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
一开始它并没有名字。它就是自己，就是生动的事物本身。它是他的朋友。在刮风的日子里，它狂乱地舞蹈，疯狂地挥舞着手臂；而在黄昏的寂静中，它打着瞌睡，一边做梦，一边在夕阳的余晖下摇摆。即使在夜晚它也不离开。他裹得严严实实地蜷缩在自己的矮床上，可以听到它一整个漫漫长夜都在黑暗里悄悄地晃动着。还有其他离他更近的，比这个还生动的。他们来来去去，轻声细语。但他们对他来说太熟悉了，就像是他自己的一部分。而它忠诚又冷漠，它属于神秘的外面，属于风，天气和夕阳照耀的天空。它是世界的一部分，但也是他的朋友。
“看，尼克拉斯，快看啊！快来看大树！”
树。那是它的名字。也叫椴树。这是美好的名字。在知道它们的含义之前，他就知道这几个字眼很久了。它们并不代表自己，它们自己毫无意义，它们表示的是外面那个又跳又唱的东西。它变化于风中，寂静中，夜里，不断变化的空气里，却又是永恒的树，椴树。这是奇怪的。
万物皆有名字。但尽管名字离了被命名之物便毫无意义，那个事物并不在意自己的名字。它不需要一个名字，它只是它自己。有些名字代表着非实体性的事物，不像“椴树”和“树”代表那个黑暗舞者。他母亲问他最爱谁。“爱”既不会跳舞，也不会疯狂地用手指敲打窗户，更不会摇摆枝叶繁茂的手臂。但当她说出那个并不代表什么实体的词时，他身体里一些无形又真实的东西回应了，好像在回应召唤，仿佛它听到了自己的名字一样。这很奇怪。
他很快就忘记了这些神秘又费解的事情，学会像别人那样笃定而不容置疑地讲话。
天空是蓝色的，太阳是金色的，椴树是绿色的。白昼结束，黑夜就降临。你睡着了，又在早晨醒来。但总有一天你不会醒过来。那就是死亡。死亡是悲伤的。悲伤与幸福相反。等等……毕竟这样是多么简单呀！根本就没必要去思考。他只需要活着，生活会把剩下的一切安排妥当，给他一天又一天直到没有为止。然后他就会上天堂成为天使，而地狱在远离他的地下。
圣马太、马可、路加、约翰，
请保佑我熟睡的床畔。
倘若我醒来前身已故，
请带我灵魂觐见天父。
他从交叉紧握的双手后瞄着跪在他旁边的母亲，烛光笼罩着她，被照亮的头巾包着盘发，脸苍白又平静，就像图画里圣母玛利亚的脸。她闭着双眼，嚅动着嘴唇，在他大声地背那几行虔诚的信条时默默地念着。当他背到比较难的词语打结巴时，她便用十分温柔的声音提示他。他说，他最爱她了。她把他抱在怀里，一边摇一边唱歌。
跷跷板啊玛丽朵，
这只小鸡
迷失在草垛。
John Banville