加载中…【动词性写作——麦卡锡《血色子午线》】
(2015-08-19 20:44:37)
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A dark curl of smoke rose, a blue flame of burning varnish.
They squatted in the
hallway and watched. Thin flames began to run up over the
panels and dart back again.
The watchers looked like forms excavated from a bog.
Tap on the door now, said Toadvine.
The kid rose. Toadvine stood up and waited. They could hear
the flames crackling inside
the room. The kid tapped.
The old man swung his head back and forth. The way of the
transgressor is hard. God
made this world, but he didnt make it to suit everbody, did
he?
I dont believe he much had me in mind.
Aye, said the old man. But where does a man come by his
notions. What world's he
seen that he liked better?
I can think of better places and better ways.
Can ye make it be?
No.
No. It's a mystery. A man's at odds to know his mind cause his
mind is aught he has
to know it with. He can know his heart, but he dont want to.
Rightly so. Best not to
look in there. It aint the heart of a creature that is bound
in the way that God has set
for it. You can find meanness in the least of creatures, but
when God made man the
devil was at his elbow. A creature that can do anything. Make
a machine. And a
machine to make the machine. And evil that can run itself a
thousand years, no need to
tend it. You believe that?
I dont know.
Believe that.
When the old man's mess was warmed he doled it out and they
ate in silence. Thunder
was moving north and before long it was booming overhead and
starting bits of rust in
a thin trickle down the stovepipe. They hunkered over their
plates and wiped the grease
up with their fingers and drank from the gourd.
The kid went out and scoured his cup and plate in the sand and
came back banging
the tins together as if to fend away some drygulch phantom out
there in the dark.
Distant thunderheads reared quivering against the electric sky
and were sucked away in
the blackness again. The old man sat with one ear cocked to
the howling waste without.
The kid shut the door.
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