“假如你”，“如果你”，诸如此类的插入语，在汉语中无法呈现出时代变化，仅属于叙述者介入叙事话语的声音表征，用以形成标记性的叙述手势，如一个指号，一个导游式口吻，一个绍介性话语。但在英语小说中，此时时态则变成了现在式。这是没法翻译传递的，这种意绪只能靠本文原始语境来捕捉。实质小说的隐含意，很多时候隐藏在此。辛克莱《大街》或更早安德森《小城畸人》以及霍桑《红字》至少是开启麦卡勒斯小城镇叙事传统之先河的作品。我指的是那种语调和氛围；而且在影像中（即便西部片），我们常感觉到美国式小城镇固有的弊病，如同town这个词语一样让你喘息不过气来。杀戮与暗算、阴谋与神秘、冷漠与荒芜，是免不了的。仿佛千年如一日，仿佛清教徒面纱永不褪下。在这里，其实我们读出来的是时态上的现时感与在场感，并排列着一组与“street”这个词语一样的风景亘古不变的“tree”。叙事时态实质也是空间世态，更寄寓了叙事者的心态，也是作者彼时彼刻的状态，甚至，也是为了“废墟”之前的那个“过去”而进行铺垫。既然“现在”已然成了废墟，仿佛艾米丽小姐珍藏在阁楼上的干尸抑或罗切斯特封锁起来的那个迷狂的本我，皆散发着枯萎玫瑰花的粉尘，那么“过去”自然也不过废墟的倒影。废墟的倒影只能靠记忆捕捉，来复原，孰料予以呈现出来的则是一种差异的美。

If you walk along the main street on an August afternoon there is nothing whatsoever to do. The largest building, in the very center of the town, is boarded up completely and leans so far to the right that it seems bound to collapse at any minute.

The house is very old. There is about it a curious, cracked look that is very puzzling until you suddenly realize that at one time, and long ago, the right side of the front porch had been painted, and part of the wall -- but the painting was left unfinished and one portion of the house is darker and dingier than the other. The building looks completely deserted. Nevertheless, on the second floor there is one window which is not boarded; sometimes in the late afternoon when the heat is at its worst a hand will slowly open the shutter and a face will look down on the town. It is a face like the terrible dim faces known in dreams -- sexless and white, with two gray crossed eyes which are turned inward so sharply that they seem to be exchanging with each other one long and secret gaze of grief. The face lingers at the window for an hour or so, then the shutters are dosed once more, and as likely as not there will not be another soul to be seen along the main street. These August afternoons -- when your shift is finished there is absolutely nothing to do; you might as well walk down to the Forks Falls Road and listen to the chain gang.

However, here in this very town there was once a café. And this old boarded-up house was unlike any other place for many miles around. There were tables with cloths and paper napkins, colored streamers from the electric fans, great gatherings on Saturday nights. The owner of the place was Miss Amelia Evans. But the person most responsible for the success and gaiety of the place was a hunchback called Cousin Lymon. One other person had a part in the story of this café -- he was the former husband of Miss Amelia, a terrible character who returned to the town after a long term in the penitentiary, caused ruin, and then went on his way again. The café has long since been closed, but it is still remembered.