白噪音(White Noise) (英文版)作者:唐·德里罗(Don DeLillo)-第2部分

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　　Denise　was　eleven；　a　hard…nosed　kid。　She　led　a　more　or　less　daily　protest　against　those　of　her　mother's　habits　that　struck　her　as　wasteful　or　dangerous。　I　defended　Babette。　I　told　her　I　was　the　one　who　needed　to　show　discipline　in　matters　of　diet。　I　reminded　her　how　much　I　liked　the　way　she　looked。　I　suggested　there　was　an　honesty　inherent　in　bulkiness　if　it　is　just　the　right　amount。　People　trust　a　certain　amount　of　bulk　in　others。
　　But　she　was　not　happy　with　her　hips　and　thighs；　walked　at　a　rapid　clip；　ran　up　the　stadium　steps　at　the　neoclassical　high　school。
　　She　said　I　made　virtues　of　her　flaws　because　it　was　my　nature　to　shelter　loved　ones　from　the　truth。　Something　lurked　inside　the　truth；　she　said。
　　The　smoke　alarm　went　off　in　the　hallway　upstairs；　either　to　'et　us　know　the　battery　had　just　died　or　because　the　house　was　on　fire。　We　finished　our　lunch　in　silence。
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　　Department　heads　wear　academic　robes　at　the　College…on…the…Hill。　Not　grand　sweeping　full…length　affairs　but　sleeveless　tunics　puckered　at　the　shoulders。　I　like　the　idea。　I　like　clearing　my　arm　from　the　folds　of　the　garment　to　look　at　my　watch。　The　simple　act　of　checking　the　time　is　transformed　by　this　flourish。　Decorative　gestures　add　romance　to　a　life。　Idling　students　may　see　time　itself　as　a　plex　embellishment；　a　romance　of　human　consciousness；　as　they　witness　the　chairman　walking　across　campus；　crook'd　arm　emerging　from　his　medieval　robe；　the　digital　watch　blinking　in　late　summer　dusk。　The　robe　is　black；　of　course；　and　goes　with　almost　anything。
　　There　is　no　Hitler　building　as　such。　We　are　quartered　in　Centenary　Hall；　a　dark　brick　structure　we　share　with　the　popular　culture　department；　known　officially　as　American　environments。　A　curious　group。　The　teaching　staff　is　posed　almost　solely　of　New　York　émigrés；　smart；　thuggish；　movie…mad；　trivia…crazed。　They　are　here　to　decipher　the　natural　language　of　the　culture；　to　make　a　formal　method　of　the　shiny　pleasures　they'd　known　in　their　Europe…shadowed　childhoods—an　Aristotelianism　of　bubble　gum　wrappers　and　detergent　jingles。　The　department　head　is　Alfonse　（Fast　Food）　Stompanato；　a　broad…chested　glowering　man　whose　collection　of　prewar　soda　pop　bottles　is　on　permanent　display　in　an　alcove。　All　his　teachers　are　male；　wear　rumpled　clothes；　need　haircuts；　cough　into　their　armpits。　Together　they　look　like　teamster　officials　assembled　to　identify　the　body　of　a　mutilated　colleague。　The　impression　is　one　of　pervasive　bitterness；　suspicion　and　intrigue。
　　An　exception　to　some　of　the　above　is　Murray　Jay　Siskind；　an　ex…sportswriter　who　asked　me　to　have　lunch　with　him　in　the　dining　room；　where　the　institutional　odor　of　vaguely　defined　food　aroused　in　me　an　obscure　and　gloomy　memory。　Murray　was　new　to　the　Hill；　a　stoop…shouldered　man　with　little　round　glasses　and　an　Amish　beard。　He　was　a　visiting　lecturer　on　living　icons　and　seemed　embarrassed　by　what　he'd　gleaned　so　far　from　his　colleagues　in　popular　culture。
　　〃I　understand　the　music；　I　understand　the　movies；　I　even　see　how　ic　books　can　tell　us　things。　But　there　are　full　professors　in　this　place　who　read　nothing　but　cereal　boxes。〃
　　〃It's　the　only　avant…garde　we've　got。〃
　　〃Not　that　I'm　plaining。　I　like　it　here。　I'm　totally　enamored　of　this　place。　A　small…town　setting。　I　want　to　be　free　of　cities　and　sexual　entanglements。　Heat。　This　is　what　cities　mean　to　me。　You　get　off　the　train　and　walk　out　of　the　station　and　you　are　hit　with　the　full　blast。　The　heat　of　air；　traffic　and　people。　The　heat　of　food　and　sex。　The　heat　of　tall　buildings。　The　heat　that　floats　out　of　the　subways　and　the　tunnels。　It's　always　fifteen　degrees　hotter　in　the　cities。　Heat　rises　from　the　sidewalks　and　falls　from　the　poisoned　sky。　The　buses　breathe　heat。　Heat　emanates　from　crowds　of　shoppers　and　office　workers。　The　entire　infrastructure　is　based　on　heat；　desperately　uses　up　heat；　breeds　more　heat。　The　eventual　heat　death　of　the　universe　that　scientists　love　to　talk　about　is　already　well　underway　and　you　can　feel　it　happening　all　around　you　in　any　large　or　medium…sized　city。　Heat　and　wetness。〃
　　〃Where　are　you　living；　Murray？〃
　　〃In　a　rooming　house。　I'm　totally　captivated　and　intrigued。　It's　a　gorgeous　old　crumbling　house　near　the　insane　asylum。　Seven　or　eight　boarders；　more　or　less　permanent　except　for　me。　A　woman　who　harbors　a　terrible　secret。　A　man　with　a　haunted　look。　A　man　who　never　es　out　of　his　room。　A　woman　who　stands　by　the　letter　box　for　hours；　waiting　for　something　that　never　seems　to　arrive。　A　man　with　no　past。　A　woman　with　a　past。　There　is　a　smell　about　the　place　of　unhappy　lives　in　the　movies　that　I　really　respond　to。〃
　　〃Which　one　are　you？〃　I　said。
　　〃I'm　the　Jew。　What　else　would　I　be？〃
　　There　was　something　touching　about　the　fact　that　Murray　was　dressed　almost　totally　in　corduroy。　I　had　the　feeling　that　since　the　age　of　eleven　in　his　crowded　plot　of　concrete　he'd　associated　this　sturdy　fabric　with　higher　learning　in　some　impossibly　distant　and　tree…shaded　place。
　　〃I　can't　help　being　happy　in　a　town　called　Blacksmith；〃　he　said。　〃I'm　here　to　avoid　situations。　Cities　are　full　of　situations；　sexually　cunning　people。　There　are　parts　of　my　body　I　no　longer　encourage　women　to　handle　freely。　I　was　in　a　situation　with　a　woman　in　Detroit。　She　needed　my　semen　in　a　divorce　suit。　The　irony　is　that　I　love　women。　I　fall　apart　at　the　sight　of　long　legs；　striding；　briskly；　as　a　breeze　carries　up　from　the　river；　on　a　weekday；　in　the　play　of　morning　light。　The　second　irony　is　that　it's　not　the　bodies　of　women　that　I　ultimately　crave　but　their　minds。　The　mind　of　a　woman。　The　delicate　chambering　and　massive　unidirectional　flow；　like　a　physics　experiment。　What　fun　it　is　to　talk　to　an　intelligent　woman　wearing　stockings　as　she　crosses　her　legs。　That　little　staticky　sound　of　rustling　nylon　can　make　me　happy　on　several　levels。　The　third　and　related　irony　is　that　it's　the　most　plex　and　neurotic　and　difficult　women　that　I　am　invariably　drawn　to。　I　like　simple　men　and　plicated　women。〃
　　Murray's　hair　was　tight　and　heavy…looking。　He　had　dense　brows；　wisps　of　hair　curling　up　the　sides　of　his　neck。　The　small　stiff　beard；　confined　to　his　chin　and　unacpanied　by　a　mustache；　seemed　an　optional　ponent；　to　be　stuck　on　or　removed　as　circumstances　warranted。
　　〃What　kind　of　lectures　do　you　plan　giving？〃
　　〃That's　exactly　what　I　want　to　talk　to　you　about；〃　he　said。　〃You've　established　a　wonderful　thing　here　with　Hitler。　You　created　it；　you　nurtured　it；　you　made　it　your　own。　Nobody　on　the　faculty　of　any　college　or　university　in　this　part　of　the　country　can　so　much　as　utter　the　word　Hitler　without　a　nod　in　your　direction；　literally　or　metaphorically。　This　is　the　center；　the　unquestioned　source。　He　is　now　your　Hitler；　Gladney's　Hitler。　It　must　be　deeply　satisfying　for　you。　The　college　is　internationally　known　as　a　result　of　Hitler　studies。　It　has　an　identity；　a　sense　of　achievement。　You've　evolved　an　entire　system　around　this　figure；　a　structure　with　countless　substructures　and　interrelated　fields　of　study；　a　history　within　history。　I　marvel　at　the　effort。　It　was　masterful；　shrewd　and　stunningly　preemptive。　It's　what　I　want　to　do　with　Elvis。〃
　　Several　days　later　Murray　asked　me　about　a　tourist　attraction　known　as　the　most　photographed　barn　in　America。　We　drove　twenty…two　miles　into　the　country　around　Farmington。　There　were　meadows　and　apple　orchards。　White　fences　trailed　through　the　rolling　fields。　Soon　the　signs　started　appearing。　THE　MOST　PHOTOGRAPHED　BARN　IN　AMERICA。　We　counted　five　signs　before　we　reached　the　site。　There　were　forty　cars　and　a　tour　bus　in　the　makeshift　lot。　We　walked　along　a　cowpath　to　the　slightly　elevated　spot　set　aside　for　viewing　and　photographing。　All　the　people　had　cameras；　some　had　tripods；　telephoto　lenses；　filter　kits。　A　man　in　a　booth　sold　postcards　and　slides—pictures　of　the　barn　taken　from　the　elevated　spot。　We　stood　near　a　grove　of　trees　and　watched　the　photographers。　Murray　maintained　a　prolonged　silence；　occasionally　scrawling　some　notes　in　a　little　book。
　　〃No　one　sees　the　barn；〃　he　said　finally。
　　A　long　silence　followed。
　　〃Once　you've　seen　the　signs　about　the　barn；　it　bees　impossible　to　see　the　barn。〃
　　He　fell　silent　once　more。　People　with　cameras　left　the　elevated　site；　replaced　at　once　by　others。
　　〃We're　not　here　to　capture　an　image；　we're　here　to　maintain　one。　Every　photograph　reinforces　the　aura。　Can　you　feel　it；　Jack？　An　accumulation　of　nameless　energies。〃
　　There　was　an　extended　silence。　The　man　in　the　booth　sold　postcards　and　slides。
　　〃Being　here　is　a　kind　of　spiritual　surrender。　We　see　only　what　the　others　see。　The　thousands　who　were　here　in　the　past；　those　who　will　e　in　the　future。　We've　agreed　to　be　part　of　a　collective　perception。　This　literally　colors　our　vision。　A　religious　experience　in　a　way；　like　all　tourism。〃
　　Another　silence　ensued。
　　〃They　are　taking　pictures　of　taking　pictures；〃　he　said。
　　He　did　not　speak　for　a　while。　We　listened　to　the　incessant　clicking　of　shutter　release　buttons；　the　rustling　crank　of　levers　that　advanced　the　film。
　　〃What　was　the　barn　like　before　it　was　photographed？〃　he　said。　〃What　did　it　look　like；　how　was　it　different　from　other　barns；　how　was　it　similar　to　other　barns？　We　can't　answer　these　questions　because　we've　read　the。　signs；　seen　the　people　snapping　the　pictures。　We　can't　get　outside　the　aura。　We're　part　of　the　aura。　We're　here；　we're　now。〃
　　He　seemed　immensely　pleased　by　this。
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　　When　times　are　bad；　people　feel　pelled　to　overeat。　Blacksmith　is　full　of　obese　adults　and　children；　baggy…pantsed；　short…legged；　waddling。　They　struggle　to　emerge　from　pact　cars；　they　don　sweatsuits　and　run　in　families　across　the　landscape；　they　walk　down　the　street　with　food　in　their　faces；　they　eat　in　stores；　cars；　parking　lots；　on　bus　lines　and　movie　lines；　under　the　stately　trees。
　　Only　the　elderly　seem　exempt　from　the　fever　of　eating。　If　they　are　sometimes　absent　from　their　own　words　and　gestures；　they　are　also　slim　and　healthy…looking；　the　women　carefully　groomed；　the　men　purposeful　and　well　dressed；　selecting　shopping　carts　from　the　line　outside　the　supermarket。
　　I　crossed　the　high　school　lawn　and　walked　to　the　rear　of　the　building　and　towar