白噪音(White Noise) (英文版)作者:唐·德里罗(Don DeLillo)-第2章

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f　something　more　general；　something　large　in　scope　and　content。
　　She　came　in　with　Wilder　and　seated　him　on　the　kitchen　counter。　Denise　and　Steffie　came　downstairs　and　we　talked　about　the　school　supplies　they　would　need。　Soon　it　was　time　for　lunch。　We　entered　a　period　of　chaos　and　noise。　We　milled　about；　bickered　a　little；　dropped　utensils。　Finally　we　were　all　satisfied　with　what　we'd　been　able　to　snatch　from　the　cupboards　and　refrigerator　or　swipe　from　each　other　and　we　began　quietly　plastering　mustard　or　mayonnaise　on　our　brightly　colored　food。　The　mood　was　one　of　deadly　serious　anticipation；　a　reward　hard…won。　The　table　was　crowded　and　Babette　and　Denise　elbowed　each　other　twice；　although　neither　spoke。　Wilder　was　still　seated　on　the　counter　surrounded　by　open　cartons；　crumpled　tinfoil；　shiny　bags　of　potato　chips；　bowls　of　pasty　substances　covered　with　plastic　wrap；　flip…top　rings　and　twist　ties；　individually　wrapped　slices　of　orange　cheese。　Heinrich　came　in；　studied　the　scene　carefully；　my　only　son；　then　walked　out　the　back　door　and　disappeared。
　　〃This　isn't　the　lunch　I'd　planned　for　myself；〃　Babette　said。　〃I　was　seriously　thinking　yogurt　and　wheat　germ。〃
　　〃Where　have　we　heard　that　before？〃　Denise　said。
　　〃Probably　right　here；〃　Steffie　said。
　　〃She　keeps　buying　that　stuff。〃
　　〃But　she　never　eats　it；〃　Steffie　said。
　　〃Because　she　thinks　if　she　keeps　buying　it；　she'll　have　to　eat　it　just　to　get　rid　of　it。　It's　like　she's　trying　to　trick　herself。〃
　　〃It　takes　up　half　the　kitchen。〃
　　〃But　she　throws　it　away　before　she　eats　it　because　it　goes　bad；〃　Denise　said。　〃So　then　she　starts　the　whole　thing　all　over　again。〃
　　〃Wherever　you　look；〃　Steffie　said；　〃there　it　is。〃
　　〃She　feels　guilty　if　she　doesn't　buy　it；　she　feels　guilty　if　she　buys　it　and　doesn't　eat　it；　she　feels　guilty　when　she　sees　it　in　the　fridge；　she　feels　guilty　when　she　throws　it　away。〃
　　〃It's　like　she　smokes　but　she　doesn't；〃　Steffie　said。
　　Denise　was　eleven；　a　hard…nosed　kid。　She　led　a　more　or　less　daily　protest　against　those　of　her　mother's　habits　that　struck　her　as　wasteful　or　dangerous。　I　defended　Babette。　I　told　her　I　was　the　one　who　needed　to　show　discipline　in　matters　of　diet。　I　reminded　her　how　much　I　liked　the　way　she　looked。　I　suggested　there　was　an　honesty　inherent　in　bulkiness　if　it　is　just　the　right　amount。　People　trust　a　certain　amount　of　bulk　in　others。
　　But　she　was　not　happy　with　her　hips　and　thighs；　walked　at　a　rapid　clip；　ran　up　the　stadium　steps　at　the　neoclassical　high　school。
　　She　said　I　made　virtues　of　her　flaws　because　it　was　my　nature　to　shelter　loved　ones　from　the　truth。　Something　lurked　inside　the　truth；　she　said。
　　The　smoke　alarm　went　off　in　the　hallway　upstairs；　either　to　'et　us　know　the　battery　had　just　died　or　because　the　house　was　on　fire。　We　finished　our　lunch　in　silence。
　　3
　　Department　heads　wear　academic　robes　at　the　College…on…the…Hill。　Not　grand　sweeping　full…length　affairs　but　sleeveless　tunics　puckered　at　the　shoulders。　I　like　the　idea。　I　like　clearing　my　arm　from　the　folds　of　the　garment　to　look　at　my　watch。　The　simple　act　of　checking　the　time　is　transformed　by　this　flourish。　Decorative　gestures　add　romance　to　a　life。　Idling　students　may　see　time　itself　as　a　plex　embellishment；　a　romance　of　human　consciousness；　as　they　witness　the　chairman　walking　across　campus；　crook'd　arm　emerging　from　his　medieval　robe；　the　digital　watch　blinking　in　late　summer　dusk。　The　robe　is　black；　of　course；　and　goes　with　almost　anything。
　　There　is　no　Hitler　building　as　such。　We　are　quartered　in　Centenary　Hall；　a　dark　brick　structure　we　share　with　the　popular　culture　department；　known　officially　as　American　environments。　A　curious　group。　The　teaching　staff　is　posed　almost　solely　of　New　York　émigrés；　smart；　thuggish；　movie…mad；　trivia…crazed。　They　are　here　to　decipher　the　natural　language　of　the　culture；　to　make　a　formal　method　of　the　shiny　pleasures　they'd　known　in　their　Europe…shadowed　childhoods—an　Aristotelianism　of　bubble　gum　wrappers　and　detergent　jingles。　The　department　head　is　Alfonse　（Fast　Food）　Stompanato；　a　broad…chested　glowering　man　whose　collection　of　prewar　soda　pop　bottles　is　on　permanent　display　in　an　alcove。　All　his　teachers　are　male；　wear　rumpled　clothes；　need　haircuts；　cough　into　their　armpits。　Together　they　look　like　teamster　officials　assembled　to　identify　the　body　of　a　mutilated　colleague。　The　impression　is　one　of　pervasive　bitterness；　suspicion　and　intrigue。
　　An　exception　to　some　of　the　above　is　Murray　Jay　Siskind；　an　ex…sportswriter　who　asked　me　to　have　lunch　with　him　in　the　dining　room；　where　the　institutional　odor　of　vaguely　defined　food　aroused　in　me　an　obscure　and　gloomy　memory。　Murray　was　new　to　the　Hill；　a　stoop…shouldered　man　with　little　round　glasses　and　an　Amish　beard。　He　was　a　visiting　lecturer　on　living　icons　and　seemed　embarrassed　by　what　he'd　gleaned　so　far　from　his　colleagues　in　popular　culture。
　　〃I　understand　the　music；　I　understand　the　movies；　I　even　see　how　ic　books　can　tell　us　things。　But　there　are　full　professors　in　this　place　who　read　nothing　but　cereal　boxes。〃
　　〃It's　the　only　avant…garde　we've　got。〃
　　〃Not　that　I'm　plaining。　I　like　it　here。　I'm　totally　enamored　of　this　place。　A　small…town　setting。　I　want　to　be　free　of　cities　and　sexual　entanglements。　Heat。　This　is　what　cities　mean　to　me。　You　get　off　the　train　and　walk　out　of　the　station　and　you　are　hit　with　the　full　blast。　The　heat　of　air；　traffic　and　people。　The　heat　of　food　and　sex。　The　heat　of　tall　buildings。　The　heat　that　floats　out　of　the　subways　and　the　tunnels。　It's　always　fifteen　degrees　hotter　in　the　cities。　Heat　rises　from　the　sidewalks　and　falls　from　the　poisoned　sky。　The　buses　breathe　heat。　Heat　emanates　from　crowds　of　shoppers　and　office　workers。　The　entire　infrastructure　is　based　on　heat；　desperately　uses　up　heat；　breeds　more　heat。　The　eventual　heat　death　of　the　universe　that　scientists　love　to　talk　about　is　already　well　underway　and　you　can　feel　it　happening　all　around　you　in　any　large　or　medium…sized　city。　Heat　and　wetness。〃
　　〃Where　are　you　living；　Murray？〃
　　〃In　a　rooming　house。　I'm　totally　captivated　and　intrigued。　It's　a　gorgeous　old　crumbling　house　near　the　insane　asylum。　Seven　or　eight　boarders；　more　or　less　permanent　except　for　me。　A　woman　who　harbors　a　terrible　secret。　A　man　with　a　haunted　look。　A　man　who　never　es　out　of　his　room。　A　woman　who　stands　by　the　letter　box　for　hours；　waiting　for　something　that　never　seems　to　arrive。　A　man　with　no　past。　A　woman　with　a　past。　There　is　a　smell　about　the　place　of　unhappy　lives　in　the　movies　that　I　really　respond　to。〃
　　〃Which　one　are　you？〃　I　said。
　　〃I'm　the　Jew。　What　else　would　I　be？〃
　　There　was　something　touching　about　the　fact　that　Murray　was　dressed　almost　totally　in　corduroy。　I　had　the　feeling　that　since　the　age　of　eleven　in　his　crowded　plot　of　concrete　he'd　associated　this　sturdy　fabric　with　higher　learning　in　some　impossibly　distant　and　tree…shaded　place。
　　〃I　can't　help　being　happy　in　a　town　called　Blacksmith；〃　he　said。　〃I'm　here　to　avoid　situations。　Cities　are　full　of　situations；　sexually　cunning　people。　There　are　parts　of　my　body　I　no　longer　encourage　women　to　handle　freely。　I　was　in　a　situation　with　a　woman　in　Detroit。　She　needed　my　semen　in　a　divorce　suit。　The　irony　is　that　I　love　women。　I　fall　apart　at　the　sight　of　long　legs；　striding；　briskly；　as　a　breeze　carries　up　from　the　river；　on　a　weekday；　in　the　play　of　morning　light。　The　second　irony　is　that　it's　not　the　bodies　of　women　that　I　ultimately　crave　but　their　minds。　The　mind　of　a　woman。　The　delicate　chambering　and　massive　unidirectional　flow；　like　a　physics　experiment。　What　fun　it　is　to　talk　to　an　intelligent　woman　wearing　stockings　as　she　crosses　her　legs。　That　little　staticky　sound　of　rustling　nylon　can　make　me　happy　on　several　levels。　The　third　and　related　irony　is　that　it's　the　most　plex　and　neurotic　and　difficult　women　that　I　am　invariably　drawn　to。　I　like　simple　men　and　plicated　women。〃
　　Murray's　hair　was　tight　and　heavy…looking。　He　had　dense　brows；　wisps　of　hair　curling　up　the　sides　of　his　neck。　The　small　stiff　beard；　confined　to　his　chin　and　unacpanied　by　a　mustache；　seemed　an　optional　ponent；　to　be　stuck　on　or　removed　as