men, women and ghosts(男人、女人和鬼魂)-第26章
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I leave the city with speed。 Wheels whirl to take me back to my trees
and my quietness。 The breeze which blows with me is fresh…washed and
clean； it has come but recently from the high sky。 There are no flowers in
bloom yet； but the earth of my garden smells of tulips and narcissus。
My room is tranquil and friendly。 Out of the window I can see the
distant city； a band of twinkling gems； little flower…heads with no stems。 I
cannot see the beer…glass； nor the letters of the restaurants and shops I
passed； now the signs blur and all together make the city； glowing on a
night of fine weather； like a garden stirring and blowing for the Spring。
The night is fresh…washed and fair and there is a whiff of flowers in the
air。
Wrap me close； sheets of lavender。 Pour your blue and purple dreams
into my ears。 The breeze whispers at the shutters and mutters queer tales
of old days； and cobbled streets； and youths leaping their horses down
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marble stairways。 Pale blue lavender； you are the colour of the sky when
it is fresh…washed and fair 。 。 。 I smell the stars 。 。 。 they are like tulips and
narcissus 。 。 。 I smell them in the air。
The Dinner…Party
Fish
〃So 。 。 。〃 they said； With their wine…glasses delicately poised； Mocking
at the thing they cannot understand。 〃So 。 。 。〃 they said again； Amused and
insolent。 The silver on the table glittered； And the red wine in the glasses
Seemed the blood I had wasted In a foolish cause。
Game
The gentleman with the grey…and…black whiskers Sneered languidly
over his quail。 Then my heart flew up and laboured； And I burst from my
own holding And hurled myself forward。 With straight blows I beat upon
him； Furiously； with red…hot anger； I thrust against him。 But my weapon
slithered over his polished surface； And I recoiled upon myself； Panting。
Drawing…Room
In a dress all softness and half…tones； Indolent and half…reclined； She
lay upon a couch； With the firelight reflected in her jewels。 But her eyes
had no reflection； They swam in a grey smoke； The smoke of smouldering
ashes； The smoke of her cindered heart。
Coffee
They sat in a circle with their coffee…cups。 One dropped in a lump of
sugar； One stirred with a spoon。 I saw them as a circle of ghosts Sipping
blackness out of beautiful china； And mildly protesting against my
coarseness In being alive。
Talk
They took dead men's souls And pinned them on their breasts for
ornament； Their cuff…links and tiaras Were gems dug from a grave； They
were ghouls battening on exhumed thoughts； And I took a green liqueur
from a servant So that he might come near me And give me the comfort of
a living thing。
Eleven O'Clock
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The front door was hard and heavy； It shut behind me on the house of
ghosts。 I flattened my feet on the pavement To feel it solid under me； I ran
my hand along the railings And shook them； And pressed their pointed
bars Into my palms。 The hurt of it reassured me； And I did it again and
again Until they were bruised。 When I woke in the night I laughed to find
them aching； For only living flesh can suffer。
Stravinsky's Three Pieces 〃Grotesques〃； for String
Quartet
First Movement
Thin…voiced； nasal pipes Drawing sound out and out Until it is a
screeching thread； Sharp and cutting； sharp and cutting； It hurts。 Whee…e…e！
Bump！ Bump！ Tong…ti…bump！ There are drums here； Banging； And
wooden shoes beating the round； grey stones Of the market…place。 Whee…
e…e！ Sabots slapping the worn； old stones； And a shaking and cracking of
dancing bones； Clumsy and hard they are； And uneven； Losing half a beat
Because the stones are slippery。 Bump…e…ty…tong！ Whee…e…e！ Tong！
The thin Spring leaves Shake to the banging of shoes。 Shoes beat； slap；
Shuffle； rap； And the nasal pipes squeal with their pigs' voices； Little pigs'
voices Weaving among the dancers； A fine white thread Linking up the
dancers。 Bang！ Bump！ Tong！ Petticoats； Stockings； Sabots； Delirium
flapping its thigh…bones； Red； blue； yellow； Drunkenness steaming in
colours； Red； yellow； blue； Colours and flesh weaving together； In and out；
with the dance； Coarse stuffs and hot flesh weaving together。 Pigs' cries
white and tenuous； White and painful； White and Bump！ Tong！
Second Movement
Pale violin music whiffs across the moon； A pale smoke of violin
music blows over the moon； Cherry petals fall and flutter； And the white
Pierrot； Wreathed in the smoke of the violins； Splashed with cherry petals
falling； falling； Claws a grave for himself in the fresh earth With his
finger…nails。
Third Movement
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An organ growls in the heavy roof…groins of a church； It wheezes and
coughs。 The nave is blue with incense； Writhing； twisting； Snaking over
the heads of the chanting priests。 ‘Requiem aeternam dona ei；
Domine'； The priests whine their bastard Latin And the censers swing and
click。 The priests walk endlessly Round and round； Droning their Latin
Off the key。 The organ crashes out in a flaring chord； And the priests hitch
their chant up half a tone。 ‘Dies illa； dies irae； Calamitatis et
miseriae； Dies magna et amara valde。' A wind rattles the leaded
windows。 The little pear…shaped candle flames leap and flutter； ‘Dies
illa； dies irae；' The swaying smoke drifts over the altar； ‘Calamitatis et
miseriae；' The shuffling priests sprinkle holy water； ‘Dies magna et
amara valde；' And there is a stark stillness in the midst of them Stretched
upon a bier。 His ears are stone to the organ； His eyes are flint to the
candles； His body is ice to the water。 Chant； priests； Whine； shuffle；
genuflect； He will always be as rigid as he is now Until he crumbles away
in a dust heap。 ‘Lacrymosa dies illa； Qua resurget ex favilla
Judicandus homo reus。' Above the grey pillars the roof is in darkness。
Towns in Colour
I
Red Slippers
Red slippers in a shop…window； and outside in the street； flaws of
grey； windy sleet！
Behind the polished glass； the slippers hang in long threads of red；
festooning from the ceiling like stalactites of blood； flooding the eyes of
passers…by with dripping colour； jamming their crimson reflections against
the windows of cabs and tram…cars； screaming their claret and salmon into
the teeth of the sleet； plopping their little round maroon lights upon the
tops of umbrellas。
The row of white； sparkling shop fronts is gashed and bleeding； it
bleeds red slippers。 They spout under the electric light； fluid and
fluctuating； a hot rain and freeze again to red slippers； myriadly
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multiplied in the mirror side of the window。
They balance upon arched insteps like springing bridges of crimson
lacquer； they swing up over curved heels like whirling tanagers sucked in
a wind…pocket； they flatten out； heelless； like July ponds； flared and
burnished by red rockets。
Snap； snap； they are cracker…sparks of scarlet in the white； monotonous
block of shops。
They plunge the clangour of billions of vermilion trumpets into the
crowd outside； and echo in faint rose over the pavement。
People hurry by； for these are only shoes； and in a window； farther
down； is a big lotus bud of cardboard whose petals open every few
minutes and reveal a wax doll； with staring bead eyes and flaxen hair；
lolling awkwardly in its flower chair。
One has often seen shoes； but whoever saw a cardboard lotus bud
before？
The flaws of grey； windy sleet beat on the shop…window where there
are only red slippers。
II
Thompson's Lunch Room Grand Central Station
…。Study in Whites
Wax…white Floor； ceiling； walls。 Ivory shadows Over the pavement
Polished to cream surfaces By constant sweeping。 The big room is
coloured like the petals Of a great magnolia； And has a patina Of flower
bloom Which makes it shine dimly Under the electric lamps。 Chairs are
ranged in rows Like sepia seeds Waiting fulfilment。 The chalk…white spot
of a cook's cap Moves unglossily against the vaguely bright wall Dull
chalk…white striking the retina like a blow Through the wavering
uncertainty of steam。 Vitreous…white of glasses with green reflections； Ice…
green carboys； shifting greener； bluer with the jar of moving water。
Jagged green…white bowls of pressed glass Rearing snow…peaks of chipped
sugar Above the lighthouse…shaped castors Of grey pepper and grey…white
salt。 Grey…white placards： 〃Oyster Stew； Cornbeef Hash； Frankfurters〃：
Marble slabs veined with words in meandering lines。 Dropping on the
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