生命不能承受之轻-第18节

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


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　columns；　as　if　wishing　to　express　their　indifference　to　or　disdain　for　Gothic　architecture。　Centuries　ago　Calvinist　faith　turned　the　cathedral　into　a　hangar；　its　only　function　being　to　keep　the　prayers　of　the　faithful　safe　from　rain　and　snow。
Franz　was　fascinated　by　it：　the　Grand　March　of　History　had　passed　through　this　gigantic　hall！
Sabina　recalled　how　after　the　Communist　coup　all　the　castles　in　Bohemia　were　nationalized　and　turned　into　manual　training　centers；　retirement　homes；　and　also　cow　sheds。　She　had　visited　one　of　the　cow　sheds：　hooks　for　iron　rings　had　been　hammered　into　the　stucco　walls；　and　cows　tied　to　the　rings　gazed　dreamily　out　of　the　windows　at　the　castle　grounds；　now　overrun　with　chickens。
It's　the　emptiness　of　it　that　fascinates　me；　said　Franz。　People　collect　altars；　statues；　paintings；　chairs；　carpets；　and　books；　and　then　comes　a　time　of　joyful　relief　and　they　throw　it　all　out　like　so　much　refuse　from　yesterday's　dinner　table。　Can't　you　just　picture　Hercules'　broom　sweeping　out　this　cathedral？　
The　poor　had　to　stand；　while　the　rich　had　stalls；　said　Sabina；　pointing　to　them。　But　there　was　something　that　bound　the　bankers　to　beggars：　a　hatred　of　beauty。　
What　is　beauty？　said　Franz；　and　he　saw　himself　attending　a　recent　gallery　preview　at　his　wife's　side；　and　at　her　insistence。　The　endless　vanity　of　speeches　and　words；　the　vanity　of　culture；　the　vanity　of　art。
When　Sabina　was　working　in　the　student　brigade；　her　soul　poisoned　by　the　cheerful　marches　issuing　incessantly　from　the　loudspeakers；　she　borrowed　a　motorcycle　one　Sunday　and　headed　for　the　hills。　She　stopped　at　a　tiny　remote　village　she　had　never　seen　before；　leaned　the　motorcycle　against　the　church；　and　went　in。　A　mass　happened　to　be　in　progress。　Religion　was　persecuted　by　the　regime；　and　most　people　gave　the　church　a　wide　berth。　The　only　people　in　the　pews　were　old　men　and　old　women；　because　they　did　not　fear　the　regime。　They　feared　only　death。
The　priest　intoned　words　in　a　singsong　voice；　and　the　people　repeated　them　after　him　in　unison。　It　was　a　litany。　The　same　words　kept　coming　back；　like　a　wanderer　who　cannot　tear　his　eyes　away　from　the　countryside　or　like　a　man　who　cannot　take　leave　of　life。　She　sat　in　one　of　the　last　pews；　closing　her　eyes　to　hear　the　music　of　the　words；　opening　them　to　stare　up　at　the　blue　vault　dotted　with　large　gold　stars。　She　was　entranced。
What　she　had　unexpectedly　met　there　in　the　village　church　was　not　God；　it　was　beauty。　She　knew　perfectly　well　that　neither　the　church　nor　the　litany　was　beautiful　in　and　of　itself；　but　they　were　beautiful　compared　to　the　construction　site；　where　she　spent　her　days　amid　the　racket　of　the　songs。　The　mass　was　beautiful　because　it　appeared　to　her　in　a　sudden；　mysterious　revelation　as　a　world　betrayed。
From　that　time　on　she　had　known　that　beauty　is　a　world　betrayed。　The　only　way　we　can　encounter　it　is　if　its　persecutors　have　overlooked　it　somewhere。　Beauty　hides　behind　the　scenes　of　the　May　Day　parade。　If　we　want　to　find　it；　we　must　demolish　the　scenery。
This　is　the　first　time　I've　ever　been　fascinated　by　a　church；　said　Franz。
It　was　neither　Protestantism　nor　asceticism　that　made　him　so　enthusiastic；　it　was　something　else；　something　highly　personal；　something　he　did　not　dare　discuss　with　Sabina。　He　thought　he　heard　a　voice　telling　him　to　seize　Hercules'　broom　and　sweep　all　of　Marie…Claude's　previews；　all　of　Marie…Anne's　singers；　all　lectures　and　symposia；　all　useless　speeches　and　vain　words—sweep　them　out　of　his　life。　The　great　empty　space　of　Amsterdam's　Old　Church　had　appeared　to　him　in　a　sudden　and　mysterious　revelation　as　the　image　of　his　own　liberation。
STRENGTH
Stroking　Franz's　arms　in　bed　in　one　of　the　many　hotels　where　they　made　love；　Sabina　said；　The　muscles　you　have！　They're　unbelievable！　
Franz　took　pleasure　in　her　praise。　He　climbed　out　of　bed；　got　down　on　his　haunches；　grabbed　a　heavy　oak　chair　by　one　leg；　and　lifted　it　slowly　into　the　air。　You　never　have　to　be　afraid；　he　said。　I　can　protect　you　no　matter　what。　I　used　to　be　a　judo　champion。　
When　he　raised　the　hand　with　the　heavy　chair　above　his　head；　Sabina　said；　It's　good　to　know　you're　so　strong。　
But　deep　down　she　said　to　herself；　Franz　may　be　strong；　but　his　strength　is　directed　outward；　when　it　comes　to　the　people　he　lives　with；　the　people　he　loves；　he's　weak。　Franz's　weakness　is　called　goodness。　Franz　would　never　give　Sabina　orders。　He　would　never　command　her；　as　Tomas　had；　to　lay　the　mirror　on　the　floor　and　walk　back　and　forth　on　it　naked。　Not　that　he　lacks　sensuality；　he　simply　lacks　the　strength　to　give　orders。　There　are　things　that　can　be　accomplished　only　by　violence。　Physical　love　is　unthinkable　without　violence。
Sabina　watched　Franz　walk　across　the　room　with　the　chair　above　his　head；　the　scene　struck　her　as　grotesque　and　filled　her　with　an　odd　sadness。
Franz　set　the　chair　down　on　the　floor　opposite　Sabina　and　sat　in　it。　I　enjoy　being　strong；　of　course；　he　said；　but　what　good　do　these　muscles　do　me　in　Geneva？　They're　like　an　ornament；　a　peacock　feather。　I've　never　fought　anyone　in　my　life。　
Sabina　proceeded　with　her　melancholy　musings：　What　if　she　had　a　man　who　ordered　her　about？　A　man　who　wanted　to　master　her？　How　long　would　she　put　up　with　him？　Not　five　minutes！　From　which　it　follows　that　no　man　was　right　for　her。　Strong　or　weak。
Why　don't　you　ever　use　your　strength　on　me？　she　said。
Because　love　means　renouncing　strength；　said　Franz　softly。
Sabina　realized　two　things：　first；　that　Franz's　words　were　noble　and　just；　second；　that　they　disqualified　him　from　her　love　life。
LIVING　IN　TRUTH
Such　is　the　formula　set　forth　by　Kafka　somewhere　in　the　diaries　or　letters。　Franz　couldn't　quite　remember　where。　But　it　captivated　him。　What　does　it　mean　to　live　in　truth？　Putting　it　negatively　is　easy　enough：　it　means　not　lying；　not　hiding；　and　not　dissimulating。　From　the　time　he　met　Sabina；　however；　Franz　had　been　living　in　lies。　He　told　his　wife　about　nonexistent　congresses　in　Amsterdam　and　lectures　in　Madrid；　he　was　afraid　to　walk　with　Sabina　through　the　streets　of　Geneva。　And　he　enjoyed　the　lying　and　hiding：　it　was　all　so　new　to　him。　He　was　as　excited　as　a　teacher's　pet　who　has　plucked　up　the　courage　to　play　truant。
For　Sabina；　living　in　truth；　lying　neither　to　ourselves　nor　to　others；　was　possible　only　away　from　the　public：　the　moment　someone　keeps　an　eye　on　what　we　do；　allowances　for　that　eye；　and　nothing　we　do　is　truthful。　Having　a　public；　keeping　a　public　in　mind；　means　living　in　lies。　Sabina　despised　literature　in　which　people　give　away　all　kinds　of　intimate　secrets　about　themselves　and　their　friends。　A　man　who　loses　his　privacy　loses　everything；　Sabina　thought。　And　a　man　who　gives　it　up　of　his　own　free　will　is　a　monster。　That　was　why　Sabina　did　not　suffer　in　the　least　from　having　to　keep　her　love　secret。　On　the　contrary；　only　by　doing　so　could　she　live　in　truth。
Franz；　on　the　other　hand；　was　certain　that　the　division　of　life　into　private　and　public　spheres　is　the　source　of　all　lies：　a　person　is　one　thing　in　private　and　something　quite　different　in　public。　For　Franz；　living　in　truth　meant　breaking　down　the　barriers　between　the　private　and　the　public。　He　was　fond　of　quoting　Andre　Breton　on　the　desirability　of　living　in　a　glass　house　into　which　everyone　can　look　and　there　are　no　secrets。
When　he　heard　his　wife　telling　Sabina；　That　pendant　is　ugly！　he　knew　he　could　no　longer　live　in　lies　and　had　to　stand　up　for　Sabina。　He　had　not　done　so　only　because　he　was　afraid　of　betraying　their　secret　love。
The　day　after　the　cocktail　party；　he　was　supposed　to　go　to　Rome　with　Sabina　for　the　weekend。　He　could　not　get　That　pendant　is　ugly！　out　of　his　mind；　and　it　made　him　see　Marie…Claude　in　a　completely　new　light。　Her　aggressiveness—invulnerable；　noisy；　and　full　of　vitality—relieved　him　of　the　burden　of　goodness　he　had　patiently　borne　all　twenty…three　years　of　their　marriage。　He　recalled　the　enormous　inner　space　of　the　Old　Church　in　Amsterdam　and　felt　the　strange　incomprehensible　ecstasy　that　void　had　evoked　in　him。
He　was　packing　his　overnight　bag　when　Marie…Claude　came　into　the　roo