）于1929年所作的一部小说。
[3]约翰•威克利夫（1330?——1384）：英国神学家、欧洲宗教改革运动的先驱，曾把拉丁文《圣经》译成英语。
[4]法国东南部城市，历史上曾经是教皇都城。
天使是我的水印图案！
天使是我的水印图案！
这几页的目的是叙述一件杰作的起源。这件杰作正挂在我面前的墙上；它现在已经干了。我把这写下来，是要记录这个过程，因为我也许绝不会再有第二件这样的杰作了。
我们必须回过头去一点点……整整两天我都在拼搏着。如果用一句话来描述的话，我应该说我就像一颗卡了壳的子弹。这几乎是绝对精确的，因为当我今天早晨从梦中醒来时，留下来的唯一形象，是我那只像旧礼帽一样被压皱了的大衣箱。
关于第一天的拼搏是难下定义的，但是拼搏之激烈，足以使人瘫痪。我戴上帽子，前往雷诺阿[1]展览会，从雷诺阿展览会到卢浮宫，从卢浮宫到里沃利街——这里已不再像是里沃利街了。我坐在那里，为过往的怪物所吸引，喝了三小时啤酒。
第二天早晨，我带着要做点儿事情的信念爬起来。我处于一种敏锐的轻度紧张状态，这是一个好兆头。我的笔记本就放在我旁边。我把它拿起来，心不在焉地用拇指很快翻着它的页边。我又翻一遍页边——这一次更为专心了。笔记是用隐晦的词句写成的：一个简单的词组也许记录了一年的拼搏。有些句子我自己也破译不出来了——留待我的传记作者去破译吧。我还是一心想着今天要写下来的念头。我想我只是在翻着笔记本做准备工作，但是在我匆忙地扫视这些笔记本的时候，不幸的事情正在发生。
发生的事情是我接触了梅莉亚姨妈。现在我的整个生命都一下子涌上来，就像一股从地里冒出来的喷泉。我正同梅莉亚姨妈一起步行回家，我突然明白她疯了。她正问我要月亮。“就在那上面！”她尖叫，“就在那上面！”
这句话冲着我尖叫的时候，大约是上午十点。从这一时刻起——一直到今天早晨四点——我一直受着无形力量的控制。我把打字机放到一边，开始记录口述于我的东西。成篇成篇的笔记，关于每一个事件，我都被提醒到哪里去找到来龙去脉。放有我分类手稿的所有文件夹都被腾空，手稿摊了一地。我拿着一支铅笔躺在地板上，狂热地注释我的作品。这进行了一遍又一遍。我兴高采烈，同时又很担忧。如果以这样的速度进行下去，我会得脑溢血的。大约三点钟的时候，我决定不再服从。我要出去吃东西。也许午饭后，一切就烟消云散了。我骑上自行车，为的是让血液从脑袋里流走。我没有带上笔记本——故意这样。如果听写重新开始，那就倒霉了。我是出来吃午饭的！
在三点钟的时候，你只能吃冷餐了。我要了份加色拉调味汁的冷盘鸡。这比我平时多花一点儿钱，但这正是我之所以要这菜的原因。在争辩了几句之后，我要了一瓶烈性勃艮第红葡萄酒，而不是通常的普通葡萄酒。我希望所有这一切能分散我的注意力。这葡萄酒应该让我有点儿困意才行。
我接着喝第二瓶，桌布上写满了笔记。我的脑袋十分轻飘飘。我要了奶酪、葡萄和糕点。我很吃惊，我的胃口怎么这么好！然而，不知怎么的，食物好像没有下到我的胃里；好像别人正在为我吃掉这一切。嗨，至少我得为此付账！那是实实在在的……我付了账，重新骑上车，在一家咖啡馆停下，喝一杯清咖啡。两脚无法站稳。有一个人正不断对我口述——毫不考虑我的健康。
我告诉你，一整天就这样过去。我早就投降了。行，我对自己说。如果今天有这些念头，那么就有这些念头。公主殿下，悉听吩咐。我拼命干，就好像这正是我自己要做的事情。
吃了饭我感到很疲倦。那些念头仍然在淹没我，但是，我已经如此精疲力竭，以致现在我只能往后躺着，让这些念头像电按摩一样在我身上跳来蹦去。最后我变得十分虚弱，只能拾起一本书来，休息一下。这是一期旧杂志。我将在这里找到安宁。使我吃惊的是，书页打开时，出现了这样几个字：“歌德及其魔鬼”。铅笔又来到我手中，边页上记满了笔记。这已是深夜。我很高兴。听写停止了。又是一个自由人了。我他妈的如此快活，以至于很想知道，我是否该在坐下来写作以前骑车出去兜一圈。自行车就在我房间里。它很脏。我是说那自行车。我拿起一块破布，开始擦车。我擦干净每一根辐条，给车彻底上了油，把挡泥板擦得锃亮。它变得新崭崭的。我将穿过布洛涅森林……
在我洗手的时候，我突然感到肚子里绞痛。我饿了，这就是原因。好，既然听写停止了，我可以随心所欲。我打开一瓶酒，切下一大块面包，吃起了香肠。香肠里满是大蒜。很好。在布洛涅森林，没人注意大蒜味。再来一点儿葡萄酒。又一块面包。这一次是我在吃了，不会搞错的。另外几顿饭全浪费了。葡萄酒和大蒜香喷喷地混合在一起。我打了几下饱嗝。
我坐下来歇一会儿，抽支烟。在伸手可以够着的地方有一本小册子，大约三英寸见方。它的标题是《艺术与疯狂》。骑车结束了。无论如何已经太晚了，不能再写了。我突然感到我真正要做的事是画一幅画。1927年或1928年，我正在逐步成为画家。我时常过一阵就画一幅水彩画。你会突然有这样的感受：你想要一幅水彩画，你就画一幅水彩画。在疯人院里，他们发疯地傻画。他们画椅子、墙壁、桌子、床头……一种惊人的生产力。如果我们卷起袖子，像这些白痴一样去工作，我们一生中还有什么事情不能完成啊！
我面前那幅夏朗东的好友画的插图有极好的品位。我看到一个男孩和女孩紧挨着跪在一起，他们手里拿着一把大锁。艺术家没有画男女生殖器，而是赋予他们以钥匙，互相贯穿着的大钥匙。锁上也有一把大钥匙。他们的样子很快活，有一点儿心不在焉……在八十五页上有一幅风景画。它看上去就像希莱尔•希勒[2]的绘画之一。事实上，它比希勒的任何一幅绘画都好。它的唯一独特之处在于，前景上有三个毁了形的小人。也不是毁得很厉害——他们只是看上去太笨重，他们的腿承受不住。画的其余部分无可挑剔，只有吹毛求疵的人才会对此感到恼火。此外，世界会如此完美，以至于任何地方都没有三个人头重脚轻吗?我似乎感到，疯子有权像我们一样发挥他们的想象力。
我十分迫切地想要开始。同样，我想不出什么东西来。听写停止了。我有点儿想抄袭这些插图中的一幅，但是，然后我就有点儿为自己感到羞耻——抄袭一个疯子的作品是最坏形式的一种剽窃。
好，开始！就是这东西。先画一匹马！我心中模模糊糊地有我在卢浮宫看到的伊特鲁里亚马的印象。（注意：在所有伟大的艺术时代，马都是与人非常接近的！）我画了起来。我当然从这动物最容易画的部分开始——马屁股。给尾巴留下一点儿空间，以后可以加上。我刚一开始画躯干，就马上注意到我画得太长了。记住，你是在画一匹马——而不是一根肝泥香肠。我模模糊糊，模模糊糊地感到，我在黑色花瓶上看到的那些爱奥尼亚马似乎有长长的躯干；腿在身体里面开始，由一条在蜡纸上刻出的细线条勾出轮廓，你能不能看到这线条，全看你的解剖学本能了。心里想着这个，我就决定画一匹爱奥尼亚马，但是现在新的困难又来了。是腿的问题。在你只有你的记忆力可以依靠时，一条马腿的形状是很叫人捉摸不定的。我所能想起来的只有丛毛以下的部位，也就是说蹄子。在蹄子上画肉是一项很棘手的工作，极其棘手，而且要让马腿和身子自然地衔接上，不能好像是用糨糊贴上去的一样。我的马已经有了五条腿：最简单的方法是将其中一条变成一个勃起的生殖器。说时迟，画时快。现在它就像公元前6世纪的陶俑一般站立着。还没有尾巴，但是我在屁眼上方留下了一块空间。尾巴可以随时加上。主要问题是要使它显出动态，使它作腾跃状。于是我扭曲了前腿。它有一部分已处于动态中，其余部分还是站着一动不动。只要加上样子合适的尾巴，我就可以把它变成一只漂亮的袋鼠了。
在做腿的实验时，我把肚子画坏了。我尽最大努力把它修补好——直到它看上去像一座圆丘。不管它。如果我画完时，它看上去不像一匹马，我总是能把它变成一座圆丘的。（我不是看见在一只花瓶上有人睡在马肚子里吗?）
不仔细审视马的脑袋，就很难想象画马脑袋有多难。要把它画成一个脑袋而不是一个饲料袋。把眼睛画上去而不能让马发笑。要使表情保持马的样子，而不能变成人的样子。在这时候，我坦率地承认，我完全厌恶了我的本领。我想把马擦去重画，但我讨厌橡皮。我宁愿把马变成一架发电机或大钢琴，也不愿意把我的作品全部擦掉。
我闭上眼睛，试着十分宁静地在心中画一匹马。我得意扬扬地对着鬃毛、肩膀和胁腹部搓手。我似乎清晰地记得一匹马有什么感觉，尤其是苍蝇叮它时它抖动身子的样子，还有静脉血管那种热烘烘的蠕动。（在丘拉维斯塔[3]我常常在去田野之前用马梳梳刷公驴。我想——要是我能把它画成一头公驴，这会多少是一种安慰哩！）
于是我从头开始——这次先画马鬃。马鬃完全不同于猪尾巴，也不同于美人鱼的头发。基里科[4]在他的马上画的鬃毛棒极了。瓦伦丁•普拉克斯的也一样。马鬃很重要，我告诉你——它不仅是鬃毛的波浪。其中必须得有海洋，有许多神话。构成头发、牙齿、指甲的东西构不成马鬃。这是两回事……但是，在我陷入这种困境时，我知道，在着色的时候，我可以使自己摆脱困境。素描只是为着色寻找理由。颜色是托卡塔曲：素描属于观念领域。（米开朗基罗看不起达•芬奇是有道理的。有什么东西比《最后的晚餐》更可怕、更概念化到令人作呕的地步呢?有什么东西比《蒙娜丽莎》更矫揉造作呢?）
我说，加一点儿颜色就可以使马鬃富有生气。肚子确实有点儿不对劲，我明白。很好。在该凸出的地方我画成凹进去的，要不就相反。现在我的马突然奔驰起来，鼻子里喷着火，但是它的两只眼睛仍然看上去有点儿傻，有点儿太像人类了。因此，擦掉一只眼睛。妙。它变得越来越像马了。它的样子还变得有点儿逗人喜爱——像电影里的查理•蔡斯一样。
为了使它保持在它所代表的种类范围内，我最后决定给它画上条纹。我的想法是，如果它不失其顽皮，我可以把它变成一匹斑马。于是我就添上了条纹。现在，妈的，它似乎成了用纸板做成的。条纹把它展平了，把它贴到了纸上。嘿，如果我再次闭上眼睛，我应该能回想起沁扎诺[5]商标上的马——它也有条纹，漂亮的条纹。也许我应该下楼去要一瓶开胃酒，看一眼沁扎诺的商标。现在要开胃酒有点儿晚了。也许我终究要搞点儿剽窃。如果一个疯子可以画一个骑自行车的人，他也能画一匹马。
很奇怪——我发现有男女众神，有魔鬼、蝙蝠、缝纫机、花盆、河流、桥梁、锁和钥匙、癫痫病患者、棺材、骷髅——但是却没有他妈的马！如果编辑这本小册子的那个疯子想要引起真正深刻的观察，他就会说些什么来评论一下这种奇怪的疏忽。没有马的时候，就是从根本上出了毛病！人类艺术和马携手同行。暗示象征主义者和意象派有点儿出了毛病，或曾经出了毛病，都是不够的。在对疯狂的研究中，我们想要知道，马的情况怎么样了！
我再次转向八十五页上的风景画。这是一幅出色的构图，尽管有几何图形的僵化倾向（疯子像法国人一样，对逻辑和秩序有一种可怕的迷恋）。我从现在起有事做了：山、桥、台地、树木……疯子艺术的伟大功绩之一是：一座桥永远是一座桥，一所房子永远是一所房子。前景上倚靠着手杖的三个小人对构图来说并非绝对必要，尤其是因为我已有了那匹占据了相当大空间的爱奥尼亚马。我正寻找马的背景，景色上要有某种十分引起怀念、十分引起兴趣的东西，要有雉堞状的护墙，有圆锥形高丘上的陡坡，有开很多窗户的房子，就好像里面的住户十分害怕窒息似的。它很会令人联想到风景画的起源——然而它又完全在所有特定的时期之外。我应该粗略地说，它的范围介于乔托[6]和桑托斯•杜蒙特[7]之间——只有一点点未来后机械化街道的模糊暗示。现在，有这个作为我前进的向导，我便鼓起了勇气。干吧！
就在马屁股底下，它的臀部在那里开始，也在那里结束，萨尔瓦多•达利[8]很可能会在那里画一把路易十五式的椅子或一根手表发条，我则开始用自由自在的手笔画一顶草帽，一只甜瓜。草帽底下我画了一张脸——心不在焉地，因为我的念头是大量的，包罗万象的。随着线条的暗示性偏差，我的手落在了勃起的阴茎上，它曾经是第五条腿，现在我把它弯成了一个人的胳膊——就这样！现在我画成了一个戴着大草帽的人正在呵马屁股的痒。妙！妙极了！如果这看上去有点儿古怪，有点儿不符合原始构图的仿中世纪特点，那我总是能将之归因于给予我灵感的那个疯子的心理失常。（在这里，第一次有一种怀疑进入我的头脑：也许我自己也不太正常了呢！但是在三百六十六页上说：“最后，对马蒂斯[9]来说，对事物的感受力能充分表现出来，不受理智的支配，也没有视觉的精确性：这就是表现的开始。”）接下去……画那个人的脚，我又遇到了一些小小的困难，可我把他的下半身放在护墙后面，于是就解决了问题。他俯身在护墙上，很可能在做梦，同时他又在呵马肋骨的痒。（沿着法国的各条河流，你经常会碰见俯身在护墙上做梦的人——尤其在他们撒了一泡尿之后。）
为了缩减我的劳动量，也为了看一看将留下多少空间，我加上了一些粗斜纹或板子，作为桥面。就构图而言，这至少毁掉了这幅画的三分之一。现在是台地、陡坡、三棵树、雪山、房子以及房子上的所有窗户。这就像拼板玩具。无论什么地方的一座悬崖画得不太好，我就在什么地方把它变成一所房子的侧面，或隐藏着的另一所房屋的屋顶。我画着画着，渐渐靠近了那幅画的顶端，很幸运，画框在那里把事物都截去了。剩下要做的事就是画上树——和山。
现在树又是非常棘手的事情。要画一棵树，而不是一束花！尽管我把叉状的闪电画在簇叶里面，提供一个结构上的暗示，但还是不行。然后，用几片空中的云彩来去掉一些多余的簇叶（总有一条妙计使你的问题简单化，这就是把东西去掉）。但是云彩看上去像结婚用的花束上吹落下来的几片薄纸。云彩如此之轻，什么也算不上，可它却不是薄纸。每一件有形式的东西都有看不见的实质。米开朗基罗终生寻找着这实质——在大理石中，在韵文中，在爱情中，在建筑中，在罪恶中，在上帝中……（第三百九十页：“如果艺术家寻求真正的创作，那么，他关心的就不是这样的对象：这种东西可以根据创作的需要而被牺牲掉。”）
我开始画山——像穆罕默德。到现在，我开始明白解放的意义。一座山！一座山是什么?是一堆永远不受磨损的烂泥，至少，在历史时间中是这样。画一座山太容易了。我要画一座火山。我要为我的马寻找一个理由来喷鼻息和腾跃。逻辑！逻辑！“疯子流露出对逻辑的始终不渝的关心！”（法国人亦然。）嗨，我不是疯子，尤其不是一个法国疯子：我可以有一些自由，尤其是自由处置一个低能儿的作品。于是我先画火山口，一直画到山脚，同桥体结构和下面房子的屋顶衔接起来。画错的地方，我就画成了山腰里的裂缝——代表火山造成的破坏。这是一座活火山，它的侧面正在爆裂。
在我全部画完的时候，我手上拿了一件衬衣。一件衬衣，真的！我可以认出领口和袖子。它需要的一切就是一个罗杰斯•皮特的标签和十六号，或者你需要的尺寸……但是，有一样东西十分清晰地屹立着，这就是那座桥。它很古怪，要是你画成一个拱形，桥的其余部分就会自然而然地与之相适应。只有一个工程师才会毁掉一座桥。
就素描而言，画几乎已经完成了。底部一些松散的线条末梢，我连起来画成了公墓的大门。在左上角有一个火山留下的窟窿，我在那里画了一个天使。一个有着原始本性的人，一个纯粹无缘无故的发明，具有高度的象征性。这是一个悲哀的天使，肚子凹陷，翅膀用伞骨撑着。他似乎是从超越我观念核心的地方降临的，神秘地盘旋在人类现在已经失去的爱奥尼亚烈马的上空。
你曾坐在火车站里看人们消磨时间吗?他们坐着不是有点儿像垂头丧气的天使吗——足背折断，肚子凹陷?在这永恒的几分钟里，他们被宣判独自待着——不是得有伞骨撑着他们的翅膀吗?
宗教艺术中的所有天使都是虚假的。如果你想看天使，必须去中心车站或圣拉扎尔车站。尤其是圣拉扎尔车站——车站大厅。
我的绘画理论是尽快搞完素描，任意涂上色彩。我毕竟是一个善于运用色彩的画家，而不是一匹役马。那么，把颜料管拿出来吧！
我开始用深棕色天然颜料画一所房子的侧面。不太有效。在它旁边的墙上我掺和了大量深红色茜素。有点儿太糟糕，太意大利化了。总之，我的颜色一开始就着得不那么好。有一种阴雨天的气氛，多少令人想起于特里约[10]。我不喜欢于特里约的安谧的愚蠢，不喜欢他的阴雨天，也不喜欢他的郊区街道。我不喜欢他的女人们冲你撅着屁股……我取出切面包的刀子。还是试一下厚涂吧。正在大量挤出各种颜色的时候，我一冲动，决定在构图上添一只平底船，就在桥底下。我就把它插进去，于是它自动就下了水。
现在我知道画平底船的理由了。前几天看雷诺阿的画展，见到有一幅画的是威尼斯的景色，当然不可避免就有平底船。现在我的兴趣，尽管是微弱的兴趣，在于那个坐在平底船里的人，他明明白白是一个人，尽管他只是一个黑点儿，几乎同构成阳光、波浪滔滔的大海、正在倒塌的宫殿、帆船等等的所有其他黑点儿没有区别。他只是那种火一般色彩结合中的一个小点儿——然而他明明白白是个人。你甚至可以说他是一个法国人，他属于19世纪70年代左右……
这不是平底船的终结。在我回美国的前两天——1927年或1928年——我们在家中举行了一次大聚会。这是我水彩画生涯的顶点。
这种水彩画狂是以一种独特的方式开始的。我可以说，是由于饥饿。饥饿和极度寒冷。好几个星期我都和朋友乔在台球厅、公共厕所闲逛，只要是有人的体温而不用付钱的任何地方都去。一天晚上在回停尸房的路上，我们在一家百货公司的橱窗里注意到一幅透纳[11]作品的复制品。一切就是这样开始的。我无聊生活中最活跃、最有趣的时期之一。如果我说我们把画摊了一地，我一点儿也不是在夸张。画一干，我们就把它们挂起来——第二天我们把它们取下来，再挂上另一批。我们在旧画的背面画，我们把旧画洗掉，用刀子刮掉，在这些实验过程中，我们偶然发现了某些惊人的东西。我们发现如何用咖啡渣、面包屑，用煤和山金车花，来达到有趣的效果；我们把画放在浴缸里，让它们泡好几个小时，然后我们再拿着装满弹药的毛笔走向这些滴着水的煎蛋卷，向它们来一通万炮齐轰。透纳引起了这一切——这是1927年至1928年的寒冬。
在我出发的前两天，如我刚才所说，一些画家到家里来参观我们的工作。他们都是好人，没有不屑于显示对业余画家作品的兴趣。像往常一样，水彩画摊在地板上晾着。作为一个最后的实验，我们走过去，边走边倒一点儿葡萄酒在上面。大家很想知道，一只脏的鞋后跟或者最好意地从三英尺高度滴下的一滴酒会产生什么样的效果。热情高涨。我的两个朋友正用煤块在墙上画。另一位朋友在煮咖啡，为的是要弄一点儿新鲜可爱的咖啡渣。我们其余的人都在喝酒。
大家闹得正欢——大约凌晨三点钟——我老婆走进来。她似乎有点儿沮丧。她把我拉到一边，给我看一张轮船票。我看着票。“那是干什么?”我问。“你得走了。”她回答。“可我不想走，”我说，“我在这里很快活。”“我看也是。”她很有点儿挖苦地说。
不管怎么说，我还是走了。当我们停在泰晤士河上时，我的唯一想法就是去看一眼泰特美术馆中收藏的透纳作品。我终于到了那里，看到了著名的透纳作品。我有幸让那里的笨蛋之一喜欢上了我。我发现他自己就是一个很棒的水彩画家。完全靠灯光的作用。我真的讨厌离开伦敦，他使它变得同我如此融洽。总之，在我离开南安普敦的时候，我暗想——“圆现在完成了：从百货公司的橱窗到这里。”
但是，继续说……这平底船将成为代表作品！但是首先我得把墙清除干净。我拿起切面包的刀子，把它浸在胭脂红漆里，然后大量抹到房子的窗户上。天哪！房子马上就着起火来！如果我真的疯了，而不是冒充一个疯子的疯狂，我就会在画面上加上消防队员，我会把桥面上的粗斜纹板条变成梯子。可是我的疯狂采取了生起熊熊大火的形式。我让所有的房子都着火——先用胭脂红，然后用朱砂，最后用三原色的一种血污般的混合色。画的这一部分清晰而明确：这是一场大屠杀。
我纵火的结果是烧焦了马背。现在它既不是马，也不是斑马。它成了一条吞火的龙。原来要画尾巴而没有画的地方，现在是一捆鞭炮，而如果有一捆鞭炮在屁股上，就是一匹爱奥尼亚马也不会保持尊严的。我当然能接下去画一条真正的龙；但是这种改变和修补令我深感不安。如果你一开始画的是马，你就应该让它保持为一匹马——要不就完全将它消灭。一旦你开始篡改一种动物的骨骼，你就可以经历种类史的全过程。
用一种单一、不透明的绿色和靛青，我涂掉了马。在我心中，它无疑还在那里。人们看着这晦涩难解的东西，也许会想——多么古怪！多么荒谬！但是我知道，实际上这是一匹马。在一切事物的根底，都有某种动物：这是我们最深的困扰。当我看见人类像枯萎的葵花一样朝着光亮蠕动的时候，我就对自己说：“蠕动吧，你们这些杂种，你们爱怎么装腔作势就怎么装腔作势，但是实际上你们是海龟或豚鼠。”希腊人对马发了疯，可如果他们明智地继续作为半人半马存在，而不是扮演提坦的话——嘿，我们也许就会省去许多神话的痛苦哩。
当你是一个天生的水彩画家时，一切都是按照上帝的意志发生的。于是，如果你被吩咐把公墓大门画成一种纯净的橙黄色，你就画成这种橙黄色，你毫无怨言。不去管它们是否太鲜艳，不适合这样一些本该黯淡的大门。也许有一种未知的理由。说真的，在我画这种清澈明亮的黄色，这种我觉得是所有黄色中最美的一种黄色（甚至比长江入海口还要黄）时，我在发光，发光。阴郁的、使人发腻的、令人有压迫感的一切都被永远冲洗掉了。如果这是我这么多年都在厌恶和窘迫感中经过的柏树山公墓，我也不会感到吃惊。我总是从高架铁路的拐弯处往下看，总是从车站的站台上朝那里吐唾沫。要不就是圣约翰公墓，有着那些古怪的铅制天使，我在那里当过掘墓人。要不就是蒙帕纳斯公墓，冬天里看上去就好像得了炮弹休克症。公墓，公墓……上帝作证，我拒绝被埋在公墓里！我不会让任何低能儿拿着一个洒水器，低头站在我身边，一副哀悼的样子。我不需要这个！
在我头脑里转着这些念头的时候，我一直在用一支干画笔漫不经心地涂抹树和台地。那些树现在微微发亮，像一件锁子铠甲，树枝上点缀着银色和青绿色的小环。如果我手头有一张耶稣受难图，我就会让那些殉道者浑身布满宝石般的麻点。在我对面的墙上，是埃塞俄比亚荒野的景象。受难耶稣的尸体躺在地上，浑身都是天花；那些残忍的犹太人——邪恶的埃塞俄比亚犹太人——正用铁环使劲砸他。他们有一种发狂的欢乐表情。我是因为那些麻点才买的那幅画，到底为什么，当时我也不知道。现在我才发现了理由。现在我才想起包厘街一个地窖上面的某一幅画，标题是《臭虫上的死神》。碰巧我刚从一个疯子那里出来，一次并非十分不愉快的专业访问。这是大白天的下午，包厘街肮脏的喉咙口被痰块卡住了。就在库柏广场下面，有三个叫花子躺在灯柱旁边，这是勃鲁盖尔[12]风格。一个投币机游乐场在热闹运转。从街上升起一支神秘的、非人间的歌，就像一个人在震颤性谵妄中挥舞砍刀，夺路而行。那里，在倾斜的地窖门上方，是这幅叫作《臭虫上的死神》的画。一个披着亚麻色长发的裸体女人躺在床上搔痒。床飘浮在空中，旁边有一个拿着水枪的男人在跳舞。跟那些拿着铁环的犹太人一样，他身上有着同样的愚蠢样子。画上点画着许多麻点——代表广泛分布的、吸血的、没有翅膀的、扁平的、红褐色的、有恶臭味的、寄生于房子和床等地方的臭虫，它有个令人生畏的名字：温带臭虫。
现在我在这里拿着一支干画笔，把斑点弄到三棵树上。云彩上满是臭虫，火山正喷射出臭虫；臭虫正爬下陡峭的石灰岩悬崖，溺死在河里。有某个伊万诺维奇或别的什么人，在床垫弹簧上辗转反侧，被他饥饿的、一无成就的生活痛苦纠缠着，对所有他无法到手的美感到绝望，我就像他写的一首诗中二楼上的那个年轻移民。我的整个一生似乎都裹在那条肮脏的手绢里，那条包厘街，我一天又一天，一年又一年地从街上走过——一场天花，其疤痕永远不会消失。如果我有一个名字，那就是“温带臭虫”。如果我有一个家，那就是拉管长号。如果我有一种激情，那就是把我自己洗干净。
现在我在狂怒中拿起画笔，把它连续浸在各种颜色里，开始涂抹掉公墓大门。我抹啊抹，直至画的下半部像巧克力那样厚厚的一层，直至画真正散发着颜料的味道。当这幅画完全毁掉的时候，我坐在那里，带着一种木呆呆的欢乐，捻弄着大拇指。
然后，我突然有了真正的灵感。我把画拿到水池那里，在把它好好泡了之后，我就用指甲刷擦它。我擦啊擦，然后再把画倒过来拿，让颜色合成一体。然后我小心翼翼地，十分小心翼翼地，把画放平在我的书桌上。这是一件杰作，我告诉你吧！我刚才整整研究了三个小时……
你会说，这只是一种偶然，这件杰作，那么它就是一种偶然！不过，《圣经》中诗篇第二十三篇不也是这样吗?一切诞生都是奇迹式的——而且有灵感。现在出现在我眼前的是无数错误、退缩、涂删、犹豫的结果。这也是确信的结果。你愿意相信指甲刷，相信水，那就相信吧——尽一切办法，相信每一个人、每一件事吧！相信但丁，相信斯宾诺莎，相信希罗尼穆斯•博斯吧！贷方[13]现金，借方股份有限公司。请记入日记账：梅莉亚姨妈。就这样。结算一下。差一分钱，呃?如果你能从口袋里拿出一分钱，把账平了，那你会这样做的，但是你不再是同那实际上的一分钱打交道了。没有一部机器能聪明到足以发明、仿造那不存在的一分钱。真实和假冒的世界被我们甩到身后去了。从有形的东西中，我们发明了无形的东西。
在你能够结清账目的时候，你就不再拥有一幅图画。现在你有一个无形的东西，一个偶然，而你却整夜不睡，面对摊开的账本绞尽脑汁。你手头有一个负号。一切活生生的有趣资料都标明是负的。在你发现正的对应物时，你就——一无所有了。你有那种想象的、瞬间的东西，称之为“收支平衡”。平衡从来不存在。它是一种骗局，就像让钟停止，或者宣布休战。你结账，为的是要加上一个假设的重量，为的是要为你的存在制造一个理由。
我从来没有能够达到平衡。我总是负的东西，因此我有一个理由继续下去。我正在把我的整个一生都放到平衡中去，为的是可以达到一无所有。为了达到一无所有，你必须展示无限的数字。就是这样：在这个活的等式中，我的符号是无限。要达到“无”处，你必须横越一切已知的天地：你必须到每一处，才能到“无”处。为了拥有无序，你必须摧毁一切形式的秩序。为了要发疯，你必须极大地积累健全的神志。其作品给予我灵感的所有那些疯子都是被冷漠的清醒神志所触发。他们什么也没有教我——因为他们传给我们的决算表被证明是虚假的。他们的计算对我来说毫无意义——因为数字都被改过。他们传下来的奇异的金边账本有着夜间被催长的植物那种荒诞可笑的美。
我的杰作！它就像钉子底下的一块碎片。我问你，既然你在看它，那你在其中看到乌拉尔山脉那一边的湖泊了吗?你看到疯狂的卡茨[14]在用一把纸伞保持身体平衡吗?你看到图拉真[15]建筑的拱顶凸现在亚洲的烟雾中吗?你看到企鹅在喜马拉雅山融化吗?你看到克里克人[16]和塞米诺尔人[17]滑行通过公墓大门吗?你看到来自上尼罗省的壁画吗?上面有飞雁，有蝙蝠和大鸟笼。你看到十字军骑士剑柄上的奇异圆头以及吞下它们的唾液吗?你看到喷火的印第安人棚屋吗?你看到碱水槽、骡骨头以及发亮的硼砂吗?你看到伯沙撒[18]的坟墓，或者正在盗墓的鬼魂吗?你看到科罗拉多将张开的新嘴吗?你看到仰面躺着的星鱼和支撑它们的分子吗?你看到亚历山大快要胀裂的眼睛，或者引起这种胀裂的悲伤吗?你看到乌贼所依赖的墨汁吗?
不，恐怕你看不到！你只看见被冰河冻住、脸色凄惨得发青的天使。你甚至没有看见伞骨，因为你不是训练有素而能寻找伞骨的人。但是你看见了一个天使，你看见了一只马屁股。你可以留着它们：它们归你！现在天使身上没有麻点——只是一种清冷的蓝色聚光灯浮雕般地突显了他凹陷的肚子和折断的足背。天使在那里领你上天堂，在那里全是正的，没有负的。天使在那里就像一个水印图案，你的无差错视觉的保证。天使没有甲状腺肿，是艺术家有甲状腺肿。天使在那里将欧芹的小枝掉进你的煎蛋卷，把一枝三叶草插入你的纽孔。我可以将神话从马鬃上擦去；我可以把黄色从长江上擦去；我可以把椰枣从平底船上的人身上擦去；我可以把云彩和包裹带叉状闪电的花束的薄纸擦去……但是天使我擦不掉。天使是我的水印图案。
【注释】
[1]皮埃尔•奥古斯特•雷诺阿（1841——1919）：法国印象派画家。
[2]希莱尔•希勒（1898——1966）：美国画家、音乐家。
[3]美国加利福尼亚州南部城市。
[4]乔治•德•基里科（1888——1978）：意大利画家。
[5]一种意大利苦艾酒的牌子。
[6]乔托（1266?——1337）：意大利文艺复兴初期画家、雕刻家、建筑师。
[7]桑托斯•杜蒙特（1873——1932）：巴西航空发展的先驱者。
[8]萨尔瓦多•达利（1904——1989）：西班牙超现实主义画家。
[9]亨利•马蒂斯（1869——1954）：法国野兽派画家、雕塑家、版画家。
[10]于特里约（1883——1955）：法国画家。
[11]威廉•透纳（1775——1851）：英国风景画家，擅长水彩画。
[12]此处可能指小彼得•勃鲁盖尔（1564或1565——1636），佛兰德斯最伟大的画家彼得•勃鲁盖尔（约1525——1569）的大儿子，喜画地狱幻象。
[13]原文是credit，它既有“相信”又有“贷方”的意思，作者先说的是前一种意思，从这儿开始指后一种意思。
[14]由斯特拉文斯基作曲的芭蕾舞剧《火鸟》中的一位魔王。
[15]图拉真（53——117）：罗马帝国皇帝。
[16]北美印第安人的一支，属于操穆斯科格语的北美印第安部落。
[17]克里克人的旁支。
[18]新巴比伦王国的最后一位国王。
Walking Up and Down in China
Walking Up and Down in China
Now I am never alone. At the very worst I am with God!
In Paris, out of Paris, leaving Paris or coming back to Paris, it’s always Paris and Paris is France and France is China. All that which is incomprehensible to me runs like a great wall over the hills and valleys through which I wander. Within this great wall I can live out my Chinese life in peace and security.
I am not a traveler, not an adventurer. Things happened to me in my search for a way out. Up till now I had been working away in a blind tunnel, burrowing in the bowels of the earth for light and water. I could not believe, being a man of the American continent, that there was a place on earth where a man could be himself. By force of circumstance I became a Chinamana Chinaman in my own country! I took to the opium of dream in order to face the hideousness of a life in which I had no part. As quietly and naturally as a twig falling into the Mississippi I dropped out of the stream of American life. Everything that happened to me I remember, but I have no desire to recover the past, neither have I any longings or regrets. I am like a man who awakes from a long sleep to find that he is dreaming. A pre-natal condition-the born man living unborn, the unborn man dying born.
Born and reborn over and over. Born while walking the streets, born while sitting in a cafe, born while lying over a whore. Born and reborn again and again. A fast pace and the penalty for it is not death simply, but repeated deaths. Hardly am I in heaven, for example, when the gates swing open and under my feet I find cobblestones. How did I learn to walk so soon? With whose feet am I walking? Now I am walking to the grave, marching to my own funeral. I hear the clink of the spade, the rain of sods. My eyes are scarcely closed, I have barely time to smell the flowers in which they’ve smothered me, when bango! I’ve lived out another immortality. Coming back and forth to earth this way puts me on the alert. I’ve got to keep my body in trim for the worms. Got to keep my soul intact for God.
Afternoons, sitting at La Fourche, I ask myself calmly: “Where do we go from here?” By nightfall I may have traveled to the moon and back. Here at the crossroads I sit and dream back through all my separate and immortal egos. I weep in my beer. Nights, walking back to Clichy, it’s the same feeling. Whenever I come to La Fourche I see endless roads radiating from my feet and out of my own shoes there step forth the countless egos which inhabit my world of being. Arm in arm I accompany them over the paths which once I trod alone: what I call the grand obsessional walks of my life and death. I talk to these self-made companions much as I would talk to myself had I been so unfortunate as to live and die only once and thus be forever alone. Now 1 am never alone. At the very worst I am with God!
There is something about the little stretch from the Place Clichy to La Fourche which causes all the grand obsessional walks to bloom at once. It’s like moving from one solstice to another. Supposing I have just left the Cafe Wepler and that I have a book under my arm, a book on Style and Will. Perhaps when I was reading this book I didn’t comprehend more than a phrase or two. Perhaps I was reading the same page all evening. Perhaps I wasn’t at the Cafe Wepler at all, but hearing the music I left my body and flew away. And where am I then? Why, I am out for an obsessional walk, a short walk of fifty years or so accomplished in the turning of a page.
It’s when I’m leaving the Cafe Wepler that I hear a strange, swishing noise. No need to look behind-I know it’s my body rushing to join me. It’s at this moment usually that the shitpumps are lined up along the Avenue. The hoses are stretched across the sidewalk like huge groaning worms. The fat worms are sucking the shit out of the cesspools. It’s this that gives me the proper spiritual gusto to look at myself in profile. I see myself bending over the book in the cafe; I see the whore alongside me reading over my shoulder; I f eel her breath on my neck. She waits for me to raise my eyes, perhaps to light the cigarette which she holds in her hand. She is going to ask me what I am doing here alone and am I not bored. The book is on Style and Will and I have brought it to the cafe to read because it’s a luxury to read in a noisy cafe-and also a protection against disease. The music too is good in a noisy cafe-it augments the sense of solitude, of loneliness. I see the upper lip of the whore trembling over my shoulder. Just a triangular patch of lip, smooth and silky. It trembles on the high notes, poised like a chamois above a ravine. And now I am running the gauntlet, I and myself firmly glued together. The little stretch from the Place Clichy to La Fourche. From the blind alleys that line the little stretch thick clusters of whores leap out, like bats blinded by the light. They get in my hair, my ears, my eyes. They cling with bloodsucking paws. All night long they are festering in the alleyways; they have the smell of plants after a heavy rain. They make little plantlike sounds, imbecilic cries of endearment which make the flesh creep. They swarm over me like lice, lice with long plantlike tendrils which sponge the sweat of my pores. The whores, the music, the crowds, the walls, the light on the walls, the shit and the shitpumps working valorously, all this forms a nebula which condenses into a cool, waking sweat.
Every night, as I head toward La Fourche, I run the gauntlet. Every night I’m scalped and tomahawked. If it were not so I would miss it. I come home and shake the lice out of my clothes, wash the blood from my body. I go to bed and snore loudly. Just the right world for me! Keeps my flesh tender and my soul intact.
The house in which I live is being torn down. All the rooms are exposed. My house is like a human body with the skin peeled off. The wallpaper hangs in tatters, the bedsteads have no mattresses, the sinks are gone. Every night before entering the house I stand and look at it. The horror of it fascinates me. After all, why not a little horror? Every living man is a museum that houses the horrors of the race. Each man adds a new wing to the museum. And so, each night, standing before the house in which I live, the house which is being torn down, I try to grasp the meaning of it. The more the insides are exposed the more I get to love my house. I love even the old pisspot which stands under the bed, and which nobody uses any more.
In America I lived in many houses, but I do not remember what any house was like inside. I had to take what was happening to me and walk the streets with it. Once I hired an open barouche and I rode down Fifth Avenue. It was an afternoon in the fall and I was riding through my own city. Men and women promenading on the sidewalks: curious beasts, half-human, halfcelluloid. Walking up and down the Avenue halfcrazed, their teeth polished, their eyes glazed. The women clothed in beautiful garbs, each one equipped with a cold storage smile. The men smiled too now and then, as if they were walking in their coffins to meet the Heavenly Redeemer. Smiling through life with that demented, glazed look in the eyes, the flags unfurled, and sex flowing sweetly through the sewers. I had a gat with me and when we got to Forty-second Street I opened fire. Nobody paid any attention. I mowed them down right and left, but the crowd got no thinner. The living walked over the dead, smiling all the while to advertise their beautiful white teeth. It’s this cruel white smile that sticks in my memory. I see it in my sleep when I put out my hand to beg-the George C. Tilyou smile that floats above the spandangled bananas at Steeplechase. America smiling at poverty. It costs so little to smile-why not smile as you ride along in an open barouche? Smile, smile. Smile and the world is yours. Smile through the death rattleit makes it easier for those you leave behind. Smile, damn you! The smile that never comes off!
A Thursday afternoon and I’m standing in the Metro face to face with the homely women of Europe. There’s a worn beauty about their faces, as if like the earth itself they had participated in all the cataclysms of nature. The history of their race is engraved on their faces; their skin is like a parchment on which is recorded the whole struggle of civilization. The migrations, the hatreds and persecutions, the wars of Europe -all have left their impress. They are not smiling; their faces are composed and what is written on them is composed in terms of race, character, history. I see on their faces the ragged, multicolored map of Europe, a map streaked with rail, steamship and airplane lines, with national frontiers, with indelible, ineradicable prejudices and rivalries. The very raggedness of the contours, the big gaps that indicate sea and lake, the broken links that make the islands, the curious mythological hangovers that are the peninsulas, all this strain and erosion indicates the conflict that is going on perpetually between man and reality, a conflict of which this book is but another map. I am impressed, gazing at this map, that the continent is much more vast than it seems, that in fact it is not a continent at all but a part of the globe which the waters have broken into, a land broken into by the sea. At certain weak points the land gave way. One would not have to know a word of geology to understand the vicissitudes which this continent of Europe with its network of rivers, lakes, and inland seas has undergone. One can spot at a glance the titanic efforts that were made at different periods, just as one can detect the abortive, frustrated efforts. One can actually feel the great changes of climate that followed upon the various upheavals. If one looks at this map with the eyes of a cartologist one can imagine what it will look like fifty or a hundred thousand years hence.
So it is that, looking at the sea and land which compose the continents of man, I see certain ridiculous, monstrous formations and others again which bear witness to heroic struggles. I can trace, in the long, winding rivers, the loss of faith and courage, the slipping away from grace, the slow, gradual attrition of the soul. I can see that the frontiers are marked with heavy, natural boundaries and also with light, wavering lines, variable as the wind. I can feel just where the climate is going to change, perceive as inevitable that certain fertile regions will wither and other barren places blossom. I am sure that in certain quarters the myth will come true, that here and there a link will be found between the unknown men we were and the unknown men we are, that the confusion of the past will be marked by a greater confusion to come, and that it is only the tumult and confusion which is of importance and that we must get down and worship it. As man we contain all the elements which make the earth, its real substance and its myth; we carry with us everywhere and always our changing geography, our changing climate. The map of Europe is changing before our eyes; nobody knows where the new continent begins or ends.
I am here in the midst of a great change. I have forgotten my own language and yet I do not speak the new language. I am in China and I am talking Chinese. I am in the dead center of a changing reality for which no language has yet been invented. According to the map I am in Paris; according to the calendar I am living in the third decade of the twentieth century. But I am neither in Paris nor in the twentieth century. I am in China and there are no clocks or calendars here. I am sailing up the Yangtsze in a dhow and what food I gather is collected from the garbage dumped overboard by the American gunboats. It takes me all day to prepare a humble meal, but it is a delectable meal and I have a cast-iron stomach.
Coming in from Louveciennes… . Below me the valley of the Seine. The whole of Paris thrown up in relief, like a geodetic survey. Looking across the plain that holds the bed of the river I see the city of Paris: ring upon ring of streets; village within village; fortress within fortress. Like the gnarled stump of an old redwood, solitary and majestic she stands there in the broad plain of the Seine. Forever in the same spot she stands, now dwindling and shrinking, now rising and expanding: the new coming out of the old, the old decaying and dying. From whatever height, from whatever distance of time or place, there she stands, the fair city of Paris, soft, gemlike, a holy citadel whose mysterious paths thread beneath the clustering sea of roofs to break upon the open plain.
In the froth and bubble of the rush hour I sit and dream over an aperitif. The sky is still, the clouds motionless. I sit in the dead center of traffic, stilled by the hush of a new life growing out of the decay about me. My feet are touching the roots of an ageless body for which I have no name. I am in communication with the whole earth. Here I am in the womb of time and nothing will jolt me out of my stillness. One more wanderer who has found the flame of his restlessness. Here I sit in the open street composing my song. It’s the song I heard as a child, the song which I lost in the new world and which I would never have recovered had I not fallen like a twig into the ocean of time.
For him who is obliged to dream with eyes wide open all movement is in reverse, all action broken into kaleidoscopic fragments. I believe, as I walk through the horror of the present, that only those who have the courage to close their eyes, only those whose permanent absence from the condition known as reality can affect our fate. I believe, confronted with this lucid wideawake horror, that all the resources of our civilization will prove inadequate to discover the tiny grain of sand necessary to upset the stale, stultifying balance of our world. I believe that only a dreamer who has fear neither of life nor death will discover this infinitesimal iota of force which will hurtle the cosmos into whack -instantaneously. Not for one moment do I believe in the slow and painful, the glorious and logical, ingloriously illogical evolution of things. I believe that the whole world-not the earth alone and the beings which compose it, nor the universe whose elements we have charted, including the island universes beyond our sight and instruments-but the whole world, known and unknown, is out of kilter, screaming in pain and madness. I believe that if tomorrow the means were discovered whereby we might fly to the most remote star, to one of those worlds whose light according to our weird calculus will not reach us until our earth itself be extinguished, I believe that if tomorrow we were transported there in a time which has not yet begun we would find an identical horror, an identical misery, an identical insanity. I believe that if we are so attuned to the rhythm of the stars about us as to escape the miracle of collision that we are also attuned to the fate which is being worked out simultaneously here, there, beyond and everywhere, and that there will be no escape from this universal fate unless simultaneously here, there, beyond and everywhere each and every one, man, beast, plant, mineral, rock, river, tree and mountain wills it.
Of a night when there is no longer a name for things I walk to the dead end of the street and, like a man who has come to the end of his tether, I jump the precipice which divides the living from the dead. As I plunge beyond the cemetery wall, where the last dilapidated urinal is gurgling, the whole of my childhood comes to a lump in my throat and chokes me. Wherever I have made my bed I have fought like a maniac to drive out the past. But at the last moment it is the past which rises up triumphantly, the past in which one drowns. With the last gasp one realizes that the future is a sham, a dirty mirror, the sand in the bottom of the hourglass, the cold, dead slag from a furnace whose fires have burned out. Walking on into the heart of Levallois-Perret I pass an Arab standing at the entrance to a blind alley. He stands there under the brilliant arc light as if petrified. Nothing to mark him as human-no handle, no lever, no spring which by a magic touch might lift him out of the trance in which he is sunk. As I wander on and on the figure of the Arab sinks deeper and deeper into my consciousness. The figure of the Arab standing in a stone trance under the brilliant arc light. The figures of other men and women standing in the cold sweat of the streets-figures with human contours standing on little points in a space which has become petrified. Nothing has changed since that day I first came down into the street to take a look at life on my own account. What I have learned since is false and of no use. And now that I have put away the false the face of the earth is even more cruel to me than it was in the beginning. In this vomit I was born and in this vomit I shall die. No escape. No Paradise to which I can flee. The scale is at balance. Only a tiny grain of sand is needed, but this tiny grain of sand it is impossible to find. The spirit and the will are lacking. I think again of the wonder and the terror with which the street first inspired me. I recall the house I lived in, the mask it wore, the demons which inhabited it, the mystery that enveloped it; I recall each being who crossed the horizon of my childhood, the wonder that wrapped him about, the aura in which he floated, the touch of his body, the odor he gave off; I recall the days of the week and the gods that ruled over them, their fatality, their fragance, each day so new and splendorous or else long and terrifyingly void; I recall the home we made and the objects which composed it, the spirit which animated it; I recall the changing years, their sharp decisive edges, like a calendar hidden away in the trunk of the family tree; I recall even my dreams, both those of night and those of day. Since passing the Arab I have traversed a long straight road toward infinity, or at least I have the illusion that I am traversing a straight and endless road. I forgot that there is such a thing as the geodetic curve, that no matter how wide the deviation, there where the Arab stands, should I keep going, I shall return again and again. At every crossroads I shall come upon a figure with human contours standing in a stone trance, a figure pitted against a blind alley with a brilliant arc light glaring down upon him.
Today I am out for another grand obsessional walk. I and myself firmly glued together. Again the sky hangs motionless, the air stilly hushed. Beyond the great wall that hems me in the musicians are tuning up. Another day to live before the debacle! Another day! While mumbling thus to myself I swing suddenly round past the cemetery wall into the Rue de Maistre. The sharp swing to the right plunges me into the very bowels of Paris. Through the coiling, sliding intestines of Montmartre the street runs like a jagged knife wound. I am walking in blood, my heart on fire. Tomorrow all this will perish, and I with it. Beyond the wall the devils are tuning up. Faster, faster, my heart is afire!
Climbing the hill of Montmartre, St. Anthony on one side of me, Beelzebub on the other. One stands there on the high hill, resplendent in his whiteness. The surf ace of the mind breaks into a choppy sea. The sky reels, the earth sways. Climbing up the hill, above the granulated lids of the roofs, above the scarred shutters and the gasping chimney pots….
At that point where the Rue Lepic lies over on its side for a breathing spell, where it bends like a hairpin to renew the steep ascent, it seems as if a flood tide had receded and left behind a rich marine deposit. The dance halls, the bars, the cabarets, all the incandescent lace and froth of the electrical night pales before the seething mass of edibles which girdle the base of the hill. Paris is rubbing her belly. Paris is smacking her lips. Paris is whetting her palate for the feast to come. Here is the body moving always in its ambiance-a great dynamic procession, like the temple friezes of Egypt, like the Etruscan legend, like the morning of the glory of Crete. Everything staggeringly alive, a swarm of differentiated matter. The warm hive of the human body, the grape cluster, the honey stored away like warm diamonds. The streets swarm through my fingers. I gather up the whole of France in my one hand. In the honeycomb I am, in the warm belly of the Sphinx. The sky and the earth they tremble with the live, pleasant weight of humanity. At the very core is the body. Beyond is doubt, despair, disillusionment. The body is the fundament, the imperishable.
Along the Rue d’Orsel, the sun sinking. Perhaps it’s the sun sinking, perhaps it’s the street itself dismal as a vestibule. My blood is sinking of its own weight into the fragile, glassy hemorrhoids of the nerves. Over the sorrow-bitten facades a thin scum of grease, a thin green film of fadedness, a touch of dementia. And then suddenly, presto! all is changed. Suddenly the street opens wide its jaws and there, like a still white dream, like a dream embedded in stone, the Sacre Coeur rises up. A late afternoon and the heavy whiteness of it is stifling. A heavy, somnolent whiteness, like the belly of a jaded woman. Back and forth the blood ebbs, the contours rounded with soft light, the huge, billowy cupolas taut as savage teats. On the dizzy escarpments the trees stick out like spiny thorns whose fuzzy boughs wave sluggishly above the invisible current that moves trancelike beneath the roots. Pieces of sky still clinging to the tips of the boughs-soft, cottony wisps dyed with an eastern blue. Level above level, the green earth dotted with bread crumbs, with mangy dogs, with little cannibals who leap out of the pouches of kangaroos.
From the bones of the martyrs the white balustrades, the martyred limbs still writhing in agony. Silk legs crossed in Kufic characters, maybe silk sluts, maybe thin cormorants, maybe dead houris. The whole bulging edifice with its white elephant skin and its heavy stone breasts bears down on Paris with a Moorish fatalism.
Night is coming on, the night of the boulevards, with the sky red as hell-fire, and from Clichy to Barbes a fretwork of open tombs. The soft Paris night, like a ladder of toothless gums, and the ghouls grinning between the rungs. All along the foot of the hill the urinals are gurgling, their mouths choked with soft bread. It’s in the night that Sacre Coeur stands out in all its stinking loveliness. Then it is that the heavy whiteness of her skin and her humid stone breath clamps down on the blood like a valve. The night and Paris pissing her white fevered blood away. Time rolling out over the xylophones, the moon gonged, the mind gouged. Night comes like an upturned cuspidor and the fine flowers of the mind, the golden jonquils and the chalk poppies, are chewed to slaver. Up on the high hill of Montmartre, under a sky-blue awning, the great stone horses champ noiselessly. The pounding of their hoofs sets the earth trembling north in Spitzbergen, south in Tasmania. The globe spins round on the soft runway of the boulevards. Faster and faster she spins. Faster and faster, while beyond the rim the musicians are tuning up. Again I hear the first notes of the dance, the devil dance with poison and shrapnel, the dance of flaming heartbeats, each heart aflame and shrieking in the night.
On the high hill, in the spring night, alone in the giant body of the whale, I am hanging upside down, my eyes filled with blood, my hair white as worms. One belly, one corpse, the great body of the whale rotting away like a fetus under a dead sun. Men and lice, men and lice, a continuous procession toward the maggot heap. This is the spring that Jesus sang, the sponge to his lips, the frogs dancing. No trace of rust, no stain of melancholy. The head slung down between the crotch in black frenzied dream, the past slowly sinking, the image balled and chained. In every womb the pounding of iron hoofs, in every grave the roar of hollow shells. Womb and shell and in the hollow of the womb a full-grown idiot picking buttercups. Man and horse moving now in one body, the hands soft, the hoofs cloven. On they come in steady procession, with red eyeballs and fiery manes. Spring is coming in the night with the roar of a cataract. Coming on the wings of mares, their manes flying, their nostrils smoking.
Up the Rue Caulaincourt, over the bridge of tombs. A soft spring rain falling. Below me the little white chapels where the dead lie buried. A splash of broken shadows from the heavy lattice work of the bridge. The grass is pushing up through the sod, greener now than by day-an electric grass that gleams with horsepower carats. Farther on up the Rue Caulaincourt I come upon a man and woman. The woman is wearing a straw hat. She has an umbrella in her hand but she doesn’t open it. As I approach I hear her saying-‘Vest une combinaison!”-and thinking that combinaison means underwear I prick up my ears. But it’s a different sort of combinaison she’s talking about and soon the fur is flying. Now I see why the umbrella was kept closed. “Combinaison!” she shrieks, and with that she begins to ply the umbrella. And all the poor devil can say is— “Mais non, ma petite, mais non!”
The little scene gives me intense pleasure-not because she is plying him with the umbrella, but because I had forgotten the other meaning of “combinaison.” I look to the right of me and there on a slanting street is precisely the Paris I have always been searching for. You might know every street in Paris and not know Paris, but when you have forgotten where you are and the rain is softly falling, suddenly in the aimless wandering you come to the street through which you have walked time and again in your sleep and this is the stree1. you are now walking through.
It was along this very street that I passed one day and saw a man lying on the sidewalk. He was lying flat on his back with arms outstretched-as if he had just been taken down from the cross. Not a soul approached him, not one, to see if he were dead or not. He lay there flat on his back, with arms outstretched, and there was not the slightest stir or movement of his body. As I passed close to the man I reassured myself that he was not dead. He was breathing heavily and there was a trickle of tobacco juice coming from his lips. As I reached the corner I paused a moment to see what would happen. Hardly had I turned round when a gale of laughter greeted my ears. Suddenly the doorways and shopfronts were crowded. The whole street had become animated in the twinkling of an eye. Men and women standing with arms akimbo, the tears rolling down their cheeks. I edged my way through the crowd which had gathered around the prostrate figure on the sidewalk. I couldn’t understand the reason for this sudden interest, this sudden spurt of hilarity. Finally I broke through and stood again beside the body of the man. He was lying on his back as before. There was a dog standing over him and its tail was wagging with glee. The dog’s nose was buried in the man’s open fly. That’s why everybody was laughing so. I tried to laugh too. I couldn’t. I became sad, frightfully sad, sadder than I’ve ever been in all my life. I don’t know what came over me…
All this I remember now climbing the slanting street. It was just in front of the butcher shop across the way, the one with the red and white awning. I cross the street and there on the wet pavement, exactly where the other man had lain, is the body of a man with arms outstretched. I approach to have a good look at him. It’s the same man, only now his fly is buttoned and he’s dead. I bend over him to make absolutely sure that it’s the same man and that he’s dead. I make absolutely sure be fore I get up and wander off. At the corner I pause a moment. What am I waiting for? I pause there on one heel expecting to hear again that gale of laughter which I remember so vividly. Not a sound. Not a person in sight. Except for myself and the man lying dead in front of the butcher shop the street is deserted. Perhaps it’s only a dream. I look at the street sign to see if it be a name that I know, a name I mean that I would recognize if I were awake. I touch the wall beside me, tear a little strip from the poster which is pasted to the wall. I hold the little strip of paper in my hand a moment, then crumple it into a tiny pill and flip it in the gutter. It bounces away and falls into a gleaming puddle. I am not dreaming apparently. The moment I assure myself that I am awake a cold fright seizes me. If 1 am not dreaming then I am insane. And what is worse, if I am insane I shall never be able to prove whether I was dreaming or awake. But perhaps it isn’t necessary to prove anything, comes the assuring thought. I am the only one who knows about it. I am the only one who has doubts. The more I think of it the more I am convinced that what disturbs me is not whether I am dreaming or insane but whether the man on the sidewalk, the man with arms outstretched, was myself. If it is possible to leave the body in dream, or in death, perhaps it is possible to leave the body forever, to wander endlessly unbodied, unhooked, a nameless identity, or an unidentified name, a soul unattached, indifferent to everything, a soul immortal, perhaps incorruptible, like God-who can say?
My body-the places it knew, so many places, and all so strange and unrelated to me. God Ajax dragging me by the hair, dragging me through far streets in far places -crazy places … Quebec, Chula Vista, Brownsville, Suresnes, Monte Carlo, Czernowitz, Darmstadt, Canarsie, Carcassonne, Cologne, Clichy, Cracow, Budapest, Avignon, Vienna, Prague, Marseilles, London, Montreal, Colorado Springs, Imperial City, Jacksonville, Cheyenne, Omaha, Tucson, Blue Earth, Tallahassee, Chamonix, Greenpoint, Paradise Point, Point Loma, Durham, Juneau, Arles, Dieppe, Aix-la-Chapelle, Aixen-Provence, Havre, Nimes, Asheville, Bonn, Herki-mer, Glendale, Ticonderoga, Niagara Falls, Spartanburg, Lake Titicaca, Ossining, Dannemora, Narragansett, Nuremberg, Hanover, Hamburg, Lemberg, Needles, Calgary, Galveston, Honolulu, Seattle, Otay, Indianapolis, Fairfield, Richmond, Orange Court House, Culver City, Rochester, Utica, Pine Bush, Carson City, Southold, Blue Point, Juarez, Mineola, Spuyten Duyvil, Pawtucket, Wilmington, Coogan’s Bluff, North Beach, Toulouse, Perpignan, Fontenay-aux-Roses, Widde-combe-in-the-Moor, Mobile, Louveciennes…. In each and every one of these places something happened to me, something fatal. In each and every one of these places I left a dead body on the sidewalk with arms outstretched. Each and every time I bent over to take a good look at myself, to reassure myself that the body was not alive and that it was not I but myself that I was leaving behind. And on I went-on and on and on. And I am still going and I am alive, but when the rain starts to fall and I get to wandering aimlessly I hear the clanking of these dead selves peeled off in my journeying and I ask myself—what next? You might think there was a limit to what the body could endure, but there’s none. So high does the body stand above suffering that when everything has been killed there remains always a toenail or a clump of hair which sprouts and it’s these immortal sprouts which remain forever and ever. So that even when you are absolutely dead and forgotten some microscopic part of you still sprouts, and be the past future so dead there’s still some little part alive and sprouting.
It’s thus I’m standing one afternoon in the broiling sun outside the little station at Louveciennes, a tiny part of me alive and sprouting. The hour when the stock report comes through the air-over the air, as they say. In the bistro across the way from the station is hidden a machine and in the machine is hidden a man and in the man is hidden a voice. And the voice, which is the voice of a full-grown idiot, says-American Can… . American Tel. & Tel… . In French it says it, which is even more idiotic. American Can … American Tel. & Tel… . And then suddenly, like Jacob when he mounted the golden ladder, suddenly all the voices of heaven break loose. Like a geyser spurting forth from the bare earth the whole American scene gushes upAmerican Can, American Tel. & Tel., Atlantic & Pacific, Standard Oil, United Cigars, Father John, Sacco & Vanzetti, Uneeda Biscuit, Seaboard Air Line, Sapolio, Nick Carter, Trixie Friganza, Foxy Grandpa, the Gold Dust Twins, Tom Sharkey, Valeska Suratt, Commodore Schley, Millie de Leon, Theda Bara, Robert E. Lee, Little Nemo, Lydia Pinkham, Jesse James, Annie Oakley, Diamond Jim Brady, Schlitz-Milwaukee, Hemp St. Louis, Daniel Boone, Mark Hanna, Alexander Dowie, Carrie Nation, Mary Baker Eddy, Pocahontas, Fatty Arbuckle, Ruth Snyder, Lillian Russell, Sliding Billy Watson, Olga Nethersole, Billy Sunday, Mark Twain, Freeman & Clarke, Joseph Smith, Battling Nelson, Aimee Semple McPherson, Horace Greeley, Pat Rooney, Peruna, John Philip Sousa, Jack London, Babe Ruth, Harriet Beecher Stowe, Al Capone, Abe Lincoln, Brigham Young, Rip Van Winkle, Krazy Kat, Liggett & Meyers, the Hallroom Boys, Horn & Hardart, Fuller Brush, the Katzenjammer Kids, Gloomy Gus, Thomas Edison, Buffalo Bill, the Yellow Kid, Booker T. Washington, Czolgosz, Arthur Brisbane, Henry Ward Beecher, Ernest Seton Thompson, Margie Pennetti, Wrigley’s Spearmint, Uncle Remus, Svoboda, David Harum, John Paul Jones, Grape Nuts, Aguinaldo, Nell Brinkley, Bessie McCoy, Tod Sloan, Fritzi Scheff, Laf-cadio Hearn, Anna Held, Little Eva, Omega Oil, Maxine Elliott, Oscar Hammerstein, Bostock, The Smith Brothers, Zbysko, Clara Kimball Young, Paul Revere, Samuel Gompers, Max Linder, Ella Wheeler Wilcox, Corona-Corona, Uncas, Henry Clay, Woolworth, Patrick Henry, Cremo, George C. Tilyou, Long Tom, Christy Matthewson, Adeline Genee, Richard Carle, Sweet Caporals, Park & Tilford’s, Jeanne Eagels, Fanny Hurst, Olga Petrova, Yale & Towne, Terry McGovern, Frisco, Marie Cahill, James J. Jeffries, the Housatonic, the Penobscot, Evangeline, Sears Roebuck, the Salmagundi, Dreamland, P. T. Barnum, Luna Park, Hiawatha, Bill Nye, Pat McCarren, the Rough Riders, Mischa Elman, David Belasco, Farragut, The Hairy Ape, Minnehaha, Arrow Collars, Sunrise, Sun Up, the Shenandoah, Jack Johnson, the Little Church Around the Corner, Cab Calloway, Elaine Hammerstein, Kid McCoy, Ben Ami, Ouida, Peck’s Bad Boy, Patti, Eugene V. Debs, Delaware & Lackawanna, Carlo Tresca, Chuck Connors, George Ade, Emma Goldman, Sitting Bull, Paul Dressler, Child’s, Hubert’s Museum, The Bum, Florence Mills, the Alamo, Peacock Alley, Pomander Walk, The Gold Rush, Sheepshead Bay, Strangler Lewis, Mimi Aguglia, The Barber Shop Chord, Bobby Walthour, Painless Parker, Mrs. Leslie Carter, The Police Gazette, Carter’s Little Liver Pills, Bustanoby’s, Paul & Joe’s, William Jennings Bryan, George Al. Cohan, Swami Vivekananda, Sadakichi Hartman, Elizabeth Gurley Flynn, the Monitor and the Merrimac, Snuffy the Cabman, Dorothy Dix, Amato, the Great Sylvester, Joe Jackson, Bunny, Elsie Janis, Irene Franklin, The Beale Street Blues, Ted Lewis, Wine, Woman & Song, Blue Label Ketchup, Bill Bailey, Sid Olcott, In the Gloaming Genevieve and the Banks of the Wabash far away…
Everything American coming up in a rush. And with every name a thousand intimate details of my life are connected. What Frenchman passing me in the street suspects that I carry around inside me a dictionary of names? and with each name a life and a death? When I walk down the street with a rapt air does any frog know what street I’m walking down? Does he know that I am walking inside the great Chinese Wall? Nothing is registered in my face-neither suffering, nor joy, nor hope, nor despair. I walk the streets with the face of a coolie. I have seen the land ravaged, homes devastated, families uptorn. Each city I walked through has killed me-so vast the misery, so endless the unremitting toil. From one city to another I walk, leaving behind me a grand procession of dead and clanking selves. But 1 myself go on and on and on. And all the while I hear the musicians tuning up….
Last night I was walking again through the Fourteenth Ward. I came again upon my idol, Eddie Carney, the boy whom I have not seen since I left the old neigh borhood. He was tall and thin, handsome in an Irish way. He took possession of me body and soul. There were three streets-North First, Fillmore Place and Driggs Avenue. These marked the boundaries of the known world. Beyond was Thule, Ultima Thule. It was the period of San Juan Hill, Free Silver, Pinocchio, Uneeda. In the basin, not far from Wallabout Market, lay the warships. A strip of asphalt next to the curb allowed the cyclists to spin to Coney Island and back. In every package of Sweet Caporals there was a photograph, sometimes a soubrette, sometimes a prizefighter, sometimes a flag. Toward evening Paul Sauer would put a tin can through the bars of his window and call for raw sauerkraut. Also toward evening Lester Reardon, proud, princely, golden-haired, would walk from his home past the baker shop-an event of primary importance. On the south side lay the homes of the lawyers and physicians, the politicians, the actors, the firehouse, the funeral parlor, the Protestant churches, the burlesk, the fountain; on the north side lay the tin factory, the iron works, the veterinary’s, the cemetery, the schoolhouse, the police station, the morgue, the slaughterhouse, the gas tanks, the fish market, the Democratic club. There were only three men to fear-old man Ramsay, the gospel-monger, crazy George Denton, the peddler, and Doc Martin, the bug exterminator. Types were already clearly distinguishable: the buffoons, the earth men, the paranoiacs, the volatiles, the mystagogues, the drudges, the nuts, the drunkards, the liars, the hypocrites, the harlots, the sadists, the cringers, the misers, the fanatics, the Urnings, the criminals, the saints, the princes. Jenny Maine was hump for the monkeys. Alfie Betcha was a crook. Joe Goeller was a sissy. Stanley was my first friend. Stanley Borowski. He was the first “other” person I recognized. He was a wildcat. Stanley recognized no law except the strap which his old man kept in the back of the barber shop. When his old man belted him you could hear Stanley screaming blocks away. In this world everything was done openly, in broad daylight. When Silberstein the pants maker went out of his mind they laid him out on the sidewalk in front of his home and put the strait jacket on him. His wife, who was with child, was so terrified that she dropped the brat on the sidewalk right beside him. Professor Martin, the bug exterminator, was just returning home after a long spree. He had two ferrets in his coat pockets and one of them got away on him. Stanley Borowski drove the ferret down the sewer for which he got a black eye then and there from Professor Martin’s son Harry who was a halfwit. On the shed over the paint shop, just across the street, Willie Maine was standing with his pants down, jerking away for dear life. “Bjork” he said. “Bjork! Bjork” The fire engine came and turned the hose on him. His old man, who was a drunkard, called the cops. The cops came and almost beat his old man to death. Meanwhile, a block away, Pat McCarren was standing at the bar treating his cronies to champagne. The matinee was just over and the soubrettes from The Bum were piling into the back room with their sailor friends. Crazy George Denton was driving his wagon up the street, a whip in one hand and a Bible in the other. At the top of his crazy voice he was yelling “Inasmuch as ye do it unto the least of my brethren ye do it unto me also,” or some such crap. Mrs. Gorman was standing in the doorway in her dirty wrapper, her boobies half out, and mutter ing “Tch tch tch! ” She was a member of Father Carroll’s church on the north side. “Good marnin’ father, fine marnin’ this marnin’!”
It was this evening, after the dinner, that it all came over me again-I mean about the musicians and the dance they are making ready. We had prepared a humble banquet for ourselves, Carl and I. A meal made entirely of delectables: radishes, black olives, tomatoes, sardines, cheese, Jewish bread, bananas, apple sauce, a couple of liters of Algerian wine, fourteen degrees. It was warm outdoors and very still. We sat there after the meal smoking contentedly, almost ready to doze off, so good was the meal and so comfortable the hard chairs with the light fading and that stillness about the rooftops as if the houses themselves were quietly breathing through the fents. And like many another evening, after we had sat in silence for a while and the room almost dark, suddenly he began to talk about himself, about something in the past which in the silence and the gloom of the evening began to take shape, not in words precisely, because it was beyond words what he was conveying to me. I don’t think I caught the words at all, but just the music that was coming from him-a kind of sweet, woody music which came through the Algerian wine and the radishes and the black olives. Talking about his mother he was, about coming out of her womb, and after him his brother and his sister, and then the war came and they told him to shoot and he couldn’t shoot and when the war was over they opened the gates of the prison or the lunatic asylum or whatever it was and he was free as a bird. How it happened to spill out this way I can’t remember any more. We were talking about The Merry Widow and about Max Linder, about the Prater in Vienna-and then suddenly we were in the midst of the Russo-Japanese war and there was that Chinaman whom Claude Farrere mentions in La Bataille. Something that was said about the Chinaman must have sunk to the very bottom of him for when he opened his mouth again and started that speech about his mother, her womb, the war coming on and free as a bird I knew that he had gone far back into the past and I was almost afraid to breathe for fear of bringing him to.
Free as a bird I heard him say, and with that the gates opening and other men running out, all scot-free and a little silly from the confinement and the strain of waiting for the war to end. When the gates opened I was in the street again and my friend Stanley was sitting beside me on the little step in front of the house where we ate sour bread in the evening. Down the street a ways was Father Carroll’s church. And now it’s evening again and the vesper bells are ringing, Carl and I facing each other in the gathering gloom, quiet and at peace with each other. We are sitting in Clichy and it is long after the war. But there’s another war coming and it’s there in the darkness and perhaps it’s the darkness made him think of his mother’s womb and the night coming on, the night when you stand alone out there and no matter how frightful it gets you must stand there alone and take it. “I didn’t want to go to the war,” he was saying. “Shit, I was only eighteen.” Just then a phono began to play and it was The Merry Widow waltz. Outside everything so still and quiet-just like before the war. Stanley is whispering to me on the doorstep -something about God, the Catholic God. There are some radishes in the bowl and Carl is munching them in the dark. “It’s so beautiful to be alive, no matter how poor you are,” he says. I can just barely see him sticking his hand into the bowl and grabbing another radish. So beautiful to be alive! And with that he slips a radish into his mouth as if to convince himself that he is still alive and free as a bird. And now the whole street, free as a bird, is twittering inside me and I see again the boys who are later to have their heads blown off or their guts bayoneted-boys like Alfie Betcha, Tom Fowler, Johnny Dunn, Sylvester Goeller, Harry Martin, Johnny Paul, Eddie Carney, Lester Reardon, Georgie Maine, Stanley Borowski, Louis Pirosso, Robbie Hyslop, Eddie Gorman, Bob Maloney. The boys from the north side and the boys from the south side-all rolled into a muck heap and their guts hanging on the barbed wire. If only one of them had been spared! But no, not one! Not even the great Lester Reardon. The whole past is wiped out.
It’s so beautiful to be alive and free as a bird. The gates are open and I can wander where I please. But where is Eddie Carney? Where is Stanley?
This is the Spring that Jesus sang, the sponge to his lips, the frogs dancing. In every womb the pounding of iron hoofs, in every grave the roar of hollow shells. A vault of obscene anguish saturated with angelworms hanging from the fallen womb of a sky. In this last body of the whale the whole world has become a running sore. When next the trumpet blows it will be like pushing a button: as the first man falls he will push over the next, and the next the next, and so on down the line, round the world, from New York to Nagasaki, from the Arctic to the Antarctic. And when man falls he will push over the elephant and the elephant will push over the cow and the cow will push over the horse and the horse the lamb, and all will go down, one be fore the other, one after the other, like a row of tin soldiers blown down by the wind. The world will go out like a Roman candle. Not even a blade of grass will grow again. A lethal dose from which no awakening. Peace and night, with no moan or whisper stirring. A soft, brooding darkness, an inaudible flapping of wings.
The Tailor Shop
The Tailor Shop
I’ve got a motter: always merry and bright!
The day used to start like this: “Ask so-and-so for a little something on account, but don’t insult him!” They were ticklish bastards, all these old farts we catered to. It was enough to drive any man to drink. There we were, just opposite the Olcott, Fifth Avenue tailors even though we weren’t on the Avenue. A joint corporation of father and son, with mother holding the boodle.
Mornings, eight A.M. or thereabouts, a brisk intellectual walk from Delancey Street and the Bowery to just below the Waldorf. No matter how fast I walked old man Bendix was sure to be there ahead of me, raising hell with the cutter because neither of the bosses was on the job. How was it we could never get there ahead of that old buzzard Bendix? He had nothing to do, Bendix, but run from the tailor to the shirtmaker and from the shirtmaker to the jeweler’s; his rings were either too loose or too tight, his watch was either twentyfive seconds slow or thirty-three seconds fast. He raised hell with everybody, including the family doctor, because the latter couldn’t keep his kidneys clear of gravel. If we made him a sack coat in August by October it was too large for him, or too small. When he could find nothing to complain about he would dress on the right side so as to have the pleasure of bawling the pants maker out because he was strangling his, H. W. Bendix’s, balls. A difficult guy. Touchy, whimsical, mean, crotchety, miserly, capricious, malevolent. When I look back on it all now, see the old man sitting down to table with his boozy breath and saying shit why don’t some one smile, why do you all look so glum, I feel sorry for him and for all merchant tailors who have to kiss rich people’s asses. If it hadn’t been for the Olcott bar across the way and the sots he picked up there God knows what would have become of the old man. He certainly got no sympathy at home. My mother hadn’t the least idea what it meant to be kissing rich people’s backsides. All she knew how to do was to groan and lament all day, and with her groaning and lamenting she brought on the boozy breath and the potato dumplings grown cold. She got us so damned jumpy with her anxiety that we would choke on our own spittle, my brother and I. My brother was a halfwit and he got on the old man’s nerves even more than H. W. Bendix with his “Pastor So-and-so’s going to Europe…. Pastor So-and-so’s going to open a bowling alley,” etc.“Pastor So-and-so’s an ass,” the old man would say, “and why aren’t the dumplings hot?”
There were three Bendixes-H. W., the grumpy one, A. F., whom the old man referred to in the ledger as Albert, and R.N., who never visited the shop because his legs were cut off, a circumstance, however, which did not prevent him from wearing out his trousers in due season. R. N. I never saw in the flesh. He was an item in the ledger which Bunchek the cutter spoke of glowingly because there was always a little schnapps about when it came time to try on the new trousers. The three brothers were eternal enemies; they never referred to one another in our presence. If Albert, who was a little cracked and had a penchant for dotted vests, happened to see a cutaway hanging on the rack with the words H. W. Bendix written in green ink on the try-on notice, he would give a feeble little grunt and say-“feels like spring today, eh?” There was not supposed to be a man by the name of H. W. Bendix in existence, though it was obvious to all and sundry that we were not making clothes for ghosts.
Of the three brothers I liked Albert the best. He had arrived at that ripe age when the bones become as brittle as glass. His spine had the natural curvature of old age, as though he were preparing to fold up and return to the womb. You could always tell when Albert was arriving because of the commotion in the elevator -a great cussing and whining followed by a handsome tip which accompanied the process of bringing the floor of the elevator to a dead level with the floor of our tailor shop. If it could not be brought to within a quarter of an inch exactitude there was no tip and Albert with his brittle bones and his bent spine would have a devil of a time choosing the right buttons to go with his dotted vest, his latest dotted vest. (When Albert died I inherited all his vests-they lasted me right through the war.) If it happened, as was sometimes the case, that the old man was across the street taking a little nip when Albert arrived, then somehow the whole day became disorganized. I remember periods when Albert grew so vexed with the old man that sometimes we did not see him for three days; meanwhile the vest buttons were lying around on little cards and there was talk of nothing but vest buttons, vest buttons, as if the vest itself didn’t matter, only the buttons. Later, when Albert had grown accustomed to the old man’s careless ways-they had been growing accustomed to each other for twenty-seven years-he would give us a ring to notify us that he was on the way. And just be fore hanging up he would add: “I suppose it’s all right my coming in at eleven o’clock … it won’t inconvenience you?” The purport of this little query was twofold. It meant-“I suppose you’ll have the decency to be on hand when I arrive and not make me fiddle around for a halfhour while you swill it down with your cronies across the street.” And, it also meant-“At eleven o’clock I suppose there is little danger of bumping into a certain individual bearing the initials H. W.?” In the twenty-seven years during which we made perhaps 1,578 garments for the three Bendix brothers it so happened that they never met, not in our presence at least. When Albert died R. N. and H. W. both had mourning bands put on their sleeves, on all the left sleeves of their sack coats and overcoats-that is, those which were not black coats-but nothing was said of the deceased, nor even who he was. R. N., of course, had a good excuse for not going to the funeral-his legs were gone. H. IN. was too mean and too proud to even bother offering an excuse.
About ten o’clock was the time the old man usually chose to go down for his first nip. I used to stand at the window facing the hotel and watch George Sandusky hoisting the big trunks on to the taxis. When there were no trunks to be hoisted George used to stand there with his hands clasped behind his back and bow and scrape to the clients as they swung in and out of the revolving doors. George Sandusky had been scraping and bowing and hoisting and opening doors for about twelve years when I first came to the tailor shop and took up my post at the front window. He was a charming, softspoken man with beautiful white hair, and strong as an ox. He had raised this ass-kissing business to an art. I was amazed one day when he came up the elevator and ordered a suit from us. In his off hours he was a gentleman, George Sandusky. He had quiet tastes-always a blue serge or an Oxford gray. A man who knew how to conduct himself at a funeral or a wedding.
After we got to know each other he gave me to understand that he had found Jesus. With the smooth tongue he had, and the brawn, and the active help of said Jesus he had managed to lay aside a nest egg, a little something to ward off the horrors of old age. He was the only man I ever met in that period who had not taken out life insurance. He maintained that God would look after those who were left behind just as He had looked after him, George Sandusky. He had no fear of the world collapsing upon his decease. God had taken care of everybody and everything up to dateno reason to suppose He would fall down on the job after George Sandusky’s death. When one day George retired it was difficult to find a man to replace him. There was no one oily or unctuous enough to fill the bill. No one who could bow and scrape like George. The old man always had a great affection for George. He used to try to persuade him to take a drink now and then, but George always refused with that habitual and stubborn politeness which had endeared him to the Olcott guests.
The old man often had moods when he would ask anybody to take a drink with him, even such as George Sandusky. Usually late in the afternoon on a day when things were going wrong, when nothing but bills were coming in. Sometimes a week would pass without a customer showing up, or if one did show up it was only to complain, to ask for an alteration, to bawl the piss out of the coat maker, or to demand a reduction in the price. Things like this would make the old man so blue that all he could do was to put on his hat and go for a drink. Instead of going across the street as usual he would wander off base a bit, duck into the Breslin or the Broztell, sometimes getting as far off the path as the Ansonia where his idol, Julian Legree, kept a suite of rooms.
Julian, who was then a matinee idol, wore nothing but gray suits, every shade of gray imaginable, but only grays. He had that depressingly cheerful demeanor of the beefy-faced English actor who lounges about here and there swapping stories with woolen salesmen, liquor dealers, and others of no account. His accent alone was enough to make men swarm about him; it was English in the traditional stage sense, warm, soapy, glutinous English which gives to even the most insignificant thought an appearance of importance. Julian never said anything that was worth recording but that voice of his worked magic on his admirers. Now and then, when he and the old man were doing the rounds, they would pick up a derelict such as Corse Payton who belonged across the river in the ten-twenty-thirties. Corse Payton was the idol of Brooklyn! Corse Payton was to art what Pat McCarren was to politics.
What the old man had to say during these discussions was always a source of mystery to me. The old man had never read a book in his life, nor had he ever been to a play since the days when the Bowery gave way to Broadway. I can see him standing there at the free lunch counter-Julian was very fond of the caviar and the sturgeon that was served at the Olcott-sponging it up like a thirsty dog. The two matinee idols discussing Shakespeare-whether Hamlet or Lear was the greatest play ever written. Or else arguing the merits of Bob Ingersoll.
Behind the bar at that time were three doughty Irishmen, three low-down micks such as made the bars of that day the congenial haunts they were. They were so highly thought of, these three, that it was considered a privilege to have such as Patsy O’Dowd, for example, call you a goddamned degenerate cocksucking son of a bitch who hadn’t sense enough to button up his fly. And if, in return for the compliment, you asked him if he wouldn’t have a little something himself, said Patsy O’Dowd would coldly and sneeringly reply that only such as yourself were fit to pour such rotgut down your throat, and so saying he would scornfully lift your glass by the stem and wipe the mahogany because that was part of his job and he was paid to do it but be damned to you if you thought you could entice such as him to poison his intestines with the vile stuff. The more vicious his insults the more he was esteemed; financiers who were accustomed to having their asses wiped with silk handkerchiefs would drive all the way uptown, after the ticker closed down, in order to have this foulmouthed bastard of an Irish mick call them goddamned degenerate cocksucking sons of bitches. It was the end of a perfect day for them.
The boss of this jaunty emporium was a portly little man with aristocratic shanks and the head of a lion. He always marched with his stomach thrown forward, a little wine cask hidden under his vest. He usually gave a stiff, supercilious nod to the sots at the bar, unless they happened to be guests of the hotel, in which case he would pause a moment, extend three fat little fingers with blue veins and then, with a swirl of his mustache and a gingerly, creaky pirouette, he would whisk away. He was the only enemy the old man had. The old man simply couldn’t stomach him. He had a feeling that Tom Moffatt looked down upon him. And so when Tom Moffatt came round to order his clothes the old man would tack on ten or fifteen per cent to cover the rents in his pride. But Tom Moffatt was a genuine aristocrat: he never questioned the price and he never paid his bills. If we dunned him he would get his accountant to find a discrepancy in our statements. And when it came time to order another pair of flannel trousers, or a cutaway, or a dinner jacket, he would sail in with his usual portly dignity, his stomach well forward, his mustache waxed, his shoes brightly polished and squeaky as always, and with an air of weary indifference, of aloof disdain, he would greet the old man as follows: “Well, have you straightened out that error yet?” Upon which the old man would fly into a rage and palm off a remnant or a piece of American goods on his enemy Tom Moffatt. A long correspondence ensued over the “little error” in our statements. The old man was beside himself. He hired an expert accountant who drew up statements three feet long-but to no avail. Finally the old man hit upon an idea.
Toward noon one day, after he had had his usual portion, after he had stood treat to all the woolen salesmen and the trimmings salesmen who were gathered at the bar, he quietly picked up the bar stubs and taking a little silver pencil which was attached to his watch chain he signed his name to the checks-and sliding them across to Patsy O’Dowd he said: “Tell Moffatt to charge them up to my account.” Then he quietly moved off and, inviting a few of his select cronies, he took a table in the dining room and commanded a spread. And when Adrian the frog presented the bill he calmly said: “Give me a pencil. There … them’s my demi-quivers. Charge it up to my account.” Since it was more pleasant to eat in the company of others he would always invite his cronies to lunch with him, saying to all and sundry-“if that bastard Moffatt won’t pay for his clothes then we’ll eat them.” And so saying he would commandeer a juicy squab, or a lobster a la Newburg, and wash it down with a fine Moselle or any other vintage that Adrian the frog might happen to recommend.
To all this Moffatt, surprisingly enough, pretended to pay no heed. He continued to order his usual allotment of clothes for winter, spring, fall and summer, and he also continued to squabble about the bill which had become easier to do now since it was complicated with bar checks, telephone calls, squabs, lobsters, champagne, fresh strawberries, Benedictines, etc., etc.In fact, the old man was eating into that bill so fast that spindleshanks Moffatt couldn’t wear his clothes out quickly enough. If he came in to order a pair of flannel trousers the old man had already eaten it the next day.
Finally Moffatt evinced an earnest desire to have the account straightened out. The correspondence ceased. Patting me on the back one day as I happened to be standing in the lobby he put on his most cordial manner and invited me upstairs to his private office. He said he had always regarded me as a very sensible young man and that we could probably straighten the matter out between ourselves, without bothering the old man. I looked over the accounts and I saw that the old man had eaten way into the minus side. I had probably eaten up a few raglans and shooting jackets myself. There was only one thing to do if we were to keep Tom Moffatt’s despised patronage and that was to find an error in the account. I took a bundle of bills under my arm and promised the old geezer that I would look into the matter thoroughly.
The old man was delighted when he saw how things stood. We kept looking into the matter for years. Whenever Tom Moffatt came round to order a suit the old man would greet him cheerily and say: “Have you straightened out that little error yet? Now here’s a fine Barathea weave that I laid aside for you… .” And Moffatt would frown and grimace and strut back and forth like a turkey cock, his comb bristling, his thin little legs blue with malice. A half hour later the old man would be standing at the bar swilling it down. “Just sold Moffatt another dinner jacket,” he would say. “By the way, Julian, what would you like to order for lunch today?”
It was toward noon, as I say, that the old man usually went down for an appetizer; lunch lasted anywhere from noon till f our or five in the afternoon. It was marvelous the companionship the old man enjoyed in those days. After lunch the troupe would stagger out of the elevator, spitting and guffawing, their cheeks aflame, and lodge themselves in the big leather chairs beside the cuspidors. There was Ferd Pattee who sold silk linings and trimmings such as skeins of thread, buttons, chest padding, canvas, etc.A great hulk of a man, like a liner that’s been battered by a typhoon, and always walking about in a somnambulistic state; so tired he was that he could scarcely move his lips, yet that slight movement of the lips kept everybody about him in stitches. Always muttering to himself-about cheeses particularly. He was passionate about cheese, about schmierkase and limburger especially-the moldier the better. In between the cheeses he told stories about Heine and Schubert, or he would ask for a match just as he was about to break wind and hold it under his seat so that we could tell him the color of the flame. He never said good-by or see you tomorrow; he commenced talking where he had left off the day before, as though there had been no interruption of time. No matter whether it was nine in the morning or six in the evening he walked with the same exasperating slow shambling gait, muttering in his vici-kids, his head down, his linings and trimmings under his arm, his breath foul, his nose purple and translucent. Into the thickest traffic he would walk with head down, schmierkase in one pocket and limburger in the other. Stepping out of the elevator he would say in that weary monotonous voice of his that he had some new linings and the cheese was fine last night were you thinking of returning the book he had loaned you and better pay up soon if you want more goods like to see some dirty pictures please scratch my back there a little higher that’s it excuse me I’m going to fart now have you the time I can’t waste all day here better tell the old man to put on his hat it’s time to go for a drink. Still mumbling and grumbling he turns on his big scows and presses the elevator button while the old man with a straw hat on the back of his head is making a slide for the home plate from the back of the store, his face lit up with love and gratitude and saying: “Well, Ferd, how are you this morning? It’s good to see you.” And Ferd’s big heavy mask of a face relaxes for a moment into a broad amiable grin. Just a second he holds it and then, lifting his voice he bellows at the top of his lungs-so that even Tom Moffatt across the way can hear it-“BETTER PAY UP SOON WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK I’M SELLING THESE THINGS FOR?”
And as soon as the elevator has started down out comes little Rubin from the busheling room and with a wild look in his eye he says to me: “Would you like me to sing for you?” He knows damned well that I would. So, going back to the bench, he picks up the coat that he’s stitching and with a wild Cossack shout he lets loose.
If you were to pass him in the street, little Rubin, you would say “dirty little kike,” and perhaps he was a dirty little kike but he knew how to sing and when you were broke he knew how to put his hand in his pocket and when you were sad he was sadder still and if you tried to step on him he spat on your shoe and if you were repentant he wiped it off and he brushed you down and put a crease in. your trousers like Jesus H. Christ himself couldn’t do.
They were all midgets in the busheling roomRubin, Rapp, and Chaimowitz. At noon they brought out big round loaves of Jewish bread which they smeared with sweet butter and slivers of lox. While the old man was ordering squabs and Rhine wine Bunchek the cutter and the three little bushelmen sat on the big bench among the goose irons and the legs and sleeves and talked earnestly and solemnly about things like the rent or the ulcers that Mrs. Chaimowitz had in her womb. Bunchck was an ardent member of the Zionist party. He believed that the Jews had a happy future ahead of them. But despite it all he could never properly pronounce a word like “screw.” He always said: “He scrided her.” Besides his passion for Zionism Bunchek had another obsession and that was to make a coat one day that would hug the neck. Nearly all the customers were round-shouldered and potbellied, especially the old bastards who had nothing to do all day but run from the shirtmaker to the tailor and from the tailor to the jeweler’s and from the jeweler’s to the dentist and from the dentist to the druggist. There were so many alterations to be made that by the time the clothes were ready to be worn the season had passed and they had to be put away until next year, and by next year the old bastards had either gained twenty pounds or lost twenty pounds and what with sugar in their urine and water in the blood it was hell to please them even when the clothes did fit.
Then there was Paul Dexter, a $10,000-a-year man but always out of work. Once he almost had a job, but it was $9,000 a year and his pride wouldn’t permit him to accept it. And since it was important to be well groomed, in the pursuit of this mythical job, Paul felt it incumbent upon him to patronize a good tailor such as the old man. Once he landed the job everything would be settled in full. There was never any question about that in Paul’s mind. He was thoroughly honest. But he was a dreamer. He came from Indiana. And like all dreamers from Indiana he had such a lovable disposition, such a smooth, mellow, honeyed way that if he had committed incest the world would have forgiven him. When he had on the right tie, when he had chosen the proper cane and gloves, when the lapels were softly rolled and the shoes didn’t squeak, when he had a quart of rye under his belt and the weather wasn’t too damp or dismal then there flowed from his personality such a warm current of love and understanding that even the trimmings salesmen, hardened as they were to soft language, melted in their boots. Paul, when all circumstances were favorably conjoined, could walk up to a man, any man on God’s green earth and, taking him by the lapel of his coat, drown him in love. Never did I see a man with such powers of persuasion, such magnetism. When the flood began to rise in him he was invincible.
Paul used to say: “Start with Marcus Aurelius, or Epictetus, and the rest will follow.” He didn’t recommend studying Chinese or learning Provencal: he began with the fall of the Roman Empire. It was my great ambition in those days to win Paul’s approbation, but Paul was difficult to please. He frowned when I showed him Thus Spake Zarathustra. He frowned when he saw me sitting on the bench with the midgets trying to expound the meaning of Creative Evolution. Above all, he loathed the Jews. When Bunchek the cutter appeared, with a piece of chalk and a tape measure slung around his neck, Paul became excessively polite and condescending. He knew that Bunchek despised him, but because Bunchek was the old man’s right hand man he rubbed him down with oil, he larded him with compliments. So that eventually even Bunchek had to admit that there was something to Paul, some strange mark of personality which, despite his shortcomings, endeared him to every one.
Outwardly Paul was all cheerfulness. But at bottom he was morose. Every now and then Cora, his wife, would sail in with eyes brimming with tears and implore the old man to take Paul in hand. They used to stand at the round table near the window conversing in a low voice. She was a beautiful woman, his wife, tall, statuesque, with a deep contralto voice that seemed to quiver with anguish whenever she mentioned Paul’s name. I could see the old man putting his hand on her shoulder, soothing her, and promising her all sorts of things no doubt. She liked the old man, I could see that. She used to stand very close to him and look into hi9 eyes in a way that was irresistible. Sometimes the old man would put his hat on and the two of them would go down the elevator together, arm in arm, as if they were going to a funeral. Off looking for Paul again. Nobody knew where to find him when he had a drinking fever on. For days on end he would disappear from sight. And then one day he would turn up, crestfallen, repentant, humiliated, and beg everybody’s forgiveness. At the same time he would hand in his suit to be dry cleaned, to have the vomit stains removed, and a bit of expert repairing done at the knees.
It was after a bout that Paul talked most eloquently. He used to sit back in one of the deep leather chairs, the gloves in one hand, the cane between his legs, and discourse about Marcus Aurelius. He talked even better when he came back from the hospital, after he had had the fistula repaired. The way he lowered himself into the big leather chair made me think then that he came expressly to the tailor shop because nowhere else could he find such a comfortable seat. It was a painful operation either to sit down or to get up. But once accomplished Paul seemed to be in bliss and the words rolled off his tongue like liquid velvet. The old man could listen to Paul all day long. He used to say that Paul had the gift of gab, but that was only his inarticulate way of saying that Paul was the most lovable creature on God’s earth and that he had a fire in his bowels. And when Paul was too conscience-stricken to order another suit the old man would coax him into it, saying to Paul all the while, “Nothing’s too good for you, Paul … nothing!”
Paul must have recognized something of a kindred nature in the old man too. Never have I seen two men look at each other with such a warm glow of admira tion. Sometimes they would stand there looking into each other’s eyes adoringly until the tears came. In fact, neither of them was ashamed of showing his tears, something which seems to have gone out of the world now. I can see Paul’s homely freckled face and his rather thick, blubbery lips twitching as the old man told him for the thousandth time what a great guy he was. Paul never spoke to the old man about things he wouldn’t understand. But into the simple, everyday things which he discoursed about so earnestly he put such a wealth of tenderness that the old man’s soul seemed to leave his body and when Paul was gone he was like a man bereaved. He would go then into the little cubbyhole of an office and he would sit there quietly all by himself staring ecstatically at the row of pigeon coops which were filled with letters unanswered and bills unpaid. It used to affect me so, to see him in one of these moods, that I would sneak quietly down the stairs and start to walk home, down the Avenue to the Bowery and along the Bowery to the Brooklyn Bridge, and then over the bridge past the string of cheap flops that extended from City Hall to Fulton Ferry. And if it were a summer’s evening, and the entranceways crowded with loungers, I would look among these wasted figures searchingly, wondering how many Pauls there were among them and what it is about life that makes these obvious failures so endearing to men. The others, the successful ones, I had seen with their pants off; I had seen their crooked spines, their brittle bones, their varicose veins, their tumors, their sunken chests, their big breadbaskets which had grown shapeless with years of swilling it. Yes, all the silk-lined duffers I knew wellwe had the best families in America on our roster. And what a pus and filth when they opened their dirty traps! It seemed as though when they had undressed before their tailor they felt compelled to unload the garbage which had accumulated in the plugged-up sinks which they had made of their minds. All the beautiful diseases of boredom and riches. Talked about themselves ad nauseam. Always “I,” “I.” I and my kidneys. I and my gout. I and my liverworts. When I think of Paul’s dreadful hemorrhoids, of the marvelous fistula they repaired, of all the love and learning that issued from his grievous wounds, then I think that Paul was not of this age at all but sib brother to Moses Maimonides, he who under the Moors gave us those astounding learned treatises on “hemorrhoids, warts, carbuncles,” etc.
In the case of all these men whom the old man so cherished death came quickly and unexpectedly. In Paul’s case it happened while he was at the seashore. He was drowned in a foot of water. Heart failure, they said. And so, one fine day Cora came up the elevator, clad in her beautiful mourning garb, and wept all over the place. Never had she looked more beautiful to me, more svelte, more statuesque. Her ass particularly-I remember how caressingly the velvet clung to her figure. Again they stood near the round table at the front window, and this time she wept copiously. And again the old man put on his hat and down the elevator they went, arm in arm.
A short time later the old man, moved by some strange whim, urged me to call on Paul’s wife and offer my condolences. When I rang the bell at her apartment I was trembling. I almost expected her to come out stark naked, with perhaps a mourning band around her breasts. I was infatuated with her beauty, with her years, with that somnolent, plantlike quality she had brought from Indiana and the perfume which she bathed in. She greeted me in a low-cut mourning gown, a beautiful clinging gown of black velvet. It was the first time I had ever had a tete-a-tete with a woman bereft, a woman whose breasts seemed to sob out loud. I didn’t know what to say to her, especially about Paul. I stammered and blushed, and when she asked me to sit beside her on the couch I almost fell over her in my embarrassment.
Sitting there on the low sofa, the place flooded with soft lights, her big heaving loins rubbing against me, the Malaga pounding my temples and all this crazy talk about Paul and how good he was, I finally bent over and without saying a word I raised her dress and slipped it into her. And as I got it into her and began to work it around she took to moaning like, a sort of delirious, sorrowful guilt punctuated with gasps and little shrieks of joy and anguish, saying over and over again-“I never thought you would do this … I never thought you would do this!” And when it was all over she ripped off the velvet dress, the beautiful low-cut mourning gown, and she put my head down on her and she told me to kiss it and with her two strong arms she squeezed me almost in half and moaned and sobbed. And then she got up and she walked around the room naked for a while. And then finally she got down on her knees beside the sofa where I was stretched out and she said in a low tearful voice-“You promise me you’ll love me always, won’t you? You promise me?” And I said Yes with one hand working around in her crotch. Yes I said and I thought to myself what a sap you’ve been to wait so long. She was so wet and juicy down there, and so childlike, so trustful, why anybody could have come along and had what’s what. She was a pushover.
Always merry and bright! Regularly, every season, there were a few deaths. Sometimes it was a good egg like Paul, or Julian Legree, sometimes a bartender who had picked his nose with a rusty nail-hail and hearty one day, dead the next-but regularly, like the movement of the seasons themselves, the old buzzards dropped off, one by one. Alors, nothing to do but draw a red line slantwise down the right-hand side of the ledger and mark “DEAD.” Each death brought a little business -a new black suit or else mourning bands on the left sleeve of every coat. Those who ordered mourning bands were cheapskates, according to the old man. And so they were.
As the old ‘uns died off they were replaced by young blood. Young blood! That was the war cry all along the Avenue, wherever there were silk-lined suits for sale. A fine bloody crew they were, the young bloods. Gamblers, racetrack touts, stockbrokers, ham actors, prize fighters, etc.Rich one day, poor the next. No honor, no loyalty, no sense of responsibility. A fine bunch of gangrened syphilitics they were, most of ‘em. Came back from Paris or Monte Carlo with dirty postcards and a string of big blue rocks in their groin. Some of them with balls as big as a lamb’s fry.
One of them was the Baron Carola von Eschenbach. He had earned a little money in Hollywood posing as the Crown Prince. It was the period when it was considered riotously funny to see the Crown Prince plastered with rotten eggs. It must be said for the Baron that he was a good double for the Crown Prince. A death’s head with arrogant nose, a waspish stride, a corseted waist, lean and ravished as Martin Luther, dour, glum, fanatical, with that brassy, fatuous glare of the Junker class. Before going to Hollywood he was just a nobody, the son of a German brewer in Frankfort. He wasn’t even a baron. But afterwards, when he had been knocked about like a medicine ball, when his front teeth had been pushed down his throat and the neck of a broken bottle had traced a deep scar down his left cheek, afterwards when he had been taught to flaunt a red necktie, twirl a cane, clip his mustache short, like Chaplin, then he became somebody. Then he stuck a monocle in his eye and named himself Baron Carola von Eschenbach. And all might have gone beautifully for him had he not fallen for a redhaired walk-on who was rotting away with syphilis. That finished him.
Up the elevator he came one day in a cutaway and spats, a bright red rose in his buttonhole and the monocle stuck in his eye. Blithe and dapper he looked, and the card he took out of his wallet was handsomely engraved. It bore a coat of arms which had been in the family, so he said, for nine hundred years. “The family skeleton,” he called it. The old man was highly pleased to have a baron among his clients, especially if he paid cash, as this one promised to do. And then too it was exhilarating to see the baron come sailing in with a pair of soubrettes on his arm-each time a different pair. Even more exhilarating when he invited them into the dressing room and asked them to help him off with his trousers. It was a European custom, he explained.
Gradually he got acquainted with all the old cronies who hung out in the front of the shop. He showed them how the Crown Prince walked, how he sat down, how he smiled. One day he brought a flute with him and he played the Lorelei on it. Another day he came in with a finger of his pigskin glove sticking out of his fly. Each day he had a new trick up his sleeve. He was gay, witty, amusing. He knew a thousand jokes, some that had never been told before. He was a riot.
And then one day he took me aside and asked me if I could lend him a dime-for carfare. He said he couldn’t pay for the clothes he had ordered but he expected a job soon in a little movie house on Ninth Avenue, playing the piano. And then, before I knew it, he began to weep. We were standing in the dressing room and the curtains were drawn, fortunately. I had to lend him a handkerchief to wipe his eyes. He said he was tired of playing the clown, that he dropped in to our place every day because it was warm there and because we had comfortable seats. He asked me if I couldn’t take him to lunch-he had had nothing but coffee and buns for the last three days.
I took him to a little German restaurant on Third Avenue, a bakery and restaurant combined. The atmosphere of the place broke him down completely. He could talk of nothing but the old days, the old days, the days before the war. He had intended to be a painter, and then the war came. I listened attentively and when he got through I proposed that he come to my home for dinner that evening-perhaps I could put him up with us. He was overwhelmed with gratitude. Sure, he would come-at seven o’clock punkt. Fine!
At the dinner table my wife was amused by his stories. I hadn’t said anything about his being broke. Just that he was a baron-the Baron von Eschenbach, a friend of Charlie Chaplin’s. My wife-one of my first ones-was highly flattered to sit at the same table with a baron. And puritanical bastard that she was, she never so much as blushed when he told a few of his risque stories. She thought they were delightful-so Euro pean. Finally, however, it came time to spill the beans. I tried to break the news gently, but how can you be gentle about a subject like syphilis? I didn’t call it syphilis at first-I said “venereal disease.” Maladie intime, quoi! But just that little word “venereal” sent a shudder through my wife. She looked at the cup he was holding to his lips and then she looked at me imploringly, as though to say-“how could you ask a man like that to sit at the same table with us?” I saw that it was necessary to bring the matter to a head at once. “The baron here is going to stay with us for a while,” I said quietly. “He’s broke and he needs a place to flop.” My word, I never saw a woman’s expression change so quickly. “You!” she said, “you ask me to do that? And what about the baby? You want us all to have syphilis, is that it? It’s not enough that he has it-you want the baby to have it too!”
The baron of course was frightfully embarrassed by this outburst. He wanted to leave at once. But I told him to keep his shirt on. I was used to these scenes. Anyway, he got so wrought up that he began to choke over his coffee. I thumped him on the back until he was blue in the face. The rose fell out of his buttonhole on to the plate. It looked strange there, as though he had coughed it up out of his own blood. It made me feel so goddamned ashamed of my wife that I could have strangled her on the spot. He was still choking and sputtering as I led him to the bathroom. I told him to wash his face in cold water. My wife followed us in and watched in murderous silence as he performed his ablutions. When he had wiped his face she snatched the towel from his hands and, flinging the bathroom window open, flung it out. That made me furious. I told her to get the hell out of the bathroom and mind her own business. But th baron stepped between us and flung himself at my wife supplicatingly. “You’ll see, my good woman, and you, Henry, you won’t have to worry about a thing. I’ll bring all my syringes and ointments and I’ll put them in a little valise-there, under the sink. You mustn’t turn me away, I have nowhere to go. I’m a desperate man. I’m alone in the world. You were so good to me before-why must you be cruel now? Is it my fault that I have the syph? Anybody can get the syph. It’s human. You’ll see, I’ll pay you back a thousand times. I’ll do anything for you. I’ll make the beds, I’ll wash the dishes… I’ll cook for you….” He went on and on like that, never stopping to take a breath for fear that she would say No. And after he had gotten all through with his promises, after he had begged her forgiveness a hundred times, after he had knelt down and tried to kiss her hand which she drew away abruptly, he sat down on the toilet seat, in his cutaway and spats, and he began to sob, to sob like a child. It was ghastly, the sterile, white-enameled bathroom and the splintering light as if a thousand mirrors had been shattered under a magnifying glass, and then this wreck of a baron, in his cutaway and’ spats, his spine filled with mercury, his sobs coming like the short puffs of a locomotive getting under way. I didn’t know what the hell to do. A man sitting on the toilet like that and sobbing-it got under my skin. Later I became inured to it. I got hard-boiled. I feel quite certain now that had it not been for the two hundred and fifty bed patients whom he was obliged to visit twice a day at the hospital in Lyons, Rabelais would never have been so boisterously gay. I’m sure of it.
Anyhow, apropos the sobs… . A little later, when another kid was on the way and no means of getting rid of it, though still hoping, still hoping that something would happen, a miracle perhaps, and her stomach blown up like a ripe watermelon, about the sixth or seventh month, as I say, she used to succumb to fits of melancholy and, lying on the bed with that watermelon staring her in the eye, she would commence to sob fit to break your heart. Maybe I’d be in the other room, stretched out on the couch, with a big, fat book in my hands, and those sobs of hers would make me think of the Baron Carola von Eschenbach, of his gray spats and the cutaway with braided lapels, and the deep red rose in his buttonhole. Her sobs were like music to my ears. Sobbing away for a little sympathy she was, and not a drop of sympathy in the house. It was pathetic. The more hysterical she grew the more deaf I became. It was like listening to the boom and sizzle of surf along the beach on a summer’s night: the buzz of a mosquito can drown out the ocean’s roar. Anyway, after she had worked herself up to a state of collapse, when the neighbors couldn’t stand it any longer and there were knocks on the door, then her aged mother would come crawling out of the bedroom and with tears in her eyes would beg me to go in there and quiet her a bit. “Oh, leave her be,” I’d say, “she’ll get over it.” Whereupon, ceasing her sobs for a moment the wife would spring out of bed, wild, blind with rage, her hair all down and tangled up, her eyes swollen and bleary, and still hiccoughing and sobbing she would commence to pound me with her fists, to lambast me until I became hysterical with laughter. And when she saw me rocking to and fro like a crazy man, when her arms were tired and her fists sore, she would yell like a drunken whore -“Fiend! Demon! “-and then slink off like a weary dog. Afterwards, when I had quieted her down a bit, when I realized that she really needed a kind word or two, I would tumble her on to the bed again and throw a good fuck into her. Blast me if she wasn’t the finest piece of tail imaginable after those scenes of grief and anguish! I never heard a woman moan and gibber like she could. “Do anything to me!” she used to say. “Do what you want!” I could stand her on her head and blow into it, I could back-scuttle her, I could drag her past the parson’s house, as they say, any goddamn thing at all-she was simply delirious with joy. Uterine hysteria, that’s what it was! And I hope God take me, as the good master used to say, if 1 am lying in a single word I say.
(God, mentioned above, being defined by St. Augustine, as follows: “An infinite sphere, the center of which is everywhere, the circumference nowhere.”)
However, always merry and bright! If it was before the war and the thermometer down to zero or below, if it happened to be Thanksgiving Day, or New Year’s or a birthday, or just any old excuse to get together, then off we’d trot, the whole family, to join the other freaks who made up the living family tree. It always seemed astounding to me how jolly they were in our family despite the calamities that were always threatening. Jolly in spite of everything. There was cancer, dropsy, cirrhosis of the liver, insanity, thievery, mendacity, buggery, incest, paralysis, tapeworms, abortions, triplets, idiots, drunkards, nc’er-do-wells, fanatics, sailors, tailors, watchmakers, scarlet f ever, whooping cough, meningitis, running ears, chorea, stutterers, jailbirds, dreamers, storytellers, bartenders-and finally there was Uncle George and Tante Melia. The morgue and the insane asylum. A merry crew and the table loaded with good things-with red cabbage and green spinach, with roast pork and turkey and sauerkraut, with kartoffel-klosze and sour black gravy, with radishes and celery, with stuffed goose and peas and carrots, with beautiful white cauliflower, with apple sauce and figs from Smyrna, with bananas big as a blackjack, with cinnamon cake and Streussel Kiichen, with chocolate layer cake and nuts, all kinds of nuts, walnuts, butternuts, almonds, pecans, hickory nuts, with lager beer and bottled beer, with white wines and red, with champagne, kiimmel, malaga, port, with schnapps, with fiery cheeses, with dull, innocent store cheese, with flat Holland cheeses, with limburger and schmierkase, with homemade wines, elderberry wine, with cider, hard and sweet, with rice pudding and tapioca, with roast chestnuts, mandarins, olives, pickles, with red caviar and black, with smoked sturgeon, with lemon meringue pie, with lady fingers and chocolate eclairs, with macaroons and cream puffs, with black cigars and long thin stogies, with Bull Durham and Long Tom and meerschaums, with corncobs and toothpicks, wooden toothpicks which gave you gum boils the day after, and napkins a yard wide with your initials stitched in the corner, and a blazing coal fire and the windows steaming, everything in the world before your eyes except a finger bowl.
Zero weather and crazy George, with one arm bitten off by a horse, dressed in dead men’s remnants. Zero weather and Tante Melia looking for the birds she left in her hat. Zero, zero, and the tugs snorting below in the harbor, the ice floes bobbing up and down, and long thin streams of smoke curling fore and aft. The wind blowing down at seventy miles an hour; tons and tons of snow all chopped up into tiny flakes and each one carrying a dagger. The icicles hanging like corkscrews outside the window, the wind roaring, the panes rattling. Uncle Henry is singing “Hurrah for the German Fifth!” His vest is open, his suspenders are down, the veins stand out on his temples. Hurrah for the German Fifth!
Up in the loft the creaking table is spread; down below is the warm stable, the horses whinnying in the stalls, whinnying and champing and pawing and stomping, and the fine aromatic smell of manure and horse piss, of hay and oats, of steaming blankets and dry cruds, the smell of malt and old wood, of leather harness and tanbark floats up and rests like incense over our heads.
The table is standing on horses and the horses are standing in warm piss and every now and then they get frisky and whisk their tails and they fart and whinny. The stove is glowing like a ruby, the air is blue with smoke. The bottles are under the table, on the dresser, in the sink. Crazy George is trying to scratch his neck with an empty sleeve. Ned Martini, the ne’er-do-well, is fiddling with the phonograph; his wife Carrie is guzzling it from the tin growler. The brats are downstairs in the stable playing stinkfinger in the dark. In the street, where the shanties begin, the kids are making a sliding pond. It’s blue everywhere, with cold and smoke and snow. Tante Melia is sitting in a corner fingering a rosary. Uncle Ned is repairing a harness. The three grandfathers and the two great-grandfathers are huddled near the stove talking about the FrancoPrussian war. Crazy George is lapping up the dregs. The women are getting closer together, their voices low, their tongues clacking. Everything fits together like a jigsaw puzzle-faces, voices, gestures, bodies. Each one gravitates within his own orbit. The phonograph is working again, the voices get louder and shriller. The phonograph stops suddenly. I oughtn’t to have been there when they blurted it out, but I was there and I heard it. I heard that big Maggie, the one who kept a saloon out in Flushing, well that Maggie had slept with her own brother and that’s why George was crazy. She slept with everybody-except her own husband. And then I heard that she used to beat George with a leather belt, used to beat him until he foamed at the mouth. That’s what brought on the fits. And then Mele sitting there in the corner-she was another case. She was queer even as a child. So was the mother, for that matter. It was too bad that Paul had died. Paul was Mele’s husband. Yes, everything would have been all right if that woman from Hamburg hadn’t shown up and corrupted Paul. What could Mele do against a clever woman like that-against a shrewd strumpet! Something would have to be done about Mele. It was getting dangerous to have her around. Just the other day they caught her sitting on the stove. Fortunately the fire was low. But supposing she took it into her head to set fire to the house-when they were all asleep? It was a pity that she couldn’t hold a job any more. The last place they had found for her was such a nice berth, such a kind woman. Mele was getting lazy. She had had it too easy with Paul.
The air was clear and frosty when we stepped outdoors. The stars were crisp and sparkly and everywhere, lying over the bannisters and steps and windowledges and gratings, was the pure white snow, the driven snow, the white mantle that covers the dirty, sinful earth. Clear and frosty the air, pure, like deep draughts of ammonia, and the skin smooth as chamois. Blue stars, beds and beds of them, drifting with the antelopes. Such a beautiful, deep silent night, as if under the snow there lay hearts of gold, as if this warm German blood was running away in the gutter to stop the mouths of hungry babes, to wash the crime and ugliness of the world away. Deep night and the river choked with ice, the stars dancing, swirling, spinning like tops. Along the broken street we straggled, the whole family. Walking along the pure white crust of the earth, leaving tracks, foot-stains. The old German family sweeping the snow with a Christmas tree. The whole family there, uncles, cousins, brothers, sisters, fathers, grandfathers. The whole family is warm and winey and no one thinks of the other, of the sun that will come in the morning, of the errands to run, of the doctor’s verdict, of all the cruel, ghastly duties that foul the day and make this night holy, this holy night of blue stars and deep drifts, of arnica blossoms and ammonia, of asphodels and carborundum.
No one knew that Tante Melia was going completely off her nut, that when we reached the corner she would leap forward like a reindeer and bite a piece out of the moon. At the corner she leapt forward like a reindeer and she shrieked. “The moon, the moon!” she cried, and with that her soul broke loose, jumped clean out of her body. Eighty-six million miles a minute it traveled. Out, out, to the moon, and nobody could think quick enough to stop it. Just like that it happened. In the twinkle of a star.
And now I’m going to tell you what those bastards said to me….
They said-Henry, you take her to the asylum tomorrow. And don’t tell them that we can afford to pay for her.
Fine! Always merry and bright! The next morning we boarded the trolley together and we rode out into the country. If Mele asked where we were going I was to say-“to visit Aunt Monica.” But Mele didn’t ask any questions. She sat quietly beside me and pointed to the cows now and then. She saw blue cows and green ones. She knew their names. She asked what happened to the moon in the daytime. And did I have a piece of liverwurst by any chance?
During the journey I wept-I couldn’t help it. When people are too good for this world they have to be put under lock and key. There’s something wrong with people who are too good. It’s true Mele was lazy. She was born lazy. It’s true that Mele was a poor housekeeper. It’s true Mele didn’t know how to hold on to a husband when they found her one. When Paul ran off with the woman from Hamburg Mele sat in a corner and wept. The others wanted her to do somethingput a bullet in him, raise a rumpus, sue for alimony. Mele sat quiet. Mele wept. Mele hung her head. What little intelligence she had deserted her. She was like a pair of torn socks that are kicked around here, there, everywhere. Always turning up at the wrong moment.
Then one day Paul took -a rope and hanged himself. Mele must have understood what had happened because now she went completely crazy. The day before they found her eating her own dung. The day before that they found her sitting on the stove.
And now she’s very tranquil and she calls the cows by their first name. The moon fascinates her. She has no fear because I’m with her and she always trusted me. I was her favorite. Even though she was a halfwit she was good to me. The others were more intelligent, but their hearts were bad.
When brother Adolphe used to take her for a carriage ride the others used to say-“Mele’s got her eye on him!” But I think that Mele must have talked just as innocently then as she’s talking to me now. I think that Mele, when she was performing her marriage duties, must have been dreaming innocently of the beautiful gifts she would give to everybody. I don’t think that Mele had any knowledge of sin or of guilt or remorse. I think that Mele was born a half-witted angel. I think Mele was a saint.
Sometimes when she was fired from a job they used to send me to fetch her. Mele never knew her way home. And I remember how happy she was whenever she saw me coming. She would say innocently that she wanted to stay with us. Why couldn’t she stay with us? I used to ask myself that over and over. Why couldn’t they make a place for her by the fire, let her sit there and dream, if that’s what she wanted to do? Why must everybody work-even the saints and the angels? Why must halfwits set a good example?
I’m thinking now that after all it may be good for Mele where I’m taking her. No more work. Just the same, I’d rather they had made a corner for her somewhere.
Walking down the gravel path toward the big gates Mele becomes uneasy. Even a puppy knows when it is being carried to a pond to be drowned. Mele is trembling now. At the gate they are waiting for us. The gate yawns. Mele is on the inside, I am on the outside. They are trying to coax her along. They are gentle with her now. They speak to her so gently. But Mele is terrorstricken. She turns and runs toward the gate. I am still standing there. She puts her arms through the bars and clutches my neck. I kiss her tenderly on the forehead. Gently I unlock her arms. The others are going to take her again. I can’t bear seeing that. I must go. I must run. For a full minute, however, I stand and look at her. Her eyes seem to have grown enormous. Two great round eyes, full and black as the night, staring at me uncomprehendingly. No maniac can look that way. No idiot can look that way. Only an angel or a saint.
Mele wasn’t a good housekeeper I said, but she knew how to make fricadellas. Here is the recipe, while I think of it: a distemper composed of a humus of wet bread (from a nice urinal) plus horse meat (the fetlocks only) chopped very fine and mixed with a little sausage meat. Roll in palm of hands. The saloon that she ran with Paul, before the Hamburg woman came along, was just near the bend in the Second Avenue El, not far from the Chinese pagoda used by the Salvation Army.
When I ran away from the gate I stopped beside a high wall and, burying my head in my arms, my arms against the wall, I sobbed as I had never sobbed since I was a child. Meanwhile they were giving Mele a bath and putting her into regulation dress; they parted her hair in the middle, brushed it down flat and tied it into a knot at the nape of the neck. Thus no one looks exceptional. All have the same crazy look, whether they are half crazy or three-quarters crazy, or just slightly cracked. When you say “may I have pen and ink to write a letter” they say “yes” and they hand you a broom to sweep the floor. If you pee on the floor absent-mindedly you have to wipe it up. You can sob all you like but you mustn’t violate the rules of the house. A bughouse has to be run in orderly fashion just as any other house.
Once a week Mele would be allowed to receive. For thirty years the sisters had been visiting the bughouse. They were fed up with it. When they were tiny tots they used to visit their mother on Blackwell’s Island. The mother always said to be careful of Mele, to watch over her. When Mele stood at the gate with eyes so round and bright her mind must have traveled back like an express train. Everything must have leaped to her mind at once. Her eyes were so big and bright, as if they saw more than they could comprehend. Bright with terror, and beneath the terror a limitless confusion. That’s what made them so beautifully bright. You have to be crazy to see things so lucidly, so all at once. If you’re great you can stay that way and people will believe in you, swear by you, turn the world upside down for you. But if you’re only partly great, or just a nobody, then what happens to you is lost.
Mornings a brisk intellectual walk under the screaming elevated line, walking north from Delancey Street toward the Waldorf where the evening before the old man had been lounging around in Peacock Alley with Julian Legree. Each morning I write a new book, walking from the Delancey Street station north toward the Waldorf. On the fly-leaf of each book is written in vitriol: The Island of Incest. Every morning it starts with the drunken vomit of the night before; it makes a huge gardenia which I wear in the buttonhole of my lapel, the lapel of my double-breasted suit which is lined with silk throughout. I arrive at the tailor shop with the black breath of melancholy, perhaps to find Tom Jordan in the busheling room waiting to have the spots removed from his fly. After having written 369 pages on the trot the futility of saying Good Morning prevents me from being ordinarily polite. I have just this morning finished the twenty-third volume of the ancestral book, of which not even a comma is visible since it was all written extemporaneously without even a fountain pen. I, the tailor’s son, am now about to say Good Morning to Endicott Mumford’s crack woolen salesman who stand before the mirror in his underwear examining the pouches under his eyes. Every limb and leaf of the family tree dangles before my eyes: out of the crazy black fog of the Elbe there floats this changing island of incest which produces the marvelous gardenia that I wear in my buttonhole each morning. I am just about to say Good Morning to Tom Jordan. It trembles there on my lips. I see a huge tree rising out of the black fog and in the hollow of the trunk there sits the woman from Hamburg, her ass squeezed tightly through the back of the chair. The door is on the latch and through the chink I see her green f ace, the lips set tight, the nostrils distended. Crazy George is going from door to door with picture post cards, the arm that was bitten off by a horse lost and buried, the empty sleeve flapping in the wind. When all the pages have been torn from the calendar except the last six Crazy George will ring the doorbell and, with icicles in his mustache, he will stand on the threshold, cap in hand, and shout-“Merry Christmas! ” This is the craziest tree that ever rose out of the Elbe, with every limb blasted and every leaf withered. This is the tree that shouts regularly once a year-“Merry Christmas!” Despite the calamities, despite the flow of cancer, dropsy, thievery, mendacity, buggery, paralysis, tape worms, running ears, chorea, meningitis, epilepsy, liverworts, et cetera.
I am just about to say Good Morning. It trembles there on my lips. The twenty-three volumes of the Domesday Book are written with incestuous fidelity, the covers bound in finest morocco, and a lock and key for each volume. Tom Jordan’s bloodshot eyes are pasted on the mirror; they shudder like a horse shaking off a fly. Tom Jordan is always either taking off his pants or putting on his pants. Always buttoning or unbuttoning his fly. Always having the stains removed and a fresh crease put in. Tante Melia is sitting in the cooler, under the shade of the family tree. Mother is washing the vomit stains out of last week’s dirty wash. The old man is stropping his razor. The Jews are moving up from under the shadow of the bridge, the days are getting shorter, the tugs are snorting or croaking like bullfrogs, the harbor is jammed with ice cakes. Every chapter of the book which is written in the air thickens the blood; the music of it deafens the wild anxiety of the outer air. Night drops like a boom of thunder, deposits me on the floor of the pedestrian highway leading nowhere eventually, but brightly ringed with gleaming spokes along which there is no turning back nor standing still.
From the shadow of the bridges the mob moves up, closer and closer, like a ringworm, leaving a huge festering sore than runs from river to river along Fourteenth Street. This line of pus, which runs invisibly from ocean to ocean, and age to age, neatly divides the Gentile world that I knew from the ledger from the Jewish world that I am about to know from life. Between these two worlds, in the middle of the pus line that runs from river to river, stands a little flower pot filled with gardenias. This is as far as the mastodons roam, where the buffaloes can graze no more; here the cunning, abstract world rises like a cliff in the midst of which are buried the fires of the revolution. Each morning I cross the line, with a gardenia in my buttonhole and a fresh volume written in the air. Each morning I wade through a trench filled with vomit to reach the beautiful island of incest; each day the cliff rises up more toweringly, the window-lines straight as a railroad track and the gleam of them even more dazzling than the gleam of polished skulls. Each morning the trench yawns more menacingly.
I should be saying Good Morning now to Tom Jordan, but it hangs there on my lips tremblingly. What morning is this that I should waste in salutation? Is it good, this morning of mornings? I am losing the power to distinguish morning from morning. In the ledger is the world of the fast disappearing buffalo; next door the riveters are sewing up the ribs of the coming skyscrapers. Cunning Oriental men with leaden shoes and glass craniums are plotting the paper world of tomorrow, a world made entirely of merchandise which rises box on box like a paper-box factory, f. o. b. Canarsie. Today there is still time to attend the funeral of the recent dead; tomorrow there will be no time, for the dead will be left on the spot and woe to him who sheds a tear. This is a good morning for a revolution if only there were machine guns instead of firecrackers. This morning would be a splendid morning if yesterday’s morning had not been an utter fiasco. The past is galloping away, the trench widens. Tomorrow is further off than it was yesterday because yesterday’s horse has run wild and the men with leaden shoes cannot catch up with him. Between the good of the morning and the morning itself there is a line of pus which blows a stench over yesterday and poisons the morrow. This is a morning so confused that if it were only an old umbrella the slightest sneeze would blow it inside out.
My whole life is stretching out in an unbroken morning. I write from scratch each day. Each day a new world is created, separate and complete, and there I am among the constellations, a god so crazy about himself that he does nothing but sing and fashion new worlds. Meanwhile the old universe is going to pieces. The old universe resembles a busheling room in which pants are pressed and stains removed and buttons sewn on. The old universe smells like a wet seam receiving the kiss of a red-hot iron. Endless alterations and repairs, a sleeve lengthened, a collar lowered, a button moved closer, a new seat put in. But never a new suit of clothes, never a creation. There is the morning world, which starts from scratch each day, and the busheling room in which things are endlessly altered and repaired. And thus it is with my life through which there runs the sewer of night. All through the night I hear the goose irons hissing as they kiss the wet seams; the rinds of the old universe f all on the floor and the stench of them is sour as vinegar.
The men my father loved were weak and lovable. They went out, each and every one of them, like brilliant stars before the sun. They went out quietly and catastrophically. No shred of them remained-nothing but the memory of their blaze and glory. They flow now inside me like a vast river choked with falling stars. They form the black flowing river which keeps the axis of my world in constant revolution. Out of this black, endless, ever-expanding girdle of night springs the con tinuous morning which is wasted in creation. Each morning the river overflows its banks, leaving the sleeves and buttonholes and all the rinds of a dead universe strewn along the beach where I stand contemplating the ocean of the morning of creation.
Standing there on the ocean’s shore I see Crazy George leaning against the wall of the undertaker’s shop. He has on a funny little cap, a celluloid collar and no tie; he sits on the bench beside the coffin, neither sad nor smiling. He sits there quietly, like an angel that has stepped outside of a Jewish painting. The man in the coffin, whose body is still fresh, is decked out in a modest pepper and salt suit just George’s size. He has a collar and tie on and a watch in his vest pocket. George takes him out, undresses him and, while he changes his clothes, lays him on the ice. Not wishing to steal the watch he lays the watch on the ice beside the body. The man is lying on the ice with a celluloid collar around his neck. It is getting dark as George steps out of the undertaker’s shop. He has a tie now and a good suit of clothes. At the corner drugstore he stops off to buy a joke book which he saw in the window; he memorizes a few jokes standing in the subway. They are Joe Miller’s jokes.
At precisely the same hour Tante Melia is sending a Valentine greeting to the relatives. She has a gray uniform on and her hair is parted in the middle. She writes that she is very happy with her newfound friends and that the food is good. She would like them to remember however that she asked for some Fastnacht Kuchen the last time-could they send some by mail, by parcel post? She says that there are some lovely petunias growing up around the garbage can outside the big kitchen. She says that she took a long walk on Sunday last and saw lots of reindeer and rabbits and ostriches. She says that her spelling is very poor, but that she was never a good hand at writing anyway. Everybody is very kind and there is lots of work to do. She would like some Fastnacht Kuchen as soon as possible, by air mail if possible. She asked the director to make her some for her birthday but they forgot. She says to send some newspapers because she likes to look at the advertisements. There was a hat she saw once, from Bloomingdale’s, she thought, and it was marked down. Maybe they could send the hat along with the Fastnacht Kuchen? She thanks them all for the lovely cards they sent her last Christmas-she still remembers them, especially the one with the silver stars on it. Everybody thought it was lovely. She says that she will soon be going to bed and that she will pray for all of them because they were always so good to her.
It’s growing dusky, always about the same hour, and I’m standing there gazing at the ocean’s mirror. Icecold time, neither fast nor slow, but a stiff lying on the ice with a celluloid collar-and if only he had an erection it would be marvelous … too marvelous! In the dark hallway below Tom Jordan is waiting for the old man to descend. He has two blowsers with him and one of them is fixing her garter; Tom Jordan is helping her to fix her garter. Same hour, toward dusk, as I say, Mrs. Lawson is walking through the cemetery to look once again at her darling son’s grave. Her dear boy Jack, she says, though he was thirty-two when he kicked off seven years ago. They said it was rheumatism of the heart, but the fact is the darling boy had knocked up so many venereal virgins that when they drained the pus from his body he stank like a shitpump. Mrs. Lawson doesn’t seem to remember that at all. It’s her darling boy Jack and the grave is always tidy; she carries a little piece of chamois in her handbag in order to polish the tombstone every evening.
Same dusky time, the stiff lying there on the ice, and the old man is standing in a telephone booth with the receiver in one hand and something warm and wet with hair on it in the other. He’s calling up to say not to hold the dinner, that he’s got to take a customer out and he’ll be home late, not to worry. Crazy George is turning the leaves of Joe Miller’s joke book. Down further, toward Mobile, they’re practicing the St. Louis Blues without a note in front of ‘em and people are getting ready to go crazy when they hear it yesterday, today, tomorrow. Everybody’s getting ready to get raped, drugged, violated, soused with the new music that seeps out of the sweat of the asphalt. Soon it’ll be the same hour everywhere, just by turning a dial or hanging suspended over the earth in a balloon. It’s the hour of the kaffee-klatchers sitting around the family table, each one operated on for a different thing, the one with the whiskers and the heavy rings on her fingers having had a harder time than any one else because she could afford it.
It’s staggeringly beautiful at this hour when every one seems to be going his own private way. Love and murder, they’re still a few hours apart. Love and murder, I feel it coming with the dusk: new babies coming out of the womb, soft, pink flesh to get tangled up in barbed wire and scream all night long and rot like dead bone a thousand miles from nowhere. Crazy virgins with ice-cold jazz in their veins egging men on to erect new buildings and men with dog collars around their necks wading through the muck up to the eyes so that the czar of electricity will rule the waves. What’s in the seed scares the living piss out of me: a brand new world is coming out of the egg and no matter how fast I write the old world doesn’t die fast enough. I hear the new machine guns and the millions of bones splintered at once; I see dogs running mad and pigeons dropping with letters tied to their ankles
Always merry and bright, whether north from Delancey Street or south toward the pus line! My two soft hands in the body of the world, ploughing up the warm entrails, arranging and disarranging, cutting them up, sewing them together again. The warm body feeling which the surgeon knows, together with oysters, warts, ulcers, hernias, cancer sprouts, the young kohlrabies, the clips and the forceps, the scissors and tropical growths, the poisons and gases all locked up inside and carefully covered with skin. Out of the leaking mains love gushing like sewer gas: furious love with black gloves and bright bits of garter, love that champs and snorts, love hidden in a barrel and blowing the bunghole night ofter night. The men who passed through my father’s shop reeked with love: they were warm and winey, weak and indolent, fast yachts trimmed with sex, and when they sailed by me in the night they fumigated my dreams. Standing in the center of New York I could hear the tinkle of the cowbells, or, by a turn of the head, I could hear the sweet sweet music of the death rattle, a red line down the page and on every sleeve a mourning band. By twisting my neck just a little I could stand high above the tallest skyscraper and look down on the ruts left by the huge wheels of modern progress. Nothing was too difficult for me if only it had a little grief and anguish in it. Chez nous there were all the organic diseases-and a few of the inorganic. Like rock crystal we spread, from one crime to another. A merry whirl, and in the center of it my twentyfirst year already covered with verdigris.
And when I can remember no more I shall always remember the night I was getting a dose of clap and the old man so stinking drunk he took his friend Tom Jordan to bed with him. Beautiful and touching thisto be out getting a dose of clap when the family honor was at stake, when it was at par, you might say. Not to be there for the shindig, with mother and father wrestling on the floor and the broomstick flying. Not to be there in the cold morning light when Tom Jordan is on his knees and begging to be forgiven but not being forgiven even on his knees because the inflexible heart of a Lutheran doesn’t know the meaning of forgiveness. Touching and beautiful to read in the paper next morning that about the same hour the night before the pastor who had put in the bowling alley was caught in a dark room with a naked boy on his lap! But what makes it excruciatingly touching and beautiful is this, that not knowing these things, I came home next day to ask permission to marry a woman old enough to be my mother. And when I said “get married” the old lady picks up the bread knife and goes for me. I remember, as I left the house, that I stopped by the bookcase to grab a book. And the name of the book was-The Birth of Tragedy. Droll that, what with the broomstick the night before, the bread knife, the dose of clap, the pastor caught red-handed, the dumplings growing cold, the cancer sprouts, et cetera… . I used to think then that all the tragic events of life were written down in books and that what went on outside was just diluted crap. I thought that a beautiful book was a diseased portion of the brain. I never realized that a whole world could be diseased!
Walking up and down with a package under my arm. A fine bright morning, let’s say, and the spittoons all washed and polished. Mumbling to myself, as I step into the Woolworth Building-“Good morning, Mr. Thorndike, fine morning this morning, Mr. Thorndike. Are you interested in clothes, Mr. Thorndike?” Mr. Thorndike is not interested in clothes this morning; he thanks me for calling and throws the card in the waste basket. Nothing daunted I try the American Express Building. “Good morning, Mr. Hathaway, fine morning this morning!” Mr. Hathaway doesn’t need a good tailor-he’s had one for thirty-five years now. Mr. Hathaway is a little peeved and damned right he is thinks I to myself stumbling down the stairs. A fine, bright morning, no denying that, and so to take the bad taste out of my mouth and also have a view of the harbor I take the trolley over the bridge and call on a cheap skate by the name of Dyker. Dyker is a busy man. The sort of man who has his lunch sent up and his shoes polished while he eats. Dyker is suffering from a nervous complaint brought on by dry fucking. He says we can make him a pepper and salt suit if we stop dunning him every month. The girl was only sixteen and he didn’t want to knock her up. Yes, patch pockets, please! Besides, he has a wife and three children. Besides, he will be running for judge soon-judge of the Surrogate Court.
Getting toward matinee time. Hop back to New York and drop off at the Burlesk where the usher knows me. The first three rows always filled with judges and politicians. The house is dark and Margie Pennetti is standing on the runway in a pair of dirty white tights. She has the most wonderful ass of any woman on the stage and everybody knows it, herself included. After the show I walk around aimlessly, looking at the movie houses and the Jewish delicatessen stores. Stand awhile in a penny arcade listening to the siren voices coming through the megaphone. Life is just a continuous honeymoon filled with chocolate layer cake and cranberry pie. Put a penny in the slot and see a woman undressing on the grass. Put a penny in the slot and win a set of false teeth. The world is made of new parts every afternoon: the soiled parts are sent to the dry cleaner, the used parts are scrapped and sold for junk.
Walk uptown past the pus line and stroll through the lobbies of the big hotels. If I like I can sit down and watch other people walking through the lobby. Everybody’s on the watch. Things are happening all about. The strain of waiting for something to happen is delirious. The elevated rushing by, the taxis honking, the ambulance clanging, the riveters riveting. Bellhops dressed in gorgeous livery looking for people who don’t answer to their names. In the golden toilet below men standing in line waiting to take a leak; everything made of plush and marble, the odors refined and pleasant, the flush flushing beautifully. On the sidewalk a stack of newspapers, the headlines still wet with murder, rape, arson, strikes, forgeries, revolution. People stepping over one another to crash the subway. Over in Brooklyn a woman’s waiting for me. Old enough to be my mother and she’s waiting for me to marry her. The son’s got T. B. so bad he can’t crawl out of bed any more. Tough titty going up there to her garret to make love while the son’s in the next room coughing his lungs out. Besides, she’s just getting over an abortion and I don’t want to knock her up again-not right away anyhow.
The rush hour! and the subway a free for all paradise. Pressed up against a woman so tight I can feel the hair on her twat. So tightly glued together my knuckles are making a dent in her groin. She’s looking straight ahead, at a microscopic spot just under my right eye. By Canal Street I manage to get my penis where my knuckles were before. The thing’s jumping like mad and no matter which way the train jerks she’s always in the same position vis-a-vis my dickie. Even when the crowd thins out she stands there with her pelvis thrust forward and her eyes fixed on the microscopic spot just under my right eye. At Borough Hall she gets out, without once giving me the eye. I follow her up to the street thinking she might turn round and say hello at least, or let me buy her a frosted chocolate, assuming I could buy one. But no, she’s off like an arrow, without turning her head the eighth of an inch. How they do it I don’t know. Millions and millions of them every day standing up without underwear and getting a dry fuck. What’s the conclusion-a shower? a rubdown? Ten to one they fling themselves on the bed and finish the job with their fingers.
Anyway, it’s going on toward evening and me walking up and down with an erection fit to burst my fly. The crowd gets thicker and thicker. Everybody’s got a newspaper now. The sky’s choked with illuminated merchandise every single article of which is guaranteed to be pleasant, healthful, durable, tasty, noiseless, rainproof, imperishable, the nec plus ultra without which life would be unbearable were it not for the fact that life is already unbearable because there is no life. Just about the hour when old Henschke is quitting the tailor shop to go to the card club uptown. An agreeable little job on the side which keeps him occupied until two in the morning. Nothing much to do-just take the gentlemen’s hats and coats, serve drinks on a little tray, empty the ash trays and keep the matchboxes filled. Really a very pleasant job, everything considered. Toward midnight prepare a little snack for the gentlemen, should they so desire it. There are the spittoons, of course, and the toilet bowl. All such gentlemen, however, that there’s really nothing to it. And then there’s always a little cheese and crackers to nibble on, and sometimes a thimbleful of port. Now and then a cold veal sandwich for the morrow. Real gentlemen! No gainsaying it. Smoke the best cigars. Even the butts taste good. Really a very, very pleasant job!
Getting toward dinner time. Most of the tailors have closed shop for the day. A few of them, those who have nothing but brittle old geezers on the books, are waiting to make a try-on. They walk up and down with their hands behind their backs. Everybody has gone except the boss tailor himself, and perhaps the cutter or the bushelman. The boss tailor is wondering if he has to put new chalk marks on again and if the check will arrive in time to meet the rent. The cutter is saying to himself: “Why yes, Mr. So-and-so, why to be sure… yes, I think it should be just a little higher there … yes, you’re quite right … it is a little off on the left side … yes, we’ll have that ready for you in a few days … yes, Mr. So-and-so …. yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes… .” The finished clothes and the unfinished clothes are hanging on the rack; the bolts are neatly stacked on the tables; only the light in the busheling room is on. Suddenly the telephone rings. Mr. So-andso is on the wire and he can’t make it this evening but he would like his tuxedo sent up right away, the one with the new buttons which he selected last week, and he hopes to Christ it doesn’t jump off his neck any more. The cutter puts on his hat and coat and runs quickly down the stairs to attend a Zionist meeting in the Bronx. The boss tailor is left to close the shop and switch out all the lights if any were left on by mistake. The boy that he’s sending up with the tuxedo right away is himself and it doesn’t matter much because he will duck round by the trade entrance and nobody will be the wiser. Nobody looks more like a millionaire than a boss tailor delivering a tuxedo to Mr. So-and-so. Spry and spruce, shoes shined, hat cleaned, gloves washed, mustache waxed. They start to look worried only when they sit down for the evening meal. No appetite. No orders today. No checks. They get so despondent that they fall asleep at ten o’clock and when it’s time to go to bed they can’t sleep any more.
Walking over the Brooklyn Bridge…. Is this the world, this walking up and down, these buildings that are lit up, the men and women passing me? I watch their lips moving, the lips of the men and women passing me. What are they talking about-some of them so earnestly? I hate seeing people so deadly serious when I myself am suffering worse than any of them. One life! and there are millions and millions of lives to be lived. So far I haven’t had a thing to say about my own life. Not a thing. Must be I haven’t got the guts. Ought to go back to the subway, grab a Jane and rape her in the street. Ought to go back to Mr. Thorndike in the morning and spit in his face. Ought to stand on Times Square with my pecker in my hand and piss in the gutter. Ought to grab a revolver and fire pointblank into the crowd. The old man’s leading the life of Reilly. He and his bosom pals. And I’m walking up and down, turning green with hate and envy. And when I turn in the old woman’ll be sobbing fit to break her heart. Can’t sleep nights listening to her. I hate her too for sobbing that way. The one robs me, the other punishes me. How can I go into her and comfort her when what I most want to do is to break her heart?
Walking along the Bowery … and a beautiful snotgreen pasture it is at this hour. Pimps, crooks, cokies, panhandlers, beggars, touts, gunmen, chinks, wops, drunken micks. All gaga for a bit of food and a place to flop. Walking and walking and walking. Twentyone I am, white, born and bred in New York, muscular physique, sound intelligence, good breeder, no bad habits, etc., etc.Chalk it up on the board. Selling out at par. Committed no crime, except to be born here.
In the past every member of our family did something with his hands. I’m the first idle son of a bitch with a glib tongue and a bad heart.
Swimming in the crowd, a digit with the rest. Tailored and re-tailored. The lights are twinkling-on and off, on and off. Sometimes it’s a rubber tire, sometimes it’s a piece of chewing gum. The tragedy of it is that nobody sees the look of desperation on my face. Thousands and thousands of us, and we’re passing one another without a look of recognition. The lights jigging like electric needles. The atoms going crazy with light and heat. A conflagration going on behind the glass and nothing burns away. Men breaking their backs, men bursting their brains, to invent a machine which a child will manipulate. If I could only find the hypothetical child who’s to run this machine I’d put a hammer in its hands and say: Smash it! Smash it!
Smash it! Smash it! That’s all I can say. The old man’s riding around in an open barouche. I envy the bastard his peace of mind. A bosom pal by his side and a quart of rye under his belt. My toes are blistering with malice. Twenty years ahead of me and this thing growing worse by the hour. It’s throttling me. In twenty years there won’t be any soft, lovable men waiting to greet me. Every bosom pal that goes now is a buffalo lost and gone forever. Steel and concrete hedging me in. The pavement getting harder and harder. The new world eating into me, expropriating me. Soon I won’t even need a name.
Once I thought there were marvelous things in store for me. Thought I could build a world in the air, a castle of pure white spit that would raise me above the tallest building, between the tangible and the intangible, put me in a space like music where everything collapses and perishes but where I would be immune, great, godlike, holiest of the holies. It was I imagined this, I the tailor’s son! I who was born from a little acorn on an immense and stalwart tree. In the hollow of the acorn even the faintest tremor of the earth reached me: I was part of the great tree, part of the past, with crest and lineage, with pride, pride. And when I fell to earth and was buried there I remembered who I was, where I came from. Now I am lost, lost, do you hear? You don’t hear? I’m yowling and screaming-don’t you hear me? Switch the lights off! Smash the bulbs! Can you hear me now? Louder! you say. Louder! Christ, are you making sport of me? Are you deaf, dumb, and blind? Must I yank my clothes off? Must I dance on my head?
All right, then! I’m going to dance for you! A merry whirl, brothers, and let her whirl and whirl and whirl! Throw in an extra pair of flannel trousers while you’re at it. And don’t forget, boys, I dress on the right side. You hear me? Let ‘er go! Always merry and bright!
裁缝铺
裁缝铺
我有一个座右铭：总是兴高采烈！
白天常常这样开始：“去问某某人要账，但是不要侮辱他！”他们是难搞的杂种，所有那些我们尽量讨好的老家伙们。这足够逼得任何人去酗酒。我们在那里，就在奥尔科特对面，是第五大道的裁缝，尽管我们不在第五大道上。一家父子联合公司，由母亲掌钱。
早晨，八点左右，从德兰西街和包厘街生气勃勃、头脑清醒地走到华尔道夫下边。无论我走得多快，本迪克斯老头总是比我先到那里，和裁剪师大吵大闹，因为两个老板都没在做事。我们怎么老是不能比那可恶的本迪克斯老头先到呢?因为这个本迪克斯除了从裁缝铺跑到衬衣店，从衬衣店跑到珠宝店以外无事可做；他的戒指不是太松就是太紧，他的表不是慢二十五秒就是快三十三秒。他和每一个人大吵大闹，包括家庭医生，因为家庭医生不能保证他避免肾结石。如果我们在八月份给他做一件便装短上衣，到十月份他穿着就会太大或者太小。在找不出什么碴儿来抱怨时，他就会把裤子系得紧紧的，以便有借口痛骂做裤子的裁缝，说把他H.W.本迪克斯的睾丸给勒着了。一个难缠的家伙。动不动发火，反复无常，卑鄙下流，想入非非，一毛不拔，任性多变，用心恶毒。我现在回顾所有这一切，看到老爷子坐到桌子旁，满嘴酒气地说妈拉巴子，为什么没有人笑，为什么你们看上去都这样闷闷不乐时，我为他，为所有不得不亲吻富人屁股的裁缝铺老板感到遗憾。要不是有马路对面那家奥尔科特酒吧，以及他在那里结识的酒鬼，天知道他会成什么样子。他在家里肯定得不到同情。我母亲一点儿也想不到亲吻富人的屁股意味着什么。她不知道该如何做，只知道整天哼哼，整天伤心，随着她的哼哼和伤心，她带进来了那股酒气和放凉了的土豆丸子，她的忧虑搞得我们都他妈的神经过敏，以致咽口唾沫都会把我们——我弟弟和我——噎住。我弟弟是弱智，他甚至比H.W.本迪克斯更令老爷子心烦。他老说“某某牧师要去欧洲……某某牧师要开一个保龄球道”等等。“某某牧师个屁，”老爷子会说，“为什么丸子不是热的?”
有三个本迪克斯——H.W.，脾气暴躁的那一个；A.F.，老爷子在账本里写成艾伯特的那一个；还有一个R.N.，他从未来过店里，因为他的腿被锯掉了，然而这种状况也没有阻止他到一定时候磨破裤子。我从来没有见过R.N.本人。他是账本里的一笔账，裁剪师本切克说起他来总是容光焕发，因为一到试穿新裤子的时候总可以有几口烧酒喝一喝。三兄弟是永久性的仇敌；他们从来不在我们面前互相提起。艾伯特有点儿疯疯癫癫，十分爱好带点儿的背心，如果他碰巧看到架子上挂着一件礼服，试穿标签上用绿墨水写着“H.W.本迪克斯”的字样，他就会发出一声微弱的哼哼，说：“今天像是春天了，呃?”就好像不存在一个叫作H.W.本迪克斯的人，尽管大家都很清楚，我们不是在为鬼魂做衣服。
三兄弟中，我最喜欢艾伯特。他已经到了骨头像玻璃一样脆的年龄。他的脊柱有老年人的那种自然弯曲；好像他正准备折叠起来，回到子宫去。艾伯特来的时候，你总能分辨出来，因为电梯里会有骚动——一阵骂骂咧咧之后是一笔可观的小费，它伴随着使电梯的地面和我们裁缝铺的地面绝对平齐的过程。如果精确性不能在四分之一英寸的范围内，就没有小费。骨头发脆、脊柱弯曲的艾伯特在选择合适的扣子配他的带点儿背心，他最新的带点儿背心时会很有麻烦。（艾伯特死后，我继承了他所有的背心——它们一直陪伴我度过了战争。）有时候会有这样的情况，碰巧艾伯特到的时候，老爷子正在马路对面喝一小口。这时候，不知怎么的，整天都会变得混乱不堪。我记得有时候艾伯特同老爷子吵得不可开交，我们往往会三天见不到他；同时，小纸牌上的背心纽扣撒得到处都是，除了背心纽扣，背心纽扣，再没有别的话好说，就好像背心本身无关紧要，紧要的只有纽扣。后来，在艾伯特习惯了老爷子漫不经心的方式之后——在二十七年的时间里他们一直在互相习惯——他会给我们先来一个电话，告诉我们他要来了。就在挂电话之前他会加上一句：“我想，我十一点钟来没问题吧?……这不会使你不方便吧?”这一询问的意思有两层。它意味着：“我想，我到你那儿时，你应该体体面面地在场，不要让我浪费掉半个小时，而你却在马路对面和你那些酒肉朋友开怀畅饮。”另外，它也意味着：“十一点钟的时候，我想不会再有危险，撞上某个名字以H.W.打头的人了吧?”在我们为本迪克斯三兄弟做了大约一千五百七十八套服装的二十七年里，他们从来没有碰上过，至少在我们面前。艾伯特死的时候，R.N.和H.W.都在袖子上，在他们的便装短上衣和大衣——即那些不是黑颜色的上衣和大衣——的所有左袖上别了黑纱，但是关于死者，什么话也没说，甚至他是谁都没有说。当然，R.N.不去葬礼有一个很好的借口——他没有腿。H.W.则太无耻，太傲慢，竟连个借口都不屑于给。
十点钟左右通常是老爷子下楼去喝第一茬酒的时候。我常站在面对旅馆的窗户跟前，注视乔治•桑杜斯基把大箱子放到出租车上。在没有箱子可放的时候，乔治常背插着手站在那儿，朝转门里转出转进的客人们边鞠躬，边后退。自打我最初来到裁缝铺，在前窗那边就职以来，乔治•桑杜斯基一直在后退、鞠躬、放箱子、开门，大约十二年了。他是一个迷人的、声音柔和的人，有一头漂亮的白发，像牛一样壮。他把这种拍马屁的工作发展成为一种艺术。有一天他乘电梯上来，向我们定做一套西服，我很吃惊。在他的空闲时间，他是一位绅士，乔治•桑杜斯基。他情趣素雅——总是蓝哔叽或一种深灰色。一个懂得在葬礼或婚礼上如何举止的人。
我们互相认识以后，他让我明白，他找到了耶稣。以他那种圆滑讨好的腔调和臂力，以及所谓的耶稣的积极帮助，他已经积蓄了一笔储备金，一点儿预防老年忧患的东西。他是我那一时期所遇到的唯一一个不交人寿保险的人。他坚持说，上帝会照顾那些留在世上的人，就像上帝照顾他乔治•桑杜斯基一样。他不怕世界在他死后崩溃。上帝已经照顾每个人、每件事到今天——没有理由猜想上帝在乔治•桑杜斯基死后就会在自己的工作中出差错。到有一天乔治退休的时候，就很难找到一个人来替代他。没有人足够圆滑，有很多的甜言蜜语来把事情办好，没有人能像乔治那样边鞠躬边后退。老爷子总是很喜欢乔治。他常常试图说服他不时喝上一口，而乔治则总是以他那种习惯性的，然而十分固执的彬彬有礼加以拒绝。他的彬彬有礼使奥尔科特的客人们很喜爱他。
老爷子经常喜怒无常，这时候他就会请任何人，甚至乔治•桑杜斯基那样的人，同他一块儿喝酒。通常是在下午的晚些时候，这一天事情进行得很糟糕，来的只有账单。有时候一个星期过去了，都没有一个顾客在店里露面，或者即使有露面的，也只是来抱怨，来要求修改，来把做大衣的师傅骂得屁滚尿流，或者来要求降价。这样的事情会把老爷子气得脸色铁青，他所能做的一切，就是戴上帽子，出去喝上一杯。不是像往常那样走到街对面，他会走远一点儿，闪入布莱斯林或布劳太尔，有时候甚至到了安索尼亚，他的偶像朱利安•莱格利在那里有一套房子。
朱利安当时是一个午后场明星，他只穿灰色套装，每一种可以想象到的明暗不同的灰色，但只有灰色。他有长着结实脸庞的英国演员那种兴高采烈得令人沮丧的举止，他总是到处闲逛，同毛织品推销员，同酒商，同不管什么人交流故事。但是他的腔调就足以使人们云集在他周围；这是传统舞台意义上的英语，热烈、油滑、黏质的英语，它甚至能使最无意义的思想具有重要的外表。朱利安从来不说任何值得记录的东西，但是他那种声音在他的崇拜者身上有一种魔力。他和老爷子喝酒的时候，时常叫上一个考斯•佩顿那样的流浪者，考斯•佩顿在上演老套剧目的剧场中属于河的那一边。考斯•佩顿是布鲁克林的偶像！考斯•佩顿同艺术的关系就相当于帕特•麦凯伦同政治的关系。
老爷子在同这些人的谈话中说的话，始终令我十分难以理解。老爷子一生从未读过一本书，自从包厘街让位给百老汇大街以来，他也从未去看过一次戏。我可以看到他站在免费午餐柜台那里——朱利安非常喜欢奥尔科特提供的鱼子酱和鲟鱼——像一只干渴的狗一样拼命喝酒。两个午后场明星在讨论莎士比亚——到底是《哈姆莱特》还是《李尔王》是写得最好的剧本，要不然就争论鲍勃•英格索尔的功绩。
那时候在柜台后面有三个凶猛的爱尔兰人，三个卑贱的爱尔兰佬，把那一天的酒吧变成了他们那类人的巢穴。他们三个人被认为很了不起，以至于让例如帕特西•奥多德之流骂你是该死的无知的连裤子纽扣也不系的下流无耻的婊子养的，竟也被看作是你的一种特权。如果作为对这种恭维的回报，你问他是否自己也来上一点儿什么，帕特西•奥多德就会冷嘲热讽地回答，只有像你那样的人才会将劣等酒灌下喉咙，说着他会轻蔑地抓起你的酒杯脚，擦底下的红木柜台，因为这是他的部分工作，他拿了钱就是干这个的，不过如果你认为你可以诱惑他这样的人用这样的破玩意儿毒害他的肠子，那你见鬼去吧。他的侮辱越恶毒，他就越受到尊敬；习惯于让人用丝手绢擦他们屁股的金融家会在股票行情记录器关闭之后，一路驱车驶到住宅区，为的是让这他妈的爱尔兰臭嘴杂种骂他们是该死的下流无耻的婊子养的。对他们来说，这就是完美一天的结束。
这个活跃的娱乐场老板是一个肥胖的小个子，有贵族式的小腿和狮子般的脑袋。他总是挺着大肚子走路，背心底下藏个小酒桶。他常常朝柜台边的那些酒鬼生硬、傲慢地点点头，除非他们碰巧是旅馆的客人，在这种情况下，他会停下片刻，伸出三根胖乎乎的小手指头，上面露出青筋，然后，小胡子一捻，小心翼翼地、跳芭蕾舞式地吱嘎一转身，就飞快地走掉了。他是老爷子的唯一敌人。老爷子干脆受不了他。他有一种感觉，认为汤姆•莫发特看不起他。于是，汤姆•莫发特到店里来定做衣服时，老爷子就会附加百分之十或十五来抵消他的傲慢账。但是，汤姆•莫发特是一个真正的贵族：他从来不问价，从来不付账。如果我们催他付账，他会让他的会计来，在我们的账单里挑毛病。在又需要定做一条法兰绒裤子、一件礼服或一件无尾礼服时，他会带着他通常那种肥胖的尊贵模样，挺着大肚子，胡子上抹了蜡，皮鞋擦得锃亮，并一如既往地发出叽叽嘎嘎的声音，一副厌倦、冷淡、漠然、看不起人的样子，飘飘然走进来，他会用下面的话问候老爷子：“嘿，你们把账上的错误搞清楚了没有?”听到这话，老爷子会勃然大怒，用欺骗手段把一小截或一小块美国货硬卖给他的敌人汤姆•莫发特。然后就是关于我们账上的“小错误”进行长期的书信往来。老爷子气疯了。他雇了一个会计专家，写出三英尺长的财务报告书——但是完全无用。最后老爷子想出一个主意。
有一天快到中午的时候，在他像往常一样喝了一点儿酒之后，在他做东请了所有那些召集到酒吧来的毛织品推销员和装饰品推销员之后，他从容地拿起酒吧的账单存根，掏出一支连在他表链上的小银笔，在存根上签上他的名字，把它滑到帕特西•奥多德那边，说：“告诉莫发特，把这些记在我的账上。”然后他从容地走开，邀请了一些他最好的朋友，在餐厅的一张桌子上坐下，吃起了丰盛的酒席。当那个法国佬阿德里安把账单拿来时，他平静地说：“给我一支笔。那……那只有我的一半多。记在我的账上。”由于和其他人做伴一块儿吃饭更快活，所以他总是请他的好朋友们一起用午餐，他对大家说：“如果莫发特那个杂种不付衣服钱，那么我们就吃掉它。”说着，他就会要一只美味的雏鸟，或一份纽堡风味大龙虾，用一口美味的摩泽尔白葡萄酒或法国佬阿德里安碰巧推荐的任何其他佳酿把它冲下去。
很令人惊奇的是，莫发特对所有这一切假装不当回事。他继续定做他通常需要的春、夏、秋、冬服装，他还继续关于账单的争吵，现在已变得更容易争吵不休了，因为有了酒吧账单、电话费、雏鸟、龙虾、香槟酒、新鲜草莓、本尼狄克丁甜酒等等，情况就复杂了。事实上，老爷子如此迅速地吃掉了账单上的账，细长腿的莫发特再拼命穿也不可能同样快地穿破他的衣服。如果他来定做一条法兰绒裤子，那么老爷子第二天就已经把它吃掉了。
最后，莫发特表明了认真的愿望，想要把账结清。通信停止了。有一天我碰巧站在大厅里，他摆出一副最亲切的样子，拍拍我的背，请我上楼到他的私人办公室去。他说他总是把我看作一个非常通情达理的年轻人，我们也许可以在我们之间把问题解决掉，不必去麻烦老人家。我查看账单，发现老爷子已经吃到了负数这一边。我自己也许也吃掉了几件套袖大衣，几件猎装。如果我们还想继续让汤姆•莫发特光顾我们的生意，尽管这种光顾遭到我们鄙视，那么，只有一件事情好做，就是在账上找出一个毛病来。我胳膊底下夹了一捆账单，向那老家伙保证说，我会把问题彻底调查清楚的。
老爷子看到事情是这个样子的时候，心里很高兴。我们不断调查了好几年。无论什么时候汤姆•莫发特来定做衣服，老爷子都会快活地同他打招呼，说：“你把账上那小问题搞清楚了没有?这里有一块极棒的巴拉瑟亚料子，我专门为你留着呢……”莫发特会皱起眉头，扭歪了脸，像一只雄火鸡一般架子十足地来回走，他的鸡冠直立，小细腿恶狠狠地到了发青的地步。半小时以后，老爷子会站在酒吧里痛饮。“刚才又卖给莫发特一件无尾礼服，”他会说，“顺便说一下，朱利安，你今天午饭想吃什么?”
我说过，快到中午的时候，老爷子通常下楼去喝开胃酒；在任何地方的午餐都是从中午一直延续到下午四五点钟。老爷子在那些日子里享有的友谊是很奇妙的。午饭后，这一伙人会摇摇晃晃从电梯里出来，吐着唾沫狂笑，脸颊火一样红，一下子倒在痰盂旁边的大皮椅里面。有一个卖丝绸衬里和配料如线、纽扣、胸部衬料、网形粗布等等的菲尔德•帕提，一个大家伙，像是一艘遭台风袭击的班轮。他总是在梦游状态中走来走去，疲乏得几乎连嘴唇都动不了。然而，那种轻微的嘴唇动作却使周围的每一个人忍不住大笑。他总是喃喃自语——尤其是关于奶酪。他十分喜欢奶酪，尤其喜欢抹面包的软奶酪和林堡奶酪——放得越陈越好。在不吃奶酪的时候，他就讲关于海涅和舒伯特的故事，或者在他正要放屁的时候，他会要一根火柴，拿着放在他座位底下，以便我们能告诉他火焰的颜色。他从来不说再见或明天见；他总是从前一天中断的谈话那儿开始讲起，好像并没有时间上的中断。无论是早晨九点钟还是晚上六点钟，他都迈着同样令人恼怒的、慢悠悠的四方步，鞋子发出沙沙的声音，他低垂着脑袋，胳膊底下夹着衬里和配料，嘴里散发着臭气，鼻子发紫，有点儿半透明的样子。他会低着脑袋走进最密集的交通街道中间，一只口袋里放着软奶酪，另一只口袋里放着林堡奶酪。从电梯里走出来，他会用他那种困倦单调的声音说他有一些新衬里昨天晚上的奶酪棒极了你正在考虑还他赊给你的账吗最好马上付清如果你还想要货的话，或者想去看几部黄色电影请抓一下我的背再高一点儿对了请原谅我现在要放屁了如果你有时间我可不能整天浪费在这里最好让老头戴上帽子是去喝一杯的时候了。他一边还在嘟嘟囔囔着，一边把他那只大方船头调过来，按了电梯的按钮，而老爷子则后脑勺上戴着一顶草帽，从店铺后面朝本垒来了一个滑垒，他的脸因为爱和感激而容光焕发。他说：“嗨，菲尔德，你今天早晨怎么样?见到你太好了。”而菲尔德的笨重大面具则放松了一会儿，露出宽厚和蔼的笑脸。这笑脸他只维持了一秒钟，然后他提高嗓门，使足了劲咆哮——以至于马路对面的汤姆•莫发特都能听见——“最好马上付清你究竟认为我卖这些东西是干什么的?”
电梯一朝下开动，小鲁宾就从改制室里出来，带着疯狂的眼神对我说：“你想让我为你唱歌吗?”他他妈的完全知道我想。于是他回到长凳那儿，拿起他正在缝的衣服，以一种哥萨克人的疯狂喊叫唱了起来。
如果你在街上从他——小鲁宾——身边走过，你会说“肮脏的小犹太鬼”。也许他是一个肮脏的小犹太鬼，但是他知道如何唱歌；在你不名一文的时候，他知道掏他自己的口袋；在你伤心的时候，他更伤心。如果你试图踩他，他就啐你的鞋；如果你后悔了，他就把它擦掉，给你刷干净。他在你裤子上做出的褶缝就是耶稣•H.基督本人也做不出来。
改制室里全是侏儒——鲁宾、拉普、查莫维兹。中午他们拿出抹了甜黄油的犹太大圆面包和熏鲑鱼片。一方面，老爷子要了雏鸟和莱茵河葡萄酒；另一方面，裁剪师本切克则和三个小改制匠坐在一大堆鹅颈式熨斗、裤腿、衣袖中的长凳上，一本正经地谈论房租或者查莫维兹太太子宫里的溃疡。本切克是犹太复国主义党的热情成员。他相信犹太人面前有一个幸福的未来。但是不管这一切，他却从来不能像样地发出“操”这类字眼的音。他总是说：“他造她。”除了对犹太复国主义的热情外，本切克还有另一种迷恋，这就是有一天要做一件小领圈的大衣。几乎所有顾客都圆肩大肚皮，尤其是那些整天无所事事的老杂种，他们只会从衬衣店跑到裁缝铺，从裁缝铺跑到珠宝店，从珠宝店跑到牙医诊所，从牙医诊所跑到杂货店。衣服要做这么多改动，以致到衣服改好、可以穿的时候，季节已经过去了，它们不得不被放到一边，等明年再穿了，而到了明年，那些老杂种不是胖了二十磅就是瘦了二十磅，另外也由于他们尿里有糖，血液里有水，即使衣服很合身，也他妈的难以令他们满意。
还有保罗•戴克斯特，一个一年一万美元的人，但总是失业。有一次他几乎找到一份工作，但一年九千美元，他的自尊心不允许他接受这项工作。由于在寻找这种神话般工作的过程中，服饰很重要，保罗感到必须光顾老爷子这样的好裁缝。一旦他弄到工作，那么一切就会得到充分解决。保罗心目中从来没有怀疑过这一点。他十分诚实，但他是一个梦想家。他来自印第安纳。像来自印第安纳的所有梦想家一样，他有这样一种可爱的性情，这样一种圆滑、老成、甜言蜜语的方式，以至于如果他乱伦，人们也会原谅他的。当他系好领带，当他选择了适当的手杖和手套，当翻领熨得很柔滑，皮鞋也不叽叽乱响，当他肚子里装了一夸特黑麦威士忌酒，天气又不太潮湿或不太阴沉，这时候，从他的个性中就流露出这样一股爱与理解的暖流，以至于连那些装饰品推销员，尽管他们对甜言蜜语无动于衷，也会彻底融化。当所有情况都有利地结合在一起时，保罗就会走到一个人跟前，上帝的绿色大地上的任何人，然后抓住他的衣服领子，把他淹没在爱的海洋中。我从未看见过一个人有如此的说服力，如此的吸引力。当他内心汹涌澎湃的时候，他是不可战胜的。
保罗常常说：“从马可•奥勒利乌斯[1]或爱比克泰德[2]开始，其余的会随之而来。”他没有推荐研究汉语或学习普罗旺斯语：他从罗马帝国的灭亡开始。我在那些日子里的远大抱负是博得保罗的好评，但保罗是很难取悦的。当我给他看《查拉图斯特拉如是说》的时候，他皱起了眉头。当他看到我同侏儒们一起坐在长凳上试图解释《创造进化论》的意义时，他皱起了眉头。他尤其不喜欢犹太人。当裁剪师本切克拿着粉笔，脖子上挂着一根皮尺出现的时候，保罗就变得格外有礼貌，格外带有一种恩赐式的态度。他知道，本切克看不起他，因为本切克是老爷子的左膀右臂，于是他就用油把他擦得亮光光的，一味恭维他。最终甚至本切克都不得不承认，保罗有点儿本事，有某种不可思议的个性特征，尽管他有种种缺点，却得到每一个人的喜爱。
保罗表面上快快活活，但实际上闷闷不乐。他的妻子柯拉时常仪态万方地走进来，眼中饱含泪水，恳求老爷子好好照管保罗。他们常站在靠近窗户的圆桌边小声谈话。她是一个漂亮女子，他的妻子，高个儿，轮廓清晰，说话时使用一种深沉的女低音，无论什么时候她一提到保罗的名字，这低音似乎就会痛苦得颤抖起来。我会看见老爷子把手放在她肩膀上，安慰她，向她保证各种事情都没有问题。她喜欢老爷子，我看得出来。她常常站得离他很近，用一种不可抗拒的方式直视他的眼睛。有时候老爷子会戴上帽子，他们俩会挽着胳膊乘电梯下楼，好像要去参加葬礼似的。他们又去找保罗了。当保罗的饮酒狂热上来时，没人知道上哪儿找他。连着好几天，他会影踪全无。然后有一天，他会垂头丧气、悔恨莫及、低三下四地出现，求每一个人原谅。同时，他会把套服拿去干洗，让人把他呕吐的污渍除去，并在膝盖处做一点儿行家的修补。
一阵闹饮之后，保罗谈起话来总是滔滔不绝。他常瘫坐在一把深深的皮椅里，一只手拿着手套，两腿夹着手杖，谈论起马可•奥勒利乌斯。当他在医院治疗瘘管回来时，甚至谈得更加出色。他欠身坐到大皮椅子里去的样子使我当时想到，他特地到裁缝铺来是因为在别处找不到这样一个舒适的位子。坐下或站起来似乎都是一次痛苦的手术，但是一旦完成手术，保罗似乎就处于极乐之中，话就像液体的天鹅绒一般，从他的舌尖滚滚而出。老爷子会听保罗说一整天。他常说，保罗有闲聊的天分，但那只是他没把话说清楚，他是要说，保罗是上帝的大地上最可爱的人，他肚子里有一团火。当保罗太于心不安，不再定做另一套西服时，老爷子会哄他定做，一直对他说：“没有什么不合适的，保罗……没有什么！”
保罗一定也在老爷子身上发现了某种程度的相同本性。我从未看见两个人脸上带着这样热情赞美的光彩互相对望。有时候他们会站在那里，互相赞美地直视对方的眼睛，直至流下眼泪。事实上，他们俩谁也不羞于让人看到自己流泪，这种事现在在世上似乎已不复存在。我现在能看到保罗那张不怎么好看的雀斑脸，以及那两片油腻的厚嘴唇，当老爷子第一千次告诉他，他是怎样一个了不起的家伙时，这嘴唇就抽搐起来。保罗从来不对老爷子谈论他不理解的事情，但在他如此认真谈论的简单日常琐事中，他加入了如此大量的柔情，以致老爷子似乎都灵魂出了窍。保罗不在了之后，他就像一个失去了亲人的人一样。这时候，他会走进一间办公室的小隔间里，独自一人默默坐在那儿，出神地凝视着那一排放满了未回复信件、未付账单的鸽笼式格架。看到他在这样的情绪中，我往往大受感动。我就悄悄溜下楼梯，开始往家走，从大道走到包厘街，沿包厘街走到布鲁克林大桥，然后在桥上经过一长串从市政厅延伸到富尔顿渡口的廉价旅馆。如果是在夏天的傍晚，引桥入口处挤满了闲逛的人，我就会搜寻着朝这些醉醺醺的人影中望去，很想知道他们当中有多少个保罗，想知道生活中是什么东西使这些明显的失败者如此受到人们的喜爱。其他人，那些成功者，我看见他们处于尴尬境地；我看见他们弯曲的脊柱，他们脆弱的骨骼，他们曲张的静脉，他们的肿瘤，他们凹陷的胸脯，他们那些由于多年涮洗而变了形的大面包篮子。是的，所有那些穿丝绸里子衣服的笨蛋我都十分了解——我们的名册上有美国最富的家庭。他们张开他们的脏嘴时，不知里面有多少脓和脏东西哩！就好像他们在裁缝面前脱衣服时，感到不得不摆脱他们用精神构成的堵塞的污水池中积累起来的垃圾。全是一些无聊病和富贵病。令人作呕地谈论他们自己。总是“我”，“我”。我和我的肾。我和我的痛风。我和我的叶苔。当我想到保罗的可怕痔疮，想到他们治疗的奇异瘘管，想到他剧烈疼痛的伤口里流出的所有爱和学问时，我认为保罗完全不属于他的时代，而是摩西•迈蒙尼德[3]的嫡亲兄弟，他在摩尔人手下写出了有惊人学问的论文，论及“痔、疣、痈”，等等。
在老爷子如此爱护的所有这些人中，死亡都迅速而意外地到来。保罗的情况是这样的：他在海滨时，死亡降临了。他淹死在一英尺深的水中。他们说是心脏衰竭。于是，在一个晴朗的白天，柯拉穿着漂亮的孝服，乘电梯上楼，一路哭过来。我觉得她从来没有这样漂亮，这样甜美，这样线条清晰过。尤其是她的屁股——我记得天鹅绒如何爱抚地紧裹着她的身体。他们又站在前窗户边的那张圆桌附近，这一次她哭得很厉害。老爷子又戴上帽子，他们俩挽着胳膊乘电梯下楼。
不久以后，老爷子动了某种古怪的奇想，催促我去看保罗的妻子，表示我的悼念。当我按响她公寓的门铃时，我在发抖。我几乎料想她赤身裸体地出来，也许只是在胸部围了一道黑纱。我因为她的美而搞得昏头昏脑，还有她的年龄，还有她从印第安纳带来的那种困倦的植物般的特性，以及她浑身的香水味。她穿着一件领口很低的孝袍，一件漂亮的紧身黑天鹅绒袍子。这是我第一次同一个丧偶的女人，一个乳房似乎都要大声抽噎出来的女人面对面在一起。我不知道对她说什么好，尤其是关于保罗。我结结巴巴，脸也红了，在她请我坐到她旁边的睡榻上时，我在窘迫中几乎跌倒在她身上。
我们坐在那张低矮的沙发上，那里满是柔和的光线，她起伏的腰部摩擦着我的身子，马拉加葡萄酒捶打着我的太阳穴。她疯狂地谈论着保罗，谈论他有多好。我最后弯下腰，一句话没说，撩起她的裙子，就让那玩意儿溜进她的身子里。当我把那玩意儿放进她里面，拼命干将起来的时候，她开始呻吟，一种神志不清的痛苦与内疚，不时被喘息以及由欢乐与痛苦引起的小声尖叫所打断，她反反复复地说：“我绝没有想到你会干这个……我绝没有想到你会干这个！”完事之后，她扯下天鹅绒长裙，那件领口很低的漂亮孝袍，把我脑袋放在她身上，让我亲吻她，并用她那两条强壮的胳膊几乎把我挤成了两半，她呻吟着，抽泣着。然后她爬起来，光着身子在房间里走了一会儿。最后她跪在我直挺挺地躺在上面的沙发旁边，含着泪低声说：“你答应我，你将永远爱我，好吗?你答应我吗?”我说答应，一边用一只手在她下身忙活。我嘴上是说答应，心里却暗自想，你多么傻啊，竟等这么长久。她的下身多么潮湿，她多么孩子气，多么深信不疑，嘿，任何人来都可以得到真情。她是一个易受欺骗的人。
总是兴高采烈！时不时地，每过一个季节，就有一些人死去。有时候是保罗、朱利安•莱格利那样的好人，有时候是一个用锈钉子掏鼻子的酒吧招待——前一天还活蹦乱跳的，第二天就死了——但总是时不时地，像季节本身的更替，老家伙们都一个个死去。那么，除了画一条红色的斜线，一直画到账本的右下角，标明“死亡”以外，就没有什么事情好做了。每一次死亡都带来一点点业务——一身新的黑套装，要不然就是每件衣服左边衣袖上的黑纱。那些定做黑纱的人是些吝啬鬼，这是根据老爷子的说法，但他们也确实是吝啬鬼。
随着老家伙们的去世，他们为年轻人所代替。年轻人！这就是整条大道的战斗口号，只要是有卖丝绸衬里套装的地方就有这口号。他们是很有血腥味的一伙，这些年轻人。赌徒、赛马场上出卖内部情报的人、证券经纪人、蹩脚演员、职业拳击手等等。前一天富，第二天就穷。没有廉耻，没有忠诚，没有责任感。他们大多数是一帮生了坏疽的梅毒患者。从巴黎或蒙特卡洛带着肮脏的明信片和腹股沟里的大蓝宝石回来。他们当中有些人的睾丸像炒羊羔内脏一样大。
卡罗拉•冯•埃申巴赫男爵就是其中之一。他在好莱坞假扮王储，挣了一些钱。这是这样一个时期：看到王储满身臭鸡蛋，这被认为是狂喜的事情。必须为男爵说一句，他是王储的好替身。一个骷髅头上长着傲慢的鼻子，迈着暴躁的大步，穿着紧身胸衣的腰，像马丁•路德一样瘦，一样陶醉。郁郁寡欢，闷闷不乐，盲目狂热，带着容克地主阶级那种花哨、愚昧的光华。在去好莱坞以前，他只是一个无足轻重的小人物，法兰克福一个酿酒商的儿子。他甚至不是一个男爵。但是，在他像药丸子一样被人揍来揍去，门牙也被打得咽下了肚，一只破瓶子的瓶颈在他左脸颊上留下一道深深的疤痕之后，在他被人教会如何炫耀红领带，并像卓别林一样，快速转动手杖，把唇须剪断之后，他成了个人物。然后他在眼睛上夹一片单片眼镜，称自己为卡罗拉•冯•埃申巴赫男爵。要不是他迷恋上一个红头发的跑龙套演员，他的一切也许都还进行得很美好。这个跑龙套演员已经被梅毒烂得一塌糊涂。这断送了他。
有一天，他穿着礼服和鞋罩，乘电梯上楼来。一朵鲜红的玫瑰插在他的纽扣洞里，眼睛上夹着单片镜。他看上去轻松愉快、衣冠楚楚。他从皮夹里拿出来的卡片印制得很漂亮。卡片上印有一枚盾形纹章，他说，它作为家族的纹章已经有九百年的历史了。他称之为“家族骷髅”。老爷子因为顾客中间有一位男爵，非常高兴，尤其是如果他能付现金的话，因为这人答应付现金的。另外，看到男爵风度翩翩地走进来，胳膊上挎着两个风流少妇——每次换一双——这也是令人振奋的。更令人振奋的是，他请她们到更衣室里面，让她们帮他脱裤子。这是欧洲的风俗，他解释说。
他渐渐和所有在铺子前面闲逛的老朋友们混熟了。他表演给他们看王储是如何走路，如何坐下，如何微笑的。有一天，他带来一支长笛，演奏了罗累莱之歌。还有一天，他进来的时候，他的猪皮手套的一只手指戳在裤裆外面。每一天他都暗中准备了一个新把戏来露一手。他快活，机智，有趣。他知道上千个笑话，有些是以前从来没有人讲过的。他是一个极其有趣的人。
然后有一天，他把我拽到一边，问我能否借给他一角钱——作车费。他说他支付不起他订的服装，但是他指望不久在第九大道的一家小电影院里会有一份弹钢琴的工作。然后，他在我不知不觉中哭了起来。我们正站在更衣室里，幸好帘子都是拉上的。我不得不给他一块手绢来擦眼泪。他说他已经厌倦了扮演小丑，他每天到我们家来，因为这里很暖和，因为我们有舒适的座位。他问我能否带他去吃午饭——最近三天他什么也没吃，只喝了点儿咖啡，和几个小面包。
我带他到了第三大道的一家德国小餐馆，一个面包房和餐馆的混合体。这地方的环境使他伤心到了极点。他只会说过去的日子，过去的日子，战前的那些日子。他本打算成为一个画家的，然后爆发了战争。我仔细听着，他讲完时，我建议他那天晚上到我家吃饭——也许我可以让他和我们吃住在一起。他感激得不得了。一定，他要来的——七点整。好极了！
在饭桌上，我老婆对他的故事津津有味。关于他一分钱也没有的事，我没有说起，只说他是一个男爵——冯•埃申巴赫男爵，是查理•卓别林的一个朋友。我老婆——我最初几个老婆中的一个——很得意能同一位男爵坐在同一张桌子旁。尽管她是一个清教主义的杂种，可是在他讲自己那些有伤风化的故事时，她竟然一点儿也不脸红。她认为这些故事很讨人喜欢——如此欧洲化。但是，最终到了摊牌的时候。我试图委婉地把情况说出来，可是关于梅毒那样的问题你如何能说得委婉呢?开始我没有称之为梅毒——我说“性病”。性方面的疾病，就是说！但是就那个“性”字，已经让我老婆全身一阵哆嗦。她看着他正举到嘴边的杯子，然后又以恳求的目光望着我，好像要说：“你怎么能请那样一个人同我们坐在一张桌子旁呢?”我明白必须立即单刀直入。“这位男爵将和我们一起待一段时间，”我平静地说，“他一分钱也没有，他需要一个睡觉的地方。”我保证，我从来没有见过一个女人的表情变化得如此之快。“你！”她说，“你让我那样做?那么小孩呢?你要我们都得梅毒，是吧?他得了这病还不够——你要孩子也得这病呀！”
男爵当然被这一通发作弄得十分下不了台。他要马上走，但是我让他耐心等着，我已经习惯了这种大吵大闹。然而，他变得十分激动，喝咖啡喝得呛了起来。我捶他的背，直到他脸色发青。他纽扣洞里的玫瑰掉出来，掉进了盘子里。它在那里的样子很古怪，就好像他从自己的血里把它咳了出来。这使我为我老婆感到他妈的十分羞愧，我恨不得当场把她掐死。在我领他去浴室的时候，他仍然呛着，说话气急败坏。我让他用凉水洗脸。我老婆跟着我们进了浴室，在杀气腾腾的沉默中盯着他冲洗自己。在他洗完脸以后，我老婆一把从他手中夺过毛巾，猛地推开浴室窗户，把毛巾扔了出去。这使我火不打一处来。我让她他妈的从浴室滚出去，管好她自己的事情，但是男爵一步跨到我们中间，哀求着讨好我老婆。“你明白，我的好太太，还有你，亨利，你们什么也不必担心。我把我所有的注射器和药膏都带来了，我将它们放在一只小箱子里——那里，就放在水池底下。你们千万不要把我赶走，我没有地方可去。我是一个绝望的人。我在世界上孤身一人。你们以前对我那么好——为什么你们现在就一定要这么残酷呢?我有梅毒是我的错吗?任何人都可能得这病。大家都是人嘛。你们瞧着吧，我会一千倍地报答你们的。我会为你们做任何事情。我会铺床，我会洗盘子……我还会为你们做饭……”他就像那样不停地说啊说，因为怕她说“不”，他连喘口气都不敢。在他说完了所有的诺言，在他上百次地求她宽恕，在他跪下来试图在她猛地抽走的手上亲吻之后，他坐在马桶上，穿着他的礼服和鞋罩，抽泣起来，抽泣得像一个小孩子。这是一个可怕的、消过毒的、铺着白色瓷砖的浴室，里面星星点点的光亮就好像上千面镜子打碎在放大镜底下，然后还有这个不成样子的男爵，穿着他的礼服和鞋罩，他的脊柱里注满了汞消毒溶液，他的抽泣就像刚开动的火车头短短地喷出一阵阵蒸汽。我不知道究竟干什么好。像那样坐在马桶上抽泣的一个男人——这给我留下了深刻印象。后来我对此变得习惯了。我变得无动于衷。我现在确信，要不是因为不得不在里昂的那家医院一天两次访问那两百五十名卧床病人，拉伯雷才不会那样兴高采烈呢。我确信这一点。
总之，关于抽泣……不久以后，另一个孩子快要出生了，没有办法把孩子打掉，尽管仍然希望，仍然希望有什么事会发生，也许是一个奇迹。她的肚子大得像一只熟了的西瓜，六七个月了，嗨，她常常犯忧郁症，躺在床上，和那只西瓜面面相觑，她会开始抽泣，足以使你心碎。也许我会在另一个房间，伸展在睡榻上，手里捧一本大厚书。她那些抽泣会让我想起卡罗拉•冯•埃申巴赫男爵，想起他那灰色的鞋罩和带镶边翻领的礼服，以及纽扣洞里深红色的玫瑰。她的抽泣在我听来就像音乐。她不断抽泣是想得到同情，而家里却没有一点儿同情。这是很可怜的。她越歇斯底里，我就越置若罔闻。这就像在一个夏夜的海滩上听拍岸浪花的隆隆声和咝咝声：一只蚊子的嗡嗡声足以淹没大海的咆哮。总之，在她情绪激动到了一种崩溃状态之后，邻居们再也受不了了，前来敲门。然后她的老母亲就会从卧室里爬出来，眼睛里含着泪水求我到她那儿去，让她安静一点儿。“哦，随她去，”我会说，“她会熬过去的。”这时候，我老婆的抽泣会停住一会儿，她会疯了一般从床上跳下来，气得晕头转向，披头散发。她眼睛红肿，眼前一片模糊。这时她一边继续打嗝、抽泣，一边开始用拳头狠狠砸我，直砸得我歇斯底里地大笑。她看见我像一个疯子一样前仰后合，她的胳膊也累了，手也疼了，这时她就会像一个喝醉的婊子般喊叫——“魔鬼！恶魔！”——然后像一只疲惫不堪的狗一样灰溜溜地走开了。后来，我让她平静了一点儿，我明白她真的需要一两句好听的话，这时我就会把她摔倒在床上，美美地干起她来。在伤心痛苦地大闹一场之后，她要不是干起来最美的女人，我就死去！我从来没有听到一个女人像她那样哎哟哎哟地呻吟叫唤。“怎么干我都行！”她常常说。“随你怎么干！”我会让她倒立着干她，我会从背后干她，我会拽着她经过教区牧师的家，如他们所说，任何该死的事情——她干脆就乐得发狂。子宫歇斯底里，就是这么回事！如果我说的有一句是假话，正如那位诚实的大师所说，我希望上帝惩罚我。
（上面提到的上帝，由圣奥古斯丁定义如下：“一个无限的球体，其中心在一切地方，哪儿都没有边际。”）
然而，总是兴高采烈！如果这是在战前，温度表降到零度或零度以下，如果碰巧是感恩节、新年、生日，或任何聚一聚的古老借口，那么，我们全家就会去加入那些构成活家谱的其他怪物当中。我总是感到很惊奇，尽管总是受到各种祸患的威胁，我们家族里的这些人却还是快快活活的。不管有什么情况，他们都快快活活。有癌症、水肿、肝硬化、精神错乱、偷窃、说谎、鸡奸、乱伦、瘫痪、绦虫、流产、三胞胎、白痴、酒鬼、废物蛋、盲信者、水手、裁缝、钟表匠、猩红热、百日咳、脑膜炎、中耳炎、舞蹈病、口吃、囚犯、梦想家、说书人、酒吧招待——最后还有乔治叔叔和梅莉亚姨妈。停尸房和疯人院。快活的一伙，桌上放着好东西——有红叶卷心菜和绿色的菠菜；有烤猪肉、火鸡、酸菜；有土豆丸子和酸肉汁；有萝卜和芹菜；有填鹅、豌豆、胡萝卜；有漂亮的白菜花；有苹果汁和士麦那产的无花果；有像棍棒那么大的香蕉；有肉桂糕和撒面包屑的蛋糕；有巧克力夹层蛋糕和各种坚果：核桃、灰胡桃、杏仁、美洲山核桃、山核桃；有贮藏啤酒和瓶装啤酒；有白葡萄酒和红葡萄酒；有香槟酒、居默尔香酒、马拉加白葡萄酒、波尔图葡萄酒；有烧酒；有辣味奶酪；有味道不浓、无可挑剔的切达干酪；有清淡的荷兰奶酪；有林堡奶酪和抹面包的软乳酪；有家酿葡萄酒、接骨木果酒；有酸味苹果酒和甜味苹果酒；有大米布丁和木薯淀粉；有烤栗子、橘子、橄榄、泡菜；有红、黑鱼子酱；有熏鲟鱼；有柠檬蛋白饼；有手指饼干和指状巧克力松饼；有蛋白杏仁饼干和奶油泡芙；有黑色的雪茄和细长的雪茄；有“达勒姆公牛”、“长筒大炮”和各种海泡石烟斗；有玉米棒子和牙签，会使你第二天牙龈火辣辣疼的木制牙签；有角上绣着你名字开头字母，宽度为一码的餐巾。屋里生着的煤火烧得很旺，窗户上冒着水蒸气，世界上的一切都在你眼前，除了一只洗手指的碗。
零度的天气，疯狂的乔治，被马咬掉了一条胳膊，穿着死人剩下的衣服。零度的天气，梅莉亚姨妈，正寻找着她留在帽子里的小鸟。零度，零度，拖船在楼下的港口发出喷气声，冰块上下浮动，从船头到船尾缭绕着一道道又细又长的烟气。大风以每小时七十英里的速度刮过来；成吨成吨的雪全被削成小雪花，每一片雪花都带着一把匕首。窗外的冰柱像开塞钻，大风咆哮，窗玻璃咔哒咔哒直响。亨利叔叔正唱着“为德国第五欢呼！”他的背心敞开着，背带掉了下来，太阳穴上青筋暴突。为德国第五欢呼！
在阁楼上，那张吱吱嘎嘎响的桌子已经摆好；底下是温暖的马厩，马在各自的栏内嘶叫，嘶叫、咀嚼、刨地、笨重地走动，粪便和马尿、干草和燕麦、冒热气的毛毡和干燥的脏物等的美妙香味，麦芽和旧木头、皮挽具和鞣料树皮等的味道，像芳香的烟一般袅袅升起，停留在我们的头顶上。
马厩依赖于马。这些马站在热烘烘的尿里，不时变得活蹦乱跳，拂动着它们的尾巴，放屁，嘶叫。炉子像红宝石一样烧得红彤彤的，空气因为烟雾而变成了蓝色。桌子底下，梳妆台上，水池里，全是瓶子。疯乔治试图用一只空袖子抓自己的脖子。废物蛋内德•马提尼正瞎摆弄留声机；他老婆嘉莉正从大酒壶里狂饮。小家伙们正在楼下马厩的黑暗中玩臭手指头。在街上棚屋区开始的地方，小孩子们正在造一个可以在冰上滑行的池塘。到处都是由寒冷、烟雾、雪形成的蓝青色。梅莉亚姨妈正坐在一个角落里抚弄一串念珠。内德叔叔正在修理马具。三位祖父和两位曾祖父靠近炉子挤作一团，谈论着普法战争。疯乔治正舔吃着残渣。女人们正挨得越来越近，她们说话声很低，舌头喋喋不休。一切都像拼板玩具一样相配——脸、声音、姿势、身体。每一个人都在他自己的运行轨道上受到引力作用。留声机又响起来，声音变得更响更刺耳了。留声机突然停下。在他们脱口说出来的时候，我本不应该在那里的，可是我在那里，而且也听到了。我听到，大麦琪，就是在弗拉辛那边开酒馆的那个，同她亲哥哥睡觉，这就是乔治之所以发疯的原因。她和每一个人睡觉——除了她自己的丈夫。然后我听说她常常用皮带抽乔治，常常把他直打得口吐白沫。这就是引起发病的原因。那时候梅勒[4]坐在角落里——她是又一个例子。她竟像孩子一样怪里怪气。在这方面，母亲也是这个样子。保尔死了，这太糟糕了。保尔是梅勒的丈夫。是的，如果那个从汉堡来的女人不出现，不腐蚀保尔，一切都会没问题。梅勒能做些什么来对付那样一个聪明女人——对付一个精明的婊子呢?对梅勒得采取些措施。有她在周围，情况很危险。就在前两天，他们发现她坐在炉子上。幸好火不太旺，但是，假如她想起来要放火烧房子——在他们都睡着的时候呢?可惜她不能再做任何工作了。他们为她找到的最后一个地方是这样好的一个去处，有这样仁慈的一个女人照料她。梅勒变懒了。她同保尔在一起过得太悠闲。
我们走出门外的时候，空气很清冷。满天星星很有生气的样子。在栏杆上、台阶上、窗台上、门窗的格栅上，到处都是洁白的积雪，覆盖着肮脏、罪恶大地的白色大衣。空气清冷纯净，就像深深吸入了几口阿摩尼亚，皮肤像羚羊皮一样光滑。蓝色的星辰，一堆又一堆的星辰，随着我们这些羚羊飘忽不定。这样一个美丽而夜深人静的晚上，好像在雪底下躺着金子般的心，好像这德国的热血正从沟里流走，去堵住饥饿婴儿的嘴，去洗掉世界的罪恶与丑陋。深夜里，河流被冰阻塞了，星星跳舞，旋转，像陀螺般旋转。我们全家人零零散散地沿着起伏不平的街道散开。沿着纯白的地面，留下足迹、脚印。这个正用圣诞树扫雪的古老德国家庭。全家都在那里：叔叔伯伯、堂兄弟姐妹、兄弟、姐妹、父亲、祖父。全家都暖洋洋、醉醺醺，没有人想另一个人，想早晨将升起的太阳，想为人跑腿的事，想医生的诊断，想所有那些把白天弄得乌烟瘴气，却使这夜晚变得神圣，使这由蓝色的星星和深深的积雪、由山金车花和阿摩尼亚、由日光兰和金刚砂构成的夜晚变得神圣的残酷而可怕的义务。
没有人知道梅莉亚姨妈会完全发疯，没有人知道当我们走到拐角那里的时候，她会像驯鹿一样跳向前去，咬下一块月亮。在拐角那里，她像驯鹿一样跳向前去，尖叫着。“月亮，月亮！”她喊道，同时她的灵魂出窍，完全离开了她的肉体。它一分钟走八千六百万英里。走啊，走，一直走到月亮那里，没人有足够快的念头来阻止它。就像已经发生的情况那样。一眨眼的工夫。
现在我要告诉你，那些杂种对我说些什么……
他们说：亨利，你明天送她去疯人院。不要告诉他们我们能付得起她的费用。
妙哉！总是兴高采烈！第二天早晨我们上了电车，去了乡下。如果梅勒问去哪里，我该说：“去看莫妮卡姨妈。”但是梅勒什么也没问。她安静地坐在我旁边，不时指指那些母牛。她看见蓝色的母牛、绿色的母牛。她知道它们的名字。她问月亮在白天发生了什么事，我是否碰巧有一截碎肝红肠。
一路上，我哭了——我忍不住。在这个世上太好的人却要被锁起来。太好的人都有些毛病。确实，梅勒很懒。她天生就懒。确实，梅勒是个不称职的家庭主妇。确实，梅勒不知道在他们给她找来一个丈夫时如何抓住他不放。当保尔同那个汉堡来的女人私奔时，梅勒坐在角落里哭泣。别人要她去做点儿什么——让他吃枪子儿，大吵大闹，起诉要求赡养费。梅勒安静地坐着。梅勒哭泣着。梅勒低垂着脑袋。她仅有的一点点理智也抛弃了她。她就像一双破袜子，被踢到这儿，踢到那儿，到处踢，总是不合时宜地出现。
然后有一天，保尔拿了根绳子，吊死了自己。梅勒一定明白发生了什么，因为现在她彻底疯了。前一天他们发现她在吃自己的大粪，再前一天他们发现她坐在炉子上。
而现在，她非常安静，她叫着母牛的名字。月亮迷住了她。她不害怕，因为我和她在一起，她始终信任我。我是她最喜欢的人。尽管她弱智，却对我很好。别人更有理智，但他们的心都坏了。
当阿道尔夫兄弟带她坐马车出去兜风时，别人常说：“梅勒的眼睛盯着他！”但是我认为，梅勒当时一定像她现在同我谈话一样无辜。我想，梅勒在履行她婚后义务时一定始终在天真地梦想着她要送给每一个人的漂亮礼物。我认为梅勒对罪恶、负罪感或后悔都一无所知。我认为梅勒天生是一个弱智的天使。我认为梅勒是一个圣人。
有时候她被解雇，他们往往派我去接她回来。梅勒从来不认识回家的路。我记得她无论什么时候看见我来，总是那么高兴。她会天真地说，她要和我们待在一起。为什么她不能和我们待在一起呢?我常常一遍又一遍地这样问自己。为什么他们就不能为她在火炉边腾出一块地方，让她坐在那里梦想呢?如果这就是她想要做的一切，为什么不能这样呢?为什么每个人都必须工作——甚至圣人和天使也这样呢?为什么弱智者要树立一个好的榜样呢?
我现在想着，归根结底，我现在领她去的地方会适合她。不再工作。只是，我更愿意他们在某个地方为她腾出一个角落。
走在通往大门的石子路上时，梅勒变得不安起来。即使一只小狗在被带到池塘里去溺死时也会明白事理。梅勒在发抖。在大门边，他们正等着我们。大门打开。梅勒进到里面，我在外边。他们试图哄她跟他们去。他们现在对她很温和。他们同她说话时如此轻声轻气，但是梅勒吓坏了。她转过身，朝大门跑来。我仍然站在那里。她从铁条里把胳膊伸出来，抓住我的脖子。我体贴地吻了她的额头。我轻轻松开她的胳膊。别人又要把她带走。我受不了看见那个。我必须走。我必须跑开。但是，有整整一分钟的时间，我站着看她。她的眼睛似乎变得硕大无朋。两只圆溜溜的大眼睛，深黑色的，像黑夜一般，百思不得其解地瞪着我。没有一个疯子会那样看人。没有一个白痴会那样看人。只有天使或圣人才那样。
我说过，梅勒不是一个好家庭主妇，但是她知道如何做油煎肉饼。这就是我想起来的配方：由湿面包的腐殖质（来自一个像样的小便池）构成的胶状物加马肉（只是马蹄上部的丛毛），剁得很细，同一些香肠肉馅和在一起，在手掌里搓。她在那个汉堡女人到来之前和保尔一起经营的那家酒馆就在第二大道L的弯道附近，离救世军使用的中国宝塔不远。
我从大门边跑开后，在一堵高墙边停下，把脑袋埋进撑在墙上的胳膊里，抽泣起来。自小时候以来，我还从没有这样抽泣过。在这时候，他们正在给梅勒洗澡，让她穿上规定的服装；他们把她的头发从中间分开，梳平整，在颈背处挽成一个发结。这样就没有一个人看上去有何特殊了。所有人都有同样的疯狂样子，无论他们是半疯，还是四分之三疯，还是只有一点点疯。当你说“我可以要笔和墨水写封信吗”，他们说“行”，递给你一把扫地的笤帚。如果你心不在焉地在地上撒尿，你得把它擦掉。你可以随心所欲地抽泣，但绝不能违反住房规定。疯人院必须和其他房子一样管理得井井有条。
梅勒被允许一周会见一次客人。三十年来姐妹们一直都去疯人院。她们已经腻味透了。当她们还是小娃娃时，她们就常去看布莱克韦尔岛上的母亲。母亲总是说要当心梅勒，要看好她。当梅勒眼睛睁得又大又亮，站在大门边上时，她的心思一定像一列快车一般往回开。一定是一切都同时在她脑海中迸出。她的眼睛又大又明亮，好像它们看到的东西比它们所能理解的更多。因恐惧而明亮，在恐怖底下是无限的混乱。这就是使它们明亮得如此之美的东西。你若如此清楚，如此突然地看见事物，那你也不得不发疯。如果你很伟大，你就可以保持那个样子，人们将信任你，信赖你，为你把世界翻个个儿；但是如果你只是部分伟大，或只是一个小人物，那么你身上发生的事情就无人知晓。
早晨在尖叫着的高架铁路底下做一次思维十分活跃的散步，从德兰西街朝北走向华尔道夫，在那里，老爷子前一天晚上一直同朱利安•莱格利在孔雀巷闲逛。每天早晨从德兰西街车站往北走向华尔道夫时，我都写一本新书。在每一本书的扉页上都用硫酸写着：乱伦之岛。每一个早晨都是从前一天夜里的醉酒呕吐开始的；它构成了一朵巨大的栀子花，它戴在我翻领的纽扣洞里，我那件全部使用丝绸作衬里的双排扣西服的翻领。我带着黑色的阴郁气息来到裁缝铺，也许发现汤姆•乔丹在改制室里等着让人把污迹从他的纽扣遮盖上去掉。在接连写了三百六十九页之后，由于感到说“早上好”很无聊，我没有显示出普通的礼貌。我今天早晨刚完成了我祖宗家谱的第二十三卷，书中甚至见不到一个逗号，因为它全部是即兴写成，甚至连自来水笔也不用。我，这个裁缝的儿子，现在正要对恩迪科特•芒福德的第一流毛织品推销员说：“早上好！”他正穿着衬衣，站在镜子前，察看眼睛底下的眼袋。家谱上的每一个分支都在我眼前晃悠：从易北河疯狂的黑色迷雾中浮现出这个千变万化的乱伦之岛，它产生了每天早晨我戴在纽扣洞里的奇异之花。我正要对汤姆•乔丹说：“早上好！”我嘴唇发抖。我看见一棵大树从黑色迷雾中升起，在树干的穴中，坐着那个汉堡来的女人，她的屁股紧绷绷地挤出椅子背外。门插着闩，从裂缝里我看见她那张绿色的脸，嘴唇紧闭，鼻孔扩张。疯乔治正拿着带画的明信片挨家挨户走，被马咬掉的那条胳膊不见了，埋掉了，空袖子在风中飘拂。当日历上一页页都被撕去，只剩下最后六页的时候，疯乔治会按响门铃，他站在门槛前，唇须上结着冰柱，手里拿着帽子，喊道：“圣诞快乐！”这是易北河上长出来的最疯狂的谱系之树，树上的每一根枝杈都枯萎了，每一片叶子都已凋零。这是一年一度定期喊“圣诞快乐”的那棵树。不管各种灾祸，不管癌症、水肿、偷窃、说谎、鸡奸、瘫痪、绦虫、中耳炎、舞蹈病、脑膜炎、癫痫、叶苔等等的泛滥。
我正要说：“早上好！”我嘴唇发抖。二十三卷《末日审判书》是以乱伦的精确写成的，用最精致的摩洛哥皮装订封面，每一卷都妥善保管。汤姆•乔丹充血的双眼粘在镜子上了；它们像一匹马要抖掉一只飞蝇般颤抖。汤姆•乔丹总是在脱掉他的裤子，或是穿上他的裤子。总是把他的裤裆扣系上或解开。总是叫人把污渍除去，让人做出一道新的褶缝。梅莉亚姨妈正坐在单人监房里，在家谱大树的树荫下。母亲正把呕吐的痕迹从上星期的脏衣服上洗掉。老爷子在皮带上磨剃刀。犹太人正从桥下的阴影中进逼过来。白天越来越短，拖船喷着蒸汽，或者像牛蛙般叫唤，港口挤满了冰块。写在空中的这本书的每一章都浓化了血液，它的音乐震掉了外部空气中的疯狂焦虑。夜晚像隆隆的雷声般降临，将我放在人行公路的路面上，这条路最终不通到任何地方，而是明晃晃地由发光的轮辐包围着，沿着这些轮辐，既转不回来，也静止不了。
从桥的阴影中，乌合之众进逼过来，越来越近，像金钱癣，留下一处化脓的巨大溃疡，沿着第十四街从一条河来到另一条河。这条流脓的线无形地从一个大洋流到另一个大洋，从一个世纪流到另一个世纪，清楚地划分出我从账本上了解的非犹太世界和我将要从生活中知道的犹太世界。在这两个世界之间，在这从一条河流向另一条河的脓线中间，立着一只满是栀子花的小花盆。这是乳齿象漫步的范围，在这里水牛再也不能吃草；狡猾的、抽象的世界在这里像悬崖一般突起，在悬崖中间埋葬着革命的烈火。每天早晨我越过这条线，纽扣洞里戴着一朵栀子花，随身携带又一卷写在空中的书。每天早晨我涉水走过满是呕吐物的地沟，到达美丽的乱伦之岛；那悬崖每天都越来越高地升起，窗户轮廓像铁路轨道一样笔直，其光亮的闪烁比擦亮的脑壳更令人眼花缭乱。每天早晨地沟都更加充满威胁地张开大口。
我现在应该对汤姆•乔丹说：“早上好！”可是话挂在嘴边颤抖着。这算什么早晨?要我把它浪费在打招呼上。它好吗，这早晨中的早晨?我正在失去区别这早晨和那早晨的能力。账本里是正在迅速消失的野牛世界；隔壁的铆工们正在缝合未来摩天大楼的肋骨。穿着铅鞋、有玻璃脑壳的狡猾东方人正在筹划明天的纸张世界，一个完全由商品构成的世界。商品像一个纸盒工厂一样，盒子摞盒子地升起：离岸价，卡纳西。今天还有时间参加新近死去者的葬礼；明天就没有时间了，因为死者将被留在现场，谁流一滴眼泪，那他就倒霉了。这是一个适合革命的早晨，要是有机关枪而不是鞭炮的话。如果昨天早晨不是一个彻底的大失败，那么今天早晨将会是一个辉煌的早晨。过去飞快跑开去，地沟加宽。明天比它在昨天时离得更遥远，因为昨天的马跑疯了，穿铅鞋的人赶不上它。在早晨的好与早晨本身之间，有一条流脓的线，它把恶臭吹到昨天，又败坏了第二天。这是一个如此混乱的早晨，以至于如果它只是一把旧伞，那么最小的一个喷嚏也会叫它吹起喇叭。
我的整个一生都在一个连续不断的早晨中伸展开去。我每天从头写起。每天都有一个独立的、完整的新世界被创造出来，我在灿烂的群星中间，一位如此着迷于他自己的神，除了唱歌、创造新世界以外什么也不做。同时，旧天地正在瓦解。旧天地就像改制室，裤子在里面被熨过，除去污渍，钉上纽扣。旧天地散发的味道，就像接受又红又烫的熨斗亲吻的一条湿衣缝。没完没了的改动和修补，袖子加长，衣领放低，把纽扣移近，贴上新的裤子后裆。但是从来没有一套新服装，从来没有一种创造。有每天从零开始的早晨世界，以及东西在里面不断被改动、修补的改制室。这就是我生活的情况，夜间的缝纫者奔忙在我的一生中。整个夜间我都听到鹅颈式熨斗亲吻湿衣缝时发出的咝咝声；旧天地的表皮落在地板上，它们的恶臭散发着醋一样的酸味。
我父亲喜爱的人都脆弱而可爱。他们每一个人都消失了，像辉煌的星星遇上了太阳。他们平静地灾难性地消失了。没有留下一块碎片——除了对他们的火焰和光辉的回忆。他们现在在我心中流动，就像一条被陨落的星星阻塞的宽阔河流。他们构成了黑色的河流，使我的世界的轴心始终不断地旋转。从这条黑色的、没有尽头的、不断扩张的夜的腰带中，产生了浪费于创造中的连续不断的早晨。每天早晨河流溢过河岸，沿着河滩零零散散地留下了袖子、纽扣洞，以及一个死亡天地的所有外表，而我则站在河滩上观照创造之晨的海洋。
站在海岸上，我看见疯乔治靠在殡葬所的墙上。他戴着一顶滑稽的小帽，系着赛璐珞领子，但是没戴领带；他坐在棺材旁边的长凳上，既不伤心，也不微笑。他安静地坐在那里，像一个从一幅犹太绘画中走出来的天使。棺材里的尸体是新放进去的，穿着一件乔治那样尺寸的芝麻呢套装，显得很庄重。他系着领子，戴着领带，背心口袋里有一块表。乔治把他抱出来，脱下他的衣服，在他一边换衣服的时候，他把他放在冰上。他不想把表偷走，就把它放在尸体旁边的冰上。尸体躺在冰上，脖子上围了一条赛璐珞领子。乔治走出殡葬所的时候，天正黑下来。他现在有了领带和一套好衣服。在拐角处的杂货店，他停下来买了一本他在橱窗里看见的笑话集；他在地铁里站着的时候，记下了一些笑话。它们是乔•米勒[5]的笑话。
正是在同样的时刻，梅莉亚姨妈给亲戚们送来了情人节的问候。她穿着一套灰色制服，头发从中间分开。她写道，她和新朋友们在一起很快活，吃得也很好，但是她想让他们记着，她上次想要一些狂欢节糕点——他们能用邮包给她寄一点儿吗?她说，在厨房外面的垃圾桶周围长出了一些可爱的牵牛花。她说她上星期天散步走了很长的路，看到许多驯鹿、野兔和鸵鸟。她说她的拼写很糟糕，但是又说，她从来就写不好字。每个人都非常好，有许多工作要做。她想尽可能快地要一些狂欢节糕点，可能的话用航空寄来。她请院长为她做一些，给她过生日用，但他们忘记了。她说，请寄点儿报纸来，因为她喜欢看广告。她曾经看见过一顶帽子，她想是在布卢明代尔公司，价格很便宜。也许他们可以把帽子同狂欢节糕点一块儿送来?她感谢大家圣诞节送给她的可爱贺卡——她仍然记得它们，尤其是上面带银星星的那一张。每个人都认为它很可爱。她说她马上要去睡觉了，她要为他们所有人祷告，因为他们总是对她那么好。
天昏暗下来，总是在大约相同的时刻，我站在那里凝视大海的镜子。冰冷的时间，既不快也不慢，只是一具僵硬地躺在冰上的死尸，系着赛璐珞领子——要是他勃起，就更不可思议了……太不可思议了！在楼下黑暗的门厅里，汤姆•乔丹正等着老爷子下楼来。他有两个胖乎乎的婊子同他在一起，其中一个正在系吊袜带；汤姆•乔丹正帮她系。同样的时刻，如我所说，临近黄昏，劳森太太正穿过公墓，再一次看一眼她宝贝儿子的坟墓。她亲爱的男孩杰克，她说，尽管他七年前蹬腿时已经三十二岁了。他们说这是风湿性心脏病，但事实上是这宝贝男孩搞大了那么多性感少女的肚子，以致在她们把他身上的脓抽干的时候，他就像一架抽粪机一样臭气冲天。劳森太太似乎根本不记得那些。这是她的宝贝男孩杰克，坟墓始终很整洁；她手袋里带着一小块鹿皮，为的是可以每天晚上擦墓碑。
同样的黄昏时刻，僵尸在冰上躺着，老爷子站在电话亭里，一只手拿着听筒，另一只手抓着热烘烘、湿漉漉、毛茸茸的东西。他正打电话告诉家里不要推迟开饭了，他得带一个客户出去，会很晚回家，不要担心。疯乔治正在翻乔•米勒的笑话集。再往南，靠近莫比尔，他们正在练习圣路易斯布鲁斯曲，面前没有一个琴键，人们昨天、今天、明天听到这曲子，就准备要发疯。每个人都准备要被沥青表面的水汽中渗出的新音乐所强奸，所麻醉，所玷污，所灌醉。很快到处都是同样的时刻，只要拨号或乘坐悬在空中的气球就行。这是喝咖啡闲聊的人坐在家里饭桌旁的时刻，每个人都因不同的情况被施加影响，那个长颊须、手指上戴着沉重戒指的女人更倒霉，因为她经受得起。
这个时刻美得惊人，每一个人都似乎在走自己个人的道路。爱和谋杀仍相隔几个小时。爱和谋杀，我感到正随黄昏一起来临：新的婴儿从子宫里钻出来，粉红色的嫩肉缠在带倒刺的铁丝上，整夜尖叫，像死人骨头一样腐烂，离无名之地一千英里。疯狂的少女静脉中流着冰冷的爵士乐，正煽动男人立起新的建筑；脖子上戴着狗项圈的男人涉过没过眼睛的粪塘，以便电力大王可以统治大海。种子里的东西把我的尿都吓出来了：一个崭新的世界正从鸡蛋里出来，无论我写得多么迅速，旧世界却死得不够快。我听到新的机关枪声，成百万架骨骼同时粉碎；我看见狗发了疯，鸽子脚脖上带着字母掉下来。
总是兴高采烈，无论是北起德兰西街，还是南至那条流脓的线！我柔软的双手在世界的身体里，翻起热烘烘的内脏，整理好，又打乱，把它们切开，又再缝上。把外科医生所了解的温暖体感同牡蛎、肉赘、溃疡、疝、癌细胞、新生的球茎甘蓝、夹子和镊子、剪刀和热带生长物、毒药和毒气一起全锁在里面，由皮肤小心覆盖好。从泄漏的总管道里，爱像阴沟气一般涌出来：戴着黑手套、系着黑色吊袜带的疯狂的爱；大声咀嚼、喷着鼻息的爱；藏在枪管里一夜又一夜地让屁眼开花的爱。那些从我父亲铺子里穿堂而过的人浑身都是爱的气息：他们暖洋洋，醉醺醺，懦弱而懒惰。以性装点的快艇，当他们夜间航行经过我的时候，他们扰乱了我的梦。站在纽约中心，我能听到母牛颈铃的叮当声，或者，转一下脑袋，我可以听到临死前喉鸣声中那种甜甜的音乐，一道红线画在账页上，每一只袖子都有一圈黑纱。只要把我的脖子拧过去一点点，我就可以凌空站在最高的摩天大楼上边，往下看现代进步的巨大车轮留下的车辙。没有什么东西对我来说是太难做到的，只要它身上有一点点悲伤和痛苦。在我们这里，有所有器质性疾病——以及一些非器质性疾病。我们像水晶一样延伸，从一种罪恶到另一种罪恶。一种欢乐的旋转，在旋转的中心，我的第二十一年已经覆盖上了铜锈。
当我不再能记事的时候，我将始终记得我得了淋病的那一夜，老爷子醉得如此酒气冲天，他把他朋友汤姆•乔丹带来一起上床。这真是美好动人——到外面去得一场淋病，这时家庭的荣誉危在旦夕，你可以说它和票面价格相等。为的是不在那里参加盛大舞会，看着老爹老娘扭打在地，扫把飞舞。为的是不在那里看到汤姆•乔丹在清冷的晨光中跪在地上，乞求宽恕，但是即使他跪在地上也不被宽恕，因为一个路德派教徒的心是不可动摇的，不知道宽恕是什么意思。动人而美好：第二天早晨在报上读到，前一天晚上的同样时刻，建了保龄球道的那个牧师在黑暗的房间里被人抓到，一个赤裸裸的男孩正坐在他的腿上！但是使这一切极度美好动人的是，第二天对这些事情一无所知的我回到家，请求允许同一个老得足以当我母亲的女人结婚。当我说“结婚”的时候，老妈操起一把面包刀就冲我而来。我记得，在我离家时，我在书柜旁停下，抓了一本书。书的名字是——《悲剧的诞生》[6]。多么滑稽可笑，前一天夜里的扫把、面包刀、淋病、被当场抓住的牧师、变凉的丸子、癌细胞……我那时候常想，生活中的一切悲惨事件都写在书中，外界进行的事情只是稀释了的谎言。我以为一本美好的书是大脑的有病部分。我从来不明白整个世界都可能有病！
我胳膊底下夹着个小包走东窜西。比方说，在一个明朗的大好清晨，痰盂都已洗过、擦亮。我喃喃自语地走进伍尔沃思大楼——“早上好，桑代克先生，今天早晨天气真好，桑代克先生。你对服装感兴趣吗，桑代克先生?”桑代克先生今天早晨对服装不感兴趣；他谢谢我的来访，把名片扔到废纸篓里去了。没有什么好气馁的，我又试一下美国捷运公司大楼。“早上好，哈萨威先生，今天早晨天气真好！”哈萨威先生不需要一个好裁缝——他有一个裁缝已经三十五年了。哈萨威先生很不高兴，他他妈的对极了，我跌跌绊绊走下楼梯时暗想。一个明朗的大好清晨，这不能否认，于是，为了去掉嘴里留下的苦涩味道，也为了观赏一下海港，我坐电车过桥，去找一个名叫戴克的吝啬鬼。戴克是个忙人。他是那种让人把午饭送上来，一边吃，一边让人给他擦鞋的人。戴克得了一种由干那事引起的神经疾病。他说如果我们不再每月向他讨债的话，我们可以给他做一套芝麻呢套装。那女孩只有十六岁，他不想把她的肚子搞大。是的，贴袋，请关照！此外，他有老婆和三个孩子。此外，他不久要竞选法官——遗嘱检验法庭的法官。
靠近日戏演出的时间了。跳上车回纽约，在脱衣舞厅那儿下车，那里的招待员认识我。前三排总是坐满了法官和政客。屋里黑洞洞的，玛吉•派奈蒂穿着一身脏兮兮的白色紧身衣裤，正站在延伸到观众中间的台道上。她有舞台女郎最令人赞叹的屁股，每个人都知道这一点，包括她自己。看完表演后，我漫无目的地四处走走，看看电影院，看看犹太熟食店。在投币机游乐场站一会儿，听扩音器上传出的迷人声音。生活只是一个充满巧克力夹层蛋糕和越橘饼的连续蜜月。往投币孔里投入一个分币，就可以看见一个女人在草地上脱衣服。往投币孔里投入一个分币，就可以赢到一副假牙。每天下午世界由新的组成部分构成：弄脏的部分被送到干洗店，用旧的部分被捣碎，卖作废物。
往住宅区方向走过那条流脓的线，穿过大饭店的大厅。如果我愿意，我可以坐下来，看别人走过大厅。每个人都戒备着。到处都在发生各种各样的事情。等待某件事情发生时的那种极度紧张是令人神志不清的。高架列车急驰而过，出租车鸣着喇叭，救护车发出当当声，铆工铆着铆钉。穿着华丽制服的旅馆侍者正寻找着没有回答姓名的人。在下面的金黄色的厕所里，人们站成队，等着小便；由长毛绒和大理石、纯净的令人愉快的味道、漂亮地冲洗便池的水构成的一切。人行道上有一堆报纸，大标题墨迹未干，全是关于凶杀、强奸、纵火、罢工、伪造、革命的。人们正越过彼此，不买票就闯入地铁。在布鲁克林那一边，有一个女人正等着我。年龄大得足以当我的母亲，她正等着我娶她。她的儿子得了肺结核，已经病重到如此地步，再也不可能从床上爬下来。了不起的乳房，上楼到她阁楼里做爱，儿子则在隔壁房间里咳嗽，连肺都快咳出来了。此外，她正在从流产后的衰弱中恢复过来，我不想再把她的肚子搞大——至少不是马上。
高峰时间！地铁成了一个对任何人开放的天堂。我紧紧地挤在一个女人的身上，都可以摸到她外阴部的阴毛。这么紧紧地粘在一起，我的指关节在她的腹股沟上留下了一道凹痕。她眼睛直盯着前方，看着我右眼底下一个极小的小点儿。到运河街的时候，我设法把我的那玩意儿放到指关节原先所在的地方。这玩意儿像疯了一般跳跃，无论车厢朝哪个方向颠簸，她总是在同样的位置，面对着我的衬衣领子。甚至在乘客减少以后，她还是站在那里，骨盆向前突出着，眼光固定在我右眼底下一个极小的小点儿上。她在区政厅站下车，连媚眼都没对我抛一次。我跟她到地面街上，想着她也许会转过身，至少说一声“喂”，或者让我给她买一块糖霜巧克力，假如我能买一块的话。然而没有，她像离弦的箭一般离去，脑袋连八分之一英寸的角度都没有转动过。他们是怎么干的，我不知道。他们成百万人每天不穿内衣站起来干。结局是什么——一次淋浴?一次按摩?十之八九他们是倒在床上，用手指来干完这活儿。
总之，快到傍晚了，我勃起着足以撑破我裤裆的那东西到处走。人群越来越稠密。现在每个人都拿着一份报纸。天空布满被照得亮堂堂的商品，每一件商品都被保证是令人愉快的，有益健康的，经久耐用的，富有情趣的，无噪音的，防雨水的，不朽的，是生活缺了它就不能忍受的极品，事实上生活已经是不能忍受的了，因为根本就没有生活。大约就在这个时候，老亨斯克离开裁缝铺，往住宅区方向的纸牌俱乐部而去。一项愉快的兼职工作，这使他忙到凌晨两点。没有许多事做——只是拿一拿先生们的帽子大衣，用一个小盘子端上饮料，清除烟灰缸里的烟灰，不断把火柴盒加满。从一切方面考虑，这都是一份愉快的工作。靠近午夜的时候，如果先生们想要的话，就为他们准备一点儿小吃。当然，有痰盂和抽水马桶要打扫，但是，都是这样一些绅士，真的不费什么事。然后，总是可以吃点儿奶酪和饼干，有时候还有一小口波尔图葡萄酒。偶尔还可以得到一份凉的小牛肉三明治，留到第二天吃。真正的绅士啊！没的说。抽最好的雪茄。甚至剩下的烟蒂味道都很好。真是一项非常非常愉快的工作！
到吃晚饭的时候了。大多数的裁缝铺都已打烊。顾客名单上会有一些怪僻老头，正等着来试穿。他们背着手踱来踱去。所有人都走了，只留下裁缝铺老板本人，也许还有裁剪师或改制师。老板很想知道，他是否得重新做粉笔记号；支票会不会及时到来，他可以用来支付租金。裁剪师正在自言自语：“嘿，是的，某某先生，嘿，当然……是的，我想那里应该再高一点儿……是的，你很对……左边是有点儿不对劲儿……是的，我们几天内就给你弄好……是的，某某先生……是的，是的，是的，是的，是的……”做好的衣服和未做好的衣服都挂在架子上；布匹都整整齐齐堆在桌子上；只有改制室里的灯光还亮着。突然，电话铃响了。是某某先生打来的，他今晚来不了了，但是他希望马上把他的夜礼服送去，就是钉了上周他挑选的新纽扣的那一件，但愿它千万不要再在脖子那儿不服帖了。裁剪师戴上帽子，穿上大衣，迅速跑下楼去参加在布朗克斯举行的一次犹太复国主义集会。老板留下来关铺子，把尚未关的灯全关上。他所派的把夜礼服马上送去的男孩就是他自己，这没有什么关系，因为他将通过顾客途径到处钻营，再没有比这更聪明的了。没有一个人的样子比送夜礼服给某某先生的裁缝铺老板更像百万富翁的了。精神抖擞，风流潇洒，皮鞋锃亮，帽子收拾得整整齐齐，手套洗得干干净净，胡子上抹了蜡。只有在他们坐下来吃晚饭的时候，他们才露出忧心忡忡的样子。没有胃口。今天没有订单。没有支票。他们失望之极，十点钟就上床，可是到了上床睡觉的时候，他们又再也睡不着了。
走过布鲁克林大桥……难道这就是世界?这样走来走去，这些亮堂堂的大楼，这些从我身边经过的男女?我看他们动着嘴唇，这些从我身边经过的男女的嘴唇。他们在谈论什么——其中有些人谈得如此认真?我讨厌看见人们如此极其认真，而我自己却比他们任何人都更加痛苦。一种生活！有亿万种生活要经历。到目前为止，关于我自己的生活，我没有一件事情可说。没有一件事情。一定是我不得要领。应该回到地铁去，抓住一个女孩，在街上把她强奸；应该回到早晨的桑代克先生那里去，啐他的脸；应该站在时报广场，手里抓着那玩意儿，往沟里撒尿；应该抓起一把左轮手枪，向人群近距离射击。老爷子正过着放纵的生活，他和他亲密的伙伴们。而我则走来走去，又恨又忌妒，脸都变青了。我回到家时，老妈正在抽泣，心都快要碎了。听着她这样哭泣，夜里我不能入眠。我也恨她那样哭泣。这一个抢劫我，那一个惩罚我。在我最想做的事就是使她心碎时，我还怎么能够投入她的怀抱，去安慰她呢?
沿着包厘街走……此时此刻，这是一个像浓鼻涕那样绿的漂亮牧场。拉皮条的、无赖、甜姐儿、乞丐、叫花子、票贩子、枪手、意大利佬、爱尔兰酒鬼，全都发疯似的寻找一点儿吃的东西、一个睡觉的地方。走啊，走啊，走啊。我二十一岁，白人，在纽约出生长大，体格健壮，智力健全，背景良好，没有坏习惯，等等，等等。把它写在牌子上。按票面价格出售。除了出生在这里，没有犯过别的罪。
过去，我们家庭的每一个成员都用他的双手做点儿事情。我是第一个油嘴滑舌、良心不好的浪荡鬼、坏种。
在人群中游泳，我是其中的一个数字。裁制，再裁制。灯光闪烁——开了关，开了关。有时候这是一条橡皮胎，有时候这是一块口香糖。其悲剧性在于没有人看到我脸上的绝望表情。我们有成千上万的人，我们互相从身边经过，脸上毫无打招呼的意思。灯光像电针一般上下跳动。原子因光和热而发疯。一场大火正在玻璃后面燃烧，但是没有东西给烧掉。人们累断了腰，绞尽了脑汁，发明了一种小孩子都能操纵的机器。只要我能发现将要操作这部机器的假设的小孩，我就会把一把榔头放到他手里，说：打碎它！打碎它！
打碎它！打碎它！这就是我能说的一切。老爷子坐着一辆四轮四座马车到处跑。我忌妒他内心的安宁。他旁边坐着他的亲密伙伴，肚子里灌了一夸脱黑麦威士忌。我怨恨得脚趾上都起了泡。比我大二十岁，这家伙时刻显得越来越糟糕。这使我感到窒息。二十年后不会再有任何温柔可爱的人等着问候我。现在的每一个亲密伙伴都是一头绝种的野牛，一去不复返。钢筋水泥把我围在里面。铺石路变得越来越硬。新世界正在把我消耗掉，剥夺我的所有。不久我连名字都不需要了。
我曾经认为有不可思议的事情在等待我，认为我可以建立一个空中世界，一个纯白色唾液构成的城堡，它将使我升得比最高的建筑还高，在有形与无形之间，把我置于音乐般的空间，在那里一切都将崩溃、灭亡，但我在那里却不受任何影响，像神一般伟大，是神圣中最神圣的。是我想象了这个世界，我这个裁缝的儿子！我这个从一棵硕大无朋的粗壮大树上的一颗小橡果里诞生出来的人。我在橡果里面，甚至大地最微弱的颤动都会传到我这里：我是大树的一部分，过去的一部分，那曾经辉煌过、代代相传的过去，带着骄傲，骄傲。在我掉到地上，被埋在那里的时候，我记得我是谁，我从哪儿来。现在我不在了，不在了，你听见吗?你没听见?我在号叫，在尖叫——你没听见我?把灯关上！把灯泡打碎！你现在能听到我吗?再响点儿！你说。再响点儿！基督啊，你在开我的玩笑?你聋了吗?哑了吗?瞎了吗?我必须把衣服脱掉?我必须倒立着跳舞?
那么，行！我就为你跳舞！欢乐地旋转起来，弟兄们，让她转，转，转！在你转着的时候再扔进去一条裤子。不要忘记，孩子们，我的那玩意儿在裤裆的右侧。你听见吗?让她转！总是兴高采烈！
【注释】
[1]马可•奥勒利乌斯（121——180）：古罗马皇帝，161至180年在位，著有《沉思录》。
[2]爱比克泰德（55?——135?）：古罗马斯多葛派哲学家。
[3]摩西•迈蒙尼德（1135——1204）：犹太哲学家、法学家、医生。
[4]即梅莉亚姨妈。
[5]乔•米勒（1684——1738）：英国喜剧演员，死后有人以其名义出版《乔•米勒笑话集》。
[6]德国哲学家尼采（1844——1900）的哲学著作。
Jabberwhorl Cronstadt
Jabberwhorl Cronstadt
This man, this skull, this music …
He lives in the back of a sunken garden, a sort of bosky glade shaded by whiffletrees and spinozas, by deodars and baobabs, a sort of queasy Buxtehude diapered with elytras and feluccas. You pass through a sentry box where the concierge twirls his mustache con furioso like in the last act of Ouida. They live on the third floor behind a mullioned belvedere filigreed with snaffled spaniels and sebaceous wens, with debentures and megrims hanging out to dry. Over the bell-push it says: “JABBERWHORL CRONSTADT, poet, musician, herbologist, weather man, linguist, oceanographer, old clothes, colloids.” Under this it reads: “Wipe your feet and blow your nose!” And under this is a rosette from a second-hand suit.
“There’s something strange about all this,” I said to my companion whose name is Dschilly Zilah Bey. “He must be having his period again.”
After we had pushed the button we heard a baby crying, a squeaky, brassy wail like the end of a horseknacker’s dream.
Finally Katya comes to the door-Katya from HesseKassel-and behind her, thin as a wafer and holding a bisque doll, stands little Pinochinni. And Pinochinni says: “You should go in the drawing room, they aren’t dressed yet.” And when I asked would they be very long because we’re famished she said, “Oh no! They’ve been dressing for hours. You are to look at the new poem father wrote today-it’s on the mantelpiece.”
And while Dschilly unwinds her serpentine scarf Pinochinni giggles and giggles, saying oh, dear, what is the matter with the world anyway, everything is so behindtime and did you ever read about the lazy little girl who hid her toothpicks under the mattress? It’s very strange, father read it to me out of a large iron book.
There is no poem on the mantelpiece, but there are other things-The Anatomy of Melancholy, an empty bottle of Pernod Fils, The Opal Sea, a slice of cut plug tobacco, hairpins, a street directory, an ocarina … and a machine to roll cigarettes. Under the machine are notes written on menus, calling cards, toilet paper, match boxes … “meet the Cuntess Cathcart at four” … “the opalescent mucus of Michelet” … “deflux-ions … cotyledons … phthisical” … “if Easter falls in Lady Day’s lap, beware old England of the clap” .. . “from the ichor of which springs his successor” … “the reindeer, the otter, the marmink, the minkfrog.”
The piano stands in a corner near the belvedere, a frail black box with silver candlesticks; the black keys have been bitten off by the spaniels. There are albums marked Beethoven, Bach, Liszt, Chopin, filled with bills, manicure sets, chess pieces, marbles, and dice. When he is in good humor Cronstadt will open an album marked “Goya” and play something for you in the key of C. He can play operas, minuets, schottisches, rondos, sarabands, preludes, fugues, waltzes, military marches; he can play Czerny, Prokofief or Granados, he can even improvise and whistle a Provencal air at the same time. But it must be in the key of C.
So it doesn’t matter how many black keys are missing or whether the spaniels breed or don’t breed. If the bell gets out of order, if the toilet doesn’t flush, if the poem isn’t written, if the chandelier falls, if the rent isn’t paid, if the water is shut off, if the maids are drunk, if the sink is stopped and the garbage rotting, if dandruff falls and the bed creaks, if the flowers are mildewed, if the milk turns, if the sink is greasy and the wallpaper fades, if the news is stale and calamities fail, if the breath is bad or the hands sticky, if the ice doesn’t melt, if the pedals won’t work, it’s all one and come Christmas because everything can be played in the key of C if you get used to looking at the world that way.
Suddenly the door opens to admit an enormous epileptoid beast with fungoid whiskers. It is Jocatha the famished cat, a big, buggerish brute with a taupe fur and two black walnuts hidden under its kinkless tail. It runs about like a leopard, it lifts its hind leg like a dog, it micturates like an owl.
“I’m coming in a minute,” says Jabberwhorl through the sash of the door. “I’m just putting on my pants.”
Now Elsa comes in-Elsa from Bad Nauheim-and she places a tray with blood-red glasses on the mantelpiece. The beast is bounding and yowling and thrashing and caterwauling: he has a few grains of cayenne pepper on the soft lilypad of his nose, the butt of his nose soft as a dum-dum bullet. He thrashes about in large Siamese wrath and the bones in his tail are finer than the finest sardines. He claws the carpet and chews the wallpaper, he rolls into a spiral and unrolls like a corolla, he whisks the knots out of his tail, shakes the fungus out of his whiskers. He bites clean through the floor to the bone of the poem. He’s in the key of C and mad clean through. He has magenta eyes, like oldfashioned vest buttons; he’s mowsy and glaubrous, brown like arnica and then green as the Nile; he’s quaky and qualmy and queasy and teasey; he chews chasubles and ripples rasubly.
Now Anna comes in-Anna from Hannover-Minden -and she brings cognac, red pepper, absinthe and a bottle of Worcestershire sauce. And with Anna come the little Temple cats-Lahore, Mysore, and Cawnpore. They are all males, including the mother. They roll on the floor, with their shrunken skulls, and bugger each other mercilessly. And now the poet himself appears saying what time is it though time is a word he has stricken from his list, time, sib to death. Death’s the surd and time’s the sib and now there is a little time between the acts, an oleo in which the straight man mixes a drink to get his stomach muscles twitching. Time, time, he says, shaking a little cayenne pepper into his cognac. A time for everything, though I scarcely use the word any more, and so saying he examines the tail of Lahore which has a kink in it and scratching his own last coccyx he adds that the toilet has just been done in silver where you’ll find a copy of Humanite.
“You’re very beautiful,” he says to Dschilly Zilah Bey and with that the door opens again and Jill comes forward in a chlamys of Nile green.
“Don’t you think she’s beautiful?” says Jab.
Everything has suddenly grown beautiful, even that big buggerish brute Jocatha with her walnuts brown as cinnamon and soft as lichee.
Blow the conch and tickle the clavicle! Jab’s got a pain in the belly where his wife ought to have it. Once a month, regular as the moon, it comes over him and it lays him low, nor will inunctions do him any good. Nothing but cognac and cayenne pepper-to start the stomach muscles twitching. “I’ll give you three words,” he says, “while the goose turns over in the pan: whimsical, dropsical, phthisical.”
“Why don’t you sit down?” says Jill. “He’s got his period.”
Cawnpore is lying on an album of Twenty-Four Preludes. “I’ll play you a fast one,” says Jab, and flinging back the cover of the little black box he goes plink, plank, plunk! “I’ll do a tremolo,” he says, and employing every finger of his right hand in quick succession he hits the white key C in the middle of the board and the chess pieces and the manicure sets and the unpaid bills rattle like drunken tiddledywinks. “That’s technique! ” he says, and his eyes are glaucous and rimed with hoarfrost. “There’s only one thing travels as fast as light and that’s angels. Only angels can travel as fast as light. It takes a thousand light years to get to the planet Uranus but nobody has ever been there and nobody is ever going to get there. Here’s a Sunday newspaper from America. Did you ever notice how one reads the Sunday papers? First the rotogravure, then the funny sheet, then the sports column, then the magazine, then the theater news, then the book reviews, then the headlines. Recapitulation. Ontogeny-phylogeny. Define your terms and you’ll never use words like time, death, world, soul. In every statement there’s a little error and the error grows bigger and bigger until the snake is scotched. The poem is the only flawless thing, provided you know what time it is. A poem is a web which the poet spins out of his own body according to a logarithmic calculus of his own divination. It’s always right, because the poet starts from the center and works outward….”
The phone is ringing.
“Pythagoras was right…. Newton was right…. Einstein is right….”
“Answer the phone, will you!” says Jill.
“Hello! Oui, c’est le Monsieur Cronstadt. Et votre nom, s’il vous plait? Bimberg? Listen, you speak English, don’t you? So do I…. What? Yes, I’ve got three apartments-to rent or to sell. What? Yes, there’s a bath and a kitchen and a toilet too… . No, a regular toilet. No, not in the hall-in the apartment. One you sit down on. Would you like it in silver or in gold leaf? What? No, the toilet! I’ve got a man here from Munich, he’s a refugee. Refugee! Hitler! Hitler! Compris? Yeah, that’s it. He’s got a swastika on his chest, in blue… . What? No, I’m serious. Are you serious? What? Listen, if you mean business it means cash…. Cash! You’ve got to lay out cash. What? Well, that’s the way things are done over here. The French don’t believe in checks. I had a man last week tried to do me out of 750 francs. Yeah, an American check. What? If you don’t like that one I’ve got another one for you with a dumbwaiter. It’s out of order now but it could be fixed. What? Oh, about a thousand francs. There’s a billiard room on the top floor…. What? No… no … no. Don’t have such things over here. Listen, Mr. Bimberg, you’ve got to realize that you’re in France now. Yeah, that’s it…. When in Rome…. Listen, call me tomorrow morning, will you? I’m at dinner now. Dinner. I’m eating. What? Yeah, cash … ‘bye!”
“You see,” he says, hanging up, “that’s how we do things in this house. Fast work, what? Real estate. You people are living in a fairyland. You think literature is everything. You eat literature. Now in this house we eat goose, for instance. Yeah, it’s almost done now. Anna! Wie geht es? Nicht fertig? Merde alors! Three girls … refugees. I don’t know where they come from. Somebody gave them our address. Fine girls. Hale, hearty, buxom, sound as a berry. No room for them in Germany. Einstein is busy writing poems about light. These girls want a job, a place to live. Do you know anybody who wants a maid? Fine girls. They’re well educated. But it takes the three of them to make a meal. Katya, she’s the best of the lot: she knows how to iron. That one, Anna-she borrowed my typewriter yesterday … said she wanted to write a poem. I’m not keeping you here to write poems, I said. In this house I write the poems-if there are any to write. You learn how to cook and darn the socks. She looked peeved. Listen, Anna, I said, you’re living in an imaginary world. The world doesn’t need any more poems. The world needs bread and butter. Can you produce more bread and butter? That’s what the world wants. Learn French and you can help me with the real estate. Yeah, people have to have places to live in. Funny. But, that’s how the world is now. It was always like that, only people never believed it before. The world is made for the future … for the planet Uranus. Nobody will ever visit the planet Uranus, but that doesn’t make any difference. People must live places and eat bread and butter. For the sake of the future. That’s the way it was in the past. That’s the way it will be in the future. The present? There’s no such thing as the present. There’s a word called Time, but nobody is able to define it. There’s a past and there’s a future, and Time runs through it like an electric current. The present is an imaginary condition, a dream state … an oxymoron. There’s a word for you-I’ll make you a present of it. Write a poem about it. I’m too busy … real estate presses. Must have goose and cranberry sauce… . Listen, Jill, what was that word I was looking up yesterday?”
“Omoplate?” says Jill promptly.
“No, not that. Omo … omo …”
“Omphalos?”
“No, no. Omo … omo …”
“I’ve got it,” cries Jill. “Omophagia!”
“Omophagia, that’s it! Do you like that word? Take it away with you! What’s the matter? You’re not drinking. Jill, where the hell’s that cocktail shaker I found the other day in the dumbwaiter? Can you imagine it-a cocktail shaker! Anyway, you people seem to think that literature is something vitally necessary. It ain’t. It’s just literature. I could be making literature too-if I didn’t have these refugees to feed. You want to know what the present is? Look at that window over there. No, not there … the one above. There! Every day they sit there at that table playing cards-just the two of them. She’s always got on a red dress. And he’s always shuffling the cards. That’s the present. And if you add another word it becomes subjunctive….”
“Jesus, I’m going to see what those girls are doing,” says Jill.
“No you don’t! That’s just what they’re waiting for -for you to come and help them. They’ve got to learn that this is a real world. I want them to understand that. Afterwards I’ll find them jobs. I’ve got lots of jobs on hand. First let them cook me a meal.”
“Elsa says everything’s ready. Come on, let’s go inside.”
“Anna, Anna, bring these bottles inside and put them on the table!”
Anna looks at Jabberwhorl helplessly.
“There you are! They haven’t even learned to speak English yet. What am I going to do with them? Anna … bier! ‘Raus mit ‘em! Versteht? And pour yourself a drink, you blinking idiot.”
The dining room is softly lighted. There is a candelabra on the table and the service glitters. Just as we are sitting down the phone rings. Anna gathers up the long cord and brings the apparatus from the piano to the sideboard just behind Cronstadt. “Hello!” he yells, and unslacking the long cord, “just like the intestines … hello! Oui! Oui, madame … je suis le Monsieur Cronstadt … et votre nom, s’il vous plait? Oui, it y a un salon, un entresol, une cuisine, deux chambres a coucher, une Salle de bain, un cabinet … oui, madame…. Non, ce n’est pas cher, pas cher du tout … on peut s’arranger facilement … comme vous voulez, madame…. A queue heure? Oui … avec plaisir…. Comment? Que dites-vous? Ah non! Au contraire! ca sera un plaisir … un grand plaisir…. Au revoir, madame!” Slamming it up-“Kuss die Hand, madame! Would you like your back scratched, madame? Do you take milk with your coffee, madame? Will you …?
“Listen,” says Jill, “who the hell was that? You were pretty smooth with her. Oui, madame … non, madame! Did she promise to buy you a drink too?” Turning to us-“Can you imagine it, he has an actress up here yesterday while I’m taking a bath … some trollop from the Casino de Paris … and she takes him out and gets him soused….”
“You don’t tell that right, Jill. It’s this way … I’m showing her a lovely apartment-with a dumbwaiter in it-and she says to me won’t you show me your poetry —poesie … sounds better in French … and so I bring her up here and she says I’ll have them printed for you in Belgian.”
“Why Belgian, Jab?”
“Because that’s what she was, a Belgian-or a Belgianess. Anyway, what difference does it make what language they’re printed in? Somebody has to print them, otherwise nobody will read them.”
“But what made her say that-so quick like?”
“Ask me! Because they’re good, I suppose. Why else would people want to print poems?”
“Baloney! “
“See that! She doesn’t believe me.”
“Of course I don’t! If I catch you bringing any prima donnas up here, or any toe dancers, or any trapeze artists, or anything that’s French and wears skirts, there’s going to be hell to pay. Especially if they offer to print your poems!”
“There you are,” says Jabberwhorl, glaucous and glowbry. “That’s why I’m in the real estate business…. Go ahead and eat, you people…. I’m watching.”
He mixes another dose of cognac and pepper.
“I think you’ve had enough,” says Jill. “Jesus, how many of them have you had today?”
“Funny,” says Jabberwhorl, “I fixed her up all right a few moments ago-just before you came-but I can’t fix myself up….”
“Jesus, where’s that goose!” says Jill. “Excuse me, I’m going inside and see what the girls are doing.”
“No you don’t!” says Jab, pushing her back into her seat. “We’re gonna sit right here and wait … wait and see what happens. Maybe the goose’ll never come. We’ll be sitting here waiting … waiting forever … just like this, with the candles and the empty soup plates and the curtains and … I can just imagine us sitting here and some one outside plastering a wall around us…. We’re sitting here waiting for Elsa to bring the goose and time passes and it gets dark and we sit here for days and days…. See those candles? We’d eat ‘em. And those flowers over there? Them too. We’d eat the chairs, we’d eat the sideboard, we’d eat the alarm clock, we’d eat the cats, we’d eat the curtains, we’d eat the bills and the silverware and the wallpaper and the bugs underneath … we’d eat our own dung and that nice new fetus Jill’s got inside her … we’d eat each other….”
Just at this moment Pinochinni comes in to say good night. She’s hanging her head like and there’s a quizzical look in her eye.
“What’s the matter with you tonight?” says Jill. “You look worried.”
“Oh, I don’t know what it is,” says the youngster. “There’s something I want to ask you about… . It’s awfully complicated. I don’t really know if I can say what I mean.”
“What is it, snookums?” says Jab. “Say it right out in front of the lady and the gentleman. You know him, don’t you? Come on, spit it out!”
The youngster is still holding her head down. Out of the corner of her eye she looks up at her father slyly and then suddenly she blurts out: “Oh, what’s it all about? What are we here for anyway? Do we have to have a world? Is this the only world there is and why is it? That’s what I want to know.”
If Jabberwhorl Cronstadt was somewhat astonished he gave no sign of it. Picking up his cognac nonchalantly, and adding a little cayenne pepper, he answered blithely: “Listen, kid, before I answer that question if you insist on my answering that question-you’ll have to first define your terms.”
Just then there came a long shrill whistle from the garden.
“Mowgli!” says Cronstadt. “Tell him to come on up.91
“Come up!” says Jill, stepping to the window.
No answer.
“He must have gone,” says Jill. “I don’t see him any more.”
Now a woman’s voice floats up. “Il est saoul … completement saoul.”
“Take him home! Tell her to take him home!” yells Cronstadt.
“Mon mari dit qu’il faut rentrer chez vous … oui, chez vous.”
“Y’en a pas!” floats up from the garden.
“Tell her not to lose my copy of Pound’s Cantos,” yells Cronstadt. “And don’t ask them up again … we have no room here. Just enough space for German refugees.”
“That’s a shame,” says Jill, coming back to the table.
“You’re wrong again,” says Jab. “It’s very good for him.”
“Oh, you’re drunk,” says Jill. “Where’s that damned goose anyhow? Elsa! Elsa!”
“Never mind the goose, darling! This is a game. We’re going to sit here and outlast ‘em. The rule is, jam tomorrow and jam yesterday-but never jam today…. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if you people sat here just like you are and I began to grow smaller and smaller … until I got to be just a tiny, weeny little speck … so that you had to have a magnifying glass to see me? I’d be a little spot on the tablecloth and I’d be saying-Timoor … Ti-moor! And you’d say where is he? And I’d be saying-Timoor, logodaedaly, glycophos-phates, Billancourt, Ti-moor … 0 timbus twaddle down the brawkish brake … and you’d say….”
“Jesus, Jab, you’re drunk!” says Jill. And Jabberwhorl glausels with gleerious glitter, his awbrous orbs atwit and atwitter.
“He’ll be getting cold in a minute,” says Jill, getting up to look for the Spanish cape.
“That’s right,” says Jab. “Whatever she says is right. You think I’m a very contrary person. You,” he says, turning to me, “you with your Mongolian verbs, your transitives and intransitives, don’t you see what an affable being I am? You’re talking about China all the time … this is China, don’t you see that? This… this what? Get me the cape, Jill, I’m cold. This is a terrible cold … sub-glacial cold. You people are warm, but I’m freezing. I can f eel the ice caps coming down again. A fact. Everything is rolling along nicely, the dollar is falling, the apartments are rented, the refugees are all refuged, the piano is tuned, the bills are paid, the goose is cooked and what are we waiting for? For the next Ice Age! It’s coming tomorrow morning. You’ll go to the window and everything’ll be frozen tight. No more problems, no more history, no more nothing. Settled. We’ll be sitting here like this waiting for Anna to bring in the goose and suddenly the ice will roll over us. I can feel the terrible cold already, the bread all icicled, the butter blenched, the goose gazzled, the walls wildish white. And that little angel, that bright new embryo that Jill’s got under her belt, that’ll be frozen in the womb, a glairy gawk with ice-cold wings and the lips of a snail. Jugger, jugger, and everything’ll be still and quiet. Say something warm! My legs are frozen. Herodotus says that on the death of its father the phoenix embalms the body in an egg made of myrrh and once every five hundred years or so it conveys the little egg embalmed in myrrh from the desert of Arabia to the temple of the sun at Heliopolis. Do you like that? According to Pliny there is only one egg at a time and when the bird perceives that its end is near it builds a nest of cassia twigs and frankincense and dies upon it. From the body of the nest is born a little worm which becomes the phoenix. Hence bennu, symbol of the resurrection. How’s that? I need something hotter. Here’s another one…. The firewalkers in Bulgaria are called Nistingares. They dance in the fire on the twentyfirst of May during the feast of Saint Helena and Saint Constantine. They dance on the red-hot embers until they’re blue in the face, and then they utter prophecies.”
“Don’t like that at all,” says Jill.
“Neither do I,” says Jab. “I like the one about the little soul-worms that fly out of the nest for the resurrection. Jill’s got one inside her too … it’s sprouting and sprouting. Can’t stop it. Yesterday it was a tadpole, tomorrow it’ll be a honeysuckle vine. Can’t tell what it’s going to be yet … not eventually. It dies in the nest every day and the next day it’s born again. Put your ear to her belly … you can hear the whirring of its wings. Whirrrr … whirrrr. Without a motor. Wonderful! She’s got millions of them inside her and they’re all whirring around in there dying to get out. Whirrrr … whirrrr. And if you just put a needle inside and punctured the bag they’d all come whirring out … imagine it … a great cloud of soul-worms … millions of them … and so thick the swarm that we wouldn’t be able to see each other…. A fact! No need to write about China. Write about that! About what’s inside of you … the great vertiginous vertebration … the zoospores and the leucocytes … the wamroths and the holenlindens … every one’s a poem. The jellyfish is a poem too-the finest kind of poem. You poke him here, you poke him there, he slithers and slathers, he’s dithy and clabberous, he has a colon and intestines, he’s vermiform and ubisquishous. And Mowgli in the garden whistling for the rent, he’s a poem too, a poem with big ears, a wambly bretzular poem with logamundiddy of the goo-goo. He has round, auricular daedali, round robin-breasted ruches that open up like an open barouche. He wambles in the wambhorst whilst the whelkin winkles … he wabbles through the wendish wikes whirking his worstish wights… . Mowgli… owgli … whist and wurst….”
“He’s losing his mind,” says Jill.
“Wrong again,” says Jabber. “I’ve just found my mind, only it’s a different sort of mind than you imagined. You think a poem must have covers around it. The moment you write a thing the poem ceases. The poem is the present which you can’t define. You live it. Anything is a poem if it has time in it. You don’t have to take a ferryboat or go to China to write a poem. The finest poem I ever lived was a kitchen sink. Did I ever tell you about it? There were two faucets, one called Froid and the other Chaud. Froid lived a life in extenso, by means of a rubber hose attached to his schnausel. Chaud was bright and modest. Chaud dripped all the time, as if he had the clap. On Tuesdays and Fridays he went to the Mosque where there was a clinic for venereal faucets. Tuesdays and Fridays Froid had to do all the work. He was a bugger for work. It was his whole world. Chaud on the other hand had to be petted and coaxed. You had to say “not so fast,” or he’d scald the skin off you. Once in a while they worked in unison, Froid and Chaud, but that was seldom. Saturday nights, when I washed my feet at the sink, I’d get to thinking how perfect was the world over which these twain ruled. Never anything more than this iron sink with its two faucets. No beginnings and no ends. Chaud the alpha and Froid the omega. Perpetuity. The Gemini, ruling over life and death. Alpha-Chaud running out through all degrees of Fahrenheit and Reaumur, through magnetic filings and comets’ tails, through the boiling cauldron of Mauna Loa into the dry light of the Tertiary moon; Omega-Froid running out through the Gulf Stream into the paludal bed of the Sargasso Sea, running through the marsupials and the f oramini-fera, through the mammal whales and the Polar fissures, running down through island universes, through dead cathodes, through dead bone and dry rot, through the follicles and tentacles of worlds unformed, worlds untouched, worlds unseen, worlds unborn and forever lost. Alpha-Chaud dripping, dripping; Omega-Froid working, working. Hand, feet, hair, face, dishes, vegetables, fish washed clean and away; despair, ennui, hatred, love, jealousy, crime … dripping, dripping. I, Jabberwhorl, and my wife Jill, and after us legions upon legions … all standing at the iron sink. Seeds falling down through the drain: young canteloupes, squash, caviar, macaroni, bile, spittle, phlegm, lettuce leaves, sardines’ bones, Worcestershire sauce, stale beer, urine, bloodclots, Kruschen salts, oatmeal, chew tobacco, pollen, dust, grease, wool, cotton threads, match sticks, live worms, shredded wheat, scalded milk, castor oil. Seeds of waste falling away forever and forever coming back in pure draughts of a miraculous chemical substance which refuses to be named, classified, labeled, analyzed, or drawn and quartered. Coming back as Froid and Chaud perpetually, like a truth that can’t be downed. You can take it hot or cold, or you can take it tepid. You can wash your feet or gargle your throat; you can rinse the soap out of your eyes or drive the grit out of the lettuce leaves; you can bathe the new-born babe or swab the rigid limbs of the dead; you can soak bread for fricadellas or dilute your wine. First and last things. Elixir. I, Jabberwhorl, tasting the elixir of life and death. I, Jabberwhorl, of waste and H2O composed, of hot and cold and all the intermediate realms, of scum and rind, of finest, tiniest substance never lost, of great sutures and compact bone, of ice fissures and test tubes, of semen and ova fused, dissolved, dispersed, of rubber schnauscl and brass spigot, of dead cathodes and squirming infusoria, of lettuce leaves and bottled sunlight … I, Jabberwhorl, sitting at the iron sink am perplexed and exalted, never less and never more than a poem, an iron stanza, a boiling follicle, a lost leucocyte. The iron sink where I spat out my heart, where I bathed my tender feet, where I held my first child, where I washed my sore gums, where I sang like a diamond-backed terrapin and I am singing now and will sing forever though the drains clog and the faucets rust, though time runs out and I be all there is of present, past and future. Sing, Froid, sing transitive! Sing, Chaud, sing intransitive! Sing Alpha and Omega! Sing Hallelujah! Sing out, 0 sink! Sing while the world sinks …”
And singing loud and clear like a dead and stricken swan on the bed we laid him out.
杰勃沃尔·克朗斯塔特
杰勃沃尔•克朗斯塔特
这人，这脑壳，这音乐……
他住在一个低于地面的花园后面，一种有车前横木和斯宾诺莎[1]、雪松和猴面包树遮掩的林中空地，一种令人眩晕的布克斯泰胡德[2]的乐曲，装点着鞘翅和三桅船。你穿过一个岗亭，看门人在那里伴着像《阿依达》[3]最后一幕中充满狂热情调的乐曲捻着唇须。他们住在三楼，在一个用直棂分开的观景楼后面，观景楼装饰着戴马嚼子的西班牙猎犬和皮脂腺囊瘤、债券和挂出去晾干的鲽鱼。在门铃按钮上方写着：杰勃沃尔•克朗斯塔特，诗人，音乐家，草本植物学家，气象员，语言学家，海洋学家，旧衣服，胶质。在这下面是：“请擦一擦你的脚，擤一擤你的鼻子！”再下面是一朵从一身旧套装上弄下来的玫瑰花饰。
“所有这一切都有点儿怪兮兮的，”我对我的同伴说，她的名字叫绮丽•基拉•贝。“他一定又来了月经。”
按了门铃以后，我们听到婴儿的哭泣声，一种响亮刺耳的号啕大哭，就像宰马的屠夫从梦中惊醒的嘶叫声一般。
最后，卡佳来到了门跟前——从黑森卡塞尔来的卡佳——在她身后站着小皮诺奇尼，像薄脆饼一样单薄，手里拿着一个淡褐色的洋娃娃。皮诺奇尼说：“你们应该到客厅去，他们还没有穿好衣服。”当我问他们是否需要很长时间，因为我们都快饿死了的时候，她说：“哦，不！他们穿了好几个小时了。你们可以看一下爸爸今天写的新诗——它在壁炉架上。”
绮丽解下她的长蛇围脖时，皮诺奇尼咯咯直笑，说，哦，亲爱的，世界究竟怎么回事?一切都是这样，一切都晚了，你读过懒惰小女孩把牙签藏在褥垫底下的故事吗?可奇妙了！是爸爸从一本大书里读给我听的。
壁炉架上没有诗，但是有其他东西——《忧郁的解剖》、一只珀诺茴香酒的空瓶子、《乳白色的大海》、一块切好的烟草条、发卡、一本街道指南、一支陶笛……以及一只卷烟器。卷烟器底下是写在菜单、名片、手纸、火柴盒上的记事……“四点钟见凯思卡特伯爵夫人”……“米什莱的乳白黏液”……“体液排泄……子叶……肺结核”……“如果复活节与圣母领报节重叠在同一天，那么古老英国就要谨防突然的灾难了”……“从其脓水中产生了他的继承人”……“驯鹿，水獭，水貂，貂皮蛙”。
钢琴放在观景楼附近的一个角落里，一只带银烛台的不结实的黑盒子，黑色琴键已被西班牙猎犬咬掉。有一些标着贝多芬、巴赫、李斯特、肖邦等名字的唱片套，里面放满了账单、修指甲用具、棋子、玻璃弹球、骰子。克朗斯塔特心情好的时候，会打开一个标着“戈雅[4]”的套子，用C调为你演奏点儿什么。他能演奏歌剧、小步舞曲、苏格兰慢步圆舞曲、回旋曲、萨拉邦德舞曲、序曲、赋格曲、华尔兹舞曲、军队进行曲；他能演奏车尔尼、普罗科菲耶夫[5]、格拉纳多斯[6]；他甚至还能即席演奏，同时用口哨吹出普罗旺斯曲调。但是必须用C调。
因此，无论缺了多少黑色琴键，无论西班牙猎犬产仔还是不产仔，无论门铃是否出了故障，无论马桶是否冲水，无论诗歌是否写过，无论枝形吊灯是否掉下来，无论租金是否付清，无论自来水是否关掉，无论女仆是否喝醉，无论水池是否堵塞、垃圾是否腐烂，无论是否掉头皮屑、床是否吱嘎直响，无论花朵是否发霉，无论牛奶是否变质，无论水池是否油腻、墙纸是否褪色，无论消息是否过时、灾祸是否消失，无论嘴巴是否臭烘烘、两手是否黏糊糊，无论冰是否融化，无论踏板是否正常工作，都没有关系，反正都一样。圣诞节总会来的，因为如果你习惯于那样看世界，那么一切都可以用C调来演奏。
突然，门打开了，进来一只长着真菌状胡须、类癫状的巨兽。这是饿猫约卡瑟，一只有一副鸡奸者模样的大兽，灰褐色的毛皮，直愣愣的尾巴底下藏着两颗黑色的核桃。它像豹一样跑来跑去，像狗一样抬起后腿，像猫头鹰一样撒尿。
“我马上来，”杰勃沃尔透过门上镶玻璃的窗框说，“我正在穿裤子。”
现在埃尔莎进来了——从巴特瑙海姆来的埃尔莎——她把一只放有血红色玻璃杯的托盘放在壁炉架上。那只畜生正蹦着，嚎着，滚着，叫着春：它的睡莲叶般柔软的鼻子上有几粒辣椒末，鼻子下端像柔头弹一样柔软。它滚来滚去，发着暹罗猫的狂怒，它的尾巴骨比最细的沙丁鱼还要细。它抓地毯，嚼墙纸；它卷成一卷弹簧，又像花冠一般展开；它抖开尾巴打成的结，抖掉胡须上的真菌。它彻底咬穿了地板，咬到了诗的骨头。它在C调的旋律中，彻底发了疯。它有洋红色的眼睛，像老式的背心纽扣；它发青、发灰，像山金车花一般发褐，然后又像尼罗河一般发绿；它颤抖、不安、烦躁、爱戏弄人；它嚼衣服，发出沙沙的声响。
现在安娜进来了——从汉诺威明登来的安娜——她拿来了法国白兰地酒、红胡椒、苦艾酒和一瓶伍斯特沙司。随安娜进来了几只坦普尔猫——拉合尔、迈索尔、坎普尔。它们都是雄的，包括那位猫妈妈。它们在地上打滚，脑袋缩着，相互之间无情地鸡奸。现在诗人本人出现了，问现在是什么时间，虽然时间是一个他从词汇表上一笔勾销了的词。时间，同死亡有着血亲关系。死亡无道理可循，时间就是其亲兄弟，现在两个行为之间有一点点时间，一种人造黄油，正直的人在其中混入一种饮料，使自己的肠胃肌肉抽搐。时间，时间，他说，撒了一点儿辣椒末在他的白兰地里。一种适合一切的时间，尽管我几乎不再使用这个词。这样说着，他察看了一下拉合尔的尾巴，这尾巴正痉挛着，他一边抓自己的尾骨，一边加上一句说，马桶已经做成银的了，你在那里将找到一本《人性》。
“你很漂亮。”他对绮丽•基拉•贝说，这时，门又打开了，吉尔披着一件古希腊人穿的尼罗河绿的短氅走过来。
“你不认为她很漂亮吗?”杰勃说。
一切都突然变得漂亮了，连那只一副鸡奸者模样的大兽约卡瑟也一样，它的核桃像肉桂一样发褐色，像荔枝一样柔软。
吹起海螺，呵锁骨的痒！杰勃肚子痛，这是他老婆应该痛的地方。一个月一次，像月亮一样有规律，疼痛支配了他，使他倒下，涂油膏也无济于事。除了白兰地和辣椒末以外没有任何东西——引起肠胃肌肉抽搐。“我送给你三个词，”他说，“鹅在锅里翻转的时候：‘想入非非、水肿、肺结核’。”
“你为什么不坐下来?”吉尔说，“他来月经了。”
坎普尔正躺在一只“二十四首序曲”的唱片套上。“我给你演奏一首快的。”杰勃说着，一下子把小黑盒子的盖子打开，就乒乒乓乓起来。“我要来一个颤音。”他说，连续用他右手的每一个手指迅速敲击键盘中间的白色C调键，棋子、修指甲用具、未付的账单像醉醺醺的投圆片游戏一般发出咔哒咔哒的声响。“这就是技术！”他说，他的眼睛是淡灰蓝色的，蒙着白霜。“只有一种东西走得像光一样快，那就是天使。只有天使可以走得像光一样快。到天王星要用一千光年，但是没有人去过那里，也没有人打算去那里。这是一份美国来的星期日报纸。你曾注意过人们怎么读星期日报纸吗?首先是插图栏，然后是滑稽连环漫画栏，然后是体育栏，然后是星期日专栏，然后是剧院新闻，然后是书评，然后是大标题。扼要的重述。个体发生——种系发生。界定你的术语，你就绝不会使用时间、死亡、世界、灵魂一类的词。在每一句陈述中都有一个小错误，而这错误越变越大，直至把一条蛇弄得半死。一首诗歌是唯一没有缺陷的东西，假如你知道现在是什么时间的话。一首诗歌是一张网，诗人按照他自己预见的对数演算，从他自己的身体里织成这张网。这始终是正确的，因为诗人从中心出发，努力向外拓展……”
电话铃响了。
“毕达哥拉斯是对的……牛顿是对的……爱因斯坦是对的……”
“请你接电话！”吉尔说。
“喂！对，我是克朗斯塔特。请问你的名字?宾伯格?听着，你会说英语，不是吗?我也说……什么?是的，我有三套公寓——出租或出售。什么?是的，有一间浴室，一间厨房，还有一个马桶……不，一个正规的马桶。不，不在走廊上——在公寓里面。一个你可以坐在上面的马桶。你喜欢用银箔还是金叶装饰?什么?不，马桶！我这里有一个从慕尼黑来的人，他是一个难民。难民！希特勒！希特勒！明白吗?是的，就是。他胸前有一个十字，蓝颜色的……什么?不，我是认真的。你是认真的吗?什么?听着，如果你是认真的，那就是现金交易……现金！你必须付现金。什么?嗯，这就是这里的办事方式。法国人不相信支票。上星期我碰到一个人想骗我七百五十法郎。是的，一张美国支票。什么?如果你不喜欢那一套，我还有另一套可以给你，是带餐用升降机的。它现在坏了，但是可以装修。什么?噢，大概一千法郎。顶层有一间台球室……什么?不……不……不。这里没有这样的事。听着，宾伯格先生，你得明白，你现在是在法国。是的，就是……如果在罗马……听着，明天早上给我打电话，行吗?我现在在吃饭。吃饭。我在吃饭。什么?是的，现金……再见！”
“你瞧，”他一边挂上电话，一边说，“我们在这所房子里就是这样办事的。马上见效的工作，是吧?不动产。你们这些人都生活在仙境里。你认为文学就是一切。你吃文学，而在这所房子里，我们吃鹅，这是打个比方。是的，现在已经差不多了。安娜！怎么样?还没有好吗?妈的！三个女孩……难民。我不知道她们是哪里人。有人把我们的地址给了她们。好女孩。健壮，丰满，迷人。在德国没有立锥之地。爱因斯坦忙于写关于光的诗歌。这些女孩需要一个工作，一个住的地方。你知道谁需要一个女仆吗?好女孩。她们都受过很好的教育。可是却要她们三人做饭。卡佳，她是其中最棒的一个：她懂得如何熨衣服。那一个，安娜——她昨天借了我的打字机……说她要写一首诗。我不是把你们留在这儿来写诗的，我说。在这所房子里，我写诗——如果有任何诗可写的话。你们学习如何做饭，补袜子。她面带怒色。听着，安娜，我说，你生活在一个想象的世界里。世界不再需要诗歌。世界需要面包和黄油。你能生产更多的面包和黄油吗?那才是世界需要的东西。学习法语吧，你可以帮我管理不动产。是的，人们得有住的地方。有趣吧?不过，这就是世界现在的状况。它总是这个样子，只是人们以前从来不相信。世界是为未来……为天王星造就的，没有人会去天王星，但是那没有关系。人们必须有地方住，有面包、黄油吃。为了未来。过去是这个样子，未来也将是这个样子。现在?没有什么现在。有一个词叫作时间，但是没有人能界定它。有一个过去，有一个未来，时间就像电流一样从中流过。现在是一种想象的状态，一种梦的状态……一种矛盾修饰法。有一个词送给你——我将把它作为礼物送给你。用它来写一首诗吧。我太忙了……不动产很要紧。必须有鹅和越橘调味汁……听着，吉尔，我昨天查的那个词是什么?”
“Omoplate（肩胛骨）?”吉尔很快说。
“不，不是那个。Omo……omo……”
“Omphalos（脐）?”
“不，不。Omo……omo……”
“我知道了，”吉尔叫起来，“Omophagia（生肉）！”
“Omophagia，就是它！你喜欢这个词吗?你把它带走！怎么回事?你没有在喝酒。吉尔，我前几天在餐用升降机中发现的鸡尾酒调和器究竟在哪里?你能想象吗?——一个鸡尾酒调和器！总之，你们这些人似乎认为文学是十分必要的东西。它不是。它只是文学。我也能搞文学——如果我没有这些难民要喂养的话。你想知道现在是什么吗?请看窗户那边。不，不是那儿……是上面的那个。在那里！每天他们都坐在那儿的桌子旁玩牌——就他们两个人。她总是穿着一件红连衣裙。他总是在洗牌。那就是现在。如果你加上另一个词，那就成为虚拟的了……”
“天哪，我要去看一看那些女孩在干什么。”吉尔说。
“不，你看不到！那正是她们在等待着的事情——等你来帮助她们。她们必须认识到这是一个现实世界。我要她们理解这一点。以后我将给她们找工作。我手头有许多工作。首先让她们给我做一顿饭。”
“埃尔莎说一切都准备好了。来吧，让我们到里面去。”
“安娜，安娜，把这些瓶子拿到里面来，放到桌子上！”
安娜无能为力地看着杰勃沃尔。
“你瞧！她们甚至还没有学会说英语。我拿她们怎么办呢?安娜……这里！把它们都拿走！明白了吗?给你自己倒一杯饮料，你这个大傻瓜。”
饭厅的灯光很柔和。桌上有一个枝状大烛台，餐具闪闪发光。正当我们坐下来的时候，电话铃响了。安娜把长长的电话线收拾好，从钢琴那边把电话机拿到克朗斯塔特身后的餐具柜上。“喂！”他喊道，长长的电话线绷直了，就像肠子一样……“喂！是！是，夫人……我是克朗斯塔特……请问你的名字?是，有一个客厅，一个阁楼，一间厨房，两间卧室，一间浴室，一个马桶……是，夫人……不，这不贵，一点儿也不贵……很容易安排……随你的便，夫人……几点钟?是的……很高兴……怎么?你说什么?啊，不！正相反！我很高兴……非常高兴……再见，夫人！”他啪地挂上电话——吻你的手，夫人！你想要我给你挠背吗，夫人?你咖啡里要加奶吗，夫人?你要……?
“听着，”吉尔说，“那究竟是谁?你对她够讨好的。是，夫人……不，夫人！她还答应给你买杯饮料了吧?”她转身对我们说：“你们能想象吗?昨天在我洗澡的时候，他弄了个演员在这里……巴黎夜总会的一个荡妇……她领他出去，把他给灌醉了……”
“你说得不对，吉尔。是这样的……我领她去看一套温馨的公寓——里面有一个餐用升降机的——她问我要不要给她看看我的诗——用法语说更好听……于是我把她领到这里来，她说要为我用比利时语发表。”
“为什么是比利时语，杰勃?”
“因为她就是那里的人，一个比利时人——或者说一个比利时女人。总之，管它用什么语言发表，这有什么差别呢?总得有人来发表，不然就没有人会读到这些诗了。”
“但是她为什么要那样说——那么性急似的?”
“我怎么知道！我想是因为诗写得好呗。不然为什么人们想要发表呢?”
“骗人的鬼话！”
“你瞧！她不相信我。”
“当然不！如果你把任何女演员，或足尖舞女，或空中飞人演员，或法国任何穿裙子的玩意儿带到这里来，让我抓住，那你就得倒霉。尤其是如果她们提出要发表你的诗歌！”
“你又来了，”杰勃沃尔说，脸色发灰发青，“这就是我之所以要搞房地产的原因……去吃吧，你们这些人……我看着哩。”
他又把一些白兰地和辣椒末搅在一起。
“我想你已经喝够了，”吉尔说，“天啊，你今天喝了多少?”
“有意思，”杰勃沃尔说，“一会儿工夫之前我刚把她摆平了——就在你们来之前——但是我没有办法摆平自己……”
“天啊，那只鹅在哪里呀?”吉尔说，“对不起，我要到里面去看看女孩们在干什么。”
“不，你别去！”杰勃说着，把她按回到座位上。“我们就坐在这里等着……等着看一看发生什么事情。也许鹅永远来不了。我们将坐在这里等候……永远等候……就像这样，有蜡烛，有空的汤盘子，有窗帘……我能够想象我们坐在这里，有一个人在外面正在往一堵包围我们的墙上抹灰泥……我们正坐在这里等待埃尔莎把鹅拿来，时间流逝，天黑下来，我们整天整天坐在这里……看见那些蜡烛了吗?我们将吃它们。看见那边那些花了吗?那也是要吃的。我们将吃椅子，我们将吃餐具柜，我们将吃闹钟，我们将吃猫，我们将吃窗帘，我们将吃账单、银器、墙纸和墙纸底下的臭虫……我们将吃自己的粪便以及吉尔肚子里那个可爱的新胎儿……我们将互相吃……”
就在这时候，皮诺奇尼进来道晚安。她低垂着脑袋，眼里有着一种好奇的神情。
“你今晚怎么回事?”吉尔说，“你看上去忧心忡忡的。”
“哦，我不知道是怎么回事，”小家伙说，“我有事要问你们……它非常复杂。我真的不知道我是否能说出我的意思。”
“是什么，小甜心?”杰勃说，“在太太先生面前把它都说出来。你认识他的，是吧?来，把它倾吐出来！”
小家伙仍然低垂着脑袋。她从眼角里狡猾地望着她的父亲，然后，突然脱口说出：“哦，这一切都是怎么回事?我们究竟为什么在这里?我们必须得有一个世界吗?这是唯一的世界吗?为什么?这就是我想知道的事情。”
如果杰勃沃尔•克朗斯塔特有点儿吃惊的话，他却一点儿也没有流露出来。他若无其事地拿起白兰地，加入一点儿辣椒末，漫不经心地回答：“听着，孩子，在我回答那个问题以前——如果你坚持要我回答那个问题的话——你得先界定你的术语。”
正在这时候，从花园里传来一声又长又尖的哨声。
“莫格利！”克朗斯塔特说，“让他上来。”
“上来！”吉尔走到窗户边说。
没人答应。
“他一定走了，”吉尔说，“我再没有见到他。”
现在传上来一个女人的声音。“他醉了……完全醉了。”
“带他回家！让她带他回家！”克朗斯塔特喊道。
“我丈夫说他必须回你们家……是，回你们家。”
“没那回事！”声音从花园里传上来。
“让她别把我那本庞德的《诗章》弄丢了，”克朗斯塔特喊道，“不要再请他们上来……我们这儿没有地方了。只够德国难民的空间。”
“这是一种耻辱。”吉尔说着，回到桌边。
“你又错了，”杰勃说，“这对他非常合适。”
“哦，你醉了，”吉尔说，“那只该死的鹅究竟在哪里?埃尔莎！埃尔莎！”
“不用担心那只鹅，亲爱的！这是一场游戏。我们将坐在这里，比她们长久。规则是明天有果酱，昨天有果酱——但是今天绝没有果酱……如果你们这些人就像你这样坐在这里，而我则开始越变越小……直至成为极小极小的一点……以至于你必须用望远镜看我，这不是很奇妙吗?我将成为桌布上的一个小点，我将说——提莫尔……提——莫尔！你会说，他在哪里?我会说——提莫尔，文字游戏，磷酸甘油，比扬库尔，提——莫尔……哦，廷巴斯废话，踩布劳基施刹车……你会说……”
“天哪，杰勃，你醉了！”吉尔说，杰勃沃尔快活得满脸发光，他的金链抖动得吧嗒吧嗒响。
“他马上会着凉的。”吉尔说着，起来找西班牙披肩。
“说得对。”杰勃说。“无论她说什么都是对的。你认为我是一个非常乖戾的人。你，”他转过身来对我说，“你和你的蒙古语动词，你的及物动词和不及物动词，你没看见我是一个多么友善的人吗?你一直在谈论中国……这就是中国，你不明白吗?这……这什么?给我披肩，吉尔，我很冷。这是一种可怕的寒冷……冰川下的寒冷。你们这些人很暖和，可我在结冰。我能感觉到冰盖又在降临。一个事实。一切都在拼命滚过来，美元在下跌，房子被出租，难民都得到庇护，钢琴被调准音，账单已付清，鹅已烧好，我们在等什么呢?等下一个冰河时代！它明天早晨就到来。你将走到窗户那边，一切都将冻得结结实实的。不再有问题，不再有历史，不再一无所有。全解决了。我们将像这样坐在这里等候安娜把鹅拿来，突然间冰会滚到我们身上。我已经可以感受到那种可怕的寒冷，面包全成了冰柱，黄油收缩，鹅瞪大了眼睛，墙壁白得可怕。而那个小天使，吉尔肚子里的那个快活的新胚胎，将会冻结在子宫里，一种蛋白状的傻样，长着冰冷的翅膀和蜗牛的嘴唇。唧，唧，一切都将静悄悄的。说些暖和的话！我的腿冻住了。希罗多德说，凤凰在其父死后，将尸体泡在一只没药制成的蛋内，五百年左右一次，将泡在没药中的小蛋从阿拉伯沙漠运送到赫利奥波利斯的太阳神庙。你喜欢那样吗?按照普林尼的说法，一次只有一只蛋，当这种鸟发觉自己的末日临近时，就用肉桂枝和乳香筑一个巢，然后死在巢里。从巢内的尸体中诞生出一条小虫，它后来就变成凤凰。因而贝努鸟是复活的象征。那怎么样?我需要更热的东西。这是另外一个……保加利亚的渡火者被称作尼斯汀迦尔。在5月21日的圣海伦娜和圣康斯坦丁的节日里，他们在火中跳舞。他们在又红又烫的余烬中跳着跳着，直跳到脸色发青，然后他们就说出了预言。”
“我一点儿也不喜欢那个。”吉尔说。
“我也不喜欢，”杰勃说，“我喜欢关于小精灵虫从巢里飞出来复活的那个故事。吉尔肚子里也有一个……它很快地生长、生长。无法阻止它。昨天它是一条小蝌蚪，明天将是一棵忍冬藤，还说不上来它将成为什么……无法说出最终会怎么样。它每天都在巢中死去，第二天又再生。把你的耳朵凑到她肚子上去……你会听到它翅膀的飕飕声。飕飕……飕飕。没有发动机。妙极了！她肚子里有上百万，它们都在那里面飕飕地飞来飞去，拼命要跑出来。飕飕……飕飕。只要你插一根针在里面，在那大肚皮上扎个洞，它们就全都飕飕地跑出来……想象一下……一团云一般的精灵虫……上百万精灵虫……这一群密密麻麻的精灵虫，弄得我们都看不见彼此了……一个事实！没必要写中国的事。写那个！写你肚子里的东西……伟大的螺旋形脊椎结构……游动孢子和白细胞……瓦姆罗思和霍伦林登……每一个人都是一首诗。水母也是一首诗——最美好的一类诗。你戳戳它这儿，戳戳它那儿，它滑行，厚墩墩，不规则，凝固，它有结肠与肠子，它是蠕虫状的，无所不在。莫格利在花园里吹哨要租金，他也是一首诗，一首有大耳朵的诗，一首令人恶心的政治改良者的诗。他有着环行的、耳状的错综复杂，知更鸟胸那样圆的褶裥饰边，展开像一个敞篷的四轮四座马车。他摇摇晃晃，走在点点苍穹下……他摇摇晃晃，脑中掠过他最讨厌的人……莫格利……奥格利……惠斯特和香肠……”
“他神志不清了。”吉尔说。
“又错了，”杰勃说，“我刚发现了我的神志，只不过它是一种不同于你的想象的神志。你认为一首诗必须有东西覆盖在它周围。一旦你写了一件事情，这首诗就停止了。诗是你无法界说的现在。你体验它。任何东西，只要其中有时间，它就是一首诗。你写诗不必乘渡船或去中国。我体验过的最美好的诗是厨房里的一个水池。我曾经告诉过你吧?有两个龙头，一个叫‘冷’，一个叫‘热’。‘冷’通过接在口上的一根橡皮管经历了全部生活。‘热’欢快而有节制。‘热’总是滴水，就好像得了淋病。在星期二和星期五，它到清真寺去，那里有一个给患了性病的龙头治病的诊所。星期二、星期五‘冷’不得不做全部工作。它是个瞎忙活的家伙。这就是它的整个世界。而‘热’则必须受到宠爱，得哄着它。你得说‘不要这么快’，要不它就把你的皮烫掉。偶尔这‘冷’和‘热’也搞合作，但那是很少有的事。星期六夜里，当我在水池边洗脚的时候，开始想，这一对宝贝统治的世界有多么完美。没有任何东西能赛过这个有两个水龙头的铁水池。没有开端，没有结束。阿尔法‘热’和欧米迦‘冷’。永恒。主宰生与死的双子座。阿尔法‘热’以华氏和列氏的各种温度流出来，流过磁铁屑和彗星的尾巴，经过莫纳罗亚火山的沸腾大锅，进入第三纪冷冰冰的月光之中；欧米迦‘冷’流出来，经墨西哥湾流进入马尾藻海的沼泽般海底，流经有袋动物和有孔虫，流经作为哺乳动物的鲸鱼和极地裂缝，流经岛屿的天地，流经死亡的阴极，流经死骨和干腐，流经未成形、未触动、看不见、未诞生和永远消失的世界的滤泡和触角。阿尔法‘热’滴滴答答；欧米迦‘冷’不停工作。手、脚、头发、脸、盘子、蔬菜、鱼全洗得干干净净，无影无踪；绝望、厌恶、仇恨、爱、忌妒、罪恶……滴滴答答。我，杰勃沃尔，和妻子吉尔，在我们身后还有大批大批的人……都站在铁水池边上。种子顺排水管落下：嫩甜瓜、南瓜、鱼子酱、通心粉、胆汁、唾沫、痰、莴苣叶、沙丁鱼骨头、伍斯特沙司、走味的啤酒、尿、血块、克鲁申盐、燕麦片、咀嚼烟草、花粉、灰尘、脂肪、羊毛、棉纱线、火柴棍、活虫子、碎麦、煮沸的牛奶、蓖麻油。废料的种子永远离去，永远在一定剂量的一种纯净的奇异化学物质中回来，这化学物质没有名称，不能分类，不能标明为何物，不能分析，不能提取，不能划分。永远作为‘冷’和‘热’回来，就像一条颠扑不破的真理。你可以要它热，也可以要它冷，还可以要它温和。你可以洗脚或漱口；你可以把肥皂水从眼睛里冲掉，或把沙子从莴苣叶里涮掉；你可以给新生的婴儿洗澡，或者擦洗死人的僵硬四肢；你可以泡面包做煎饼或者稀释你的酒。所有的事情。万应灵药。我，杰勃沃尔，尝着生与死的万应灵药。我，杰勃沃尔，由废料和H2O构成，由热、冷以及所有中间领域构成，由渣滓和外皮，由从不消灭的最细最小的物质，由大骨缝和密质骨，由冰缝和试管，由融合、溶解、散布的精液和卵细胞，由橡皮嘴和铜制龙头，由死亡的阴极和蠕动的纤毛虫，由莴苣叶和瓶装的阳光……构成。我，杰勃沃尔，坐在铁水池旁边，困惑不解而又兴高采烈，完完全全是一首诗，一个铁的诗节，一个沸腾的滤泡，一个消失的白细胞。那个铁水池，在那里我吐出我的心，洗我柔软的脚丫，抱住我的第一个孩子，洗我疼痛的牙龈，像菱纹背水龟般歌唱，我现在正唱着，将永远唱下去，尽管排水管会堵塞，龙头会生锈，尽管时间流逝，我总在那里，在那由现在、过去、未来构成的水池旁。唱吧，‘冷’，唱及物动词！唱吧，‘热’，唱不及物动词！唱阿尔法和欧米迦！唱哈利路亚！大声唱，哦，下沉[7]！唱吧，直至世界下沉……”
他响亮而清晰地唱着，我们把他放在床上，他就像一只患病而即将死亡的天鹅。
【注释】
[1]斯宾诺莎是荷兰哲学家，在这里用作普通名词，而且作为复数出现，带有某种象征意义。
[2]布克斯泰胡德（1637或1639——1707）：德国 丹麦裔风琴家、作曲家。
[3]可能指朱塞佩•威尔第所创作品《阿依达》的第四幕。
[4]可能指戈雅（1746——1828），西班牙画家。
[5]普罗科菲耶夫（1891——1953）：苏联作曲家、钢琴家。
[6]格拉纳多斯（1867——1916）：西班牙钢琴家、作曲家。
[7]英语中“下沉”和上文的“水池”是同一个词sink，只不过一个是动词，一个是名词，这里作者玩了一种文字游戏。
Into the Night Life..
Into the Night Life..
A Coney Island of the mind.
Over the foot of the bed is the shadow of the cross. There are chains binding me to the bed. The chains are clanking loudly, the anchor is being lowered. Suddenly I feel a hand on my shoulder. Some one is shaking me vigorously. I look up and it is an old hag in a dirty wrapper. She goes to the dresser and opening a drawer she puts a revolver away.
There are three rooms, one after the other, like a railroad flat. I am lying in the middle room in which there is a walnut bookcase and a dressing table. The old hag removes her wrapper and stands before the mirror in her chemise. She has a little powder puff in her hand and with this little puff she swabs her armpits, her bosom, her thighs. All the while she weeps like an idiot. Finally she comes over to me with an atomizer and she squirts a fine spray over me. I notice that her hair is full of rats.
I watch the old hag moving about. She seems to be in a trance. Standing at the dresser she opens and closes the drawers, one after the other, mechanically. She seems to have forgotten what she remembered to go there for. Again she picks up the powder puff and with the powder puff she daubs a little powder under her armpits. On the dressing table is a little silver watch attached to a long piece of black tape. Pulling off her chemise she slings the watch around her neck; it reaches just to the pubic triangle. There comes a faint tick and then the silver turns black.
In the next room, which is the parlor, all the relatives are assembled. They sit in a semicircle, waiting for me to enter. They sit stiff and rigid, upholstered like the chairs. Instead of warts and wens there is horsehair sprouting from their chins.
I spring out of bed in my nightshirt and I commence to dance the dance of King Kotschei. In my nightshirt I dance, with a parasol over my head. They watch me without a smile, without so much as a crease in their jowls. I walk on my hands for them, I turn somersaults, I put my fingers between my teeth and whistle like a blackbird. Not the faintest murmur of approval or disapproval. They sit there solemn and imperturbable. Finally I begin to snort like a bull, then I prance like a fairy, then I strut like a peacock, and then realizing that I have no tail I quit. The only thing left to do is to read the Koran through at lightning speed, after which the weather reports, the Rime of the Ancient Mariner and the Book of Numbers.
Suddenly the old hag comes dancing in stark naked, her hands aflame. Immediately she knocks over the umbrella stand the place is in an uproar. From the upturned umbrella stand there issues a steady stream of writhing cobras traveling at lightning speed. They knot themselves around the legs of the tables, they carry away the soup tureens, they scramble into the dresser and jam the drawers, they wriggle through the pictures on the wall, through the curtain rings, through the mattresses, they coil up inside the women’s hats, all the while hissing like steam boilers.
Winding a pair of cobras about my arms I go for the old hag with murder in my eyes. From her mouth, her eyes, her hair, from her vagina even, the cobras are streaming forth, always with that frightful steaming hiss as if they had been ejected fresh from a boiling crater. In the middle of the room where we are locked an immense forest opens up. We stand in a nest of cobras and our bodies come undone.
I am in a strange, narrow little room, lying on a high bed. There is an enormous hole in my side, a clean hole without a drop of blood showing. I can’t tell any more who I am or where I came from or how I got here. The room is very small and my bed is close to the door. I have a feeling that some one is standing on the doorsill watching me. I am petrified with fright.
When I raise my eyes I see a man standing at the doorsill. He wears a gray derby cocked on the side of his head; he has a flowing mustache and is dressed in a checkerboard suit. He asks my name, my address, my profession, what I am doing and where I am going and so on and so forth. He asks endless prying questions to which I am unable to respond, first because I have lost my tongue, and second because I cannot remember any longer what language I speak. “Why don’t you speak?” he says, bending over me jeeringly, and taking his light rattan stick he jabs a hole in my side. My anguish is so great that it seems I must speak even if I have no tongue, even if I know not who I am or where I came from. With my two hands I try to wrench my jaws apart, but the teeth are locked. My chin crumbles away like dry clay, leaving the jawbone exposed. “Speak!” he says, with that cruel, jeering smile and, taking his stick once again, he jabs another hole through my side.
I lie awake in the cold dark room. The bed almost touches the ceiling now. I hear the rumbling of trains, the regular rhythmic bouncing of the trains over the frozen trestle, the short, throttled puffs of the locomotive, as if the air were splintered with frost. In my hand are the pieces of dry clay which crumbled from my chin. My teeth are locked tighter than ever; I breathe through the holes in my side. From the window of the little room in which I lie I can see the Montreal bridge. Through the girders of the bridge, driven downward by the blinding blizzard, the sparks are flying. The trains are racing over the frozen river in wreaths of fire. I can see the shops along the bridgeway gleaming with pies and hamburger sandwiches. Suddenly I do remember something. I remember that just as I was about to cross the border they asked me what I had to declare and, like an idiot, I answered: “I want to declare that 1 am a traitor to the human race.” I remember distinctly now that this occurred just as I was walking up a treadmill behind a woman with balloon skirts. There were mirrors all around us and above the mirrors a balustrade of slats, series after series of slats, one on top of another, tilted, toppling, crazy as a nightmare. In the distance I could see the Montreal bridge and below the bridge the ice floes over which the trains raced. I remember now that when the woman looked around at me she had a skull on her shoulders, and written into the fleshless brow was the word sex stony as a lizard. I saw the lids drop down over her eyes and then the sightless cavern without bottom. As I fled from her I tried to read what was written on the body of a car racing beside me, but I could catch only the tail end and it made no sense
At the Brooklyn Bridge I stand as usual waiting for the trolley to swing round. In the heat of the late afternoon the city rises up like a huge polar bear shaking off its rhododendrons. The forms waver, the gas chokes the girders, the smoke and the dust wave like amulets. Out of the welter of buildings there pours a jellywash of hot bodies glued together with pants and skirts. The tide washes up in front of the curved tracks and splits like glass combs. Uuder the wet headlines are the diaphanous legs of the amoebas scrambling on to the running boards, the fine, sturdy tennis legs wrapped in cellophane, their white veins showing through the golden calves and muscles of ivory. The city is panting with a five o’clock sweat. From the tops of the skyscrapers plumes of smoke soft as Cleopatra’s feathers. The air beats thick, the bats are flapping, the cement softens, the iron rails flatten under the broad flanges of the trolley wheels. Life is written down in headlines twelve feet high with periods, commas and semicolons. The bridge sways over the gasoline lakes below. Melons rolling in from Imperial Valley, garbage going down past Hell Gate, the decks clear, the stanchions gleaming, the hawsers tight, the slips grunting, the moss splitting and spelching in the ferry slips. A warm sultry haze lying over the city like a cup of fat, the sweat trickling down between the bare legs, around the slim ankles. A mucous mass of arms and legs, of half-moons and weather vanes, of cock robins and round robins, of shuttlecocks and bright bananas with the light lemon pulp lying in the bell of the peel. Five o’clock strikes through the grime and sweat of the afternoon, a strip of bright shadow left by the iron girders. The trolleys wheel round with’ iron mandibles, crunching the papier-mache of the crowd, spooling it down like punched transfers.
As I take my seat I see a man I know standing on the rear platform with a newspaper in his hand. His straw hat is tilted on the back of his head, his arm rests on the motorman’s brass brake. Back of his cars the cable web spreads out like the guts of a piano. His straw hat is just on a level with Chambers Street; it rests like a sliced egg on the green spinach of the bay. I hear the cogs slipping against the thick stub of the motorman’s toe. The wires are humming, the bridge is groaning with joy. Two little rubber knobs on the seat in front of me, like two black keys on a piano. About the size of an eraser, not round like the end of a cane. Two gummy thingamajigs to deaden the shock. The dull thud of a rubber hammer falling on a rubber skull.
The countryside is desolate. No warmth, no snugness, no closeness, no density, no opacity, no numerator, no denominator. It’s like the evening newspaper read to a deaf mute standing on a hat rack with a palmetto leaf in his hand. In all this parched land no sign of human hand, of human eye, of human voice. Only headlines written in chalk which the rain washes away. Only a short ride on the trolley and I am in a desert filled with thorns and cactus.
In the middle of the desert is a bathhouse and in the bathhouse is a wooden horse with a log-saw lying athwart it. By the zinc-covered table, looking out through the cobwebbed window, stands a woman I used to know. She stands in the middle of the desert like a rock made of camphor. Her body has the strong white aroma of sorrow. She stands like a statue saying good-by. Head and shoulders above me she stands, her buttocks swoopingly grand and out of all proportion. Everything is out of proportion-hands, feet, thighs, ankles. She’s an equestrian statue without the horse, a fountain of flesh worn away to a mammoth egg. Out of the ballroom of flesh her body sings like iron. Girl of my dreams, what a splendid cage you make! Only where is the little perch for your three-pointed toes? The little perch that swung backward and forward between the brass bars? You stand by the window, dead as a canary, your toes stiff, your beak blue. You have the profile of a line drawing done with a meat-ax. Your mouth is a crater stuffed with lettuce leaves. Did I ever dream that you could be so enormously warm and lopsided? Let me look at your lovely jackal paws; let me hear the croaking, dingy chortle of your dry breath.
Through the cobwebs I watch the nimble crickets, the long, leafy spines of the cactus oozing milk and chalk, the riders with their empty saddlebags, the pommels humped like camels. The dry desert of my native land, her men gray and gaunt, their spines twisted, their feet shod with rowel and spur. Above the cactus bloom the city hangs upside down, her gaunt, gray men scratching the skies with their spurred boots. I clasp her bulging contours, her rocky angles, the strong dolmen breasts, the cloven hoofs, the plumed tail. I hold her close in the choked spume of the canyons under the locked watersheds twisted with golden sands while the hour runs out. In the blinding surge of grief the sand slowly fills my bones.
A pair of blunt, rusty scissors lies on the zinc-covered table beside us. The arm which she raises is webbed to her side. The hoary inflexible movement of her arm is like the dull raucous screech of day closing and the cord which binds us is wired with grit. The sweat stands out on my temples, clots there and ticks like a clock. The clock is running down with nervous wiry sweat. The scissors move between on slow rusty hinges. My nerves race along the teeth of the comb, my spurs bristle, the veins glow. Is all pain dull and bearable like this? Along the scissors’ edge I feel the rusty blunt anguish of day closing, the slow webbed movement of hunger satisfied, of clean space and starry sky in the arms of an automaton.
I stand in the midst of the desert waiting for the train. In my heart there is a little glass bell and under the bell there is an edelweiss. All my cares have dropped away. Even under the ice I sense the bloom which the earth prepares in the night.
Reclining in the luxurious leather seat I have a vague feeling that it is a German line on which I am traveling. I sit by the window reading a book; I am aware that some one is reading over my shoulder. It is my own book and there is a passage in it which baffles me. The words are incomprehensible. At Darmstadt we descend a moment while the engines are being changed. The glass shed rises to a nave supported by lacy black girders. The severity of the glass shed has a good deal the appearance of my book-when it lay open on my lap and the ribs showed through. In my heart I can feel the edelweiss blooming.
At night in Germany, when you pace up and down the platform, there is always some one to explain things to you. The round heads and the long heads get together in a cloud of vapor and all the wheels are taken apart and put together again. The sound of the language seems more penetrating than other tongues, as if it were food for the brain, substantial, nourishing, appetizing. Glutinous particles detach themselves and they dissipate slowly, months after the voyage, like a smoker exhaling a fine stream of smoke through his nostrils after he has taken a drink of water. The word gut is the longest lasting word of all. “Es war gut!” says some one, and his gut rumbles in my bowels like a rich pheasant. Surely nothing is better than to take a train at night when all the inhabitants are asleep and to drain from their open mouths the rich succulent morsels of their unspoken tongue. When every one sleeps the mind is crowded with events; the mind travels in a swarm, like summer flies that are sucked along by the train.
Suddenly I am at the seashore and no recollection of the train stopping. No remembrance of it departing even. Just swept up on the shore of the ocean like a comet.
Everything is sordid, shoddy, thin as pasteboard. A Coney Island of the mind. The amusement shacks are running full blast, the shelves full of chinaware and dolls stuffed with straw and alarm clocks and spittoons. Every shop has three balls over it and every game is a ball game. The Jews are walking around in mackintoshes, the Japs are smiling, the air is full of chopped onions and sizzling hamburgers. Jabber, jabber, and over it all in a muffled roar comes the steady hiss and boom of the breakers, a long uninterrupted adenoidal wheeze that spreads a clammy catarrh over the dirty shebang. Behind the pasteboard streetfront the breakers are ploughing up the night with luminous argent teeth; the clams are lying on their backs squirting ozone from their anal orifices. In the oceanic night Steeplechase looks like a wintry beard. Everything is sliding and crumbling, everything glitters, totters, teeters, titters.
Where is the warm summer’s day when first I saw the green-carpeted earth revolving and men and women moving like panthers? Where is the soft gurgling music which I heard welling up from the sappy roots of the earth? Where am I to go if everywhere there are trapdoors and grinning skeletons, a world turned inside out and all the flesh peeled off? Where am I to lay my head if there is nothing but beards and mackintoshes and peanut whistles and broken slats? Am I to walk forever along this endless pasteboard street, this pasteboard which I can punch a hole in, which I can blow down with my breath, which I can set fire to with a match? The world has become a mystic maze erected by a gang of carpenters during the night. Everything is a lie, a fake. Pasteboard.
I walk along the ocean front. The sand is strewn with human clams waiting for some one to pry their shells apart. In the roar and hubbub their pissing anguish goes unnoticed. The breakers club them, the lights deafen them, the tide drowns them. They lie behind the pasteboard street in the onyx-colored night and they listen to the hamburgers sizzling. Jabber, jabber, a sneezing and wheezing, balls rolling down the long smooth troughs into tiny little holes filled with bric-a-brac, with chinaware and spittoons and flowerpots and stuffed dolls. Greasy Japs wiping the rubberplants with wet rags, Armenians chopping onions into microcosmic particles, Macedonians throwing the lasso with molasses arms. Every man, woman, and child in a mackintosh has adenoids, spreads catarrh, diabetes, whooping cough, meningitis. Everything that stands upright, that slides. rolls, tumbles, spins, shoots, teeters, sways and crumble; is made of nuts and bolts. The monarch of the mind is a monkey wrench. Sovereign pasteboard power.
The clams have fallen asleep, the stars are dying out. Everything that is made of water snoozes now in the flap-pocket of a hyena. Morning comes like a glass roof over the world. The glassy ocean sways in its depths, a still, transparent sleep.
It is neither night nor day. It is the dawn traveling in short waves with the flir of an albatross’s wings. The sounds that reach me are cushioned, gonged, muffled, as if man’s labors were being performed under water. I feel the tide ebbing without fear of being sucked in; I hear the waves splashing without fear of drowning. I walk amidst the wrack and debris of the world, but my feet are not bruised. There is no finitude of sky, no division of land and sea. I move through sluice and orifice with gliding slippery feet. I smell nothing, I hear nothing, I see nothing, I feel nothing. Whether on my back or on my belly, whether sidewise like the crab or spiral like a bird, all is bliss downy and undifferentiated.
The white chalk breath of Plymouth stirs the geologic spine; the tip of her dragon’s tail clasps the broken continent. Unspeakably brown earth and men with green hair, the old image recreated in soft, milky whiteness. A last wag of the tail in non-human tranquility; an indifference to hope or despair or melancholy. The brown earth and the oxide green are not of air or sky or sight or touch. The peace and solemnity, the far-off, intangible tranquility of the chalk cliffs, distils a poison, a noxious, croaking breath of evil that hangs over the land like the tip of a dragon’s tail. I feel the invisible claws that grip the rocks. The heavy, sunken green of the earth is not the green of grass or hope but of slime, of foul, invincible courage. I feel the brown hoods of the martyrs, their matted hair, their sharp talons hidden in scabrous vestments, the brown wool of their hatred, their ennui, their emptiness. I have a tremendous longing for this land that lies at the end of the earth, this irregular spread of earth like an alligator basking. From the heavy, sexless lid of her batted eye there emanates a deceptive, poisonous calm. Her yawning mouth is open like a vision. It is as if the sea and all who had been drowned in it, their bones, their hopes, their dreamy edifices, had made the white amalgam which is England.
My mind searches vainly for some remembrance which is older than any remembrance, for the myth engraved on a tablet of stone which lies buried under a mountain. Under the elevated structure, the windows full of pies and hamburgers, the rails swiftly turning, the old sensations, the old memories invade me again. All that belongs with docks and wharves, with funnels, cranes, pistons, wheels, ties, bridges, all the paraphernalia of travel and hunger repeats itself like a blind mechanism. As I come to the crossroads the living street spreads out like a map studded with awnings and wine shops. The noonday heat cracks the glazed surface of the map. The streets buckle and snap.
Where a rusty star marks the boundary of the past there rises up a clutter of sharp, triangular buildings with black mouths and broken teeth. There is the smell of iodoform and ether, of formaldehyde and ammonia, of fresh tin and wet iron molds. The buildings are sagging, the roofs are crushed and battered. So heavy is the air, so acrid and choking, that the buildings can no longer hold themselves erect. The entrance ways have sunk to below the level of the street. There is something croaking and froglike about the atmosphere. A dank, poisonous vapor envelops the neighborhood, as if a marsh-bog underlay the very foundations.
When I reach my father’s home I find him standing at the window shaving, or rather not shaving, but stropping his razor. Never before has he failed me, but now in my need he is deaf. I notice now the rusty blade he is using. Mornings with my coffee there was always the bright flash of his blade, the bright German steel laid against the smooth dull hide of the strop, the splash of lather like cream in my coffee, the snow banked on the window ledge, putting a felt around his words. Now the blade is tarnished and the snow turned to slush; the diamond frost of the window panes trickles in a thin grease that stinks of toads and marsh gas. “Bring me huge worms,” he begs, “and we will plough the minnows.” Poor, desperate father that I have. I clutch with empty hands across a broken table.
A night of bitter cold. Walking along with head down a whore sidles up to me and putting her arm in mine leads me to a hotel with a blue enamel sign over the door. Upstairs in the room I take a good look at her. She is young and athletic, and best of all, she is ignorant. She doesn’t know the name of a single king. She doesn’t even speak her own language. Whatever I relate to her she licks up like hot fat. She lards herself with it. The whole process is one of getting warm, of putting on a coat of grease for the winter, as she explains to me in her simple way. When she has extracted all the grease from my marrow bones she pulls back the coverlet and with the most astounding sprightliness she commences her trapezoid flights. The room is like a humming bird’s nest. Nude as a berry she rolls herself into a ball, her head tucked between her breasts, her arms pinned to her crotch. She looks like a green berry out of which a pea is about to burst.
Suddenly, in that silly American way, I hear her say: “Look, I can do this, but I can’t do that!” Whereupon she does it. Does what? Why, she commences to flap the lips of her vagina, just like a hummingbird. She has a furry little head with frank doglike eyes. Like a picture of the devil when the Palatinate was in flower. The incongruity of it sledges me. I sit down under a trip-hammer: every time I glance at her face I see an iron slit and behind it a man in an iron mask winking at me. A terrifying drollery because he winks with a blind eye, a blind, teary eye that threatens to turn into a cataract.
If it weren’t that her arms and legs were all entangled, if she weren’t a slippery, coiling snake strangled by a mask, I could swear that it was my wife Alberta, or if not my wife Alberta then another wife, though I think it’s Alberta. I thought I’d always know Alberta’s crack, but twisted into a knot with a mask between her legs one crack is as good as another and over every sewer there’s a grating, in every pod there’s a pea, behind every slit there’s a man with an iron mask.
Sitting in the chair by the iron bedstead, with my suspenders down and a trip-hammer pounding the dome of my skull, I begin to dream of the women I have known. Women who deliberately cracked their pelvis in order to have a doctor stick a rubber finger inside them and swab the crannies of their epiglottis. Women with such thin diaphragms that the scratch of a needle sounded like Niagara Falls in their fallen bladders. Women who could sit by the hour turning their womb inside out in order to prick it with a darning needle. Queer doglike women with furry heads and always an alarm clock or a jigsaw puzzle hidden in the wrong place; just at the wrong moment the alarm goes off; just when the sky is blazing with Roman candles and out of the wet sparks crabs and star fish, just then always and without fail a broken saw, a wire snapping, a nail through the finger, a corset rotting with perspiration. Queer dogfaced women in stiff collars, the lips drooping, the eyes twitching. Devil dancers from the Palatinate with fat behinds and the door always on a crack and a spittoon where the umbrella stand should be. Cel luloid athletes who burst like ping-pong balls when they shoot through the gaslight. Strange women-and I’m always sitting in a chair beside an iron bedstead. Such skilful fingers they have that the hammer always falls in the dead center of my skull and cracks the glue of the joints. The brain pan is like a hamburger steak in a steaming window.
Passing through the lobby of the hotel I see a crowd gathered around the bar. I walk in and suddenly I hear a child howling with pain. The child is standing on a table in the midst of the crowd. It’s a girl and she has a slit in the side of her head, just at the temple. The blood is bubbling from her temple. It just bubbles-it doesn’t run down the side of her f ace. Every time the slit in her temple opens I see something stirring inside. It looks like a chick in there. I watch closely. This time I catch a good glimpse of it. It’s a cuckoo! People are laughing. Meanwhile the child is howling with pain.
In the anteroom I hear the patients coughing and scraping their feet; I hear the pages of a magazine closing and the rumble of a milk wagon on the cobblestones outside. nay wife is sitting on a white stool, the child’s head is against my breast. The wound in her temple is throbbing, throbbing as if it were a pulse laid against my heart. The surgeon is dressed in white; he walks up and down, up and down, puffing at his cigarette. Now and then he stops at the window to see how the weather looks. Finally he washes his hands and putss, on the rubber gloves. With the sterilized gloves on his. hands he lights a flame under the instruments; then he looks at his watch absent-mindedly and fingers the bills lying on the desk. The child is groaning now; her whole body is twitching with pain. I’ve got her arms and legs pinned. I’m waiting for the instruments to boil.
At last the surgeon is ready. Seating himself on a little white stool he selects a long, delicate instrument with a red-hot point and without a word of warning he plunges it into the open wound. The child lets out such a bloodcurdling scream that my wife collapses on the floor. “Don’t pay any attention to her!” says the cool, collected surgeon, shoving her body aside with his foot. “Hold tight now!” And dipping his cruelest instrument into a boiling antiseptic he plunges the blade into the temple and holds it there until the wound bursts into flames. Then, with the same diabolical swiftness, he suddenly withdraws the instrument to which there is attached, by an eyelet, a long white cord which changes gradually into red flannel and then into chewing gum and then into popcorn and finally into sawdust. As the last flake of sawdust spills out the wound closes up clean and solid, leaving not even the suggestion of a scar. The child looks up at me with a peaceful smile and, slipping off my lap, walks steadily to the corner of the room where she sits down to play.
“That was excellent!” says the surgeon. “Really quite excellent! “
“Oh, it was, eh?” I scream. And jumping up like a maniac I knock him off the stool and with my knees firmly planted in his chest I grab the nearest instrument and commence to gouge him with it. I work on him like a demon. I gouge out his eyes, I burst his eardrums, I slit his tongue, I break his windpipe, I flatten his nose. Ripping the clothes off him I burn his chest until it smokes, and while the flesh is still raw and quivering from the hot iron I roll back the outer layers and I pour nitric acid inside-until I hear the heart and lungs sizzling. Until the fumes almost keel me over.
The child meanwhile is clapping her hands with glee. As I get up to look for a mallet I notice my wife sitting in the other corner. She seems too paralyzed with fright to get up. All she can do is to whisper-“Fiend! Fiend!” I run downstairs to look for the mallet.
In the darkness I seem to distinguish a form standing beside the little ebony piano. The lamp is guttering but there is just sufficient light to throw a halo about the man’s head. The man is reading aloud in a monotonous voice from a huge iron book. He reads like a rabbi chanting his prayers. His head is thrown back in ecstasy, as if it were permanently dislocated. He looks like a broken street lamp gleaming in a wet fog.
As the darkness increases his chanting becomes more and more monotonous. Finally I see nothing but the halo around his head. Then that vanishes also and I realize that I have grown blind. It is like a drowning in which my whole past rises up. Not only my personal past, but the past of the whole human race which I am traversing on the back of a huge tortoise. We travel with the earth at a snail-like pace; we reach the limits of her orbit and then with a curious lopsided gait we stagger swiftly back through all the empty houses of the zodiac. We see the strange phantasmal figures of the animal world, the lost races which had climbed to the top of the ladder only to fall to the ocean floor. Particularly the soft red bird whose plumes are all aflame. The red bird speeding like an arrow, always to the north. Winging her way north over the bodies of the dead there follows in her wake a host of angelworms, a blinding swarm that hides the light of the sun.
Slowly, like veils being drawn, the darkness lifts and I discern the silhouette of a man standing by the piano with the big iron book in his hands, his head thrown back and the weary monotonous voice chanting the litany of the dead. In a moment he commences pacing back and forth in a brisk, mechanical way, as if he were absent-mindedly taking exercise. His movements obey a jerky, automatic rhythm which is exasperating to witness. He behaves like a laboratory animal from which part of the brain has been removed. Each time he comes to the piano he strikes a few chords at random-plink, plank, plunk! And with this he mumbles something under his breath. Moving briskly toward the east wall he mumbles-“theory of ventilation”; moving briskly toward the west wall he mumbles-“theory of opposites”; tacking north-northwest he mumbles-“fresh air theory all wet.” And so on and so forth. He moves like an old four-masted schooner bucking a gale, his arms hanging loosely, his head drooping slightly to one side. A brisk indefatigable motion like a shuttle passing over a loom. Suddenly heading due north he mumbles-“Z for zebra … zeb, zut, Zachariah … no sign of b for bretzels….”
Flicking the pages of the iron book I see that it is a collection of poems from the Middle Ages dealing with mummies; each poem contains a prescription for the treatment of skin diseases. It is the Day Book of the great plague written by a Jewish monk. A sort of elaborate chronicle of skin diseases sung by the troubadors. The writing is in the form of musical notes representing all the beasts of evil omen or of creeping habits, such as the mole, the toad, the basilisk, the eel, the beetle, the bat, the turtle, the white mouse. Each poem contains a formula for ridding the body of the possessed of the demons which infest the underlayers of the skin.
My eye wanders from the musical page to the wolf hunt which is going on outside the gates. The ground is covered with snow and in the oval field beside the castle walls two knights armed with long spears are worrying the wolf to death. With miraculous grace and dexterity the wolf is gradually brought into position for the death stroke. A voluptuous feeling comes over me watching the long-drawn-out death deal. Just as the spear is about to be hurled the horse and rider are gathered up in an agonizing elasticity: in one simultaneous movement the wolf, the horse, and the rider revolve about the pivot of death. As the spear wings through the body of the wolf the ground moves gently upward, the horizon slightly tilted, the sky blue as a knife.
Walking through the colonnade I come to the sunken streets which lead to the town. The houses are surrounded by tall black chimneys from which a sulphurous smoke belches forth. Finally I come to the box factory from a window of which I catch a view of the cripples standing in line in the courtyard. None of the cripples have feet, few have arms; their faces are covered with soot. All of them have medals on their chest.
To my horror and amazement I slowly perceive that from the long chute attached to the wall of the factory a steady stream of coffins is being emptied into the yard. As they tumble down the chute a man steps forward on his mutilated stumps and pausing a moment to adjust the burden to his back slowly trudges off with his coffin. This goes on ceaselessly, without the slightest interruption, without the slightest sound. lkIy face is streaming with perspiration. I want to run but my feet are rooted to the spot. Perhaps I have no feet. I am so frightened that I fear to look down. I grip the window sash and without daring to look down I cautiously and fearfully raise my foot until I am able to touch the heel of my shoe with my hand. I repeat the experiment with the other foot. Then, in a panic, I look about me swiftly for the exit. The room in which I am standing is littered with empty packing boxes; there are nails and hammers lying about. I thread my way among the empty boxes searching for the door. Just as I find the door my foot stumbles against an empty box. I look down into the empty box and behold, it is not empty! Hastily I cast a glance at the other boxes. None of them are empty! In each box there is a skeleton packed in excelsior. I run from one corridor to another searching frantically for the staircase. Flying through the halls I catch the stench of embalming fluid issuing from the open doors. Finally I reach the staircase and as I bound down the stairs I see a white enamel hand on the landing below pointing to-The Morgue.
It is night and I am on my way home. My path lies through a wild park such as I had often stumbled through in the dark when my eyes were closed and I heard only the breathing of the walls. I have the sensation of being on an island surrounded by rock coves and inlets. There are the same little bridges with their paper lanterns, the rustic benches strewn along the graveled paths; the pagodas in which confections were sold, the brilliant skups, the sunshades, the rocky crags above the cove, the flimsy Chinese wrappers in which the firecrackers were hidden. Everything is exactly as it used to be, even to the noise of the carrousel and the kites fluttering in the tangled boughs of the trees. Except that now it is winter. Midwinter, and all the roads covered with snow, a deep snow which has made the roads almost impassable.
At the summit of one of the curved Japanese bridges I stand a moment, leaning over the handrail, to gather my thoughts. All the roads are clearly spread out before me. They run in parallel lines. In this wooded park which I know so well I feel the utmost security. Here on the bridge I could stand forever, sure of my destination. It hardly seems necessary to go the rest of the way for now I am on the threshold, as it were, of my kingdom and the imminence of it stills me. How well I know this little bridge, the wooded clump, the stream that flows beneath! Here I could stand forever lost in a boundless security, lulled and forever rapt by the lapping murmur of the stream. Over the mossy stones the stream swirls endlessly. A stream of melting snow, sluggish above and swift below. Icy clear under the bridge. So clear that I can measure the depth of it with my eye. Icy clear to the neck.
And now, out of the dark-clustered wood, amidst the cypresses and evergreens, there comes a phantom couple arm in arm, their movements slow and languid. A phantom couple in evening dress-the woman’s lownecked gown, the man’s gleaming shirt studs. Through the snow they move with airy steps, the woman’s feet so soft and dry, her arms bare. No crunch of snow, no howling wind. A brilliant diamond light and rivulets of snow dissolving in the night. Rivulets of powdered snow sliding beneath the evergreens. No crunch of jaw, no moan of wolf. Rivulets and rivulets in the icy light of the moon, the rushing sound of white water and petals lapping the bridge, the island floating away in ceaseless drift, her rocks tangled with hair, her glens and coves bright black in the silver gleam of the stars.
Onward they move in the phantasmal flux, onward toward the knees of the glen and the white-whiskered waters. Into the clear icy depths of the stream they walk, her bare back, his gleaming shirt studs, and from afar comes the plaintive tinkle of glass curtains brushing the metal teeth of the carrousel. The water rushes down in a thin sheet of glass between the soft white mounds of the banks; it rushes below the knees, carrying the amputated feet forward like broken pedestals before an avalanche. Forward on their icy stumps they glide, their bat wings spread, their garments glued to their limbs. And always the water mounting, higher, higher, and the air growing colder, the snow sparkling like powdered diamonds. From the cypresses above a dull metallic green sweeps down, sweeps like a green shadow over the banks and stains the clear icy depths of the stream. The woman is seated like an angel on a river of ice, her wings spread, her hair flown back in stiff glassy waves.
Suddenly, like spun-glass under a blue flame, the stream quickens into tongues of fire. Along a street flaming with color there moves a dense equinoctial throng. It is the street of early sorrows where the flats string out like railroad cars and all the houses flanked with iron spikes. A street that slopes gently toward the sun and then forward like an arrow to lose itself in space. Where formerly it curved with a bleak, grinding noise, with stiff, pompous roofs and blank dead walls, now like an open switch the gutter wheels into place, the houses fall into line, the trees bloom. Time nor goal bothers me now. I move in a golden hum through a syrup of warm lazy bodies.
Like a prodigal son I walk in golden leisure down the street of my youth. I am neither bewildered nor disappointed. From the perimeter of the six extremes I have wandered back by devious routes to the hub where all is change and transformation, a white lamb continually shedding its skin. When along the mountain ridges I howled with pain, when in the sweltering white valleys I was choked with alkali, when fording the sluggish streams my feet were splintered by rock and shell, when I licked the salty sweat of the lemon fields or lay in the burning kilns to be baked, when was all this that I never forgot what is now no more?
When down this cold funereal street they drove the hearse which I hailed with joy had I already shed my skin? I was the lamb and they drove me out. I was the lamb and they made of me a striped tiger. In an open thicket I was born with a mantle of soft white wool. Only a little while did I graze in peace, and then a paw was laid upon me. In the sultry flame of closing day I heard a breathing behind the shutters; past all the houses I wandered slowly, listening to the thick flapping of the blood. And then one night I awoke on a hard bench in the frozen garden of the South. Heard the mournful whistle of the train, saw the white sandy roads gleaming like skull tracks.
If I walk up and down the world without joy or pain it’s because in Tallahassee they took my guts away. In a corner against a broken fence they reached inside me with dirty paws and with a rusty jackknife they cut away everything that was mine, everything that was sacred, private, taboo. In Tallahassee they cut my guts out; they drove me round the town and striped me like the tiger. Once I whistled in my own right. Once I wandered through the streets listening to the blood beating through the filtered light of the shutters. Now there’s a roar inside me like a carnival in full blast. My sides are bursting with a million barrel-organ tunes. I walk down the street of early sorrows with the carnival going full blast. I rub my way along spilling the tunes I have learned. A glad, lazy depravity swinging from curb to curb. A skein of human flesh that swings like a heavy rope.
By the spiral-hung gardens of the casino where the cocoons are bursting a woman slowly mounting the flowerpath pauses a moment to train the full weight of her sex on me. My head swings automatically from side to side, a foolish bell stuck in a belfry. As she moves away the sense of her words begins to make itself manifest. The cemetery, she said. Have you seen what they did to the cemetery? Moseying along in the warm wine press, the blinds all thrown open, the stoops swarming with children, I keep thinking of her words. Moseying along with light niggerish fancy, bare necked, splayfooted toes spread, scrotum tight. A warm southern fragrance envelops me, a good-natured ease, the blood thick as molasses and flapping with condors’ wings.
What they have done for the street is what Joseph did for Egypt. What they have done? No you and no they any more. A land of ripe golden corn, of red Indians and black bucks. Who they are or were I know not. I know only that they have taken the land and made it smile, that they have taken the cemetery and made of it a fertile, groaning field. Every stone has been removed, every wreath and cross has vanished. Hard by my home now there lies a huge sunken checkerboard groaning with provender; the loam is rich and black, the sturdy, patient mules sink their slender hoofs into the wet loam which the plough cuts through like soft cheese. The whole cemetery is singing with its rich fat produce. Singing through the blades of wheat, the corn, the oats, the rye, the barley. The cemetery is bursting with things to eat, the mules are switching their tails, the big black bucks are humming and chanting and the sweat rolls down their shanks.
The whole street is living now off the cemetery grounds. Plenty for everybody. More than enough. The excess provender goes off in steam, in song and dance, in depravity and recklessness. Who would have dreamed that the poor dead flat-chested buggers rotting under the stone slabs contained such fertilizing wisdom? Who would have thought that these bony Lutherans, these spindleshanked Presbyterians, had such good fat meat left on their bones, that they could make such a marvelous harvest of corruption, such nestsful of worms? Even the dry epitaphs which the stonecutters chiseled out have worked their fecundating power. Quietly there under the cool sod these lecherous, fornicating ghouls are working their power and glory. Nowhere in the whole wide world have I seen a cemetery blossom like this. Nowhere in the whole wide world such rich, steaming manure. Street of early sorrows, I embrace you! No more pale white faces, no Beethoven skulls, no crossbones, no spindle shanks. I see nothing but corn and maize, and goldenrods and lilacs; I see the common hoe, the mule in his traces, flat broad feet with toes spread and rich silky loam of earth sloshing between the toes. I see red handkerchiefs and faded blue shirts and broad sombreros glistening with sweat. I hear flies droning and the drone of lazy voices. The air hums with careless, reckless joy; the air hums with insects and their powdered wings spread pollen and depravity. I hear no bells, no whistles, no gongs, no brakes grinding; I hear the clink of the hoe, the drip of water dripping, the buzz and quiet pandemonium of toil. I hear the guitar and the harmonica, a soft tam-tam, a patter of slippered feet; I hear the blinds being lowered and the braying of a jackass deep in his oats.
No pale white faces, thanks be to Christ! I see the coolie, the black buck, the squaw. I see chocolate and cinnamon shades, I see a Mediterranean olive, a tawny Hawaiian gold; I see every pure and every cross shade, but no white. The skull and crossbones have disappeared with the tombstones; the white bones of a white race have yielded their harvest. I see that everything pertaining to their name and memory has faded away, and that, that makes me wild with joy. In the buzz of the open field, where once the earth was humped into crazy little sods, I mosey along down the sunken wet furrows with thirsty tinkling toes; right and left I spatter the juicy cabbage loam, the mud pressed by the wheel, the broad green leaves, the crushed berries, the tart juice of the olive. Over the fat worms of the dead, squashing them back into the sod, I walk in benediction. Like the drunken sailor man I reel from side to side, my feet wet, my hands dry. I look through the wheat toward the puffs of cloud; my eye travels along the river, her low-laden dhows, her slow drift of sail and mast. I see the sun shooting down its broad rays, sucking gently at the river’s breast. On the farther shore the pointed poles of wigwams, the lazy curl of smoke. I see the tomahawk sailing through the air to the sound of familiar bloodcurdling yells. I see painted faces, bright beads, the soft moccasin dance, the long flat teats and the braided papoose.
Delaware and Lackawanna, Monongahela, the Mohawk, the Shenandoah, Narragansett, Tuskegee, Oskaloosa, Kalamazoo, Seminole and Pawnee, Cherokee, the great Manitou, the Blackfeet, the Navaho range: like a huge red cloud, like a pillar of fire, a vision of the outlawed magnificence of our earth passes before my eyes. I see no Letts, Croats, Finns, Danes, Swedes; no micks, no wops, no chinks, no polacks, no frogs, no heinies, no kikes. I see the Jews sitting in their crows’ nests, their parched faces dry as leather, their skulls shriveled and boneless.
Once more the tomahawk gleams, scalps fly, and out of the river bed there rolls a bright billowy cloud of blood. From the mountain sides, from the great caves, from the swamps and Everglades pours a flood of blood-flecked men. From the Sierras to the Appalachians the land smokes with the blood of the slain. My scalp is cut away, the gray meat hangs over my ears in shreds; my feet are burned away, my sides pierced with arrows. In a pen against a broken fence I lie with my bowels beside me; all mangled and gory the beautiful white temple that was stretched with skin and muscle. The wind roars through my broken rectum, howls like sixty white lepers. A white flame, a jet of blue ice, a torchspray spins in my hollow guts. My arms are yanked from their sockets. My body is a sepulcher which the ghouls are rifling. I am full of raw gems that bleed with icy brilliance. Like a thousand pointed lances the sun pierces my wounds, the gems flame, the gizzards shriek. Night or day I know not which; the tent of the world collapses like a gasbag. In a flame of blood I feel the cold touch of a tong: through the river gorge they drag me, blind and helpless, choking, gasping, shrieking with impotence. Far away I hear the rush of icy water, the moan of jackals neath the evergreens; through the dark green forest a stain of light spreads, a vernal, prussic light that stains the snow and the icy depths of the stream. A pleasant, choking gurgle, a quiet pandemonium as when the angel with her wings outstretched floated legless under the bridge.
The gutters are choked with snow. It is winter and the sun glares down with the low bright glint of noon. Going down the street past the flats. For an hour or two, while the sun lasts, everything turns to water, everything flows, trickles, gurgles. Between the curbs and the snow banks a freshet of clear blue water rises. Within me a freshet that chokes the narrow gorge of my veins. A clear, blue stream inside me that circulates from my toes to the roots of my hair. I am completely thawed out, choking with an ice-blue gaiety.
Going down the street past the flats, an ice-blue gaiety in my narrow, choking veins. The winter’s snow is melting, the gutters are swimming over. Sorrow gone and joy with it, melted, trickling away, pouring into the sewer. Suddenly the bells begin to toll, wild funereal bells with obscene tongues, with wild iron clappers that smash the glass hemorrhoids of the veins. Through the melting snow a carnage reigns: low Chinese horses hung with scalps, long finely jointed insects with green mandibles. In front of each house an iron railing spiked with blue flowers.
Down the street of early sorrows comes the witch mother stalking the wind, her wide sails unfurled, her dress bulging with skulls. Terrified we flee the night, perusing the green album, its high decor of frontal legs, the bulging brow. From all the rotting stoops the hiss of snakes squirming in the bag, the cord tied, the bowels knotted. Blue flowers spotted like leopards, squashed, bloodsucked, the earth a vernal stain, gold, marrow, bright bone dust, three wings aloft and the march of the white horse, the ammonia eyes.
The melting snow melts deeper, the iron rusts, the leaves flower. On the corner, under the elevated, stands a man with a plug hat, in blue serge and linen spats, his white mustache chopped fine. The switch opens and out rolls all the tobacco juice, the golden lemons, the elephant tusks, the candelabras. Moishe Pippik, the lemon dealer, fowled with pigeons, breeding purple eggs in his vest pocket and purple ties and watermelons and spinach with short stems, stringy, marred with tar. The whistle of the acorns loudly stirring, flurry of floozies bandaged in lysol, ammonia and camphor patches, little mica huts, peanut shells triangled and corrugated, all marching triumphantly with the morning breeze. The morning light comes in creases, the window panes are streaked, the covers are torn, the oilcloth is faded. Walks a man with hair on end, not running, not breathing, a man with a weathervane that turns the corners sharply and then bolts. A man who thinks not how or why but just to walk in lusterless night with all stars to port and loaded whiskers trimmed. Gowselling in the grummels he wakes the plaintiff night with pitfalls tuning left to right, high noon on the wintry ocean, high noon all sides aboard and aloft to starboard. The weathervane again with deep oars coming through the portholes and all sounds muffled. Noiseless the night on all fours, like the hurricane. Noiseless with loaded caramels and nickel dice. Sister Monica playing the guitar with shirt open and laces down, broad flanges in either ear. Sister Monica streaked with lime, gum wash, her eyes mildewed, craped, crapped, crenelated.
The street of early sorrows widens, the blue lips blubber, the albatross wings ahead, her gory neck unhinged, her teeth agibber. The man with the bowler hat creaks his left leg, two notches further down to the right, under the gunwales, the Cuban flag spliced with noodles and mock oranges, with wild magnolias and young palmetto shoots chaffed with chalk and green slaver. Under the silver bed the white geranium bowl, two stripes for the morning, three for the night. The castors crooning for blood. The blood comes in white gulps, white choking gulps of clay filled with broken teeth, with mucilage and wasted bones. The floor is slippery with the coming and going, with the bright scissors, the long knives, the hot and cold tongs.
In the melting snow outside the menagerie breaks loose, first the zebras with gorgeous white planks, then the fowling birds and rooks, then the acacias and the diamond backs. The greenery yawns with open toes, the red bird wheels and dives below, the scrum-tuft breaks a beak, the lizard micturates, the jackal purrs, the hyenas belch and laugh and belch again. The whole wide cemetery safely sprinkled cracks its joints in the night. The automatons crack too with mighty suits of armor encumbered and hinges rusted and bolts unlocked, abandoned by the tin trust. The butter blossoms out in huge fan wreaths, fat, oleandrous butter marked with crow’s feet and twice spliced by the hangman John the Crapper. The butter yowsels in the mortuary, pale shafts of moonbeam trickling through, the estuaries clogged, the freights ashudder, the sidings locked. Brown beagled bantams trimmed with red craw and otter’s fur browse the bottom lands. The larkspur does a hemorrhage. The magnesia wells ignite, the eagle soars aloft with a cleaver through the ankle
Bloody and wild the night with all hawk’s feet slashed and trimmed. Bloody and wild the night with all the belfries screeching and all the slats torn and all the gas mains bursting. Bloody and wild the night with every muscle twisted, the toes crossed, the hair on end, the teeth red, the spine cracked. All the world wide awake twittering like the dawn, and a low red fire crawling over the gums. All through the night the combs break, the ribs sing. Twice the dawn breaks, then steals away again. In the trickling snow the oxide fumes. All through the street the hearses pass up and down, up and down, the drivers munching their long whips, their white crapes, their cotton gloves.
North toward the white pole, south toward the red heron, the pulse beats wild and straight. One by one, with bright glass teeth, they cut away the cords. The duck comes with his broad bill and then the low-bellied weasel. One after another they come, summoned from the fungus, their tails afeather, their feet webbed. They come in waves, bent like trolley poles, and pass under the bed. Mud on the floor and strange signs, the windows blazing, nothing but teeth, then hands, then carrots, then great nomadic onions with emerald eyes, comets that come and go, come and go.
East toward the Mongols, west toward the redwoods, the pulse swings back and forth. Onions marching, eggs chattering, the menagerie spinning like a top. Miles high on the beaches lie the red caviar beds. The breakers foam, snap their long whips. The tide roars beneath the green glaciers. Faster, faster spins the earth.
Out of -black chaos whorls of light with portholes jammed. Out of the static null and void a ceaseless equilibrium. Out of whalebone and gunnysack this mad thing called sleep that runs like an eight-day clock.
进入夜生活……
进入夜生活……
一个精神上的康尼岛。
十字架的影子映在床脚上。有链子把我绑在床上。链子丁零当啷发出很响的声音，锚正抛下去。突然我感到有一只手放在我肩膀上。有个人正在拼命摇我。我朝上看，是一个穿着肮脏晨服的老妖婆。她走到梳妆台跟前，打开抽屉，把一支左轮手枪放好。
有三间房间，一间挨一间，像火车车厢式公寓单元。我躺在中间的那一间里，那里有一个胡桃木书柜和一张梳妆台。那老妖婆脱下晨衣，穿着衬衣站在镜子前。她手里拿着个小粉扑，她用这小粉扑抹她的腋窝、她的胸脯、她的大腿。整段时间里她都像个白痴似的哭泣。最后她拿着一个喷雾器走到我跟前，朝我喷出一股细细的雾。我注意到她的头发里全是耗子。
我注视着老妖婆走来走去。她似乎精神恍惚。站在梳妆台前时，她机械地把抽屉一个接一个打开又关上。她似乎忘记了她要到那里去取的东西。她又拾起粉扑，用粉扑在她腋窝底下抹了一点儿粉。在梳妆台上有一块小银表，系在一长截黑带子上。她扯开衬衣，把表挂到脖子上，它正好垂到阴部三角区。传来一阵模糊的滴答声，然后银子变黑了。
隔壁房间是客厅，所有的亲戚都聚集在那里。他们围坐成一个半圆形，等着我进去。他们直挺挺地坐着，装饰得像椅子一样。他们下巴上没有肉赘和粉瘤，却长出了马鬃。
我穿着睡衣从床上蹦起来，跳起了柯柴王之舞。我穿着睡衣跳舞，头顶上有一把阳伞。他们没有一丝笑容，面颊上连一丝折痕都没有地望着我。我为他们倒立着走路，我翻筋斗，我把手指放在上下牙之间，吹哨声像乌鸫的叫唤。没有一点点赞成或不赞成的咕哝。他们庄严地、冷静地坐在那里。最后，我开始像公牛般喷鼻息，然后像仙女般神气活现地走路，然后像孔雀般大摇大摆地行走，然后意识到自己没有尾巴，我停下了。剩下来唯一要做的事情，是以闪电的速度通读《古兰经》，然后是天气预报、《古舟子咏》，以及《民数记》。
突然，老妖婆一丝不挂地跳着舞进来，双手燃烧着火焰。她刚把伞架击倒，这地方便立即一片喧嚣。从向上翻起的伞架上，不断涌出一股以闪电速度扭动前进的眼镜蛇流。它们缠绕桌腿，把汤碗带走；它们爬进梳妆台，挤住了抽屉；它们从墙壁上的画上面，从窗帘的环里面，从褥垫里面蠕动过去；它们盘到女人的帽子里面，始终像蒸汽锅炉似的咝咝作响。
我让两条眼镜蛇缠绕在我胳膊上，眼里带着凶光去找老妖婆。从她嘴里、眼睛里、头发里，甚至生殖器里，眼镜蛇正涌窜出来，始终带着那种蒸汽般的咝咝声，好像它们刚从沸腾的火山口喷出来。在我们被锁着的房间中展现出一座巨大的森林。我们站在眼镜蛇的巢里，我们的身体全给毁了。
我在一个陌生的、狭窄的小房间里，躺在一张高床上。我的胁部有一个大洞，一个干干净净的洞，没有出现一点血。我不再能说出我是谁，我从哪儿来，或者我是怎么到这里来的。房间很小，我的床紧靠着房门。我有一种感觉：某个人正站在门槛那里监视我。我吓得一动也不敢动。
当我抬起眼睛时，我看见一个人站在门槛边上。他戴一顶灰色的圆顶礼帽，帽子歪在他脑袋的一边；他有着线条平滑的唇须，穿一身方格子西服。他问我的姓名、住址、职业，我在干什么，我打算去哪里，等等，等等。他问了无数刨根问底的问题，我都无法回答，首先因为我失去了舌头，其次因为我不再能记得我说什么语言。“你为什么不说话?”他说着，嘲弄地朝我弯下腰来。他拿起他的轻便藤杖，在我胁部戳了一个窟窿。我的痛苦如此之大，以致我似乎不得不说话了，尽管我没有舌头，尽管我不知道我是谁，我从哪里来。我试着用双手把我的嘴巴拧开，但是牙关紧锁。我的下巴像干泥巴一样碎裂了，牙床骨露了出来。“说！”他说，带着那种残酷的嘲笑，他又拿起他的手杖，在我的胁部又戳了一个窟窿。
我醒着躺在阴冷黑暗的房间里。床铺现在已几乎触到了天花板。我听到列车的隆隆声，列车在结了冰的高架桥上发出有规律节奏的颠簸声，火车头短促的窒息了一般的喷气声，就好像空气已被霜冻搞得七零八落。我的手里握着从我下巴上碎裂下来的干泥巴。我的牙关锁得格外紧；我透过胁部的窟窿呼吸。从我躺在其中的那间房间的窗户上，我可以看见蒙特利尔的桥。火花正被迷眼的暴风雪驱赶着，从桥的大梁上飞下来。列车正以一圈一圈的火环，从冰冻的河上飞驰而过。我可以看见卖馅饼和汉堡包的商店沿着引桥发出亮光。突然，我真的记起了什么。我记得，正当我要越过边境的时候，他们问我有什么要声明的，我像白痴似的回答：“我要声明，我是人类的叛徒。”我现在清楚地记得，这事发生在我正要走上一个穿灯笼裙的女人身后的踏板时。我们周围都是镜子，镜子上面是板条钉成的栏杆，一组又一组板条，一条覆一条，已经翘起，摇摇欲坠，像梦魇一样疯狂。在远处，我可以看见蒙特利尔的桥，桥下是冰块，列车正从上面飞驰而过。我现在记得，女人回过头看我时，她肩膀上有一个脑壳，在没有肉的额头上写着蜥蜴般冷酷无情的“性”字。我看见眼皮掉落在她的眼睛上，然后是那无底的瞎窟窿。当我从她身边逃走时，我试图读出在我身旁飞驰而过的一辆汽车车身上写的东西，但是我只看见了车的尾部，它没有任何意义。
在布鲁克林大桥站，我像往常一样站着等候电车转过弯来。在傍晚的炎热中，纽约市就像一只把身上的杜鹃花抖掉的巨大北极熊一般升腾起来。它的形状摇曳不定，毒气呛得大梁透不过气来，烟尘像护身符一般舞动。从杂乱无章的建筑物里涌出一大堆软乎乎、热烘烘的身体，同裤子、裙子粘在一块儿。潮水冲刷到弯曲的轨道前面，像玻璃珠似的分散开。在湿漉漉的大标题之下是爬到踏板上的阿米巴虫的精致小腿，裹在玻璃纸里健壮、结实的网球腿，它们的白色脉络透过金色小腿与乳白色肌肉显现出来。纽约市正气喘吁吁，出着五点钟的大汗。从摩天大楼顶上冒出的烟雾，柔软得像克利奥帕特拉[1]的羽毛。空气震动得厉害，蝙蝠振翅飞翔，水泥变软，铁轨在电车的宽轮缘下变得更平。生活是以十二英尺高的大字标题写下来的，有句号、逗号、分号。大桥在底下的汽油池上晃动。甜瓜从因皮里尔河谷滚来，垃圾经过狱门桥，甲板上干干净净，柱子锃亮发光，粗缆绷得紧紧的，船台发出咕咕的声响，苔藓在轮渡引道上裂成一片片的。一团闷热的烟雾像一杯脂肪笼罩在城市上空，汗水在赤裸的大腿间，在细细的踝骨周围滴下来。一大堆黏糊糊的胳膊和腿、半月形和风向标、知更鸟和圆形签名书、羽毛球和颜色鲜艳的香蕉，钟状的香蕉皮里有少量柠檬。时钟敲响五点，钟声穿过尘垢和下午的汗水，大铁梁留下一道明亮的影子。有轨电车挺着钢铁的下颌飞快旋转，把人群挤压成纸型，像穿孔的车票一样串在一起。
我坐下时，看见一个我认识的人站在乘客平台后部，手里拿着一张报纸。他的草帽斜戴在后脑勺上，手臂靠在电车司机的铜刹车柄上。在他耳朵背后，电缆网像钢琴的内部结构一般伸展开去。他的草帽正好同钱伯斯街在一个水平面上；它就像海湾上一只切成片的鸡蛋摆在绿色的菠菜上。我听见齿轮在滑向电车司机的粗大脚趾尖。电线在嗡嗡作响，大桥在欢乐地呻吟。我面前的座位上有两个鼓出来的橡皮头，就像钢琴上的两个黑键。大概有橡皮擦那样大小，但是不像手杖把那样是圆形的。两个防止触电的橡胶装置。橡皮榔头落在橡皮脑壳上的沉闷声响。
农村是荒凉的。没有温暖，没有舒适，没有摩肩接踵，没有稠密的人口，没有混浊，没有分子，没有分母。这就像读给站在衣帽架旁边，手里拿着一片棕榈叶的聋哑人听的一份晚报。在这整片焦干的土地上，没有一点点人的手留下的痕迹，也没有人的眼睛，没有人的声音。只有用白垩写下的大字标题，雨水已把它冲刷得差不多了。只是坐在电车上的一次短途旅行，而我却在满是荆棘与仙人掌的沙漠里。
在沙漠当中有一间浴室，浴室中有一匹木马，木马底下横放着一把圆木锯。在锌面桌旁站着一个我曾经认识的女人，她正从布满蜘蛛网的窗户里向外张望。她站在沙漠中间，就像一块樟脑构成的岩石。她的身体有悲哀的强烈芬芳，白色的芬芳。她像一尊说着再见的塑像一样站着，她站着，头和肩都高出于我，她的屁股大得很突然，完全不成比例。一切都不成比例——手、脚、大腿、踝骨。她是一尊没有马的骑马者雕像，一座磨损成大蛋的肉山。从肉的舞厅里出来，她的身体像铁一样歌唱。我梦中的姑娘，你制造了一个多么好的笼子啊！只是你那三趾的栖息地在哪里?就是在铜栏杆之间来回晃动的小小栖木吗?你站在窗户边，像金丝雀一样发呆，你的脚趾僵硬，你的利嘴发青。你有着切肉大菜刀画出来的线条般的轮廓。你的嘴是一个塞满了莴苣叶的火山口。我何曾梦想到，你会是如此温暖，如此不平衡?让我看一眼你可爱的豺狼爪子，让我听一听你干巴巴呼吸的沙哑声和阴沉的笑声。
透过蜘蛛网，我注视着灵敏的蟋蟀，渗着奶汁和白垩的仙人掌那叶子般茂密的长刺，鞍囊空空如也的骑手，像骆驼一样在马背上隆起的马鞍前桥。我故乡的干燥沙漠，她的百姓灰不溜秋，憔悴不堪。他们的脊柱扭曲，他们的脚上有带齿轮的踢马刺。在仙人掌花的上方，城市颠倒悬挂着，她那憔悴不堪、灰不溜秋的百姓用装有踢马刺的靴子搔挠着天空。我抓住她膨胀的轮廓，她的石头棱角，结实的石板墓乳房，分趾蹄，羽毛状的尾巴。在金沙紧紧环绕的分水岭下被卡住的峡谷泡沫中，我紧紧抓住她，这期间时间在流逝。在汹涌澎湃、使人目眩的巨大痛苦中，沙子慢慢注满了我的骨头。
一把生锈的钝剪刀放在我们旁边的锌面桌子上。她举起的手臂被蜘蛛网缠在她的一侧。她手臂僵硬的老一套动作就像白天结束时沉闷沙哑的尖叫，捆绑我们的绳子是金属的，坚硬结实。我的太阳穴直冒汗水，在那里凝结成块，并且滴滴答答地滴下来，像钟走的声音一般。钟正随着神经质的金属丝般的汗水走完发条。生了锈的剪刀在中间慢慢剪开。我的神经沿着梳子的齿飞奔，我的踢马刺直立着，血管灼热。一切痛苦都像这样隐隐作痛并且可以忍受吗?沿着剪刀的刀锋，我感到白天结束时生锈的钝痛，得到满足的饥饿，机器人怀抱里的洁净空间和满天繁星。
我站在沙漠中等火车。在我心中有一座小小的玻璃钟，钟的下方有一朵雪绒花。我的一切心事全没有了。甚至在冰下我也感觉到大地在夜间准备好了鲜花的开放。
靠在豪华的皮椅里，我有一种模糊的感觉：我正在一条德国铁路线上旅行。我坐在窗户旁读一本书，发觉有人正越过我的肩头读我的书。这是我自己的书，其中有一段话使我困惑。我无法理解这些话。在达姆施塔特我们下车待了一会儿，等候换车头。玻璃棚升起在由黑色带状大梁支撑的中间广场上。玻璃棚的简朴跟我的书的模样几乎差不多——当书摊开在我的腿上，书脊透印的时候。在我心中，我可以感觉到雪绒花在开放。
夜间在德国，当你在站台上走来走去的时候，总会有某个人对你解释各种事情。圆脑袋和长脑袋都聚在一团雾气中，所有的轮子都被拆下又装起来。这种语言的声音似乎比其他语言更具有渗透性，好像它是大脑的食物，有内容，有营养，刺激食欲。黏性的分子跑出来，慢慢散开，一直到好几个月以后，就像一个吸烟者，在喝了一口水之后，还从鼻孔里呼出一道细细的烟气。“好”是所有词中维持最长久的一个词。“这很好！”有人在说。他的“好”在我肠子里咕咕作响，就像一只肥大的野鸡。无疑，什么事也比不上坐夜车旅行，这时候所有居民都睡着了，可以从他们张开的嘴里排出少量油腻多汁的没有说出的语言。在每一个人睡觉的时候，脑子里都挤满了各种事情；脑子在一大堆东西中旅行，就像夏天里被火车吸住的苍蝇一般。
突然我到了海岸边，对火车的回忆从未停止，甚至记忆犹新，就像一颗彗星在大洋岸边扫过。
一切都污秽、劣质，像纸牌一样薄。一个精神上的康尼岛。娱乐室生意兴隆，架子上摆满瓷器、塞着稻草的洋娃娃、闹钟和痰盂。每一家店上面都有三颗球，每一种比赛都是球类比赛。犹太人穿着雨衣到处走，日本人笑眯眯的，空气中充满洋葱末和咝咝响的汉堡包味。吱吱喳喳，吱吱喳喳，在这一切声音之上，激浪不断发出的咝咝声和隆隆声以一种压抑的咆哮传来，一种不间断的带鼻音的长喘，把黏糊糊的黏膜炎从肮脏的棚屋顶上传播开去。在纸板的海滨人行道背后，激浪正以闪闪发光的银牙犁着黑夜；蛤蜊仰天躺着，从肛门里喷出臭氧。在海洋般无边无际的黑夜中，越野赛马看上去就像灰白的胡子。一切都在滑行、崩溃，一切都在闪闪发光，摇摇欲坠，晃晃悠悠，嗤嗤傻笑。
温暖的夏日在哪里?那时候我第一次看见铺满绿色地毯的地球在旋转，男男女女像豹子般奔跑。发出柔和汩汩声的音乐在哪里?我曾听见从大地生气勃发的根基中涌出那种音乐。如果到处都有活板门和龇牙咧嘴的骷髅，世界里朝外翻了个个儿，所有的肉都被剥了皮，那我该去哪里?如果除了胡子、雨衣、小哨子、破板条以外什么也没有，那我该把我的脑袋往哪里放呢?我该永远沿着这条无尽的纸板街走下去吗?这种纸板我可以在上面打孔，可以用我的呼吸把它吹倒，可以用一根火柴将它点着。世界变成了一个由一伙木匠在夜间建立的神秘迷宫。一切都是谎言、赝品、纸板。
我沿着海滨人行道走。沙滩上点缀着蛤蜊，等待着某个人来把它们的壳撬开。在喧闹与嘈杂声中，无人留意它们苦恼的抱怨。激浪劈头盖脸打在它们身上，光线使它们发昏，潮水将它们淹没。它们躺在纸板街的后面，在漆黑的夜晚，倾听着汉堡包的咝咝声。吱吱喳喳，吱吱喳喳，打喷嚏和喘息，球顺着平滑的长槽滚入小洞内，洞内满是小古玩、瓷器、痰盂、花盆、填制的洋娃娃。油腻腻的日本人用湿布擦橡胶植物，亚美尼亚人把洋葱剁成细末，马其顿人用糖蜜手臂扔出套索。每一个穿雨衣的男人、女人、小孩都腺状肿大，传播黏膜炎、糖尿病、百日咳、脑膜炎。一切直立的东西，一切滑行、滚动、翻腾、旋转、发射、不稳、摇晃、碎裂的东西都是由螺帽和螺栓构成的。精神的君主是一把活动扳手。纸板的绝对权力。
蛤蜊睡着了，星辰熄灭。由水构成的一切现在在鬣狗的带盖口袋里打瞌睡。清晨来临，像玻璃屋顶罩住了世界。玻璃般的海洋在深处晃动，一种安静、透明的睡眠。
这既不是黑夜也不是白昼。这是以信天翁翅膀短促急速地摆动来旅行的黎明。传入我耳中的声音发闷，受到东西的阻挡，就好像人的劳动正在水下进行。我感觉潮水在退去，毫不畏惧被吞没；我听到波浪四溅，毫不畏惧淹没。我走在世界的残骸与碎片中，但我的脚却没有青肿。天空无限，水陆不分。我两脚滑动着经过水闸和洞口。我什么也闻不到，什么也听不见，什么也看不着，什么也感觉不了。无论是仰着还是趴着，无论是像螃蟹般横行，还是像鸟一样盘旋，一切都是柔和而没有差别的极乐。
普利茅斯的白垩气息引起地壳上升；她的龙尾末端钩住了断裂的大陆。无法形容的褐色大地和绿头发的人，在柔和的乳白色中再创造的古老形象。在非人类的安静中最后一次摆动尾巴；对希望、绝望或忧郁全然无动于衷。褐色大地和绿色氧化物不属于空气、天空、视觉或触觉。白垩悬崖的宁静与庄严，它的遥远的、无形的安宁，蒸馏出一种毒药，一种有毒的、死亡的邪恶气息，像龙尾末端一样悬在大地上空。我感觉到抓住岩石的无形爪子。大地沉重下陷的绿色不是青草的绿色或希望的绿色，而是黏液的绿色，不正当的、战无不胜的勇气的绿色。我感觉到烈士的褐色头巾，他们乱蓬蓬的头发，他们藏在粗布衣服里的利爪，他们仇恨、厌倦、空虚的褐色鬈发。我对地球尽头的这片土地有一种极大的向往，这一片像晒太阳的短吻鳄一般的不规则土地。她眨动着眼睛，从沉重的、性冷淡的眼皮上散发出一种欺骗性的有毒宁静。她张大的嘴像想象力一般开放。就好像海和海中淹死的所有人，他们的尸骨，他们的希望，他们的梦中大厦，构成了那块白色的混合物。这白色混合物便是英格兰。
我的思绪徒然搜寻某种比任何记忆更古老的记忆，搜寻镌刻在埋于山底的石匾上的神话。在高架结构下，橱窗里满是馅饼和汉堡包，铁轨突然转弯，古老的感觉，古老的记忆，又一次侵入我心头。船坞与码头上应该有的一切，烟囱、起重机、活塞、轮子、桥梁、铁路枕木应该有的一切，一切用来旅行和促进食欲的设备装置全都像盲目的机械一般重复出现。当我来到十字路口的时候，活生生的街道像一张地图一般铺开，点缀着遮阳篷和酒店。中午的酷热使地图上了釉的表面起了裂缝。街道变形，发出噼噼啪啪的声响。
一颗生锈的星星标明过去的界限，在这里冒出拥挤而杂乱的一群尖利的三角形建筑物，张着黑嘴，露出断牙。有碘酒和乙醚、甲醛和氨、新制成的锡和湿的铁模子的味道。建筑物在下陷，屋顶碎裂、坍塌。空气如此沉重，如此辛辣，如此令人窒息，以至于建筑物不再能保持直立。入口下陷到街面以下。周围环境中有某种像青蛙一般呱呱直叫的东西。一种阴湿有毒的蒸汽包围着附近地区，就好像地基下面是一片沼泽地。
当我抵达父亲家里的时候，我发现他站在窗边刮胡子，或者说得更确切些，不是刮胡子，而是在磨剃刀。他以前从未使我失望过，但现在在我困难的时候他却听而不闻。我现在注意到他正使用的锈刀片。早上我喝咖啡的时候，总看到他明晃晃的刀片，明晃晃的德国钢反衬着光滑而发暗的磨刀皮革，肥皂泡沫像奶油一般溅到我的咖啡里，窗台上的积雪给他的话围上了一条毡子。现在刀片失去了光泽，雪变成了雪泥；窗格子上钻石般的凝霜变成稀黄油滴下来，散发着癞蛤蟆与沼气的臭味。“给我把大蛆虫拿来，”他求我，“我们将犁小鱼。”我可怜而绝望的父亲。我用一无所有的双手抓住一张破桌子。
寒风凛冽的夜晚。一个婊子低着头缓缓地走近我，挽起我的胳膊，领我来到一家门框上有一块蓝色搪瓷招牌的旅馆。上楼来到房间里，我好好打量了她一眼。她年轻健壮，最妙的是，她很无知。她连一个国王的名字都不知道。她甚至不说她自己的语言。无论我给她讲什么，她都将其像热乎乎的肥油一般吞没。她将肥油涂满身子。整个过程就是一个取暖的过程，一个穿上油脂大衣过冬的过程，她就是这样以她简单的方式向我解释的。在她从我骨髓里抽取了所有油脂的时候，她揭开床罩，以最令人吃惊的轻快动作，开始作梯形的飞行。房间就像蜂鸟的鸟窝。她像干果仁一样赤裸裸的，将自己卷成一个球，她的脑袋缩在两个乳房之间，两条胳膊压在两腿分叉处。她看上去就像一颗将要发芽的绿色豌豆。
突然我听到她以那种愚蠢的美国方式说：“瞧，我能干这个，但是我不能干那个！”她说干就干。干什么?嘿，她开始拍动下身，就像一只蜂鸟。她有一个毛茸茸的小脑袋，长着两只真诚的狗眼睛。在巴拉丁鲜花盛开的时候，这就像一幅魔鬼的图画。它的不谐调捶打着我。我坐在杵锤下。每次我看一眼她的脸，我都看见一道铁口子，口子后面有一个戴铁面罩的人在向我眨眼。一种令人恐怖的玩笑，因为他是用一只瞎眼睛眨眼，一只眼泪汪汪的瞎眼，有变成白内障的危险。
要不是她的胳膊、大腿都纠缠在一起，要不是她是一条被面罩所窒息、滑溜溜盘绕的蛇，那我就可以发誓，她就是我老婆艾伯塔，或者，如果不是我老婆艾伯塔，那就是另一个老婆，尽管我认为这是艾伯塔。我以为我始终知道艾伯塔的裂缝，但是两腿间夹着一个面罩，还拧成一个结，一道裂缝像另一道裂缝一样好，在每一个阴沟上面都有一道格栅，在每一个豆荚里都有一颗豌豆，在每一道口子后面都有一个戴铁面罩的人。
我坐在铁床架旁边的椅子里，裤子背带从肩上取了下来，一把杵锤捣在我的脑壳顶上，这时我开始梦见我认识的女人们。这些女人故意弄裂她们的骨盆，为的是好让医生用一只戴橡皮手套的手指插到她们里面，并用药签敷药于她们的会阴的裂口上。这些女人的隔膜如此之薄，以至于针的刮擦声听起来就好像她们下垂的膀胱里有尼亚加拉大瀑布。这些女人按钟点坐着，把子宫的里面翻出来，为的是用一根织补针来扎它。狗一样的怪女人，长着毛茸茸的脑袋，总是在不适当的地方藏着一只闹钟或拼板玩具；就在不适当的时刻，闹钟响了；就在天空放射着罗马焰火筒的奇光异彩，从雨点似的火花中出现了螃蟹与星鱼的时候，万无一失地总会有一把断锯子，电线啪的一声折断，穿过手指的钉子，因出汗而霉烂的女人紧身胸衣。穿着硬领服装的狗脸怪女人，嘴唇下垂，眼睛抽动。巴拉丁来的魔鬼舞者都有丰满的屁股，门总是开成一道缝，应该放伞架的地方放着一只痰盂。赛璐珞制成的运动员从煤气灯上穿过的时候，像乒乓球一样爆裂。奇怪的女人——我始终坐在铁床架旁边的椅子里。她们有如此灵巧的手指，以致锤子总是落在我脑壳的正中心，使接头脱胶。头盖骨就像冒着蒸汽的橱窗里的汉堡牛排。
穿过旅馆大厅时，我看见一群人聚集在酒吧间。我走进去，突然听到一个小孩痛苦地号叫。小孩正站在人群中的一张桌子上。这是一个女孩，脑袋侧面，就在太阳穴上，有一道裂口。鲜血正从太阳穴里往外冒着泡。这只是泡——没有血从她的脸侧淌下来。每次她太阳穴上的裂缝张开，我就看见有什么东西在里面动。看上去好像有只鸡在里面。我仔细一看，这回我看清楚了。是一只杜鹃！人们大笑。同时，这孩子在痛苦地号叫。
在接待室，我听到病人咳嗽，蹭他们的脚；我听到一本杂志合上的声音，以及外面石子路上牛奶车的隆隆声。我老婆正坐在一张白凳子上，小孩的脑袋顶着我的胸部。她太阳穴上的伤口颤动着，就好像是脉搏对着我的心脏跳动。外科医生穿着白大褂；他走来走去，吞云吐雾地抽着烟。他不时在窗口停下来，看一看天气如何。最后，他洗了手，戴上橡皮手套。他手上戴着消毒手套，在器具底下点着火，然后他心不在焉地看看表，用手指抚摸放在书桌上的账单。小孩现在在呻吟；她的整个身子都痛苦地扭歪了。我把她的胳膊、大腿固定住。我等待着器具煮好。
最后，外科医生准备好了。他坐在一张小凳子上，挑了一根长长的精密器具，上面有一个灼热的红点。他连一句警告的话也没说，就把器具插进了张开的伤口。小孩发出一声令人毛骨悚然的尖叫，我老婆当场瘫倒在地板上。“不要管她！”冷静自若的外科大夫说着，用脚把她的身体蹬到一边。“现在抱紧了！”他用最残酷的器具蘸到煮得滚开的抗菌剂里，然后将刀片插进太阳穴里，让它停留在那里，直到伤口烧了起来。然后，以同样快得可怕的速度，他突然抽出器具，器具上的圆孔眼里连着一根长长的白线，它渐渐变成红法兰绒，然后变成口香糖，然后变成爆米花，最后变成锯末。当最后一片锯末飞出来的时候，伤口干干净净地合拢，长结实，连一点点疤痕都没有留下。小孩宁静地微笑着，向上望着我，然后从我怀里溜下来，稳步走到房间角落里，在那儿坐下，玩了起来。
“太棒了！”医生说，“实在是太棒了！”
“啊，就是，嗯?”我尖叫。我像疯子一般跳起来，将他从凳子上击倒，用我的膝盖扎扎实实地顶住他的胸口。我顺手操起离我最近的那把器具，开始凿他。我像个恶魔似的干着。我抠出他的眼睛，扎破他的耳膜，切开他的舌头，拧断他的气管，削平他的鼻子。我把他的衣服扯掉，烫他的胸口，直到它冒烟，在肉还没有烫熟、因滚烫的烙铁而颤抖的时候，我就把外层皮肉卷到一边，将硝酸倒到里面去——直到我听到心脏和肺发出咝咝声，直到烟气几乎把我熏昏过去。
这时候，小孩正快活地拍着手。当我站起来寻找一把木槌的时候，我注意到我老婆坐在另一个角落里。她似乎吓瘫了，连站都站不起来。她所能做的一切就是小声说着：“恶魔！恶魔！”我跑下楼去寻找木槌。
在黑暗中我似乎看到一个人影站在乌木钢琴边上。灯火忽明忽暗，但还是有足够的光线在这个人的脑袋周围投下一圈光环。此人正以一种单调的声音大声朗读一本巨大的铁书。他读起来就像犹太拉比在吟唱祷文。他的脑袋出神地朝后仰着，就好像它永远这样错了位。他的样子就像一盏打破的街灯，在潮湿的雾气中发出微光。
光线越来越昏暗，他的吟唱变得越来越单调。最后我什么也看不清，只见到他脑袋周围的光环，然后光环也消失了，我明白我已经变瞎。这就像在水中溺死一般，我的整个过去都在此过程中涌现出来。不仅是我个人的过去，而且也有我正骑在一只大乌龟背上穿越的全人类的过去。我们以蜗牛的速度与地球同行，我们到达了她运行轨道的极限，然后以一种倾斜的怪步子，我们迅速蹒跚回来，穿过空空的黄道十二宫。我们看见动物世界千奇百怪的幽灵般形象，已经爬到梯子顶，结果却掉到海底而消失的物种。尤其是所有羽毛全是火红色的红鸟。它生性温和。红鸟的速度飞快，像箭一般，总是朝向北方。它振翅北飞，飞过尸体，身后跟着一群天使蛆虫，令人眼花缭乱的一群，遮天蔽日。
慢慢地，犹如面纱被揭去，黑暗消散，我看清一个人站在钢琴旁边的侧影，他手里拿着那本大铁书，脑袋朝后仰着，正以倦怠的单调声音吟唱安魂连祷。一会儿以后，他开始迈起轻快机械的步子来回走，好像他正在心不在焉地做操。他的动作有一种痉挛的自动节奏，一见就令人生气。他的举止就像实验室里一部分脑子被切除的动物。每次来到钢琴跟前，他都随意敲出几个和弦——乒，乓，砰！同时他低声咕哝着。轻快地朝东边墙走去时，他咕哝：“供氧理论”；轻快地朝西边墙走去时，他咕哝：“对立理论”；在朝正北偏西方向走去时，他咕哝：“完全错误的新鲜空气理论”，等等，等等。他的动作就像一艘顶风而行的旧四桅船，他的胳膊软绵绵地悬挂着，脑袋微微垂向一边。一种轻快的不屈不挠的动作，像织布机上的一只梭子。突然他朝向正北咕哝：“Z代表zeb ra……zeb，zut，Zachariah……没有b代表bretzels的迹象……”
用手指轻拂铁书的书页，我看出来，这是中世纪流传下来的一部涉及木乃伊问题的诗集；每一首诗都含有一个治疗皮肤病的处方。这是一个犹太僧侣写的关于大瘟疫的日记。一种关于皮肤病的详细编年史，是由行吟诗人吟唱的。写作形式是以乐符代表所有不祥的、爬行类的野兽，诸如鼹鼠、癞蛤蟆、蜥蜴、鳝鱼、甲虫、蝙蝠、海龟、白老鼠。每一首诗都含有一个处方，可以使着魔者的身体摆脱侵扰皮肤下层的恶魔。
我的眼光从音乐书页溜到了大门外，那里正在进行猎狼。地上覆盖着白雪，在城堡步道旁边的椭圆形田野里，两个用长矛武装的骑士快要把狼折磨致死。像奇迹一般，狼渐渐被仁慈而灵巧地置于致命一击的位置。注视着这大大拖长的死亡过程，一种激起情欲的感觉支配了我。正当长矛要掷出去的时候，马和骑士以一种令人极度痛苦的弹性蜷缩，同时狼、马和骑士绕着死亡的枢轴旋转。当长矛飞快地穿过狼的躯体时，地面轻轻向上运动，地平线稍稍倾斜，天空像刀锋般发蓝。
我穿过柱廊，来到通往城里的下陷街道。房子周围，黑色的烟囱林立，烟囱里喷出含硫的浓烟。最后我来到盒子厂，从它的一个窗户里我看到残疾人排着队站在院子里。没有一个残疾人有脚，很少几个有胳膊；他们脸上满是煤烟。他们所有人胸前都挂着奖章。
令我感到恐怖和吃惊的是，我慢慢发现，一长串棺材正从附属于工厂墙壁的长滑道上被运送到院子里。在棺材从滑道上滚落下去的时候，一个没有腿的男人走上前去，停下片刻慢慢调整他背上的重荷，然后行动艰难地扛着他的棺材走开了。这样的事情不停地进行着，毫不间断，没有丝毫声响。我的脸上淌着汗水。我要跑开，可是我的脚生了根。也许我没有脚。我吓坏了，害怕往下看。我抓住窗框，一点儿也不敢往下看，小心翼翼地、胆战心惊地抬起脚，直到我能用手摸到我鞋子的后跟。我对另一只脚也重复了同样的实验。当时，我在惊恐中迅速环顾四周，寻找出口。我站在其中的那个房间乱七八糟地放满空包装箱，钉子、锤子满地都是。我从空盒子中间穿过，寻找房门。就在我找到房门的时候，我的脚绊在一只空盒子上。我朝空盒子里看，瞧，它不是空的！我匆匆看了一眼其他盒子。没有一只是空的！每一只盒子里都有一具包装在细刨花里的骷髅。我从一条走廊跑向另一条走廊，疯狂地寻找楼梯。我飞一般跑过大厅，闻到从敞开的房门里发出的尸体防腐剂的恶臭。最后我来到楼梯口，当我跳下楼梯的时候，我看见下面楼梯平台上有一只白色搪瓷手指示着——停尸房。
这是夜间，我正在回家的路上。我的道路穿过一座野生花园，就像我经常在黑暗中蹒跚经过的那样。这时候我闭上眼睛，只听到墙壁的呼吸。我有在一个岛上的感觉，周围都是石头海湾。有一些相同的小桥，都挂着纸灯笼，沿铺石小路有零零落落的一些做工粗糙的长凳；有一些出售糖果的宝塔，颜色鲜艳的变色鱼，遮阳篷，凸出在海湾上的峭壁，薄薄的中国包装纸，其中藏着爆竹。一切都完全是过去的模样，甚至旋转木马的喧闹声和在缠结的树枝中飘动的风筝也都是这样。只不过现在是冬天。隆冬，所有的道路都被大雪覆盖，一层厚厚的雪，使道路几乎无法通行。
我在一座日本拱桥的顶上站了片刻，趴在栏杆上定了定神。所有的道路都清晰地在我面前伸展开去。它们都平行排列。在这个我非常熟悉的公园里，树木茂盛，我有着最大的安全感。在这桥上，我可以永远站下去，相信这就是我的目的地。几乎没有必要再走其余的路，因为我现在就好像在自己王国的门槛上，这个王国近在眼前，使我十分放心。我多么熟悉这座小桥，这茂密的树丛，这桥下流过的溪水啊！我可以永远站在这里，沉浸在无限的安全感中，在潺潺的流水声中被催眠，永远陶醉。溪水不停地打着漩儿从长满苔藓的石头上流过。一条融雪的溪流，上缓下急。桥下像冰一样清澈透明，清澈得我都可以目测水的深度。齐脖深的清澈透明。
现在，从黑黝黝的树丛里出来，在柏树和冬青中间，走来一对手挽手的幽灵男女，他们的动作缓慢而又无精打采。一对穿着夜礼服的幽灵男女——女的穿着一件袒胸长裙，男的有着闪闪发光的衬衣纽扣。他们迈着虚幻的步子从雪中走过，那女人的脚如此柔软干燥，她的胳膊裸露着。没有踩在雪上的嘎吱嘎吱响声，也没有狂风怒吼。一种晶莹的钻石光芒和夜间融雪形成的小溪流。粉末状的雪的溪流在冬青底下滑动。没有牙关的嘎吱嘎吱声，没有狼的呜咽声。清冷的月光下的溪流，白色的水和花瓣溅泼小桥的奔涌之声，岛在不停地漂移，她的岩石缠住了头发，她的峡谷和海湾在星辰的银光中黑黝黝地发亮。
他们以幽灵式的流动前进，朝着峡谷的膝部和白须水域。他们走进清澈冰冷的溪流深处，她裸露的背，他闪闪发亮的衬衣纽扣，从远处传来了玻璃帘子刷在旋转木马的金属牙齿上诉苦似的叮当声。水在两岸白色柔软的土堤之间像一块薄玻璃一般奔流；它在膝下奔流，携带着被砍下的脚就像雪崩中被压碎的基座。他们断了肢的躯干上结了冰，向前滑动着，他们的蝙蝠翅膀张开，他们的服装粘在他们的翼上。溪水一直在上涨，越来越高，空气越变越冷，白雪像粉末状的钻石一般晶莹发亮。从柏树顶上，一种金属的暗绿色洒落下来，就像一个绿色的阴影洒落在河岸上，玷污了清凉溪流的深处。那女人天使般地坐在冰河上，她的翅膀张开，她的头发以不自然的玻璃般的波浪形往后飘扬。
突然，溪流像蓝色火焰下的玻璃丝一般，迅速变成火舌。沿着熊熊燃烧的街道，赤道上密集的人群移动着。这是充满早年伤心事的街道，公寓一字排开，就像火车车厢一般，房子侧面都有尖头向上的尖铁。一条渐渐向太阳倾斜的街道，然后像一支箭一般向前迷失在宇宙空间里。在从前它拐弯的地方，有着单调的刺耳噪音，有着坚实的豪华屋顶和没有门窗的死墙，现在这里像打开了开关一样，明沟沿拐弯处建好，房屋成行，树木开花。现在时间和目标都与我无关。我在响亮的嗡嗡声中穿过糖浆一般热烘烘、懒洋洋的躯体。
我像一个浪子一般，十分悠闲地走在我青年时代的街道上。我既不困惑，也不绝望。从六极的周边，我走僻远的路线回到改变、变形的中心，一只不断蜕皮的白色羔羊。当我沿着山梁痛苦地号叫的时候，当我在酷热的白色山谷中被碱闷得透不过气来的时候，当我从缓慢的溪流中涉水时脚被石头和贝壳弄成碎片的时候，当我在柠檬地里舔着咸味汗珠或躺在火辣辣的窑里烘烤的时候，我不能忘怀，而现在又不再存在的这一切究竟是在什么时候呢?
当他们驾驶着我向其欢呼的柩车从这条阴森冷清的街上经过时，我是否已经蜕了皮?我就是羔羊，他们将我赶出来。我就是羔羊，他们把我变成了一只浑身条纹的老虎。在一个稀疏的丛林里，我披着柔软雪白的羊毛出生。我只平静地吃了一会儿草，然后就有一只爪子落到我身上。在白天结束时的酷热火焰中，我听到百叶窗后面的呼吸声；我慢慢地从所有的房子前面走过，倾听着血液的密集搏动。然后有一天夜里，我在南方上了冻的花园里一张硬邦邦的长凳上醒来。听到火车汽笛的哀鸣，看见白色的沙子路像头盖骨铺成的路一般闪着亮光。
如果我在世界上没有欢乐也没有痛苦地走来走去，这是因为他们在塔拉哈西取走了我的内脏。在一个靠着断栅栏的角落里，他们用脏爪子伸到我的身体里，并用一把生锈的折叠刀割掉了我的一切，一切神圣的、隐秘的、属于禁区的东西。在塔拉哈西，他们切掉了我的内脏；他们驱赶着我绕城乱转，给我画上条纹，像老虎一样。有一次我凭自己的本事吹响哨子。有一次我从街上走过，听着血液搏击着穿过百叶窗里透过来的光。现在我体内有一种咆哮，像狂欢节一样热闹。我的周围充满上百万首筒风琴曲子。我走在充满早年伤心事的街道上，狂欢节正在热闹地进行。我往前挤开一条道，倾吐出我学会的曲子。一种欢乐、懒惰的堕落，从路的一边传到另一边。一团人肉，像一条粗绳索摇晃着。
在小别墅用螺线悬挂的花箱旁，茧子正在绽开，一个慢慢登上鲜花小径的女人停了一会儿，把她女性的全部重量都压到我身上。我的脑袋自动地往两边摇晃着，一座放在钟楼里的钟。在她离开后，她的话开始显示其意义。公墓，她说。你看见他们对公墓做了些什么吗?我在热烘烘的榨汁机中信步往前走，帘子全拉开了，门前台阶上挤满了小孩，我不断想起她的话。我以黑鬼一般轻快的想象力信步往前，裸着脖子，八字脚的脚趾张开着，阴囊紧紧的。一种温暖的南方芳香包围着我，一种心情舒畅的悠闲，血液像糖蜜一样稠，以秃鹰的翅膀拍击着。
他们为街道做的事正是约瑟为埃及所做的事。他们做了什么?不再有你们和他们。一块成熟的金色玉米地，印第安红种人和黑鬼的土地。他们现在是谁或以前是谁，我不知道。我只知道他们占有了土地，并使它微笑；他们占有了公墓，并使它成为一块呻吟的沃土。每一块石头都被搬走，每一个花环和十字架都消失了。现在紧挨着我们家有一块巨大的棋盘，陷在地里，因堆满了食物而发出呻吟；这片沃土又黑又肥，强壮而耐心的毛驴将它们细长的蹄子插到湿润的沃土里，这沃土犁起来就像柔软的奶酪一般。整个公墓正同它丰富的出产一起歌唱。通过小麦、玉米、燕麦、黑麦、大麦的叶子歌唱。公墓里满是吃的东西，毛驴摆动着尾巴，高大的黑鬼哼哼着，吟唱着，汗珠滚下他们的小腿。
整条街现在都靠墓地供养。足够供给每一个人。甚至还要多。多余的食物随蒸汽、歌舞、堕落与轻率而消失。谁会想到，死去的那些瘦骨嶙峋的可怜蛋在石板底下腐烂，竟含有如此肥沃的智慧呢?谁会想到，这些骨瘦如柴的路德派教徒，这些细长腿的长老会教徒，竟有这么好的肥肉留在他们的骨头上，以至于造成这样一种神奇的腐败收获，这样一满巢一满巢的蛆虫呢?甚至石匠凿出来的干巴巴的墓志铭也起着肥沃的作用。静躺在冷冰冰的草地底下，这些纵欲、私通的鬼魂正在努力取得它们的权力与荣耀。在整个广阔的世界上，我没有看过哪块墓地像这样兴旺。在整个广阔的世界上，没有任何地方有这样丰富、这样热气腾腾的肥料。充满早年伤心事的街道，我拥抱你！不再有苍白的面孔，不再有贝多芬的头盖骨，不再有交叉的大腿骨，不再有细长的腿。我只看见玉米、黄花、紫丁香；我看见普通的锄头，套着挽具的毛驴，宽大扁平的脚上，脚趾张开，脚趾之间沾满丝一般的沃土。我看见红手绢，褪了色的蓝衬衣，汗水晶莹的阔边帽。我听到苍蝇嗡嗡作响，还有低沉而懒洋洋的声音。空气发出心不在焉、漫不经心的欢乐哼哼声；昆虫嗡嗡作响，沾满花粉的翅膀传播花粉与腐败。我听不见钟声、哨声、锣声、刹车的摩擦声；我听见锄头的叮当声、水滴滴下的声音、干重活时发出的哼哼声和沉默中的大混乱。我听到吉他、口琴的声音，一种柔和的铜锣声，一种拖鞋的吧嗒吧嗒的声音；我听到百叶窗放下的声音，公驴在燕麦地里的嘶叫声。
没有苍白的面孔，感谢基督！我看见苦力、黑鬼、印第安女人。我看见深浅不同的巧克力色和肉桂色，我看见一种地中海橄榄色，一种带茶色的夏威夷金色；我看见每一种纯粹的色度和每一种明暗交错的色度，但是没有白色。头盖骨和交叉腿骨随墓碑消失；一个白色种族的白色尸骨产生出他们的收获。我看到，属于他们姓氏和记忆的一切都消退了，而且，这使我快乐得发疯。在旷野上，大地曾隆起成为乱七八糟的小草皮，现在我在嘁嘁喳喳声中信步走在湿漉漉的深垄沟里，干渴的脚趾叮当作响；我左右溅着水汪汪的白菜地里的沃泥，泥土被轮子、宽阔的绿叶、压扁的浆果、橄榄酸汁挤压着。我承蒙神恩，踩在死人的肥胖蛆虫身上，把它们碾回到草皮中去。像醉酒的水手一般，我从一边转到另一边，我两脚湿漉漉，两手干巴巴。我透过小麦朝朵朵白云望去；我的目光顺着河流望去，看着她那吃水很浅的三角帆船，她的帆和桅在缓慢飘动。我看见太阳射下明亮的光线，轻轻吮吸着河流的乳房。在另一边河岸上是棚屋的尖竿，一缕懒洋洋的轻烟。我看见石斧在空中飞向熟悉的令人毛骨悚然的喊叫声。我看见画了油彩的脸，明亮的珠子，柔软的毒蛇舞，长而扁平的乳头，编了辫子的印第安婴儿。
特拉华和拉克万纳，莫农格希拉，莫霍克，谢南多厄，纳拉甘西特，塔斯基吉，奥斯卡卢萨，卡拉马祖，塞米诺尔和波尼，切罗基，伟大的神灵，黑脚族人，纳瓦霍人诸类：我眼前像一朵巨大的红云，像一根火柱，闪过一种幻觉，看到我们地球不受法律保护的壮丽。我看不见列托人、克罗地亚人、芬兰人、丹麦人、瑞典人；看不见爱尔兰佬、意大利佬、波兰佬、法国佬、德国佬、犹太佬。我看见坐在乌鸦巢里的犹太人，他们烤焦的脸像皮革一样干燥，他们的脑壳皱缩，没有骨头。
石斧又一次闪着光亮，头皮飞起，欢快的波状云一般的鲜血从河床上滚滚而出。从山腰上、从大洞穴里、从沼泽地以及埃弗格莱兹大沼泽地里，涌出一股血迹斑斑的人流。从内华达山脉到阿巴拉契亚山脉，大地冒着被杀者的血烟。我的头皮被割掉，灰色肉片悬挂在我的耳朵上；我的脚被烧掉，我的两胁被箭头射穿。在一个羊圈里，我靠在破栅栏上，我的肠子掉在我的一边；皮肤和肌肉绷得紧紧的美丽的白色太阳穴被砍得血迹模糊。风咆哮着穿过我断裂的直肠，像六十个白色的麻风病患者在咆哮。一团白色火焰，一块蓝色冰玉，一支喷雾的火把，在我空空的内脏中旋转。我的手臂被猛地从插孔里拉出来。我的躯体是盗尸者正在劫掠的坟墓。我满身都是天然宝石，渗出晶莹的光辉。太阳像上千把尖头长矛刺穿我的伤口，宝石闪闪发光，内脏尖叫。我不知道现在是白天还是黑夜；世界的帐篷像气囊一般崩塌。在一团血的火焰中，我感觉到一把钳子冷冰冰地接触我的身子：他们拖着我通过河谷，我什么也看不见，无依无靠，说不出话来，喘息着，无力地尖叫着。我听见远处冰水的奔流，冬青树下豺狼的呻吟；透过暗绿的树林，一个光点扩展开，一种春天的、普鲁土蓝的光，它玷污了雪和冰一般清澈的溪流深处。一种欢乐得回不过气来的汩汩声，一种安静的大混乱，就像没有腿的天使，张开翅膀，在桥下漂浮而过一般。
沟里堆满积雪。这是冬天，太阳照射出中午时分的无力光亮。沿街走过一栋栋公寓。在太阳照射的一两个小时内，一切都变成了水，一切都流动，一切都滴着水，一切都发出汩汩声。在马路边和雪堆之间，一股清澈发蓝的水流在上涨。在我体内，一股水流阻塞了我血管的狭窄通道。我体内一股清澈发蓝的水流从我的脚趾一直循环到头发根。我完全被融化了，像冰一般湛蓝，快活得说不出话来。
沿街走过一栋栋公寓，我的狭窄窒塞的血管中有一种像冰一般湛蓝的快活。冬天的雪在融化，水沟在雪上面游泳。忧伤消失了，欢乐也随之而去，都融化、滴落、注入阴沟。突然间钟声敲响，疯狂的丧钟，骂着下流话，用疯狂的铁钟舌粉碎了血管的玻璃痔疮。透过融雪，有一场支配一切的大屠杀：矮小的中国马和头皮挂在一起，长长的细关节绿颚昆虫。在每一幢房子前面都有一个铁栏杆，上面的尖刺上开着蓝花。
沿着充满早年忧伤的街道，老巫婆乘风而来，她扬着宽帆，衣服里鼓鼓囊囊地装着许多骷髅头。我们恐惧地逃避夜晚，追寻着绿色的相册，它高高装饰的前腿，鼓起的额头。从所有腐烂的门前台阶上，传来蛇在袋子里蠕动的咝咝声，绳子已系上，肠子打了结。蓝色的花像豹一般星星点点，被碾平，被吸干血，大地是一个春天的污斑，金子，骨髓，明亮的骨灰，高高的三角翼，白马的行进，阿摩尼亚眼睛。
融雪融化得更深，铁生锈，叶开花。在拐角处，高架铁路下，站着一个戴高顶礼帽的男人，他穿着蓝哔叽衣服和亚麻鞋罩，他的白唇须梳得很细。开关打开，烟草汁、金色的柠檬、象牙、大烛台一股脑儿滚出来。柠檬商人莫依舍•皮皮克捕猎野鸽，在背心口袋里孵紫色蛋，紫色的领带和西瓜，短梗菠菜，多纤维，被沥青糟蹋了。嘲弄的哨音大声传开，荡妇慌慌张张，用来苏儿、阿摩尼亚、樟脑膏药裹起绷带，云母小屋，三角形的波纹状花生壳，一切都得意扬扬地迎着晨风前进。晨光从折缝中射来，窗格有条纹，遮盖被撕去，油布褪了色。一个头发直立的男人走着，他不跑，不呼吸，一个带风标的男人，突然拐弯，然后窜出去。一个不考虑如何或为什么的人只是在暗淡无光的夜间行走，所有的星星都在左舷，负载的支撑杆平衡着。他出售少量麻醉品，吵醒了原告，陷阱从左向右转，冬季海洋上的正午，正午时分各方人士统统上船，在右舷高处。风标再次划着深水桨从舷窗经过，所有的声音都听不清楚。夜悄悄爬过来，像飓风一般。无声无息带着满载的焦糖和镍制的骰子。莫妮卡修女弹着吉他，衬衣敞开，挂着饰带，每一只耳朵里都有宽大的凸缘。莫妮卡修女浑身一道道石灰条纹，橡胶涂层，她的眼睛发了霉，盖了绉纱，沾满眼屎，呈锯齿状。
充满早年忧伤的街道变宽了，发青的嘴唇哭诉着，信天翁振翅飞行，她的血淋淋的脖子断开，她的牙齿发出无意义的声音。戴圆礼帽的男人左腿吱嘎作响，两道凹口进一步往下到了右边。在舷缘下边，古巴旗同面条、山梅花，同野生木兰和嫩棕榈叶拼凑在一起，被切成饲料，同白垩和绿色的涎水和在一起。在银床底下是白色的天竺葵花碗，两道条纹的用于早上，三道条纹的用于晚上。河狸低唱着要喝鲜血，白色的鲜血一大口一大口地涌来，白色的黏土，令人窒息，里面满是断牙、黏液和腐烂的骨头。地面被来来往往的人踩得很滑，还有明晃晃的剪刀、长刀、烧热的和凉的钳子，踩上就会滑一跤。
在外面的融雪中，兽群挣脱出来，先是有着华丽白条纹的斑马，然后是禽鸟和白嘴鸦，然后是金合欢属和具有菱纹背的动物。绿色植物张开脚趾，红鸟在底下盘旋俯冲，混乱的一堆东西中断了休息，蜥蜴排尿，豺狼呜呜叫唤，鬣狗打嗝，笑，再打嗝。整个宽敞的公墓安全地喷洒了药水，在夜间裂开了它的接缝。自动机械由于巨大的整套盔甲的拖累也裂了缝，铰链生锈，插销没有插上，被制锡业托拉斯所抛弃。黄油开花，成了巨大的扇形花环，肥腻的夹竹桃黄油，上面有乌鸦脚的标志，由绞刑刽子手牛皮大王约翰两次加以拼接。黄油在停尸房嚎叫，苍白的月光洒下来，河口阻塞，运货列车震颤，铁路旁轨被锁住。被追踪的褐色矮脚鸡装饰着红色的嗉囊和水獭皮，正吃着洼地的嫩草。飞燕草遭受大损失。氧化镁容器着火，飞鹰高高翱翔，有一把刀子刺穿它的踝骨。
血腥而疯狂的夜，所有的鹰爪都被砍掉、修剪掉。血腥而疯狂的夜，所有的钟楼都发出尖锐刺耳的声音，所有的板条都被扯掉，所有的煤气管都爆裂。血腥而疯狂的夜，每一块肌肉都扭伤，脚趾交叉，头发直立，牙齿发红，脊柱裂开缝。整个世界完全清醒，像黎明一样发出嘁嘁喳喳声，火力不足的红火从树脂上爬过。整个夜晚梳子折断，肋骨尖鸣。两次破晓，然后黎明又悄悄消失。在滴滴答答的雪水中，氧化物冒着烟。整条街上，灵车来来回回、来来回回地经过，司机大声咀嚼他们的长鞭、白纱、棉布手套。
北面朝着白杆，南面朝着红苍鹭，脉搏疯狂地一直跳下去。他们用明晃晃的玻璃牙，一根接一根地把绳索咬下来。鸭子挺着它的扁宽嘴走来，然后是肚子贴地的鼬鼠。它们受到真菌的召唤，一个接一个地来到，它们的尾巴长着羽毛，它们的脚长着蹼。它们蜂拥而来，像触轮杆一样弯着身子，从床下经过。地板上的泥巴和奇怪的招牌，窗户闪闪发亮，只有牙齿，然后是手，然后是胡萝卜，然后是有着翠绿色眼睛的流浪洋葱，来了又去、去了又来的彗星。
东面朝着蒙古人，西面朝着红杉，脉搏前后摇晃。洋葱在行军，蛋在咔哒咔哒响，动物园像陀螺般旋转。在高高的海滩上，红色的鱼子酱床有好几英里长。碎浪冒着泡沫，噼噼啪啪抽打它们的长鞭。潮水在绿色的冰川下咆哮。大地越转越快，越转越快。
从黑暗的混沌中，因堵塞的舷窗而产生出光涡。从静止的虚无中产生出不停的平衡。从鲸骨和黄麻袋中产生出这种被称作睡眠的疯狂之物，它像一座八天上一次发条的钟一般奔跑。
【注释】
[1]克利奥帕特拉（公元前69——前30）：美丽的埃及女王。
来回漫步于中国
来回漫步于中国
现在我绝不孤独。最糟糕的情况下也有上帝同我在一起！
在巴黎，不在巴黎，离开巴黎，回到巴黎，始终是巴黎，巴黎是法国，法国是中国。一切我不能理解的东西，像一堵大墙，把我漫游经过的山丘河谷围在里面。在这堵大墙里面，我可以平静而安全地过我的中国生活。
我不是一个旅行家，也不是一个冒险家。我遇到的事情发生在我寻求出路的过程中。直至现在，我一直在一端不通的隧道里继续不断地工作，在大地的内脏里发掘，寻找光和水。作为一个美洲大陆的人，我不能相信，在地球上某个地方，一个人可以是他自己。由于环境的作用，我变成了一个华人——一个我自己国家里的华人！我沉溺于梦的鸦片，为的是面对我没份参与的一种生活的丑陋。我像一根掉进密西西比河的细树枝一般安静而自然地离开了美国生活之流。我记得我遇到的一切，但是我无意于恢复过去，我既没有渴望，也没有遗憾。我就像一个从长眠中醒来，发现自己正在做梦的人一样。一种出生前状态——出生者未出生地活着，未出生者出生时死去。
一遍又一遍地出生，再生。在街上走时出生，在咖啡馆里坐着时出生，躺在婊子身上时出生。一遍又一遍地出生，再生。一种快速的步子，对这种快速的惩罚不仅仅是死亡，而且是重复的死亡。例如，我刚到天堂，大门就打开了，我发现在我脚下是鹅卵石。我是怎么学会走得这么快的?我在用谁的脚走路?现在我正走向坟墓，走向我自己的葬礼。我听到铁锹的当啷声和撒下的泥土声。我的眼睛刚闭上，我几乎还没有时间来闻一下他们用来淹没我的鲜花，就听见轰隆一声，我经历了又一次不朽。这样往返于天堂与地球之间，使我一直警觉着。我不得不让我的身体准备好等蛆虫来咬，不得不把我的灵魂原封不动地献给上帝。
下午坐在拉富什时，我冷静地问自己：“我们从这儿去哪里?”夜幕降临前，我也许已到月球打了一个来回。我坐在这里的十字路口，梦中经历了所有独立的、不朽的自我。我的眼泪掉进了我的啤酒里。夜里走回克利希的时候，也有着同样的感觉。无论什么时候我来到拉富什，我都看见没有尽头的马路从我脚下放射出去，从我自己的鞋里走出无数居住在我的存在世界中的自我。我陪同他们手挽手地走过我曾经独自行走的小道：我称之为壮观的、着魔的生死之行。我同这些自我造就的伙伴说话，如果我不幸地只生死一次而永远孤独，那我完全会同我自己说话。现在我绝不孤独。最糟糕的情况下也有上帝同我在一起！
从克利希广场到拉富什的那一小段路有某种东西，使所有那些壮观的、着魔的步行立刻富于青春活力。这就像从一个至点移向另一个至点。假定我刚离开威普勒咖啡馆，腋下夹着一本书，一本关于风格和意志的书。也许当我在读这本书的时候，我只理解一两个短语。也许我一晚上都在读着同一页。也许我根本就不在威普勒咖啡馆，而是一边听着音乐，一边离开我的身体，飞走了。那么我在哪里呢?嘿，我外出做一次着了魔的步行，一次五十年上下的短短行程，只要翻过一页书即可结束行程。
就在我要离开威普勒咖啡馆的时候，我听到一种奇怪的嗖嗖声。不必朝身后看——我知道这是我的身体在奔跑过来同我结合在一起。通常在这样的时刻，抽粪机沿街排开。皮管子横在人行道上，就像哼哼唧唧的巨大蛆虫。肥肥的蛆虫正把粪便从污水池里吸出来。正是这，使我真正振奋精神，来看一看自己的外观。我看见自己在咖啡馆里俯身看书，我看见那个和我并肩坐着的婊子正越过我的肩头看书，我的脖子感觉到她的呼吸。她等我抬起眼睛，也许等我点着她拿在手里的那支烟。她正要问我一个人在这里做什么、是否无聊。那本书是谈论风格和意志的，我把它带到咖啡馆里读，是因为在一家吵闹的咖啡馆里读书，简直是一种奢侈——也可以预防疾病。在一家吵闹的咖啡馆里听音乐也很好——它增加了孤独感、寂寞感。我看见那婊子的上嘴唇在我肩头上方颤抖。只是一片三角形的嘴唇，光滑柔软，如丝绸一般。它因高音而颤抖，姿势就像深谷里的一只羚羊。现在我在受夹道鞭打，我和我自己牢牢地粘在一起。从克利希广场到拉富什的那一小段路。沿那一小段路排列的死胡同里跳出黑压压一片妓女，就像在亮光中盲目乱飞的蝙蝠。她们进到我的头发里、耳朵里、眼睛里。她们用吸血的爪子牢牢抓住你。整个夜晚她们都在小巷里溃烂；她们有着大雨后植物发出的味道。她们发出植物般的小声响，低能的喊叫，这是肉麻的亲热表示。她们像虱子一般挤到我身上，有着植物般长卷须的虱子，这卷须吸走了我毛孔里的汗水。这些婊子，这音乐，这人群，这墙壁，这墙壁上的光，这大粪以及这无畏地进行工作的抽粪机，所有这一切形成一团星云，凝聚成一场惊梦的冷汗。
每天夜里，当我朝拉富什走去的时候，我都受到夹道鞭打。每天夜里，我都被剥去头皮，被石斧砍杀。如果不是这样，我倒会想这样。我回到家，将虱子从衣服里抖出来，把血从身上洗掉。我上床睡觉，大声打呼噜。正是真正适合于我的世界！使我的肉保持鲜嫩，我的灵魂保持完整无缺。
我住的房子正被拉倒。所有的房间都暴露在外。我的房子像一个被剥了皮的人的身体。壁纸破破烂烂地耷拉着，床架上没有垫子，洗涤槽不见了。我每天夜里进房子以前都要站住看它一眼。它那令人厌恶的样子迷住了我。归根结底，为什么没有一点点令人厌恶的东西呢?每一个活人都是装满人类厌恶之物的博物馆。每一个人都给博物馆增加了一个侧厅。所以，每天夜里站在我住的房子前，这正在被拉倒的房子前，我都试图理解它的意义。里面的东西暴露得越多，我就越热爱我的房子。我甚至热爱那只立在床底下的旧尿壶，现在已经没有人再用它了。
在美国，我住过许多房子，但是我不记得任何一幢房子的里面是什么样。我不得不拿上我遇到的东西，随身带着走到街上。有一次我雇了一辆敞篷四轮马车，坐着它走在第五大道上。这是秋天里的一个下午，我正坐车穿过我自己的城市。男男女女都在人行道上散步：稀奇古怪的兽类，半人，半明胶。他们半发疯地在大道上走来走去，牙齿磨得锃光发亮，眼睛闪闪发光。女人们穿着漂亮衣服，每个人都储存着一个冷笑。男人们也不时微笑，好像他们正走在棺材里，要去见天堂里的救世主。带着那种闪闪发光的疯狂眼神微笑着经历人生，旗帜飘扬，性甜蜜地流过阴沟。我随身带着一支手枪，我们到达第四十二街时我就开火。没有人注意。我左右开弓地把他们扫倒在地，但是人群一点儿也不见稀少。活人从死人身上走过去，始终微笑着炫耀他们漂亮的白牙齿。正是这种残酷的白色微笑深深印在我的记忆中。我在睡眠中看见这种微笑，这时候我正伸出手去乞讨——越野赛跑中悬垂的香蕉上漂浮的乔治•C.蒂留式微笑。美国对贫穷微笑。微笑如此一钱不值——你坐在敞篷四轮马车里的时候为什么不微笑呢?微笑，微笑，微笑一下，世界就是你的了。微笑着发出临死前的喉鸣——这使那些被你留在身后的人感觉更舒服一些。微笑，妈的！永不消失的微笑！
一个星期四的下午，我站在地铁里，面对着欧洲的普通女性。她们脸上有一种疲惫的美，好像她们像地球本身一样，经历了一切自然灾害。她们种族的历史就刻在她们的脸上；她们的皮肤就像一张羊皮纸，上面记录着文明进程中的全部斗争。移民、仇恨和迫害、欧洲战争——全都留下了它们的印记。她们没有在微笑；她们的脸镇静自若，写在她们脸上的东西是由种族、性格、历史等方面构成的。我在她们脸上看到了多种颜色合在一起的破旧欧洲地图，一张画着一道道铁道线、船运线、航空线以及国境线的地图，有根深蒂固、无法磨灭的偏见和竞争。外形的破旧，表示海与湖泊的大裂口，构成岛屿的断链，成为不可思议的神话遗迹的半岛，所有这一切自然力的影响与侵蚀都表明了人和现实之间永远进行着冲突，本书只是这样一种冲突的另一张地图。凝视着这张地图，我对此留下了深刻的印象：这个大陆比它看上去的样子要大得多，事实上，这根本就不是一个大陆，而是水域闯入地球的一部分，一块被大海闯入的陆地。在某些薄弱的地方，陆地放弃了地盘。人们不必懂一句地质术语，就会明白这个有着星罗棋布的河流、湖泊、内陆海的欧洲大陆所经历的沉浮。人们一眼就会发现不同时期所做出的巨大努力，就像人们会发现流产的、失败的努力一样。人们实际上会感觉到随各种不同的地壳隆起之后而来的巨大气候变化。如果人们是用一个地图学家的眼睛来看这张地图，那么人们就可以想象五万年或十万年以后它是什么模样。
因此，看着构成人类大陆的海洋与陆地时，我又看见某些可笑而又可怕的兵团等等，他们证明了许多英勇的斗争。我可以在蜿蜒的长河中发现信仰和勇气全然丧失，体面悄然离去，灵魂被逐渐消耗殆尽。我可以看见，边境上标着深色的自然边界线，以及像风一样变动的浅色线条。我可以感觉到气候在哪里将要发生变化，并将下列情况视为不可避免：某些肥沃的地区将枯竭，而其他一些荒芜的地方却将兴旺起来。我确信，在某些地区神话将成为现实，在我们曾经是的未知之人和我们现在是的未知之人之间将会发现一种联系，过去的混乱将注定未来更大的混乱，只有骚动与混乱才具有重要意义，我们必须着手加以崇拜。作为人类，我们包含构成世界的全部因素，其真正的实质及其神话；我们到处并始终随身携带我们改变着的地貌，我们改变着的气候。欧洲地图正在我们眼前改变；没有人知道新大陆在哪里开始，在哪里终止。
我在这里处于伟大的变化之中。我忘记了我自己的语言，我也不说新的语言。我在中国，我在说中国话。我处于一个改变着的现实的死亡中心，还没有任何一种语言被发明出来以适应这个现实。按照地图，我是在巴黎；按照日历，我正生活在20世纪30年代，但是我既不在巴黎，也不在20世纪。我在中国，这里没有钟，也没有日历。我正坐着独桅三角帆船航行在长江上，我收集的食物是从美国炮舰上倾倒下来的垃圾中捡出来的。我花了一整天的时间准备一顿粗茶淡饭，但这是一顿美餐，而且我有一个铁铸的胃。
从卢夫西恩而来……在我下面是塞纳河谷。整个巴黎浮雕般凸现，像是一幅大地测量图。越过拥抱河床的平原望去，我看见巴黎城：一圈又一圈的街道，乡村之内的乡村，要塞之内的要塞。她像多节的老红杉树桩一般，孤独而威严地站在塞纳河的广阔平原上。她永远站在同一地点，一会儿缩小，一会儿扩张：破旧立新。无论从什么高度，无论从什么时空距离来看，她都站在那里，美丽的巴黎城，她柔和，像宝石一般，一座圣城，其神秘小径穿越大片大片屋顶的海洋，冲向开阔的平原。
在沸腾的高峰时间，我坐着喝开胃酒，浮想联翩。天空十分平静，云彩纹丝不动。我坐在交通的死亡中心，从我周围的衰朽中发展起来的一种新生活的静寂让我安宁。我的双脚碰到一个不老躯体的根，我没有一个名称来称呼这种东西。我同整个大地交流。我在时间的子宫中，没有任何东西可以动摇我脱离静默状态。又一个发现了自己不安之火的流浪汉。我坐在这里空旷的街上给我的歌谱曲。这是我小时候听到的歌，我已经在新世界里失去了它，要不是它像一根小树枝一般掉进时间的海洋，我就永远无法挽回它。
对一个不得不睁大眼睛做梦的人来说，一切运动都是倒退，一切行动都破碎成万花筒一般的碎片。当我从现在的恐怖中走过的时候，我相信，只有那些有勇气闭上眼睛的人，只有那些永远置身于被称为现实的状况之外的人，才能影响我们的命运。面对这种清醒的恐怖，我相信，我们文明的所有资源都将证明：它们难以发现破坏我们世界陈腐而无价值的平衡所必需的小沙粒。我相信，只有一个既不怕生也不怕死的梦幻者，才会发现这种无穷小的小点儿，正是这种小点儿使宇宙投入正常运转——在顷刻之间。我一刻也不相信万事缓慢而痛苦的、光彩而合逻辑的、不光彩地不合逻辑的演化。我相信，整个世界——不单单是地球及其构成物，也不是我们已经制图说明其各种组成部分的宇宙，包括超出我们视力和仪器能力范围之外的宇宙——而是整个已知和未知的世界，都处于欠佳状态，在痛苦和疯狂中尖叫。我相信，如果明天找到办法，可以让我们飞往最远的星球，飞往那样一些星球之一，即按照我们的古怪计算，那些星球的光直到我们地球毁灭也到达不了我们这里，我相信如果我们明天被运送到那里，处于一个尚未开始的时代，那么我们会发现一种完全相同的恐怖，一种完全相同的不幸，一种完全相同的疯狂。我相信，如果我们同周围星星的关系十分谐调，从而可以逃避相撞的奇迹，而我们又同这里、那里、更远的那里，以及到处都同时确定的命运相适应，那么就无法逃脱这种普遍的命运，除非在这里、那里、更远的那里以及到处，所有的人、动物、植物、矿物、岩石、河流、树木、山脉都同时想要逃脱这种命运。
在一个万物不再有名称的夜里，我走到街道的尽头，像一个来到其活动范围终端的人一样，我跳下了生死分水岭的悬崖。我跳过公墓围墙，那里最后坍毁的小便池在汩汩作响，这时候，我的整个童年都变成了我喉咙里的一个肿块，窒息了我。无论在哪里我铺完床以后，我都像疯子一样拼命要把过去驱赶出去，但在最后一刻，总是过去占了上风，我淹没在过去之中。在最后关头，人们终于明白未来是骗子，是面肮脏的镜子，是玻璃沙漏器底部的沙子，是已经熄火的炉子里的煤渣，冷冰冰的，死气沉沉。走进勒瓦卢瓦佩雷中心时，我从一个阿拉伯人身边经过，他站在一条死胡同的入口处。在灿烂的弧光灯下，他如同石化了一般。他没有任何人的标志——没有把手，没有杠杆，没有弹簧，可以像魔术师那样触摸一下，就把他从陷入的发呆状态中解脱出来。我继续漫步，漫步，阿拉伯人的形象越来越深地渗透到我的意识中。石头般地站在灿烂弧光灯下的阿拉伯人形象。站在街道的冷汗中的其他男男女女的形象——在一个石化了的空间中的小点上站着的有着人形的形象。自从我第一次来到街上亲眼看一看生活的那天以来，什么也没有改变。此后我学到的东西都是假的、无用的。现在我将假的东西搁置一边，我感到世界的现状比一开始更为残酷。我就是在这种催吐剂中诞生，又将在这种催吐剂中死亡。无法幸免。没有我可以逃入的天堂。天平两边持平。只需要一粒小沙子，但是这粒小沙子却不可能找到。缺乏精神和意志。我又想起这街道最初使我产生的惊奇和恐怖。我回想起我住过的房子，它的表面装饰，在它里面居住的恶魔，包围着它的神秘气氛；我回想起越过我的童年地平线的每一个人，以及将他裹在其中的那种奇观，他飘浮于其中的那种光环，他身体的触感，他发出的气味；我回想起一周诸日，以及支配它们、它们的天命、它们的芬芳的诸神，每一日都如此崭新，如此壮观，要不然就漫长而又极其空虚；我回想起我们建成的家园以及构成家园的事物和使家园生气勃勃的精神；我回想起变化的岁月，其决定性优势，就像一本藏在家谱树干上的日历；我甚至回想起我的梦，既有夜间的梦，又有白日梦。自从经过那阿拉伯人身边以来，我走过了漫长的直路，一直走向无限，或者至少我有一种幻觉，以为我走过了笔直而没有尽头的路。我忘记了有大地测量曲线这样一类东西，忘记了无论背离那阿拉伯人站的地方有多远，只要我不断地走，我就会一而再，再而三地回来。在每一个十字路口，我都会遇见一个石头般呆站着的人形，一个衬着死胡同、有灿烂的弧光灯照耀其上的形象。
今天我出来做另一次神游。我和我自己牢牢地粘在一起。天空再一次一动不动地挂着，四周鸦雀无声。在将我围在其中的大墙那边，音乐家们正在准备演奏。大崩溃之前需要度过的又一天！又一天！我一面这样对自己咕哝，一面突然拐过公墓围墙，走到麦斯特街上。突然向右拐，使我一下子进到巴黎的肠子里。街道像一道参差不齐的刀伤从蒙马特尔高地滑溜溜地盘绕在一起的肠子中穿过。我走在鲜血中，我的心脏在燃烧。明天所有这一切都将毁灭，我也一样。在墙那边，魔鬼们正在准备演奏。我的心脏燃烧得越来越快，越来越快！
爬上蒙马特尔高地的时候，圣安东尼在我的一边，鬼王别西卜在另一边。一个人站在高地上，光辉纯洁。心灵的表面变成波涛汹涌的大海。天空旋转，地动山摇。爬上高地，俯瞰颗粒状的屋顶，俯瞰疤痕斑斑的百叶窗和气喘吁吁的烟囱管帽……
在勒比克街侧身躺下休息片刻的地方，在它像发夹一样弯过来重新开始爬陡坡的地方，就好像上涨的潮水退去后，留下从海里带来的大量沉积物。舞厅，酒吧，卡巴莱餐馆，所有的白炽灯的花边和泡沫在围绕着高地底部的大量热气腾腾的食物面前黯然失色。巴黎正在揉肚皮。巴黎正在咂嘴。巴黎正在津津有味地等待未来的宴席。在这里，肉体总是在其环境中运动——一长列动态的行列，像埃及神殿的雕带，像伊特拉斯坎传说，像克里特全盛时期之初。一切都活跃得令人吃惊，一大堆相异的物质。人体的温暖蜂房，葡萄串，像温暖的钻石般储存起来的蜂蜜。街道统统聚集在我的手指缝里。我一只手捡起了整个法兰西。我在蜜蜂窝里，在斯芬克斯温暖的肚子里。天地和生动活泼的人性一同颤动。中心是肉体。肉体那边是怀疑、绝望、幻灭。肉体是基础，是不朽。
太阳沿着奥塞尔街下沉。也许这是太阳在下沉，也许是街道本身像门厅一样凄凉。我的血液由于它自己的重量而沉入易碎的、玻璃般的神经痔疮。在被悲伤所侵蚀的外表上，有一层薄薄的油渣，一层模模糊糊发绿的薄膜，有一点儿痴呆的样子，然后突然之间——立刻！——一切都改变了。街道突然张开大嘴，而那一边，像一个安静的白色之梦，像一场嵌在石头里的白色之梦，圣心教堂拔地而起。下午近黄昏，它沉重的白色令人窒息。一种沉重、困倦的白色，像一个倦怠的女人的肚子。血液反反复复地退去，柔和的光线使轮廓显得丰满，巨浪般的圆屋顶像处女的乳头一样绷得紧紧的。在使人头晕目眩的悬崖上，树木像多刺的荆棘般突出在外，它们长绒毛的树枝在根下着了魔一般流动着的无形潮流上方懒洋洋地摆动。一块块天空仍然粘在树梢上——染着东方蓝的柔软棉絮。一层高过一层，绿色大地点缀着面包屑、癞皮狗、吃同类的小动物，它们从袋鼠的袋子里跳出来。
从烈士的尸骨上长出白色的栏杆，殉难者的四肢仍在痛苦中扭动。穿丝袜的大腿交叉成库法字体的样子，也许是穿丝绸的荡妇，也许是瘦削的贪婪之人，也许是已死的妖艳女人。披着白色大象皮、装饰着沉重石兽的高楼大厦，将摩尔人的宿命论强加在巴黎身上。
夜晚降临，林荫大道的夜，天空像地狱之火一般红，从克利希到巴尔贝，浮雕般敞开的坟墓。柔和的巴黎之夜，像一架无牙的牙龈做成的梯子，盗墓者在梯级之间龇牙咧嘴。沿着山脚，小便池汩汩作响，它们的嘴里塞满了柔软的面包。正是在夜间，圣心教堂才显得十分可爱。正是在那时候，她皮肤的厚重白色和她潮湿的石头呼吸才像阀门一样给血液施加压力。夜间，巴黎将她发烧的白血排掉。时间在木琴上展开，月亮鸣锣，心灵受创。夜晚像一只翻转过来的痰盂一般到来，心灵的美好鲜花，金色的长寿花，白垩罂粟，都被嚼成了口水。在蒙马特尔高地上，在天蓝色的遮阳篷底下，大石马无声地咀嚼。马蹄的嘚嘚声使大地北到斯匹次卑尔根群岛，南至塔斯马尼亚岛，全在颤抖。地球在林荫道的柔软跑道上旋转。她转得越来越快，越来越快，而边缘的那一边，音乐家们正准备演奏。我又听见舞曲的最初音调，挥舞毒药和弹片的魔鬼舞，激动人心的热情舞蹈，每一颗心都在燃烧，在夜间尖叫。
在高地上，在春天的夜晚，我独自一人在鲸鱼的大躯体内倒挂着，我的眼睛里满是鲜血，我的头发像蛆虫一样白。一个肚皮，一个尸体，鲸鱼的大躯体像熄灭的太阳底下的胎儿一般腐烂。男人和虱子，男人和虱子，一个连续不断的行列，走向蛆虫堆里。这是耶稣歌唱的春天，他嘴里塞着海绵，法国佬在跳舞。没有生锈的痕迹，没有忧郁的污渍。在疯狂的黑色之梦中，脑袋垂在大腿根之间，过去慢慢下沉，形象呈球形和链形。在每一个子宫里，铁蹄嘚嘚地猛跑，在每一座坟墓里都有空子弹壳的呼啸。子宫，弹壳，在子宫的窟窿中，一个十足的白痴正在采毛茛花。现在人与马成一体移动，柔软的手，偶蹄。他们不断行进，眼球红红的，马鬃像烈火一般。春天带着大雨滂沱的咆哮，在夜间到来。随母马的双翼而来，母马的鬃毛飞舞，鼻孔冒烟。
在科兰古街上，墓地的桥上面，正下着一场柔和的春雨。在我下方是白色的小教堂，那里埋着死人。桥上笨重的格子形构造投下一块破破烂烂的阴影。草地上冒出青草，现在看上去比白天更绿——一种闪烁着马力、克拉，颜色鲜艳的草。在科兰古街上走得更远一些，我遇见一男一女。那女的戴一顶草帽。她手里拿一把伞，但是没有打开它。当我走近她时，听到她说：“这是一个阴谋[1]！”我想到combinaison的意思就是内衣，便竖起耳朵，但她说的是一种不同的意思，马上毛皮就飞了起来。现在我明白伞为什么老是合着了。“阴谋！”她尖叫，接着她开始使劲挥舞那把伞。男的那可怜家伙所能说的一切就是：“不，小宝贝，不！”
这一小小的场面给予我强烈的快感——不是因为她正不断地用伞抽他，而是因为我忘记了combinaison的其他意思。我看向我的右边，那儿的一条倾斜的街道上，正是我始终在寻找的巴黎。你也许认识巴黎的每一条街，却不认识巴黎，但是当你忘记了你在什么地方，天上下着毛毛细雨的时候，在无目的的漫游中你会突然来到你在睡梦中一再走过的街道，而这就是你现在正经过的那条街。
正是沿着这条街，我度过了一天，并看见一个男人躺在人行道上。他手臂张开着仰面躺在地上——好像他刚从十字架上被抬下来。没有一个人走近他，没有一个人，去看看他是死是活。他仰面平躺在地上，双臂张开，身子一动不动。当我走近这个人的时候，我让自己放心：他没有死。他沉重地呼吸着，有一滴烟草汁正从他嘴上滴下来。在我到达拐角的时候，我停下来看看会发生什么事情。我还没来得及拐过去，就有一阵笑声灌进我的耳朵。突然之间，每家门口、每个商店门前都拥挤不堪。整条街在一眨眼的工夫中变得生气勃勃。男男女女们都双手叉腰站着，眼泪从脸颊上滚滚而下。我从人群中挤过去，他们都围在人行道上躺着的那个人周围。我无法理解这种突发性兴趣的理由，这种突如其来的欢闹。最后我挤了进去，又站在那个人的身体旁。他像以前一样仰面躺着。有一只狗俯身站在他旁边，狗尾巴欢快地摇来晃去。狗鼻子埋在那个人敞开的裤裆里。这就是每个人都在如此欢笑的原因。我也试着欢笑，可我不能。我变得很悲哀，极其悲哀，比我一生中的任何时候都悲哀。我不知道是什么东西支配了我……
爬上这条倾斜的街道，现在我记起了所有这一切。事情就发生在路对面的肉店门前，就是有着红白相间遮阳篷的那一家。我穿过马路，在那潮湿的铺石路上，就在另一个男人躺过的地方，现在有一个双臂张开的男人的身体。我走近去好好看一眼他。是同一个人，只是现在他的裤裆是扣上的，而且已经死了。我弯下腰去真正确认这是同一个人，而且他已经死了。在真正确认以后，我站起身来走开了。在拐角处我停了片刻。我在等什么呢?我金鸡独立式地站着，指望再次听到那阵我记得如此清楚的笑声。鸦雀无声。看不见一个人影。除了我自己和那个躺在肉店门前的死人，街上荒无人烟。也许这只是一场梦。我看看路牌，想知道这是否是我所知道的街名，我的意思是，一个如果我醒着就会认出来的街名。我摸了摸身边的墙，从贴在墙上的招贴画上撕下一个小条。我把小纸条在手里拿了一会儿，然后揉成一小团，扔进了沟里。它弹跳着掉进了发出微光的污水里。我显然不是在做梦。我刚让自己放心，我是醒着的，立刻就有一种冷酷的恐惧感支配了我。如果我不是在做梦，那么我就是疯了。更糟糕的是，如果我疯了，我就绝不能证明我是在做梦还是醒着。但是也许不必证明任何东西，我一转念，又感到放心。我是唯一知道这种情况的人。我是唯一有疑虑的人。我越想这个问题，就越确信，使我烦恼的问题并非我是在做梦还是疯了，而是这个人行道上的人，这个双臂张开的人是不是我自己。如果可能在梦中或在死后离开肉体，那么也许就可能永远离开肉体，漫无止境地飘游，没有肉体，解脱，一个无名的正身，或者一个未验明正身的名字，一个无所属的灵魂，对一切都无动于衷，一个不朽的，也许无法收买的灵魂，像上帝一样——谁能说不是这样呢?
我的身体——它所知道的地方，这么多地方，都如此奇怪，同我毫无关系。英雄埃阿斯抓住我的头发，把我拖过遥远地方的遥远街道——疯狂的地方……魁北克、丘拉维斯塔、布朗斯维尔、叙雷讷、蒙特卡洛、切尔诺维茨、达姆施塔特、卡纳西、卡尔卡松、科隆、克利希、克拉科夫、布达佩斯、阿维尼翁、维也纳、布拉格、马赛、伦敦、蒙特利尔、科罗拉多斯普林斯、英皮里尔城、杰克逊维尔、夏延、奥马哈、图森、蓝地、塔拉哈西、沙莫尼、绿点、天堂角、洛马角、达勒姆、朱诺、阿尔勒、迪耶普、艾克斯拉夏佩勒、普罗旺斯地区艾克斯、勒阿弗尔、尼姆、阿什维尔、波恩、赫基默、格伦代尔、泰孔德罗加、尼亚加拉瀑布、斯帕坦堡、的的喀喀湖、奥西宁、达纳莫拉、纳拉甘西特、纽伦堡、汉诺威、汉堡、伦贝格、尼德尔斯、卡尔加里、加尔维斯顿、檀香山、西雅图、奥泰、印第安纳波利斯、费尔菲尔德、里士满、奥兰治法院、卡尔弗城、罗切斯特、尤蒂卡、派恩布什、卡森城、绍斯霍尔德、蓝角、华雷斯、米尼奥拉、斯普依顿杜依维尔、波塔基特、威尔明顿、库根悬崖、诺思比奇、图卢兹、佩皮尼昂、丰特内欧罗思、威德康英德莫尔、莫比尔、卢夫西恩……在每一个这样的地方，我都会遇到一些事情，一些性命攸关的事情。在每一个这样的地方，我都在人行道上留下一具手臂张开的尸体。每一次我都弯腰好好看一看我自己，让我自己放心，这身体不是活的，我留下的不是我，而是我自己。我继续走——走啊走，走啊走。我仍然在走，我活着，但是当雨下了起来，我开始无目的地漫游的时候，我听到我一路上像剥皮般剥掉的那些死亡自我的当啷声。我问自己——接下去怎么办?你也许以为身体的承受力有限，可它是无限的。身体高高凌驾于痛苦之上，以至于当一切都被杀光的时候，总还会留下一片脚指甲或一团毛发，从中长出新生物，正是这些不朽的新生物永远留存下来，因而在你绝对死去、完全被忘却的时候，你的某些细小部分仍在生长，即使过去将来时完全不存在，现在也还是有某些小小的部分活着，生长着。
正是这样，有一天下午我站在卢夫西恩小站外面的炙人阳光中，一小部分的我活着，生长着。这是广播上传来老一套报道的时刻——按他们的说法是空中传播。车站路对面小餐馆里藏着一架机器，机器里藏着一个人，这个人身体里藏着一个声音。这是一个十足白痴的声音，它说——美国制罐公司……美国电话电报公司……它是用法语说的，听起来更是白痴味十足。美国制罐公司……美国电话电报公司……然后突然，就像雅各登上金梯的时候一样，天堂的所有声音突然迸发出来。有如光秃秃的大地上喷出的一股泉水，整个美国的图景涌现出来——美国制罐公司、美国电话电报公司、大西洋和太平洋电信服务公司、美孚石油公司、联合雪茄公司、约翰神父、萨柯和万泽蒂案件、纳贝斯克公司、海滨航空公司、萨波利奥牌肥皂、尼克•卡特、特利克西•弗利甘萨、《狐狸爷爷》连载漫画、金粉双生子牌肥皂、汤姆•夏基、瓦勒斯卡•苏拉特、海军准将施莱、米莉•德•利昂、西达•巴拉、罗伯特•E.李、小尼莫、莉迪亚•平卡姆、杰西•詹姆斯、安妮•奥克莉、戴蒙德•吉姆•布雷迪、施利茨密尔沃基、海普•圣路易斯、丹尼尔•布恩、马克•汉纳、亚历山大•道伊、纳辛夫人、玛丽•贝克•埃迪、波卡洪塔斯、法蒂•阿巴克尔、露丝•斯奈德、莉莲•拉塞尔、斯莱丁•比利•沃森、奥尔迦•尼德索尔、比利•森戴、马克•吐温、弗利曼•克拉克、约瑟夫•史密斯、战斗的纳尔逊、艾梅•桑普尔•麦克弗森、霍拉斯•格里利、帕特•鲁尼、佩罗纳、约翰•菲利普•苏萨、杰克•伦敦、贝勃•鲁斯、斯托夫人、艾尔•卡彭、亚伯•林肯、布里格姆•扬、瑞普•凡•温克尔、《疯狂猫》、利吉特和梅尔烟草公司、《霍尔鲁姆男孩》、霍恩和哈达特餐饮公司、福勒牙刷公司、《捣蛋鬼》连载漫画、忧郁男子、托马斯•爱迪生、水牛比尔、黄孩子、布克•T.华盛顿、乔尔戈什、亚瑟•布里斯班、亨利•沃德•比彻、欧内斯特•赛顿•汤普森、玛吉•彭内蒂、白箭口香糖、瑞摩斯大叔、斯沃博达、大卫•哈伦姆、约翰•保尔•琼斯、粒状麦粉、阿奎纳多、奈尔•布林克利、贝西•麦考伊、托德•斯隆、弗里奇•谢夫、拉夫加多•赫恩、安娜•赫尔德、小伊娃、欧米迦石油、马克辛•埃利奥特、奥斯卡•哈默斯坦、博斯托克、史密斯兄弟、兹比斯科、克拉拉•基姆勃尔•扬、保罗•里维尔、塞缪尔•冈珀斯、马克斯•林德、艾拉•威勒•威尔考克斯、“花冠”牌香烟、昂卡斯、亨利•克莱、伍尔沃思、帕特里克•亨利、克雷莫、乔治•C.提尔尤、远射程大炮、克里斯蒂•马修森、阿德琳•基尼、理查德•卡尔、伍长甜烟丝、派克和梯尔福特公司、珍妮•伊格尔斯、芳妮•赫斯特、奥尔迦•佩特洛娃、耶鲁汤尼工厂、泰利•麦戈文、旧金山、玛丽•卡希尔、詹姆斯•杰克逊•杰弗里斯、胡萨托尼克河、佩诺布斯科特河、伊万杰琳、西尔斯罗巴克公司、意式凉菜拼盘、幻想世界、P.T.巴纳姆、月宫公园、海华沙、比尔•奈、帕特•麦凯伦、狂野骑兵、米夏•埃尔曼、大卫•贝拉斯科、法拉格特、毛猿、明尼哈哈、箭领、日出、旭日、谢南多厄河、杰克•约翰逊、《街角的小教堂》、凯布•凯勒威、伊莱恩•哈默斯坦、基德•麦考伊、本•阿密、韦达、《淘气小不点》、帕蒂、尤金•V.德布兹、特拉华和拉克万纳西方铁路公司、卡洛•特瑞斯卡、恰克•康纳斯、乔治•艾德、艾玛•戈尔德曼、坐牛[2]、保罗•德雷斯勒、儿童片、休伯特博物馆、“巴姆”酒吧、弗洛伦斯•米尔斯、阿拉莫、孔雀巷、香盒道、淘金热、羊头湾、“压制者”刘易斯[3]、米米•阿古利亚、理发店四重唱、鲍比•沃索尔、“无痛”帕克[4]、莱斯利•卡特夫人、警务报、卡特的肝病小药丸、巴斯塔诺比公司、保罗和乔公司、威廉•詹宁斯•布赖恩、乔治•M.科汉、维韦卡南达先生、萨达基奇•哈特曼、伊丽莎白•格利•弗林、莫尼特号和梅里麦克号之战、出租车司机斯纳菲、多萝西•迪克斯、阿马托、伟大的西尔维斯特、乔•杰克逊、邦妮、埃尔西•贾尼斯、艾琳•富兰克林、《比尔街蓝调》、泰德•刘易斯、葡萄酒、《女人与歌》、蓝标签番茄沙司、比尔•贝利、锡德•奥尔科特、《在暮色中，吉纳维芙》和《遥远的沃巴什河岸》……
美国的一切一下子全涌现出来。每一个名称都联系着我生活中上千个熟悉的细节。在街上，从我身边经过的法国人当中有谁会猜想到我内心携带着一本名称的词典，而每一个名称都包含着一次生与一次死呢?当我凝神走在街上的时候，哪个法国佬知道我是走在什么街上呢?他知道我正走在中国长城里面吗?没有任何东西记录在我的脸上——既没有痛苦，也没有欢乐；既没有希望，也没有绝望。我带着一副苦力的面孔走在街上。我看见山河破碎，家园荒芜，家庭四分五裂。我走过的每一座城市都杀死了我——不幸如此无边无际，不间断的辛苦如此没完没了。我从一座城市走到另一座城市，在我身后留下了一大串死去的、梆梆作声的自我。但是我自己继续走啊，走啊。我一直听见音乐家们调音……
昨夜我又走过第十四区。我又碰到了我的偶像埃迪•卡尼，这个自我离开以前住的那个地段以来一直未见过的男孩。他又高又瘦，有着爱尔兰式的潇洒。他占据了我的身心。有三条街标志着已知世界的疆界——北第一街、菲尔莫尔街、德里格斯大道。疆界以外是图勒，极北地区。这是圣胡安山、银币自由铸造、匹诺曹、尤尼达的时代。在离沃拉鲍特市场不远的水坞中，停泊着一些军舰。靠着路边有一条狭长的沥青路，可以让骑自行车的人骑到康尼岛去，再骑回来。在每包伍长甜烟丝中都有一张照片，有时候是一个女戏子，有时候是一个职业拳击手，有时候是一面旗。临近傍晚时分，保罗•索尔会把一只锡罐从他家窗户的格条缝里递出来，要求来点儿生泡菜。也是在临近傍晚时分，自负高傲的金发莱斯特•瑞尔顿会从他家里出来，走过面包店门前——这是一件意义十分重大的事情。在南边，是律师、内科医生、政治家、演员的家以及消防站、殡仪馆、新教教堂、脱衣舞酒吧、喷水池；在北边，是锡工厂、铁工厂、兽医诊所、公墓、学校、警察局、停尸房、屠宰场、煤气罐、鱼市场、民主党人俱乐部。我们只害怕三个人——散布福音的老家伙拉姆塞、疯小贩乔治•丹顿、灭臭虫专家多克•马丁。各种类型已清晰可辨：小丑、凡夫俗子、偏执狂、反复无常的人、神秘主义宗教信条传播者、做苦工的人、怪人、酒鬼、说谎者、伪君子、妓女、施虐狂、马屁精、吝啬鬼、盲信者、同性恋者、罪犯、圣徒、好人。詹妮•曼是那些捣蛋鬼争抢的一块肉。阿尔菲•贝查是个无赖。乔•戈勒是个娘娘腔。斯坦利是我的第一位朋友。斯坦利•博罗夫斯基，他是我认出来的第一个“其他”人。他是一个暴戾的家伙。斯坦利不认任何法律，只认他老爹放在理发店店堂后面的皮带。当他老爹用皮带抽他的时候，你隔着几条街都能听到他的尖叫。在这个世界里，一切都是在光天化日下公开进行的。做裤子的裁缝西尔弗斯坦发疯以后，他们把他放倒在他家门前的人行道上，给他穿上拘束衣。他老婆当时还怀着小孩，她怕得要命，竟然就在他旁边的人行道上流掉了小家伙。灭臭虫专家马丁教授在长时间狂饮之后刚刚回家。他上衣口袋里有两只白鼬，其中一只跑出来爬在他身上。斯坦利•博罗夫斯基把那只白鼬赶到沟里去，为此他当时当地就挨了哈利一拳，被打青了眼睛。哈利是马丁教授的儿子，傻头傻脑的。在街对面涂料店上边的小棚子上，维利•曼正把裤子扒下站着，他在玩那玩意儿想好事哩！“不要，”他说，“不要！不要！”消防车来了，把水龙头对准了他。是他的酒鬼老爹报了警。警察来了，几乎把他老爹打死。这时候，在另一个街区，帕特•麦凯伦正站在吧台旁请他的老朋友们喝香槟。日场演出刚刚结束，“巴姆”脱衣舞酒吧里的女戏子和她们的水手朋友成群结队地涌到后屋。疯乔治•丹顿正推着车在街上走，一手拿鞭子，一手拿《圣经》。他扯着最高的嗓门发疯地喊叫“这些事你们既做在我这弟兄中一个最小的身上，就是做在我身上了”[5]，以及诸如此类的废话。戈尔曼太太穿着脏晨衣站在门口，奶子一半露在外面，嘟哝着“啧，啧，啧！”她是北边卡洛尔神父教堂的教徒。“早成（晨）好，神父，今天早成（晨）天气好极了！”
正是在这天晚上，吃过饭以后，我又想起了这一切——我指的是那些音乐家以及他们正在准备的舞曲。我们当时为我们自己——卡尔和我，准备了一次小小的宴席。一顿完全由美味食品构成的晚餐：萝卜、黑橄榄、西红柿、沙丁鱼、奶酪、犹太式面包、香蕉、苹果沙司、几升十四度的阿尔及利亚葡萄酒。室外很暖和很安静。我们吃完饭坐在那里，心满意足地抽着烟，几乎快要睡过去了。饭是那样香，坐在硬硬的椅子上是那样舒服。天色渐暗，屋顶周围静悄悄的，好像房子本身正安静地透过缝隙呼吸着。像许多傍晚一样，我们在沉默中坐了一会儿以后，房间里几乎全黑了，他突然开始谈起他自己，谈起过去的某件事，这事在傍晚的寂静与幽暗中开始成形显现，它不是能精确地用语言表达出来的，因为他传达给我的东西是无法用语言表达的。我认为我听到的根本不是语言，而是他发出的音乐——一种透过阿尔及利亚葡萄酒、萝卜、黑橄榄而传来的木质的甜蜜音乐。他在谈论他母亲，谈论从她子宫里出来，然后是他的弟弟妹妹，然后战争来临，他们让他射击，他不能射，然后战争结束，他们打开监狱、疯人院以及一切一切的大门，他像小鸟一样自由。究竟是如何这样滔滔不绝地倾吐的，我已经记不清了。我们在谈论着《风流寡妇》，谈论着马克斯•林德，谈论着维也纳的普拉特——然后我们突然置身于日俄战争之中，见到了克劳德•法雷尔在《战斗》中提到的那个中国人。书中说到的关于那中国人的事情一定已经沉积在他的心底，因为当他又张开嘴，谈起他的母亲、她的子宫、战争来临、像小鸟一样自由时，我知道他又回到了遥远的过去，我几乎不敢呼吸，就怕让他又清醒过来。
我听到他说像小鸟一样自由，随之，大门打开，其他人跑出来，大家都免于受罚，并且都由于监禁和等待战争结束的紧张心情而有点儿发傻。当大门打开的时候，我又回到了街上，在房子门前的台阶上我的朋友斯坦利坐在我旁边，我们晚上就在那里吃酸面包。街那边是卡洛尔神父的教堂。现在又到了傍晚，正响着晚祷的钟声。卡尔和我在逐渐增加的幽暗中面面相觑，相安无事。我们正坐在克利希，战争结束很久了，但是另一场战争正在来临。它就在那里的黑暗中，也许正是这黑暗使他想起他母亲的子宫。夜深了，你独自一人站在外面，无论夜变得多么可怕，你必须独自一人站在那里接受它。“我不要去参加战争，”他说，“妈拉巴子，我才十八岁啊！”正在此时，一架留声机开始放起音乐，这是《风流寡妇》华尔兹。外面的一切都如此沉寂，如此静谧——就像在战前那样。斯坦利正在门前台阶上对我窃窃私语——谈论上帝，天主教的上帝。碗里有一些萝卜，卡尔在黑暗中大声咀嚼着这些萝卜。“无论你有多么穷困，活着总是那么美好。”他说。我勉强能看清楚他伸手到碗里，抓起另一根萝卜。活着是那么美好！他说着，把萝卜塞进嘴里，好像要使自己相信，他仍然活着，像小鸟一样自由。现在整条街道都像小鸟一样自由，在我心中嘁嘁喳喳。我又看见了那些后来脑袋被炸掉、肠子被刺刀挑出来的孩子们——像阿尔菲•贝查、汤姆•福勒、约翰尼•邓恩、西尔维斯特•戈勒、哈利•马丁、约翰尼•保罗、埃迪•卡尼、莱斯特•瑞尔顿、乔吉•曼、斯坦利•博罗夫斯基、路易斯•庇罗沙、罗比•希斯洛普、埃迪•戈尔曼、鲍勃•马洛尼那样的男孩。来自北边的男孩们和来自南边的男孩们——所有人都滚入一个大粪堆，他们的肠子还挂在铁丝网上。只要有一个人幸免于难也好啊！可是不，一个也没有！就连了不起的莱斯特•瑞尔顿也不能幸免。整个过去全被抹去了。
活着，并且像小鸟一样自由，这有多么美好。大门敞开，我想去哪里就去哪里漫游。然而埃迪•卡尼在何方?斯坦利在何方?
这是耶稣歌唱的春天，他嘴里有海绵，青蛙在跳舞。在每一个子宫里，铁蹄奔腾；在每一座坟墓里，空弹壳咆哮。由令人厌恶的痛苦构成的墓穴，满是天使蛆虫，悬挂在天幕垂罩的子宫上。在这鲸鱼的最后肉体内，整个世界变成了一个流脓的疮。当接下来喇叭吹响的时候，这就像揿按钮一样：第一个人倒下去的时候，他将推倒下一个人，下一个推倒再下一个，就这样一连串地倒下去，从纽约到长崎，从北极到南极，在全世界各个地方都是这样一个接一个地倒下去。当人倒下去的时候，他将推倒大象，大象将推倒母牛，母牛将推倒马，马将推倒小羊，一切都将倒下，一个在另一个之前，一个在另一个之后，就像一排被风刮倒的锡制玩具兵。世界将像一个罗马焰火筒一般熄灭，连一片草叶也不会再长出来。吃了致死的剂量，再也不会醒过来。宁静的夜。没有呻吟，也没有窃窃私语来破坏这种宁静。一种柔和而浑然一体的黑暗，一种听不见的振翅飞翔。
【注释】
[1]原文为法文combinaison，既有“阴谋”之意，也可指“内衣”。
[2]坐牛（1831——1890）：美国印第安人部落首领，曾领导印第安人反抗白人入侵。
[3]即埃德•刘易斯（1891——1966），美国职业摔跤手，曾夺得六次世界重量级冠军。
[4]即埃德加•帕克（1872——1952），美国著名牙医，实行无痛拔牙。
[5]该句出自《新约全书》中《马太福音》第二十五章。
Burlesk
Burlesk
Now works the calmness of Scheveningen like an anesthetic.
Standing at the bar looking at the English cunt with all her front teeth missing it suddenly comes back to me: Don’t Spit On the Floor! It comes back to me like a dream: Don’t Spit On the Floor! It was at Freddie’s Bar on the Rue Pigalle and a man with lacy fingers, a man in a white silk shirt with loose flowing sleeves, had just rippled off “Good Bye Mexico! ” She said she wasn’t doin’ much now, just battin’ around. She was from the Big Broadcast and she had caught the hoof and mouth disease. She kept running back and forth to the toilet through the beaded curtains. The harp was swell, like angels pissing in your beer. She was a little drunk and trying to be a lady at the same time. I had a letter in my pocket from a crazy Dutchman; he had just returned from Sofia. “Saturday night,” it said, “I had only one wish and that was that you could have sitten next to me.” (Where he didn’t say.) “The only thing I can write you now is this-after having left the hustling noisy New York works the calmness of a town like Scheveningen as a anaesteatic.” He had been on a bust in Sofia and he had taken to himself the prima donna of the Royal Opera there. This, as he says, had given him just the right kind of rakish reputation to find grace with the public opinion of Sofia. He says he is going to retreat and start again a sober life-in Scheveningen.
I hadn’t looked at the letter all evening but when the English cunt opened her mouth and I saw all her front teeth missing it came back to me-Don’t Spit On the Floor! We were walking through the ghetto, the crazy Dutchman and I, and he was dressed in his messenger uniform. He had delivered all his messages and he was off duty for the rest of the evening. We were walking toward the Cafe Royal in order to sit down and have a beer or two in peace. I was giving him permission to sit down and have a beer with me because I was his boss and besides he was off duty and he could do as he pleased in his spare time.
We were walking along Second Avenue, heading north, when suddenly I noticed a shop window with an illuminated cross and on it it said: Whosoever Believeth In Me Shall Not Die…. We went inside and a man was standing on a platform saying: “Miss Powell, you make ready a song! Come now, brothers, who’ll testify? Yes, Hymn No. 73. After the meeting we will all go down to call on our bereaved sister, Mrs. Blanchard. Let us stand while we sing Hymn No. 73: Lord plant my feet on the higher ground. As I was saying a moment ago, when I saw the steeplejack painting our new steeple bright and pure for us the words of this dear old hymn rushed to my lips: Lord plant my feet on the higher ground.”
The place was very small and there were signs everywhere-“The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want,” et cetera. The most prominent sign was the one over the altar: Don’t Spit On the Floor. They were all singing Hymn No. 73 in honor of the new steeple. We were standing on the higher ground and I had a good view of the signs on the wall, especially the one over the pulpit-Don’t Spit On the Floor. Sister Powell was pumping away at the organ: she looked clean and spiritual. The man on the platform was singing louder than the others and though he knew the words by heart he held the hymn book in front of him and sang from the notes. He looked like a blacksmith who was substituting for the regular preacher. He was very loud and very earnest. He was doing his best, between songs, to get people to testify. Every now and then a man with a squeaky voice piped up: “I praise God for his savin’ and keepin’ power!”
Amen! Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
“Come now,” roars the blacksmith, “who’ll testify? You, brother Eaton, won’t you testify?”
Brother Eaton rises to his feet and says solemnly: “He purchased me with a price.”
Amen! Amen! Hallelujah!
Sister Powell is wiping her hands with a handkerchief. She does it spiritually. After she has wiped her hands she looks blankly at the wall in front of her. She looks as though the Lord had just anointed her. Very spiritual.
Brother Eaton, who was purchased with a price, is sitting quietly with hands folded. The blacksmith explains that Brother Eaton was purchased with the price of Christ’s own precious blood shed on the cross, on Calvary, it was. He would like some one else to testify. Some one else, please! In a little while, he explains, we will all go down in a body to have a last look at Sister Blanchard’s dear son who passed away last night. Come now, who’ll testify?
A quaky voice: “Folks, you know I’m not much for testifyin’. But there’s one verse very dear to me… very dear. It’s Colossius 3. Stand still and see the salvation of the Lord. Just stand still, brothers. Just be quiet. Try it sometime. Get down on your knees and try to think of Him. Try to listen to Him. Let Him speak. Brothers, it’s very dear to me-Colossius 3. Stand still and see the salvation of the Lord.”
Hear! Hear! Glory! Glory! Praise the Lord! Hallelujah!
“Sister Powell, you make ready another song!” He wipes his face. `Before we go down to take a last look at Sister Blanchard’s dear son let us all join in singing one more hymn: What a friend we have in Jesus! I guess we all know that by heart. Men, if you’re not washed in the blood of the Lamb it won’t matter how many books your name is registered in down here. Don’t put HIM off! Come to HIM tonight, men… tonight! Come now, all together-What a friend we have … Hymn No. 97. Let everybody stand and sing before we go down in a body to Sister Blanchard’s. Come now, Hymn No. 97…. “What a friend we have in Jesus….”
It’s all arranged. We’re all going down in a body to look at Sister Blanchard’s dear dead son. All of usColossians, Pharisees, snotnoses, gaycats, cracked sopranos-all going down in a body to have a last look. I don’t know what has happened to the crazy Dutchman who wanted a glass of beer. We’re going down to Sister Blanchard’s, all of us in a body-the Jukes and the Kallikaks, Hymn No. 7 3 and Don’t Spit On the Floor! Brother Pritchard, you put out the lights! And Sister Powell, you make ready a song! Good-bye Mexico! We’re going down to Sister Blanchard’s. Going down to plant our feet on the higher ground. Here a nose missing, there an eye out. Lopsided, rheumy, bile-ridden, sweet, spiritual, wormy and demented. All going down in a body to paint the steeple pure and bright. All friends with Jews. All standing still to see the salvation of the Lord. Brother Eaton’s gonna pass the hat around and Sister Powell’s gonna wipe the spit off the walls. All purchased with a price, the price of a good cigar. Now works the calmness of Scheveningen like an anesthetic. All the messages are delivered. For those preferring cremation we will have a few very fine niches for urns. Sister Blanchard’s dear dead son is lying on the ice, his toes are sprouting. The mausoleum provides a place where families and friends may lie side by side in a snow-white compartment, high and dry above the ground, where neither water, damp, nor mold can enter.
Moving toward the National Winter Garden in a yellow taxi. The calmness of Scheveningen is working on me. Letters like music everywhere and God be praised for his savin’ and keepin’ power. Everywhere black snow, everywhere lousy black wigs. WATCH THIS WINDOW FOR SLIGHTLY USED BARGAINS! MUST VACATE! Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Poverty walking about in fur coats. Turkish baths, Russian baths, Sitz baths … baths, baths, and no cleanliness. Clara Bow is giving “Parisian Love.” The ghost of Jacob Gordin stalks the blood-soaked tundras. St. Marks-on-the-Bouwerie looks gay as a cockroach, her walls sweet minted and painted a tutti-frutti. BRIDGE WORK … REASONABLE PRICES. Moskowitz is tickling the cymbalon and the cymbalon is tickling the cold storage rump of Leo Tolstoi who has now become a vegetarian restaurant. The whole planet is turned inside out to make warts, pimples, blackheads, wens. The hospitals are all renovated, admission free, side entrance. To all who are suffering, to all who are weary and heavy-laden, to every son of a bitch dying with eczema, halitosis, gangrene, dropsy, be it remembered, sealed and affixed that the side entrance is free. Come ye one and all! Come, ye sniveling Kallikaks! Come, ye snotnosed Pharisees! Come and have your guts renovated at less than the cost of ordinary ground burial. Come tonight! Jesus wants you. Come before it’s too latewe close at 7:15 on the dot.
Cleo dances every night! !
Cleo, darling of the gods, dances every night. Mommer, I’m coming! Mommer, I want to be saved! I’m walking up the ladder, Mommer.
Glory! Glory! Colossius! Colossius 3.
Mother of all that’s holy, now I’m in heaven. I’m standing behind the standees who are standing behind Z for zebra. The Episcopal rector is standing on the church steps with a broken rectum. It says-NO PARKING. The Minsky brothers are in the box office dreaming of the river Shannon. The Pathe News clicks like a hollow nutmeg. In the Himalayas the monks get up in the middle of the night and pray for all who sleep so that men and women all over the world, when they awake in the morning, may begin the day with thoughts that are pure, kind, and brave. The world passes in review: St. Moritz, the Oberammergau Players, Oedipus Rex, chow dogs, cyclones, bathing beauties. My soul is at peace. If I had a beer and a ham sandwich what a friend I would have in Jesus! Anyway, the curtain is rising. Shakespeare was right-the show is the thing!
And now, ladies and gentlemen, the curtain is rising on the cleanest, fastest show ever produced in the Western Hemisphere. The curtain is rising, ladies and gentle men, on those portions of the anatomy called respectively the epigastric, the umbilical, and the hypogastric. These choice portions, marked down to a dollar ninetyeight, have never before been shown to an American audience. Minsky, the king of the Jews, has imported them especially from the Rue de la Paix. This is the cleanest, fastest show in New York. And now, ladies and gentlemen, while the ushers are busy squirting and fumigating, we will pass out a number of French post cards each and every one guaranteed to be genuine. With every post card we will also pass out a genuine German hand-made microscope made in Zurich by the Japanese. This, ladies and gentlemen, is the fastest, cleanest show in the world. Minsky, the king of the Jews, says so himself. The curtain is rising … the curtain is rising…
Under cover of darkness the ushers are spraying the dead and live lice and the nests of lice and the egg lice buried in the thick black curly locks of those who have no private baths, the poor, homeless Jews of the East Side who in their desperate poverty walk about in fur coats selling matches and shoe laces. Outside it’s exactly like the Place des Vosges or the Haymarket or Covent Garden, except that these people have faith-in the Burroughs Adding Machine. The fire escapes are crowded with pregnant women who have blown themselves up with bicycle pumps. All the poor desperate Jews of the East Side are happy on the fire escapes because they are eating ham sandwiches with one foot in the clouds. The curtain is rising to the odor of formaldehyde sweetened with Wrigley’s Spearmint Chewing Gum, five a package. The curtain is rising on the one and only portion of the human anatomy about which the less said the better. In life’s December when love is an ember it will be sad to remember the star-spangled bananas floating over the sheet-iron portions of the epigastric, hypogastric and umbilical sections of the human anatomy. Minsky is dreaming in the box office, his feet planted on the higher ground. The Oberammergau Players are playing somewhere else. The chow dogs are being bathed and perfumed for the blue ribbon show. Sister Blanchard is sitting in the rocker with a fallen womb. Age comes, the body withers-but hernia can be cured. Looking down from the fire escape one sees the beautiful, unending landscape, exactly as it was painted by Cezanne-with corrugated ash cans, rusty can openers, broken-down baby carriages, tin bathtubs, copper boilers, nutmeg graters and partially nibbled animal crackers carefully preserved in cellophane. This is the fastest, cleanest show on earth brought all the way from the Rue de la Paix. You have the choice of two things-one looking down, down into the black depths, the other looking up, up into the sunlight where the hope of the resurrection waves above the star-spangled banner each and every one guaranteed to be genuine. Stand still, men, and see the salvation of the Lord. Cleo is dancing tonight and every night this week at less than the price of ordinary ground burial. Death is coming on all fours, like a sprig of shamrock. The stage glitters like the electric chair. Cleo is coming. Cleo, darling of the gods and queen of the electric chair.
Now works the calmness of Scheveningen like an anesthetic. The curtain rises on Colossius 3. Cleo advances out of the womb of night, her belly swollen with sewer gas. Glory! Glory! I’m climbing up the ladder. Out of the womb of night rises the old Brooklyn Bridge, a torpid dream wriggling in spume and moonfire. A drone and sizzle scraping the frets. A glister of chryso prase, a flare of naptha. The night is cold and men are walking in lock step. The night is cold but the queen is naked save for a jockstrap. The queen is dancing on the cold embers of the electric chair. Cleo, the darling of the Jews, is dancing on the tips of her lacquered nails; her eyes are twisted, her ears filled with blood. She is dancing through the cold night at reasonable prices. She will dance every night this week to make way for platinum bridges. 0 men, behind the virwmque cano, behind the duodecimal system and the Seaboard Air Line stands the Queen of Tammany Hall. She stands in bare feet, her belly swollen with sewer gas, her navel rising in systolic hexameters. Cleo, the queen, purer than the purest asphalt, warmer than the warmest electricity, Cleo the queen and darling of the gods dancing on the asbestos seat of the electric chair. In the morning she will push off for Singapore, Mozambique, Rangoon. Her barque is moored to the gutter. Her slaves are crawling with lice. Deep in the womb of night she dances the song of salvation. We-are all going down in a body to the Men’s Room to stand on the higher ground. Down to the Men’s Room where it is sanitary and dry and sentimental as a churchyard.
Imagine now, while the curtain’s falling, that it’s a fine balmy day and the smell of clams coming in from the bay. You step out along the Atlantic littoral in your cement suit and your gold-heeled socks and there’s the roar of Chop Suey in your ears. The Great White Way is blazing with spark plugs. The comfort stations are open. You try to sit down without breaking the crease in your pants. You sit down on the pure asphalt and let the peacocks tickle your larynx. The gutters are running with champagne. The only odor is the odor of clams coming from the bay. It’s a fine balmy day and all the radios are going at once. You can have a radio attached to your ass-for just a little more. You can tune in on Manila or Honolulu while you walk. You can have ice in your ice water or both kidneys removed at the same time. If you have lockjaw you can have a tube put up your rectum and imagine you’re eating. You can have anything you want for the asking. That is, if it’s a fine balmy day and the smell of clams coming in from the bay. Because why? Because America is the grandest country God ever made and if you don’t like this country you can get the hell out of it and go back where you came from. There isn’t a thing in the world America won’t do for you if you ask for it like a man. You can sit in the electric chair and while the juice is being turned on you can read about your own execution; you can look at a picture of yourself sitting in the electric chair while you are waiting to be executed.
A continuous performance from morn till midnight. The fastest, cleanest show on earth. So fast, so clean, it makes you desperate and lonely.
I go back over the Brooklyn Bridge and sit in the snow opposite the house where I was born. An immense, heartbreaking loneliness grips me. I don’t yet see myself standing at Freddie’s Bar in the Rue Pigalle. I don’t see the English cunt with all her front teeth missing. Just a void of white snow and in the center of it the little house where I was born. In this house I dreamed about becoming a musician.
Sitting before the house in which I was born I feel absolutely unique. I belong to an orchestra for which no symphonies have ever been written. Everything is in the wrong key, Parsi f al included. About Parsi f al, now -it’s just a minor incident, but it has the right ring. It’s got to do with America, my love of music, my grotesque loneliness… .
Was standing one night in the gallery of the Metropolitan Opera House. The house was sold out and I was standing about three rows back from the rail. Could see only a tiny fragment of the stage and even to do that had to strain my neck. But I could hear the music, Wagner’s Parsi f al, with which I was already slightly familiar through the phonograph records. Parts of the opera are dull, duller than anything ever written. But there are other parts which are sublime and during the sublime parts, because I was being squeezed like a sardine, an embarrassing thing happened to me-I got an erection. The woman I was pressing against must also have been inspired by the sublime music of the Holy Grail. We were in heat, the two of us, and pressed together like a couple of sardines. During the intermission the woman left her place to pace up and down the corridor. I stayed where I was, wondering if she would return to the same place. When the music started up again she returned. She returned to her spot with such exactitude that if we had been married it could not have been more perfect. All through the last act we were joined in heavenly bliss. It was beautiful and sublime, nearer to Boccaccio than to Dante, but sublime and beautiful just the same.
Sitting in the snow before the place of my birth I remember this incident vividly. Why, I don’t know, except that it connects with the grotesque and the void, with the heartbreaking loneliness, the snow, the lack of color, the absence of music. One is always falling to sleep with the fast pace. You start out with the sublime and you end up in an alley jerking away for dear life.
Saturday afternoons, for example, breaking chain in Bill Woodruff’s accessory shop. Breaking chain all afternoon for a half-dollar. Jolly work! Afterwards we’d all go back to Bill Woodruff’s house and sit and drink. Come dark Bill Woodruff would get out his opera glasses and we’d all take turns, looking at the woman across the yard who used to undress with the shade up. This business of the opera glasses always infuriated Bill Woodruff’s wife. To get even with him she’d come out in a negligee studded with big holes. A frigid son of a bitch, his wife, but it gave her a kick to walk up to one of his friends and say-“feel my ass! feel how big it’s getting.” Bill Woodruff pretended not to mind. “Sure,” he’d say, “go ahead and feel it. She’s cold as ice.” And like that she’d pass herself around, each one grabbing her ass to warm her up a bit. A funny couple they were. Sometimes you’d think they were in love with each other. She made him miserable, though, holding him off all the time. He used to say: “I can get a fuck out of her about once a month-if I’m lucky!” Used to say it right to her face. It didn’t bother her much. She had a way of laughing it off, as though it were an unimportant blemish.
If she had simply been cold it wouldn’t have been so bad. But she was greedy too. Always clamoring for dough. Always hankering for something they couldn’t afford. It got on his nerves, which is easy to understand, because he was a tight, scrounging bastard himself. One day, however, a brilliant idea occurred to him. “You want some more dough, is that it?” he says to her. “All right, then, I’m going to give you some dough-but first you’ve got to slip me a piece of tail.” (It never occurred to the poor bastard that he might find another woman who’d enjoy a bit of fucking for its own sake). Well, anyway, the amazing thing about it was that every time he slipped her a little extra she’d manage to screw like a rabbit. He was astonished. Didn’t think she had it in her. And so, little by little, he got to working overtime in order to lay aside the little bribe which would make the frigid son of a bitch come across like a nymphomaniac. (Never thought, the poor sap, of investing the money in another gal. Never!)
Meanwhile the friends and neighbors were discovering that Bill Woodruff’s wife wasn’t such a cold proposition as she had been cracked up to be. Seems she was sleeping around like-with every Toni, Dick, and Harry. Why the hell she couldn’t give her own spouse a little piece on the side, gratis, nobody could figure out. She acted as though she were sore at him. It started out that way right from the beginning. And whether she was born frigid or not makes no difference. As far as he was concerned she was frigid. She’d have made him pay until his dying day for every piece she handed him if it weren’t for the fact that somebody put him wise to her.
Well, he was a cute guy, Bill Woodruff. A mean, scrounging bastard if ever there was one, but he could be cute too when necessary. When he heard what was going on he didn’t say a word. Pretended that things were just as always. Then one night, after it had gone along far enough, he waited up for her, a thing he seldom did because he had to get up early and she was used to coming in late. This night, however, he waited up for her and when she came sailing in, chipper, perky, a little lit up and cold as usual he pulled her up short with a “where were you tonight?” She tried pulling her usual yarn, of course. “Cut that,” he said, “I want you to get your things off and tumble into bed.” That made her sore. She mentioned in her roundabout way that she didn’t want any of that business. “You don’t feel in the mood for it, I suppose,” says he, and then he adds: “that’s fine, because now I’m going to warm you up a bit.” With that he up and ties her to the bedstead, gags her, and then goes for the razor strop. On the way to the bathroom he grabs a bottle of mustard from the kitchen. He comes back with the razor strop and he belts the piss out of her. And after that he rubs the mustard into the raw welts. “That ought to keep you warm for tonight,” he says. And so saying he makes her bend over and spread her legs apart. “Now,” he says, “I’m going to pay you as usual,” and taking a bill out of his pocket he crumples it and then shoves it up her quim…. And that’s that about Bill Woodruff, though when I get to thinking on it I want to add that light of heart he sallied bravely forth carrying the pair of horns which his wife Jadwiga had given him.
And the purpose of all this? To prove what has not yet been demonstrated, namely that
THE GREAT ARTIST IS HE WHO CONQUERS THE ROMANTIC IN HIMSELF.
Filed under R for rat poison.
And what by that? you say.
Why just this…. Whenever it came time to visit Tante Melia at the bughouse mother would do up a little lunch, saying as she laid the bottle between the napkins-“Mele always liked a drop of Kiimmel.” And when it came mother’s turn to visit the bughouse and say to Mele well Mele how did you like the Kummel, and Mele shaking her head and saying what Kummel, I didn’t see any Kummel, why I could always say she’s crazy of course, I gave her the Kummel. What was the sense in pouring a drop of Kiimmel down Mele’s throat when she was so goddamned disoriented as to swallow her own dung?
If it were a sunny day and my friend Stanley commissioned by his uncle, the mortician, to carry a stillbirth to the cemetery grounds, we would take a ferry boat to Staten Island and when the Statue of Liberty hove in sight overboard with it! If it were a rainy day we would walk into another neighborhood and throw it down the sewer. A day like that was a festive day for all the sewer rats. A fine day for the sewer rats scampering through the vestibule of the upper world. In those days a stillbirth brought as high as ten dollars and after riding the shoot-the-chutes we always left a little stale beer for the morning because the finest thing in the world for Katzenjammer is a glass of stale beer.
I am speaking of things that brought me relief in the beginning. You are at the beginning of the world, in a garden which is boxed off. The sky is banked like sand dunes and there is not just one firmament but millions of them; the crust of every planet is carved into an eye, a very human eye that neither blinks nor winks. You are about to write a beautiful book and in it you are going to record everything that has given you pain or joy. This book, when written, will be called A Prolegomenon to the Unconscious. You will dress it in white kid and the letters will be embossed in gold. It will be the story of your life without emendations. Everybody will want to read it because it will contain the absolute truth and nothing but the truth. This is the story that makes you laugh in your sleep, the story that starts the tears flowing when you are in the middle of a ballroom and suddenly realize that none of the people around you know what a genius you are. How they would laugh and weep if they could only read what you have not yet written because every word is absolutely true and so far nobody has dared to write this absolute truth except yourself and this true book which is locked up inside you would make people laugh and weep as they have never laughed, never wept before.
In the beginning this is what brings relief-the true book which nobody has read, the book which you carry around inside you, the book dressed in white kid and embossed with letters of gold. In this book there are many verses colossially dear to you. Out of this book came the Bible, and the Koran, and all the sacred books of the East. All these books were written at the beginning of the world.
And now I’m going to tell you about the technical aspect of these books, this book whose genesis I am about to relate….
When you open this book you will notice immediately that the illustrations have a queer pituitary flavor. You will see immediately that the author has forsaken the optical illusion in favor of a post-pineal view. The frontispiece is usually a selfportrait called “Praxus” showing the author standing on the frontier of the middle brain in a pair of tights. He always wears thicklensed spectacles, Toric, U-31 flange. In ordinary waking life the author suffers from normal vision but in the frontispiece he renders himself myopic in order to grasp the immediacy of the dream plasm. By means of the dream technique he peels off the outer layers of his geologic mortality and comes to grips with his true mantic self, a non-stratified area of semi-liquid character. Only the amorphous side of his nature now possesses validity. By submerging the visible I he dives below the threshold of his schizophrenic habit patterns. He swims joyously, ad lib., in the amniotic fluid, one with his amoebic self.
But what, you ask, is the significance of the bird in his left hand?
Why, just this: the bird is purely metaphysical-a quaternary type of the genus dodo, having a tiny, dorsal aperture through which it delivers homilies on the nature of all things. As a species it is extinct; as an eidolon it retains its corporeality-but only if maintained in a state of equipoise. The Germans have immortalized it in the cuckoo clock; in Siam it is found on the coins of the Twenty-third Dynasty. The wings, you will observe, are almost atrophied-because in the pseudocatalepsy of the dream it does not need to fly, it needs only to imagine that it is flying. The hinges of the bill are slightly out of order as the original ball-bearings were lost while flying over the Gobi desert. The bird is definitely not obscene and has never been known to foul its nest. It lays a speckled egg about the size of a walnut whenever it is about to undergo metamorphosis. It feeds on the Absolute when hungry, but it is not a carrion bird. It is exclusively migratory and, despite the vestigial wings, flies incessantly over great imaginary tracts.
If this is clear we can now go on to something elseto the peculiar object swinging from the author’s left elbow, for example. With due humility I must admit that this is a little more difficult to explain, being an image of great subjunctive beauty haunting the scar tissues of the hind brain. In the first place, though contiguous to the elbow you will note that it is not suspended from the elbow. It lies at the junction of fore arm and upper arm asymptotally-that is, a symbol rather than a precise ideological concept. The numbers on the lowest pan correspond to certain Runic devices which have resulted in the pragmatic invention known as the metronym. These numbers lie at the root of all musical composition-as imponderable mathematic. These numbers lead the mind back to organic modalities so that structure and form may sustain the elegant perpetuity of logic.
This much clarified, let me add that the conical object in the background must necessarily be capable of only one interpretation: laziness. Not ordinary laziness, as the Pauline doctrine would have it, but a sort of spasmic phlegm induced by the leaden fumes of pleasure. It is hardly necessary to specify that the halo above the conical object is not a quoit nor even a lifesaver, but a purely epistemological phenomenon-that is, a phantastikon which has taken its stance in the melancholy rings of Saturn.
And now, dear reader, I wish that you would make ready to ask me a question before I file this portrait away under P for petunia. Won’t somebody please testify before we go down to have another look at that dear dead face? Do I hear some one speaking or is that a shoe squeaking? It seems to me I hear some one asking something. Some one is asking me if the little shadow on the horizon line might be a homunculus. Is that right? Are you asking me, Brother Eaton, if that little shadow on the horizon line might be a homunculus?
Brother Eaton doesn’t know. He says it might and again it might not.
Well, you are right and you are wrong, Brother Eaton. Wrong because the law of hypothecation does not permit of what is known as doing the duck; wrong because the equation is carried over by an asterisk whereas the sign points clearly to infinity; right because all that is wrong has to do with incertitude and in clearing away dead matter an enema is not sufficient. Brother Eaton, what you see on the horizon line is neither a homunculus nor a plugged hat. It is the shadow of Praxus. It shrinks to diminutive proportions in the measure that Praxus waxes great. As Praxus advances beyond the pale of the tertiary moon he disembarrasses himself more and more of his terrestrial image. Little by little he divests himself of the mirror of substantiality. When the last illusion has been shattered Praxus will cast no shadow. He will stand on the 49th parallel of the unwritten eclogue and waste away in cold fire. There will be no more paranoia, everything else being equal. The body will shed its skins and the organs of man will hold themselves proudly in the light. Should there be a war you will please rearrange the entrails according to their astrologic significance. The dawn is breaking over the viscera. No more logic, no more liver mantic. There will be a new heaven and a new earth. Man will be given absolution. Filed under A for anagogic.
脱衣舞酒吧
脱衣舞酒吧
现在斯海弗宁恩[1]的宁静起着一种麻醉剂的作用。
站在吧台旁边看着那一颗门牙也没有的英国娘儿们，我突然回想起：请勿随地吐痰！它就像梦一般回到我这里：请勿随地吐痰！这是在皮嘉尔街的弗莱迪酒吧，一个长着女里女气手指的男人，穿着袖子宽松的白色丝绸衬衣，刚扭完了“再见，墨西哥！”她说她现在不做什么事情，只是到处游荡。她来自大广播公司，患了口蹄疫。她不断来来回回地穿过珠帘去上厕所。竖琴弹得棒极了，就像天使在你的啤酒里撒尿。她有一点儿醉了，同时又竭力装作贵妇人的样子。我口袋里有一封一个荷兰疯子寄给我的信；他刚从索非亚回来。“星期六夜里，”信上说，“我只有一个心愿，这就是让你坐在我的旁边。”（他没有说在哪里。）“我现在能够写信告诉你的唯一事情是这样的——在离开喧嚣忙乱的纽约之后，一个像斯海弗宁恩这样的小城的宁静起着一种麻醉剂的作用。”他在索非亚过得很痛快，爱上了那里皇家歌剧院的首席女歌手。他说，这给了他真正的放荡名声，颇得索非亚舆论的恩宠。他说他打算退出，重新开始一种严肃的生活——在斯海弗宁恩。
我整个晚上都没有看一眼那封信，但是当那英国娘儿们张开嘴，我看见她一颗门牙也没有的时候，我回想起来了——请勿随地吐痰！我们正走过犹太人居住区，那荷兰疯子和我。他穿着送信人的制服。他已经送完了所有的电报，下了班来消磨晚上的剩余时间。我们朝皇家咖啡馆走去，为的是坐下来安静地喝上一两杯啤酒。我允许他坐下来和我一起喝啤酒，因为我是头儿。此外，他也下班了，他可以在业余时间爱干什么就干什么。
我们正沿着第二大道朝北走去时，我突然注意到一个店家的橱窗里有一个由灯光照亮的十字架，上面写着：无论谁相信，谁就不会死……我们走到里面，一个男人正站在台上说：“鲍威尔小姐，你准备好一首歌！现在来，兄弟们，谁来做见证?行。赞美诗第七十三首。会后，我们大家都去看望失去亲人的姐妹布兰查德太太。让我们站起来唱赞美诗第七十三首《主让我站得更高》。就像我刚才所说，当我看见高空作业工人为我们把新尖顶油漆得漂漂亮亮的时候，这古老熟悉的赞美诗句就涌到了我的嘴边：主让我站得更高。”
这地方很小，到处都是标语牌：“主是我的牧羊人，我将不会贫穷”，等等。最突出的标语牌是圣坛上的那一块：请勿随地吐痰。他们都在唱赞美诗第七十三首，庆祝新尖顶落成。我们站得更高，因而墙上的标语牌我看得很清楚，尤其是圣坛上的那一块：请勿随地吐痰。鲍威尔教友正砰砰地弹奏管风琴，她看上去纯洁而超凡入圣。台上那个男人唱得比别人更响亮，虽然他背得出歌词，但他却将赞美诗集举在面前，按音符歌唱。他看上去像一个替代正常布道者的铁匠。他唱得非常响，非常认真。在两首圣歌的间歇，他尽他的最大努力让人们来做见证。不时有一个尖声尖气的男人说：“我赞美上帝拯救我们的无比威力！”
阿门！荣耀！荣耀！哈利路亚！
“现在来，”铁匠吼道，“谁来做见证?你，伊顿兄弟，你来做见证吧！”伊顿教友站起来庄严地说：“他以代价换得了我。”
阿门！阿门！哈利路亚！
鲍威尔教友正用手绢擦手。她的动作超凡脱俗。她擦完手后茫然望着面前的墙壁。她看上去好像主刚给她涂了圣油。非常超凡入圣。
以代价换来的伊顿教友正安静地交臂坐着。铁匠解释说，伊顿兄弟是以耶稣自己流在十字架上、流在骷髅地的宝贵鲜血的代价换来的。他想再让一个人来做见证。另一个人，请！他解释说，一会儿之后我们全体一起去向布兰查德教友的宝贝儿子告别，他昨夜去世了。现在来，谁来做见证?
一个发抖的声音：“各位，你们知道我并不十分喜欢做见证。但是有一首诗我感到非常亲切……非常亲切。这是《歌罗西书》第三章。只管站住，看耶和华的救恩。[2]教友们，请站着别动，静一下。什么时候试一试。跪下试着想念他。试着聆听他。让他来说话。教友们，这使我感到非常亲切——《歌罗西书》第三章。只管站住，看耶和华的救恩。”
听！听！荣耀！赞美主！哈利路亚！
“鲍威尔教友，你准备另一首歌！”他擦了下脸。“在我们去向布兰查德教友的宝贝儿子告别之前，让我们大家一起再唱一首赞美诗：《耶稣是我亲爱朋友》！我猜想大家都熟记于心。各位，如果你们没有沐浴过耶稣的血，那么无论你们的名字在这世界上被记录在多少书中都没有关系。不要拖延他！今晚就到他那里去，各位……今晚！现在来，大家一起唱——耶稣是我亲爱……赞美诗第九十七首。在我们全体一起去布兰查德教友家之前，让每一个人都站起来唱。现在来，赞美诗第九十七首……耶稣是我亲爱朋友……”
一切都安排妥当。我们全体都将去向布兰查德教友死去的宝贝儿子告别。我们所有的人——歌罗西人、法利赛人、卑鄙小人、流氓、沙哑的女高音歌手——全体都去告别。我不知道那需要一杯啤酒的荷兰疯子遇到了什么事。我们都到布兰查德家去，我们全体——裘克斯家族[3]和卡利卡克家族[4]，赞美诗第七十三首和请勿随地吐痰！普里查德兄弟，请把灯关上！鲍威尔姐妹，你准备一首歌！再见，墨西哥！我们将去布兰查德教友家。去站得更高。这里少了一只鼻子，那里少了一只眼睛。不平衡的、稀黏液的、乖戾的、甜蜜的、超凡入圣的、卑劣的、疯狂的一切。大家全体都去把尖顶油漆得漂漂亮亮。大家都是耶稣的朋友。大家都站住看耶和华的救恩。伊顿教友去募捐，鲍威尔教友擦去墙上的痰迹。一切都是以代价换来的，一支好雪茄的代价。现在斯海弗宁恩的宁静起着一种麻醉剂的作用。所有电报都送出去了。对于那些宁愿要火化的人，我们将有非常漂亮的壁龛来放骨灰盒。布兰查德教友死去的宝贝儿子躺在冰上，他的脚趾正在发芽。陵墓提供了一个地方，好让家人和朋友们并排躺在一个雪白的隔间里，离地面很高，很干燥，那里既不会有水，有潮气，也不会有霉菌侵入。
坐在一辆黄色的出租汽车里朝国家冬日花园开去。斯海弗宁恩的宁静正在对我产生效应。到处都是音乐般的书信，上帝拯救我们的无比威力受到赞美。到处都是黑色的雪，到处都是长虱子的黑头发。看这橱窗里的九成新便宜货！必须腾空！荣耀！荣耀！哈利路亚！
贫穷穿着皮大衣到处走。土耳其浴盆，俄国浴盆，坐浴浴盆……浴盆，浴盆，却没有清洁。克拉拉•鲍正在表演“巴黎式的爱”。雅各布•戈尔丁的幽灵悄悄走在浸透鲜血的冻土带上。圣马可教堂看上去像蟑螂一样快活，它的墙香甜甜的，画着一个冰淇淋。桥梁工程……合理的价格。莫斯科维茨正在弹扬琴，扬琴正在弹列夫•托尔斯泰的冷藏牛臀肉，列夫•托尔斯泰现在变成了一个素餐馆。整个星球都里朝外翻了出来，构成肉赘、丘疹、黑头粉刺、粉瘤。医院全部翻新，免费入院，从边门进。所有那些受苦的人，所有那些疲惫不堪、负担沉重的人，每一个患了严重湿疹、口臭、坏疽、水肿的狗娘养的，请记住，封好，并盖上章，边门是免费的。你们大家都来！来，你们这些流鼻涕的卡利卡克人！来，你们这些惹人嫌的法利赛人！来，把你们的内脏以低于普通土葬的代价刷新一下吧！来，就在今晚！耶稣需要你。来吧，免得太晚——我们七点十五准时关门。
克利奥每天晚上跳舞！！
诸神的宠儿克利奥每天晚上跳舞。妈妈，我来了！妈妈，我要得到拯救！我正顺着梯子往上走，妈妈。
荣耀！荣耀！《歌罗西书》！《歌罗西书》第三章。
一切神圣者之母，现在我在天堂里。我站在站票观众后面，他们站在代表zebra（斑马）的Z后面。主教派教区长正拿着一截断掉的直肠站在教堂的台阶上。它说：禁止停车。明斯基兄弟们正在票房里梦见香农河。百代新闻片像中空的肉豆蔻一般发出咔哒咔哒的声音。在喜马拉雅山，和尚们半夜爬起来，为所有那些睡觉的人祈祷，以便全世界的男人和女人早上醒来时，可以带着纯洁、仁慈、勇敢的念头开始新的一天。世界在回顾：圣莫里茨，上阿默高剧团，俄狄浦斯王，中国狗，旋风，泳装美人。我心灵宁静。如果我有一杯啤酒、一块火腿三明治，我会把耶稣看作多么亲爱的朋友啊！总之，幕正在升起。莎士比亚说得对——重要的是表演！
现在，女士们先生们，幕正在升起，这是西半球上演的最时髦、最放纵的表演。幕在升起，女士们先生们，这就亮出那些解剖学上分别称之为上腹部、脐侧、下腹部的部分。这些精选的部分，标价一美元九十八美分，以前还从未给美国观众亮过相。犹太国王明斯基已经把它们引进来，尤其是从和平街。这是纽约最时髦、最放纵的表演。现在，女士们先生们，由于引座员忙着喷香水，熏房子，我们就来分发一些法国明信片，每一张都保证是真的。随着每一张明信片，我们也分发一个真正的德式手制显微镜，这是日本人在苏黎世制造的。女土们先生们，这是世界上最放纵、最时髦的表演。犹太国王明斯基自己这样说。幕在升起……幕在升起……
在黑暗的掩护下，引座员正喷着死虱子和活虱子、虱子窝、虱子卵，它们埋在那些没有私人浴室的人的浓密黑鬈发中，那些纽约东区可怜巴巴、无家可归的犹太人，他们贫穷而绝望，穿着皮大衣到处奔走，兜售火柴和鞋带。外面就像孚日广场、秣市市场或科芬园[5]一样，只是这些人相信——伯勒斯加法机。太平梯上挤满了大肚子女人，她们用自行车打气筒使自己的肚子鼓起来。纽约东区所有那些贫穷而绝望的犹太人都很高兴坐在太平梯上，因为他们正一只脚跷在云端里吃火腿三明治。幕布喷着甲醛味升起，带有白箭口香糖的甜味，五分钱一包。幕升起来，亮出人体解剖学中唯一少说为佳的那一部分。在暮年，当爱情是一团余烬的时候，记起星条旗在人体解剖学的上腹、下腹、脐侧部位的铁片部分飘过，这是很让人伤心的。明斯基正在票房里做梦，他的脚放在更高的地面上。上阿默高剧团正在别的什么地方演出。中国狗正在洗澡，洒香水，准备做第一流的表演。布兰查德教友正坐在摇椅里，子宫下垂。年纪大了，身体枯萎——但是疝气可以治好。从太平梯上往下看，人们可以看见一望无际的美丽风景，与塞尚画的一样——有瓦楞垃圾箱、生锈的开罐器、破旧婴儿车、锡制浴盆、铜水壶、肉豆蔻磨碎器、小心翼翼地保存在玻璃纸里的被咬过几口的动物饼干。这是从和平街远道带来的世上最放纵、最时髦的表演。你有两种选择——一个是朝下看，一直看到黑色深渊里；另一个是朝上看，看到阳光中复活的希望在星条旗上方飘动。每一个都保证是真的。只管站住，各位，看耶和华的救恩。克利奥今晚以及本周的每个晚上都跳舞，价格低于普通的土葬。死亡正爬行过来，像三叶草的一根小枝。舞台像电椅般闪闪发光。克利奥来了。克利奥，诸神的宠儿，电椅女王。
现在斯海弗宁恩的宁静起着一种麻醉剂的作用。幕升起来，看《歌罗西书》第三章。克利奥从夜的子宫里出来，肚子鼓鼓的，全是阴沟气。荣耀！荣耀！我正爬上梯子。从夜的子宫里升起了古老的布鲁克林大桥，一个在泡沫和月光中蠕动的呆滞的梦。一种刮擦铁片的嗡嗡声和咝咝声。一种绿玉髓的光辉，石脑油的摇曳火焰。夜是寒冷的，人们挤得紧紧地朝前走。夜是寒冷的，但是女王一丝不挂，只有一个下体护身。女王在电椅的冷却灰烬上跳舞。犹太人的宠儿克利奥正用她涂了指甲油的指甲尖跳舞；她眼睛转动着，耳朵里充满了血。她正以合理的价格在整个寒冷的夜晚跳舞。她这个星期每天晚上将跳舞，为白金桥开路。哦，诸位，在“我歌唱人们”[6]后面，在十二进制和海滨航空公司的后面，站着坦慕尼协会[7]的女王。她赤脚站着，肚子里满是阴沟气，鼓鼓的，她的肚脐发源于心脏收缩的六韵步诗行。女王克利奥比最纯的沥青还纯，比最温暖的电还温暖，女王克利奥，诸神的宠儿，在电椅的石棉座上跳舞。早晨，她将动身前往新加坡、莫桑比克、仰光。她的三桅帆船停在沟里。她的奴隶们正同虱子一起爬行。深陷在夜的子宫里，她随拯救之歌翩翩起舞。我们全体都去男厕所，往高处站。去男厕所，那里卫生、干燥，像教堂墓地一样伤感。
现在，当幕布降下来的时候，请想象一下，这是一个暖和的晴天，蛤蜊的味道从海湾传来。你穿着水泥套装和金色后跟的短袜，健步行走在大西洋沿岸地区，满耳是炒杂碎店的吼叫。伟大的白色大道[8]炫耀着人间精华。公共厕所开放。你试图坐下来而不撑破你裤子的裤缝。你在纯沥青上坐下，让孔雀使你的喉咙发痒。沟里流着香槟酒。唯一的气味是从海湾传来的蛤蜊味。这是一个暖和的晴天，所有的收音机都同时播放。你可以有一只安装在屁股上的收音机——只贵一点点。你在步行时可以收听马尼拉或檀香山的广播。你可以吃冰水里的冰，或者同时摘除两个肾。如果你有牙关紧闭症，你可以让人插一根管子在你的直肠里，想象你是在吃东西。只要你愿意，你可以拥有你想要的任何东西。就是说，如果这是一个暖和的晴天，蛤蜊的气味从海湾传来。因为什么?因为美国是上帝造就的最美妙的国家，如果你不喜欢这个国家，你可以他妈的滚出去，你从哪儿来就回到哪儿去。只要你像个人一样要求，世界上没有一件事美国不会为你去做。你会坐在电椅里，在电流被打开的时候，你可以阅读关于你自己被处决的消息；在你等候处决的时候，你可以看一看你自己坐在电椅里的照片。
一场连续演出，从早晨一直到午夜。世上最放纵、最时髦的表演。这么放纵，这么时髦，使你绝望，使你孤独。
我回到布鲁克林大桥，过桥后坐在我出生的那座房子对面的雪地里。一种无边无际、令人心碎的孤独感支配了我。我还没有看见自己站在皮嘉尔街的弗莱迪酒吧。我没有看见那个一颗门牙也没有的英国娘儿们。只有一片空荡荡的白雪，在它的中心是我出生的那座小房子。在这座房子里，我梦想成为一位音乐家。
坐在我出生的房子前面，我感到绝对独一无二。我属于一个管弦乐队，所有的交响乐都不是为这个乐队而写。一切都走调，包括《帕西法尔》在内。关于《帕西法尔》，现在——这只是一个较小的插曲，但是却像那么回事。它同美国，同我对音乐的爱好，同我荒诞的孤独感有关……
有一天夜里站在大都会歌剧院的楼座里。剧院的票已售完，我站在栏杆后面大约三排的地方，只能看到一小块舞台，就连这也是我拼命伸长脖子才做到的。但是我可以听音乐，瓦格纳的《帕西法尔》，我已通过留声机唱片对它有了一点儿了解。歌剧的有些部分是沉闷的，比曾经写出的任何曲子都沉闷，但是还有其他一些部分很出色。在那些出色部分演出期间，由于我被挤成了沙丁鱼，我遇到了一件令人难堪的事情——我的那玩意儿勃起了。我挤压着的那个女人一定也被圣杯的出色音乐所鼓舞。我们都冲动起来，挤在一起像两条沙丁鱼。在幕间休息期间，那女人离开她站的地点，在走廊上走来走去。我原地待着，很想知道她是否会回到老地方来。当音乐重新响起的时候，她回来了。她以这样一种精确性回到她原来的地方，就是我们结了婚，也不可能比这更完美。在整个最后一幕期间，我们结合在天堂的极乐中。这很美，很崇高，更接近薄伽丘而不是但丁，但是同样崇高，同样美。
坐在我出生地前面的雪地里，我清晰地记起了这个插曲。为什么，我不知道，只知道它将雪、色彩的缺乏、音乐的欠缺同怪诞与空虚、同令人心碎的孤独相联系。人们总是迅速入睡。你以崇高开始，以在小巷里玩着那玩意儿想好事而告终。
例如，星期六下午，在比尔•伍德罗夫的附属商店解开链条。整个下午解开链条，为了挣半个美元。有趣的工作！然后我们全回到比尔•伍德罗夫家，坐下来喝酒。天黑了，比尔•伍德罗夫会拿出看戏用的小型望远镜，我们轮流看院子那边的女人，她常常拉上遮光帘以后脱衣服。看望远镜的事总是使比尔•伍德罗夫的老婆很生气。为了报复他，她会穿着点缀有许多大窟窿眼的睡衣跑出来。他老婆是一个缺乏性感的婊子养的，但是这却给予她极度的快感：她走到他的朋友之一跟前说——“摸我的屁股！摸摸看它变得有多大。”比尔•伍德罗夫假装不在意。“没问题，”他会说，“去摸一摸。她像冰一样冷。”就像那样，她转了一圈，每个人都抓她的屁股，使她热起来一点点。他们俩是一对活宝。有时候你会以为他们互相爱恋，但是她使他很痛苦，老是不让他接近。他常说：“我大约一个月能干她一次——如果我幸运的话！”他常当着她的面这样说。她满不在乎，一笑了之，好像这是一个无关紧要的瑕疵。
如果她只是冷淡倒也罢了，她还贪心。总是要钱。总是渴望得到他们买不起的东西。他心里很烦，这是很容易理解的，因为他自己就是一个贪小利的小气鬼。然而，有一天，他想到一个绝妙的主意。“你要更多的钱，是吗?”他对她说，“那么好吧，我给你一些钱——但是首先你得和我上床。”（那可怜的杂种从来没有想到他可以另找一个真正喜欢上床的女人来睡觉。）嘿，总而言之，令人吃惊的是，每次他多干她一会儿，她就会变得活蹦乱跳。他很吃惊。他没有想到她会把那玩意儿放进身子里。于是，他慢慢开始加班加点，为的是攒下一些买路钱，可以让那性冷淡的婊子养的看上去像个女色情狂。（那可怜的傻瓜，他从来没想到过把钱投到别的女孩子身上。从来没有！）
这时候，朋友们和邻居们发现，比尔•伍德罗夫的老婆并不像她被说成的那样，是一个冷冰冰的人。她好像到处同人睡觉——同张三、李四、王二麻子。她究竟为什么不能给她老公免费多来一下子呢?没有人能理解。她表现得就好像她对他很痛心。事情一开始就是那种样子。无论她是否缺乏性感都没有关系。对他来说，她缺乏性感。要不是因为有人让他事先心中有了数，那她一定会每次同他上床都让他付钱，一直付到他死的那一天。
嘿，他是一个聪明的家伙，这个比尔•伍德罗夫。他是一个最卑鄙无耻的杂种，只会偷鸡摸狗，但必要时他也很聪明。当他听说真情实况时，他一句话也没说，假装事情一如既往。然后有一天夜里，在事情已经到了忍无可忍的时候，他在夜里等着，这是一件他难得做的事情，因为他必须早起，而她则常常很晚回家，但是，这一天夜里，他一直等着她。她一阵风似的飘进来，轻快活泼，扬扬得意，容光焕发，但还是像往常一样冷冰冰的。这时他突然拦住她，问道：“今晚你到哪儿去了?”她当然像往常一样试着编瞎话。“别扯淡了，”他说，“我要你把东西都脱了，滚到床上去。”这使她很难堪。她用婉转的方式表示不想做那种事情。“我猜想，你是没有情绪干那种事。”他说，然后加了一句：“那好极了，因为我正准备给你加一加热呢。”说着，他站起来，把她绑在床架上，塞住她的嘴，然后去找磨剃刀的皮带。在去浴室的路上，他从厨房里抓了一瓶芥末。他拿了皮带回来，把她抽得屁滚尿流，然后他把芥末擦到露出肉来的鞭痕上。“那会让你今天一晚上都热烘烘的。”他说。一边这么说着，他让她弯下腰，把她的两腿分开。“现在，”他说，“我要像往常一样给你付钱。”他从口袋里拿出一张票子，把它揉成一团，塞进她的下体……这就是关于比尔•伍德罗夫的故事，但是在我开始考虑这个故事的时候，我要补充说，他轻快地冲向前去，勇敢地戴着他老婆雅德维加送给他的一顶绿帽子。
所有这一切的目的何在呢?是为了证明还没有被证实的东西，即：
伟大的艺术家是征服了自身浪漫倾向的人。
按代表rat poison（老鼠药）的R归档。
那是怎么回事?你说。
嘿，就是这样……一到要去疯人院看望梅莉亚姨妈的时候，母亲就会做好一顿午饭，一边用餐巾把酒瓶裹起来，一边说：“梅勒总喜欢喝一口居默尔香酒。”轮到母亲去疯人院看梅勒的时候，她就对梅勒说，那么，梅勒，你喜欢居默尔香酒吗?梅勒摇摇头说，什么居默尔香酒，我没有看见什么居默尔香酒。所以我老说她发疯哩，我明明给了她居默尔香酒。在梅勒的喉咙里倒上一滴居默尔香酒有什么意义呢?她他妈的什么也不知道，竟然还要吃自己的大粪哩！
如果是一个阳光明媚的日子，我朋友斯坦利受他开殡仪馆的叔叔所托，把一个死胎送到墓地去，我们就会坐渡船到斯塔腾岛去，当自由女神像进入视线的时候，把它扔出船外！如果是下雨天，我们就会走入另一个地段，把它扔在阴沟里。这样的日子，对于阴沟里的老鼠来说，简直是过节。在上面世界的门厅里逃窜的阴沟老鼠现在可遇到了好日子。在那些日子里，一个死胎能给你带来高达十美元的收入。在尽情玩耍之后，我们总是留下一点儿隔夜啤酒第二天早晨喝，因为世界上治宿醉最好的东西就是一杯隔夜啤酒。
我在讲一开始就使我解脱的事情。你在世界之初，在一个同外界隔绝的花园里。天空像堆起的沙丘一般，不是只有一个天空，而是有上百万个天空；每一个行星的外壳都被雕刻成一只眼睛，一只一眨不眨的人眼。你打算写一本漂亮的书，你在书中将记录下给你痛苦和欢乐的一切。这本书写好以后，将叫作《无意识序》。你将用白羊皮把它包装起来，字母全是金子的浮雕。这将是你一生的故事，无须校订。每个人都要读这本书，因为它包含绝对真理，只有真理，没有别的。这是使你在睡梦中欢笑的故事，是当你在舞厅中间突然明白你周围的人没有一个知道你是什么样一个天才的时候，使你滚滚落泪的故事。只要他们能读一读你尚未写就的东西，他们会如何欢笑和哭泣啊！因为每一个词都是绝对真实的，至今为止除你自己以外没有人敢写这绝对真理，这本锁在你内心中的真实的书将使人们欢笑和哭泣，就像他们以前从来没有欢笑过，从来没有哭泣过一样。
从一开始，这就是带来解脱的东西——这本没有人读过的真实的书，这本你在心中携带的书，这本用白羊皮包装、有浮雕式金字的书。在这本书里，有许多你倍感亲切的词句。从这本书中产生了《圣经》、《古兰经》以及所有那些东方的圣书。所有这些书都是在世界之初写的。
现在我来告诉你这些书的技术问题，说一说这本书的产生过程……
当你打开这本书的时候，你会立即注意到其中的图解说明都有一种奇怪的黏液味。你会立即看到，作者为了得到一种后松果体的视觉效果而抛弃了视觉上的幻觉。卷首插画通常是一幅叫作“普拉克苏斯”的自画像，画的是作者穿着紧身内衣站在中脑的边缘。他总是戴厚镜片的眼镜，复曲面透镜式，U31凸面。在日常清醒的生活中，作者受正常的视力之苦，但是在卷首插画中，他使自己近视，为的是抓住梦中血浆运动的直接性。通过梦中技巧的手段，他剥掉了地质上具有死亡性质的外层，抓住了他真正的有预言能力的自我，一个具有半液体性质的不分层的区域。只有他本性的无定形方面现在具有有效性。通过淹没有形的自我，他潜入他精神分裂的习惯方式的临界点之下。他随心所欲，快乐地在羊水中游泳，一个有着变形虫式自我的人。
但是你会问，他左手中的那只鸟的意义何在呢?
嘿，是这样的：这只鸟是纯形而上的——四个一组类型的渡渡鸟类，背上有一个小孔，它通过这个小孔发表关于所有事物本性的说教。作为一个种类，它已经灭绝了；作为一个幻象，它还保留着它的形体存在——但只在保持平衡状态的情况下。德国人在布谷鸟自鸣钟里使它不朽；在暹罗，它被发现在第二十三王朝的硬币上。你会观察到，翅膀几乎已经萎缩——因为在梦的假僵住症中，它不必飞翔，它只需要想象它在飞翔。鸟嘴的铰合部稍稍出了一点儿问题，因为原先的滚珠轴承在飞越戈壁沙漠的时候丢失了。这鸟肯定不令人讨厌，从没听说它弄脏过它的窝。无论何时它要经历变形的时候，它就下一个有斑点的蛋，大约像核桃大小。它饿的时候就以绝对者为食，但它不是一只食腐肉的鸟。它完全是一只候鸟，尽管翅膀已退化，它却不停地飞过大片想象的土地。
如果这个事情已经很清楚，我们现在可以接下去谈其他事情——例如谈悬在作者左胳膊肘上的独特东西。我必须以应有的谦卑承认，这有一点儿更难于解释，因为这是一个伟大的虚拟之美的形象，它萦绕于后脑的瘢痕组织。首先，你会发现它尽管邻近肘部，但它不是从肘部悬吊下来。它渐近于前臂和上臂的接合处——也就是说，是一个象征而不是一个精确的思想概念。脑海最深处的数字同某种古代北欧字母图案相符，这种图案造成的结果是一种实用的发明物，被称作取自女性祖先的名字。这些数字是所有音乐作曲的根本——作为无法估计的数字运用。这些数字引导大脑回到有机形态，以便结构和形式会维持第一流的永恒逻辑性。
对问题把握到了这样程度以后，让我来补充，背景上的圆锥体必然只能有一种解释：懒惰。不是圣保罗教义做出解释的那种普通懒惰，而是一种间歇性出现的黏液，由过度兴奋所引起。几乎没有必要来详细说明，圆锥体上面的光环不是一个铁圈，甚至也不是一个救生圈，而是一个纯认识论的现象——也就是说，是一种处于土星的忧郁光环中的幻象。
现在，亲爱的读者，我希望你会在我将这幅像归档在代表petunia（矮牵牛属植物）的P类以前，准备好问我一个问题。没有人愿意在我们再看一眼那张亲切的死人面孔以前来做见证吗?我是听到有人在说话呢，还是一只鞋在嘎嘎作响呢?我好像是听到有人在问什么问题。有人在问我，地平线上的小影子是不是一个侏儒?是那样的吗?伊顿兄弟，是你在问我，地平线上的那个小影子是不是一个侏儒吗?
伊顿兄弟不知道。他说这也许是，也许不是。
嘿，伊顿兄弟，你是对的，你又是错的。错，是因为关于抵押财产的法律不允许劫掠破产者；错，是因为等式由星号保留下来，而这标志却清楚地指示着无限；对，是因为一切错的东西都同不确定有关，而要清除掉死亡物质，一剂灌肠剂是不够的。伊顿兄弟，你在地平线上看到的既不是一个侏儒也不是一顶硬礼帽。这是普拉克苏斯的影子。它缩小，普拉克苏斯就增大。当普拉克苏斯超越第三纪月亮范围的时候，他使自己越来越摆脱地球上的形象。他渐渐放弃自己的有形之像。当最后的幻觉被粉碎的时候，普拉克苏斯不再投射影子。他将站在口头牧歌的第四十九条平行线上，在冷火中消瘦下去。不再会有偏执狂，一切别的东西都均衡。身体将蜕皮，人的器官将骄傲地留在光线中。如果会发生战争，请你按照内脏的占星术意义重新整理内脏。内脏的上方，天正破晓。不再有逻辑，不再有肝脏占卜。将会有一个新的天，一个新的地，人类将得到赦免。归档在代表anagogic（神秘解释）的A类。
【注释】
[1]荷兰最著名的海滨度假胜地，临北海，是海牙市的组成部分。
[2]该句实际出自《出埃及记》第十四章，并非《歌罗西书》第三章。
[3]用于社会学假想的一个杜撰家族姓氏，代表疾病、贫穷和犯罪。
[4]该家族成员中低智力者成为美国心理学家亨利•戈达德的研究对象。
[5]伦敦中部一个蔬菜花卉市场。
[6]古罗马诗人维吉尔的史诗《埃涅阿斯纪》中的一句话。
[7]也称哥伦比亚团，建立于1789年，最初为美国一个全国性的爱国慈善团体，后成为纽约市民主党组织，1934年垮台。
[8]指百老汇区。
Megalopolitan Maniac
Megalopolitan Maniac
Imagine having nothing on your hands but your destiny. You sit on the doorstep of your mother’s womb and you kill time-or time kills you. You sit there chanting the doxology of things beyond your grasp. Outside. Forever outside.
The city is loveliest when the sweet death racket begins. Her own life lived in defiance of nature, her electricity, her frigidaires, her soundproof walls. Box within box she rears her dry walls, the glint of lacquered nails, the plumes that wave across the corrugated sky. Here in the coffin depths grow the everlasting flowers sent by telegraph. In the vaults below the riverbed the gold ingots. A desert glittering with mica and the telephone loudly ringing.
In the early evening, when death rattles the spine, the crowd moves compact, elbow to elbow, each member of the great herd driven by loneliness; breast to breast toward the wall of self, frustrate, isolate, sardine upon sardine, all seeking the universal can opener. In the early evening, when the crowd is sprinkled with electricity, the whole city gets up on its hind legs and crashes the gates. In the stampede the abstract man falls apart, gray with self, spinning in the gutter of his deep loneliness.
One name branded deep. One identity. Everyone pretends not to know, not to remember any more, but the name is branded deep, as deep within as the farthest star without. Filling all space and time, creating infinite loneliness, this name expands and becomes what it always was and always will be-God. In the herd, moving with silent feet, in the stampede, wilder than the greatest panic, is God. God burning like a star in the firmament of the human consciousness: God of the buffaloes, God of the reindeer, man’s God…. God.
Never more God than in the godless crowd. Never more God than in the early evening stampede when the spine rattling with death telegraphs the song of love through all the neurones and from every shop on Broadway the radio answers with megaphone and pick-up, with amplifiers and hook-ups. Never more loneliness than in the teeming crowd, the lonely man of the city surrounded by his inventions, the lost seeker drowning in the common identity. Out of desperate lonely lovelack is built the last stronghold, the webbed citadel of God formed after the labyrinth. From this last refuge no escape except heavenward. From here we fly home, marking the strange ether channels.
Done with his underground life the worm takes on wings. Bereft of sight, hearing, smell, taste he dives straight into the unknown. Away! Away! Anywhere out of the world! Saturn, Neptune, Vega-no matter where or whither, but away, away from the earth! Up there in the blue, with firecrackers sputtering in his asshole, the angelworm goes daft. He drinks and eats upside down; he sleeps upside down; he screws upside down. At the maximum vitesse his body is lighter than air; at the maximum tempo there is nothing but the spontaneous combustion of dream. Alone in the blue he wings on toward God with purring dynamos. The last flight! The last dream of birth before the bag is punctured.
Where now is he who out of endless nightmares struggled up toward the light? Who is he that stands on the surface of the earth with lungs collapsing, a knife between his teeth, his eyes bursting? Vulcanized by sorrow and agony he stands aghast in the swift, corrup tive flux of the upper world. With blood-soaked eyes how glorious it is to behold the world! How bright and gory the empire of man! MAN! Look, there he is rolling along on his little sledge, his legs amputated, his eyes blown out. Can’t you hear him playing? He is playing the Song of Love as he rolls along on his little sledge. In the coffee house, alone with his dreams and a revolver under his heart, sits another man, a man who is sick with love. All the clients have gone, save a skeleton with a hat on. The man is alone with his loneliness. The revolver is silent. Beside him is a dog and a bone, and the dog has no use for the bone. The dog is lonely too. Through the window the sun streams in; it shines with a ghastly brilliance on the green skull of the lovelorn. The sun is rotting with ghastly brilliance.
So beautiful the winter of life, with the sun rotting away and the angels flying heavenward with firecrackers up their ass! Softly and meditatively we march through the streets. The gymnasiums are open and one can see the new men made of stovepipes and cylinders moving according to chart and diagram. The new men who will never wear out because the parts can always be replaced. New men without eyes, nose, ears or mouth, men with ball bearings in their joints and skates on their feet. Men immune to riots and revolutions. How gay and crowded the streets are! On a cellar door stands Jack the Ripper swinging an axe; the priest is mounting the scaffold, an erection bursting his fly; the notaries pass with their bulging portfolios; the klaxons going full blast. Men are delirious in their newfound freedom. A perpetual seance with megaphones and ticker tape, men with no arms dictating to wax cylinders; factories going night and day, turning out more sausages, more pretzels, more buttons, more bayo nets, more coke, more laudanum, more sharp-edged axes, more automatic pistols.
I can think of no lovelier day than this in the full bloom of the twentieth century, with the sun rotting away and a man on a little sledge blowing the Song of Love through his piccolo. This day shines in my heart with such a ghastly brilliance that even if I were the saddest man in the world I should not want to leave the earth.
What a magnificent evacuation, this last flight heavenward from the holy citadel! Looking downward the earth seems soft and lovely again. The earth denuded of man. Unspeakably soft and lovely, this earth bereft of man. Rid of God-hunters, rid of her whoring progeny, the mother of all living wheels her way again with grace and dignity. The earth knows no God, no charity, no love. The earth is a womb which creates and destroys. And man is not of the earth, but of God. To God then let him go, naked, broken, corrupt, divided, lonelier than the deepest gulch.
Today yet a little while Progress and Invention keep me company as I march toward the mountain top. Tomorrow every world city will fall. Tomorrow every civilized being on earth will die of poison and steel. But today you can still bathe me in God’s wonderful love lyrics. Today it is still chamber music, dream, hallucination. The last five minutes! A dream, a fugue without a coda. Every note rotting away like dead meat on the hooks. A gangrene in which the melody is drowned by its own suppurating stench. Once the organism feels death within its grasp it shudders with rapture. A quickening which mounts to triumphant agony-the agony of the death rattle, when food and sex are one. The whirlpool! and everything that is sucked into it going down with it! The wild, unknowing savage who began at the circumference in pursuit of his tail drawing in closer and closer in great labyrinthine spirals and now reaching the dead center where he whirls on the pivot of self with an incandescence that sends a blinding flood of light through every gutter of the soul: spinning there insane and insatiate, the ghoul and gouger of his soul, spinning in centrifugal lust and fury until he sputters out through the hole in the center of him; going down like a gas bag-vault, cellar, ribs, skin, blood, tissue, mind, and heart all consumed, devoured, blottoed in final annihilation.
This is the city, and this the music. Out of the little black boxes an unending river of romance in which the crocodiles weep. All walking toward the mountain top. All in step. From the power house above God floods the street with music. It is God who turns the music on every evening just as we quit work. To some of us is given a crust of bread, to others a Rolls Royce. All moving toward the Exits, the stale bread locked in the garbage cans. What is it that keeps our feet in unison as we move toward the shining mountain top? It is the Song of Love which was heard in the manger by the three wise men from the East. A man without legs, his eyes blown out, was playing it on the piccolo as he rolled through the street of the holy city on his littlc sledge. It is this Song of Love which now pours out of millions of little black boxes at the precise chronological moment, so that even our little brown brothers in the Philippines can hear it. It is this beautiful Song of Love which gives us the strength to build the tallest buildings, to launch the biggest battleships, to span the widest rivers. It is this Song which gives us the courage to kill millions of men at once by just pressing a button. This Song which gives us the energy to plunder the earth and lay everything bare.
Walking toward the mountain top I study the rigid outlines of your buildings which tomorrow will crumple and collapse in smoke. I study your peace programs which will end in a hail of bullets. I study your glittering shop windows crammed with inventions for which tomorrow there will be no use. I study your worn faces hacked with toil, your broken arches, your fallen stomachs. I study you individually and in the swarm-and how you stink, all of you! You stink like God and his all-merciful love and wisdom. God the maneater! God the shark swimming with his parasites!
It is God, let us not forget, who turns the radio on each evening. It is God who floods our eyes with shining, brimming light. Soon we will be with Him, folded in his bosom, gathered up in bliss and eternity, even with the Word, equal before the Law. This is coming about through love, a love so great that beside it the mightiest dynamo is but a mosquito buzzing.
And now I take leave of you and your holy citadel. I go now to sit on the mountain top, to wait another ten thousand years while you struggle up toward the light. I wish, just for this evening, that you would dim the lights, that you would muffle the loudspeakers. This evening I would like to meditate a bit in peace and quiet. I would like to forget for a little while that you are swarming around in your five-and-tencent honeycomb.
Tomorrow you may bring about the destruction of your world. Tomorrow you may sing in Paradise above the smoking ruins of your world-cities. But tonight I would like to think of one man, a lone individual, a man without name or country, a man whom I respect because he has absolutely nothing in common with youMYSELF. Tonight I shall meditate upon that which I am.
Louveciennes;-Clich y;—Villa Seurat.
1934-1935.
大都市疯子
大都市疯子
想象一下你手上什么也没有，只有你的命运。坐在你母亲子宫的门阶上，你消磨时间——或者时间消磨你。你坐在那里唱你无法理解的万物赞歌。外边。永远外边。
当甜蜜的死亡喧闹开始时，这个城市是最可爱的。她自己的生活是在无视自然中度过的，她的电，她的电冰箱，她的隔音墙。她一层层地建起她的干砌墙，喷漆的钉子闪闪发光，羽毛飘过波纹状的天空。这里，棺材深处生长着电报送来的不朽之花。在河床下面的墓穴里有金锭。一个云母闪烁的沙漠，电话铃大声响起。
傍晚时分，当死神使脊椎格格作响的时候，人群挤得紧紧的，摩肩接踵，这一大群人中的每一位都为孤独所驱使；胸贴胸地朝向自我之墙，灰心丧气，孤立无援，拥挤不堪，都在寻求着通用的开罐器。傍晚时分，当电点缀着人群的时候，整个城市都腾跃起来，砸碎大门。在拥挤中，抽象的人崩溃了，自我苍白无力，在他深沟般的孤独中旋转。
一个深深烙下的名字。一种身份。每一个人都假装不知道，假装不再记得，但是名字是用烙印深深烙下的，在里面很深，就像外面最远的星星。填满所有的时空，创造无限孤独，这个名字扩张，并成为它曾经始终是而且将会始终是的模样——上帝。在人群中，上帝以静悄悄的脚步走动，在拥挤中，比最大的恐慌还要发狂。上帝像人类意识的天空中的一颗星星一样燃烧：野牛的上帝，驯鹿的上帝，人类的上帝……上帝。
除了在无神的人群里，绝不再有上帝。除了在傍晚的拥挤中，绝不再有上帝，这时候脊椎格格直响，用死亡电报将爱之歌传遍所有神经细胞，无线电从百老汇大街上的每一家商店以话筒和拾音器，以扩音器和联播网，做出回答。除了在拥挤的人群里，绝不再有孤独，城市里的孤独者为他的发明物所包围，无望的探索者淹没在同一性当中。由于绝望而孤独，缺乏爱，因而建立了最后的要塞，上帝的网状城堡，按照迷宫的方式建成。除了到天堂去，这最后的避难所是无法逃离的。从这里我们飞回家，标出奇怪的无线电波道。
蛆虫结束了他的地下生活，长出了翅膀。他失去了视力、听力、嗅觉、味觉，一头扎入未知之中。远离！远离！远离世界的任何地方！土星，海王星，织女星——无论在哪里或去哪里，只要远离，远离地球！在蓝天上，鞭炮在他屁眼里发出噼噼啪啪的声音，天使蛆虫发了疯。他颠倒着吃喝，他颠倒着睡觉，他颠倒着性交。在最高速的情况下，他的身体轻于空气；在最高速的情况下，只有梦的自发燃烧。他独自在蓝天上飞向上帝，发电机呜呜作响。最后的飞行！在袋子被刺穿以前，最后的诞生之梦。
拼命从无尽的梦魇中朝光亮挣扎前行的人现在在哪里?站在地球表面，两肺衰退，牙缝里咬着一把刀，眼睛爆裂的人在哪里?悲伤和痛苦使他发木，他呆呆地站在上层世界迅速腐败的不断变化之中。用被鲜血浸泡的眼睛来看世界是多么壮丽！人的帝国多么光明，多么血淋淋！人！瞧，他在他的小雪橇上向前滑动，他的腿被截掉，他的眼睛爆裂。你听不到他在演奏吗?他一边坐着小雪橇向前滑动，一边演奏着《爱之歌》。在咖啡厅，坐着另一个人，单独做着他的梦，心脏下方有一把左轮手枪，一个厌恶了爱的人。所有的顾客都走了，只剩下一具戴着帽子的骷髅。这个人独自和他的孤独在一起。左轮手枪沉默着。在他旁边有一只狗和一根骨头，这只狗对骨头来说没有一点儿用处。狗也很孤独。阳光透过窗户照进来，它那可怕的光辉照在失恋者的绿脑壳上。太阳正在腐烂，放射出可怕的光辉。
生命的冬天如此美好，太阳在腐烂，天使屁眼里放着鞭炮，飞向天堂！我们沉思着轻轻走过街道。体育馆都开着，人们可以看到由照图表运动的火炉烟囱管和汽缸构成的新人。这些新人将永远不会疲乏，因为零件总是可以替换的。没有眼睛、鼻子、耳朵或嘴巴的新人，关节处是滚珠轴承，脚下是溜冰鞋。对暴动和革命有免疫力的人。街上多么欢乐，多么拥挤！在地下室的门边站着杀人碎尸者杰克，他正挥舞着一把斧子；教士正登上绞刑台，勃起的那玩意儿撑破了他的裤裆；公证人拿着鼓鼓囊囊的公文包走过；电喇叭发出响亮的尖叫。人们在他们新发现的自由中欣喜若狂。一个永久的降神会，有扩音器和彩色纸带，没有胳膊的人操控着蜡制的汽缸；工厂日夜运转，生产出更多的香肠，更多的椒盐脆饼，更多的纽扣，更多的刺刀，更多的焦炭，更多的鸦片酊，更多的利斧，更多的自动手枪。
我想不起比20世纪全盛时期中的这一天更可爱的日子，太阳在腐烂，一个人正在小雪橇上用短笛吹奏《爱之歌》。这一天在我心中放射出如此可怕的光辉，以致即使我是世界上最伤心的人，我也不要离开地球。
多么辉煌的疏散，这从神圣城堡向天堂的最后一次飞行！往下朝地球看，似乎又温暖可爱。没有人类的地球。无法形容的温柔可爱，这没有人类的地球。摆脱了寻求上帝的人，摆脱了卖淫的子孙，一切生灵之母重新典雅高贵地运行在她的轨道上。地球不知道什么上帝、仁慈、爱。地球是一个创造与毁灭的子宫。人类不属于地球，而属于上帝。那么就让他到上帝那里去，赤裸，潦倒，污浊，分裂，比最深的峡谷还要孤独。
今天，当我朝山顶走去时，进步与发明陪伴了我一会儿。明天，每一座世界性城市都将陷落。明天，世上每一个文明的存在都将死于毒药与钢铁，但是今天你仍然可以将我沐浴在上帝奇妙的爱情抒情诗中。今天仍然是室内音乐、梦幻、幻觉。最后五分钟！一场梦，一首没有结尾的赋格曲。每一个音调都像钩子上的死肉一般在腐烂。一种坏疽，旋律在其中被它自己化脓的恶臭所淹没。一旦机体有能力感受到死亡，它便狂喜得颤抖。一种胎动的感觉，令人感到喜悦的痛苦——当食物和性成为一体时，临死前喉鸣的痛苦。漩涡！卷进漩涡的一切都被吞到海底！无知的野蛮人开始在周围寻求他的尾巴，在迷宫般的大漩涡中越挨越近。现在到达了死亡中心，他在那里绕着自我旋转，放射出白热化的光芒，令人眼花缭乱，照射到每一条灵魂的沟渠上，在那里疯狂而不满足地旋转；他灵魂的盗尸贼和暴徒，在离心的欲望和狂怒中旋转，直到他从他中心的窟窿中消失，像气囊一样瘪下来——墓穴、地窖、肋骨、皮肤、血液、组织、大脑、心脏，全部消耗殆尽，被吞噬，醉倒在最后的毁灭中。
这就是城市，这就是音乐。从小黑盒子里流出一条无尽的浪漫之河，鳄鱼在其中哭泣。大家都走向山顶。全步调一致。凭上面的发电站，上帝让街道淹没在音乐中。每天傍晚我们下班时，是上帝打开了音乐。给我们当中某些人的是面包皮，给其他人的是劳斯莱斯。所有人都走向出口，不新鲜的面包锁在垃圾桶里。当我们走向闪闪发光的山顶时，是什么东西使我们齐步走呢?在马槽里从东方来的三智者听到的是《爱之歌》。一个没有腿的人，他的眼睛爆裂，他一边在小雪橇上沿着圣城的街道向前滑动，一边用短笛吹奏这支曲子。正是这首《爱之歌》，眼下在按时间顺序排列的精确时刻从上百万只小黑盒子里倾倒出来，以至我们在菲律宾的棕色小兄弟都能听见。正是这首美妙的《爱之歌》给予我们力量来建造最高的建筑物，让最大的战舰下水，跨越最宽的河流。正是这首歌赋予我们勇气，让我们只是按一下电钮，就一下子杀死上百万人。正是这首歌让我们精力充沛来掠夺地球，把一切都暴露在光天化日之下。
走向山顶的时候，我研究了你们建筑物的僵硬轮廓，它们明天就将在烟雾中坍塌。我研究了你们的和平纲领，它将在一阵弹雨中告终。我研究了你们闪闪发光的橱窗，里面塞满了明天没人需要的发明物。我研究了你们因苦工而疲惫不堪的脸，你们折断的足背，你们凹陷的肚子。我研究你们的个体和群体——你们多么臭气熏天，你们所有人！你们像上帝、像他十分仁慈的爱与智慧一样臭气熏天。吃人者上帝！同他的寄生虫一起游泳的鲨鱼上帝！
让我们不要忘记，每天晚上拧开收音机的是上帝。是上帝使我们的眼睛里充满了明亮而满溢的光。很快我们就将同他在一起，被抱在他的怀里，沉浸在极乐与永恒之中，与《圣经》相一致，法律面前人人平等。这是通过爱而产生的，一种伟大的爱，与之相比，即使最强有力的发电机也不过是嗡嗡作响的蚊子。
现在我要向你们和你们的神圣城堡告别。现在我要去坐在山顶上，再等一万年，等你们努力走向光明。只是今天晚上，我希望你们把灯光弄暗一点儿，把扩音器弄轻一点儿。今天晚上我想安安静静地思考一会儿。我想忘记一小会儿，你正在你蜂巢似的五分一角商店里转来转去。
明天你会给你的世界带来毁灭。明天你会在天堂里，在你世界性城市烟雾弥漫的废墟上空歌唱。但是今晚我愿意想一个人，一个孤独的人，一个没有姓名、没有祖国的人，一个我所尊敬的人，因为他和你绝无共同之处——这便是我自己。今晚我将考虑我是何物。
卢夫西恩、克利希、舍拉别墅
1934——1935年