心是孤独的猎手 8.5分
读书笔记 第111页
Mick
安静、隐秘的夜晚,她又一次独自一人。不算太晚——路边的窗子透出黄色的光晕。她走得很慢,手插在口袋里,歪着脑袋。她漫无目的地走了很久。 房子越来越稀疏了,院子里有大树和黑色的灌木丛。她望望四周,知道他来到了夏天来过许多次的房子旁。脚不知不觉地把她带到这里。她站在房子前等了等,直到确认没人能看见她。她穿过边上的小院。 收音机像往常一样开着。她在窗下站了片刻,观察屋里的人。秃头男人和灰发女士坐在桌边打牌。米克坐到了地上。这是一个隐蔽的好地方,四周都是厚厚的雪松,她藏在里面,谁也看不见她。今晚收音机的节目不太好——有人在唱流行歌曲,都以同样的方式结尾。她觉得空虚。把手伸进口袋,手指摸索着。有葡萄干、干果、一串珠子——一根香烟和火柴。她点着了烟,抱膝坐着。她像是空虚到了极点,身体里没有感情,也没有思想。 一个曲子接一个曲子,全是垃圾。她漫不经心地听着。抽烟,抓了一把草叶。过了一会儿,新的播音员开始说话。他提到了贝多芬,她在图书馆里读到过这个音乐家——他的名字听起来一个a字,拼写时则是两个e。他是一个德国的家伙,和莫扎特一样。他活着的时候,用外语说话,住在外国——她也想这样。播音员说马上要播放他的第三交响曲。她有些心不在焉,她想再走一走,对收音机节目没什么兴趣了。这时音乐开始了。米克扬起脑袋,一下子无法呼吸。 怎么回事?片刻间,音乐的开头像天平一样,从一头摇晃到另一头。像散步,或者行军。像上帝在夜里神气活现地走路。她身外的一切都冻结了,只有音乐的开头在她的心脏里沸腾。她甚至听不见后面的音乐。但她坐在那里,握紧了拳头,等待,浑身僵住了。过了一会儿,音乐又来了,更重,更响。它和上帝毫无关系。是她,米克·凯利,在白天行走,夜晚独自一人行走。在热辣辣的阳光下,在黑夜中,充满计划,充满感情。这音乐就是她——真正的完全的她。 她无法听清音乐的全部。这音乐在她身体里沸腾。哪部分?牢牢地记住精彩的部分,一遍遍回味,这样她就不会忘记——或者她应该放松,听每一部分,不要去想,也不要努力记住?天呐!整个世界就是这首曲子,她却不能听个够。最终,音乐开头的部分又回来了,每个音符都有不同的乐器交织在一起,如同攥得紧紧的重拳击在她的心口。第一乐章结束了。 曲子既不长也不短。再说,它和时间无关。她紧紧地抱住大腿,使劲地咬自己咸湿的膝盖。她可能只听了五分钟,也可能听了半个夜晚。第二乐章是黑色的——慢的进行曲。不是悲伤的,但整个世界都死了,都黑了,都必要去回想这个世界死前是什么样。一种号角式的乐器走出了悲伤清越的旋律。随后音乐悠扬地扬起,下面潜伏着激动的情绪。最后,黑色的进行曲又来了。 也许交响乐的最后乐章是她最喜欢的——快乐的,像世界上最伟大的人在奔跑,在艰难而又自由地雀跃。像这样美妙的音乐简直是世上最令人伤心的事。整个世界就是这曲交响乐,她简直听不过来了。 结束了。她抱着膝盖,僵硬地坐着。另一个节目开始了,她用手指堵住耳朵。刚才的音乐只给她留下了伤害和空虚。她完全想不起这首交响乐了,甚至连最后几个音符也忘了。她努力去回想,没有声音回到她的耳边。现在全都结束了,只剩下一颗心,像兔子一样跳,还有这可怕的伤害。 收音机和屋里的灯光都掐断了。夜晚如此之黑。米克突然用拳头猛击大腿。她用尽全身的力气击打同一块肌肉,眼泪流到了脸上,但她的感觉麻木了。树丛下的石子很尖利。她抓起一把石子,在腿上同一块地方来回地蹭,直到手磨出了血。她轰然躺倒在地上,抬头看天。腿上巨大的疼痛令她好受些了。她软弱无力地躺在湿湿的草地上,过了一会儿她的呼吸终于慢下来,自如了。 为什么宇宙探索者不能看看天空就知道世界是圆的?天空是弯曲的,好似巨大的玻璃球的内侧,深蓝色的天空点缀着明亮的星星。夜晚是安静的,空气中有温暖的雪松的气味。她完全不想音乐的时候,音乐却回来了。脑子里响起了第一乐章,和她刚刚在收音机里听到的一模一样。她静静而缓慢地听着,像解几何题一样思考音符,好让自己记住。她能清楚地看见声音的形状,她不会忘记它们了。 现在她感觉好多了。她大声地自言自语道:“主啊赦免我,因为我不知道我做了什么。”为什么她会想到这句话?最近的几年中,每个人都明白根本没有真正的上帝。当她想到以前她想象中的上帝的模样时,她却只能看见辛格先生——他的身上披着长长的白单子。上帝是沉默的——也许正是因为这点她才想到了上帝。她又说了一遍,就像对着辛格先生说道:“主啊赦免我,因为我不知道我做了什么。” 曲子的这个部分美妙而清晰。她随时都可以把它唱出来。也许以后的某个早晨,她醒来时,更多的旋律会回到她耳边。如果她有机会再听一遍这首交响乐,她会记住更多的乐章。如果她能再听上四遍,只要四遍,她全都能记住了。也许。 她又听了一遍开头的部分。音符越来越缓慢和轻柔,她感到自己正在慢慢地下沉,沉入黑暗的地下。 米克惊醒了。空气变得寒冷,她快要醒来时梦见老埃塔·凯利把她身上所有的被单全都拿走了。“给我毯子——”她挣扎着想说,然后睁开了眼睛。天空很黑,所有的星星都不见了。草地是潮湿的。她连忙爬起来,爸爸要担心了。她又想起了那首曲子。她不知道现在是午夜还是凌晨三点,她急忙赶回家。空气中是秋天的味道了。音乐在脑子里很快很响地放着,在通往自己家的人行道上,她越跑越快。
In the quiet, secret night she was by herself again. It was not late----yellow squares of light snowed in the window of the houses along the streets. She walked slow, with her hands in her pockets and her head to one side. For a long time she walked without noticing the direction. Then the houses were far apart from each other and there were yards with big trees in them and black shrubbery. She looked around and saw she was near the house where she had gone so many times in the summer. Her feet had just taken her here without her knowing. When she came to the house she waited to be sure no person could see. Then she went through the side yard. The radio was on usual. For a second she stood by the window and watched the people inside. The bald-headed man and the gray-haired lady were playing cards at a table. Mick sat on the ground. This was a very fine and secret place. Close around were thick cedars so that she was completely hidden by herself. The radio was no good tonight----somebody sang popular songs that all ended in the same way. It was like she was empty. She reached in her pockets and felt around with her fingers. There were raisins and a buckeye and a string of beads----one cigarette with matches. She lighted the cigarette and put her arms around her knees. It was like she was so empty there wasn't even a feeling or thought in her. One program came on after another, and all of them were punk. She didn't especially care. She smoked and picked a little bunch of grass blades. After a while a new announcer started talking. He mentioned Beethoven. She had read in the library about that musician----his name was pronounced with an a and spelled with double e. He was a German fellow like Mozart When he was living he spoke in a foreign language and lived in a foreign place----like she wanted to do. The announcer said they were going to play this third symphony. She only halfway listened because she wanted to walk some more and she didn't care much what they played. Then the music started. Mick raised her head and her fist went up to her throat. How did it come? For a minute the opening balanced from one side to another. Like a walk or march. Like God strutting in the night. The outside of her was suddenly froze and only that first part of the music was hot inside her heart. She could not even hear what sounded after, but she sat there waiting and froze, with her fists tight. After a while the music came again, harder and loud. It didn't have anything to do with God. This was her, Mick Kelly, walking in the daytime and by herself at night. In the hot sun and in the dark with all the plans and feelings. This music was her----the real plain her. She could not listen good enough to hear it all. The music boiled inside her. Whick? To hang on to certain wonderful parts and think them over so that later she would not forget----or should she let go and listen to each part that came without thinking or trying to remember? Golly! The whole world was this music and she could not listen hard enough. Then at last the opening music came again, with all the different instruments bunched together for each note like a hard, tight fist that socked at her heart. And the first part was over. This music did not take a long time or a short time. It did not have anything to do with time going by at all. She sat with her arms held tight around her legs,biting her salty knee very hard. It might be five minutes she listened or half the night. The second part was black-colored----a slow march. Not sad, but the whole world was dead and black and there was no use thinking back how it was before. One of those horn kind of instruments played a sad and silver tune. Then the music rose up angry and with excitement underneath. And finally the black march again. But maybe the last part of the symphony was the music she loved the best----glad and like the greatest people in the world running and springing up in a hard, free way. Wonderful music nice this was the worst hurt there could be. The whole world was this symphony, and there was not enough of her to listen. It was over, and she sat very stiff with her arms around her knees. Another program came on the radio and she put her fingers in her ears. The music left only this bad hurt in her, and a blankness. She could not remember any of the symphony, not even the last few notes. She tried to remember, but no sound at all came to her. Now that it was over there only her heart like a rabbit and this terrible hurt. The radio and the lights in the house were turned off. The night was very dark. Suddenly Mick began hitting her thigh with her fists. She pounded the same muscle with all her strength until the tears came down her face. But she could not feel this hard enough. The rocks under the bush were sharp. She grabbed a handful of them and began scraping them up and down on the same spot until her hand was bloody. Then she fell back to the ground and lay looking up at the night. With the fiery hurt in her leg she felt better. She was limp on the wet grass, and after a while her breath came slow and easy again. Why hadn't the explorers known by looking at the sky that the world was round? The sky was curved, like the inside of a huge glass ball, very dark blue with the sprinkles of bright stars. The night was quiet. There was the smell of warm cedars. She was not trying to think of the music at all when it came back to her. The first part happened hi her mind just as it had been played. She listened in a quiet, slow way and thought the notes out like a problem in geometry so she would remember. She could see the shape of the sounds very clear and she would not forget them. Now she felt good. She whispered some words out loud:'Lord forgiveth me, for I knoweth not what I do.' Why did she think of that? Everybody in the past years knew there wasn't any real God. When she thought of what she used to imagine was God she could only see Mister Singer with a long, white sheet around him. God was silent----maybe that was why she was reminded. She said the words again, just as she would speak them to Mister Singer:'Lord forgiveth me, for I knoweth not what I do.' This part of the music was beautiful and clear. She could sing it now whenever she wanted to. Maybe later on, when she had just waked up some morning, more of the music would come back to her. If ever she heard the symphony again there would be other parts to add to what was already in her mind. And maybe if she could hear it four more times, just four more times, she would know it all. Maybe. Once again she listened to this opening part of the music. Then the notes grew slower and soft and it was like she was sinking down slowly into the dark ground. Mick awoke with a jerk. The air had turned chilly, and as she was coming up out of the sleep she dreamed old Etta Kelly was talking all the cove. 'Gimme some blanket------' she tried to say. Then she opened her eyes. The sky was very black and all the stars were gone. The grass was wet. She got up in a hurry because her Dad would be worried. Then she remembered the music. She couldn't tell whether the time was midnight or three in the morning, so she started beating it for home in a rush. The air had a smell in it like autumn. The music was loud and quick in her mind, and she ran faster and faster on the sidewalks leading to the home block.
0
《心是孤独的猎手》的全部笔记 600篇
豆瓣
免费下载 iOS / Android 版客户端