白噪音(White Noise) (英文版)作者:唐·德里罗(Don DeLillo)-第12章

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　　〃Elvis　fell　apart　with　grief　when　Gladys　died。　He　fondled　and　petted　her　in　the　casket。　He　talked　baby　talk　to　her　until　she　was　in　the　ground。〃
　　〃Klara's　funeral　cost　three　hundred　and　seventy　kronen。　Hitler　wept　at　the　grave　and　fell　into　a　period　of　depression　and　self…pity。　He　felt　an　intense　loneliness。　He'd　lost　not　only　his　beloved　mother　but　also　his　sense　of　home　and　hearth。〃
　　〃It　seems　fairly　certain　that　Gladys's　death　caused　a　fundamental　shift　at　the　center　of　the　King's　world　view。　She'd　been　his　anchor；　his　sense　of　security。　He　began　to　withdraw　from　the　real　world；　to　enter　the　state　of　his　own　dying。〃
　　〃For　the　rest　of　his　life；　Hitler　could　not　bear　to　be　anywhere　near　Christmas　decorations　because　his　mother　had　died　near　a　Christmas　tree。〃
　　〃Elvis　made　death　threats；　received　death　threats。　He　took　mortuary　tours　and　became　interested　in　UFOs。　He　began　to　study　the　Bardo　Th？dol；　monly　known　as　The　Tibetan　Book　of　the　Dead。　This　is　a　guide　to　dying　and　being　reborn。〃
　　〃Years　later；　in　the　grip　of　self…myth　and　deep　remoteness；　Hitler　kept　a　portrait　of　his　mother　in　his　spartan　quarters　at　Obersalzberg。　He　began　to　hear　a　buzzing　in　his　left　ear。〃
　　Murray　and　I　passed　each　other　near　the　center　of　the　room；　almost　colliding。　Alfonse　Stompanato　entered；　followed　by　several　students；　drawn　perhaps　by　some　magnetic　wave　of　excitation；　some　frenzy　in　the　air。　He　settled　his　surly　bulk　in　a　chair　as　Murray　and　I　circled　each　other　and　headed　off　in　opposite　directions；　avoiding　an　exchange　of　looks。
　　〃Elvis　fulfilled　the　terms　of　the　contract。　Excess；　deterioration；　self…destructiveness；　grotesque　behavior；　a　physical　bloating　and　a　series　of　insults　to　the　brain；　self…delivered。　His　place　in　legend　is　secure。　He　bought　off　the　skeptics　by　dying　early；　horribly；　unnecessarily。　No　one　could　deny　him　now。　His　mother　probably　saw　it　all；　as　on　a　nineteen…inch　screen；　years　before　her　own　death。〃
　　Murray；　happily　deferring　to　me；　went　to　a　corner　of　the　room　and　sat　on　the　floor；　leaving　me　to　pace　and　gesture　alone；　secure　in　my　professional　aura　of　power；　madness　and　death。
　　〃Hitler　called　himself　the　lonely　wanderer　out　of　nothingness。　He　sucked　on　lozenges；　spoke　to　people　in　endless　monologues；　free…associating；　as　if　the　language　came　from　some　vastness　beyond　the　world　and　he　was　simply　the　medium　of　revelation。　It's　interesting　to　wonder　if　he　looked　back　from　the　führerbunker；　beneath　the　burning　city；　to　the　early　days　of　his　power。　Did　he　think　of　the　small　groups　of　tourists　who　visited　the　little　settlement　where　his　mother　was　born　and　where　he'd　spent　summers　with　his　cousins；　riding　in　ox　carts　and　making　kites？　They　came　to　honor　the　site；　Klara's　birthplace。　They　entered　the　farmhouse；　poked　around　tentatively。　Adolescent　boys　climbed　on　the　roof。　In　time　the　numbers　began　to　increase。　They　took　pictures；　slipped　small　items　into　their　pockets。　Then　crowds　came；　mobs　of　people　overrunning　the　courtyard　and　singing　patriotic　songs；　painting　swastikas　on　the　walls；　on　the　flanks　of　farm　animals。　Crowds　came　to　his　mountain　villa；　so　many　people　he　had　to　stay　indoors。　They　picked　up　pebbles　where　he'd　walked　and　took　them　home　as　souvenirs。　Crowds　came　to　hear　him　speak；　crowds　erotically　charged；　the　masses　he　once　called　his　only　bride。　He　closed　his　eyes；　clenched　his　fists　as　he　spoke；　twisted　his　sweat…drenched　body；　remade　his　voice　as　a　thrilling　weapon。　'Sex　murders；'　someone　called　these　speeches。　Crowds　came　to　be　hypnotized　by　the　voice；　the　party　anthems；　the　torchlight　parades。〃
　　I　stared　at　the　carpet　and　counted　silently　to　seven。
　　〃But　wait。　How　familiar　this　all　seems；　how　close　to　ordinary。　Crowds　e；　get　worked　up；　touch　and　press—people　eager　to　be　transported。　Isn't　this　ordinary？　We　know　all　this。　There　must　have　been　something　different　about　those　crowds。　What　was　it？　Let　me　whisper　the　terrible　word；　from　the　Old　English；　from　the　Old　German；　from　the　Old　Norse。　Death。　Many　of　those　crowds　were　assembled　in　the　name　of　death。　They　were　there　to　attend　tributes　to　the　dead。　Processions；　songs；　speeches；　dialogues　with　the　dead；　recitations　of　the　names　of　the　dead。　They　were　there　to　see　pyres　and　flaming　wheels；　thousands　of　flags　dipped　in　salute；　thousands　of　uniformed　mourners。　There　were　ranks　and　squadrons；　elaborate　backdrops；　blood　banners　and　black　dress　uniforms。　Crowds　came　to　form　a　shield　against　their　own　dying。　To　bee　a　crowd　is　to　keep　out　death。　To　break　off　from　the　crowd　is　to　risk　death　as　an　individual；　to　face　dying　alone。　Crowds　came　for　this　reason　above　all　others。　They　were　there　to　be　a　crowd。〃
　　Murray　sat　across　the　room。　His　eyes　showed　a　deep　gratitude。　I　had　been　generous　with　the　power　and　madness　at　my　disposal；　allowing　my　subject　to　be　associated　with　an　infinitely　lesser　figure；　a　fellow　who　sat　in　La…Z…Boy　chairs　and　shot　out　TVs。　It　was　not　a　small　matter。　We　all　had　an　aura　to　maintain；　and　in　sharing　mine　with　a　friend　I　was　risking　the　very　things　that　made　me　untouchable。
　　People　gathered　round；　students　and　staff；　and　in　the　mild　din　of　half　heard　remarks　and　orbiting　voices　I　realized　we　were　now　a　crowd。　Not　that　I　needed　a　crowd　around　me　now。　Least　of　all　now。　Death　was　strictly　a　professional　matter　here。　I　was　fortable　with　it；　I　was　on　top　of　it。　Murray　made　his　way　to　my　side　and　escorted　me　from　the　room；　parting　the　crowd　with　his　fluttering　hand。
　　16
　　This　was　the　day　Wilder　started　crying　at　two　in　the　afternoon。　At　six　he　was　still　crying；　sitting　on　the　kitchen　floor　and　looking　through　the　oven　window；　and　we　ate　dinner　quickly；　moving　around　him　or　stepping　over　him　to　reach　the　stove　and　refrigerator。　Babette　watched　him　as　she　ate。　She　had　a　class　to　teach　in　sitting；　standing　and　walking。　It　would　start　in　an　hour　and　a　half。　She　looked　at　me　in　a　drained　and　supplicating　way。　She'd　spoken　soothingly　to　him；　hefted　and　caressed　him；　checked　his　teeth；　given　him　a　bath；　examined　him；　tickled　him；　fed　him；　tried　to　get　him　to　crawl　into　his　vinyl　play　tunnel。　Her　old　people　would　be　waiting　in　the　church　basement。
　　It　was　rhythmic　crying；　a　measured　statement　of　short　urgent　pulses。　At　times　it　seemed　he　would　break　off　into　a　whimper；　an　animal　plaint；　irregular　and　exhausted；　but　the　rhythm　held；　the　heightened　beat；　the　washed　pink　sorrow　in　his　face。
　　〃We'll　take　him　to　the　doctor；〃　I　said。　〃Then　I'll　drop　you　at　the　church。〃
　　〃Would　the　doctor　see　a　crying　child？　Besides；　his　doctor　doesn't　have　hours　now。〃
　　〃What　about　your　doctor？〃
　　〃I　think　he　does。　But　a　crying　child；　Jack。　What　can　I　say　to　the　man？　'My　child　is　crying。'〃
　　〃Is　there　a　condition　more　basic？〃
　　There'd　been　no　sense　of　crisis　until　now。　Just　exasperation　and　despair。　But　once　we　decided　to　visit　the　doctor；　we　began　to　hurry；　to　fret。　We　looked　for　Wilder's　jacket　and　shoes；　tried　to　remember　what　he'd　eaten　in　the　last　twenty…four　hours；　anticipated　questions　the　doctor　would　ask　and　rehearsed　our　answers　carefully。　It　seemed　vital　to　agree　on　the　answers　even　if　we　weren't　sure　they　were　correct。　Doctors　lose　interest　in　people　who　contradict　each　other。　This　fear　has　long　informed　my　relationship　with　doctors；　that　they　would　lose　interest　in　me；　instruct　their　receptionists　to　call　other　names　before　mine；　take　my　dying　for　granted。
　　I　waited　in　the　car　while　Babette　and　Wilder　went　into　the　medical　building　at　the　end　of　Elm。　Doctors'　offices　depress　me　even　more　than　hospitals　do　because　of　their　air　of　negative　expectancy　and　because　of　the　occasional　patient　who　leaves　with　good　news；　shaking　the　doctor's　antiseptic　hand　and　laughing　loudly；　laughing　at　everything　the　doctor　says；　booming　with　laughter；　with　crude　power；　making　a　point　of　ignoring　the　other　patients　as　he　walks　past　the　waiting　room　still　laughing　provocatively—　he　is　already　clear　of　them；　no　longer　associated　with　their　weekly　gloom；　their　anxious　inferior　dying。　I　would　rather　visit　an　emergency　ward；　some　urban　well　of　trembling；　where　people　e　in　gut…shot；　slashed；　sleepy…eyed　with　opium　pounds；　broken　needles　in　their　arms。　These　things　have　nothing　to　do　with　my　own　eventual　death；　nonviolent；　small…town；　thoughtful。
　　They　came　out　of　the　small　bright　lobby　onto　the　street。　It　was　cold；　empty　and　dark。　The　boy　walked　next　to　his　mother；　holding　her　hand；　still　crying；　and　they　seemed　a　picture　of　such　amateurish　sadness　and　calamity　that　I　nearly　started　laughing—laughing　not　at　the　sadness　but　at　the　picture　they　made　of　it；　at　the　disparity　between　their　grief　and　its　appearances。　My　feelings　of　tenderness　and　pity　were　undermined　by　the　sight　of　them　crossing　the　sidewalk　in　their　bundled　clothing；　the　child　determinedly　weeping；　his　mother　drooping　as　she　walked；　wild…haired；　a　wretched　and　pathetic　pair。　They　were　inadequate　to　the　spoken　grief；　the　great　single…minded　anguish。　Does　this　explain　the　existence　of　professional　mourners？　They　keep　a　wake　from　lapsing　into　ic　pathos。
　　〃What　did　the　doctor　say？〃
　　〃Give　him　an　aspirin　and　put　him　to　bed。〃
　　〃That's　what　Denise　said。〃
　　〃I　told　him　that。　He　said；　'Well；　why　didn't　you　do　it？'〃
　　〃Why　didn't　we？〃
　　〃She's　a　child；　not　a　doctor—that's　why。〃
　　〃Did　you　tell　him　that？〃
　　〃I　don't　know　what　I　told　him；〃　she　said；　〃I'm　never　in　control　of　what　I　say　to　doctors；　much　less　what　they　say　to　me。　There's　some　kind　of　disturbance　in　the　air。〃
　　〃I　know　exactly　what　you　mean。〃
　　〃It's　like　having　a　conversation　during　a　spacewalk；　dangling　in　those　heavy　suits。〃
　　〃Everything　drifts　and　floats。〃
　　〃I　lie　to　doctors　all　the　time。〃
　　〃So　do　I。〃
　　〃But　why？〃　she　said。
　　As　I　started　the　car　I　realized　his　crying　had　changed　in　pitch　and　quality。　The　rhythmic　urgency　had　given　way　to　a　sustained；　inarticulate　and　mournful　sound。　He　was　keening　now。　These　were　expressions　of　Mideastern　lament；　of　an　anguish　so　accessible　that　it　rushes　to　overwhelm　whatever　immediately　caused　it。　There　was　something　permanent　and　soul…struck　in　this　crying。　It　was　a　sound　of　inbred　desolation。
　　〃What　do　we　do？〃
　　〃Think　of　something；〃　she　said。
　　'There's　still　fifteen　minutes　before　your　class　is　due　to　start。　Let's　take　him　to　the　hospital；　to　the　emergency　entrance。　Just　to　see　what　they　say。〃
　　〃You　can't　take　a　child　to　an　emergency　ward　because　he's　crying。　If　anything　is　not　an　emergency；　this　would　be　it。〃
　　〃I'll　wait　in　the　car；〃　I　said。
　　〃What　do　I　tell　them？　'My　child　is　crying。'　Do　they　even　have　an　emergency　ward？〃
　　〃Don't　you　remember？　We　took　the　Stovers　this　past　summer。〃
　　〃Why？〃
　　〃Their　car　was　being　repaired。〃
　　〃Never　mind。〃
　　〃They　inhaled　the　spray　mist　from　some　kind　of　stain　remover。〃
　　〃Take　me　to　my　class；〃　she　said。
　　Posture。　When　I　pulled　up　in　front　of　the　church；　some　of　her　students　were　walking　down　the　steps　to　the　basement　entrance。　Babette　looked　at　her　son—a　searching；　pleading　and　desperate　look。　He　was　in　the　sixth　hour　of　his　crying。　She　ran　along　the　sidewalk　and　into　the　building。
　　I　thought　of　taking　him　to　the　hospital。　But　if　a　doctor　who　examined　the　boy　thoroughly　in　his　cozy　office　with　paintings　on　the　wall