生命不能承受之轻-第29部分

快捷操作: 按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页 按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页 按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部! 如果本书没有阅读完，想下次继续接着阅读，可使用上方 "收藏到我的浏览器" 功能 和 "加入书签" 功能！


h　the　worse　for　him。　Internal　imperatives　are　all　the　more　powerful　and　therefore　all　the　more　of　an　inducement　to　revolt。
Being　a　surgeon　means　slitting　open　the　surface　of　things　and　looking　at　what　lies　hidden　inside。　Perhaps　Tomas　was　led　to　surgery　by　a　desire　to　know　what　lies　hidden　on　the　other　side　of　Es　muss　sein！　；　in　other　words；　what　remains　of　life　when　a　person　rejects　what　he　previously　considered　his　mission。
The　day　he　reported　to　the　good…natured　woman　responsible　for　the　cleanliness　of　all　shop　windows　and　display　cases　in　Prague；　and　was　confronted　with　the　result　of　his　decision　in　all　its　concrete　and　inescapable　reality；　he　went　into　a　state　of　shock；　a　state　that　kept　him　in　its　thrall　during　the　first　few　days　of　his　new　job。　But　once　he　got　over　the　astounding　strangeness　of　his　new　life　（it　took　him　about　a　week）；　he　suddenly　realized　he　was　simply　on　a　long　holiday。
Here　he　was；　doing　things　he　didn't　care　a　damn　about；　and　enjoying　it。　Now　he　understood　what　made　people　（people　he　always　pitied）　happy　when　they　took　a　job　without　feeling　the　compulsion　of　an　internal　Es　muss　sein！　and　forgot　it　the　moment　they　left　for　home　every　evening。　This　was　the　first　time　he　had　felt　that　blissful　indifference。　Whenever　anything　went　wrong　on　the　operating　table；　he　would　be　despondent　and　unable　to　sleep。　He　would　even　lose　his　taste　for　women。　The　Es　muss　sein！　of　his　profession　had　been　like　a　vampire　sucking　his　blood。
Now　he　roamed　the　streets　of　Prague　with　brush　and　pole；　feeling　ten　years　younger。　The　salesgirls　all　called　him　doctor　（the　Prague　bush　telegraph　was　working　better　than　ever）　and　asked　his　advice　about　their　colds；　aching　backs；　and　irregular　periods。　They　seemed　almost　embarrassed　to　watch　him　douse　the　glass　with　water；　fit　the　brush　on　the　end　of　the　pole；　and　start　washing。　If　they　could　have　left　their　customers　alone　in　the　shops；　they　would　surely　have　grabbed　the　pole　from　his　hands　and　washed　the　windows　for　him。
Most　of　Tomas's　orders　came　from　large　shops；　but　his　boss　sent　him　out　to　private　customers；　too。　People　were　still　reacting　to　the　mass　persecution　of　Czech　intellectuals　with　the　euphoria　of　solidarity；　and　when　his　former　patients　found　out　that　Tomas　was　washing　windows　for　a　living；　they　would　phone　in　and　order　him　by　name。　Then　they　would　greet　him　with　a　bottle　of　champagne　or　slivovitz；　sign　for　thirteen　windows　on　the　order　slip；　and　chat　with　him　for　two　hours；　drinking　his　health　all　the　while。　Tomas　would　move　on　to　his　next　flat　or　shop　in　a　capital　mood。　While　the　families　of　Russian　officers　settled　in　throughout　the　land　and　radios　intoned　ominous　reports　of　police　functionaries　who　had　replaced　cashiered　broadcasters；　Tomas　reeled　through　the　streets　of　Prague　from　one　glass　of　wine　to　the　next　like　someone　going　from　party　to　party。　It　was　his　grand　holiday。
He　had　reverted　to　his　bachelor　existence。　Tereza　was　suddenly　out　of　his　life。　The　only　times　he　saw　her　were　when　she　came　back　from　the　bar　late　at　night　and　he　woke　befuddled　from　a　half…sleep；　and　in　the　morning；　when　she　was　the　befuddled　one　and　he　was　hurrying　off　to　work。　Each　workday；　he　had　sixteen　hours　to　himself；　an　unexpected　field　of　freedom。　And　from　Tomas's　early　youth　that　had　meant　women。
9
When　his　friends　asked　him　how　many　women　he　had　had　in　his　life；　he　would　try　to　evade　the　question；　and　when　they　pressed　him　further　he　would　say；　Well；　two　hundred；　give　or　take　a　few。　The　envious　among　them　accused　him　of　stretching　the　truth。　That's　not　so　many；　he　said　by　way　of　self…defense。　I've　been　involved　with　women　for　about　twenty…five　years　now。　Divide　two　hundred　by　twenty…five　and　you'll　see　it　comes　to　only　eight　or　so　new　women　a　year。　That's　not　so　many；　is　it？　
But　setting　up　house　with　Tereza　cramped　his　style。　Because　of　the　organizational　difficulties　it　entailed；　he　had　been　forced　to　relegate　his　erotic　activities　to　a　narrow　strip　of　time　（between　the　operating　room　and　home）　which；　though　he　had　used　it　intensively　（as　a　mountain　farmer　tills　his　narrow　plot　for　all　it　is　worth）；　was　nothing　like　the　sixteen　hours　that　now　had　suddenly　been　bestowed　on　him。　（I　say　sixteen　hours　because　the　eight　hours　he　spent　washing　windows　were　filled　with　new　salesgirls；　housewives；　and　female　functionaries；　each　of　whom　represented　a　potential　erotic　engagement。）
What　did　he　look　for　in　them？　What　attracted　him　to　them？　Isn't　making　love　merely　an　eternal　repetition　of　the　same？
Not　at　all。　There　is　always　the　small　part　that　is　unimaginable。　When　he　saw　a　woman　in　her　clothes；　he　could　naturally　imagine　more　or　less　what　she　would　look　like　naked　（his　experience　as　a　doctor　supplementing　his　experience　as　a　lover）；　but　between　the　approximation　of　the　idea　and　the　precision　of　reality　there　was　a　small　gap　of　the　unimaginable；　and　it　was　this　hiatus　that　gave　him　no　rest。　And　then；　the　pursuit　of　the　unimaginable　does　not　stop　with　the　revelations　of　nudity；　it　goes　much　further：　How　would　she　behave　while　undressing？　What　would　she　say　when　he　made　love　to　her？　How　would　her　sighs　sound？　How　would　her　face　distort　at　the　moment　of　orgasm？
What　is　unique　about　the　I　hides　itself　exactly　in　what　is　unimaginable　about　a　person。　All　we　are　able　to　imagine　is　what　makes　everyone　like　everyone　else；　what　people　have　in　common。　The　individual　I　is　what　differs　from　the　common　stock；　that　is；　what　cannot　be　guessed　at　or　calculated；　what　must　be　unveiled；　uncovered；　conquered。
Tomas；　who　had　spent　the　last　ten　years　of　his　medical　practice　working　exclusively　with　the　human　brain；　knew　that　there　was　nothing　more　difficult　to　capture　than　the　human　I。　There　are　many　more　resemblances　between　Hitler　and　Einstein　or　Brezhnev　and　Solzhenitsyn　than　there　are　differences。　Using　numbers；　we　might　say　that　there　is　one…millionth　part　dissimilarity　to　nine　hundred　ninety…nine　thousand　nine　hundred　ninety…nine　millionths　parts　similarity。
Tomas　was　obsessed　by　the　desire　to　discover　and　appropriate　that　one…millionth　part；　he　saw　it　as　the　core　of　his　obsession。　He　was　not　obsessed　with　women；　he　was　obsessed　with　what　in　each　of　them　is　unimaginable；　obsessed；　in　other　words；　with　the　one…millionth　part　that　makes　a　woman　dissimilar　to　others　of　her　sex。
（Here　too；　perhaps；　his　passion　for　surgery　and　his　passion　for　women　came　together。　Even　with　his　mistresses；　he　could　never　quite　put　down　the　imaginary　scalpel。　Since　he　longed　to　take　possession　of　something　deep　inside　them；　he　needed　to　slit　them　open。）
We　may　ask；　of　course；　why　he　sought　that　millionth　part　dissimilarity　in　sex　and　nowhere　else。　Why　couldn't　he　find　it；　say；　in　a　woman's　gait　or　culinary　caprices　or　artistic　taste？
To　be　sure；　the　millionth　part　dissimilarity　is　present　in　all　areas　of　human　existence；　but　in　all　areas　other　than　sex　it　is　exposed　and　needs　no　one　to　discover　it；　needs　no　scalpel。　One　woman　prefers　cheese　at　the　end　of　the　meal；　another　loathes　cauliflower；　and　although　each　may　demonstrate　her　originality　thereby；　it　is　an　originality　that　demonstrates　its　own　irrelevance　and　warns　us　to　pay　it　no　heed；　to　expect　nothing　of　value　to　come　of　it。
Only　in　sexuality　does　the　millionth　part　dissimilarity　become　precious；　because；　not　accessible　in　public；　it　must　be　conquered。　As　recently　as　fifty　years　ago；　this　form　of　conquest　took　considerable　time　（weeks；　even　months！）；　and　the　worth　of　the　conquered　object　was　proportional　to　the　time　the　conquest　took。　Even　today；　when　conquest　time　has　been　drastically　cut；　sexuality　seems　still　to　be　a　strongbox　hiding　the　mystery　of　a　woman's　I。　
So　it　was　a　desire　not　for　pleasure　（the　pleasure　came　as　an　extra；　a　bonus）　but　for　possession　of　the　world　（slitting　open　the　outstretched　body　of　the　world　with　his　scalpel）　that　sent　him　in　pursuit　of　women。
Men　who　pursue　a　multitude　of　women　fit　neatly　into　two　categories。　Some　seek　their　own　subjective　and　unchanging　dream　of　a　woman　in　all　women。　Others　are　prompted　by　a　desire　to　possess　the　endless　variety　of　the　objective　female　world。
The　obsession　of　the　former　is　lyrical：　what　they　seek　in　women　is　themselves；　their　ideal；　and　since　an　ideal　is　by　definition　something　that　can　never　be　found；　they　are　disappointed　again　and　again。　The　disappointment　that　propels　them　from　woman　to　woman　gives　their　inconstancy　a　kind　of　romantic　excuse；　so　that　many　sentimental　women　are　touched　by　their　unbridled　philandering。
The　obsession　of　the　latter　is　epic；　and　women　see　nothing　the　least　bit　touching　in　it：　the　man　projects　no　subjective　ideal　on　women；　and　since　everything　interests　him；　nothing　can　disappoint　him。　This　inability　to　be　disappointed　has　something　scandalous　about　it。　The　obsession　of　the　epic　womanizer　strikes　people　as　lacking　in　redemption　（redemption　by　disappointment）。
Because　the　lyrical　womanizer　always　runs　after　the　same　type　of　woman；　we　even　fail　to　notice　when　he　exchanges　one　mistress　for　another。　His　friends　perpetually　cause　misunderstandings　by　mixing　up　his　lovers　and　calling　them　by　the　same　name。
In　pursuit　of　knowledge；　epic　womanizers　（and　of　course　Tomas　belonged　in　their　ranks）　turn　away　from　conventional　feminine　beauty；　of　which　they　quickly　tire；　and　inevitably　end　up　as　curiosity　collectors。　They　are　aware　of　this　and　a　little　ashamed　of　it；　and　to　avoid　causing　their　friends　embarrassment；　they　refrain　from　appearing　in　public　with　their　mistresses。
Tomas　had　been　a　window　washer　for　nearly　two　years　when　he　was　sent　to　a　new　customer　whose　bizarre　appearance　struck　him　the　moment　he　saw　her。　Though　bizarre；　it　was　also　discreet；　understated；　within　the　bounds　of　the　agreeably　ordinary　（Tomas's　fascination　with　curiosities　had　nothing　in　common　with　Fellini's　fascination　with　monsters）：　she　was　very　tall；　quite　a　bit　taller　than　he　was；　and　she　had　a　delicate　and　very　long　nose　in　a　face　so　unusual　that　it　was　impossible　to　call　it　attractive　（everyone　would　have　protested！）；　yet　（in　Tomas's　eyes；　at　least）　it　could　not　be　called　unattractive。　She　was　wearing　slacks　and　a　white　blouse；　and　looked　like　an　odd　combination　of　giraffe；　stork；　and　sensitive　young　boy。
She　fixed　him　with　a　long；　careful；　searching　stare　that　was　not　devoid　of　irony's　intelligen