《The New York Trilogy》的笔记-第100页
- 章节名：The New York Trilogy( Paul Auster)
- 页码：第100页 2015-04-24 21:11:20
You can’t hate something so violently unless a part of you also loves it.For Quinn learned that eating did not necessarily solve the problem of food. A meal was no more than a fragile defense against the inevitability of the next meal. Food itself could never answer the question of food; it only delayed the moment when the question would have to be asked in earnest. The greatest danger, therefore, was in eating too much. If he took in more than he should, his appetite for the next meal increased, and thus more food was needed to satisfy him.For the first time in his experience of writing reports, he discovers that words do not necessarily work, that it is possible for them to obscure the things they are trying to say.It’s all part of it, he thinks, embarrassed at himself for being like this. That’s what happens when you have no one to talk to. He comes to theThe dead man was still young, even younger than his son was now, and there was something awesome about it, Blue felt, something so odd and terrible about being older than your own father, that he actually had to fight back tears as he read the article.We are not where we are, he finds, but in a false position. Through an infirmity ofour natures, we suppose a case, and put ourselves into it, and hence are in two cases at the same time, and it is doubly difficult to get out.Writing is a solitary business. It takes over your life. In some sense, a writer has no life of his own. Even when he’s there, he’s not really there.That chamber pot, you see, somehow reminds me of the brains on the floor. Still, there’s an excitement to the moment that Blue can’t quite suppress. For it’s more than just seeing the room, he knows—it’s the thought of being there himself, of standing inside those four walls, of breathing the same air as Black. From now on, he thinks, everything that happens will affect everything else. The door will open, and after that Black will be inside of him forever.the thing and the thought of the thing are one and the same.Stories happen only to those who are able to tell them, someone once said. In the same way, perhaps, experiences present themselves only to those who are able to have them.By definition, a thought is something you are aware of. The fact that I did not once stop thinking about Fanshawe, that he was inside me day and night for all those months, was unknown to me at the time. And if you are not aware of having a thought, is it legitimate to say that you are thinking?“And when he dreams he does not want to write, he does not have the power to dream he wants to write; and when he dreams he wants to write, he does not have the power to dream he does not want to write.”We all want to be told stories, and we listen to them in the same way we did when we were young. We imagine the real story inside the words, and to do this we substitute ourselves for the person in the story, pretending that we can understand him because we understand ourselves. This is a deception. We exist for ourselves, perhaps, and at times we even have a glimmer of who we are, but in the end we can never be sure, and as our lives go on, we become more and more opaque to ourselves, more and more aware of our own incoherence. No one can cross the boundary into another—for the simple reason that no one can gain access to himself.Lives make no sense, I argued. A man lives and then he dies, and what happens in between makes no sense.The point being that, in the end, each life is irreducible to anything other than itself. Which is as much as to say: lives make no sense. I don’t mean to harp on any of this. But the circumstances under which lives shift course are so various that it would seem impossible to say anything about a man until he is dead. Not only is death the one true arbiter of happiness (Solon’s remark), it is the only measurement by which we can judge life itself.For surely a man cannot live if he does not breathe. But at the same time, he will not live if he does breathe. ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘I think maybe it’s better this way. The noise, you know. It makes it very hard to concentrate. I’ve lived so long with my little box in the wall, I feel rather attached to it. My dear friend, don’t be angry. I’m afraid there’s nothing to be done with an old man like me. You get to a certain point in life, and then it’s too late to change.’The story is not in the words; it’s in the struggle.found myself in a bar near the Place Pigalle. Found is the term I wish to use, for I have no idea of how I got there, no memory of entering the place at all.
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