生命不能承受之轻-第12章

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But　if　Sabina　was；　in　Franz's　eyes；　a　woman；　then　what　was　his　wife；　Marie…Claude？　More　than　twenty　years　earlier；　several　months　after　Franz　met　Marie…Claude；　she　had　threatened　to　take　her　life　if　he　abandoned　her。　Franz　was　bewitched　by　the　threat。　He　was　not　particularly　fond　of　Marie…Claude；　but　he　was　very　much　taken　with　her　love。　He　felt　himself　unworthy　of　so　great　a　love；　and　felt　he　owed　her　a　low　bow。
He　bowed　so　low　that　he　married　her。　And　even　though　Marie…Claude　never　recaptured　the　emotional　intensity　that　accompanied　her　suicide　threat；　in　his　heart　he　kept　its　memory　alive　with　the　thought　that　he　must　never　hurt　her　and　always　respect　the　woman　in　her。
It　is　an　interesting　formulation。　Not　respect　Marie…Claude；　but　respect　the　woman　in　Marie…Claude。　
But　if　Marie…Claude　is　herself　a　woman；　then　who　is　that　other　woman　hiding　in　her；　the　one　he　must　always　respect？　The　Platonic　ideal　of　a　woman；　perhaps？
No。　His　mother。　It　never　would　have　occurred　to　him　to　say　he　respected　the　woman　in　his　mother。　He　worshipped　his　mother　and　not　some　woman　inside　her。　His　mother　and　the　Platonic　ideal　of　womanhood　were　one　and　the　same。
When　he　was　twelve；　she　suddenly　found　herself　alone；　abandoned　by　Franz's　father。　The　boy　suspected　something　serious　had　happened；　but　his　mother　muted　the　drama　with　mild；　insipid　words　so　as　not　to　upset　him。　The　day　his　father　left；　Franz　and　his　mother　went　into　town　together；　and　as　they　left　home　Franz　noticed　that　her　shoes　did　not　match。　He　was　in　a　quandary：　he　wanted　to　point　out　her　mistake；　but　was　afraid　he　would　hurt　her。　So　during　the　two　hours　they　spent　walking　through　the　city　together　he　kept　his　eyes　fixed　on　her　feet。　It　was　then　he　had　his　first　inkling　of　what　it　means　to　suffer。
FIDELITY　AND　BETRAYAL
He　loved　her　from　the　time　he　was　a　child　until　the　time　he　accompanied　her　to　the　cemetery；　he　loved　her　in　his　memories　as　well。　That　is　what　made　him　feel　that　fidelity　deserved　pride　of　place　among　the　virtues：　fidelity　gave　a　unity　to　lives　that　would　otherwise　splinter　into　thousands　of　split…second　impressions。
Franz　often　spoke　about　his　mother　to　Sabina；　perhaps　even　with　a　certain　unconscious　ulterior　motive：　he　assumed　that　Sabina　would　be　charmed　by　his　ability　to　be　faithful；　that　it　would　win　her　over。
What　he　did　not　know　was　that　Sabina　was　charmed　more　by　betrayal　than　by　fidelity。　The　word　fidelity　reminded　her　of　her　father；　a　small…town　puritan；　who　spent　his　Sundays　painting　away　at　canvases　of　woodland　sunsets　and　roses　in　vases。　Thanks　to　him；　she　started　drawing　as　a　child。　When　she　was　fourteen；　she　fell　in　love　with　a　boy　her　age。　Her　father　was　so　frightened　that　he　would　not　let　her　out　of　the　house　by　herself　for　a　year。　One　day；　he　showed　her　some　Picasso　reproductions　and　made　fun　of　them。　If　she　couldn't　love　her　fourteen…year…old　schoolboy；　she　could　at　least　love　cubism。　After　completing　school；　she　went　off　to　Prague　with　the　euphoric　feeling　that　now　at　last　she　could　betray　her　home。
Betrayal。　From　tender　youth　we　are　told　by　father　and　teacher　that　betrayal　is　the　most　heinous　offense　imaginable。　But　what　is　betrayal？　Betrayal　means　breaking　ranks。　Betrayal　means　breaking　ranks　and　going　off　into　the　unknown。　Sabina　knew　of　nothing　more　magnificent　than　going　off　into　the　unknown。
Though　a　student　at　the　Academy　of　Fine　Arts；　she　was　not　allowed　to　paint　like　Picasso。　It　was　the　period　when　so…called　socialist　realism　was　prescribed　and　the　school　manufactured　Portraits　of　Communist　statesmen。　Her　longing　to　betray　her　rather　remained　unsatisfied：　Communism　was　merely　another　rather；　a　father　equally　strict　and　limited；　a　father　who　forbade　her　love　（the　times　were　puritanical）　and　Picasso；　too。　And　if　she　married　a　second…rate　actor；　it　was　only　because　he　had　a　reputation　for　being　eccentric　and　was　unacceptable　to　both　fathers。
Then　her　mother　died。　The　day　following　her　return　to　Prague　from　the　funeral；　she　received　a　telegram　saying　that　her　father　had　taken　his　life　out　of　grief。
Suddenly　she　felt　pangs　of　conscience：　Was　it　really　so　terrible　that　her　father　had　painted　vases　filled　with　roses　and　hated　Picasso？　Was　it　really　so　reprehensible　that　he　was　afraid　of　his　fourteen…year…old　daughter's　coming　home　pregnant？　Was　it　really　so　laughable　that　he　could　not　go　on　living　without　his　wife？
And　again　she　felt　a　longing　to　betray：　betray　her　own　betrayal。　She　announced　to　her　husband　（whom　she　now　considered　a　difficult　drunk　rather　than　an　eccentric）　that　she　was　leaving　him。
But　if　we　betray　B。；　for　whom　we　betrayed　A。；　it　does　not　necessarily　follow　that　we　have　placated　A。　The　life　of　a　divorcee…painter　did　not　in　the　least　resemble　the　life　of　the　parents　she　had　betrayed。　The　first　betrayal　is　irreparable。　It　calls　forth　a　chain　reaction　of　further　betrayals；　each　of　which　takes　us　farther　and　farther　away　from　the　point　of　our　original　betrayal。
MUSIC
For　Franz　music　was　the　art　that　comes　closest　to　Dionysian　beauty　in　the　sense　of　intoxication。　No　one　can　get　really　drunk　on　a　novel　or　a　painting；　but　who　can　help　getting　drunk　on　Beethoven's　Ninth；　Bartok's　Sonata　for　Two　Pianos　and　Percussion；　or　the　Beatles'　White　Album？　Franz　made　no　distinction　between　classical　music　and　pop。　He　found　the　distinction　old…fashioned　and　hypocritical。　He　loved　rock　as　much　as　Mozart。
He　considered　music　a　liberating　force：　it　liberated　him　from　loneliness；　introversion；　the　dust　of　the　library；　it　opened　the　door　of　his　body　and　allowed　his　soul　to　step　out　into　the　world　to　make　friends。　He　loved　to　dance　and　regretted　that　Sabina　did　not　share　his　passion。
They　were　sitting　together　at　a　restaurant；　and　loud　music　with　a　heavy　beat　poured　out　of　a　nearby　speaker　as　they　ate。
It's　a　vicious　circle；　Sabina　said。　People　are　going　deaf　because　music　is　played　louder　and　louder。　But　because　they're　going　deaf；　it　has　to　be　played　louder　still。　
Don't　you　like　music？　Franz　asked。
No；　said　Sabina；　and　then　added；　though　in　a　different　era。。。　She　was　thinking　of　the　days　of　Johann　Sebastian　Bach；　when　music　was　like　a　rose　blooming　on　a　boundless　snow…covered　plain　of　silence。
Noise　masked　as　music　had　pursued　her　since　early　childhood。　During　her　years　at　the　Academy　of　Fine　Arts；　students　had　been　required　to　spend　whole　summer　vacations　at　a　youth　camp。　They　lived　in　common　quarters　and　worked　together　on　a　steelworks　construction　site。　Music　roared　out　of　loudspeakers　on　the　site　from　five　in　the　morning　to　nine　at　night。　She　felt　like　crying；　but　the　music　was　cheerful；　and　there　was　nowhere　to　hide；　not　in　the　latrine　or　under　the　bedclothes：　everything　was　in　range　of　the　speakers。　The　music　was　like　a　pack　of　hounds　that　had　been　sicked　on　her。
At　the　time；　she　had　thought　that　only　in　the　Communist　world　could　such　musical　barbarism　reign　supreme。　Abroad；　she　discovered　that　the　transformation　of　music　into　noise　was　a　planetary　process　by　which　mankind　was　entering　the　historical　phase　of　total　ugliness。　The　total　ugliness　to　come　had　made　itself　felt　first　as　omnipresent　acoustical　ugliness：　cars；　motorcycles；　electric　guitars；　drills；　loudspeakers；　sirens。　The　omnipresence　of　visual　ugliness　would　soon　follow。
After　dinner；　they　went　upstairs　to　their　room　and　made　love；　and　as　Franz　fell　asleep　his　thoughts　began　to　lose　coherence。　He　recalled　the　noisy　music　at　dinner　and　said　to　himself；　Noise　has　one　advantage。　It　drowns　out　words。　And　suddenly　he　realized　that　all　his　life　he　had　done　nothing　but　talk；　write；　lecture；　concoct　sentences；　search　for　formulations　and　amend　them；　so　in　the　end　no　words　were　precise；　their　meanings　were　obliterated；　their　content　lost；　they　turned　into　trash；　chaff；　dust；　sand；　prowling　through　his　brain；　tearing　at　his　head；　they　were　his　insomnia；　his　illness。　And　what　he　yearned　for　at　that　moment；　vaguely　but　with　all　his　might；　was　unbounded　music；　absolute　sound；　a　pleasant　and　happy　all…encompassing；　overpowering；　window…rattling　din　to　engulf；　once　and　for　all；　the　pain；　the　futility；　the　vanity　of　words。　Music　was　the　negation　of　sentences；　music　was　the　anti…word！　He　yearned　for　one　long　embrace　with　Sabina；　yearned　never　to　say　another　sentence；　another　word；　to　let　his　orgasm　fuse　with　the　orgiastic　thunder　of　music。　And　lulled　by　that　blissful　imaginary　uproar；　he　fell　asleep。
LIGHT　AND　DARKNESS
Living　for　Sabina　meant　seeing。　Seeing　is　limited　by　two　borders：　strong　light；　which　blinds；　and　total　darkness。　Perhaps　that　was　what　motivated　Sabina's　distaste　for　all　extremism。　Extremes　mean　borders　beyond　which　life　ends；　and　a　passion　for　extremism；　in　art　and　in　politics；　is　a　veiled　longing　for　death。
In　Franz　the　word　light　did　not　evoke　the　picture　of　a　landscape　basking　in　the　soft　glow　of　day；　it　evoked　the　source　of　light　itself：　the　sun；　a　light　bulb；　a　spotlight。　Franz's　associations　were　familiar　metaphors：　the　sun　of　righteousness；　the　lambent　flame　of　the　intellect；　and　so　on。
Darkness　attracted　him　as　much　as　light。　He　knew　that　these　days　turning　out　the　light　before　making　love　was　considered　laughable；　and　so　he　always　left　a　small　lamp　burning　over　the　bed。　At　the　moment　he　penetrated　Sabina；　however；　he　closed　his　eyes。　The　pleasure　suffusing　his　body　called　for　darkness。　That　darkness　was　pure；　perfect；　thoughtless；　visionless；　that　darkness　was　without　end；　without　borders；　that　darkness　was　the　infinite　we　each　carry　within　us。　（Yes；　if　you're　looking　for　infinity；　just　close　your　eyes！）
And　at　the　moment　he　felt　pleasure　suffusing　his　body；　Franz　himself　disintegrated　and　dissolved　into　the　infinity　of　his　darkness；　himself　becoming　infinite。　But　the　larger　a　man　grows　in　his　own　inner　darkness；　the　more　his　outer　form　diminishes。　A　man　with　closed　eyes　is　a　wreck　of　a　man。　Then；　Sabina　found　the　sight　of　Franz　distasteful；　and　to　avoid　looking　at　him　she　too　closed　her　eyes。　But　for　her；　darkness　did　not　mean　infinity；　for　her；　it　meant　a　disagreement　with　what　she　saw；　the　negation　of　what　was　seen；　the　refusal　to　see。
4
Sabina　once　allowed　herself　to　be　taken　along　to　a　gathering　of　fellow　emigres。　As　usual；　they　were　hashing　over　whether　they　should　or　should　not　have　taken　up　arms　against　the　Russians。　In　the　safety　of　emigration；　they　all　naturally　came　out　in　favor　of　fighting。　Sabina　said：　Then　why　don't　you　go　back　and　fight？　
That　was　not　the　thing　to　say。　A　man　with　artificially　waved　gray　hair　pointed　a　long　index　finger　at　her。　That's　no　way　to　talk。　You're　all　responsible　for　what　happened。　You；　too。　How　did　you　oppose　the　Communist　regime？　All　you　did　was　paint　pictures。　。。。　
Assessing　the　populace；　checking　up　on　it；　is　a　principal　and　never…ending　social　activity　in　Communist　countries。　If　a　painter　is　to　have　an　exhibition；　an　ordinary　citizen　to　receive　a　visa　to　a　country　with　a　sea　coast；　a　soccer　player　to　join　the　national　team；　then　a　vast　array　of　recommendations　and　reports　must　be　garnered　（from　the　concierge；　colleagues；　the　police；　the　local　Party　organization；　the　pertinent　trade　union）　and　added　up；　weighed；　and　summarized　by　special　officials。　These　reports　have　nothing　to　do　with　artistic　talent；　kicking　ability；　or　maladies　that　respond　well　to　salt　sea　air；　they　deal　with　one　thing　only：　the　citizen's　poli