白噪音(White Noise) (英文版)作者:唐·德里罗(Don DeLillo)-第3章

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d　to　his　chin　and　unacpanied　by　a　mustache；　seemed　an　optional　ponent；　to　be　stuck　on　or　removed　as　circumstances　warranted。
　　〃What　kind　of　lectures　do　you　plan　giving？〃
　　〃That's　exactly　what　I　want　to　talk　to　you　about；〃　he　said。　〃You've　established　a　wonderful　thing　here　with　Hitler。　You　created　it；　you　nurtured　it；　you　made　it　your　own。　Nobody　on　the　faculty　of　any　college　or　university　in　this　part　of　the　country　can　so　much　as　utter　the　word　Hitler　without　a　nod　in　your　direction；　literally　or　metaphorically。　This　is　the　center；　the　unquestioned　source。　He　is　now　your　Hitler；　Gladney's　Hitler。　It　must　be　deeply　satisfying　for　you。　The　college　is　internationally　known　as　a　result　of　Hitler　studies。　It　has　an　identity；　a　sense　of　achievement。　You've　evolved　an　entire　system　around　this　figure；　a　structure　with　countless　substructures　and　interrelated　fields　of　study；　a　history　within　history。　I　marvel　at　the　effort。　It　was　masterful；　shrewd　and　stunningly　preemptive。　It's　what　I　want　to　do　with　Elvis。〃
　　Several　days　later　Murray　asked　me　about　a　tourist　attraction　known　as　the　most　photographed　barn　in　America。　We　drove　twenty…two　miles　into　the　country　around　Farmington。　There　were　meadows　and　apple　orchards。　White　fences　trailed　through　the　rolling　fields。　Soon　the　signs　started　appearing。　THE　MOST　PHOTOGRAPHED　BARN　IN　AMERICA。　We　counted　five　signs　before　we　reached　the　site。　There　were　forty　cars　and　a　tour　bus　in　the　makeshift　lot。　We　walked　along　a　cowpath　to　the　slightly　elevated　spot　set　aside　for　viewing　and　photographing。　All　the　people　had　cameras；　some　had　tripods；　telephoto　lenses；　filter　kits。　A　man　in　a　booth　sold　postcards　and　slides—pictures　of　the　barn　taken　from　the　elevated　spot。　We　stood　near　a　grove　of　trees　and　watched　the　photographers。　Murray　maintained　a　prolonged　silence；　occasionally　scrawling　some　notes　in　a　little　book。
　　〃No　one　sees　the　barn；〃　he　said　finally。
　　A　long　silence　followed。
　　〃Once　you've　seen　the　signs　about　the　barn；　it　bees　impossible　to　see　the　barn。〃
　　He　fell　silent　once　more。　People　with　cameras　left　the　elevated　site；　replaced　at　once　by　others。
　　〃We're　not　here　to　capture　an　image；　we're　here　to　maintain　one。　Every　photograph　reinforces　the　aura。　Can　you　feel　it；　Jack？　An　accumulation　of　nameless　energies。〃
　　There　was　an　extended　silence。　The　man　in　the　booth　sold　postcards　and　slides。
　　〃Being　here　is　a　kind　of　spiritual　surrender。　We　see　only　what　the　others　see。　The　thousands　who　were　here　in　the　past；　those　who　will　e　in　the　future。　We've　agreed　to　be　part　of　a　collective　perception。　This　literally　colors　our　vision。　A　religious　experience　in　a　way；　like　all　tourism。〃
　　Another　silence　ensued。
　　〃They　are　taking　pictures　of　taking　pictures；〃　he　said。
　　He　did　not　speak　for　a　while。　We　listened　to　the　incessant　clicking　of　shutter　release　buttons；　the　rustling　crank　of　levers　that　advanced　the　film。
　　〃What　was　the　barn　like　before　it　was　photographed？〃　he　said。　〃What　did　it　look　like；　how　was　it　different　from　other　barns；　how　was　it　similar　to　other　barns？　We　can't　answer　these　questions　because　we've　read　the。　signs；　seen　the　people　snapping　the　pictures。　We　can't　get　outside　the　aura。　We're　part　of　the　aura。　We're　here；　we're　now。〃
　　He　seemed　immensely　pleased　by　this。
　　4
　　When　times　are　bad；　people　feel　pelled　to　overeat。　Blacksmith　is　full　of　obese　adults　and　children；　baggy…pantsed；　short…legged；　waddling。　They　struggle　to　emerge　from　pact　cars；　they　don　sweatsuits　and　run　in　families　across　the　landscape；　they　walk　down　the　street　with　food　in　their　faces；　they　eat　in　stores；　cars；　parking　lots；　on　bus　lines　and　movie　lines；　under　the　stately　trees。
　　Only　the　elderly　seem　exempt　from　the　fever　of　eating。　If　they　are　sometimes　absent　from　their　own　words　and　gestures；　they　are　also　slim　and　healthy…looking；　the　women　carefully　groomed；　the　men　purposeful　and　well　dressed；　selecting　shopping　carts　from　the　line　outside　the　supermarket。
　　I　crossed　the　high　school　lawn　and　walked　to　the　rear　of　the　building　and　toward　the　small　open　stadium。　Babette　was　running　up　the　stadium　steps。　I　sat　across　the　field　in　the　first　row　of　stone　seats。　The　sky　was　full　of　streaking　clouds。　When　she　reached　the　top　of　the　stadium　she　stopped　and　paused；　putting　her　hands　to　the　high　parapet　and　leaning　into　it　to　rest　diagonally。　Then　she　turned　and　walked　back　down；　breasts　chugging。　The　wind　rippled　her　oversized　suit。　She　walked　with　her　hands　on　her　hips；　fingers　spread。　Her　face　was　tilted　up；　catching　the　cool　air；　and　she　didn't　see　me。　When　she　reached　the　bottom　step　she　turned　to　face　the　seats　and　did　some　kind　of　neck　stretching　exercise。　Then　she　started　running　up　the　steps。
　　Three　times　she　ascended　the　steps；　walked　slowly　down。　There　was　no　one　around。　She　worked　hard；　hair　floating；　legs　and　shoulders　working。　Every　time　she　reached　the　top　she　leaned　into　the　wall；　head　down；　upper　body　throbbing。　After　the　last　descent　I　met　her　at　the　edge　of　the　playing　field　and　embraced　her；　putting　my　hands　inside　the　sweatband　of　her　gray　cotton　pants。　A　small　plane　appeared　over　the　trees。　Babette　was　moist　and　warm；　emitting　a　creaturely　hum。
　　She　runs；　she　shovels　snow；　she　caulks　the　tub　and　sink。　She　plays　word　games　with　Wilder　and　reads　erotic　classics　aloud　in　bed　at　night。　What　do　I　do？　I　twirl　the　garbage　bags　and　twist…tie　them；　swim　laps　in　the　college　pool。　When　I　go　walking；　joggers　e　up　soundlessly　behind　me；　appearing　at　my　side；　making　me　jump　in　idiotic　fright。　Babette　talks　to　dogs　and　cats。　I　see　colored　spots　out　of　the　corner　of　my　right　eye。　She　plans　ski　trips　that　we　never　take；　her　face　bright　with　excitement。　I　walk　up　the　hill　to　school；　noting　the　whitewashed　stones　that　line　the　driveways　of　newer　homes。
　　Who　will　die　first？
　　This　question　es　up　from　time　to　time；　like　where　are　the　car　keys。　It　ends　a　sentence；　prolongs　a　glance　between　us。　I　wonder　if　the　thought　itself　is　part　of　the　nature　of　physical　love；　a　reverse　Darwinism　that　awards　sadness　and　fear　to　the　survivor。　Or　is　it　some　inert　element　in　the　air　we　breathe；　a　rare　thing　like　neon；　with　a　melting　point；　an　atomic　weight？　I　held　her　in　my　arms　on　the　cinder　track。　Kids　came　running　our　way；　thirty　girls　in　bright　shorts；　an　improbable　bobbing　mass。　The　eager　breathing；　the　overlapping　rhythms　of　their　footfalls。　Sometimes　I　think　our　love　is　inexperienced。　The　question　of　dying　bees　a　wise　reminder。　It　cures　us　of　our　innocence　of　the　future。　Simple　things　are　doomed；　or　is　that　a　superstition？　We　watched　the　girls　e　round　again。　They　were　strung　out　now；　with　faces　and　particular　gaits；　almost　weightless　in　their　craving；　able　to　land　lightly。
　　The　Airport　Marriott；　the　Downtown　Travelodge；　the　Sheraton　Inn　and　Conference　Center。
　　On　our　way　home　I　said；　〃Bee　wants　to　visit　at　Christmas。　We　can　put　her　in　with　Steffie。〃
　　〃Do　they　know　each　other？〃
　　'They　met　at　Disney　World。　It'll　be　all　right。〃
　　〃When　were　you　in　Los　Angeles？〃
　　〃You　mean　Anaheim。〃
　　〃When　were　you　in　Anaheim？〃
　　〃You　mean　Orlando。　It's　almost　three　years　now。〃
　　〃Where　was　I？〃　she　said。
　　My　daughter　Bee；　from　my　marriage　to　Tweedy　Browner；　was　just　starting　seventh　grade　in　a　Washington　suburb　and　was　having　trouble　readjusting　to　life　in　the　States　after　two　years　in　South　Korea。　She　took　taxis　to　school；　made　phone　calls　to　friends　in　Seoul　and　Tokyo。　Abroad　she'd　wanted　to　eat　ketchup　sandwiches　with　Trix　sticks。　Now　she　cooked　fierce　sizzling　meals　of　scallion　bushes　and　baby　shrimp；　monopolizing　Tweedy's　restaurant…quality　range。
　　That　night；　a　Friday；　we　ordered　Chinese　food　and　watched　television　together；　the　six　of　us。　Babette　had　made　it　a　rule。　She　seemed　to　think　that　if　kids　watched　television　one　night　a　week　with　parents　or　stepparents；　the　effect　would　be　to　de…glamorize　the　medium　in　their　eyes；　make　it　wholesome　domestic　sport。　Its　narcotic　undertow　and　eerie　diseased　brain…sucking　power　would　be　gradually　reduced。　I　felt　vaguely　slighted　by　this　reasoning。　The　evening　in　fact　was　a　subtle　form　of　punishment　for　us　all。　Heinrich　sat　silent　over　his　egg　rolls。　Steffie　became