生命不能承受之轻-第7章

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motion　and　provided　her　with　a　source　of　energy　she　had　not　yet　exhausted　at　the　end　of　her　days。
Our　day…to…day　life　is　bombarded　with　fortuities　or；　to　be　more　precise；　with　the　accidental　meetings　of　people　and　events　we　call　coincidences。　Co…incidence　means　that　two　events　unexpectedly　happen　at　the　same　time；　they　meet：　Tomas　appears　in　the　hotel　restaurant　at　the　same　time　the　radio　is　playing　Beethoven。　We　do　not　even　notice　the　great　majority　of　such　coincidences。　If　the　seat　Tomas　occupied　had　been　occupied　instead　by　the　local　butcher；　Tereza　never　would　have　noticed　that　the　radio　was　playing　Beethoven　（though　the　meeting　of　Beethoven　and　the　butcher　would　also　have　been　an　interesting　coincidence）。　But　her　nascent　love　inflamed　her　sense　of　beauty；　and　she　would　never　forget　that　music。　Whenever　she　heard　it；　she　would　be　touched。　Everything　going　on　around　her　at　that　moment　would　be　haloed　by　the　music　and　take　on　its　beauty。
Early　in　the　novel　that　Tereza　clutched　under　her　arm　when　she　went　to　visit　Tomas；　Anna　meets　Vronsky　in　curious　circumstances：　they　are　at　the　railway　station　when　someone　is　run　over　by　a　train。　At　the　end　of　the　novel；　Anna　throws　herself　under　a　train。　This　symmetrical　composition—the　same　motif　appears　at　the　beginning　and　at　the　end—may　seem　quite　novelistic　to　you；　and　I　am　willing　to　agree；　but　only　on　condition　that　you　refrain　from　reading　such　notions　as　fictive；　fabricated；　and　untrue　to　life　into　the　word　novelistic。　Because　human　lives　are　composed　in　precisely　such　a　fashion。
They　are　composed　like　music。　Guided　by　his　sense　of　beauty；　an　individual　transforms　a　fortuitous　occurrence　（Beethoven's　music；　death　under　a　train）　into　a　motif；　which　then　assumes　a　permanent　place　in　the　composition　of　the　individual's　life。　Anna　could　have　chosen　another　way　to　take　her　life。　But　the　motif　of　death　and　the　railway　station；　unforgettably　bound　to　the　birth　of　love；　enticed　her　in　her　hour　of　despair　with　its　dark　beauty。　Without　realizing　it；　the　individual　composes　his　life　according　to　the　laws　of　beauty　even　in　times　of　greatest　distress。
It　is　wrong；　then；　to　chide　the　novel　for　being　fascinated　by　mysterious　coincidences　（like　the　meeting　of　Anna；　Vronsky；　the　railway　station；　and　death　or　the　meeting　of　Beethoven；　Tomas；　Tereza；　and　the　cognac）；　but　it　is　right　to　chide　man　for　being　blind　to　such　coincidences　in　his　daily　life。　For　he　thereby　deprives　his　life　of　a　dimension　of　beauty。

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Impelled　by　the　birds　of　fortuity　fluttering　down　on　her　shoulders；　she　took　a　week's　leave　and；　without　a　word　to　her　mother；　boarded　the　train　to　Prague。　During　the　journey；　she　made　frequent　trips　to　the　toilet　to　look　in　the　mirror　and　beg　her　soul　not　to　abandon　the　deck　of　her　body　for　a　moment　on　this　most　crucial　day　of　her　life。　Scrutinizing　herself　on　one　such　trip；　she　had　a　sudden　scare：　she　felt　a　scratch　in　her　throat。　Could　she　be　coming　down　with　something　on　this　most　crucial　day　of　her　life？
But　there　was　no　turning　back。　So　she　phoned　him　from　the　station；　and　the　moment　he　opened　the　door；　her　stomach　started　rumbling　terribly。　She　was　mortified。　She　felt　as　though　she　were　carrying　her　mother　in　her　stomach　and　her　mother　had　guffawed　to　spoil　her　meeting　with　Tomas。
For　the　first　few　seconds；　she　was　afraid　he　would　throw　her　out　because　of　the　crude　noises　she　was　making；　but　then　he　put　his　arms　around　her。　She　was　grateful　to　him　for　ignoring　her　rumbles；　and　kissed　him　passionately；　her　eyes　misting。　Before　the　first　minute　was　up；　they　were　making　love。　She　screamed　while　making　love。　She　had　a　fever　by　then。　She　had　come　down　with　the　flu。　The　nozzle　of　the　hose　supplying　oxygen　to　the　lungs　was　stuffed　and　red。
When　she　traveled　to　Prague　a　second　time；　it　was　with　a　heavy　suitcase。　She　had　packed　all　her　things；　determined　never　again　to　return　to　the　small　town。　He　had　invited　her　to　come　to　his　place　the　following　evening。　That　night；　she　had　slept　in　a　cheap　hotel。　In　the　morning；　she　carried　her　heavy　suitcase　to　the　station；　left　it　there；　and　roamed　the　streets　of　Prague　the　whole　day　with　Anna　Karenina　under　her　arm。　Not　even　after　she　rang　the　doorbell　and　he　opened　the　door　would　she　part　with　it。　It　was　like　a　ticket　into　Tomas's　world。　She　realized　that　she　had　nothing　but　that　miserable　ticket；　and　the　thought　brought　her　nearly　to　tears。　To　keep　from　crying；　she　talked　too　much　and　too　loudly；　and　she　laughed。　And　again　he　took　her　in　his　arms　almost　at　once　and　they　made　love。　She　had　entered　a　mist　in　which　nothing　could　be　seen　and　only　her　scream　could　be　heard。
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It　was　no　sigh；　no　moan；　it　was　a　real　scream。　She　screamed　so　hard　that　Tomas　had　to　turn　his　head　away　from　her　face；　afraid　that　her　voice　so　close　to　his　ear　would　rupture　his　eardrum。　The　scream　was　not　an　expression　of　sensuality。　Sensuality　is　the　total　mobilization　of　the　senses：　an　individual　observes　his　partner　intently；　straining　to　catch　every　sound。　But　her　scream　aimed　at　crippling　the　senses；　preventing　all　seeing　and　hearing。　What　was　screaming　in　fact　was　the　naive　idealism　of　her　love　trying　to　banish　all　contradictions；　banish　the　duality　of　body　and　soul；　banish　perhaps　even　time。
Were　her　eyes　closed？　No；　but　they　were　not　looking　anywhere。　She　kept　them　fixed　on　the　void　of　the　ceiling。　At　times　she　twisted　her　head　violently　from　side　to　side。
When　the　scream　died　down；　she　fell　asleep　at　his　side；　clutching　his　hand。　She　held　his　hand　all　night。
Even　at　the　age　of　eight　she　would　fall　asleep　by　pressing　one　hand　into　the　other　and　making　believe　she　was　holding　the　hand　of　the　man　whom　she　loved；　the　man　of　her　life。　So　if

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in　her　sleep　she　pressed　Tomas's　hand　with　such　tenacity；　we　can　understand　why：　she　had　been　training　for　it　since　childhood。
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A　young　woman　forced　to　keep　drunks　supplied　with　beer　and　siblings　with　clean　underwear—instead　of　being　allowed　to　pursue　something　higher　—stores　up　great　reserves　of　vitality；　a　vitality　never　dreamed　of　by　university　students　yawning　over　their　books。　Tereza　had　read　a　good　deal　more　than　they；　and　learned　a　good　deal　more　about　life；　but　she　would　never　realize　it。　The　difference　between　the　university　graduate　and　the　autodidact　lies　not　so　much　in　the　extent　of　knowledge　as　in　the　extent　of　vitality　and　self…confidence。　The　elan　with　which　Tereza　flung　herself　into　her　new　Prague　existence　was　both　frenzied　and　precarious。　She　seemed　to　be　expecting　someone　to　come　up　to　her　any　day　and　say；　What　are　you　doing　here？　Go　back　where　you　belong！　All　her　eagerness　for　life　hung　by　a　thread：　Tomas's　voice。　For　it　was　Tomas's　voice　that　had　once　coaxed　forth　her　timorous　soul　from　its　hiding　place　in　her　bowels。
Tereza　had　a　job　in　a　darkroom；　but　it　was　not　enough　for　her。　She　wanted　to　take　pictures；　not　develop　them。　Tomas's　friend　Sabina　lent　her　three　or　four　monographs　of　famous　photographers；　then　invited　her　to　a　cafe　and　explained　over　the　open　books　what　made　each　of　the　pictures　interesting。　Tereza　listened　with　silent　concentration；　the　kind　few　professors　ever　glimpse　on　their　students'　faces。
Thanks　to　Sabina；　she　came　to　understand　the　ties　between　photography　and　painting；　and　she　made　Tomas　take　her　to　every　exhibit　that　opened　in　Prague。　Before　long；　she　was　placing　her　own　pictures　in　the　illustrated　weekly　where　she　worked；　and　finally　she　left　the　darkroom　for　the　staff　of　professional　photographers。
On　the　evening　of　that　day；　she　and　Tomas　went　out　to　a　bar　with　friends　to　celebrate　her　promotion。　Everyone　danced。　Tomas　began　to　mope。　Back　at　home；　after　some　prodding　from　Tereza；　he　admitted　that　he　had　been　jealous　watching　her　dance　with　a　colleague　of　his。
You　mean　you　were　really　jealous？　she　asked　him　ten　times　or　more；　incredulously；　as　though　someone　had　just　informed　her　she　had　been　awarded　a　Nobel　Prize。
Then　she　put　her　arm　around　his　waist　and　began　dancing　across　the　room。　The　step　she　used　was　not　the　one　she　had　shown　off　in　the　bar。　It　was　more　like　a　village　polka；　a　wild　romp　that　sent　her　legs　flying　in　the　air　and　her　torso　bouncing　all　over　the　room；　with　Tomas　in　tow。
Before　long；　unfortunately；　she　began　to　be　jealous　herself；　and　Tomas　saw　her　jealousy　not　as　a　Nobel　Prize；　but　as　a　burden；　a　burden　he　would　be　saddled　with　until　not　long　before　his　death。

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While　she　marched　around　the　pool　naked　with　a　large　group　of　other　naked　women；　Tomas　stood　over　them　in　a　basket　hanging　from　the　pool's　arched　roof；　shouting　at　them；　making　them　sing　and　do　kneebends。　The　moment　one　of　them　did　a　faulty　kneebend；　he　would　shoot　her。
Let　me　return　to　this　dream。　Its　horror　did　not　begin　with　Tomas's　first　pistol　shot；　it　was　horrifying　from　the　outset。　Marching　naked　in　formation　with　a　group　of　naked　women　was　for　Tereza　the　quintessential　image　of　horror。　When　she　lived　at　home；　her　mother　forbade　her　to　lock　the　bathroom　door。　What　she　meant　by　her　injunction　was：　Your　body　is　just　like　all　other　bodies；　you　have　no　right　to　shame；　you　have　no　reason　to　hide　something　that　exists　in　millions　of　identical　copies。　In　her　mother's　world　all　bodies　were　the　same　and　marched　behind　one　another　in　formation。　Since　childhood；　Tereza　had　seen　nudity　as　a　sign　of　concentration　camp　uniformity；　a　sign　of　humiliation。
There　was　yet　another　horror　at　the　very　beginning　of　the　dream：　all　the　women　had　to　sing！　Not　only　were　their　bodies　identical；　identically　worthless；　not　only　were　their　bodies　mere　resounding　soulless　mechanisms—the　women　rejoiced　over　it！　Theirs　was　the　joyful　solidarity　of　the　soulless。　The　women　were　pleased　at　having　thrown　off　the　ballast　of　the　soul—that　laughable　conceit；　that　illusion　of　uniqueness—to　become　one　like　the　next。　Tereza　sang　with　them；　but　did　not　rejoice。　She　sang　because　she　was　afraid　that　if　she　did　not　sing　the　women　would　kill　her。
But　what　was　the　meaning　of　the　fact　that　Tomas　shot　at　them；　toppling　one　after　another　into　the　pool；　dead？
The　women；　overjoyed　by　their　sameness；　their　lack　of　diversity；　were；　in　fact；　celebrating　their　imminent　demise；　which　would　render　their　sameness　absolute。　So　Tomas's　shots　were　merely　the　joyful　climax　to　their　morbid　march。　After　every　report　of　his　pistol；　they　burst　into　joyous　laughter；　and　as　each　corpse　sank　beneath　the　surface；　they　sang　even　louder。
But　why　was　Tomas　the　one　doing　the　shooting？　And　why　was　he　out　to　shoot　Tereza　with　the　rest　of　them？
Because　he　was　the　one　who　sent　Tereza　to　join　them。　That　was　what　the　dream　was　meant　to　tell　Tomas；　what　Tereza　was　unable　to　tell　him　herself。　She　had　come　to　him　to　escape　her　mother's　world；　a　world　where　all　bodies　were　equal。　She　had　come　to　him　to　make　her　body　unique；　irreplaceable。　But　he；　too；　had　drawn　an　equal　sign　between　her　and　the　rest　of　them：　he　kissed　them　all　alike；　stroked　them　alike；　made　no；　absolutely　no　distinction　between　Tereza's　body　and　the　other　bodies。　He　had　sent　her　back　into　the　world　she　tried　to　escape；　sent　her　to　march　naked　with　the　other　naked　women。
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She　would　dream　three　series　of　dreams　in　succession：　the　first　was　of　cats　going　berserk　and　referred　to　the　sufferings　she　had　gone　through　in　her　lifetime；　the　second　was　images　of　her　execution　and　came　in　countless　vari