5 JUNE 1905

From a description of the location and appearance of rivers, trees, buildings, people, all would seem common. The Aare bends to the east, is sprinkled with boats carrying potatoes and sugar beets. Arolla pines dot the foothills of the Alps, the trees’ coneladen branches curving upward like arms of a candelabrum. Three-storey houses with red-tiled roofs and dormer windows sit quietly on Aarstrasse, overlooking the river. Shopkeepers on Marktgasse wave their arms at all passersby, hawking handkerchiefs, fine watches, tomatoes, sour bread, and fennel. The smell of smoked beef wafts down the avenues. A man and woman stand on their small balcony on Kramgasse, arguing and smiling while they argue. A young girl walks slowly through the garden at the Kleine Schanze- The large red-wood door of the Post Bureau opens and closes, opens and closes. A dog barks. But seen through the eyes of any one person the scene is quite different. For example, one woman sitting on the banks of the Aare sees the boats pass by at great speed, as if moving on skates across ice. To another, the boats appear sluggish, barely rounding the bend in the whole of the afternoon. A man standing on Aarstrasse looks at the river to discover that the boats travel first forwards, then backwards.

These discrepancies are repeated elsewhere. Just now a chemist is walking back to his shop on Kochergasse, having taken his noon meal. This is the picture he sees:two women gallop past him, churning their arms wildly and talking so rapidly that he cannot understand them. A solicitor runs across the street to an appointment somewhere, his head jerking this way and that like a small animal’s. A ball tossed by a child from a balcony hurtles through the air like a bullet, a blur barely visible. The residents of no.82, just glimpsed through their window, fly through the house from one room to the next, sit down for an instant, shovel down a meal in one minute, disappear, reappear. Clouds overhead come together, move apart, come together again with the pace of successive exhales and inhales.

On the other side of the street, the baker observes the same scene. He notes that two women leisurely stroll up the street, stop to talk to a solicitor, then walk on. The solicitor goes into an apartment at no. 82. sits down at a table for lunch, walks to the firstfloor window where he catches a ball thrown by a child on the street.

To yet a third person standing under a lamppost on Kochergasse. the events have no movement at all: two women, a solicitor, a ball, a child, three barges, an apartment interior are captured like paintings in the bright summer light.

And it is similar with any sequence of events, in this world where time is a sense.

In a world where time is a sense, like sight or like taste, a sequence of episodes may be quick or may be slow, dim or intense, salty or sweet, causal or without cause, orderly or random, depending on the prior history of the viewer. Philosophers sit in cafes on Amthausgasse and argue whether time really exists outside human perception. Who can say if an event happens fast or slow, causally or without cause, in the past or the future? Who can say if events happen at all? The philosophers sit with half-opened eyes and compare their aesthetics of time.

Some few people are born without any sense of time. As consequence, their sense of place becomes heightened to excruciating degree. They lie in tall grass and are questioned by poets and painters from all over the world. These time-deaf are beseeched to describe the precise placement of trees in the spring, the shape of snow on the Alps, the angle of sun on a church, the position of rivers, the location of moss, the pattern of birds in a flock. Yet the time-deaf are unable to speak what they know. For speech needs a sequence of words, spoken in time.

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3 JUNE 1905

Imagine a world in which people live just one day. Either the rate of heartbeats and breathing is speeded up so that an entire lifetime is compressed to the space of one turn of the earth on its axis for the rotation of the earth is slowed to such a low gear that one complete revolution occupies a whole human lifetime. Either interpretation is valid. In either case, a man or woman sees one sunrise, one sunset.

In this world, no one lives to witness the change of the seasons. A person born in December in any European country never sees the hyacinth, the lily, the aster, the cyclamen, the edelweiss, never sees the leaves of the maple turn red and gold, never hears the crickets or the warblers. A person born in December lives his life cold. Likewise, a person born in July never feels a snowflake on her cheek, never sees the crystal on a frozen lake. never hears the squeak of boots in fresh snow. A person born in July lives her life warm. The variety of seasons is learned about in books.

In this world, a life is planned by light. A person born at sunset spends the first half of his life in nighttime. learns indoor trades like weaving and watchmaking, reads a great deal, becomes intellectual, eats too much, is frightened of the vast dark out doors, cultivates shadows. A person born at sunrise learns outdoor occupations like farming and masonry, becomes physically fit, avoids books and mental projects, is sunny and confident, is afraid of nothing.

Both sunset and sunrise babies flounder when the light changes. When sunrise comes, those born at sunset are overwhelmed by the sudden sight of trees and oceans and mountains, are blinded by daylight, return to their houses and cover their windows, spend the rest of their lives in half light. When sunset comes, those born at sunrise wail at the disappearance of birds in the sky, the layered shades of blue in the sea, the hypnotic movement of clouds. They wail and refuse to learn the dark crafts in doors, lie on the ground and look up and struggle to see what they once saw.

In this world in which a human life spans but a single day, people heed time like cats straining to hear sounds in the attic. For there is no time to lose. Birth, schooling, love affairs, marriage, profession, old age must all be fit within one transit of the sun, one modulation of light. When people pass on the street, they tip their hats and hurry on When people meet at houses, they politely inquire of each other’s health and then attend to their own affairs. When people gather at cafes, they nervously study the shifting of shadows and do not sit long. Time is too precious. A life is a moment in season. A life is one snowfall. A life is one autumn day. A life is the delicate, rapid edge of a closing door’s shadow. A life is a brief movement of arms and of legs. When old age comes, whether in light or in dark, a person discovers that he knows no one. There hasn’t been time. Parents have passed away at midday or midnight. Brothers and sisters have moved to distant cities, to seize passing opportunities. Friends have changed with the changing angle of the sun. Houses, towns, jobs, lovers have all been planned to accommodate no a life framed in one day. A person in old age knows no one. He talks to people, but he does not know them. His life is scattered in fragments of conversation, forgotten by fragments of people. His life is divided into hasty episodes, witnessed by few. He sits at his bedside table, listens to the sound of his running bath, and wonders whether anything exists outside of his mind. Did that embrace from his mother really exist? Did that laughing rivalry with his school friend really exist? Did that first tingle of lovemaking really exist? Did his lover exist? Where are they now? Where are they now, as he sits at his bedside table, listening to the sound of his running bath, vaguely perceiving the change in the light.


2 JUNE 1905

A mushy, brown peach is lifted from the garbage and placed on the table to pinken. It pinkens, it turns hard, it is carried in a shopping sack to the grocer’s, put on a shelf, removed and crated, returned to the tree with pink blossoms. In this world, time flows backward.

A withered woman sits in a chair hardly moving, her face red and swollen, her eyesight almost gone, her hearing gone, her breathing scratchy like the rustle of dead leaves on stones. Years pass. There are few visitors. Gradually, the woman gains strength, eats more, loses the heavy lines in her face. She hears voices, music. Vague shadows gather themselves into light and lines and images of tables, chairs, people’s faces. The woman makes excursions from her small house, goes to the market, occasionally visits a friend, drinks tea at cafes in good weather. She takes needles and yarn from the bottom drawer of her dresser and crochets. She smiles when she likes her work. One day her husband, with whitened face, is carried into her house. In hours, his cheeks become pink, he stands stooped straightens out, speaks to her. Her over, house becomes their house. They eat meals together, tell jokes, laugh. They travel through the country, visit friends. Her white hair darkens with brown streaks, her voice resonates with new tones. She goes to a retirement party at the gymnasium, begins teaching history. She loves her students, argues with them after class. She reads during her lunch hour and at night. She meets friends and discusses history and current events. She helps her husband with the accounts at his chemist’s store, walks with him at the foot of the mountains, makes love to him. Her skin becomes soft, her hair long and brown, her breasts firm. She sees her husband for the first time in the library of the university, returns his

glances. She attends classes. She graduates from the gymnasium, with her parents and sister crying tears of happiness. She lives at home with her parents, spends hours with her mother walking through the woods by their house, helps with the dishes. She tells stories to her younger sister, is read to at night before bed, grows smaller. She crawls. She nurses.

A middle-aged man walks from the stage of an auditorium in Stockholm, holding a medal. He shakes hands with the president of the Swedish Academy of Sciences, receives the Nobel Prize for physics, listens to the glorious citation. The man thinks briefly about the award he is to receive. His thoughts quickly shift twenty years to the future, when he will work alone in a small room with only pencil and paper. Day and night he will work, making many false starts, filling the trash basket with unsuccessful chains of equations and logical sequences. But some evenings he will return to his desk knowing he has learned things about Nature that no one has ever known, ventured into the forest and found light, gotten hold of precious secrets. On those evenings, his heart will pound as if he were in love. The anticipation of that rush of the blood, that time when he will be young and unknown and unafraid of mistakes, overpowers him now as he sits in his chair in the auditorium in Stockholm, at great distance from the tiny voice of the president announcing his name.

A man stands at the graveside of his friend, throws a handful of dirt on the coffin, feels the cold April rain on his face. But he does not weep. He looks ahead to the day when his friend’s lungs will be strong, when his friend will be out of his bed and laughing, when the two of them will drink ale together, go sailing, talk. He does not weep. He waits longingly for a particular day he remembers in the future when he and his friend will have sandwiches on a low flat table, when he will describe his fear of growing old and unloved and his friend will nod gently, when the rain will slide down the glass of the window.


29 MAY 1905

A man or a woman suddenly thrust into this world would have to dodge houses and buildings. For all is in motion. Houses and apartments, mounted on wheels, go careening through Bahnhofplatz and race through the narrows of Marktgasse, their occupants shouting from second-floor windows. The Post Bureau doesn’t remain on Postgasse, but flies through the city on rails, like a train. Nor does the Bundeshaus sit quietly on Bundesgasse. Everywhere the air whines and roars with the sound of motors and locomotion When a person comes out of his front door at sunrise, he hits the ground running, catches up with his office building, hurries up and down flights of stairs, works at a desk propelled in circles, gallops home at the end of the day. No one sits under a tree with a book, no one gazes at the ripples on a pond, no one lies in thick grass in the country. No one is still.

Why such a fixation on speed? Because in this world time passes mere slowly for people in motion. Thus everyone travels at high velocity, to gain time.

The speed effect was not noticed until the invention of the internal combustion engine and the beginnings of rapid transportation. On 8 September 1889, Mr. Randolph Whig of Surrey took his mother-in-law to London at high speed in his new motor car. To his delight, he arrived in half the expected time, a conversation having scarcely begun, and decided to look into the phenomenon. After his researches were published, no one went slowly again.

Since time is money, financial considerations alone dictate that each brokerage house, each manufacturing plant, each grocer’s shop constantly travel as rapidly as possible, to achieve advantage over their competitors. Such buildings are fitted with giant engines of propulsion and are never at rest. Their motors and crankshafts roar far more loudly than the equipment and people inside them.

Likewise, houses are sold not just on their size and design, but also on speed. For the faster a house travels, the more slowly the clocks tick inside and the more time available to its occupants. Depending on the speed, a person in a fast house could gain several minutes on his neighbors in a single day. This obsession with speed carries through the night, when valuable time could be lost, or gained, while asleep. At night, the streets are ablaze with lights, so that passing houses might avoid collisions, which are always fatal- At night, people dream of speed, of youth, of opportunity.

In this world of great speed, one fact has been only slowly appreciated. By logical tautology, the motional effect is all relative. Because when two people pass on the street, each perceives the other in motion, just as a man in a train perceives the trees to fly by his window. Consequently, when two people pass on the street, each sees the other’s time flow more slowly – each sees the other gaining time. This reciprocity is maddening. More maddening still, the faster one travels past a neighbor, the faster the neighbor appears to be traveling.

Frustrated and despondent, some people have stopped looking out their windows. With the shades drawn, they never know how fast they are moving, how fast their neighbors and competitors are moving. They rise in the morning, take baths, eat plaited bread and ham, work at their desks, listen to music, talk to their children, lead lives of satisfaction.

Some argue that only the giant clock tower on Kramgasse keeps the true time, that it alone is at rest. Others point out that even the giant clock is in motion when viewed from the river Aare, or from a cloud.


22 MAY 1905, 1905年5月22日

Dawn. A salmon fog floats through the city, carried on the breath of the river. The sun waits beyond the Nydegg Bridge, throws its long, reddened spikes along Kramgasse to the giant clock that measures time, illuminates the underside of balconies. Sounds of morning drift through the streets like the smell of bread. A child wakes and cries for her mother. An awning creaks quietly as the milliner arrives at his shop on Marktgasse. An engine whines on the river. Two women talk softly beneath an arcade.

As the city melts through fog and the night, one sees a strange sight. Here an old bridge is half-finished. There, a house has been removed from its foundations. Here, a street veers east for no obvious reason. There, a bank sits in the middle of the grocery market. The lower stained-glass windows of St. Vincent’s portray religious themes, the uppers switch abruptly to a picture of the Alps in spring. A man walks briskly toward the Bundeshaus, stops suddenly, puts his hands to his head, shouts excitedly, turns, and hurries in the opposite direction.

This is a world of changed plans, of sudden opportunities, of unexpected visions. For in this world, time flows not evenly but fitfully and, as consequence, people receive fitful glimpses of the future.

When a mother receives a sudden vision of where her son will live, she moves her house to be near him. When a builder sees the place of commerce in the future, he twists his road in that direction. When a child briefly glimpses herself as a florist, she decides not to attend university. When a young man gets a vision of the woman he will marry, he waits for her. When a solicitor catches sight of himself in the robes of a judge in Zurich, he abandons his job in Berne. Indeed, what sense is there in continuing the present when one has seen the future?

For those who have had their vision, this is a world of guaranteed success. Few projects are started that do not advance a career. Few trips are taken that do not lead to the city of destiny. Few friends are made who will not be friends in the future. Few passions are wasted.

For those who have not had their vision, this is a world of inactive suspense. How can one enroll in university without knowing one’s future occupation? How can one set up an apothecary on Marktgasse when a similar shop might do better on Spitalgasse? How can one make love to a man when he may not remain faithful? Such people sleep most of the day and wait for their vision to come.

Thus, in this world of brief scenes from the future, few risks are taken. Those who have seen the future do not need to take risks, and those who have not yet seen the future wait for their vision without taking risks.

Some few who have witnessed the future do all they can to refute it. A man goes to tend the museum gardens in Neuchatel after he has seen himself a barrister in Lucerne. A youth embarks on a vigorous sailing voyage with his father after a vision that his father will die soon of heart trouble. A young woman allows herself to fall in love with one man even though she has seen that she will marry another. Such people stand on their balconies at twilight and shout that the future can be changed, that thousands of futures are possible. In time, the gardener in Neuchatel gets tired of his low wages, becomes a barrister in Lucerne. The father dies of his heart, and his son hates himself for not forcing his father to keep to his bed. The young woman is deserted by her lover, marries a man who will let her have solitude with her pain.

Who would fare better in this world of fitful time? Those who have seen the future and live only one life? Or those who have not seen the future and wait to live life? Or those who deny the future and live two lives?

清晨。粉红的雾带着河的气息飘过城市。等候在努代克那边的太阳沿着克拉姆街,把长长、红红的光投向那测量时间的大钟,将阳台的底部照亮。早晨的声音像面包的气味飘浮在街上。孩子醒了,哭着要妈妈。帽店老板来到马克特街上的铺子,阳篷哗啦哗啦。河上轮船呜呜咽咽。两个女人窃窃私语在拱廊下。

雾气和夜色从城市散去,露出一派奇异的景象。这边一座桥只搭了半截,那头的房子拆得剩了房基,这条街道毫无道理地朝东,那个银行坐落在食品市场中央。圣文森大教堂下面的玻璃彩画全是宗教题材,往上陡然变作阿尔卑斯春色。一个男子朝议会大楼疾走,猛地站住,摸摸头,兴奋地一叫,转身往相反的方向奔去。

这是一个主意总变、机会突现、幻象无常的世界。在这个世界里,时间不是平顺地流过而是忽进忽止。因此,未来也乍隐乍现。

母亲突然看到儿子将住在某地,于是也搬了过去。建筑商发现了未来的商业区,忙调头把路往那边铺。儿童瞅见自己开花店,就决定不上什么大学。小伙子见着未来的妻子,于是一心等她。推销员发现自己竟然在苏黎世披挂法官的袍子,便扔了伯尔尼的这份差事。也是,如果已窥见未来,又何必维持现在?

对于有幸一睹未来的人,这是一个成功在握的世界。成不了事的预算没人做,不达目的的道路没人走,将来不够朋友的朋友没人交。没人浪费感情。

对于无缘得见未来的人,这是一个悬而未决的世界。如果不知道将来干什么,还读哪门子大学?药铺干吗开在马克特街上?斯皮塔尔街上也许能更红火?既然拿不准这男人日后是否变心,干吗要跟他睡觉?这些人白天基本卧床,等见了未来才起身。

在这个未来稍现一二的世界里,不大有冒险这回事。见了未来的人无需冒险。尚未见到的等着瞧就是了,没必要轻举妄动。

个别人见到了未来却一味抵抗。某人知道自己要在卢塞恩做律师,却还是到纳沙泰尔的博物馆收拾花园。某个男青年清楚父亲不久将死于心脏病,却依然带他去扬帆。某个女青年发现自己将嫁给那一个,却听任自己爱上这一个。暮色中这些人站在阳台上大叫未来可以改变,未来可以有千千万。到后来,纳沙泰尔的花匠嫌工钱低,跑到卢塞恩当了律师。那位父亲死于心脏病,儿子悔不当初把他拦在床上。女青年被恋人抛弃,后来嫁的那位倒也由着她一个人郁郁不乐。

哪种人能在时间忽进忽止的世界活得好些?是见到未来,只活一样的人?还是未见未来,等着活的人?还是拒绝未来,要活出两样的人?


20 MAY 1905, 1905年5月20日

A glance along the crowded booths on Spitalgasse tells the story. The shoppers walk hesitantly from one stall to the next, discovering what each shop sells. Here is tobacco, but where is mustard seed? Here are sugar beets, but where is cod? Here is goat’s milk, but where is sassafras? These are not tourists in Berne on their first visit. These are the citizens of Berne. Not a man can remember that two days back he bought chocolate at a shop named Ferdinand’s, at no. 17, or beef at the Hot delicatessen, at no. 36. Each shop and its specialty must be found anew. Many walk with maps, directing the map-holders from one arcade to the next in the city they have lived in all their lives, in the street they have traveled for years. Many walk with notebooks, to record what they have learned while it is briefly in their heads. For in this world, people have no memories.

When it is time to return home at the end of the day, each person consults his address book to learn where he lives. The butcher, who has made some unattractive cuts in his one day of butchery, discovers that his home is no. 29 Nageligasse. The stockbroker, whose short-term memory of the market has produced some excellent investments, reads that he now lives at no. 89 Bundesgasse. Arriving home, each man finds a woman and children waiting at the door, introduces himself, helps with the evening meal, reads stories to his children. Likewise, each woman returning from her job meets a husband, children, sofas, lamps, wallpaper, china patterns. Late at night, the wife and husband do not linger at the table to discuss the day’s activities, their children’s school, the bank account. Instead, they smile at one another, feel the warming blood, the ache between the legs as when they met the first time fifteen years ago. They find their bedroom, stumble past family photographs they do not recognize, and pass the night in lust. For it is only habit and memory that dulls the physical passion. Without memory, each night is the first night, each morning is the first morning, each kiss and touch are the first.

A world without memory is a world of the present. The past exists only in books, in documents. In order to know himself, each person carries his own Book of Life, which is filled with the history of his life. By reading its pages daily, he can relearn the identity of his parents, whether he was born high or born low, whether he did well or did poorly in school, whether he has accomplished anything in his life. Without his Book of Life, a person is a snapshot, a two-dimensional image, a ghost. In the leafy cafes on the Brunngasshalde, one hears anguished shrieking from a man who just read that he once killed another man. sighs from a woman who just discovered she was courted by a prince, sudden boasting from a woman who has learned that she received top honors from her university ten years prior. Some pass the twilight hours at their tables reading from their Books of Life; others frantically fill its extra pages with the day’s events.

With time, each person’s Book of Life thickens until it cannot be read in its entirety. Then comes a choice. Elderly men and women may read the early pages, to know themselves as youths; or they may read the end, to know themselves in later years.

Some have stopped reading altogether. They have abandoned the past. They have decided that it matters not if yesterday they were rich or poor, educated or ignorant, proud or humble, in love or empty-hearted ?o more than it matters how a soft wind gets into their hair. Such people look you directly in the eye and grip your hand firmly. Such people walk with the limber stride of their youth. Such people have learned how to live in a world without memory.

只消看看斯皮塔尔街上挤满的商亭。买东西的人从一个摊位寻寻觅觅到另一个摊位,瞧瞧每处都卖些什么。这儿卖烟草,可哪儿卖芥末?这儿卖甜菜,可哪儿卖鳕鱼?这儿卖羊奶,可哪儿卖黄樟?这些人都不是头会来伯尔尼的游客。他们是伯尔尼的居民。谁也记不起前天在这条街17号叫做 “费迪南”的店里买过巧克力,或在36号的“霍夫”美食屋买了牛肉的事情。各个铺子及其特色商品都是常逛常新。许多人带地图上街,并为另一些按图索骥的人指点迷津,从住了一辈子的城市的这条街前往走了多少年的那条道。许多人带着笔记本,记下头脑中稍纵即逝的见闻。在这个世界里,人没有记忆。

白天过完该回家了,于是人人都打开通讯录看家在何方。割肉割得无聊的屠夫发现自己住在拿格里街29号。因稍稍了解市场而做了出色投资的股票经纪人,发现他如今的住址是邮政街89号。到了家,每人都见有女人孩子等在门口。于是,报上姓名,帮着做晚餐,给孩子念故事。同样,每个女人下班回家,也要碰上个丈夫,还有孩子、沙发、灯、壁纸、瓷画什么的。到了夜里,夫妇俩并不耗在桌旁话说白天,什么孩子上学,银行账户之类。他们彼此,感到血是热的,两腿间有苦难言,就好像是十五年前初次见面。他们找到卧室一路跌撞进去,才不认得那些家庭老照片,一夜合欢。情欲因习惯和记忆而迟钝。没有记忆,夜夜都是初夜,日日都是首日,回回接吻,次次触摸都是空前。

没有记忆的世界是现在的世界,过去只存在于书本里。为了了解自己,人人都有本传记,上面记载着生平事迹。通过天天读,他反复了解到自己的父母是谁,自己出身高贵还是低贱,自己在学校表现如何,自己这辈子有什么成就。没有这个记录,人就仅仅是张照片,一个两维影象,一缕孤魂。在布仑嘎斯哈特街木叶婆娑的咖啡馆里,可以听到某男的哀鸣——他刚读到自己杀过人;某女的叹惋——她得知自己以前被王子追过;另一位的惊呼——十年前她在大学曾得过最佳学生奖。日暮时分,一些人坐在桌旁浏览自己的行状;另一些人则忙不迭地补入白天的事件。

每个人的传记随着时间增厚,厚到无法通读。于是便有所取舍。上了岁数的或许专读前面的篇章,重温自己的青青岁月;或许只翻结尾,了解一下近来的境况。

有些人干脆不读了。他们抛弃了过去,打定主意,昨天富也罢穷也罢,满腹学问也罢,目不识丁也罢,骄傲也罢,谦退也罢,有情也罢,无聊也罢,不去管它,只当微风吹了头发。这样的人会直视你的眼,紧握你的手。这样的人步履轻快,懂得怎样活在没有记忆的世界里。


1905年5月15日

设想没有时间的世界。只有形象。

初次见到海的儿童在岸边如痴如呆。女人立在清晨的阳台,红唇,赤脚,散发,睡袍。采令格尔喷泉附近克拉姆街廊拱顶弯弯,砂石和铁。静室中的男子拿着女人的照片,满脸哀伤。白鹭展翅碧霄,阳光透过羽毛。男孩坐在无人的听众席,心动过速,仿佛身在讲坛。冬季岛上,足迹雪上。远处夜色里的船灯火朦胧,仿佛漆黑天空中的小红星。药盒锁着。地上秋叶精巧斑斓。女人蜷在屋旁灌木中,等着跟变心的丈夫谈谈。春雨绵绵,青年最后一次散步在心爱的地方。窗台蒙着尘土。马克特街上胡椒摊儿,红红绿绿黄黄。马特山,绿幽谷、小木屋、峥嵘的雪峰、硬蓝蓝的天。一根针的孔眼。乳色晶辉,叶上露水。床上母亲哭着,空气中甜菜味漫着。客来香公园骑自行车的孩子,笑到极致。八角塔,敞阳台,巍峨庄严,四周祈祷者林立的手臂。湖上晨雾轻轻。抽屉开着。咖啡馆里坐着两个友人,一个灯光中,一个暗影内。猫盯窗上虫。青年女子凳上读信,绿色的眼睛喜泪盈盈。一大片地,环绕云杉雪松。窗子照进长长的斜阳。大树倒了,树根散乱,依然青枝绿干。白帆风浪里,像大鸟鼓翼。父子俩独坐饭馆,父亲戚然凝视着桌布。椭圆窗外,干草地里,斜晖青紫,一挂车,几头牛。地上瓶破,流出棕色液体,妇人红了眼圈。老人在厨房为孙子做早餐,孙子望着窗外的白色长椅。桌上昏灯下,一卷旧书。风吹白浪碎。妇人头发湿漉漉地躺在椅上,再见不到他,

抓紧他的手。一列红色火车驶上优雅的大石拱桥,桥下河水,远处屋舍。窗里阳光,光里游埃。颈项皮肤薄嫩,看得见血管。一对赤身男女搂得密不透风。月亮圆,树影蓝。山头劲风,山下幽谷,牛肉奶酪三明治。孩子躲避着拳脚,父亲嘴气歪,孩子不明白。镜中陌生的脸,两鬓霜染。年轻人握着听筒,被里面的话惊呆。全家照里,父母年轻自在,孩子微笑盛装。一点光远远透过树丛。夕阳红。

脆白的蛋壳。蓝帽子冲上岸。华屋耸起,桥下流水折花。撩魄撩魂,爱人红发。女青年拿着紫蝴蝶花。一室四壁两窗,一桌一灯两床,两张红脸,四只泪眼。初次接吻。行星困在空间,海洋无声无响。窗上一颗水珠。一盘绳。一把黄色的刷子。