白噪音(White Noise) (英文版)作者:唐·德里罗(Don DeLillo)-第6节

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y。〃
　　We　listened　to　the　gently　plummeting　stream　of　nighttime　traffic。
　　I　said；　〃Pick　your　century。　Do　you　want　to　read　about　Etruscan　slave　girls；　Georgian　rakes？　I　think　we　have　some　literature　on　flagellation　brothels。　What　about　the　Middle　Ages？　We　have　incubi　and　succubi。　Nuns　galore。〃
　　〃Whatever's　best　for　you。〃
　　〃I　want　you　to　choose。　It's　sexier　that　way。〃
　　〃One　person　chooses；　the　other　reads。　Don't　we　want　a　balance；　a　sort　of　give…and…take？　Isn't　that　what　makes　it　sexy？〃
　　〃A　tautness；　a　suspense。　First…rate。　I　will　choose。〃
　　〃I　will　read；〃　she　said。　〃But　I　don't　want　you　to　choose　anything　that　has　men　inside　women；　quote…quote；　or　men　entering　women。　'I　entered　her。'　'He　entered　me。'　We're　not　lobbies　or　elevators。　'I　wanted　him　inside　me；'　as　if　he　could　crawl　pletely　in；　sign　the　register；　sleep；　eat；　so　forth。　Can　we　agree　on　that？　I　don't　care　what　these　people　do　as　long　as　they　don't　enter　or　get　entered。〃
　　〃Agreed。〃
　　〃'I　entered　her　and　began　to　thrust。'〃
　　〃I'm　in　total　agreement；〃　I　said。
　　〃'Enter　me；　enter　me；　yes；　yes。'〃
　　〃Silly　usage；　absolutely。〃
　　〃'Insert　yourself；　Rex。　I　want　you　inside　me；　entering　hard；　entering　deep；　yes；　now；　oh。'〃
　　I　began　to　feel　an　erection　stirring。　How　stupid　and　out　of　context。　Babette　laughed　at　her　own　lines。　The　TV　said：　〃Until　Florida　surgeons　attached　an　artificial　flipper。〃
　　Babette　and　I　tell　each　other　everything。　I　have　told　everything；　such　as　it　was　at　the　time；　to　each　of　my　wives。　There　is　more　to　tell；　of　course；　as　marriages　accumulate。　But　when　I　say　I　believe　in　plete　disclosure　I　don't　mean　it　cheaply；　as　anecdotal　sport　or　shallow　revelation。　It　is　a　form　of　self…renewal　and　a　gesture　of　custodial　trust。　Love　helps　us　develop　an　identity　secure　enough　to　allow　itself　to　be　placed　in　another's　care　and　protection。　Babette　and　I　have　turned　our　lives　for　each　other's　thoughtful　regard；　turned　them　in　the　moonlight　in　our　pale　hands；　spoken　deep　into　the　night　about　fathers　and　mothers；　childhood；　friendships；　awakenings；　old　loves；　old　fears　（except　fear　of　death）。　No　detail　must　be　left　out；　not　even　a　dog　with　ticks　or　a　neighbor's　boy　who　ate　an　insect　on　a　dare。　The　smell　of　pantries；　the　sense　of　empty　afternoons；　the　feel　of　things　as　they　rained　across　our　skin；　things　as　facts　and　passions；　the　feel　of　pain；　loss；　disappointment；　breathless　delight。　In　these　night　recitations　we　create　a　space　between　things　as　we　felt　them　at　the　time　and　as　we　speak　them　now。　This　is　the　space　reserved　for　irony；　sympathy　and　fond　amusement；　the　means　by　which　we　rescue　ourselves　from　the　past。
　　I　decided　on　the　twentieth　century。　I　put　on　my　bathrobe　and　went　down　the　hall　to　Heinrich's　room　to　find　a　trashy　magazine　Babette　might　read　from；　the　type　that　features　letters　from　readers　detailing　their　sexual　experiences。　This　struck　me　as　one　of　the　few　things　the　modern　imagination　has　contributed　to　the　history　of　erotic　practices。　There　is　a　double　fantasy　at　work　in　such　letters。　People　write　down　imagined　episodes　and　then　see　them　published　in　a　national　magazine。　Which　is　the　greater　stimulation？
　　Wilder　was　in　there　watching　Heinrich　do　a　physics　experiment　with　steel　balls　and　a　salad　bowl。　Heinrich　wore　a　terry　cloth　robe；　a　towel　around　his　neck；　another　towel　on　his　head。　He　told　me　to　look　downstairs。
　　In　a　stack　of　material　I　found　some　family　photo　albums；　one　or　two　of　them　at　least　fifty　years　old。　I　took　them　up　to　the　bedroom。　We　spent　hours　going　through　them；　sitting　up　in　bed。　Children　wincing　in　the　sun；　women　in　sun　hats；　men　shading　their　eyes　from　the　glare　as　if　the　past　possessed　some　quality　of　light　we　no　longer　experience；　a　Sunday　dazzle　that　caused　people　in　their　churchgoing　clothes　to　tighten　their　faces　and　stand　at　an　angle　to　the　future；　somewhat　averted　it　seemed；　wearing　fixed　and　finedrawn　smiles；　skeptical　of　something　in　the　nature　of　the　box　camera。
　　Who　will　die　first？
　　8
　　My　struggle　with　the　German　tongue　began　in　mid…October　and　lasted　nearly　the　full　academic　year。　As　the　most　prominent　figure　in　Hitler　studies　in　North　America；　I　had　long　tried　to　conceal　the　fact　that　I　did　not　know　German。　I　could　not　speak　or　read　it；　could　not　understand　the　spoken　word　or　begin　to　put　the　simplest　sentence　on　paper。　The　least　of　my　Hitler　colleagues　knew　some　German；　others　were　either　fluent　in　the　language　or　reasonably　conversant。　No　one　could　major　in　Hitler　studies　at　the　College…on…the…Hill　without　a　minimum　of　one　year　of　German。　I　was　living；　in　short；　on　the　edge　of　a　landscape　of　vast　shame。
　　The　German　tongue。　Fleshy；　warped；　spit…spraying；　purplish　and　cruel。　One　eventually　had　to　confront　it。　Wasn't　Hitler's　own　struggle　to　express　himself　in　German　the　crucial　subtext　of　his　massive　ranting　autobiography；　dictated　in　a　fortress　prison　in　the　Bavarian　hills？　Grammar　and　syntax。　The　man　may　have　felt　himself　imprisoned　in　more　ways　than　one。
　　I'd　made　several　attempts　to　learn　German；　serious　probes　into　origins；　structures；　roots。　I　sensed　the　deathly　power　of　the　language。　I　wanted　to　speak　it　well；　use　it　as　a　charm；　a　protective　device。　The　more　I　shrank　from　learning　actual　words；　rules　and　pronunciation；　the　more　important　it　seemed　that　I　go　forward。　What　we　are　reluctant　to　touch　often　seems　the　very　fabric　of　our　salvation。　But　the　basic　sounds　defeated　me；　the　harsh　spurting　northernness　of　the　words　and　syllables；　the　mand　delivery。　Something　happened　between　the　back　of　my　tongue　and　the　roof　of　my　mouth　that　made　a　mockery　of　my　attempts　to　sound　German　words。
　　I　was　determined　to　try　again。
　　Because　I'd　achieved　high　professional　standing；　because　my　lectures　were　well　attended　and　my　articles　printed　in　the　major　journals；　because　I　wore　an　academic　gown　and　dark　glasses　day　and　night　whenever　I　was　on　campus；　because　I　carried　two　hundred　and　thirty　pounds　on　a　six…foot　three…inch　frame　and　had　big　hands　and　feet；　I　knew　my　German　lessons　would　have　to　be　secret。
　　I　contacted　a　man　not　affiliated　with　the　college；　someone　Murray　Jay　Siskind　had　told　me　about。　They　were　fellow　boarders　in　the　green…shingled　house　on　Middlebrook。　The　man　was　in　his　fifties；　a　slight　shuffle　in　his　walk。　He　had　thinning　hair；　a　bland　face　and　wore　his　shirtsleeves　rolled　up　to　his　forearms；　revealing　thermal　underwear　beneath。
　　His　plexion　was　of　a　tone　I　want　to　call　flesh…colored。　Howard　Dunlop　was　his　name。　He　said　he　was　a　former　chiropractor　but　didn't　offer　a　reason　why　he　was　no　longer　active　and　didn't　say　when　he'd　learned　German；　or　why；　and　something　in　his　manner　kept　me　from　asking。
　　We　sat　in　his　dark　crowded　room　at　the　boarding　house。　An　ironing　board　stood　unfolded　at　the　window。　There　were　chipped　enamel　pots；　trays　of　utensils　set　on　a　dresser。　The　furniture　was　vague；　foundling。　At　the　borders　of　the　room　were　the　elemental　things。　An　exposed　radiator；　an　army…blanketed　cot。　Dunlop　sat　at　the　edge　of　a　straight　chair；　intoning　generalities　of　grammar。　When　he　switched　from　English　to　German；　it　was　as　though　a　cord　had　been　twisted　in　his　larynx。　An　abrupt　emotion　entered　his　voice；　a　scrape　and　gargle　that　sounded　like　the　stirring　of　some　beast's　ambition。　He　gaped　at　me　and　gestured；　he　croaked；　he　verged　on　strangulation。　Sounds　came　spewing　from　the　base　of　his　tongue；　harsh　noises　damp　with　passion。　He　was　only　demonstrating　certain　basic　pronunciation　patterns　but　the　transformation　in　his　face　and　voice　made　me　think　he　was　making　a　passage　between　levels　of　being。
　　I　sat　there　taking　notes。
　　The　hour　went　quickly。　Dunlop　managed　a　scant　shrug　when　I　asked　him　not　to　discuss　the　lessons　with　anyone。　It　occurred　to　me　that　he　was　the　man　Murray　had　described　in　his　summary　of　fellow　boarders　as　the　one　who　never　es　out　of　his　room。
　　I　stopped　at　Murray's　room　and　asked　him　to　e　home　with　me　for　dinner。　He　put　down　his　copy　of　American　Transvestite　and　slipped　into　his　corduroy　jacket。　We　stopped　on　the　porch　long　enough　for　Murray　to　tell　the　landlord；　who　was　sitting　there；　about　a　dripping　faucet　in　the　second…floor　bathroom。　The　landlord　was　a　large　florid　man　of　such　robust　and　bursting　health　that　he　seemed　to　be　having　a　heart　attack　even　as　we　looked　on。
　　〃He'll　get　around　to　fixing　it；〃　Murray　said；　as　we　set　out　on　foot　in　the　direction　of　Elm。　〃He　fixes　everything　eventually。　He's　very　good　with　all　those　little　tools　and　fixtures　and　devices　that　people　in　cities　never　know　the　names　of。　The　names　of　these　things　are　only　known　in　outlying　munities；　small　towns　and　rural　areas。　Too　bad　he's　such　a　bigot。〃
　　〃How　do　you　know　he's　a　bigot？〃
　　〃People　who　can　fix　things　are　usually　bigots。〃
　　〃What　do　you　mean？〃
　　'Think　of　all　the　people　who've　ever　e　to　your　house　to　fix　things。　They　were　all　bigots；　weren't　they？〃
　　〃I　don't　know。〃
　　〃They　drove　panel　trucks；　didn't　they；　with　an　extension　ladder　on　the　roof　and　some　kind　of　plastic　charm　dangling　from　the　rearview　mirror？〃
　　〃I　don't　know；　Murray。〃
　　〃It's　obvious；〃　he　said。
　　He　asked　me　why　I'd　chosen　this　year　in　particular　to　learn　German；　after　so　many　years　of　slipping　past　the　rada