白噪音(White Noise) (英文版)作者:唐·德里罗(Don DeLillo)-第20节
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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
