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兔灰灰的小窝

每天进步一点点

 
 
 

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小说:在路上  

2013-11-15 13:58:50|  分类: 原著欣赏 |  标签: |举报 |字号 订阅

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On the Road
小说:在路上 - 兔灰灰 - 兔灰灰的小窝
  

He was simply a youth tremendously excited with life, and though he was a con-man, he was only conning because he wanted so much to live and to

get involved with people who would otherwise pay no attention to him.

Two keen minds that they are, they took to each other at the drop of a hat. Two piercing eyes glanced into two piercing eyes - the holy con-man with

the shining mind, and the sorrowful poetic con-man with the dark mind that is Carlo Marx.

I shambled after as I’ve been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue center light pop and everybody goes .

 Then came spring, the great time of traveling, and everybody in the scattered gang was getting ready to take one trip or another.

 I could hear a new call and see a new horizon, and believe it at my young age.

 And here for the first time in my life I saw my beloved Mississippi River, dry in the summer haze, low water, with its big rank smell that smells like the raw body of America itself because it washes it up.

 Gene was taking care of him, of his moods and his fears.

 I cried for it. That’s how I see life too. I was so interested in the opera that for a

while I forgot the circumstances of my crazy life and got lost in the great mournful sounds of Beethoven and the rich Rembrandt tones of his story.

 Beyond the glittering street was darkness, and beyond the darkness the West. I had to go.

 I suddenly realized I was in California. Warm, palmy air - air you can kiss - and palms.

 The reason I’m going into everything that happened in San Fran is because it ties up with everything else all the way down the line.

 You can’t teach the old maestro a new tune.

Now you got to make up your mind one way or the other, or you’ll never get anywhere.

This is the story of America. Everybody’s doing what they think they’re supposed to do.

LA is the loneliest and most brutal of American cities; New York gets god-awful cold in the winter but there’s a feeling of wacky comradeship somewhere in some streets. LA is a jungle.

 I looked up at dark sky and prayed to God for a better break in life an better chance to do something for the little people I love.

In California you chew the juice out of grapes and spit the skin away, a real luxury.

My God, he’s changed. Fury spat out of his eyes when he told of things he hated; great glows of joy replaced this when he suddenly got happy; every muscle twitched to live and go.

I want to marry a girl, I told them, so I can rest my soul with her till we both get old. This can’t go on all the time - all this franticness and jumping around. We’ve got to go someplace, find something.

He was out of his mind with real belief.

My aunt once said the world would never find peace until men fell at their women’s feet and asked for forgiveness.

Naturally, now that I look back on it, this is only death: death will overtake us before heaven. The one thing that we yearn for in our living days, that makes us sigh and groan and undergo sweet nauseas of all kinds, is the remembrance of some lost bliss that was probably experienced in the womb and can only be reproduced (though we hate to admit it) in death.

He crawls like a big spider through the streets. His excitement blew out of his eyes in stabs of fiendish light. He rolled his neck in spastic ecstasy. He lisped, he writhed, he flopped, he moaned, he howled, he fell back in despair. He could hardly get a word out, he was so excited with life.

we all realized we were leaving confusion and nonsense behind and performing our one and noble function of the time, move.

 But why think about that when all the golden land’s ahead of you and all kinds of unforeseen events wait lurking to surprise you and make you glad you’re alive to see?

 Don’t worry about nothing!

 This was a manuscript of the night we couldn’t read.

 Her beautiful body was matched only by her idiot mind.

 Dean’s California - wild, sweaty, important, the land of lonely and exiled and eccentric lovers come to forgather like birds, and the land where everybody somehow looked like broken-down, handsome, decadent movie actors.

In God’s name and under the stars, what for?

It never occurs to you that life is serious and there are people trying to make something decent out of it instead of just goofing all the time.

Very well, then, I said, but now he’s alive and I’ll bet you want to know what he does next and that’s because he’s got the secret that we’re all busting to find and it’s splitting his head wide open and if he goes mad don’t worry, it won’t be your fault but the fault of God.

Yah, what good’s a ball, life’s too sad to be balling all the time, said the tenorman, lowering his eye to the street. .

Now you see, man, there’s real woman for you. Never a harsh word, never a complaint, or modified; her old man can come in any hour of the night with anybody and have talks in the kitchen and drink the beer and leave any old time. This is a man, and that’s his castle.

All he needed was a wheel in his hand and four on the road.

 Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life.

 I hold things in my hand like pieces of crap and don’t know where to put it down.

Lonely as America, a throat pierced sound in the night.

I looked. George Shearing. And as always he leaned his blind head on his pale hand, all ears opened like the ears of an elephant, listening to the American sounds and mastering them for his own English summer’s-night use.

You mean we’ll end up old bums?

Why not, man? Of course we will if we want to, and all that. There’s no harm ending that way.

What’s your road, man? - holyboy road, madman road, rainbow road, guppy road, any road. It’s an anywhere road for anybody anyhow.

On the horizon was the moon. She fattened, she grew huge and rusty, she mellowed and rolled, till the morning star contended and dews began to blow in our windows.

We’ve finally got to heaven. It couldn’t be cooler, it couldn’t be grander, it couldn’t be anything.

It was hard to come around without a common language. And everybody grew quiet and cool and high again and just enjoyed the breeze from the desert and mused separate national and racial and personal high-eternity thoughts.

In myriad pricklings of heavenly radiation I had to struggle to see Dean’s figure, and he looked like God.

Life was dense, dark, ancient.

 

 可能对本书期望值高了,感觉阅读趣味性不大,连浪迹天涯的念头也打消了。

 (2013-10)
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