白噪音(White Noise) (英文版)作者:唐·德里罗(Don DeLillo)-第58节

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s；　my　rented　room；　my　TV　set。　I　pick　out　a　word　here；　an　image　there。　I　admire　the　lawns；　the　porches。　What　a　wonderful　thing　a　porch　is。　How　did　I　live　a　life　without　a　porch　to　sit　on；　up　till　now？　I　speculate；　I　reflect；　I　take　constant　notes。　I　am　here　to　think；　to　see。　Let　me　warn　you；　Jack。　I　won't　let　up。〃
　　We　passed　my　street　and　walked　up　the　hill　to　the　campus。
　　〃Who's　your　doctor？〃
　　〃Chakravarty；〃　I　said。
　　〃Is　he　good？〃
　　〃How　would　I　know？〃
　　〃My　shoulder　separates。　An　old　sexual　injury。〃
　　〃I'm　afraid　to　see　him。　I　put　the　printout　of　my　death　in　the　bottom　drawer　of　a　dresser。〃
　　〃I　know　how　you　feel。　But　the　tough　part　is　yet　to　e。　You've　said　good…bye　to　everyone　but　yourself。　How　does　a　person　say　good…bye　to　himself？　It's　a　juicy　existential　dilemma。〃
　　〃It　certainly　is。〃
　　We　walked　past　the　administration　building。
　　〃I　hate　to　be　the　one　who　says　it；　Jack；　but　there's　something　that　has　to　be　said。〃
　　〃What？〃
　　〃Better　you　than　me。〃
　　I　nodded　gravely。　〃Why　does　this　have　to　be　said？〃
　　〃Because　friends　have　to　be　brutally　honest　with　each　other。
　　I'd　feel　terrible　if　I　didn't　tell　you　what　I　was　thinking；　especially　at　a　time　like　this。〃
　　〃I　appreciate　it；　Murray。　I　really　do。〃
　　〃Besides；　it's　part　of　the　universal　experience　of　dying。　Whether　you　think　about　it　consciously　or　not；　you're　aware　at　some　level　that　people　are　walking　around　saying　to　themselves；　'Better　him　than　me。'　It's　only　natural。　You　can't　blame　them　or　wish　them　ill。〃
　　〃Everyone　but　my　wife。　She　wants　to　die　first。〃
　　〃Don't　be　so　sure；〃　he　said。
　　We　shook　hands　in　front　of　the　library。　I　thanked　him　for　his　honesty。
　　〃That's　what　it　all　es　down　to　in　the　end；〃　he　said。　〃A　person　spends　his　life　saying　good…bye　to　other　people。　How　does　he　say　good…bye　to　himself？〃
　　I　threw　away　picture…frame　wire；　metal　book　ends；　cork　coasters；　plastic　key　tags；　dusty　bottles　of　Mercurochrome　and　Vaseline；　crusted　paintbrushes；　caked　shoe　brushes；　clotted　correction　fluid。　I　threw　away　candle　stubs；　laminated　placemats；　frayed　pot　holders。　I　went　after　the　padded　clothes　hangers；　the　magnetic　memo　clipboards。　I　was　in　a　vengeful　and　near　savage　state。　I　bore　a　personal　grudge　against　these　things。　Somehow　they'd　put　me　in　this　fix。　They'd　dragged　me　down；　made　escape　impossible。　The　two　girls　followed　me　around；　observing　a　respectful　silence。　I　threw　away　my　battered　khaki　canteen；　my　ridiculous　hip　boots。　I　threw　away　diplomas；　certificates；　awards　and　citations。　When　the　girls　stopped　me；　I　was　working　the　bathrooms；　discarding　used　bars　of　soap；　damp　towels；　shampoo　bottles　with　streaked　labels　and　missing　caps。
　　PLEASE　NOTE。　In　several　days；　your　new　automated　banking　card　will　arrive　in　the　mail。　If　it　is　a　red　card　with　a　silver　stripe；　your　secret　code　will　be　the　same　as　it　is　now。　If　it　is　a　green　card　with　a　gray　stripe；　you　must　appear　at　your　branch；　with　your　card；　to　devise　a　new　secret　code。　Codes　based　on　birthdays　are　popular。　WARNING。　Do　not　write　down　your　code。
　　Do　not　carry　your　code　on　your　person。　REMEMBER。　You　cannot　access　your　account　unless　your　code　is　entered　properly。　Know　your　code。　Reveal　your　code　to　no　one。　Only　your　code　allows　you　to　enter　the　system。
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　　My　head　was　between　her　breasts；　where　it　seemed　to　be　spending　a　lot　of　time　lately。　She　stroked　my　shoulder。
　　〃Murray　says　the　problem　is　that　we　don't　repress　our　fear。〃
　　〃Repress　it？〃
　　〃Some　people　have　the　gift；　some　don't。〃
　　〃The　gift？　I　thought　repression　was　outdated。　They've　been　telling　us　for　years　not　to　repress　our　fears　and　desires。　Repression　causes　tension；　anxiety；　unhappiness；　a　hundred　diseases　and　conditions。　I　thought　the　last　thing　we　were　supposed　to　do　was　repress　something。　They've　been　telling　us　to　talk　about　our　fears；　get　in　touch　with　our　feelings。〃
　　〃Getting　in　touch　with　death　is　not　what　they　had　in　mind。　Death　is　so　strong　that　we　have　to　repress；　those　of　us　who　know　how。〃
　　〃But　repression　is　totally　false　and　mechanical。　Everybody　knows　that。　We're　not　supposed　to　deny　our　nature。〃
　　〃It's　natural　to　deny　our　nature；　according　to　Murray。　It's　the　whole　point　of　being　different　from　animals。〃
　　〃But　that's　crazy。〃
　　〃It's　the　only　way　to　survive；〃　I　said　from　her　breasts。
　　She　stroked　my　shoulder；　thinking　about　this。　Cray　flashes　of　a　staticky　man　standing　near　a　double　bed。　His　body　distorted；　rippling；　unfinished。　I　didn't　have　to　imagine　his　motel　panion。　Our　bodies　were　one　surface；　hers　and　mine；　but　the　delectations　of　touch　were　preempted　by　Mr。　Gray。　It　was　his　pleasure　I　experienced；　his　hold　over　Babette；　his　cheap　and　sleazy　power。　Down　the　hall　an　eager　voice　said：　〃If　you　keep　misplacing　your　ball　of　string；　cage　it　in　a　Barney　basket；　attach　some　organizer　clips　to　your　kitchen　corkboard；　fasten　the　basket　to　the　clips。　Simple！〃
　　The　next　day　I　started　carrying　the　Zumwalt　automatic　to　school。　It　was　in　the　flap　pocket　of　my　jacket　when　I　lectured；　it　was　in　the　top　drawer　of　my　desk　when　I　received　visitors　in　the　office。　The　gun　created　a　second　reality　for　me　to　inhabit。　The　air　was　bright；　swirling　around　my　head。　Nameless　feelings　pressed　thrillingly　on　my　chest。　It　was　a　reality　I　could　control；　secretly　dominate。
　　How　stupid　these　people　were；　ing　into　my　office　unarmed。
　　Late　one　afternoon　I　took　the　gun　out　of　my　desk　and　examined　it　carefully。　Only　three　bullets　remained　in　the　magazine。　I　wondered　how　Vernon　Dickey　had　used　the　missing　ammo　（or　whatever　bullets　are　called　by　people　familiar　with　firearms）。　Four　Dylar　tablets；　three　Zumwalt　bullets。　Why　was　I　surprised　to　find　that　the　bullets　were　so　unmistakably　bullet…shaped？　I　guess　I　thought　new　names　and　shapes　had　been　given　to　just　about　everything　in　the　decades　since　I　first　became　aware　of　objects　and　their　functions。　The　weapon　was　gun…shaped；　the　little　pointed　projectiles　reassuringly　bullet…shaped。　They　were　like　childhood　things　you　might　e　across　after　forty　years；　seeing　their　genius　for　the　first　time。
　　That　evening　I　heard　Heinrich　in　his　room；　moodily　singing　〃The　Streets　of　Laredo。〃　I　stopped　in　to　ask　whether　Orest　had　entered　the　cage　yet。
　　〃They　said　it　was　not　humane。　There　was　no　place　that　would　let　him　do　it　officially。　He　had　to　go　underground。〃
　　〃Where　is　underground？〃
　　〃Watertown。　Orest　and　his　trainer。　They　found　a　public　notary　there　who　said　he　would　certify　a　document　that　said　that　Orest　Mercator　spent　so　many　days　incarcerated　with　these　venomous　reptiles　blah　blah　blah。〃
　　〃Where　would　they　find　a　large　glass　cage　in　Watertown？〃
　　〃They　wouldn't。〃
　　〃What　would　they　find？〃
　　〃A　room　in　the　only　hotel。　Plus　there　were　only　three　snakes。　And　he　got　bit　in　four　minutes。〃
　　〃You　mean　the　hotel　let　them　place　poisonous　snakes　in　the　room？〃
　　〃The　hotel　didn't　know。　The　man　who　arranged　the　snakes　carried　them　up　in　an　airline　bag。　It　was　a　whole　massive　deception　except　the　man　showed　up　with　three　snakes　instead　of　the　agreed　twenty…seven。〃
　　〃In　other　words　he　told　them　he　had　access　to　twenty…seven　snakes。〃
　　〃Venomous。　Except　they　weren't。　So　Orest　got　bit　for　nothing。　The　jerk。〃
　　〃Suddenly　he's　a　jerk。〃
　　'They　had　all　this　antivenom　which　they　couldn't　even　use。　The　first　four　minutes。〃
　　〃How　does　he　feel？〃
　　〃How　would　you　feel　if　you　were　a　jerk？〃
　　〃Glad　to　be　alive；〃　I　said。
　　〃Not　Orest。　He　dropped　out　of　sight。　He　went　into　plete　seclusion。　Nobody's　seen　him　since　it　happened。　He　doesn't　answer　the　door；　he　doesn't　answer　the　phone；　he　doesn't　show　up　at　school。　The　total　package。〃
　　I　decided　to　wander　over　to　my　office　and　glance　at　some　final　exams。　Most　of　the　students　had　already　departed；　eager　to　begin　the　routine　hedonism　of　another　bare…limbed　summer。　The　campus　was　dark　and　empty。　There　was　a　trembling　mist。　Passing　a　line　of　trees；　I　thought　I　sensed　someone　edge　in　behind　me；　maybe　thirty　yards　away。　When　I　looked；　the　path　was　clear。　Was　it　the　gun　that　was　making　me　jumpy？　Does　a　gun　draw　violence　to　it；　attract　other　guns　to　its　surrounding　field　of　force？　I　walked　on　quickly　toward　Centenary　Hall。　I　heard　footsteps　on　gravel；　a　conspicuous　crunch。　Someone　was　out　there；　on　the　edge　of　the　parking　area；　in　the　trees　and　the　mist。　If　I　had　a　gun；　why　was　I　scared？　If　I　was　scared；　why　didn't　I　run？　I　counted　off　five　paces；　looked　quickly　left；　saw　a　figure　moving　parallel　to　the　path；　in　and　out　of　deep　shadow。　I　broke　into　a　shambling　trot；　my　gun　hand　in　my　pocket；　clutching　the　automatic。　When　I　looked　again；　he　wasn't　there。　I　slowed　down　warily；　crossed　a　broad　lawn；　heard　running；　the　meter　of　bounding　feet。　He　was　ing　from　the　right　this　time；　all…out；　closing　fast。　I　broke　into　a　weaving　run；　hoping　I'd　make　an　elusive　target　for　someone　firing　at　my　back。　I'd　never　run　in　a　weave　before。　I　kept　my　head　down；　swerved　sharply　and　unpredictably。　It　was　an　interesting　way　to　run。　I　was　surprised　at　the　range　of　possibilities；　the　number　of　binations　I　could　put　together　within　a　framework　of　left　and　right　swerves。　I　did　a　tight　left；　widened　it；　cut　sharply　right；　faked　left；　went　left；　went