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