After the exercises I stood in the muddy field (it had
rained at dawn) and felt the dark wool of my gown lap up
the heat and din of noon， and at that instant， while the grad-
uates ran with cries toward asterisks of waiting parents and
the sun hung like an animal s tongue from a sickened blue
maw， I heard the last stray call of a bugle--single， lost， un-
cormected--and in one moment I grew suddenly old. All
around， the purple-plumed band had broken ranks， making a
bright dash for the cool of sugared grapes and lemonade on
long tables under trees， and the members of the procession，
doffing their hoods as they dispersed， raised in the air veils of
blue， mauve， crimson， and jade， like the~wings of gcese. The
bugle s voice unfurled， shivered， fell. Although I did not
move and stopped my breath and hoped the wail would lift
again--why? as a signal perhaps， the witness we spend our
lives waiting for--it would not. Only the year before Enoch
had told me that the sign of understanding would be the ab-
sence of any sign， that revelation came unproclaimed， that
messiahship was secret; but Enoch was himself so abundant
in signs， revelations， and messianism that， on the basis of his
own doctrine， I did not believe him. Enoch would have said
that because the bugle did not speak again its first utterance
was also in doubt; after an hour of discussion he might even
have convinced me that i had not heard a bugle at all， just
as， in my childhood， he had once demonstrated that， since
God had made the world， and since there was no God， the
world in all logic could not exist. It was true; the world did
not exist; Enoch was middle-aged， and knew.
After a while， because the bugle would not rise again， no
|
内容加载中，请稍后...
商品评论（0条）