At first it had no name. It was the thing itself, the vivid thing. It was his friend. On windy days it danced, demented, waving wild arms, or in the silence of evening drowsed and dreamed, swaying in the blue, the goldeny air. Even at night it did not go away. Wrapped in his truckle bed, he could hear it stirring darkly outside in the dark, all the long night long. There were others, nearer to him, more vivid still than this, they came and went, talking, but they were wholly familiar, almost a part of himself, while it, steadfast and aloof, belonged to the mysterious outside, to the wind and the weather and the goldeny blue air. It was part of the world, and yet it was his friend.
Look, Nicolas, look! See the big tree!
Tree. That was its name. And also: the linden. They were nice words. He had known them a long time before he knew what they meant. They did not mean themselves, they were nothing in themselves, they meant the dancing singing thing outside. In wind, in silence, at night, in the changing air, it changed and yet was changelessly the tree, the linden tree. That was strange.
Everything had a name, but although every name was nothing without the thing named, the thing cared nothing for its name, had no need of a name, and was itself only. And then there were the names that signified no substantial thing, as linden and tree signified that dark dancer. His mother asked him who did he love the best. Love did not dance, nor tap the window with frantic fingers, love had no leafy arms to shake, yet when she spoke that name that named nothing, some impalpable but real thing within him responded as if to a summons, as if it had heard its name spoken. That was very strange.
He soon forgot about these enigmatic matters, and learned to talk as others talked, full of conviction, unquestioningly.
The sky is blue, the sun is gold, the linden tree is green. Day is light, it ends, night falls, and then it is dark. You sleep, and in the morning wake again. But a day will come when you will not wake. That is death. Death is sad. Sadness is what happiness is not. And so on. How simple it all was, after all! There was no need even to think about it. He had only to be, and life would do the rest, would send day to follow day until there were no days left, for him, and then he would go to Heaven and be an angel. Hell was under the ground.
Matthew Mark Luke and John
Bless the bed that I lie on
If I die before I wake
Ask holy God my soul to take
He peered from behind clasped hands at his mother kneeling beside him in the candlelight. Under a burnished coif of coiled hair her face was pale and still, like the face of the Madonna in the picture. Her eyes were closed, and her lips moved, mouthing mutely the pious lines as he recited them aloud. When he stumbled on the hard words she bore him up gently, in a wonderfully gentle voice. He loved her the best, he said. She rocked him in her arms and sang a song.
See saw Margery Daw
This little chicken
Got lost in the straw
哥白尼博士
起初它没有名字。它就是它,是鲜活的生命,是他的朋友。它在暴风里起舞,发疯,肆意挥舞着臂膀;在寂静的黄昏里打盹,做梦;在蔚蓝金黄的空中摇曳。甚至到了夜里,它也不会离开。长夜里,裹在矮床里的他,听到屋外的它在黑暗里轻轻摇晃。他身边还有别的,他们离他更近,更鲜活。他们来来去去,说话交谈。但对他来说,他们太过熟悉,熟悉得像是自己的一部分。它不一样,它坚定,独立,它属于神秘的外面,属于风雨雷电,属于蔚蓝金黄相接的天空。它是世界的一部分,但它也是他的朋友。
看,尼古拉斯,看!看那棵大树!
“树”。它的名字是“树”,又或者,“椴树”。好听。他早就听过这两个词,此时才知道它们代表什么。它们不代表自己,它们自己没有意义,它们代表外面起舞歌唱的那个东西。在风里,在寂静里,在夜里,在变幻的空中,它无时不变却又从未改变,它始终是树,椴树。奇怪。
世间万物都有名字。但是,虽然名字离了所指的东西就没了意义,东西自己却不在乎它的名字,它才不需要名字,它就是它自己。不像是椴树和树代表暗夜舞者,有的名字不代表实在的东西。母亲问他最爱的是谁。“爱”不会跳舞,也不会用指头敲打窗户,“爱”没有树叶繁茂的胳膊可以摇晃,“爱”不是实物之名。可是当她说出这个词,他身体里却有个无法触摸但真实存在的东西回应了,好像听到了召唤,好像听到了自己的名字。真奇怪。
很快,他就忘掉了这些令人费解的事,然后学着其他人那样,坚信不疑地讲话。
天是蓝色的,太阳是金色的,椴树是绿色的,白天是明亮的,白天结束,夜晚降临,天就黑了,你要睡觉,然后在早上又醒来,但总有一天你不会再醒来,那就是死亡,死亡是悲伤的,悲伤是快乐的反面,诸此种种。一切都是那么简单,甚至无需思考,他只要活着,剩下的交给命,命会给他带来一天接着一天,直到没了下一天,然后他会进入天堂,变成天使。地狱在地底下。
马太,马克,路加,约翰
请赐福于我的床
如果我不再从梦中醒来
求主把我带到天堂。
他从交叉的双手后面打量跪在身旁的母亲:烛光下,她盘好的发巾泛着光,头发下面的脸白皙而安详,像是画里的圣母玛丽亚。他大声背诵祷词,她闭着双眼,嘴唇翕动,无声地念着。他打磕巴了,她就用无比温柔的声音提示他。他最爱的是她,他说。她把他揽在怀里,一边轻轻摇,一边轻轻唱:
看啊,玛格丽·朵
这只脏小鹅
迷失在草垛。