生命不能承受之轻-第14章

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He　made　a　confession　to　Sabina。　A　philosopher　once　wrote　that　everything　in　my　work　is　unverifiable　speculation　and　called　me　a　'pseudo…Socrates。'　I　felt　terribly　humiliated　and　made　a　furious　response。　And　just　think；　that　laughable　episode　was　the　greatest　conflict　I've　ever　experienced！　The　pinnacle　of　the　dramatic　possibilities　available　to　my　life！　We　live　in　two　different　dimensions；　you　and　I。　You　came　into　my　life　like　Gulliver　entering　the　land　of　the　Lilliputians。　
Sabina　protested。　She　said　that　conflict；　drama；　and　tragedy　didn't　mean　a　thing；　there　was　nothing　inherently　valuable　in　them；　nothing　deserving　of　respect　or　admiration。　What　was　truly　enviable　was　Franz's　work　and　the　fact　that　he　had　the　peace　and　quiet　to　devote　himself　to　it。
Franz　shook　his　head。　When　a　society　is　rich；　its　people　don't　need　to　work　with　their　hands；　they　can　devote　themselves　to　activities　of　the　spirit。　We　have　more　and　more　universities　and　more　and　more　students。　If　students　are　going　to　earn　degrees；　they've　got　to　come　up　with　dissertation　topics。　And　since　dissertations　can　be　written　about　everything　under　the　sun；　the　number　of　topics　is　infinite。　Sheets　of　paper　covered　with　words　pile　up　in　archives　sadder　than　cemeteries；　because　no　one　ever　visits　them；　not　even　on　All　Souls'　Day。　Culture　is　perishing　in　overproduction；　in　an　avalanche　of　words；　in　the　madness　of　quantity。　That's　why　one　banned　book　in　your　former　country　means　infinitely　more　than　the　billions　of　words　spewed　out　by　our　universities。　
It　is　in　this　spirit　that　we　may　understand　Franz's　weakness　for　revolution。　First　he　sympathized　with　Cuba；　then　with　China；　and　when　the　cruelty　of　their　regimes　began　to　appall　him；　he　resigned　himself　with　a　sigh　to　a　sea　of　words　with　no　weight　and　no　resemblance　to　life。　He　became　a　professor　in　Geneva　（where　there　are　no　demonstrations）；　and　in　a　burst　of　abnegation　（in　womanless；　paradeless　solitude）　he　published　several　scholarly　books；　all　of　which　received　considerable　acclaim。　Then　one　day　along　came　Sabina。　She　was　a　revelation。　She　came　from　a　land　where　revolutionary　illusion　had　long　since　faded　but　where　the　thing　he　admired　most　in　revolution　remained：　life　on　a　large　scale；　a　life　of　risk；　daring；　and　the　danger　of　death。　Sabina　had　renewed　his　faith　in　the　grandeur　of　human　endeavor。　Superimposing　the　painful　drama　of　her　country　on　her　person；　he　found　her　even　more　beautiful。
The　trouble　was　that　Sabina　had　no　love　for　that　drama。　The　words　prison；　persecution；　banned　books；　occupation；　tanks　were　ugly；　without　the　slightest　trace　of　romance。　The　only　word　that　evoked　in　her　a　sweet；　nostalgic　memory　of　her　homeland　was　the　word　cemetery。　
CEMETERY
Cemeteries　in　Bohemia　are　like　gardens。　The　graves　are　covered　with　grass　and　colorful　flowers。　Modest　tombstones　are　lost　in　the　greenery。　When　the　sun　goes　down；　the　cemetery　sparkles　with　tiny　candles。　It　looks　as　though　the　dead　are　dancing　at　a　children's　ball。　Yes；　a　children's　ball；　because　the　dead　are　as　innocent　as　children。　No　matter　how　brutal　life　becomes；　peace　always　reigns　in　the　cemetery。　Even　in　wartime；　in　Hitler's　time；　in　Stalin's　time；　through　all　occupations。　When　she　felt　low；　she　would　get　into　the　car；　leave　Prague　far　behind；　and　walk　through　one　or　another　of　the　country　cemeteries　she　loved　so　well。　Against　a　backdrop　of　blue　hills；　they　were　as　beautiful　as　a　lullaby。
For　Franz　a　cemetery　was　an　ugly　dump　of　stones　and　bones。
6
I'd　never　drive。　I'm　scared　stiff　of　accidents！　Even　if　they　don't　kill　you；　they　mark　you　for　life！　And　so　saying；　the　sculptor　made　an　instinctive　grab　for　the　finger　he　had　nearly　chopped　off　one　day　while　whittling　away　at　a　wood　statue。　It　was　a　miracle　the　finger　had　been　saved。
What　do　you　mean？　said　Marie…Claude　in　a　raucous　voice。　She　was　in　top　form。　I　was　in　a　serious　accident　once；　and　I　wouldn't　have　missed　it　for　the　world。　And　I've　never　had　more　fun　than　when　I　was　in　that　hospital！　I　couldn't　sleep　a　wink；　so　I　just　read　and　read；　day　and　night。　
They　all　looked　at　her　in　amazement。　She　basked　in　it。　Franz　reacted　with　a　mixture　of　disgust　（he　knew　that　after　the　accident　in　question　his　wife　had　fallen　into　a　deep　depression　and　complained　incessantly）　and　admiration　（her　ability　to　transform　everything　she　experienced　was　a　sign　of　true　vitality）。
It　was　there　I　began　to　divide　books　into　day　books　and　night　books；　she　went　on。　Really；　there　are　books　meant　for　daytime　reading　and　books　that　can　be　read　only　at　night。　
Now　they　all　looked　at　her　in　amazement　and　admiration；　all；　that　is；　but　the　sculptor；　who　was　still　holding　his　finger　and　wrinkling　his　face　at　the　memory　of　the　accident。
Marie…Claude　turned　to　him　and　asked；　Which　category　would　you　put　Stendhal　in？　
The　sculptor　had　not　heard　the　question　and　shrugged　his　shoulders　uncomfortably。　An　art　critic　standing　next　to　him　said　he　thought　of　Stendhal　as　daytime　reading。
Marie…Claude　shook　her　head　and　said　in　her　raucous　voice；　No；　no；　you're　wrong！　You're　wrong！　Stendhal　is　a　night　author！　
Franz's　participation　in　the　debate　on　night　art　and　day　art　was　disturbed　by　the　fact　that　he　was　expecting　Sabina　to　show　up　at　any　minute。　They　had　spent　many　days　pondering　whether　or　not　she　should　accept　the　invitation　to　this　cocktail　party。　It　was　a　party　Marie…Claude　was　giving　for　all　painters　and　sculptors　who　had　ever　exhibited　in　her　private　gallery。　Ever　since　Sabina　had　met　Franz；　she　had　avoided　his　wife。　But　because　they　feared　being　found　out；　they　came　to　the　conclusion　that　it　would　be　more　natural　and　therefore　less　suspicious　for　her　to　come。
While　throwing　unobtrusive　looks　in　the　direction　of　the　entrance　hall；　Franz　heard　his　eighteen…year…old　daughter；　Marie…Anne；　holding　forth　at　the　other　end　of　the　room。　Excusing　himself　from　the　group　presided　over　by　his　wife；　he　made　his　way　to　the　group　presided　over　by　his　daughter。　Some　were　in　chairs；　others　standing；　but　Marie…Anne　was　cross…legged　on　the　floor。　Franz　was　certain　that　Marie…Claude　would　soon　switch　to　the　carpet　on　her　side　of　the　room；　too。　Sitting　on　the　floor　when　you　had　guests　was　at　the　time　a　gesture　signifying　simplicity；　informality；　liberal　politics；　hospitality；　and　a　Parisian　way　of　life。　The　passion　with　which　Marie…Claude　sat　on　all　floors　was　such　that　Franz　began　to　worry　she　would　take　to　sitting　on　the　floor　of　the　shop　where　she　bought　her　cigarettes。
What　are　you　working　on　now；　Alain？　Marie…Anne　asked　the　man　at　whose　feet　she　was　sitting。
Alain　was　so　naive　and　sincere　as　to　try　to　give　the　gallery　owner's　daughter　an　honest　answer。　He　started　explaining　his　new　approach　to　her；　a　combination　of　photography　and　oil；　but　he　had　scarcely　got　through　three　sentences　when　Marie…Anne　began　whistling　a　tune。　The　painter　was　speaking　slowly　and　with　great　concentration　and　did　not　hear　the　whistling。　Will　you　tell　me　why　you're　whistling？　Franz　whispered。　Because　I　don't　like　to　hear　people　talk　about　politics；　she　answered　out　loud。
And　in　fact；　two　men　standing　in　the　same　circle　were　discussing　the　coming　elections　in　France。　Marie…Anne；　who　felt　it　her　duty　to　direct　the　proceedings；　asked　the　men　whether　they　were　planning　to　go　to　the　Rossini　opera　an　Italian　company　was　putting　on　in　Geneva　the　following　week。　Meanwhile；　Alain　the　painter　sank　into　greater　and　greater　detail　about　his　new　approach　to　painting。　Franz　was　ashamed　for　his　daughter。　To　put　her　in　her　place；　he　announced　that　whenever　she　went　to　the　opera　she　complained　terribly　of　boredom。
You're　awful；　said　Marie…Anne；　trying　to　punch　him　in　the　stomach　from　a　sitting　position。　The　star　tenor　is　so　handsome。　So　handsome。　I've　seen　him　twice　now；　and　I'm　in　love　with　him。　
Franz　could　not　get　over　how　much　like　her　mother　his　daughter　was。　Why　couldn't　she　be　like　him？　But　there　was　nothing　he　could　do　about　it。　She　was　not　like　him。　How　many　times　had　he　heard　Marie…Claude　proclaim　she　was　in　love　with　this　or　that　painter；　singer；　writer；　politician；　and　once　even　with　a　racing　cyclist？　Of　course；　it　was　all　mere　cocktail　party　rhetoric；　but　he　could　not　help　recalling　now　and　then　that　more　than　twenty　years　ago　she　had　gone　about　saying　the　same　thing　about…him　and　threatening　him　with　suicide　to　boot。
At　that　point；　Sabina　entered　the　room。　Marie…Claude　walked　up　to　her。　While　Marie…Anne　went　on　about　Rossini；　Franz　trained　his　attention　on　what　the　two　women　were　saying。　After　a　few　friendly　words　of　greeting；　Marie…Claude　lifted　the　ceramic　pendant　from　Sabina's　neck　and　said　in　a　very　loud　voice；　What　is　that？　How　ugly！　
Those　words　made　a　deep　impression　on　Franz。　They　were　not　meant　to　be　combative；　the　raucous　laughter　immediately　following　them　made　it　clear　that　by　rejecting　the　pendant　Marie…Claude　did　not　wish　to　jeopardize　her　friendship　with　Sabina。　But　it　was　not　the　kind　of　thing　she　usually　said。
I　made　it　myself；　said　Sabina。
That　pendant　is　ugly；　really！　Marie…Claude　repeated　very　loudly。　You　shouldn't　wear　it。　
Franz　knew　his　wife　didn't　care　whether　the　pendant　was　ugly　or　not。　An　object　was　ugly　if　she　willed　it　ugly；　beautiful　if　she　willed　it　beautiful。　Pendants　worn　by　her　friends　were　a　priori　beautiful。　And　even　if　she　did　find　them　ugly；　she　would　never　say　so；　because　flattery　had　long　since　become　second　nature　to　her。
Why；　then；　did　she　decide　that　the　pendant　Sabina　had　made　herself　was　ugly？
Franz　suddenly　saw　the　answer　plainly：　Marie…Claude　proclaimed　Sabina's　pendant　ugly　because　she　could　afford　to　do　so。
Or　to　be　more　precise：　Marie…Claude　proclaimed　Sabina's　pendant　ugly　to　make　it　clear　that　she　could　afford　to　tell　Sabina　her　pendant　was　ugly。
Sabina's　exhibition　the　year　before　had　not　been　particularly　successful；　so　Marie…Claude　did　not　set　great　store　by　Sabina's　favor。　Sabina；　however；　had　every　reason　to　set　store　by　Marie…Claude's。　Yet　that　was　not　at　all　evident　from　her　behavior。
Yes；　Franz　saw　it　plainly：　Marie…Claude　had　taken　advantage　of　the　occasion　to　make　clear　to　Sabina　（and　others）　what　the　real　balance　of　power　was　between　the　two　of　them。
7
A　Short　Dictionary　of　Misunderstood　Words　（concluded）
THE　OLD　CHURCH　IN　AMSTERDAM
There　are　houses　running　along　one　side　of　the　street；　and　behind　the　large　ground…floor　shop…front　windows　all　the　whores　have　little　rooms　and　plushly　pillowed　armchairs　in　which　they　sit　up　close　to　the　glass　wearing　bras　and　panties。　They　look　like　big　bored　cats。
On　the　other　side　of　the　street　is　a　gigantic　Gothic　cathedral　dating　from　the　fourteenth　century。
Between　the　whores'　world　and　God's　world；　like　a　river　dividing　two　empires；　stretches　an　intense　smell　of　urine。
Inside　the　Old　Church；　all　that　is　left　of　the　Gothic　style　is　the　high；　bare；　white　walls；　the　columns；　the　vaulting；　and　the　windows。　There　is　not　a　single　image　on　the　walls；　not　a　single　piece　of　statuary　anywhere。　The　church　is　as　empty　as　a　gymnasium；　except　in　the　very　center；　where　several　rows　of　chairs　have　been　arranged　in　a　large　square　around　a　miniature　podium　for　the　minister。　Behind　the　chairs　are　wooden　booths；　stalls　for　wealthy　burghers。
The　chairs　and　stalls　seem　to　have　been　placed　there　without　the　slightest　concern　for　the　shape　of　the　walls　or　position　of　the　column