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！
he stems of the water–lilies； hanging suspended over nests of white sea eggs。 。 。 how peaceful it is drown here； rooted in the centre of the world and gazing up through the grey waters； with their sudden gleams of light； and their reflections—if it were not for whitaker’s almanack—if it were not for the table of precedency！
i must jump up and see for myself what that mark on the wall really is—a nail； a rose–leaf； a crack in the wood？
here is nature once more at her old game of self–preservation。 this train of thought； she perceives； is threatening mere waste of energy； even some collision with reality； for who will ever be able to lift a finger against whitaker’s table of precedency？ the archbishop of canterbury is followed by the lord high chancellor； the lord high chancellor is followed by the archbishop of york。 everybody follows somebody； such is the philosophy of whitaker； and the great thing is to know who follows whom。 whitaker knows； and let that； so nature counsels； fort you； instead of enraging you； and if you can’t be forted； if you must shatter this hour of peace； think of the mark on the wall。
i understand nature’s game—her prompting to take action as a way of ending any thought that threatens to excite or to pain。 hence； i suppose； es our slight contempt for men of action—men； we assume； who don’t think。 still； there’s no harm in putting a full stop to one’s disagreeable thoughts by looking at a mark on the wall。
indeed； now that i have fixed my eyes upon it； i feel that i have grasped a plank in the sea； i feel a satisfying sense of reality which at once turns the two archbishops and the lord high chancellor to the shadows of shades。 here is something definite； something real。 thus； waking from a midnight dream of horror； one hastily turns on the light and lies quiescent； worshipping the chest of drawers； worshipping solidity； worshipping reality； worshipping the impersonal world which is a proof of some existence other than ours。 that is what one wants to be sure of。 。 。 wood is a pleasant thing to think about。 it es from a tree； and trees grow； and we don’t know how they grow。 for years and years they grow； without paying any attention to us； in meadows； in forests； and by the side of rivers—all things one likes to think about。 the cows swish their tails beneath them on hot afternoons； they paint rivers so green that when a moorhen dives one expects to see its feathers all green when it es up again。 i like to think of the fish balanced against the stream like flags blown out； and of water–beetles slowly raiding domes of mud upon the bed of the river。 i like to think of the tree itself：—first the close dry sensation of being wood； then the grinding of the storm； then the slow； delicious ooze of sap。 i like to think of it； too； on winter’s nights standing in the empty field with all leaves close–furled； nothing tender exposed to the iron bullets of the moon； a naked mast upon an earth that goes tumbling； tumbling； all night long。 the song of birds must sound very loud and strange in june； and how cold the feet of insects must feel upon it； as they make laborious progresses up the creases of the bark； or sun themselves upon the thin green awning of the leaves； and look straight in front of them with diamond–cut red eyes。 。 。 one by one the fibres snap beneath the immense cold pressure of the earth； then the last storm es and； falling； the highest branches drive deep into the ground again。 even so； life isn’t done with； there are a million patient； watchful lives still for a tree； all over the world； in bedrooms； in ships； on the pavement； lining rooms； where men and women sit after tea； smoking cigarettes。 it is full of peaceful thoughts； happy thoughts； this tree。 i should like to take each one separately—but something is getting in the way。 。 。 where was i？ what has it all been about？ a tree？ a river？ the downs？ whitaker’s almanack？ the fields of asphodel？ i can’t remember a thing。 everything’s moving； falling； slipping； vanishing。 。 。 there is a vast upheaval of matter。 someone is standing over me and saying—
“i’m going out to buy a newspaper。”
“yes？”
“though it’s no good buying newspapers。 。 。 nothing ever happens。 curse this war； god damn this war！ 。 。 。 all the same； i don’t see why we should have a snail on our wall。”
ah； the mark on the wall！ it was a snail。
。。
，