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让你觉得那只一头扎进水里去的雌红松鸡，应该带着绿色的羽毛冒出水面来。我喜欢去想那些像被风吹得鼓起来的旗帜一样逆流而上的鱼群；我还喜欢去想那些 在河床上一点点地垒起一座座圆顶土堆的水甲虫。我喜欢想像那棵树本身的情景：首先是它自身木质的细密干燥的感觉，然后想像它感受到雷雨的摧残；接下去就感 到树液缓慢地、舒畅地一滴滴流出来。我还喜欢去想这棵树怎样在冬天的夜晚独自屹立在空旷的田野上，树叶紧紧地合拢起来，对着月亮射出的铁弹，什么弱点也不 暴露，像一根空荡荡的桅杆竖立在整夜不停地滚动着的大地上。六月里鸟儿的鸣啭听起来一定很震耳，很不习惯；小昆虫在树皮的褶皱上吃力地爬过去，或者在树叶 搭成的薄薄的绿色天篷上面晒太阳，它们红宝石般的眼睛直盯着前方，这时候它们的脚会感觉到多么寒冷啊……大地的寒气凛冽逼人，压得树木的纤维一根根地断裂 开来。最后的一场暴风雨袭来，树倒了下去，树梢的枝条重新深深地陷进泥土。即使到了这种地步，生命也并没有结束。这棵树还有一百万条坚毅而清醒的生命分散 在世界上。有的在卧室里，有的在船上，有的在人行道上，还有的变成了房间的护壁板，男人和女人们在喝过茶以后就坐在这间屋里抽烟。这棵树勾起了许许多多平 静的、幸福的联想。我很愿意挨个儿去思索它们──可是遇到了阻碍……我想到什么地方啦？是怎么样想到这里的呢？一棵树？一条河？丘陵草原地带？惠特克年 鉴？盛开水仙花的原野？我什么也记不起来啦。一切在转动、在下沉、在滑开去、在消失……事物陷进了大动荡之中。有人正在俯身对我说：
“我要出去买份报纸。”
“是吗？”
“不过买报纸也没有什么意思……什么新闻都没有。该死的战争，让这次战争见鬼去吧！……然而不论怎么说，我认为我们也不应该让一只蜗牛趴在墙壁上。”
哦，墙上的斑点！那是一只蜗牛。
8。 the mark on the wall
perhaps it was the middle of january in the present that i first looked up and saw the mark on the wall。 in order to fix a date it is necessary to remember what one saw。 so now i think of the fire； the steady film of yellow light upon the page of my book； the three chrysanthemums in the round glass bowl on the mantelpiece。 yes； it must have been the winter time； and we had just finished our tea； for i remember that i was smoking a cigarette when i looked up and saw the mark on the wall for the first time。 i looked up through the smoke of my cigarette and my eye lodged for a moment upon the burning coals； and that old fancy of the crimson flag flapping from the castle tower came into my mind； and i thought of the cavalcade of red knights riding up the side of the black rock。 rather to my relief the sight of the mark interrupted the fancy； for it is an old fancy； an automatic fancy； made as a child perhaps。 the mark was a small round mark； black upon the white wall； about six or seven inches above the mantelpiece。
how readily our thoughts swarm upon a new object； lifting it a little way； as ants carry a blade of straw so feverishly； and then leave it。 。 。 if that mark was made by a nail； it can’t have been for a picture； it must have been for a miniature—the miniature of a lady with white powdered curls； powder–dusted cheeks； and lips like red carnations。 a fraud of course； for the people who had this house before us would have chosen pictures in that way—an old picture for an old room。 that is the sort of people they were—very interesting people； and i think of them so often； in such queer places； because one will never see them again； never know what happened next。 they wanted to leave this house because they wanted to change their style of furniture； so he said； and he was in process of saying that in his opinion art should have ideas behind it when we were torn asunder； as one is torn from the old lady about to pour out tea and the young man about to hit the tennis ball in the back garden of the suburban villa as one rushes past in the train。
but as for that mark； i’m not sure about it； i don’t believe it was made by a nail after all； it’s too big； too round； for that。 i might get up； but if i got up and looked at it； ten to one i shouldn’t be able to say for certain； because once a thing’s done； no one ever knows how it happened。 oh！ dear me； the mystery of life； the inaccuracy of thought！ the ignorance of humanity！ to show how very little control of our possessions we have—what an accidental affair this living is after all our civilization—let me just count over a few of the things lost in one lifetime； beginning； for that seems always the most mysterious of losses—what cat would gnaw； what rat would nibble—three pale blue canisters of book–binding tools？ then there were the bird cages； the iron hoops； the steel skates； the queen anne coal–scuttle； the bagatelle board； the hand organ—all gone； and jewels； too。 opals and emeralds； they lie about the roots of turnips。 what a scraping paring affair it is to be sure！ the wonder is that i’ve any clothes on my back； that i sit surrounded by solid furniture at this moment。 why； if one wants to pare life to anything； one must liken it to being blown through the tube at fifty miles an hour—landing at the other end without a single hairpin in one’s hair！ shot out at the feet of god entirely naked！ tumbling head over heels in the asphodel meadows like brown paper parcels pitched down a shoot in the post office！ with one’s hair flying back like the tail of a race–horse。 yes； that seems to express the rapidity of life； the perpetual waste and repair； all so casual； all so haphazard。 。 。
but after life。 the slow pulling down of thick green stalks so that the cup of the flower； as it turns over； deluges one with purple and red light。 why； after all； should one not be born there as one is born here； helpless； speechless； unable to focus one’s eyesight； groping at the roots of the grass； at the toes of the giants？ as for saying which are trees； and which are men and women； or whether there are such things； that one won’t be in a condition to do for fifty years or so。 there will be nothing but spaces of light and dark； intersected by thick stalks； and rather higher up perhaps； rose–shaped blots of an indistinct colour—dim pinks and blues—which will； as time goes on； bee more definite； bee—i don’t know what。 。 。
and yet that mark on the wall is not a hole at all。 it may even be caused by some round black substance； such as a small rose leaf； left over from the summer； and i； not being a very vigilant housekeeper—look at the dust on the mantelpiece； for example； the dust which； so they say； buried troy three times over； only fragments of pots utterly refusing annihilation； as one can believe。
the tree outside the window taps very gently on the pane。 。 。 i want to think quietly； calmly； spaciously； never to be interrupted； never to have to rise from my chair； to slip easily from one thing to another； without any sense of hostility； or obstacle。 i want to sink deeper and deeper； away from the surface； with its hard separate facts。 to steady myself； let me catch hold of the first idea that passes。 。 。 shakespeare。 。 。 well； he will do as well as another。 a man who sat himself solidly in an arm–chair； and looked into the fire； so—a shower of ideas fell perpetually from some very high heaven down through his mind。 he leant his forehead on his hand； and people； looking in through the open door；—for this scene is supposed to take place on a summer’s evening—but how dull this is； this historical fiction！ it doesn’t interest me at all。 i wish i could hit upon a pleasa