白噪音(White Noise) (英文版)作者:唐·德里罗(Don DeLillo)-第18部分

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to　descend　upon　the　dead；　waiting　to　see　the　light　that　hangs　above　the　fields　of　the　landscapist's　lament。
　　I　stood　there；　listening。　The　wind　blew　snow　from　the　branches。　Snow　blew　out　of　the　woods　in　eddies　and　sweeping　gusts。　I　raised　my　collar；　put　my　gloves　back　on。　When　the　air　was　still　again；　I　walked　among　the　stones；　trying　to　read　the　names　and　dates；　adjusting　the　flags　to　make　them　swing　free。　Then　I　stood　and　listened。
　　The　power　of　the　dead　is　that　we　think　they　see　us　all　the　time。　The　dead　have　a　presence。　Is　there　a　level　of　energy　posed　solely　of　the　dead？　They　are　also　in　the　ground；　of　course；　asleep　and　crumbling。　Perhaps　we　are　what　they　dream。
　　May　the　days　be　aimless。　Let　the　seasons　drift。　Do　not　advance　the　action　according　to　a　plan。
　　20
　　Mr。　Treadwell's　sister　died。　Her　first　name　was　Gladys。　The　doctor　said　she　died　of　lingering　dread；　a　result　of　the　four　days　and　nights　she　and　her　brother　had　spent　in　the　Mid…Village　Mall；　lost　and　confused。
　　A　man　in　Glassboro　died　when　the　rear　wheel　of　his　car　separated　from　the　axle。　An　idiosyncrasy　of　that　particular　model。
　　The　lieutenant　governor　of　the　state　died　of　undisclosed　natural　causes；　after　a　long　illness。　We　all　know　what　that　means。
　　A　Mechanicsville　man　died　outside　Tokyo　during　a　siege　of　the　airport　by　ten　thousand　helmeted　students。
　　When　I　read　obituaries　I　always　note　the　age　of　the　deceased。　Automatically　I　relate　this　figure　to　my　own　age。　Four　years　to　go；　I　think。　Nine　more　years。　Two　years　and　I'm　dead。　The　power　of　numbers　is　never　more　evident　than　when　we　use　them　to　speculate　on　the　time　of　our　dying。　Sometimes　I　bargain　with　myself。　Would　I　be　willing　to　accept　sixty…five；　Genghis　Khan's　age　on　dying？　Suleiman　the　Magnificent　made　it　to　seventy…six。　That　sounds　all　right；　especially　the　way　I　feel　now；　but　how　will　it　sound　when　I'm　seventy…three？
　　It's　hard　to　imagine　these　men　feeling　sad　about　death。　Attila　the　Hun　died　young。　He　was　still　in　his　forties。　Did　he　feel　sorry　for　himself；　succumb　to　self…pity　and　depression？　He　was　the　King　of　the　Huns；　the　Invader　of　Europe；　the　Scourge　of　God。　I　want　to　believe　he　lay　in　his　tent；　wrapped　in　animal　skins；　as　in　some　internationally　financed　movie　epic；　and　said　brave　cruel　things　to　his　aides　and　retainers。　No　weakening　of　the　spirit。　No　sense　of　the　irony　of　human　existence；　that　we　are　the　highest　form　of　life　on　earth　and　yet　ineffably　sad　because　we　know　what　no　other　animal　knows；　that　we　must　die。　Attila　did　not　look　through　the　opening　in　his　tent　and　gesture　at　some　lame　dog　standing　at　the　edge　of　the　fire　waiting　to　be　thrown　a　scrap　of　meat。　He　did　not　say；　〃That　pathetic　flea…ridden　beast　is　better　off　than　the　greatest　ruler　of　men。　It　doesn't　know　what　we　know；　it　doesn't　feel　what　we　feel；　it　can't　be　sad　as　we　are　sad。〃
　　I　want　to　believe　he　was　not　afraid。　He　accepted　death　as　an　experience　that　flows　naturally　from　life；　a　wild　ride　through　the　forest；　as　would　befit　someone　known　as　the　Scourge　of　God。　This　is　how　it　ended　for　him；　with　his　attendants　cutting　off　their　hair　and　disfiguring　their　own　faces　in　barbarian　tribute；　as　the　camera　pulls　back　out　of　the　tent　and　pans　across　the　night　sky　of　the　fifth　century　A。D。；　clear　and　uncontaminated；　bright…banded　with　shimmering　worlds。
　　Babette　looked　up　from　her　eggs　and　hash　browns　and　said　to　me　with　a　quiet　intensity；　〃Life　is　good；　Jack。〃
　　〃What　brings　this　on？〃
　　〃I　just　think　it　ought　to　be　said。〃
　　〃Do　you　feel　better　now　that　you've　said　it？〃
　　〃I　have　terrible　dreams；〃　she　murmured。
　　Who　will　die　first？　She　says　she　wants　to　die　first　because　she　would　feel　unbearably　lonely　and　sad　without　me；　especially　if　the　children　were　grown　and　living　elsewhere。　She　is　adamant　about　this。　She　sincerely　wants　to　precede　me。　She　discusses　the　subject　with　such　argumentative　force　that　it's　obvious　she　thinks　we　have　a　choice　in　the　matter。　She　also　thinks　nothing　can　happen　to　us　as　long　as　there　are　dependent　children　in　the　house。　The　kids　are　a　guarantee　of　our　relative　longevity。　We're　safe　as　long　as　they're　around。　But　once　they　get　big　and　scatter；　she　wants　to　be　the　first　to　go。　She　sounds　almost　eager。　She　is　afraid　I　will　die　unexpectedly；　sneakily；　slipping　away　in　the　night。　It　isn't　that　she　doesn't　cherish　life；　it's　being　left　alone　that　frightens　her。　The　emptiness；　the　sense　of　cosmic　darkness。
　　MasterCard；　Visa；　American　Express。
　　I　tell　her　I　want　to　die　first。　I've　gotten　so　used　to　her　that　I　would　feel　miserably　inplete。　We　are　two　views　of　the　same　person。　I　would　spend　the　rest　of　my　life　turning　to　speak　to　her。
　　No　one　there；　a　hole　in　space　and　time。　She　claims　my　death　would　leave　a　bigger　hole　in　her　life　than　her　death　would　leave　in　mine。　This　is　the　level　of　our　discourse。　The　relative　size　of　holes；　abysses　and　gaps。　We　have　serious　arguments　on　this　level。　She　says　if　her　death　is　capable　of　leaving　a　large　hole　in　my　life；　my　death　would　leave　an　abyss　in　hers；　a　great　yawning　gulf。　I　counter　with　a　profound　depth　or　void。　And　so　it　goes　into　the　night。　These　arguments　never　seem　foolish　at　the　time。　Such　is　the　dignifying　power　of　our　subject。
　　She　put　on　a　long　glossy　padded　coat—it　looked　segmented；　exoskeletal；　designed　for　the　ocean　floor—and　went　out　to　teach　her　class　in　posture。　Steffie　moved　soundlessly　through　the　house　carrying　small　plastic　bags　she　used　for　lining　the　wicker　baskets　scattered　about。　She　did　this　once　or　twice　a　week　with　the　quiet　and　conscientious　air　of　someone　who　does　not　want　credit　for　saving　lives。　Murray　came　over　to　talk　to　the　two　girls　and　Wilder；　something　he　did　from　time　to　time　as　part　of　his　investigation　into　what　he　called　the　society　of　kids。　He　talked　about　the　otherworldly　babble　of　the　American　family。　He　seemed　to　think　we　were　a　visionary　group；　open　to　special　forms　of　consciousness。　There　were　huge　amounts　of　data　flowing　through　the　house；　waiting　to　be　analyzed。
　　He　went　upstairs　with　the　three　kids　to　watch　TV。　Heinrich　walked　into　the　kitchen；　sat　at　the　table　and　gripped　a　fork　tightly　in　each　hand。　The　refrigerator　throbbed　massively。　I　flipped　a　switch　and　somewhere　beneath　the　sink　a　grinding　mechanism　reduced　parings；　rinds　and　animal　fats　to　tiny　drainable　fragments；　with　a　motorized　surge　that　made　me　retreat　two　paces。　I　took　the　forks　out　of　my　son's　hands　and　put　them　in　the　dishwasher。
　　〃Do　you　drink　coffee　yet？〃
　　〃No；〃　he　said。
　　〃Baba　likes　a　cup　when　she　gets　back　from　class。〃
　　〃Make　her　tea　instead。〃
　　〃She　doesn't　like　tea。〃
　　〃She　can　learn；　can't　she？〃
　　〃The　two　things　have　pletely　different　tastes。〃
　　〃A　habit's　a　habit。〃
　　〃You　have　to　acquire　it　first。〃
　　〃That's　what　I'm　saying。　Make　her　tea。〃
　　〃Her　class　is　more　demanding　than　it　sounds。　Coffee　relaxes　her。〃
　　'That's　why　it's　dangerous；〃　he　said。
　　〃It's　not　dangerous。〃
　　〃Whatever　relaxes　you　is　dangerous。　If　you　don't　know　that；　I　might　as　well　be　talking　to　the　wall。〃
　　〃Murray　would　also　like　coffee；〃　I　said；　aware　of　a　small　note　of　triumph　in　my　voice。
　　〃Did　you　see　what　you　just　did？　You　took　the　coffee　can　with　you　to　the　counter。〃
　　〃So　what？〃
　　〃You　didn't　have　to。　You　could　have　left　it　by　the　stove　where　you　were　standing　and　then　gone　to　the　counter　to　get　the　spoon。〃
　　〃You're　saying　I　carried　the　coffee　can　unnecessarily。〃
　　〃You　carried　it　in　your　right　hand　all　the　way　to　the　counter；　put　it　down　to　open　the　drawer；　which　you　didn't　want　to　do　with　your　left　hand；　then　got　the　spoon　with　your　right　hand；　switched　it　to　your　left　hand；　picked　up　the　coffee　can　with　your　right　hand　and　went　back　to　the　stove；　where　you　put　it　down　again。〃
　　〃That's　what　people　do。〃
　　〃It's　wasted　motion。　People　waste　tremendous　amounts　of　motion。　You　ought　to　watch　Baba　make　a　salad　sometime。〃
　　〃People　don't　deliberate　over　each　tiny　motion　and　gesture。　A　little　waste　doesn't　hurt。〃
　　〃But　over　a　lifetime？〃
　　〃What　do　you　save　if　you　don't　waste？〃
　　〃Over　a　lifetime？　You　save　tremendous　amounts　of　time　and　energy；〃　he　said。
　　〃What　will　you　do　with　them？〃
　　〃Use　them　to　live　longer。〃
　　The　truth　is　I　don't　want　to　die　first。　Given　a　choice　between　loneliness　and　death；　it　would　take　me　a　fraction　of　a　second　to　decide。　But　I　don't　want　to　be　alone　either。　Everything　I　say　to　Babette　about　holes　and　gaps　is　true。　Her　death　would　leave　me　scattered；　talking　to　chairs　and　pillows。　Don't　let　us　die；　I　want　to　cry　out　to　that　fifth　century　sky　ablaze　with　mystery　and　spiral　light。　Let　us　both　live　forever；　in　sickness　and　health；　feebleminded；　doddering；　toothless；　liver…spotted；　dim…sighted；　hallucinating。　Who　decides　these　things？　What　is　out　there？　Who　are　you？
　　I　watched　the　coffee　bubble　up　through　the　center　tube　and　perforated　basket　into　the　small　pale　globe。　A　marvelous　and　sad　invention；　so　roundabout；　ingenious；　human。　It　was　like　a　philosophical　argument　rendered　in　terms　of　the　things　of　the　world—　water；　metal；　brown　beans。　I　had　never　looked　at　coffee　before。
　　〃When　plastic　furniture　burns；　you　get　cyanide　poisoning；〃　Heinrich　said；　tapping　the　Formica　tabletop。
　　He　ate　a　winter　peach。　I　poured　a　cup　of　coffee　for　Murray　and　together　the　boy　and　I　went　up　the　stairs　to　Denise's　room；　where　the　TV　set　was　currently　located。　The　volume　was　kept　way　down；　the　girls　engaged　in　a　rapt　dialogue　with　their　guest。　Murray　looked　happy　to　be　there。　He　sat　in　the　middle　of　the　floor　taking　notes；　his　toggle　coat　and　touring　cap　next　to　him　on　the　rug。　The　room　around　him　was　rich　in　codes　and　messages；　an　archaeology　of　childhood；　things　Denise　had　carried　with　her　since　the　age　of　three；　from　cartoon　clocks　to　werewolf　posters。　She　is　the　kind　of　child　who　feels　a　protective　tenderness　toward　her　own　beginnings。　It　is　part　of　her　strategy　in　a　world　of　displacements　to　make　every　effort　to　restore　and　preserve；　keep　things　together　for　their　value　as　remembering　objects；　a　way　of　fastening　herself　to　a　life。
　　Make　no　mistake。　I　take　these　children　seriously。　It　is　not　possible　to　see　too　much　in　them；　to　overindulge　your　casual　gift　for　the　study　of　character。　I