非裔美國文學作品選讀

第三章（1 / 3）

BENEATHA:　(Her　face　in　her　hands.　She　is　still　fighting　the　urge　to　go　back　to　bed)　Really—would　you　suggest　dawn?　Wheres　the　paper?

WALTER:　(Pushing　the　paper　across　the　table　to　her　as　he　studies　her　almost　clinically,　as　though　he　has　never　seen　her　before)　You　a　horriblelooking　chick　at　this　hour.

BENEATHA:　(Drily)　Good　morning,　everybody.

WALTER:　(Senselessly)　How　is　school　coming?

BENEATHA:　(In　the　same　spirit)　Lovely.　Lovely.　And　you　know,　biology　is　the　greatest.　(Looking　up　at　him)　I　dissected　something　that　looked　just　like　you　yesterday.

WALTER:　I　just　wondered　if　youve　made　up　your　mind　and　everything.

BENEATHA:　(Gaining　in　sharpness　and　impatience)　And　what　did　I　answer　yesterday　morning—and　the　day　before　that?

RUTH:　(From　the　ironing　board,　like　someone　disinterested　and　old)　Dont　be　so　nasty,　Bennie.

BENEATHA:　(Still　to　her　brother)　And　the　day　before　that　and　the　day　before　that!

WALTER:　(Defensively)　Im　interested　in　you.　Something　wrong　with　that?　Aint　many　girls　who　decide—

WALTER:　and　BENEATHA　(In　unison)—“to　be　a　doctor.”　(Silence)

WALTER:　Have　we　figured　out　yet　just　exactly　how　much　medical　school　is　going　to　cost?

RUTH:　Walter　Lee,　why　dont　you　leave　that　girl　alone　and　get　out　of　here　to　work?

BENEATHA:　(Exits　to　the　bathroom　and　bangs　on　the　door)　Come　on　out　of　there,　please!　(She　comes　back　into　the　room)

WALTER:　(Looking　at　his　sister　intently)　You　know　the　check　is　coming　tomorrow.

BENEATHA:　(Turning　on　him　with　a　sharpness　all　her　own)　That　money　belongs　to　Mama,　Walter,　and　its　for　her　to　decide　how　she　wants　to　use　it.　I　dont　care　if　she　wants　to　buy　a　house　or　a　rocket　ship　or　just　nail　it　up　somewhere　and　look　at　it.　Its　hers.　Not　ours—hers.

WALTER:　(Bitterly)　Now　aint　that　fine!　You　just　got　your　mothers　interest　at　heart,　aint　you,　girl?　You　such　a　nice　girl—but　if　Mama　got　that　money　she　can　always　take　a　few　thousand　and　help　you　through　school　too—cant　she?

BENEATHA:　I　have　never　asked　anyone　around　here　to　do　anything　for　me!

WALTER:　No!　And　the　line　between　asking　and　just　accepting　when　the　time　comes　is　big　and　wide—aint　it!

BENEATHA:　(With　fury)　What　do　you　want　from　me,　Brother—that　I　quit　school　or　just　drop　dead,　which!

WALTER:　I　dont　want　nothing　but　for　you　to　stop　acting　holy　round　here.　Me　and　Ruth　done　made　some　sacrifices　for　you—why　cant　you　do　something　for　the　family?

RUTH:　Walter,　dont　be　dragging　me　in　it.

WALTER:　You　are　in　it—Dont　you　get　up　and　go　work　in　somebodys　kitchen　for　the　last　three　years　to　help　put　clothes　on　her　back?

RUTH:　Oh,　Walter—thats　not　fair...

WALTER:　It　aint　that　nobody　expects　you　to　get　on　your　knees　and　say　thank　you,　Brother;　thank　you,　Ruth;　thank　you,　Mama—and　thank　you,　Travis,　for　wearing　the　same　pair　of　shoes　for　two　semesters—

BENEATHA:　(Dropping　to　her　knees)　Well—I　do—all　right?—thank　everybody!　And　forgive　me　for　ever　wanting　to　be　anything　at　all!　(Pursuing　him　on　her　knees　across　the　floor)　FORGIVE　ME,　FORGIVE　ME,　FORGIVE　ME!

RUTH:　Please　stop　it!　Your　mamall　hear　you.

WALTER:　Who　the　hell　told　you　you　had　to　be　a　doctor?　If　you　so　crazy　bout　messing　round　with　sick　people—then　go　be　a　nurse　like　other　women—or　just　get　married　and　be　quiet...

BENEATHA:　Well—you　finally　got　it　said...It　took　you　three　years　but　you　finally　got　it　said.　Walter,　give　up;　leave　me　alone—its　Mamas　money.

WALTER:　He　was　my　father,　too!

BENEATHA:　So　what?　He　was　mine,　too—and　Travis　grandfather—but　the　insurance　money　belongs　to　Mama.　Picking　on　me　is　not　going　to　make　her　give　it　to　you　to　invest　in　any　liquor　stores—(Underbreath,　dropping　into　a　chair)—and　I　for　one　say,　God　bless　Mama　for　that!

WALTER:　(To　RUTH)　See—did　you　hear?　Did　you　hear!

RUTH:　Honey,　please　go　to　work.

WALTER:　Nobody　in　this　house　is　ever　going　to　understand　me.

BENEATHA:　Because　youre　a　nut.

WALTER:　Whos　a　nut?

BENEATHA:　You—you　are　a　nut.　Thee　is　mad,　boy.

WALTER:　(Looking　at　his　wife　and　his　sister　from　the　door,　very　sadly)　The　worlds　most　backward　race　of　people,　and　thats　a　fact.

BENEATHA:　(Turning　slowly　in　her　chair)　And　then　there　are　all　those　prophets　who　would　lead　us　out　of　the　wilderness—(WALTER　slams　out　of　the　house)—into　the　swamps!

RUTH:　Bennie,　why　you　always　gotta　be　pickin　on　your　brother?　Cant　you　be　a　little　sweeter　sometimes?　(Door　opens,　WALTER　walks　in.　He　fumbles　with　his　cap,　starts　to　speak,　clears　throat,　looks　everywhere　but　at　RUTH.　Finally:)

WALTER:　(To　RUTH)I　need　some　money　for　carfare.

RUTH:　(Looks　at　him,　then　warms;　teasing,　but　tenderly)　Fifty　cents?　(She　goes　to　her　bag　and　gets　money)　Here—take　a　taxi!　(WALTER　exits,　MAMA　enters.　She　is　a　woman　in　her　early　sixties,　fullbodied　and　strong.　She　is　one　of　those　women　of　a　certain　grace　and　beauty　who　wear　it　so　unobtrusively　that　it　takes　a　while　to　notice.　Her　darkbrown　face　is　surrounded　by　the　total　whiteness　of　her　hair,　and,　being　a　woman　who　has　adjusted　to　many　things　in　life　and　overcome　many　more,　her　face　is　full　of　strength.　She　has,　we　can　see,　wit　and　faith　of　a　kind　that　keep　her　eyes　lit　and　full　of　interest　and　expectancy.　She　is,　in　a　word,　a　beautiful　woman.　Her　bearing　is　perhaps　most　like　the　noble　bearing　of　the　women　of　the　Hereros　of　Southwest　Africa—rather　as　if　she　imagines　that　as　she　walks　she　still　bears　a　basket　or　a　vessel　upon　her　head.　Her　speech,　on　the　other　hand,　is　as　careless　as　her　carriage　is　precise—she　is　inclined　to　slur　everything—but　her　voice　is　perhaps　not　so　much　quiet　as　simply　soft)

MAMA:　Who　that　round　here　slamming　doors　at　this　hour?　(She　crosses　through　the　room,　goes　to　the　window,　opens　it,　and　brings　in　a　feeble　little　plant　growing　doggedly　in　a　small　pot　on　the　windowsill.　She　feels　the　dirt　and　puts　it　back　out)

RUTH:　That　was　Walter　Lee.　He　and　Bennie　was　at　it　again.

MAMA:　My　children　and　they　tempers.　Lord,　if　this　little　old　plant　dont　get　more　sun　than　its　been　getting　it　aint　never　going　to　see　spring　again.　(She　turns　from　the　window)　Whats　the　matter　with　you　this　morning,　Ruth?　You　looks　right　peaked.　You　aiming　to　iron　all　them　things?　Leave　some　for　me.　Ill　get　to　em　this　afternoon.　Bennie　honey,　its　too　drafty　for　you　to　be　sittinground　half　dressed.　Wheres　your　robe?

BENEATHA:　In　the　cleaners.

MAMA:　Well,　go　get　mine　and　put　it　on.

BENEATHA:　Im　not　cold,　Mama,　honest.

MAMA:　I　know—but　you　so　thin...

BENEATHA:　(Irritably)　Mama,　Im　not　cold.

MAMA:　(Seeing　the　makedown　bed　as　TRAVIS　has　left　it)　Lord　have　mercy,　look　at　that　poor　bed.　Bless　his　heart—he　tries,　dont　he?　(She　moves　to　the　bed　TRAVIS　has　sloppily　made　up)

RUTH:　No—he　dont　half　try　at　all　cause　he　knows　you　going　to　come　along　behind　him　and　fix　everything.　Thats　just　how　come　he　dont　know　how　to　do　nothing　right　now—you　done　spoiled　that　boy　so.

MAMA:　(Folding　bedding)　Well—hes　a　little　boy.　Aint　supposed　to　know　bout　housekeeping.　My　baby,　thats　what　he　is.　What　you　fix　for　his　breakfast　this　morning?

RUTH:　(Angrily)　I　feed　my　son,　Lena!

MAMA:　I　aint　meddling—(Underbreath;　busybodyish)　I　just　noticed　all　last　week　he　had　cold　cereal,　and　when　it　starts　getting　this　chilly　in　the　fall　a　child　ought　to　have　some　hot　grits　or　something　when　he　goes　out　in　the　cold—

RUTH:　(Furious)　I　gave　him　hot　oats—is　that　all　right!

MAMA:　I　aint　meddling.　(Pause)　Put　a　lot　of　nice　butter　on　it?　(RUTH　shoots　her　an　angry　look　and　does　not　reply)　He　likes　lots　of　butter.

RUTH:　(Exasperated)　Lena—

MAMA:　(To　BENEATHA.　MAMA　is　inclined　to　wander　conversationally　sometimes)　What　was　you　and　your　brother　fussing　bout　this　morning?

BENEATHA:　Its　not　important,　Mama.　(She　gets　up　and　goes　to　look　out　at　the　bathroom,　which　is　apparently　free,　and　she　picks　up　her　towels　and　rushes　out)

MAMA:　What　was　they　fighting　about?

RUTH:　Now　you　know　as　well　as　I　do.

MAMA:　(Shaking　her　head)　Brother　still　worrying　hisself　sick　about　that　money?

RUTH:　You　know　he　is.

MAMA:　You　had　breakfast?

RUTH:　Some　coffee.

MAMA:　Girl,　you　better　start　eating　and　looking　after　yourself　better.　You　almost　thin　as　Travis.

RUTH:　Lena—

MAMA:　Unhunh

RUTH:　What　are　you　going　to　do　with　it?

MAMA:　Now　dont　you　start,　child.　Its　too　early　in　the　morning　to　be　talking　about　money.　It　aint　Christian.

RUTH:　Its　just　that　he　got　his　heart　set　on　that　store—

MAMA:　You　mean　that　liquor　store　that　Willy　Harris　want　him　to　invest　in?

RUTH:　Yes—

MAMA:　We　aint　no　business　people,　Ruth.　We　just　plain　working　folks.

RUTH:　Aint　nobody　business　people　till　they　go　into　business.　Walter　Lee　say　colored　people　aint　never　going　to　start　getting　ahead　till　they　start　gambling　on　some　different　kinds　of　things　in　the　world—investments　and　things.

MAMA:　What　done　got　into　you,　girl?　Walter　Lee　done　finally　sold　you　on　investing.

RUTH:　No.　Mama,　something　is　happening　between　Walter　and　me.　I　dont　know　what　it　is—but　he　needs　something—something　I　cant　give　him　anymore.　He　needs　this　chance,　Lena.

MAMA:　(Frowning　deeply)　But　liquor,　honey—

RUTH:　Well—like　Walter　say—I　spec　people　going　to　always　be　drinking　themselves　some　liquor.

MAMA:　Well—whether　they　drinks　it　or　not　aint　none　of　my　business.　But　whether　I　go　into　business　selling　it　to　em　is,　and　I　dont　want　that　on　my　ledger　this　late　in　life.　(Stopping　suddenly　and　studying　her　daughterinlaw)　Ruth　Younger,　whats　the　matter　with　you　today?　You　look　like　you　could　fall　over　right　there.

RUTH:　Im　tired.

MAMA:　Then　you　better　stay　home　from　work　today.

RUTH:　I　cant　stay　home.　Shed　be　calling　up　the　agency　and　screaming　at　them,　“My　girl　didnt　come　in　today—send　me　somebody!　My　girl　didnt　come　in!”　Oh,　she　just　have　a　fit...

MAMA:　Well,　let　her　have　it.　Ill　just　call　her　up　and　say　you　got　the　flu—

RUTH:　(Laughing)　Why　the　flu?

MAMA:　Cause　it　sounds　respectable　to　em.　Something　white　people　get,　too.　They　know　bout　the　flu.　Otherwise　they　think　you　been　cut　up　or　something　when　you　tell　em　you　sick.

RUTH:　I　got　to　go　in.　We　need　the　money.

MAMA:　Somebody　would　of　thought　my　children　done　all　but　starved　to　death　the　way　they　talk　about　money　here　late.　Child,　we　got　a　great　big　old　check　coming　tomorrow.

RUTH:　(Sincerely,　but　also　selfrighteously)　Now　thats　your　money.　It　aint　got　nothing　to　do　with　me.　We　all　feel　like　that—Walter　and　Bennie　and　me—even　Travis.

MAMA:　(Thoughtfully,　and　suddenly　very　far　away)　Ten　thousand　dollars—

RUTH:　Sure　is　wonderful.

MAMA:　Ten　thousand　dollars.

RUTH:　You　know　what　you　should　do,　Miss　Lena?　You　should　take　yourself　a　trip　somewhere.　To　Europe　or　South　America　or　someplace—

MAMA:　(Throwing　up　her　hands　at　the　thought)　Oh,　child!

RUTH:　Im　serious.　Just　pack　up　and　leave!　Go　on　away　and　enjoy　yourself　some.　Forget　about　the　family　and　have　yourself　a　ball　for　once　in　your　life—

MAMA:　(Drily)　You　sound　like　Im　just　about　ready　to　die.　Whod　go　with　me?　What　I　look　like　wandering　round　Europe　by　myself?

RUTH:　Shoot—these　here　rich　white　women　do　it　all　the　time.　They　dont　think　nothing　of　packing　up　they　suitcases　and　piling　on　one　of　them　big　steamships　and—swoosh!—they　gone,　child.

MAMA:　Something　always　told　me　I　wasnt　no　rich　white　woman.

RUTH:　Well—what　are　you　going　to　do　with　it　then?

MAMA:　I　aint　rightly　decided.　(Thinking.　She　speaks　now　with　emphasis)　Some　of　it　got　to　be　put　away　for　Beneatha　and　her　schoolin—and　aint　nothing　going　to　touch　that　part　of　it.　Nothing.　(She　waits　several　seconds,　trying　to　make　up　her　mind　about　something,　and　looks　at　RUTH　a　little　tentatively　before　going　on)　Been　thinking　that　we　maybe　could　meet　the　notes　on　a　little　old　twostory　somewhere,　with　a　yard　where　Travis　could　play　in　the　summertime,　if　we　use　part　of　the　insurance　for　a　down　payment　and　everybody　kind　of　pitch　in.　I　could　maybe　take　on　a　little　day　work　again,　few　days　a　week—

RUTH:　(Studying　her　motherinlaw　furtively　and　concentrating　on　her　ironing,　anxious　to　encourage　without　seeming　to)　Well,　Lord　knows,　weve　put　enough　rent　into　this　here　rat　trap　to　pay　for　four　houses　by　now...

MAMA:　(Looking　up　at　the　words　“rat　trap”　and　then　looking　around　and　leaning　back　and　sighing—in　a　suddenly　reflective　mood—)　“Rat　trap”—yes,　thats　all　it　is.　(Smiling)　I　remember　just　as　well　the　day　me　and　Big　Walter　moved　in　here.　Hadnt　been　married　but　two　weeks　and　wasnt　planning　on　living　here　no　more　than　a　year.　(She　shakes　her　head　at　the　dissolved　dream)　We　was　going　to　set　away,　little　by　little,　dont　you　know,　and　buy　a　little　place　out　in　Morgan　Park.　We　had　even　picked　out　the　house.　(Chuckling　a　little)　Looks　right　dumpy　today.　But　Lord,　child,　you　should　know　all　the　dreams　I　had　bout　buying　that　house　and　fixing　it　up　and　making　me　a　little　garden　in　the　back—(She　waits　and　stops　smiling)　And　didnt　none　of　it　happen.　(Dropping　her　hands　in　a　futile　gesture)

RUTH:　(Keeps　her　head　down,　ironing)　Yes,　life　can　be　a　barrel　of　disappointments,　sometimes.

MAMA:　Honey,　Big　Walter　would　come　in　here　some　nights　back　then　and　slump　down　on　that　couch　there　and　just　look　at　the　rug,　and　look　at　me　and　look　at　the　rug　and　then　back　at　me—and　Id　know　he　was　down　then...really　down.　(After　a　second　very　long　and　thoughtful　pause;　she　is　seeing　back　to　times　that　only　she　can　see)　And　then,　Lord,　when　I　lost　that　baby—little　Claude—I　almost　thought　I　was　going　to　lose　Big　Walter　too.　Oh,　that　man　grieved　hisself!　He　was　one　man　to　love　his　children.

RUTH:　Aint　nothin　can　tear　at　you　like　losin　your　baby.

MAMA:　I　guess　thats　how　come　that　man　finally　worked　hisself　to　death　like　he　done.　Like　he　was　fighting　his　own　war　with　this　here　world　that　took　his　baby　from　him.

RUTH:　He　sure　was　a　fine　man,　all　right.　I　always　liked　Mr.　Younger.

MAMA:　Crazy　bout　his　children!　God　knows　there　was　plenty　wrong　with　Walter　Younger—hardheaded,　mean,　kind　of　wild　with　women—plenty　wrong　with　him.　But　he　sure　loved　his　children.　Always　wanted　them　to　have　something—be　something.　Thats　where　Brother　gets　all　these　notions,　I　reckon.　Big　Walter　used　to　say,　hed　get　right　wet　in　the　eyes　sometimes,　lean　his　head　back　with　the　water　standing　in　his　eyes　and　say,　“Seem　like　God　didnt　see　fit　to　give　the　black　man　nothing　but　dreams—but　He　did　give　us　children　to　make　them　dreams　seem　worth　while.”　(She　smiles)　He　could　talk　like　that,　dont　you　know.

RUTH:　Yes,　he　sure　could.　He　was　a　good　man,　Mr.　Younger.

MAMA:　Yes,　a　fine　man—just　couldnt　all.　(BENEATHA　comes　in,　brushing　her　hair　and　looking　up　to　the　ceiling,　where　the　sound　of　a　vacuum　cleaner　has　started　up)

BENEATHA:　What　could　be　so　dirty　on　that　womans　rugs　that　she　has　to　vacuum　them　every　single　day?

RUTH:　I　wish　certain　young　women　round　here　who　I　could　name　would　take　inspiration　about　certain　rugs　in　a　certain　apartment　I　could　also　mention.

BENEATHA:　(Shrugging)　How　much　cleaning　can　a　house　need,　for　Christs　sakes.

MAMA:　(Not　liking　the　Lords　name　used　thus)　Bennie!

RUTH:　Just　listen　to　her—just　listen!

BENEATHA:　Oh,　God!

MAMA:　If　you　use　the　Lords　name　just　one　more　time—

BENEATHA:　(A　bit　of　a　whine)　Oh,　Mama—

RUTH:　Fresh—just　fresh　as　salt,　this　girl!

BENEATHA:　(Drily)　Well—if　the　salt　never　catch　up　with　his　dreams,　thats　loses　its　savor—

MAMA:　Now　that　will　do.　I　just　aint　going　to　have　you　round　here　reciting　the　scriptures　in　vain—you　hear　me?

BENEATHA:　How　did　I　manage　to　get　on　everybodys　wrong　side　by　just　walking　into　a　room?

RUTH:　If　you　werent　so　fresh—

BENEATHA:　Ruth,　Im　twenty　years　old.

MAMA:　What　time　you　be　home　from　school　today?

BENEATHA:　Kind　of　late.　(With　enthusiasm)　Madeline　is　going　to　start　my　guitar　lessons　today.　(MAMA　and　RUTH　look　up　with　the　same　expression)

MAMA:　Your　what　kind　of　lessons?

BENEATHA:　Guitar.

RUTH:　Oh,　Father!

MAMA:　How　come　you　done　taken　it　in　your　mind　to　learn　to　play　the　guitar?

BENEATHA:　I　just　want　to,　thats　all.

MAMA:　(Smiling)　Lord,　child,　dont　you　know　what　to　do　with　yourself?　How　long　it　going　to　be　before　you　get　tired　of　this　now—like　you　got　tired　of　that　little　playacting　group　you　joined　last　year?　(Looking　at　RUTH)　And　what　was　it　the　year　before　that?

RUTH:　The　horsebackriding　club　for　which　she　bought　that　fiftyfivedollar　riding　habit　thats　been　hanging　in　the　closet　ever　since!

MAMA:　(To　BENEATHA)　Why　you　got　to　flit　so　from　one　thing　to　another,　baby?

BENEATHA:　(Sharply)　I　just　want　to　learn　to　play　the　guitar.　Is　there　anything　wrong　with　that?

MAMA:　Aint　nobody　trying　to　stop　you.　I　just　wonders　sometimes　why　you　has　to　flit　so　from　one　thing　to　another　all　the　time.　You　aint　never　done　nothing　with　all　that　camera　equipment　you　brought　home—

BENEATHA:　I　dont　flit!　I—I　experiment　with　different　forms　of　expression—

RUTH:　Like　riding　a　horse?

BENEATHA:　—People　have　to　express　themselves　one　way　or　another.

MAMA:　What　is　it　you　want　to　express?

BENEATHA:　(Angrily)　Me!　(MAMA　and　RUTH　look　at　each　other　and　burst　into　raucous　laughter)　Dont　worry—I　dont　expect　you　to　understand.

MAMA:　(To　change　the　subject)　Who　you　going　out　with　tomorrow　night?

BENEATHA:　(With　displeasure)　George　Murchison　again.

MAMA:　(Pleased)　Oh—you　getting　a　little　sweet　on　him?

RUTH:　You　ask　me,　this　child　aint　sweet　on　nobody　but　herself—(Underbreath)　Express　herself!

(They　laugh)

BENEATHA:　Oh—I　like　George　all　right,　Mama.　I　mean　I　like　him　enough　to　go　out　with　him　and　stuff,　but—

RUTH:　(For　devilment)　What　does　and　stuff　mean?

BENEATHA:　Mind　your　own　business.

MAMA:　Stop　picking　at　her　now,　Ruth.　(She　chuckles—then　a　suspicious　sudden　look　at　her　daughter　as　she　turns　in　her　chair　for　emphasis)　What　DOES　it　mean?

BENEATHA:　(Wearily)　Oh,　I　just　mean　I　couldnt　ever　really　be　serious　about　George.　Hes—hes　so　shallow.

RUTH:　Shallow—what　do　you　mean　hes　shallow?　Hes　rich!

MAMA:　Hush,　Ruth.

BENEATHA:　I　know　hes　rich.　He　knows　hes　rich,　too.

RUTH:　Weil—what　other　qualities　a　man　got　to　have　to　satisfy　you,　little　girl?

BENEATHA:　You　wouldnt　even　begin　to　understand.　Anybody　who　married　Walter　could　not　possibly　understand.

MAMA:　(Outraged)　What　kind　of　way　is　that　to　talk　about　your　brother?

BENEATHA:　Brother　is　a　flip—lets　face　it.

MAMA:　(To　RUTH,　helplessly)　Whats　a　flip?

RUTH:　(Glad　to　add　kindling)　Shes　saying　hes　crazy.

BENEATHA:　Not　crazy.　Brother　isnt　really　crazy　yet—he—hes　an　elaborate　neurotic.

MAMA:　Hush　your　mouth!

BENEATHA:　As　for　George.　Well.　George　looks　good—hes　got　a　beautiful　car　and　he　takes　me　to　nice　places　and,　as　my　sisterinlaw　says,　he　is　probably　the　richest　boy　I　will　ever　get　to　know　and　I　even　like　him　sometimes—but　if　the　Youngers　are　sitting　around　waiting　to　see　if　their　little　Bennie　is　going　to　tie　up　the　family　with　the　Murchisons,　they　are　wasting　their　time.

RUTH:　You　mean　you　wouldnt　marry　George　Murchison　if　he　asked　you　someday?　That　pretty,　rich　thing?　Honey,　I　knew　you　was　odd—

BENEATHA:　No　I　would　not　marry　him　if　all　I　felt　for　him　was　what　I　feel　now.　Besides,　Georges　family　wouldnt　really　like　it.

MAMA:　Why　not?

BENEATHA:　Oh,　Mama—The　Murchisons　are　honesttoGodrealfoerich　colored　people,　and　the　only　people　in　the　world　who　are　more　snobbish　than　rich　white　people　are　rich　colored　people.　I　thought　everybody　knew　that.　Ive　met　Mrs.　Murchison.　Shes　a　scene!

MAMA:　You　must　not　dislike　people　cause　they　well　off,　honey.

BENEATHA:　Why　not?　It　makes　just　as　much　sense　as　disliking　people　cause　they　are　poor,　and　lots　of　people　do　that.

RUTH:　(A　wisdomoftheages　manner.　To　MAMA)　Well,　shell　get　over　some　of　this—

BENEATHA:　Get　over　it?　What　are　you　talking　about,　Ruth?　Listen,　Im　going　to　be　a　doctor.　Im　not　worried　about　who　Im　going　to　marry　yet—if　I　ever　get　married.

MAMA　and　RUTH:　If!

MAMA:　Now,　Bennie—

BENEATHA:　Oh,　I　probably　will...but　first　Im　going　to　be　a　doctor,　and　George,　for　one,　still　thinks　thats　pretty　funny.　I　couldnt　be　bothered　with　that.　I　am　going　to　be　a　doctor　and　everybody　around　here　better　understand　that!

MAMA:　(Kindly)　Course　you　going　to　be　a　doctor,　honey,　God　willing.

BENEATHA:　(Drily)　God　hasnt　got　a　thing　to　do　with　it.

MAMA:　Beneatha—that　just　wasnt　necessary.

BENEATHA:　Well—neither　is　God.　I　get　sick　of　hearing　about　God.

MAMA:　Beneatha!

BENEATHA:　I　mean　it!　Im　just　tired　of　hearing　about　God　all　the　time.　What　has　He　got　to　do　with　anything?　Does　he　pay　tuition?

MAMA:　You　bout　to　get　your　fresh　little　jaw　slapped!

RUTH:　Thats　just　what　she　needs,　all　right!

BENEATHA:　Why?　Why　cant　I　say　what　I　want　to　around　here,　like　everybody　else?

MAMA:　It　dont　sound　nice　for　a　young　girl　to　say　things　like　that—you　wasnt　brought　up　that　way.　Me　and　your　father　went　to　trouble　to　get　you　and　Brother　to　church　every　Sunday.

BENEATHA:　Mama,　you　dont　understand.　Its　all　a　matter　of　ideas,　and　God　is　just　one　idea　I　dont　accept.　Its　not　important.　I　am　not　going　out　and　be　immoral　or　commit　crimes　because　I　dont　believe　in　God.　I　dont　even　think　about　it.　Its　just　that　I　get　tired　of　Him　getting　credit　for　all　the　things　the　human　race　achieves　through　its　own　stubborn　effort.　There　simply　is　no　blasted　God—there　is　only　man　and　it　is　he　who　makes　miracles!　(MAMA　absorbs　this　speech,　studies　her　daughter　and　rises　slowly　and　crosses　to　BENEATHA　and　slaps　her　powerfully　across　the　face.　After,　there　is　only　silence　and　the　daughter　drops　her　eyes　from　her　mothers　face,　and　MAMA　is　very　tall　before　her)

MAMA:　Now—you　say　after　me,　in　my　mothers　house　there　is　still　God.　(There　is　a　long　pause　and　BENEATHA　stares　at　the　floor　wordlessly.　MAMA　repeats　the　phrase　with　precision　and　cool　emotion)　In　my　mothers　house　there　is　still　God.

BENEATHA:　In　my　mothers　house　there　is　still　God.　(A　long　pause)

MAMA:　(Walking　away　from　BENEATHA,　too　disturbed　for　triumphant　posture.　Stopping　and　turning　back　to　her　daughter)　There　are　some　ideas　we　aint　going　to　have　in　this　house.　Not　long　as　I　am　at　the　head　of　this　family.

BENEATHA:　Yes,　maam.　(MAMA　walks　out　of　the　room)

RUTH:　(Almost　gently,　with　profound　understanding)　You　think　you　a　woman,　Bennie—but　you　still　a　little　girl.　What　you　did　was　childish—so　you　got　treated　like　a　child.

BENEATHA:　I　see.　(Quietly)　I　also　see　that　everybody　thinks　its　all　right　for　Mama　to　be　a　tyrant.　But　all　the　tyranny　in　the　world　will　never　put　a　God　in　the　heavens!　(She　picks　up　her　books　and　goes　out.　Pause)

RUTH:　(Goes　to　MAMAs　door)　She　said　she　was　sorry.

MAMA:　(Coming　out,　going　to　her　plant)　They　frightens　me,　Ruth.　My　children.

RUTH:　You　got　good　children,　Lena.　They　just　a　little　off　sometimes—but　theyre　good.

MAMA:　No—theres　something　come　down　between　me　and　them　that　dont　let　us　understand　each　other　and　I　dont　know　what　it　is.　One　done　almost　lost　his　mind　thinking　bout　money　all　the　time　and　the　other　done　commence　to　talk　about　things　I　cant　seem　to　understand　in　no　form　or　fashion.　What　is　it　thats　changing,　Ruth.

RUTH:　(Soothingly,　older　than　her　years)　Now...you　taking　it　all　too　seriously.　You　just　got　strongwilled　children　and　it　takes　a　strong　woman　like　you　to　keep　em　in　hand.

MAMA:　(Looking　at　her　plant　and　sprinkling　a　little　water　on　it)　They　spirited　all　right,　my　children.　Got　to　admit　they　got　spirit—Bennie　and　Walter.　Like　this　little　old　plant　that　aint　never　had　enough　sunshine　or　nothing—and　look　at　it...(She　has　her　back　to　RUTH,　who　has　had　to　stop　ironing　and　lean　against　something　and　put　the　back　of　her　hand　to　her　forehead)

RUTH:　(Trying　to　keep　MAMA　from　noticing)　You...sure...loves　that　little　old　thing,　dont　you?...

MAMA:　Well,　I　always　wanted　me　a　garden　like　I　used　to　see　sometimes　at　the　back　of　the　houses　down　home.　This　plant　is　close　as　I　ever　got　to　having　one.　(She　looks　out　of　the　window　as　she　replaces　the　plant)　Lord,　aint　nothing　as　dreary　as　the　view　from　this　window　on　a　dreary　day,　is　there?　Why　aint　you　singing　this　morning,　Ruth?　Sing　that　“No　Ways　Tired.”　That　song　always　lifts　me　up　so—(She　turns　at　last　to　see　that　RUTH　has　slipped　quietly　to　the　floor,　in　a　state　of　semiconsciousness)　Ruth!　Ruth　honey—whats　the　matter　with　you...Ruth!

Curtain

Questions　for　discussion

1.　Whats　the　big　conflict　in　the　play?

2.　Walter　Younger　wants　to　be　a　responsible　man　and　creates　a　better　future　for　his　family,　and　why　is　his　dream　deferred?

3.　Are　there　any　racial　or　gender　discriminations　represented　in　Act　I?

2.　Dutchman

作家簡介

當代著名非裔美國詩人阿米利·巴拉卡（Amiri　Baraka)（1934—2014）出生於紐瓦克黑人中產階級家庭，先後在拉特格斯大學與霍華德大學就讀，1954年獲得英語學士學位，畢業後曾在美國空軍服役，曾因向共產主義刊物投稿詩作被開除軍籍。他非常多產，除了詩歌創作之外，還發表了許多論文、短篇小說、音樂批評等，是與杜波伊斯、賴特、鮑德溫等齊名的20世紀美國重要作家與文化批評家。

巴拉卡早年住在紐約著名的格林威治村，是當時垮掉派藝術家中最具才華的黑人，他與白人猶太女性海蒂結婚，有兩個孩子。1960年，他受邀訪問古巴後，文藝思想與創作理念出現戲劇性的變化，他不再相信歐裔美國社會與文化，出版《布魯斯人民：白人美國的黑人音樂》（1963），創作了《奴隸》（1964）和《洗手間》（1964）等戲劇作品，但是真正奠定他劇作家地位，為他贏得廣泛讚譽的是他1963年在外百老彙上演的《荷蘭人》。劇中黑人男性柯雷與白人女子盧拉之間的關係，隱喻了當時美國社會與文化環境中白人對黑人的毀滅性傷害。著名非裔美國文學批評家特納（Darwin　T.　Turner）認為，這兩位人物之間的關係表明，美國黑人如果在智識方麵對白人形成威脅，就可能遭受柯雷這樣的滅頂之災；此劇同時也表明，如果美國黑人不直麵白人的壓迫，那麼他的夢想、追求隻會破滅。

在美國民權運動如火如荼的20世紀60年代，特別是馬爾科姆·艾克斯被暗殺之後，巴拉卡更加強調非裔美國文藝服務於黑人民族的功能，甚至不無極端地把文藝的宣傳功能提升到極致，創作出類似於“我們的詩歌應該能夠殺戮\/\/能夠暗殺\/\/詩歌能夠射殺\/\/詩歌是投槍”這樣的詩句。1968年，他與誌同道合者尼爾共同編輯了富有典型時代特征的美國黑人革命文學選集《黑人的怒火》。

離開紐約回到新澤西後，巴拉卡創立民族主義的泛非組織“非洲人民議會”，建立“精神之家”，加入“美國黑人政治學會”等機構，其劇作《警察》、《要麼武裝自己要麼傷害自己》直麵美國警察在城市黑人社區的殘暴行徑。為了表明自己的種族與文化立場，他與白人妻子海蒂離婚，與非裔美國女性塞維爾·羅賓遜結婚，把自己的名字由原來的瓊斯改為巴拉卡（Imamu　Amiri　Baraka），全身心地投入到黑人解放與黑人民族主義的鬥爭中去。1968—1975年間，巴拉卡成為當時最具影響的年輕激進分子。

後來因為對黑人穆斯林及黑人民族主義意識形態感到失望，巴拉卡轉而擁抱馬克思列寧主義，他對美國種族問題的思考更加成熟，藝術創作方麵也更為沉穩，獲得了多種榮譽，如古根海姆獎、福克納筆會獎、洛克菲勒戲劇獎、休斯獎等，並成為新澤西州的桂冠詩人。巴拉卡的文藝創作與批評極好地反映了20世紀60年代和70年代黑人民權運動及黑人權力運動時期非裔美國文學中的激進與偏頗，值得我們認真反思與分析。

作品簡介與賞析

1964年，《荷蘭人》在外百老彙上演，1967年被拍成電影，成為巴拉卡最受人關注的劇作，曾經獲得奧比獎。有趣的是，本劇的背景設在紐約地鐵上，舞台上重點呈現的是黑人男性柯雷與白人女性盧拉，並沒有出現什麼“荷蘭人”。有論者指出，本劇的標題讓人想起《飛翔的荷蘭人》中受到詛咒、重複自己旅程的幽靈船，巴拉卡仿佛以之暗示，非裔美國人，就像這艘傳說中的船，不僅在重複非洲黑人穿越大西洋中間航道的生死經曆，而且在重現美國黑人生活在奴隸製中的悲慘命運，因此極具象征意義。本劇中黑人男主人公柯雷遭遇白人女性盧拉誘惑，在地鐵車廂被盧拉刺殺身亡，預示著後續登台的黑人可能會遭遇同樣的誘惑與死亡命運，反映了黑人男性青年的悲慘宿命。

以黑人男性柯雷與白人女性盧拉為呈現對象的《荷蘭人》不僅再現了類型化的黑人男女，也通過對發生在美國南方特定曆史時期、針對黑人男性的私刑出現在北方城市紐約地鐵上的情景再現。使觀眾清楚地看到具有“自由主義”打扮，吃著蘋果的盧拉如何被柯雷“原始”的男性魅力打動，主動與其調情，卻在臨近演出結束時，輕巧地把一柄小刀插進柯雷的心髒，若無其事地等待下一個犧牲品的全過程。

巴拉卡通過此劇表明，在60年代民權運動如火如荼的美國，黑人在繼續尋找自己文化身份的過程中，更加清醒地認識到白人“自由主義”文化的“欺騙性”，那些貌似“左翼”，有時“甜言蜜語”的白人可能掩蓋了自己種族主義者的真麵目，他們雖然在言辭上同情黑人族群遭受的不公正待遇，但是幾乎始終保有居高臨下的主宰身份，不僅威脅著黑人的安全，而且腐蝕著黑人的心靈及其族群的文化。

令人欣慰的是，黑人男主人公柯雷雖然像許多悲劇英雄一樣，難以擺脫死亡的命運，但是在生命的最後瞬間，他意識到自己必須主宰自己的命運，不能受白人文化的擺布，必須跳出美國曆史的束縛，才能擺脫奴役，獲得自由。巴拉卡的《荷蘭人》極好地再現了美國轉型時期——由20世紀50年代的融合主義轉向60年代的分離主義——的曆史畫卷。

Characters

Clay,　twentyyearold　Negro

Lula,　thirtyyearold　white　woman

Riders　of　coach,　white　and　black

Young　negro

Conductor

In　the　flying　underbelly　of　the　city.　Steaming　hot,　and　summer　on　top,　outside.　Underground.　The　subway　heaped　in　modern　myth.

Opening　scene　is　a　man　sitting　in　a　subway　seat,　holding　a　magazine　but　looking　vacantly　just　above　its　wilting　pages.　Occasionally　he　looks　blankly　toward　the　window　on　his　right.　Dim　lights　and　darkness　whistling　by　against　the　glass.　(Or　paste　the　lights,　as　admitted　props,　right　on　the　subway　windows.　Have　them　move,　even　dim　and　flicker.　But　give　the　sense　of　speed.　Also　stations,　whether　the　train　is　stopped　or　the　glitter　and　activity　of　these　stations　merely　flashes　by　the　windows.)

The　man　is　sitting　alone.　That　is,　only　his　seat　is　visible,　though　the　rest　of　the　car　is　outfitted　as　a　complete　subway　car.　But　only　his　seat　is　shown.　There　might　be,　for　a　time,　as　the　play　begins,　a　loud　scream　of　the　actual　train.　And　it　can　recur　throughout　the　play,　or　continue　on　a　lower　key　once　the　dialogue　starts.

The　train　slows　after　a　time,　pulling　to　a　brief　stop　at　one　of　the　stations.　The　man　looks　idly　up,　until　he　sees　a　womans　face　staring　at　him　through　the　window;　when　it　realizes　that　the　man　has　noticed　the　face,　it　begins　very　premeditatedly　to　smile.　The　man　smiles　too,　for　a　moment,　without　a　trace　of　selfconsciousness.　Almost　an　instinctive　though　undesirable　response.　Then　a　kind　of　awkwardness　or　embarrassment　sets　in,　and　the　man　makes　to　look　away,　is　further　embarrassed,　so　he　brings　back　his　eyes　to　where　the　face　was,　but　by　now　the　train　is　moving　again,　and　the　face　would　seem　to　be　left　behind　by　the　way　the　man　turns　his　head　to　look　back　through　the　other　windows　at　the　slowly　fading　platform.　He　smiles　then;　more　comfortably　confident,　hoping　perhaps　that　his　memory　of　this　brief　encounter　will　be　pleasant.　And　then　he　is　idle　again.

Scene　1

Train　roars.　Lights　flash　outside　the　windows.

Lula　enters　from　the　rear　of　the　car　in　bright,　skimpy　summer　clothes　and　sandals.　She　carries　a　net　bag　full　of　paper　books,　fruit,　and　other　anonymous　articles.　She　is　wearing　sunglasses,　which　she　pushes　up　on　her　forehead　from　time　to　time.　Lula　is　a　tall,　slender,　beautiful　woman　with　long　red　hair　hanging　straight　down　her　back,　wearing　only　loud　lipstick　in　somebodys　good　taste.　She　is　eating　an　apple,　very　daintily.　Coming　down　the　car　toward　Clay.　She　stops　beside　Clays　seat　and　hangs　languidly　from　the　strap,　still　managing　to　eat　the　apple.　It　is　apparent　that　she　is　going　to　sit　in　the　seat　next　to　Clay,　and　that　she　is　only　waiting　for　him　to　notice　her　before　she　sits.

Clay　sits　as　before,　looking　just　beyond　his　magazine,　now　and　again　pulling　the　magazine　slowly　back　and　forth　in　front　of　his　face　in　a　hopeless　effort　to　fan　himself.　Then　he　sees　the　woman　hanging　there　beside　him　and　he　looks　up　into　her　face,　smiling　quizzically.

Lula:　Hello.

Clay:　Uh,　hire　you?

Lula:　Im　going　to　sit　down....O.　K.?

Clay:　Sure.

Lula:　[Swings　down　onto　the　seat,　pushing　her　legs　straight　out　as　if　she　is　very　weary]　Oooof!　Too　much　weight.

Clay:　Ha,　doesnt　look　like　much　to　me.　[Leaning　back　against　the　window,　a　little　surprised　and　maybe　stiff]

Lula:　Its　so　anyway.　[And　she　moves　her　toes　in　the　sandals,　then　pulls　her　right　leg　up　on　the　left　knee,　better　to　inspect　the　bottoms　of　the　sandals　and　the　back　of　her　heel.　She　appears　for　a　second　not　to　notice　that　Clay　is　sitting　next　to　her　or　that　she　has　spoken　to　him　just　a　second　before.　Clay　looks　at　the　magazine,　then　out　the　black　window.　As　he　does　this,　she　turns　very　quickly　toward　him]　Werent　you　staring　at　me　through　the　window?

Clay:　[Wheeling　around　and　very　much　stiffened]　What?

Lula:　Werent　you　staring　at　me　through　the　window?　At　the　last　stop?

Clay:　Staring　at　you?　What　do　you　mean?

Lula:　Dont　you　know　what　staring　means?

Clay:　I　saw　you　through　the　window...if　thats　what　it　means.　I　dont　know　if　I　was　staring.　Seems　to　me　you　were　staring　through　the　window　at　me.

Lula:　I　was.　But　only　after　Id　turned　around　and　saw　you　staring　through　that　window　down　in　the　vicinity　of　my　ass　and　legs.

Clay:　Really?

Lula:　Really.　I　guess　you　were　just　taking　those　idle　potshots.　Nothing　else　to　do.　Run　your　mind　over　peoples　flesh.

Clay:　Oh　boy.　Wow,　now　I　admit　I　was　looking　in　your　direction.　But　the　rest　of　that　weight　is　yours.

本劇這種“顛倒黑白”的處理方式顛覆了傳統（非裔）美國文學中白人男性騷擾\/侵害黑人女性的性別關係，而居主宰地位的“種族”關係依然繼續在此發揮作用。但是，黑人男性柯雷直接點出白人女性“欲加之罪何患無辭”的潛台詞，既預示著美國黑人名義上的進步，也表明依然處於受壓迫狀態的黑人的無奈。

Lula:　I　suppose.

Clay:　Staring　through　train　windows　is　weird　business.　Much　weirder　than　staring　very　sedately　at　abstract　asses.

Lula:　Thats　why　I　came　looking　through　the　window...so　youd　have　more　than　that　to　go　on.　I　even　smiled　at　you.

Clay:　Thats　right.

Lula:　I　even　got　into　this　train,　going　some　other　way　than　mine.　Walked　down　the　aisle...searching　you　out.

Clay:　Really?　Thats　pretty　funny.

Lula:　Thats　pretty　funny....God,　youre　dull.

Clay:　Well,　Im　sorry,　lady,　but　I　really　wasnt　prepared　for　party　talk.

Lula:　No,　youre　not.　What　are　you　prepared　for?　[Wrapping　the　apple　core　in　a　Kleenex　and　dropping　it　on　the　floor]

Clay:　[Takes　her　conversation　as　pure　sex　talk.　He　turns　to　confront　her　squarely　with　this　idea]　Im　prepared　for　anything.　How　about　you?

Lula:　[Laughing　loudly　and　cutting　it　off　abruptly]　What　do　you　think　youre　doing?

Clay:　What?

Lula:　You　think　I　want　to　pick　you　up,　get　you　to　take　me　somewhere　and　screw　me,　huh?

Clay:　Is　that　the　way　I　look?

Lula:　You　look　like　you　been　trying　to　grow　a　beard.　Thats　exactly　what　you　look　like.　You　look　like　you　live　in　New　Jersey　with　your　parents　and　are　trying　to　grow　a　beard.　Thats　what.　You　look　like　youve　been　reading　Chinese　poetry　and　drinking　lukewarm　sugarless　tea.　[Laughs,　uncrossing　and　recrossing　her　legs]　You　look　like　death　eating　a　soda　cracker.

Clay:　[Cocking　his　head　from　one　side　to　the　other,　embarrassed　and　trying　to　make　some　comeback,　but　also　intrigued　by　what　the　woman　is　saying...even　the　sharp　city　coarseness　of　her　voice,　which　is　still　a　kind　of　gentle　sidewalk　throb]　Really?　I　look　like　all　that?

Lula:　Not　all　of　it.　[She　feints　a　seriousness　to　cover　an　actual　somber　tone]　I　lie　a　lot.　[Smiling]　It　helps　me　control　the　world.

Clay:　[Relieved　and　laughing　louder　than　the　humor]　Yeah,　I　bet.

Lula:　But　its　true,　most　of　it,　right?　Jersey?　Your　bumpy　neck?

Clay:　Howd　you　know　all　that?　Huh?　Really,　I　mean　about　Jersey...and　even　the　beard.　I　met　you　before?　You　know　Warren　Enright?

Lula:　You　tried　to　make　it　with　your　sister　when　you　were　ten.　[Clay　leans　back　hard　against　the　back　of　the　seat,　his　eyes　opening　now,　still　trying　to　look　amused]　But　I　succeeded　a　few　weeks　ago.　[She　starts　to　laugh　again]

Clay:　Whatre　you　talking　about?　Warren　tell　you　that?　Youre　a　friend　of　Georgias?

Lula:　I　told　you　I　lie.　I　dont　know　your　sister.　I　dont　know　Warren　Enright.

Clay:　You　mean　youre　just　picking　these　things　out　of　the　air?

Lula:　Is　Warren　Enright　a　tall　skinny　black　black　boy　with　a　phony　English　accent?

Clay:　I　figured　you　knew　him.

Lula:　But　I　dont.　I　just　figured　you　would　know　somebody　like　that.　[Laughs]

Clay:　Yeah,　yeah.

Lula:　Youre　probably　on　your　way　to　his　house　now.

Clay:　Thats　right.

Lula:　[Putting　her　hand　on　Clays　closest　knee,　drawing　it　from　the　knee　up　to　the　thighs　hinge,　then　removing　it,　watching　his　face　very　closely,　and　continuing　to　laugh,　perhaps　more　gently　than　before]　Dull,　dull,　dull.　I　bet　you　think　Im　exciting.

Clay:　Youre　O.　K.

Lula:　Am　I　exciting　you　now?

Clay:　Right.　Thats　not　whats　supposed　to　happen?

Lula:　How　do　I　know?　[She　returns　her　hand,　without　moving　it,　then　takes　it　away　and　plunges　it　in　her　bag　to　draw　out　an　apple]　You　want　this?

Clay:　Sure.

Lula:　[She　gets　one　out　of　the　bag　for　herself]　Eating　apples　together　is　always　the　first　step.　Or　walking　up　uninhabited　Seventh　Avenue　in　the　twenties　on　weekends.　[Bites　and　giggles,　glancing　at　Clay　and　speaking　in　loose　singsong]　Can　get　you　involved...boy!　Get　us　involved.　Umhuh.　[Mock　seriousness]　Would　you　like　to　get　involved　with　me,　Mister　Man?

Clay:　[Trying　to　be　as　flippant　as　Lula,　whacking　happily　at　the　apple]　Sure.　Why　not?　A　beautiful　woman　like　you.　Huh,　Id　be　a　fool　not　to.

Lula:　And　I　bet　youre　sure　you　know　what　youre　talking　about.　[Taking　him　a　little　roughly　by　the　wrist,　so　he　cannot　eat　the　apple,　then　shaking　the　wrist]　I　bet　youre　sure　of　almost　everything　anybody　ever　asked　you　about...right?　[Shakes　his　wrist　harder]　Right?

Clay:　Yeah,　right....Wow,　youre　pretty　strong,　you　know?　Whatta　you,　a　lady　wrestler　or　something?

Lula:　Whats　wrong　with　lady　wrestlers?　And　dont　answer　because　you　never　knew　any.　Huh.　[Cynically]　Thats　for　sure.　They　dont　have　any　lady　wrestlers　in　that　part　of　Jersey.　Thats　for　sure.

Clay:　Hey,　you　still　havent　told　me　how　you　know　so　much　about　me.

Lula:　I　told　you　I　didnt　know　anything　about　you...youre　a　wellknown　type.

Clay:　Really?

Lula:　Or　at　least　I　know　the　type　very　well.　And　your　skinny　English　friend　too.

Clay:　Anonymously?

Lula:　[Settles　back　in　seat,　singlemindedly　finishing　her　apple　and　humming　snatches　of　rhythm　and　blues　song]　What?

Clay:　Without　knowing　us　specifically?

Lula:　Oh　boy.　[Looking　quickly　at　Clay]　What　a　face.　You　know,　you　could　be　a　handsome　man.

Clay:　I　cant　argue　with　you.

Lula:　[Vague,　offcenter　response]　What?

Clay:　[Raising　his　voice,　thinking　the　train　noise　has　drowned　part　of　his　sentence]　I　cant　argue　with　you.

Lula:　My　hair　is　turning　gray.　A　gray　hair　for　each　year　and　type　Ive　come　through.

Clay:　Why　do　you　want　to　sound　so　old?

Lula:　But　its　always　gentle　when　it　starts.　[Attention　drifting]　Hugged　against　tenements,　day　or　night.

Clay:　What?

Lula:　[Refocusing]　Hey,　why　dont　you　take　me　to　that　party　youre　going　to?

Clay:　You　must　be　a　friend　of　Warrens　to　know　about　the　party.

Lula:　Wouldnt　you　like　to　take　me　to　the　party?　[Imitates　clinging　vine]　Oh,　come　on,　ask　me　to　your　party.

Clay:　Of　course　Ill　ask　you　to　come　with　me　to　the　party.　And　Ill　bet　youre　a　friend　of　Warrens.

Lula:　Why　not　be　a　friend　of　Warrens?　Why　not?　[Taking　his　arm]　Have　you　asked　me　yet?

Clay:　How　can　I　ask　you　when　I　dont　know　your　name?

Lula:　Are　you　talking　to　my　name?

Clay:　What　is　it,　a　secret?

Lula:　Im　Lena　the　Hyena.

Clay:　The　famous　woman　poet?

Lula:　Poetess!　The　same!

Clay:　Well,　you　know　so　much　about　me...whats　my　name?

Lula:　Morris　the　Hyena.

Clay:　The　famous　woman　poet?

Lula:　The　same.　[Laughing　and　going　into　her　bag]　You　want　another　apple?

Clay:　Cant　make　it,　lady.　I　only　have　to　keep　one　doctor　away　a　day.

Lula:　I　bet　your　name　is...something　like...uh,　Gerald　or　Walter.　Huh?

Clay:　God,　no.

Lula:　Lloyd,　Norman?　One　of　those　hopeless　colored　names　creeping　out　of　New　Jersey.　Leonard?　Gag....

Clay:　Like　Warren?

Lula:　Definitely.　Just　exactly　like　Warren.　Or　Everett.

Clay:　Gag....

Lula:　Well,　for　sure,　its　not　Willie.

Clay:　Its　Clay.

Lula:　Clay?　Really?　Clay　what?

Clay:　Take　your　pick.　Jackson,　Johnson,　or　Williams.

Lula:　Oh,　really?　Good　for　you.　But　its　got　to　be　Williams.　Youre　too　pretentious　to　be　a　Jackson　or　Johnson.

Clay:　Thats　right.

Lula:　But　Clays　O.　K.

Clay:　Sos　Lena.

Lula:　Its　Lula.

Clay:　Oh?

Lula:　Lula　the　Hyena.

Clay:　Very　good.

Lula:　[Starts　laughing　again]　Now　you　say　to　me,　“Lula,　Lula,　why　dont　you　go　to　this　party　with　me　tonight?”　Its　your　turn,　and　let　those　be　your　lines.

Clay:　Lula,　why　dont　you　go　to　this　party　with　me　tonight,　Huh?

Lula:　Say　my　name　twice　before　you　ask,　and　no　huhs.

Clay:　Lula,　Lula,　why　dont　you　go　to　this　party　with　me　tonight?

Lula:　Id　like　to　go,　Clay,　but　how　can　you　ask　me　to　go　when　you　barely　know　me?

Clay:　That　is　strange,　isnt　it?

Lula:　What　kind　of　reaction　is　that?　Youre　supposed　to　say,　“Aw,　come　on,　well　get　to　know　each　other　better　at　the　party.”

Clay:　Thats　pretty　corny.

Lula:　What　are　you　into　anyway?　[Looking　at　him　half　sullenly　but　still　amused]　What　thing　are　you　playing　at,　Mister?　Mister　Clay　Williams?　[Grabs　his　thigh,　up　near　the　crotch]　What　are　you　thinking　about?

Clay:　Watch　it　now,　youre　gonna　excite　me　for　real.

Lula:　[Taking　her　hand　away　and　throwing　her　apple　core　through　the　window]　I　bet.　[She　slumps　in　the　seat　and　is　heavily　silent]

Clay:　I　thought　you　knew　everything　about　me?　What　happened?　[Lula　looks　at　him,　then　looks　slowly　away,　then　over　where　the　other　aisle　would　be.　Noise　of　the　train.　She　reaches　in　her　bag　and　pulls　out　one　of　the　paper　books.　She　puts　it　on　her　leg　and　thumbs　the　pages　listlessly.　Clay　cocks　his　head　to　see　the　title　of　the　book.　Noise　of　the　train.　Lula　flips　pages　and　her　eyes　drift.　Both　remain　silent]　Are　you　going　to　the　party　with　me,　Lula?

Lula:　[Bored　and　not　even　looking]　I　dont　even　know　you.

Clay:　You　said　you　know　my　type.

Lula:　[Strangely　irritated]　Dont　get　smart　with　me,　Buster.　I　know　you　like　the　palm　of　my　hand.

Clay:　The　one　you　eat　the　apples　with?

Lula:　Yeh.　And　the　one　I　open　doors　late　Saturday　evening　with.　Thats　my　door.　Up　at　the　top　of　the　stairs.　Five　flights.　Above　a　lot　of　Italians　and　lying　Americans.　And　scrape　carrots　with.　Also...[Looks　at　him]　the　same　hand　I　unbutton　my　dress　with,　or　let　my　skirt　fall　down.　Same　hand.　Lover.

Clay:　Are　you　angry　about　anything?　Did　I　say　something　wrong?

Lula:　Everything　you　say　is　wrong.　[Mock　smile]　Thats　what　makes　you　so　attractive.　Ha.　In　that　funnybook　jacket　with　all　the　buttons.　[More　animate,　taking　hold　of　his　jacket]　Whatve　you　got　that　jacket　and　tie　on　in　all　this　heat　for?　And　whyre　you　wearing　a　jacket　and　tie　like　that?　Did　your　people　ever　burn　witches　or　start　revolutions　over　the　price　of　tea?　Boy,　those　narrowshoulder　clothes　come　from　a　tradition　you　ought　to　feel　oppressed　by.　A　threebutton　suit.　What　right　do　you　have　to　be　wearing　a　threebutton　suit　and　striped　tie?　Your　grandfather　was　a　slave,　he　didnt　go　to　Harvard.

Clay:　My　grandfather　was　a　night　watchman.

Lula:　And　you　went　to　a　colored　college　where　everybody　thought　they　were　Averell　Harriman.

Clay:　All　except　me.

Lula:　And　who　did　you　think　you　were?　Who　do　you　think　you　are　now?

Clay:　[Laughs　as　if　to　make　light　of　the　whole　trend　of　the　conversation]　Well,　in　college　I　thought　I　was　Baudelaire.　But　Ive　slowed　down　since.

Lula:　I　bet　you　never　once　thought　you　were　a　black　nigger.　[Mock　serious,　then　she　howls　with　laughter.　Clay　is　stunned　but　after　initial　reaction,　he　quickly　tries　to　appreciate　the　humor.　Lula　almost　shrieks]　A　black　Baudelaire.

Clay:　Thats　right.

Lula:　Boy,　are　you　corny.　I　take　back　what　I　said　before.　Everything　you　say　is　not　wrong.　Its　perfect.　You　should　be　on　television.

Clay:　You　act　like　youre　on　television　already.

Lula:　Thats　because　Im　an　actress.

Clay:　I　thought　so.

Lula:　Well,　youre　wrong.　Im　no　actress.　I　told　you　I　always　lie.　Im　nothing,　honey,　and　dont　you　ever　forget　it.　[Lighter]　Although　my　mother　was　a　Communist.　The　only　person　in　my　family　ever　to　amount　to　anything.

Clay:　My　mother　was　a　Republican.

Lula:　And　your　father　voted　for　the　man　rather　than　the　party.

Clay:　Right!

Lula:　Yea　for　him.　Yea,　yea　for　him.

Clay:　Yea!

Lula:　And　yea　for　America　where　he　is　free　to　vote　for　the　mediocrity　of　his　choice!　Yea!

Clay:　Yea!

Lula:　And　yea　for　both　your　parents　who　even　though　they　differ　about　so　crucial　a　matter　as　the　body　politic　still　forged　a　union　of　love　and　sacrifice　that　was　destined　to　flower　at　the　birth　of　the　noble　Clay...whats　your　middle　name?

Clay:　Clay.

Lula:　A　union　of　love　and　sacrifice　that　was　destined　to　flower　at　the　birth　of　the　noble　Clay　Clay　Williams.　Yea!　And　most　of　all　yea　yea　for　you,　Clay　Clay.　The　Black　Baudelaire!　Yes!　[And　with　knifelike　cynicism]　My　Christ.　My　Christ.

Clay:　Thank　you,　maam.

Lula:　May　the　people　accept　you　as　a　ghost　of　the　future.　And　love　you,　that　you　might　not　kill　them　when　you　can.

Clay:　What?

Lula:　Youre　a　murderer,　Clay,　and　you　know　it.　[Her　voice　darkening　with　significance]　You　know　goddamn　well　what　I　mean.

Clay:　I　do?

Lula:　So　well　pretend　the　air　is　light　and　full　of　perfume.

Clay:　[Sniffing　at　her　blouse]　It　is.

Lula:　And　well　pretend　the　people　cannot　see　you.　That　is,　the　citizens.　And　that　you　are　free　of　your　own　history.　And　I　am　free　of　my　history.　Well　pretend　that　we　are　both　anonymous　beauties　smashing　along　through　the　citys　entrails.　[She　yells　as　loud　as　she　can]　GROOVE!

Scene　2

Scene　is　the　same　as　before,　though　now　there　are　other　seats　visible　in　the　car.　And　throughout　the　scene　other　people　get　on　the　subway.　There　are　maybe　one　or　two　seated　in　the　car　as　the　scene　opens,　though　neither　Clay　nor　Lula　notices　them.　Clays　tie　is　open.　Lula　is　hugging　his　arm.

Clay:　The　party!

Lula:　I　know　itll　be　something　good.　You　can　come　in　with　me,　looking　casual　and　significant.　Ill　be　strange,　haughty,　and　silent,　and　walk　with　long　slow　strides.

Clay:　Right.

Lula:　When　you　get　drunk,　pat　me　once,　very　lovingly　on　the　flanks,　and　Ill　look　at　you　cryptically,　licking　my　lips.

Clay:　It　sounds　like　something　we　can　do.

Lula:　Youll　go　around　talking　to　young　men　about　your　mind,　and　to　old　men　about　your　plans.　If　you　meet　a　very　close　friend　who　is　also　with　someone　like　me,　we　can　stand　together,　sipping　our　drinks　and　exchanging　codes　of　lust.　The　atmosphere　will　be　slithering　in　love　and　halflove　and　very　open　moral　decision.

Clay:　Great.　Great.

Lula:　And　everyone　will　pretend　they　dont　know　your　name,　and　then...[She　pauses　heavily]　later,　when　they　have　to,　theyll　claim　a　friendship　that　denies　your　sterling　character.

Clay:　[Kissing　her　neck　and　fingers]　And　then　what?

Lula:　Then?　Well,　then　well　go　down　the　street,　late　night,　eating　apples　and　winding　very　deliberately　toward　my　house.

Clay:　Deliberately?

Lula:　I　mean,　well　look　in　all　the　shop　windows,　and　make　fun　of　the　queers.　Maybe　well　meet　a　Jewish　Buddhist　and　flatten　his　conceits　over　some　very　pretentious　coffee.

Clay:　In　honor　of　whose　God?

Lula:　Mine.

Clay:　Who　is...?

Lula:　Me...and　you?

Clay:　A　corporate　Godhead.

Lula:　Exactly.　Exactly.　[Notices　one　of　the　other　people　entering]

Clay:　Go　on　with　the　chronicle.　Then　what　happens　to　us?

Lula:　[A　mild　depression,　but　she　still　makes　her　description　triumphant　and　increasingly　direct]　To　my　house,　of　course.

Clay:　Of　course.

Lula:　And　up　the　narrow　steps　of　the　tenement.

Clay:　You　live　in　a　tenement?

Lula:　Wouldnt　live　anywhere　else.　Reminds　me　specifically　of　my　novel　form　of　insanity.

Clay:　Up　the　tenement　stairs.

Lula:　And　with　my　appleeating　hand　I　push　open　the　door　and　lead　you,　my　tender　bigeyed　prey,　into　my...God,　what　can　I　call　it...into　my　hovel.

Clay:　Then　what　happens?

Lula:　After　the　dancing　and　games,　after　the　long　drinks　and　long　walks,　the　real　fun　begins.

Clay:　Ah,　the　real　fun.　[Embarrassed,　in　spite　of　himself]　Which　is...?

Lula:　[Laughs　at　him]　Real　fun　in　the　dark　house.　Hah!　Real　fun　in　the　dark　house,　high　up　above　the　street　and　the　ignorant　cowboys.　I　lead　you　in,　holding　your　wet　hand　gently　in　my　hand...

Clay:　Which　is　not　wet?

Lula:　Which　is　dry　as　ashes.

Clay:　And　cold?

Lula:　Dont　think　youll　get　out　of　your　responsibility　that　way.　Its　not　cold　at　all.　You　Fascist!　Into　my　dark　living　room.　Where　well　sit　and　talk　endlessly,　endlessly.

Clay:　About　what?

Lula:　About　what?　About　your　manhood,　what　do　you　think?　What　do　you　think　weve　been　talking　about　all　this　time?

Clay:　Well,　I　didnt　know　it　was　that.　Thats　for　sure.　Every　other　thing　in　the　world　but　that.　[Notices　another　person　entering,　looks　quickly,　almost　involuntarily　up　and　down　the　car,　seeing　the　other　people　in　the　car]　Hey,　I　didnt　even　notice　when　those　people　got　on.

Lula:　Yeah,　I　know.

Clay:　Man,　this　subway　is　slow.

Lula:　Yeah,　I　know.

Clay:　Well,　go　on.　We　were　talking　about　my　manhood.

Lula:　We　still　are.　All　the　time.

Clay:　We　were　in　your　living　room.

Lula:　My　dark　living　room.　Talking　endlessly.

Clay:　About　my　manhood.

Lula:　Ill　make　you　a　map　of　it.　Just　as　soon　as　we　get　to　my　house.

Clay:　Well,　thats　great.

Lula:　One　of　the　things　we　do　while　we　talk.　And　screw.

Clay:　[Trying　to　make　his　smile　broader　and　less　shaky]　We　finally　got　there.

Lula:　And　youll　call　my　rooms　black　as　a　grave.　Youll　say,　“This　place　is　like　Juliets　tomb.”

Clay:　[Laughs]　I　might.

Lula:　I　know.　Youve　probably　said　it　before.

Clay:　And　is　that　all?　The　whole　grand　tour?

Lula:　Not　all.　Youll　say　to　me　very　close　to　my　face,　many,　many　times,　youll　say,　even　whisper,　that　you　love　me.

Clay:　Maybe　I　will.

Lula:　And　youll　be　lying.

Clay:　I　wouldnt　lie　about　something　like　that.

Lula:　Hah.　Its　the　only　kind　of　thing　you　will　lie　about.　Especially　if　you　think　itll　keep　me　alive.

Clay:　Keep　you　alive?　I　dont　understand.

Lula:　[Bursting　out　laughing,　but　too　shrilly]　Dont　understand?　Well,　dont　look　at　me.　Its　the　path　I　take,　thats　all.　Where　both　feet　take　me　when　I　set　them　down.　One　in　front　of　the　other.

Clay:　Morbid.　Morbid.　You　sure　youre　not　an　actress?　All　that　selfaggrandizement.

Lula:　Well,　I　told　you　I　wasnt　an　actress...but　I　also　told　you　I　lie　all　the　time.　Draw　your　own　conclusions.

Clay:　Morbid.　Morbid.　You　sure　youre　not　an　actress?　All　scribed?　Theres　no　more?

Lula:　Ive　told　you　all　I　know.　Or　almost　all.

Clay:　Theres　no　funny　parts?

Lula:　I　thought　it　was　all　funny.

Clay:　But　you　mean　peculiar,　not　haha.

Lula:　You　dont　know　what　I　mean.

Clay:　Well,　tell　me　the　almost　part　then.　You　said　almost　all.　What　else?　I　want　the　whole　story.

Lula:　[Searching　aimlessly　through　her　bag.　She　begins　to　talk　breathlessly,　with　a　light　and　silly　tone]　All　stories　are　whole　stories.　All　of　em.　Our　whole　story...nothing　but　change.　How　could　things　go　on　like　that　forever?　Huh?　[Slaps　him　on　the　shoulder,　begins　finding　things　in　her　bag,　taking　them　out　and　throwing　them　over　her　shoulder　into　the　aisle]　Except　I　do　go　on　as　I　do.　Apples　and　long　walks　with　deathless　intelligent　lovers.　But　you　mix　it　up.　Look　out　the　window,　all　the　time.　Turning　pages.　Change　change　change.　Till,　shit,　I　dont　know　you.　Wouldnt,　for　that　matter.　Youre　too　serious.　I　bet　youre　even　too　serious　to　be　psychoanalyzed.　Like　all　those　Jewish　poets　from　Yonkers,　who　leave　their　mothers　looking　for　other　mothers,　or　others　mothers,　on　whose　baggy　tits　they　lay　their　fumbling　heads.　Their　poems　are　always　funny,　and　all　about　sex.

Clay:　They　sound　great.　Like　movies.

Lula:　But　you　change.　[Blankly]　And　things　work　on　you　till　you　hate　them.　[More　people　come　into　the　train.　They　come　closer　to　the　couple,　some　of　them　not　sitting,　but　swinging　drearily　on　the　straps,　staring　at　the　two　with　uncertain　interest]

Clay:　Wow.　All　these　people,　so　suddenly.　They　must　all　come　from　the　same　place.

Lula:　Right.　That　they　do.

Clay:　Oh?　You　know　about　them　too?

Lula:　Oh　yeah.　About　them　more　than　I　know　about　you.　Do　they　frighten　you?

Clay:　Frighten　me?　Why　should　they　frighten　me?

Lula:　Cause　youre　an　escaped　nigger.

Clay:　Yeah?

Lula:　Cause　you　crawled　through　the　wire　and　made　tracks　to　my　side.

Clay:　Wire?

Lula:　Dont　they　have　wire　around　plantations?

Clay:　You　must　be　Jewish.　All　you　can　think　about　is　wire.　Plantations　didnt　have　any　wire.　Plantations　were　big　open　whitewashed　places　like　heaven,　and　everybody　on　em　was　grooved　to　be　there.　Just　strummin　and　hummin　all　day.

Lula:　Yes,　yes.

Clay:　And　thats　how　the　blues　was　born.

Lula:　Yes,　yes.　And　thats　how　the　blues　was　born.　[Begins　to　make　up　a　song　that　becomes　quickly　hysterical.　As　she　sings　she　rises　from　her　seat,　still　throwing　things　out　of　her　bag　into　the　aisle,　beginning　a　rhythmical　shudder　and　twistlike　wiggle,　which　she　continues　up　and　down　the　aisle,　bumping　into　many　of　the　standing　people　and　tripping　over　the　feet　of　those　sitting.　Each　time　she　runs　into　a　person　she　lets　out　a　very　vicious　piece　of　profanity,　wiggling　and　stepping　all　the　time]　And　thats　how　the　blues　was　born.　Yes.　Yes.　Son　of　a　bitch,　get　out　of　the　way.　Yes.　Quack.　Yes.　Yes.　And　thats　how　the　blues　was　born.　Ten　little　niggers　sitting　on　a　limb,　but　none　of　them　ever　looked　like　him.　[Points　to　Clay,　returns　toward　the　seat,　with　her　hands　extended　for　him　to　rise　and　dance　with　her]　And　thats　how　blues　was　born.　Yes.　Come　on,　Clay.　Lets　do　the　nasty.　Rub　bellies.　Rub　bellies.

Clay:　[Waves　his　hands　to　refuse.　He　is　embarrassed,　but　determined　to　get　a　kick　out　of　the　proceedings]　Hey,　what　was　in　those　apples?　Mirror,　mirror　on　the　wall,　whos　the　fairest　one　of　all?　Snow　White,　baby,　and　dont　you　forget　it.

Lula:　[Grabbing　for　his　hands,　which　he　draws　away]　Come　on,　Clay.　Lets　rub　bellies　on　the　train.　The　nasty.　The　nasty.　Do　the　gritty　grind,　like　your　ol　raghead　mammy.　Grind　till　you　lose　your　mind.　Shake　it,　shake　it,　shake　it,　shake　it!　OOOOweeee!　Come　on,　Clay.　Lets　do　the　choochoo　train　shuffle,　the　navel　scratcher.

Clay:　Hey,　you　coming　on　like　the　lady　who　smoked　up　her　grass　skirt.

Lula:　[Becoming　annoyed　that　he　will　not　dance,　and　becoming　more　animated　as　if　to　embarrass　him　still　further]　Come　on,　Clay...lets　do　the　thing.　Uhh!　Uhh!　Clay!　Clay!　You　middleclass　black　bastard.　Forget　your　socialworking　mother　for　a　few　seconds　and　lets　knock　stomachs.　Clay,　you　liverlipped　white　man.　You　wouldbe　Christian.　You　aint　no　nigger,　youre　just　a　dirty　white　man.　Get　up,　Clay.　Dance　with　me,　Clay.

Clay:　Lula!　Sit　down,　now.　Be　cool.

Lula:　[Mocking　him,　in　wild　dance]　Be　cool.　Be　cool.　Thats　all　you　know...shaking　that　wildroot　creamoil　on　your　knotty　head,　jackets　buttoning　up　to　your　chin,　so　full　of　white　mans　words.　Christ.　God.　Get　up　and　scream　at　these　people.　Like　scream　meaningless　shit　in　these　hopeless　faces.　[She　screams　at　people　in　train,　still　dancing]　Red　trains　cough　Jewish　underwear　for　keeps!　Expanding　smells　of　silence.　Gravy　snot　whistling　like　sea　birds.　Clay.　Clay,　you　got　to　break　out.　Dont　sit　there　dying　the　way　they　want　you　to　die.　Get　up.

Clay:　Oh,　sit　the　fuck　down.　[He　moves　to　restrain　her]　Sit　down,　goddamn　it.

Lula:　[Twisting　out　of　his　reach]　Screw　yourself,　Uncle　Tom.　Thomas　Woollyhead.　[Begins　to　dance　a　kind　of　jig,　mocking　Clay　with　loud　forced　humor]　There　is　Uncle　Tom...I　mean,　Uncle　Thomas　WoollyHead.　With　old　white　matted　mane.　He　hobbles　on　his　wooden　cane.　Old　Tom.　Old　Tom.　Let　the　white　man　hump　his　ol　mama,　and　he　jes　shuffle　off　in　the　woods　and　hide　his　gentle　gray　head.　Ol　Thomas　WoollyHead.　[Some　of　the　other　riders　are　laughing　now.　A　drunk　gets　up　and　joins　Lula　in　her　dance,　singing,　as　best　he　can,　her　“song.”　Clay　gets　up　out　of　his　seat　and　visibly　scans　the　faces　of　the　other　riders]

Clay:　Lula!　Lula!　[She　is　dancing　and　turning,　still　shouting　as　loud　as　she　can.　The　drunk　too　is　shouting,　and　waving　his　hands　wildly]　Lula...you　dumb　bitch.　Why　dont　you　stop　it?　[He　rushes　half　stumbling　from　his　seat,　and　grabs　one　of　her　flailing　arms]

Lula:　Let　me　go!　You　black　son　of　a　bitch.　[She　struggles　against　him]　Let　me　go!　Help!　[Clay　is　dragging　her　towards　her　seat,　and　the　drunk　seeks　to　interfere.　He　grabs　Clay　around　the　shoulders　and　begins　wrestling　with　him.　Clay　clubs　the　drunk　to　the　floor　without　releasing　Lula,　who　is　still　screaming.　Clay　finally　gets　her　to　the　seat　and　throws　her　into　it]

Clay:　Now　you　shut　the　hell　up.　[Grabbing　her　shoulders]　Just　shut　up.　You　dont　know　what　youre　talking　about.　You　dont　know　anything.　So　just　keep　your　stupid　mouth　closed.

Lula:　Youre　afraid　of　white　people.　And　your　father　was.　Uncle　Tom　Big　Lip!

Clay:　[Slaps　her　as　hard　as　he　can,　across　the　mouth.　Lulas　head　bangs　against　the　back　of　the　seat.　When　she　raises　it　again,　Clay　slaps　her　again]　Now　shut　up　and　let　me　talk.　[He　turns　toward　the　other　riders,　some　of　whom　are　sitting　on　the　edge　of　their　seats.　The　drunk　is　on　one　knee,　rubbing　his　head,　and　singing　softly　the　same　song.　He　shuts　up　too　when　he　sees　Clay　watching　him.　The　others　go　back　to　newspapers　or　stare　out　the　windows]　Shit,　you　dont　have　any　sense,　Lula,　nor　feelings　either.　I　could　murder　you　now.　Such　a　tiny　ugly　throat.　I　could　squeeze　it　flat,　and　watch　you　turn　blue,　on　a　humble.　For　dull　kicks.　And　all　these　weakfaced　ofays　squatting　around　here,　staring　over　their　papers　at　me.　Murder　them　too.　Even　if　they　expected　it.　That　man　there...[Points　to　welldressed　man]　I　could　rip　that　Times　right　out　of　his　hand,　as　skinny　and　middleclassed　as　I　am,　I　could　rip　that　paper　out　of　his　hand　and　just　as　easily　rip　out　his　throat.　It　takes　no　great　effort.　For　what?　To　kill　you　soft　idiots?　You　dont　understand　anything　but　luxury.

Lula:　You　fool!

Clay:　[Pushing　her　against　the　seat]　Im　not　telling　you　again,　Tallulah　Bankhead!　Luxury.　In　your　face　and　your　fingers.　You　telling　me　what　I　ought　to　do.　[Sudden　scream　frightening　the　whole　coach]　Well,　dont!　Dont　you　tell　me　anything!　If　Im　a　middleclass　fake　white　man...let　me　be.　And　let　me　be　in　the　way　I　want.　[Through　his　teeth]　Ill　rip　your　lousy　breasts　off!　Let　me　be　who　I　feel　like　being.　Uncle　Tom.

湯姆叔叔是斯托夫人的小說《湯姆叔叔的小屋》中善良、溫順、虔敬上帝、忠誠於奴隸主人的黑人男性，是不敢直接反抗奴隸主\/白人的懦弱形象的代表。Thomas.　Whoever.　Its　none　of　your　business.　You　dont　know　anything　except　whats　there　for　you　to　see.　An　act.　Lies.　Device.　Not　the　pure　heart,　the　pumping　black　heart.　You　dont　ever　know　that.　And　I　sit　here,　in　this　buttonedup　suit,　to　keep　myself　from　cutting　all　your　throats.　I　mean　wantonly.　You　great　liberated　whore!　You　fuck　some　black　man,　and　right　away　youre　an　expert　on　black　people.　What　a　lotta　shit　that　is.　The　only　thing　you　know　is　that　you　come　if　he　bangs　you　hard　enough.　And　thats　all.　The　belly　rub?　You　wanted　to　do　the　belly　rub?　Shit,　you　dont　even　know　how.　You　dont　know　how.　That　ol　diptydip　shit　you　do,　rolling　your　ass　like　an　elephant.　Thats　not　my　kind　of　belly　rub.　Belly　rub　is　not　Queens.　Belly　rub　is　dark　places,　with　big　hats　and　overcoats　held　up　with　one　arm.　Belly　rub　hates　you.　Old　baldheaded　foureyed　ofays　popping　their　fingers...and　dont　know　yet　what　theyre　doing.　They　say,　“I　love　Bessie　Smith.”　And　dont　even　understand　that　Bessie　Smith　is　saying,　“Kiss　my　ass,　kiss　my　black　unruly　ass.”　Before　love,　suffering,　desire,　anything　you　can　explain,　shes　saying,　and　very　plainly,　“Kiss　my　black　ass.”　And　if　you　dont　know　that,　its　you　thats　doing　the　kissing.　Charlie　Parker?　Charlie　Parker.　All　the　hip　white　boys　scream　for　Bird.　And　Bird　saying,　“Up　your　ass,　feebleminded　ofay!　Up　your　ass.”　And　they　sit　there　talking　about　the　tortured　genius　of　Charlie　Parker.　Bird　wouldve　played　not　a　note　of　music　if　he　just　walked　up　to　East　Sixtyseventh　Street　and　killed　the　first　ten　white　people　he　saw.　Not　a　note!　And　Im　the　great　wouldbe　poet.　Yes.　Thats　right!　Poet.　Some　kind　of　bastard　literature...all　it　needs　is　a　simple　knife　thrust.　Just　let　me　bleed　you,　you　loud　whore,　and　one　poem　vanished.　A　whole　people　of　neurotics,　struggling　to　keep　from　being　sane.　And　the　only　thing　that　would　cure　the　neurosis　would　be　your　murder.　Simple　as　that.　I　mean　if　I　murdered　you,　then　other　white　people　would　begin　to　understand　me.　You　understand?　No.　I　guess　not.　If　Bessie　Smith　had　killed　some　white　people　she　wouldnt　have　needed　that　music.　She　could　have　talked　very　straight　and　plain　about　the　world.　No　metaphors.　No　grunts.　No　wiggles　in　the　dark　of　her　soul.　Just　straight　two　and　two　are　four.　Money.　Power.　Luxury.　Like　that.　All　of　them.　Crazy　niggers　turning　their　backs　on　sanity.　When　all　it　needs　is　that　simple　act.　Murder.　Just　murder!　Would　make　us　all　sane.　[Suddenly　weary]　Ahhh.　Shit.　But　who　needs　it?　Id　rather　be　a　fool.　Insane.　Safe　with　my　words,　and　no　deaths,　and　clean,　hard　thoughts,　urging　me　to　new　conquests.　My　peoples　madness.　Hah!　Thats　a　laugh.　My　people.　They　dont　need　me　to　claim　them.　They　got　legs　and　arms　of　their　own.　Personal　insanities.　Mirrors.　They　dont　need　all　those　words.　They　dont　need　any　defense.　But　listen,　though,　one　more　thing.　And　you　tell　this　to　your　father,　whos　probably　the　kind　of　man　who　needs　to　know　at　once.　So　he　can　plan　ahead.　Tell　him　not　to　preach　so　much　rationalism　and　cold　logic　to　these　niggers.　Let　them　alone.　Let　them　sing　curses　at　you　in　code　and　see　your　filth　as　simple　lack　of　style.　Dont　make　the　mistake,　through　some　irresponsible　surge　of　Christian　charity,　of　talking　too　much　about　the　advantages　of　Western　rationalism,　or　the　great　intellectual　legacy　of　the　white　man,　or　maybe　theyll　begin　to　listen.　And　then,　maybe　one　day,　youll　find　they　actually　do　understand　exactly　what　you　are　talking　about,　all　these　fantasy　people.　All　these　blues　people.　And　on　that　day,　as　sure　as　shit,　when　you　really　believe　you　can　“accept”　them　into　your　fold,　as　halfwhite　trusties　late　of　the　subject　peoples.　With　no　more　blues,　except　the　very　old　ones,　and　not　a　watermelon　in　sight,　the　great　missionary　heart　will　have　triumphed,　and　all　of　those　excoons　will　be　standup　Western　men,　with　eyes　for　clean　hard　useful　lives,　sober,　pious　and　sane,　and　theyll　murder　you.　Theyll　murder　you,　and　have　very　rational　explanations.　Very　much　like　your　own.　Theyll　cut　your　throats,　and　drag　you　out　to　the　edge　of　your　cities　so　the　flesh　can　fall　away　from　your　bones,　in　sanitary　isolation.

Lula:　[Her　voice　takes　on　a　different,　more　businesslike　quality]　Ive　heard　enough.

Clay:　[Reaching　for　his　books]　I　bet　you　have.　I　guess　I　better　collect　my　stuff　and　get　off　this　train.　Looks　like　we　wont　be　acting　out　that　little　pageant　you　outlined　before.

Lula:　No.　We　wont.　Youre　right　about　that,　at　least.　[She　turns　to　look　quickly　around　the　rest　of　the　car]　All　right!　[The　others　respond]

Clay:　[Bending　across　the　girl　to　retrieve　his　belongings]　Sorry,　baby,　I　dont　think　we　could　make　it.　[As　he　is　bending　over　her,　the　girl　brings　up　a　small　knife　and　plunges　it　into　Clays　chest.　Twice.　He　slumps　across　her　knees,　his　mouth　working　stupidly]

Lula:　Sorry　is　right.　[Turning　to　the　others　in　the　car　who　have　already　gotten　up　from　their　seats]　Sorry　is　the　rightest　thing　youve　said.　Get　this　man　off　me!　Hurry,　now!　[The　others　come　and　drag　Clays　body　down　the　aisle]　Open　the　door　and　throw　his　body　out.　[They　throw　him　off]　And　all　of　you　get　off　at　the　next　stop.　[Lula　busies　herself　straightening　her　things.　Getting　everything　in　order.　She　takes　out　a　notebook　and　makes　a　quick　scribbling　note.　Drops　it　in　her　bag.　The　train　apparently　stops　and　all　the　others　get　off,　leaving　her　alone　in　the　coach.　Very　soon　a　young　Negro　of　about　twenty　comes　into　the　coach,　with　a　couple　of　books　under　his　arm.　He　sits　a　few　seats　in　back　of　Lula.　When　he　is　seated　she　turns　and　gives　him　a　long　slow　look.　He　looks　up　from　his　book　and　drops　the　book　on　his　lap.　Then　an　old　Negro　conductor　comes　into　the　car,　doing　a　sort　of　restrained　soft　shoe,　and　half　mumbling　the　words　of　some　song.　He　looks　at　the　young　man,　briefly,　with　a　quick　greeting]

Conductor:　Hey,　brother!

如此結尾有故伎重演的味道，可參看當代電影《逃出絕命鎮》。

Young　man:　Hey.　[The　conductor　continues　down　the　aisle　with　his　little　dance　and　the　mumbled　song.　Lula　turns　to　stare　at　him　and　follows　his　movements　down　the　aisle.　The　conductor　tips　his　hat　when　he　reaches　her　seat,　and　continues　out　the　car]

Curtain

1964

Questions　for　Discussion

1.　Lula　claims　to　know　the　type　of　Clay　or　the　“colored　man”,　what　does　this　suggest?

2.　How　to　understand　Lulas　“I　lie　a　lot.　It　helps　me　to　control　the　world”?

3.　Clay　is　stabbed　to　death　in　the　play,　do　you　think　it　is　an　accident?　What　does　this　incident　suggest?

3.　Fences

作家簡介

奧古斯特·威爾遜（August　Wilson)（1945—2005）是20世紀80年代美國劇壇崛起的一位極負盛名的黑人劇作家。紐約時報著名戲劇評論家弗蘭克·裏奇把威爾遜的脫穎而出稱為美國戲劇界的一個重要發現；更有其他一些劇評家認為他是繼尤金·奧尼爾、田納西·威廉斯和阿瑟·米勒之後美國誕生的又一位偉大戲劇家。遺憾的是，他英年早逝。2005年10月，美國百老彙的弗吉尼亞劇院更名為奧古斯特·威爾遜劇院，以紀念這位偉大的戲劇家。威爾遜由此成為首位獲此殊榮的非裔美國作家。

威爾遜傾注了畢生精力創作“20世紀黑人體驗史”係列劇，大致以每十年為一階段，選取其中代表性的事件為劇本題材，以編年史的方式全方位地記錄美國黑人過去百年的生命曆程，有力地激發了他們重新審視曆史的信念。他是一位多產作家，代表性作品有《馬雷尼大媽的黑臀》（1984）、《柵欄》（1985）、《喬·特納來了又走了》（1986）、《鋼琴課》（1987）等。這些作品讓威爾遜收獲了巨大成功，先後榮獲普利策戲劇獎、紐約劇評獎、托尼獎等各種著名戲劇獎項。其中，憑借《柵欄》和《鋼琴課》，威爾遜獲得1987年和1990年普利策戲劇獎。五年內兩度榮獲普利策獎，這在美國文學史上是極為罕見的。他後期的作品還有《兩列奔馳的火車》(1990)、《七把吉他》(1995)、《郝德利王二世》(1999)等。從整體來看，一個貫穿威爾遜係列劇作始終的主題是，美國黑人需要重新追溯曆史，重新認識自己，認清自己既是一個美國人，又是一個黑人的事實。

作品簡介與賞析

《柵欄》（Fences,　1985）被很多評論家譽為奧古斯特·威爾遜最具代表性的作品。該劇以上演525場、單年贏利1100萬美元的佳績創造了百老彙非音樂劇種的紀錄，並且把美國戲劇界最權威、最具影響力的三大獎項全部收入囊中：普利策戲劇獎、托尼獎和紐約劇評人獎。

該劇描述的是20世紀60年代一個美國黑人家庭中發生的故事，深刻反映了美國社會中的種族問題對黑人生活造成的巨大影響。主人公特洛伊·馬克森是一個飽嚐生活艱辛、心靈受過摧殘的黑人。他已經53歲，坐過牢，當過運動員，現在幹著垃圾清掃的工作。他曾經是位優秀的棒球運動員，但由於膚色的原因，未能進入任何著名球隊。在種族歧視嚴重的美國社會，他著實際遇不佳。扭曲的生活導致了他複雜又矛盾的性格。他盡力照顧因二戰期間受傷而造成智力障礙的可憐哥哥，但又私自挪用哥哥的撫恤金；他設法幫助自己在橄欖球方麵有天分的兒子科裏，卻阻止他獲取一份頒發給橄欖球星的大學獎學金；他愛自己的妻子，但卻和別的女人生孩子。劇中的其他人物也在痛苦掙紮中求生存。兒子想成為橄欖球明星的夢想被父親扼殺在搖籃裏。他試圖對抗、超越父親,卻潛移默化地繼承了父親身上的一些特質。善良的妻子羅斯最終答應收養丈夫和別的女人生的孩子，但卻離開了丈夫。兄弟之間、父子之間、夫妻之間，思想上無法溝通，矛盾複雜交織，整個家庭處於瀕臨破裂的邊緣。

《柵欄》這個劇名意味深長。男主人公特洛伊在自家後院裏用結實的硬木修築起一堵柵欄，希望用它來防止外界的侵襲，保護自己和自己的家庭。柵欄給這個黑人家庭帶來了些許安全感。然而與此同時，他也築起了一道無形的圍牆，把自己和親人圍了進去，讓家庭成員與外界徹底隔絕，孤立無援。柵欄更是橫在了他們靈魂深處，讓他們倍感窒息。

威爾遜出生於美國貧窮動蕩的黑人聚居區匹茲堡。他的母親是黑人，在窮人區的兩間屋子裏艱難帶大了包括威爾遜在內的六個孩子。由於種族主義的根深蒂固，威爾遜很早就輟學。獨特的成長經曆使他對美國黑人生活有著極為深刻的體會和認識。在《柵欄》的創作中，他用細膩的筆鋒生動而真實地還原了種族歧視下美國黑人的苦難生活。他曾經說過自己創作的目的就是為了把美國黑人的傳統形象有血有肉地展現在人們麵前。與空泛的說教不同的是，他力求從社會學和文學的雙重角度剖析美國黑人的悲慘處境，啟發人們關注美國黑人的社會地位，並最終引導美國黑人開啟找尋自我身份之路。

威爾遜對當代美國戲劇的巨大貢獻，不僅僅體現在他宏大的曆史主題上，更體現在他通過獨具匠心的戲劇藝術對美國黑人自我身份所進行的深刻探索上。他大膽繼承前輩們的創作手法和技巧，對其進行創造性的發展，最終形成自己獨特的寫作風格。他堅持基於純黑人的文化傳統進行寫作。布魯斯音樂、講故事模式和隱喻性語言等黑人文化傳統形式在作品中的巧妙融合構成了作家最鮮明的戲劇創作特色，也成為作家成熟卓越的戲劇藝術技巧的最完美詮釋。通過獨特的戲劇表現手法，威爾遜成功地為美國黑人同胞尋找到一條通向自我身份之路。

選篇出自劇本《柵欄》的第一幕第一場。

Characters

Troy　Maxson

Jim　Bono:　Troys　friend

Rose:　Troys　wife

Lyons:　Troys　oldest　son　by　previous　marriage

Gabriel:　Troys　brother

Cory:　Troy　and　Roses　son

Raynell:　Troys　daughter

Setting

The　setting　is　the　yard　which　fronts　the　only　entrance　to　the　Maxson　household,　an　ancient　twostory　brick　house　set　back　off　a　small　alley　in　a　bigcity　neighborhood.　The　entrance　to　the　house　is　gained　by　two　or　three　steps　leading　to　a　wooden　porch　badly　in　need　of　paint.

A　relatively　recent　addition　to　the　house　and　running　its　full　width,　the　porch　lacks　congruence.　It　is　a　sturdy　porch　with　a　flat　roof.　One　or　two　chairs　of　dubious　value　sit　at　one　end　where　the　kitchen　window　opens　onto　the　porch.　An　oldfashioned　icebox　stands　silent　guard　at　the　opposite　end.

The　yard　is　a　small　dirt　yard,　partially　fenced,　except　for　the　last　scene,　with　a　wooden　sawhorse,　a　pile　of　lumber,　and　other　fencebuilding　equipment　set　off　to　the　side.　Opposite　is　a　tree　from　which　hangs　a　ball　made　of　rags.　A　baseball　bat　leans　against　the　tree.　Two　oil　drums　serve　as　garbage　receptacles　and　sit　near　the　house　at　right　to　complete　the　setting.

The　Play

Near　the　turn　of　the　century,　the　destitute　of　Europe　sprang　on　the　city　with　tenacious　claws　and　an　honest　and　solid　dream.　The　city　devoured　them.　They　swelled　its　belly　until　it　burst　into　a　thousand　furnaces　and　sewing　machines,　a　thousand　butcher　shops　and　bakers　ovens,　a　thousand　churches　and　hospitals　and　funeral　parlors　and　moneylenders.　The　city　grew.　It　nourished　itself　and　offered　each　man　a　partnership　limited　only　by　his　talent,　his　guile,　and　his　willingness　and　capacity　for　hard　work.　For　the　immigrants　of　Europe,　a　dream　dared　and　won　true.

The　descendants　of　African　slaves　were　offered　no　such　welcome　or　participation.　They　came　from　places　called　the　Carolinas　and　the　Virginias,　Georgia,　Alabama,　Mississippi,　and　Tennessee.　They　came　strong,　eager,　searching.　The　city　rejected　them　and　they　fled　and　settled　along　the　riverbanks　and　under　bridges　in　shallow,　ramshackle　houses　made　of　sticks　and　tarpaper.　They　collected　rags　and　wood.　They　sold　the　use　of　their　muscles　and　their　bodies.　They　cleaned　houses　and　washed　clothes,　they　shined　shoes,　and　in　quiet　desperation　and　vengeful　pride,　they　stole,　and　lived　in　pursuit　of　their　own　dream.　That　they　could　breathe　free,　finally,　and　stand　to　meet　life　with　the　force　of　dignity　and　whatever　eloquence　the　heart　could　call　upon.

By　1957,　the　hardwon　victories　of　the　European　immigrants　had　solidified　the　industrial　might　of　America.　War　had　been　confronted　and　won　with　new　energies　that　used　loyalty　and　patriotism　as　its　fuel.　Life　was　rich,　full,　and　flourishing.　The　Milwaukee　Braves　won　the　World　Series,　and　the　hot　winds　of　change　that　would　make　the　sixties　a　turbulent,　racing,　dangerous,　and　provocative　decade　had　not　yet　begun　to　blow　full.

Act　One

Scene　One

It　is　1957.　Troy　and　Bono　enter　the　yard,　engaged　in　conversation.　Troy　is　fiftythree　years　old,　a　large　man　with　thick,　heavy　hands;　it　is　this　largeness　that　he　strives　to　fill　out　and　make　an　accommodation　with.　Together　with　his　blackness,　his　largeness　informs　his　sensibilities　and　the　choices　he　has　made　in　his　life.

Of　the　two　men,　Bono　is　obviously　the　follower.　His　commitment　to　their　friendship　of　thirtyodd　years　is　rooted　in　his　admiration　of　Troys　honesty,　capacity　for　hard　work,　and　his　strength,　which　Bono　seeks　to　emulate.

It　is　Friday　night,　payday,　and　the　one　night　of　the　week　the　two　men　engage　in　a　ritual　of　talk　and　drink.　Troy　is　usually　the　most　talkative　and　at　times　he　can　be　crude　and　almost　vulgar,　though　he　is　capable　of　rising　to　profound　heights　of　expression.　The　men　carry　lunch　buckets　and　wear　or　carry　burlap　aprons　and　are　dressed　in　clothes　suitable　to　their　jobs　as　garbage　collectors.

Bono:　Troy,　you　ought　to　stop　that　lying!

Troy:　I　aint　lying!　The　nigger　had　a　watermelon　this　big.　[He　indicates　with　his　hands.]　Talking　about...“What　watermelon,　Mr.　Rand?”　I　liked　to　fell　out!　“What　watermelon,　Mr.　Rand?”...And　it　sitting　there　big　as　life.

Bono:　What　did　Mr.　Rand　say?

Troy:　Aint　said　nothing.　Figure　if　the　nigger　too　dumb　to　know　he　carrying　a　watermelon,　he　wasnt　gonna　get　much　sense　out　of　him.　Trying　to　hide　that　great　big　old　watermelon　under　his　coat.　Afraid　to　let　the　white　man　see　him　carry　it　home.

Bono:　Im　like　you...I　aint　got　no　time　for　them　kind　of　people.

Troy:　Now　what　he　look　like　getting　mad　cause　he　see　the　man　from　the　union　talking　to　Mr.　Rand?

Bono:　He　come　to　me　talking　about...“Maxson　gonna　get　us　fired.”　I　told　him　to　get　away　from　me　with　that.　He　walked　away　from　me　calling　you　a　troublemaker.　What　Mr.　Rand　say?

Troy:　Aint　said　nothing.　He　told　me　to　go　down　the　Commissioners　office　next　Friday.　They　called　me　down　there　to　see　them.

Bono:　Well,　as　long　as　you　got　your　complaint　filed,　they　cant　fire　you.　Thats　what　one　of　them　white　fellows　tell　me.

Troy:　I　aint　worried　about　them　firing　me.　They　gonna　fire　me　cause　I　asked　a　question?　Thats　all　I　did.　I　went　to　Mr.　Rand　and　asked　him,　“Why?　Why　you　got　the　white　mens　driving　and　the　colored　lifting?”　Told　him,　“whats　the　matter,　dont　I　count?　You　think　only　white　fellows　got　sense　enough　to　drive　a　truck.　That　aint　no　paper　job!　Hell,　anybody　can　drive　a　truck.　How　come　you　got　all　whites　driving　and　the　colored　lifting?　He　told　me　“take　it　to　the　union.”　Well,　hell,　thats　what　I　done!　Now　they　wanna　come　up　with　this　pack　of　lies.

Bono:　I　told　Brownie　if　the　man　come　and　ask　him　any　questions...just　tell　the　truth!　It　aint　nothing　but　something　they　done　trumped　up　on　you　cause　you　filed　a　complaint　on　them.

Troy:　Brownie　dont　understand　nothing.　All　I　want　them　to　do　is　change　the　job　description.　Give　everybody　a　chance　to　drive　the　truck.　Brownie　cant　see　that.　He　aint　got　that　much　sense.

Bono:　How　you　figure　he　be　making　out　with　that　gal　be　up　at　Taylors　all　the　time...that　Alberta　gal?

Troy:　Same　as　you　and　me.　Getting　just　as　much　as　we　is.　Which　is　to　say　nothing.

Bono:　It　is,　huh?　I　figure　you　doing　a　little　better　than　me...and　I　aint　saying　what　Im　doing.

Troy:　Aw,　nigger,　look　here...I　know　you.　If　you　had　got　anywhere　near　that　gal,　twenty　minutes　later　you　be　looking　to　tell　somebody.　And　the　first　one　you　gonna　tell...that　you　gonna　want　to　brag　to...is　gonna　be　me.

Bono:　I　aint　saying　that.　I　see　where　you　be　eyeing　her.

Troy:　I　eye　all　the　women.　I　dont　miss　nothing.　Dont　never　let　nobody　tell　you　Troy　Maxson　dont　eye　the　women.

Bono:　You　been　doing　more　than　eyeing　her.　You　done　bought　her　a　drink　or　two.

Troy:　Hell　yeah,　I　bought　her　a　drink!　What　that　mean?　I　bought　you　one,　too.　What　that　mean　cause　I　buy　her　a　drink?　Im　just　being　polite.

Bono:　Its　alright　to　buy　her　one　drink.　Thats　what　you　call　being　polite.　But　when　you　wanna　be　buying　two　or　three...thats　what　you　call　eyeing　her.

Troy:　Look　here,　as　long　as　you　known　me...you　ever　known　me　to　chase　after　women?

Bono:　Hell　yeah!　Long　as　I　done　known　you.　You　forgetting　I　knew　you　when.

Troy:　Naw,　Im　talking　about　since　I　been　married　to　Rose?

Bono:　Oh,　not　since　you　been　married　to　Rose.　Now,　thats　the　truth,　there.　I　can　say　that.

Troy:　Alright　then!　Case　closed.

Bono:　I　see　you　be　walking　up　around　Albertas　house.　You　supposed　to　be　at　Taylors　and　you　be　walking　up　around　there.

Troy:　What　you　watching　where　Im　walking　for?　I　aint　watching　after　you.

Bono:　I　seen　you　walking　around　there　more　than　once.

Troy:　Hell,　you　liable　to　see　me　walking　anywhere!　That　dont　mean　nothing　cause　you　see　me　walking　around　there.

Bono:　Where　she　come　from　anyway?　She　just　kinda　showed　up　one　day.

Troy:　Tallahassee.　You　can　look　at　her　and　tell　she　one　of　them　Florida　gals.　They　got　some　big　healthy　women　down　there.　Grow　them　right　up　out　the　ground.　Got　a　little　bit　of　Indian　in　her.　Most　of　them　niggers　down　in　Florida　got　some　Indian　in　them.

Bono:　I　dont　know　about　that　Indian　part.　But　she　damn　sure　big　and　healthy.　Woman　wear　some　big　stockings.　Got　them　great　big　old　legs　and　hips　as　wide　as　the　Mississippi　River.

Troy:　Legs　dont　mean　nothing.　You　dont　do　nothing　but　push　them　out　of　the　way.　But　them　hips　cushion　the　ride!

Bono:　Troy,　you　aint　got　no　sense.

Troy:　Its　the　truth!　Like　you　riding　on　Goodyears!

[Rose　enters　from　the　house.　She　is　ten　years　younger　than　Troy,　her　devotion　to　him　stems　from　her　recognition　of　the　possibilities　of　her　life　without　him:　a　succession　of　abusive　men　and　their　babies,　a　life　of　partying　and　running　the　streets,　the　Church,　or　aloneness　with　its　attendant　pain　and　frustration.　She　recognizes　Troys　spirit　as　a　fine　and　illuminating　one　and　she　either　ignores　or　forgives　his　faults,　only　some　of　which　she　recognizes.　Though　she　doesnt　drink,　her　presence　is　an　integral　part　of　the　Friday　night　rituals.　She　alternates　between　the　porch　and　the　kitchen,　where　supper　preparations　are　under　way.]

Rose:　What　you　all　out　here　getting　into?

Troy:　What　you　worried　about　what　we　getting　into　for?　This　is　men　talk,　woman.

Rose:　What　I　care　what　you　all　talking　about?　Bono,　you　gonna　stay　for　supper?

Bono:　No,　I　thank　you,　Rose.　But　Lucille　say　she　cooking　up　a　pot　of　pigfeet.

Troy:　Pigfeet!　Hell,　Im　going　home　with　you!　Might　even　stay　the　night　if　you　got　some　pigfeet.　You　got　something　in　there　to　top　them　pigfeet,　Rose?

Rose:　Im　cooking　up　some　chicken.　I　got　some　chicken　and　collard　greens.

Troy:　Well,　go　on　back　in　the　house　and　let　me　and　Bono　finish　what　we　was　talking　about.　This　is　men　talk.　I　got　some　talk　for　you　later.　You　know　what　kind　of　talk　I　mean.　You　go　on　and　powder　it　up.

Rose:　Troy　Maxson,　dont　you　start　that　now!

Troy:　[Puts　his　arm　around　her.]　Aw,　woman...come　here.　Look　here,　Bono...when　I　met　this　woman...I　got　out　that　place,　say,　“Hitch　up　my　pony,　saddle　up　my　mare...theres　a　woman　out　there　for　me　somewhere.　I　looked　here.　Looked　there.　Saw　Rose　and　latched　on　to　her.”　I　latched　on　to　her　and　told　her—Im　gonna　tell　you　the　truth—I　told　her,　“Baby,　I　dont　wanna　marry,　I　just　wanna　be　your　man.”　Rose　told　me...tell　him　what　you　told　me,　Rose.

Rose:　I　told　him　if　he　wasnt　the　marrying　kind,　then　move　out　the　way　so　the　marrying　kind　could　find　me.

Troy:　Thats　what　she　told　me.　“Nigger,　you　in　my　way.　You　blocking　the　view!　Move　out　the　way　so　I　can　find　me　a　husband.”　I　thought　it　over　two　or　three　days.　Come　back—

Rose:　Aint　no　two　or　three　days　nothing.　You　was　back　the　same　night.

Troy:　Come　back,　told　her...“Okay,　baby...but　Im　gonna　buy　me　a　banty　rooster　and　put　him　out　there　in　the　backyard...and　when　he　see　a　stranger　come,　hell　flap　his　wings　and　crow...”　Look　here,　Bono,　I　could　watch　the　front　door　by　myself...it　was　that　back　door　I　was　worried　about.

Rose:　Troy,　you　ought　not　talk　like　that.　Troy　aint　doing　nothing　but　telling　a　lie.

Troy:　Only　thing　is...when　we　first　got　married...forget　the　rooster...we　aint　had　no　yard!

Bono:　I　hear　you　tell　it.　Me　and　Lucille　was　staying　down　there　on　Logan　Street.　Had　two　rooms　with　the　outhouse　in　the　back.　I　aint　mind　the　outhouse　none.　But　when　that　goddamn　wind　blow　through　there　in　the　winter...thats　what　Im　talking　about!　To　this　day　I　wonder　why　in　the　hell　I　ever　stayed　down　there　for　six　long　years.　But　see,　I　didnt　know　I　could　do　no　better.　I　thought　only　white　folks　had　inside　toilets　and　things.

Rose:　Theres　a　lot　of　people　dont　know　they　can　do　no　better　than　they　doing　now.　Thats　just　something　you　got　to　learn.　A　lot　of　folks　still　shop　at　Bellas.

Troy:　Aint　nothing　wrong　with　shopping　at　Bellas.　She　got　fresh　food.

Rose:　I　aint　said　nothing　about　if　she　got　fresh　food.　Im　talking　about　what　she　charge.　She　charge　ten　cents　more　than　the　A　&　P.

Troy:　The　A　&　P　aint　never　done　nothing　for　me.　I　spends　my　money　where　Im　treated　right.　I　go　down　to　Bella,　say,　“I　need　a　loaf　of　bread,　Ill　pay　you　Friday.”　She　give　it　to　me.　What　sense　that　make　when　I　got　money　to　go　and　spend　it　somewhere　else　and　ignore　the　person　who　done　right　by　me?　That　aint　in　the　Bible.

Rose:　We　aint　talking　about　whats　in　the　Bible.　What　sense　it　make　to　shop　there　when　she　overcharge?

Troy:　You　shop　where　you　want　to.　Ill　do　my　shopping　where　the　people　been　good　to　me.

Rose:　Well,　I　dont　think　its　right　for　her　to　overcharge.　Thats　all　I　was　saying.

Bono:　Look　here...I　got　to　get　on.　Lucille　going　be　raising　all　kind　of　hell.

Troy:　Where　you　going,　nigger?　We　aint　finished　this　pint.　Come　here,　finish　this　pint.

Bono:　Well,　hell,　I　am...if　you　ever　turn　the　bottle　loose.

Troy:　[Hands　him　the　bottle.]　The　only　thing　I　say　about　the　A　&　P　is　Im　glad　Cory　got　that　job　down　there.　Help　him　take　care　of　his　school　clothes　and　things.　Gabe　done　moved　out　and　things　getting　tight　around　here.　He　got　that　job....He　can　start　to　look　out　for　himself.

Rose:　Cory　done　went　and　got　recruited　by　a　college　football　team.

Troy:　I　told　that　boy　about　that　football　stuff.　The　white　man　aint　gonna　let　him　get　nowhere　with　that　football.　I　told　him　when　he　first　come　to　me　with　it.　Now　you　come　telling　me　he　done　went　and　got　more　tied　up　in　it.　He　ought　to　go　and　get　recruited　in　how　to　fix　cars　or　something　where　he　can　make　a　living.

Rose:　He　aint　talking　about　making　no　living　playing　football.　Its　just　something　the　boys　in　school　do.　They　gonna　send　a　recruiter　by　to　talk　to　you.　Hell　tell　you　he　aint　talking　about　making　no　living　playing　football.　Its　a　honor　to　be　recruited.

Troy:　It　aint　gonna　get　him　nowhere.　Bonoll　tell　you　that.

Bono:　If　he　be　like　you　in　the　sports...hes　gonna　be　alright.　Aint　but　two　men　ever　played　baseball　as　good　as　you.　Thats　Babe　RuthGeorge　Herman　“Babe”　Ruth,　Jr.　(1895—1948)：美國職業棒球運動員，美國棒球史上最有名的球員，有“棒球之神”的美稱。作為20世紀20年代和30年代美國職業棒球史上的揚基強打者，他曾經連續三次打破大聯盟全壘打紀錄，1936年入選棒球名人堂（Baseball　Hall　of　Fame）。　and　Josh　GibsonJosh　Gibson　(1911—1947)：美國職業棒球運動員，1972年入選棒球名人堂。.　Thems　the　only　two　men　ever　hit　more　home　runs　than　you.

Troy:　What　it　ever　get　me?　Aint　got　a　pot　to　piss　in　or　a　window　to　throw　it　out　of.

Rose:　Times　have　changed　since　you　was　playing　baseball,　Troy.　That　was　before　the　war.　Times　have　changed　a　lot　since　then.

Troy:　How　in　hell　they　done　changed?

Rose:　They　got　lots　of　colored　boys　playing　ball　now.　Baseball　and　football.

Bono:　You　right　about　that,　Rose.　Times　have　changed,　Troy.　You　just　come　along　too　early.

Troy:　There　ought　not　never　have　been　no　time　called　too　early!　Now　you　take　that　fellow...whats　that　fellow　they　had　playing　right　field　for　the　Yankees　back　then?　You　know　who　Im　talking　about,　Bono.　Used　to　play　right　field　for　the　Yankees.

Rose:　SelkirkGeorge　Alexander　Selkirk　(1908—1987)：美國職業棒球運動員，綽號Twinkletoes，該名稱來自他特殊的跑壘姿勢，生涯九年皆效力於紐約揚基隊，是貝比·魯斯(Babe　Ruth)的接班人。?

Troy:　Selkirk!　Thats　it!　Man　batting.　269,　understand?　.269.　What　kind　of　sense　that　make?　I　was　hitting　.432　with　thirtyseven　home　runs!　Man　batting　.269　and　playing　right　field　for　the　Yankees!　I　saw　Josh　Gibsons　daughter　yesterday.　She　walking　around　with　raggedy　shoes　on　her　feet.　Now　I　bet　you　Selkirks　daughter　aint　walking　around　with　raggedy　shoes　on　her　feet!　I　bet　you　that!

Rose:　They　got　a　lot　of　colored　baseball　players　now.　Jackie　RobinsonJackie　Robinson　(1919—1972)：美國職業棒球運動員，美國職業棒球大聯盟（Major　League　Baseball)史上第一位非裔美國人球員，1962年入選棒球名人堂。　was　the　first.　Folks　had　to　wait　for　Jackie　Robinson.

Troy:　I　done　seen　a　hundred　niggers　play　baseball　better　than　Jackie　Robinson.　Hell,　I　know　some　teams　Jackie　Robinson　couldnt　even　make!　What　you　talking　about　Jackie　Robinson.　Jackie　Robinson　wasnt　nobody.　Im　talking　about　if　you　could　play　ball　then　they　ought　to　have　let　you　play.　Dont　care　what　color　you　were.　Come　telling　me　I　come　along　too　early.　If　you　could　play...then　they　ought　to　have　let　you　play.　[Troy　takes　a　long　drink　from　the　bottle.]

Rose:　You　gonna　drink　yourself　to　death.　You　dont　need　to　be　drinking　like　that.

Troy:　Death　aint　nothing.　I　done　seen　him.　Done　wrassled　with　him.　You　cant　tell　me　nothing　about　death.　Death　aint　nothing　but　a　fastball　on　the　outside　corner.　And　you　know　what　Ill　do　to　that!　Lookee　here,　Bono...am　I　lying?　You　get　one　of　them　fastballs,　about　waist　high,　over　the　outside　corner　of　the　plate　where　you　can　get　the　meat　of　the　bat　on　it...and　good　god!　You　can　kiss　it　goodbye.　Now,　am　I　lying?

Bono:　Naw,　you　telling　the　truth　there.　I　seen　you　do　it.

Troy:　If　Im　lying...that　450　feet　worth　of　lying!　[Pause.]　Thats　all　death　is　to　me.　A　fastball　on　the　outside　corner.

Rose:　I　dont　know　why　you　want　to　get　on　talking　about　death.

Troy:　Aint　nothing　wrong　with　talking　about　death.　Thats　part　of　life.　Everybody　gonna　die.　You　gonna　die,　Im　gonna　die.　Bonos　gonna　die.　Hell,　we　all　gonna　die.

Rose:　But　you　aint　got　to　talk　about　it.　I　dont　like　to　talk　about　it.

Troy:　You　the　one　brought　it　up.　Me　and　Bono　was　talking　about　baseball...you　tell　me　Im　gonna　drink　myself　to　death.　Aint　that　right,　Bono?　You　know　I　dont　drink　this　but　one　night　out　of　the　week.　Thats　Friday　night.　Im　gonna　drink　just　enough　to　where　I　can　handle　it.　Then　I　cuts　it　loose.　I　leave　it　alone.　So　dont　you　worry　about　me　drinking　myself　to　death.　Cause　I　aint　worried　about　Death.　I　done　seen　him.　I　done　wrestled　with　him.

Look　here,　Bono...I　looked　up　one　day　and　Death　was　marching　straight　at　me.　Like　Soldiers　on　Parade!　The　Army　of　Death　was　marching　straight　at　me.　The　middle　of　July,　1941.　It　got　real　cold　just　like　it　be　winter.　It　seem　like　Death　himself　reached　out　and　touched　me　on　the　shoulder.　He　touch　me　just　like　I　touch　you.　I　got　cold　as　ice　and　Death　standing　there　grinning　at　me.

Rose:　Troy,　why　dont　you　hush　that　talk.

Troy:　I　say...What　you　want,　Mr.　Death?　You　be　wanting　me?　You　done　brought　your　army　to　be　getting　me?　I　looked　him　dead　in　the　eye.　I　wasnt　fearing　nothing.　I　was　ready　to　tangle.　Just　like　Im　ready　to　tangle　now.　The　Bible　say　be　ever　vigilant.　Thats　why　I　dont　get　but　so　drunk.　I　got　to　keep　watch.

Rose:　Troy　was　right　down　there　in　Mercy　Hospital.　You　remember　he　had　pneumonia?　Laying　there　with　a　fever　talking　plumb　out　of　his　head.

Troy:　Death　standing　there　staring　at　me...carrying　that　sickle　in　his　hand.　Finally　he　say,　“You　want　bound　over　for　another　year?”　See,　just　like　that...“You　want　bound　over　for　another　year?”　I　told　him,　“Bound　over　hell!　Lets　settle　this　now!”

It　seem　like　he　kinda　fell　back　when　I　said　that,　and　all　the　cold　went　out　of　me.　I　reached　down　and　grabbed　that　sickle　and　threw　it　just　as　far　as　I　could　throw　it...and　me　and　him　commenced　to　wrestling.

We　wrestled　for　three　days　and　three　nights.　I　cant　say　where　I　found　the　strength　from.　Every　time　it　seemed　like　he　was　gonna　get　the　best　of　me,　Id　reach　way　down　deep　inside　myself　and　find　the　strength　to　do　him　one　better.

Rose:　Every　time　Troy　tell　that　story　he　find　different　ways　to　tell　it.　Different　things　to　make　up　about　it.

Troy:　I　aint　making　up　nothing.　Im　telling　you　the　facts　of　what　happened.　I　wrestled　with　Death　for　three　days　and　three　nights　and　Im　standing　here　to　tell　you　about　it.　[Pause.]　Alright.　At　the　end　of　the　third　night　we　done　weakened　each　other　to　where　we　cant　hardly　move.　Death　stood　up,　throwed　on　his　robe...had　him　a　white　robe　with　a　hood　on　it.　He　throwed　on　that　robe　and　went　off　to　look　for　his　sickle.　Say,　“Ill　be　back.”　Just　like　that.　“Ill　be　back.”　I　told　him,　say,　“Yeah,　but...you　gonna　have　to　find　me!”　I　wasnt　no　fool.　I　wasnt　going　looking　for　him.　Death　aint　nothing　to　play　with.　And　I　know　hes　gonna　get　me.　I　know　I　got　to　join　his　army...his　camp　followers.　But　as　long　as　I　keep　my　strength　and　see　him　coming...as　long　as　I　keep　up　my　vigilance...hes　gonna　have　to　fight　to　get　me.　I　aint　going　easy.

Bono:　Well,　look　here,　since　you　got　to　keep　up　your　vigilance...let　me　have　the　bottle.

Troy:　Aw　hell,　I　shouldnt　have　told　you　that　part.　I　should　have　left　out　that　part.

Rose:　Troy　be　talking　that　stuff　and　half　the　time　dont　even　know　what　he　be　talking　about.

Troy:　Bono　know　me　better　than　that.

Bono:　Thats　right.　I　know　you.　I　know　you　got　some　Uncle　Remus　in　your　blood.　You　got　more　stories　than　the　devil　got　sinners.

Troy:　Aw　hell,　I　done　seen　him　too!　Done　talked　with　the　devil.

Rose:　Troy,　dont　nobody　wanna　be　hearing　all　that　stuff.

[Lyons　enters　the　yard　from　the　street.　Thirtyfour　years　old,　Troys　son　by　a　previous　marriage,　he　sports　a　neatly　trimmed　goatee,　sport　coat,　white　shirt,　tieless　and　buttoned　at　the　collar.　Though　he　fancies　himself　a　musician,　he　is　more　caught　up　in　the　rituals　and　“idea”　of　being　a　musician　than　in　the　actual　practice　of　the　music.　He　has　come　to　borrow　money　from　Troy,　and　while　he　knows　he　will　be　successful,　he　is　uncertain　as　to　what　extent　his　lifestyle　will　be　held　up　to　scrutiny　and　ridicule.]

Lyons:　Hey,　Pop.

Troy:　What　you　come　“Hey,　Popping”　me　for?

Lyons:　How　you　doing,　Rose?　[He　kisses　her.]　Mr.　Bono.　How　you　doing?

Bono:　Hey,　Lyons...how　you　been?

Troy:　He　must　have　been　doing　alright.　I　aint　seen　him　around　here　last　week.

Rose:　Troy,　leave　your　boy　alone.　He　come　by　to　see　you　and　you　wanna　start　all　that　nonsense.

Troy:　I　aint　bothering　Lyons.　[Offers　him　the　bottle.]　Here...get　you　a　drink.　We　got　an　understanding.　I　know　why　he　come　by　to　see　me　and　he　know　I　know.

Lyons:　Come　on,　Pop...I　just　stopped　by　to　say　hi...see　how　you　was　doing.

Troy:　You　aint　stopped　by　yesterday.

Rose:　You　gonna　stay　for　supper,　Lyons?　I　got　some　chicken　cooking　in　the　oven.

Lyons:　No,　Rose...thanks.　I　was　just　in　the　neighborhood　and　thought　Id　stop　by　for　a　minute.

Troy:　You　was　in　the　neighborhood　alright,　nigger.　You　telling　the　truth　there.　You　was　in　the　neighborhood　cause　its　my　payday.

Lyons:　Well,　hell,　since　you　mentioned　it...let　me　have　ten　dollars.

Troy:　Ill　be　damned!　Ill　die　and　go　to　hell　and　play　blackjack　with　the　devil　before　I　give　you　ten　dollars.

Bono:　Thats　what　I　wanna　know　about...that　devil　you　done　seen.

Lyons:　What...Pop　done　seen　the　devil?　You　too　much,　Pops.

Troy:　Yeah,　I　done　seen　him.　Talked　to　him　too!

Rose:　You　aint　seen　no　devil.　I　done　told　you　that　man　aint　had　nothing　to　do　with　the　devil.　Anything　you　cant　understand,　you　want　to　call　it　the　devil.

Troy:　Look　here,　Bono...I　went　down　to　see　Hertzberger　about　some　furniture.　Got　three　rooms　for　twoninetyeight.　That　what　it　say　on　the　radio.　“Three　rooms...twoninetyeight.”　Even　made　up　a　little　song　about　it.　Go　down　there...man　tell　me　I　cant　get　no　credit.　Im　working　every　day　and　cant　get　no　credit.　What　to　do?　I　got　an　empty　house　with　some　raggedy　furniture　in　it.　Cory　aint　got　no　bed.　Hes　sleeping　on　a　pile　of　rags　on　the　floor.　Working　every　day　and　cant　get　no　credit.　Come　back　here—Rosell　tell　you—madder　than　hell.　Sit　down...try　to　figure　what　Im　gonna　do.　Come　a　knock　on　the　door.　Aint　been　living　here　but　three　days.　Who　know　Im　here?　Open　the　door...devil　standing　there　bigger　than　life.　White　fellow...got　on　good　clothes　and　everything.　Standing　there　with　a　clipboard　in　his　hand.　I　aint　had　to　say　nothing.　First　words　come　out　of　his　mouth　was...“I　understand　you　need　some　furniture　and　cant　get　no　credit.”　I　liked　to　fell　over.　He　say　“Ill　give　you　all　the　credit　you　want,　but　you　got　to　pay　the　interest　on　it.”　I　told　him,　“Give　me　three　rooms　worth　and　charge　whatever　you　want.”　Next　day　a　truck　pulled　up　here　and　two　men　unloaded　them　three　rooms.　Man　what　drove　the　truck　give　me　a　book.　Say　send　ten　dollars,　first　of　every　month　to　the　address　in　the　book　and　everything　will　be　alright.　Say　if　I　miss　a　payment　the　devil　was　coming　back　and　itll　be　hell　to　pay.　That　was　fifteen　years　ago.　To　this　day...the　first　of　the　month　I　send　my　ten　dollars,　Rosell　tell　you.

Rose:　Troy　lying.

Troy:　I　aint　never　seen　that　man　since.　Now　you　tell　me　who　else　that　could　have　been　but　the　devil?　I　aint　sold　my　soul　or　nothing　like　that,　you　understand.　Naw,　I　wouldnt　have　truck　with　the　devil　about　nothing　like　that.　I　got　my　furniture　and　pays　my　ten　dollars　the　first　of　the　month　just　like　clockwork.

Bono:　How　long　you　say　you　been　paying　this　ten　dollars　a　month?

Troy:　Fifteen　years!

Bono:　Hell,　aint　you　finished　paying　for　it　yet?　How　much　the　man　done　charged　you.

Troy:　Aw　hell,　I　done　paid　for　it.　I　done　paid　for　it　ten　times　over!　The　fact　is　Im　scared　to　stop　paying　it.

Rose:　Troy　lying.　We　got　that　furniture　from　Mr.　Glickman.　He　aint　paying　no　ten　dollars　a　month　to　nobody.

Troy:　Aw　hell,　woman.　Bono　know　I　aint　that　big　a　fool.

Lyons:　I　was　just　getting　ready　to　say...I　know　where　theres　a　bridge　for　sale.

Troy:　Look　here,　Ill　tell　you　this...it　dont　matter　to　me　if　he　was　the　devil.　It　dont　matter　if　the　devil　give　credit.　Somebody　has　got　to　give　it.

Rose:　It　ought　to　matter.　You　going　around　talking　about　having　truck　with　the　devil...Gods　the　one　you　gonna　have　to　answer　to.　Hes　the　one　gonna　be　at　the　Judgment.

Lyons:　Yeah,　well,　look　here,　Pop...let　me　have　that　ten　dollars.　Ill　give　it　back　to　you.　Bonnie　got　a　job　working　at　the　hospital.

Troy:　What　I　tell　you,　Bono?　The　only　time　I　see　this　nigger　is　when　he　wants　something.　Thats　the　only　time　I　see　him.

Lyons:　Come　on,　Pop,　Mr.　Bono　dont　want　to　hear　all　that.　Let　me　have　the　ten　dollars.　I　told　you　Bonnie　working.

Troy:　What　that　mean　to　me?　“Bonnie　working.”　I　dont　care　if　she　working.　Go　ask　her　for　the　ten　dollars　if　she　working.　Talking　about　“Bonnie　working.”　Why　aint　you　working?

Lyons:　Aw,　Pop,　you　know　I　cant　find　no　decent　job.　Where　am　I　gonna　get　a　job　at?　You　know　I　cant　get　no　job.

Troy:　I　told　you　I　know　some　people　down　there.　I　can　get　you　on　the　rubbish　if　you　want　to　work.　I　told　you　that　the　last　time　you　came　by　here　asking　me　for　something.

Lyons:　Naw,　Pop...thanks.　That　aint　for　me.　I　dont　wanna　be　carrying　nobodys　rubbish.　I　dont　wanna　be　punching　nobodys　time　clock.

Troy:　Whats　the　matter,　you　too　good　to　carry　peoples　rubbish?　Where　you　think　that　ten　dollars　you　talking　about　come　from?　Im　just　supposed　to　haul　peoples　rubbish　and　give　my　money　to　you　cause　you　too　lazy　to　work.　You　too　lazy　to　work　and　wanna　know　why　you　aint　got　what　I　got.

Rose:　What　hospital　Bonnie　working　at?　Mercy?

Lyons:　Shes　down　at　Passavant　working　in　the　laundry.

Troy:　I　aint　got　nothing　as　it　is.　I　give　you　that　ten　dollars　and　I　got　to　eat　beans　the　rest　of　the　week.　Naw...you　aint　getting　no　ten　dollars　here.

Lyons:　You　aint　got　to　be　eating　no　beans.　I　dont　know　why　you　wanna　say　that.

Troy:　I　aint　got　no　extra　money.　Gabe　done　moved　over　to　Miss　Pearls　paying　her　the　rent　and　things　done　got　tight　around　here.　I　cant　afford　to　be　giving　you　every　payday.

Lyons:　I　aint　asked　you　to　give　me　nothing.　I　asked　you　to　loan　me　ten　dollars.　I　know　you　got　ten　dollars.

Troy:　Yeah,　I　got　it.　You　know　why　I　got　it?　Cause　I　dont　throw　my　money　away　out　there　in　the　streets.　You　living　the　fast　life...wanna　be　a　musician...running　around　in　them　clubs　and　things...then,　you　learn　to　take　care　of　yourself.　You　aint　gonna　find　me　going　and　asking　nobody　for　nothing.　I　done　spent　too　many　years　without.

Lyons:　You　and　me　is　two　different　people,　Pop.

Troy:　I　done　learned　my　mistake　and　learned　to　do　whats　right　by　it.　You　still　trying　to　get　something　for　nothing.　Life　dont　owe　you　nothing.　You　owe　it　to　yourself.　Ask　Bono.　Hell　tell　you　Im　right.

Lyons:　You　got　your　way　of　dealing　with　the　world...I　got　mine.　The　only　thing　that　matters　to　me　is　the　music.

Troy:　Yeah,　I　can　see　that!　It　dont　matter　how　you　gonna　eat...where　your　next　dollar　is　coming　from.　You　telling　the　truth　there.

Lyons:　I　know　I　got　to　eat.　But　I　got　to　live　too.　I　need　something　that　gonna　help　me　to　get　out　of　the　bed　in　the　morning.　Make　me　feel　like　I　belong　in　the　world.　I　dont　bother　nobody.　I　just　stay　with　my　music　cause　thats　the　only　way　I　can　find　to　live　in　the　world.　Otherwise　there　aint　no　telling　what　I　might　do.　Now　I　dont　come　criticizing　you　and　how　you　live.　I　just　come　by　to　ask　you　for　ten　dollars.　I　dont　wanna　hear　all　that　about　how　I　live.

Troy:　Boy,　your　mama　did　a　hell　of　a　job　raising　you.

Lyons:　You　cant　change　me,　Pop.　Im　thirtyfour　years　old.　If　you　wanted　to　change　me,　you　should　have　been　there　when　I　was　growing　up.　I　come　by　to　see　you...ask　for　ten　dollars　and　you　want　to　talk　about　how　I　was　raised.　You　dont　know　nothing　about　how　I　was　raised.

Rose:　Let　the　boy　have　ten　dollars,　Troy.

Troy:　[To　Lyons.]　What　the　hell　you　looking　at　me　for?　I　aint　got　no　ten　dollars.　You　know　what　I　do　with　my　money.　[To　Rose.]　Give　him　ten　dollars　if　you　want　him　to　have　it.

Rose:　I　will.　Just　as　soon　as　you　turn　it　loose.

Troy:　[Handing　Rose　the　money.]　There　it　is.　Seventysix　dollars　and　fortytwo　cents.　You　see　this,　Bono?　Now,　I　aint　gonna　get　but　six　of　that　back.

Rose:　You　ought　to　stop　telling　that　lie.　Here,　Lyons.　[She　hands　him　the　money.]

Lyons:　Thanks,　Rose.　Look...I　got　to　run...Ill　see　you　later.

Troy:　Wait　a　minute.　You　gonna　say,　“thanks,　Rose”　and　aint　gonna　look　to　see　where　she　got　that　ten　dollars　from?　See　how　they　do　me,　Bono?

Lyons:　I　know　she　got　it　from　you,　Pop.　Thanks.　Ill　give　it　back　to　you.

Troy:　There　he　go　telling　another　lie.　Time　I　see　that　ten　dollars...hell　be　owing　me　thirty　more.

Lyons:　See　you,　Mr.　Bono.

Bono:　Take　care,　Lyons!

Lyons:　Thanks,　Pop.　Ill　see　you　again.　[Lyons　exits　the　yard.]

Troy:　I　dont　know　why　he　dont　go　and　get　him　a　decent　job　and　take　care　of　that　woman　he　got.

Bono:　Hell　be　alright,　Troy.　The　boy　is　still　young.

Troy:　The　boy　is　thirtyfour　years　old.

Rose:　Lets　not　get　off　into　all　that.

Bono:　Look　here...I　got　to　be　going.　I　got　to　be　getting　on.　Lucille　gonna　be　waiting.

Troy:　[Puts　his　arm　around　Rose.]　See　this　woman,　Bono?　I　love　this　woman.　I　love　this　woman　so　much　it　hurts.　I　love　her　so　much...I　done　run　out　of　ways　of　loving　her.　So　I　got　to　go　back　to　basics.　Dont　you　come　by　my　house　Monday　morning　talking　about　time　to　go　to　work...cause　Im　still　gonna　be　stroking!

Rose:　Troy!　Stop　it　now!

Bono:　I　aint　paying　him　no　mind,　Rose.　That　aint　nothing　but　gintalk.　Go　on,　Troy.　Ill　see　you　Monday.

Troy:　Dont　you　come　by　my　house,　nigger!　I　done　told　you　what　Im　gonna　be　doing.　[The　lights　go　down　to　black.]

Questions　for　Discussion

1.　As　the　plays　namesake,　“fences”　is　the　center　metaphor　of　the　play.　Please　talk　about　the　function　and　significance　of　it.

2.　Troy　Maxson　is　the　protagonist　of　the　play.　What　is　revealed　through　Troys　characterization　in　Act　One,　Scene　One?

3.　Identify　and　discuss　the　conflicts　introduced　in　Act　One,　Scene　One.　Predict　the　outcomes　of　these　conflicts.

Unit　ThreeAfrican　American　Fiction

Unit　Three

African　American　Fiction

非裔美國小說簡介

非裔美國小說主要指由非裔美國人創作的虛構作品，具有比較悠久的曆史，無論在奴隸製時期，吉姆·克勞種族隔離時期，還是在民權運動時期，非裔美國小說都主要關注美國社會普遍存在的白人對黑人的歧視以及製度化的不平等。由於歐洲著名思想家康德、休謨等人以能否進行文藝創作作為衡量、判斷一個民族優劣的標誌，因此，早期非裔美國小說家的創作帶有明顯的“回應”與“證明”的特點：嚐試以自己的創作，證明美國黑人具有和白人一樣的人性，因此，黑人民族主義與社會抗議仿佛成為非裔美國小說家的必然選擇，與之相適應，現實主義的創作原則仿佛成為許多美國黑人作家的自覺選擇。後來，揭露美國社會的種族歧視與壓迫，以及尋找自我身份、種族身份、文化身份等成為許多小說家關注的重要主題。

如果說20世紀之前的非裔美國小說主要聚焦奴隸製的殘暴與非人性，以及對黑人女性的性剝削，那麼20世紀以來的非裔美國小說在現實主義的旗幟下發展壯大，不僅在創作主題方麵突破了原來的種族對抗意識形態，如以賴特的《土生子》為代表的社會抗議小說，而且在創作風格方麵由原來比較單一的現實主義，轉向複雜多樣的創作實踐，汲取現代主義及後現代主義的創作風格，如裏德、莫裏森、埃弗雷特的文本實踐等。

進入21世紀，雖然美國社會有諸多關於“後種族”的討論，但是深層次的種族歧視依然幾乎無處不在，黑人遭受的不公正對待或“另眼相待”依然普遍存在，也繼續對黑人族群產生較大的影響。新世紀非裔美國小說創作如何能夠在“淡化”“種族”或“族裔”因素的同時，真實、客觀地反映非裔美國人民的生存狀態，依然是對非裔美國藝術家，特別是對非裔美國小說家的嚴峻考驗，而當代非裔美國小說家豐富的創作實踐與藝術成就仿佛已經證明，他們能夠做到。

1.　Their　Eyes　Were　Watching　God

作家簡介

佐拉·尼爾·赫斯頓（Zora　Neale　Hurston)(1891—1960)是哈萊姆文藝複興時期的重要代表人物，傑出的美國黑人女作家和人類學家，被譽為“南方的天才”。

赫斯頓出生於美國南方，在沒有種族歧視的黑人小城伊頓維爾度過自己的童年時光。1904年，她的家庭在她母親去世後解體，她無憂無慮的童年生活也隨之結束；離開伊頓維爾後，她才開始意識到種族歧視的存在。1918—1924年就讀於霍華德大學期間，她結識了許多黑人作家，開始進行文學創作。1925年，她來到當時黑人文學的中心、哈萊姆黑人文藝複興的發祥地紐約，成為哈萊姆文藝複興運動中的活躍分子，與蘭斯頓·休斯等共同創辦了文學雜誌《火》；1926年秋，她進入巴納德學院，在著名人類學家博厄斯教授的指導下學習人類學，1928年畢業後進入哥倫比亞大學攻讀碩士學位，在梅森夫人的資助下，回到南方從事黑人民間故事和傳說的收集、整理工作。

1934年，赫斯頓出版自己第一部小說《約拿的葫蘆藤》，反映了20世紀30年代美國黑人的感受；1935年，她出版《騾子與人》，這是第一部由美國黑人收集、整理出版的美國黑人民間故事集。1937年，在加勒比地區進行人種史研究時，她創作了被譽為美國黑人文學史上裏程碑式的經典之作《他們眼望上蒼》，這部作品塑造了一位個性鮮明的黑人女性人物珍妮·斯塔克斯，表現了美國黑人女性意識的覺醒。

1938年，赫斯頓出版旅遊劄記《告訴我的馬》,描寫自己在海地的見聞和當地的民俗與風土人情；此外，她發表小說《摩西，山的主宰》（1939），仿照《聖經》中的《出埃及記》塑造了黑人摩西的形象。40年代，她發表自傳《道路上的塵跡》（1942）、小說《蘇旺尼的六翼天使》（1948），以及多篇涉及種族問題的文章，如“白人出版商不想出版的東西”“漂泊的黑人”和“我最難以啟齒的吉姆·克勞經曆”等。

赫斯頓共創作4部長篇小說、2本黑人民間故事集、1部自傳、50多篇短篇故事。雖然她的文學創作成績斐然，但是多部作品生前絕版，70年代才被重新發現，其代表作《他們眼望上蒼》更是成為現代（非裔）美國文學經典。赫斯頓對自己的黑人身份非常自豪，畢生致力於收集、整理和保護黑人民族的傳統文化遺產，其作品深刻揭示了當時黑人社區內部存在的自我鄙視，以及這種內化的種族主義思想對黑人靈魂的腐蝕，力圖喚醒黑人對自己身份的肯定和熱愛。當代著名黑人女作家艾麗斯·沃克認為，赫斯頓不遺餘力地去捕捉鄉間黑人語言表達之美。別的作家看到的隻是黑人不能完美地掌握英語，而她看到的卻是詩一般的語言。赫斯頓著力表現的是黑人文化語境下的黑人經驗，她的作品從未停止為受到壓迫的黑人說話，為美國黑人創造和諧、平等的生存環境是她一生的追求。

作品簡介與賞析

長篇小說《他們眼望上蒼》描寫了反抗傳統習俗的束縛、爭取自己做人權利的珍妮的一生，是赫斯頓的代表作，被公認為是美國黑人文學史上的經典之作。通過描寫女主人公珍妮的三次婚姻，以及她在三次婚姻中的不斷成長，赫斯頓讓黑人婦女獨領風騷，使被遮蔽的女性自信與自強重新成為社會的關注點，塑造出一個尋找自我、表現自我、肯定自我的黑人女性，是黑人文學中第一部充分展示黑人女性意識覺醒的作品，在黑人女性形象塑造方麵具有裏程碑式的意義，開啟黑人女性主義文學先河。

1940年，賴特的《土生子》轟動美國文壇，抗議小說仿佛代表了美國黑人文學的發展趨勢，賴特批評《他們眼望上蒼》“沒有主題，沒有啟示性，沒有思想”。在賴特作品風靡於世的年代，赫斯頓的作品因缺乏種族抗議和種族鬥爭而遭受冷落，直到女權運動高漲的70年代，她作品的價值才重新為人們所重視。艾麗斯·沃克認為赫斯頓是“一個偉大的作家。一個有勇氣、有令人難以置信的幽默感的作家，所寫的每一行裏都有詩”，並說，“對我來說，再也沒有比這本小說(《他們眼望上蒼》)更為重要的書了”。《諾頓非裔美國文學選集》將這部作品列為“哈萊姆文藝複興時期最偉大的作品之一”。

小說以珍妮自述的方式開始。在第一、二章中，珍妮在丈夫甜點死後回到伊頓維爾的家中，伴隨她的是鄰居的不解與指責；在珍妮向好友講述自己一生追求、實現生命意義的過程中，小說展示了姐妹情誼的美好情景。

珍妮女性意識覺醒的每一個階段，都展示出她對生活的熱愛。在珍妮的三次婚姻中，她對自己丈夫的看法都和梨樹相關：第一任丈夫洛根·基利克斯“玷汙了梨樹的純潔”，第二任丈夫也“並不代表太陽升起和梨樹的開花授粉”；隻有第三任丈夫才是“蜜蜂找到了梨花——盛開的梨花”。另一個與女人關係密切的重要意象是騾子。在父權製中，女人就像騾子一樣，處於受壓迫的他者地位。在小說開始，祖母就告訴她“黑人女性的命運和騾子是相同的”，這不但說明黑人女性要承擔沉重的勞動，而且說明她們的地位極其低下，這也體現在珍妮的婚姻生活中。經曆過三次婚姻後，珍妮從一個單純的小女孩成長為獨立成熟的女性，她用自己的行動感染著身邊的人，讓她們覺醒，為尋找更加和諧、平等的社會地位而努力。

Chapter　1

Ships　at　a　distance　have　every　mans　wish　on　board.　For　some　they　come　in　with　the　tide.　For　others　they　sail　forever　on　the　horizon,　never　out　of　sight,　never　landing　until　the　Watcher　turns　his　eyes　away　in　resignation,　his　dreams　mocked　to　death　by　Time.　That　is　the　life　of　men.

Now,　women　forget　all　those　things　they　dont　want　to　remember,　and　remember　everything　they　dont　want　to　forget.　The　dream　is　the　truth.　Then　they　act　and　do　things　accordingly.

So　the　beginning　of　this　was　a　woman　and　she　had　come　back　from　burying　the　dead.　Not　the　dead　of　sick　and　ailing　with　friends　at　the　pillow　and　the　feet.　She　had　come　back　from　the　sodden　and　the　bloated;　the　sudden　dead,　their　eyes　flung　wide　open　in　judgment.

The　people　all　saw　her　come　because　it　was　sundown.　The　sun　was　gone,　but　he　had　left　his　footprints　in　the　sky.　It　was　the　time　for　sitting　on　porches　beside　the　road.　It　was　the　time　to　hear　things　and　talk.　These　sitters　had　been　tongueless,　earless,　eyeless　conveniences　all　day　long.　Mules　and　other　brutes　had　occupied　their　skins.　But　now,　the　sun　and　the　bossman　were　gone,　so　the　skins　felt　powerful　and　human.　They　became　lords　of　sounds　and　lesser　things.　They　passed　nations　through　their　mouths.　They　sat　in　judgment.

Seeing　the　woman　as　she　was　made　them　remember　the　envy　they　had　stored　up　from　other　times.　So　they　chewed　up　the　back　parts　of　their　minds　and　swallowed　with　relish.　They　made　burning　statements　with　questions,　and　killing　tools　out　of　laughs.　It　was　mass　cruelty.　A　mood　come　alive.　Words　walking　without　masters;　walking　altogether　like　harmony　in　a　song.

“What　she　doin　coming　back　here　in　dem　overhalls?　Cant　she　find　no　dress　to　put　on?—Wheres　dat　blue　satin　dress　she　left　here　in?—Where　all　dat　money　her　husband　took　and　died　and　left　her?—What　dat　ole　forty　year　ole　oman　doin　wid　her　hair　swingin　down　her　back　lak　some　young　gal?—Where　she　left　dat　young　lad　of　a　boy　she　went　off　here　wid?—Thought　she　was　going　to　marry?—Where　he　left　her?—What　he　done　wid　all　her　money?—Betcha　he　off　wid　some　gal　so　young　she　aint　even　got　no　hairs—why　she　dont　stay　in　her　class?

When　she　got　to　where　they　were　she　turned　her　face　on　the　bander　log　and　spoke.　They　scrambled　a　noisy　“good　evenin”　and　left　their　mouths　setting　open　and　their　ears　full　of　hope.　Her　speech　was　pleasant　enough,　but　she　kept　walking　straight　on　to　her　gate.　The　porch　couldnt　talk　for　looking.

The　men　noticed　her　firm　buttocks　like　she　had　grapefruits　in　her　hip　pockets;　the　great　rope　of　black　hair　swinging　to　her　waist　and　unraveling　in　the　wind　like　a　plume;　then　her　pugnacious　breasts　trying　to　bore　holes　in　her　shirt.　They,　the　men,　were　saving　with　the　mind　what　they　lost　with　the　eye.　The　women　took　the　faded　shirt　and　muddy　overalls　and　laid　them　away　for　remembrance.　It　was　a　weapon　against　her　strength　and　if　it　turned　out　of　no　significance,　still　it　was　a　hope　that　she　might　fall　to　their　level　some　day.

But　nobody　moved,　nobody　spoke,　nobody　even　thought　to　swallow　spit　until　after　her　gate　slammed　behind　her.

Pearl　Stone　opened　her　mouth　and　laughed　real　hard　because　she　didnt　know　what　else　to　do.　She　fell　all　over　Mrs.　Sumpkins　while　she　laughed.　Mrs.　Sumpkins　snorted　violently　and　sucked　her　teeth.

“Humph!　Yall　let　her　worry　yuh.　You　aint　like　me.　Ah　aint　got　her　to　study　bout.　If　she　aint　got　manners　enough　to　stop　and　let　folks　know　how　she　been　makin　out,　let　her　gwan!”

“She　aint　even　worth　talkin　after,”　Lulu　Moss　drawled　through　her　nose.　“She　sits　high,　but　she　looks　low.　Dats　what　Ah　say　bout　dese　ole　women　runnin　after　young　boys.”

Pheoby　Watson　hitched　her　rocking　chair　forward　before　she　spoke.　“Well,　nobody　dont　know　if　its　anything　to　tell　or　not.　Me,　Ahm　her　best　friend,　and　Ah　dont　know.”

“Maybe　us　dont　know　into　things　lak　you　do,　but　we　all　know　how　she　went　way　from　here　and　us　sho　seen　her　come　back.　Taint　no　use　in　your　tryin　to　cloak　no　ole　woman　lak　Janie　Starks,　Pheoby,　friend　or　no　friend.”

“At　dat　she　aint　so　ole　as　some　of　yall　dats　talking.

“Shes　way　past　forty　to　my　knowledge,　Pheoby.”

“No　moren　forty　at　de　outside.”

“Shes　way　too　old　for　a　boy　like　Tea　Cake.”

“Tea　Cake　aint　been　no　boy　for　some　time.　Hes　round　thirty　his　ownself.”

“Dont　keer　what　it　was,　she　could　stop　and　say　a　few　words　with　us.　She　act　like　we　done　done　something　to　her,”　Pearl　Stone　complained.　“She　de　one　been　doin　wrong.”

“You　mean,　you　mad　cause　she　didnt　stop　and　tell　us　all　her　business.　Anyhow,　what　you　ever　know　her　to　do　so　bad　as　yall　make　out?　The　worst　thing　Ah　ever　knowed　her　to　do　was　taking　a　few　years　offa　her　age　and　dat　aint　never　harmed　nobody.　Yall　makes　me　tired.　De　way　you　talkin　youd　think　de　folks　in　dis　town　didnt　do　nothin　in　de　bed　cept　praise　de　Lawd.　You　have　to　scuse　me,　cause　Ahm　bound　to　go　take　her　some　supper.”　Pheoby　stood　up　sharply.

“Dont　mind　us,”　Lulu　smiled,　“just　go　right　ahead,　us　can　mind　yo　house　for　you　till　you　git　back.　Mah　supper　is　done.　You　bettah　go　see　how　she　feel.　You　kin　let　de　rest　of　us　know.”

“Lawd,”　Pearl　agreed,　“Ah　done　scorchedup　dat　lil　meat　and　bread　too　long　to　talk　about.　Ah　kin　stay　way　from　home　long　as　Ah　please.　Mah　husband　aint　fussy.”

“Oh,　er,　Pheoby,　if　youse　ready　to　go,　Ah　could　walk　over　dere　wid　you,”　Mrs.　Sumpkins　volunteered.　“Its　sort　of　duskin　down　dark.　De　booger　man　might　ketch　yuh.”

“Naw,　Ah　thank　yuh.　Nothin　couldnt　ketch　me　dese　few　steps　Ahm　goin.　Anyhow　mah　husband　tell　me　say　no　first　class　booger　would　have　me.　If　she　got　anything　to　tell　yuh,　youll　hear　it.

Pheoby　hurried　on　off　with　a　covered　bowl　in　her　hands.　She　left　the　porch　pelting　her　back　with　unasked　questions.　They　hoped　the　answers　were　cruel　and　strange.　When　she　arrived　at　the　place,　Pheoby　Watson　didnt　go　in　by　the　front　gate　and　down　the　palm　walk　to　the　front　door.　She　walked　around　the　fence　corner　and　went　in　the　intimate　gate　with　her　heaping　plate　of　mulatto　rice.　Janie　must　be　round　that　side.

She　found　her　sitting　on　the　steps　of　the　back　porch　with　the　lamps　all　filled　and　the　chimneys　cleaned.

“Hello,　Janie,　how　you　comin?”　“Aw,　pretty　good,　Ahm　tryin　to　soak　some　uh　de　tiredness　and　de　dirt　outa　mah　feet.”　She　laughed　a　little.　“Ah　see　you　is.　Gal,　you　sho　looks　good.　You　looks　like　youse　yo　own　daughter.”　They　both　laughed.　“Even　wid　dem　overhalls　on,　you　shows　yo　womanhood.”

“Gwan!　Gwan!　You　must　think　Ah　brought　yuh　somethin.　When　Ah　aint　brought　home　a　thing　but　mahself.”　“Dats　a　gracious　plenty.　Yo　friends　wouldnt　want　nothin　better.”

“Ah　takes　dat　flattery　offa　you,　Pheoby,　cause　Ah　know　its　from　de　heart.”　Janie　extended　her　hand.　“Good　Lawd,　Pheoby!　aint　you　never　goin　tuh　gimme　dat　lil　rations　you　brought　me?　Ah　aint　had　a　thing　on　mah　stomach　today　exceptin　mah　hand.”　They　both　laughed　easily.　“Give　it　here　and　have　a　seat.”

“Ah　knowed　youd　be　hongry.　No　time　to　be　huntin　stove　wood　after　dark.　Mah　mulatto　rice　aint　so　good　dis　time.　Not　enough　bacon　grease,　but　Ah　reckon　itll　kill　hongry.”

“Ahll　tell　you　in　a　minute,”　Janie　said,　lifting　the　cover.　“Gal,　its　too　good!　you　switches　a　mean　fanny　round　in　a　kitchen.”

“Aw,　dat　aint　much　to　eat,　Janie.　But　Ahm　liable　to　have　something　sho　nuff　good　tomorrow,　cause　you　done　come.”

Janie　ate　heartily　and　said　nothing.　The　varicolored　cloud　dust　that　the　sun　had　stirred　up　in　the　sky　was　settling　by　slow　degrees.

“Here,　Pheoby,　take　yo　ole　plate.　Ah　aint　got　a　bit　of　use　for　a　empty　dish.　Dat　grub　sho　come　in　handy.

Pheoby　laughed　at　her　friends　rough　joke.　“Youse　just　as　crazy　as　you　ever　was.”

“Hand　me　dat　washrag　on　dat　chair　by　you,　honey.　Lemme　scrub　mah　feet.”　She　took　the　cloth　and　rubbed　vigorously.　Laughter　came　to　her　from　the　big　road.

“Well,　Ah　see　MouthAlmighty　is　still　sittin　in　de　same　place.　And　Ah　reckon　they　got　me　up　in　they　mouth　now.”

“Yes　indeed.　You　know　if　you　pass　some　people　and　dont　speak　tuh　suit　em　dey　got　tuh　go　way　back　in　yo　life　and　see　whut　you　ever　done.

They　know　mo　bout　yuh　than　you　do　yo　self.　An　envious　heart　makes　a　treacherous　ear.　They　done　‘heard’　bout　you　just　what　they　hope　done　happened.”

“If　God　dont　think　no　mo　bout　em　then　Ah　do,　theys　a　lost　ball　in　de　high　grass.

“Ah　hears　what　they　say　cause　they　just　will　collect　round　mah　porch　cause　its　on　de　big　road.　Mah　husband　git　so　sick　of　em　sometime　he　makes　em　all　git　for　home.”

“Sam　is　right　too.　They　just　wearin　out　yo　sittin　chairs.”

“Yeah,　Sam　say　most　of　em　goes　to　church　so　theyll　be　sure　to　rise　in　Judgment基督教及其他一些宗教中所說的末日審判，屆時上帝將根據每個人生前所作所為進行判決，決定他\/她是上天堂還是下地獄。　.　Dats　de　day　dat　every　secret　is　sposed　to　be　made　known.　They　wants　to　be　there　and　hear　it　all.”

“Sam　is　too　crazy!　You　cant　stop　laughin　when　youse　round　him.”

“Uuh　hunh.　He　says　he　aims　to　be　there　hisself　so　he　can　find　out　who　stole　his　corncob　pipe.”

“Pheoby,　dat　Sam　of　yourn　just　wont　quit!　Crazy　thing!”

“Most　of　dese　zigaboos　is　so　het　up　over　yo　business　till　they　liable　to　hurry　theyself　to　Judgment　to　find　out　about　you　if　they　dont　soon　know.　You　better　make　haste　and　tell　em　bout　you　and　Tea　Cake　gittin　married,　and　if　he　taken　all　yo　money　and　went　off　wid　some　young　gal,　and　where　at　he　is　now　and　where　at　is　all　yo　clothes　dat　you　got　to　come　back　here　in　overhalls.”

“Ah　dont　mean　to　bother　wid　tellin　em　nothin,　Pheoby.　Taint　worth　de　trouble.　You　can　tell　em　what　Ah　say　if　you　wants　to.　Dats　just　de　same　as　me　cause　mah　tongue　is　in　mah　friends　mouf.”

“If　you　so　desire　Ahll　tell　em　what　you　tell　me　to　tell　em.”

“To　start　off　wid,　people　like　dem　wastes　up　too　much　time　puttin　they　mouf　on　things　they　dont　know　nothin　about.　Now　they　got　to　look　into　me　loving　Tea　Cake　and　see　whether　it　was　done　right　or　not!　They　dont　know　if　life　is　a　mess　of　cornmeal　dumplings,　and　if　love　is　a　bedquilt!”

“So　long　as　they　get　a　name　to　gnaw　on　they　dont　care　whose　it　is,　and　what　about,　specially　if　they　can　make　it　sound　like　evil.”

“If　they　wants　to　see　and　know,　why　they　dont　come　kiss　and　be　kissed?　Ah　could　then　sit　down　and　tell　em　things.　Ah　been　a　delegate　to　de　big　ssociation　of　life.　Yessuh!　De　Grand　Lodge,　de　big　convention　of　livin　is　just　where　Ah　been　dis　year　and　a　half　yall　aint　seen　me.”

They　sat　there　in　the　fresh　young　darkness　close　together.　Pheoby　eager　to　feel　and　do　through　Janie,　but　hating　to　show　her　zest　for　fear　it　might　be　thought　mere　curiosity.　Janie　full　of　that　oldest　human　longing—selfrevelation.　Pheoby　held　her　tongue　for　a　long　time,　but　she　couldnt　help　moving　her　feet.　So　Janie　spoke.

“They　dont　need　to　worry　about　me　and　my　overhalls　long　as　Ah　still　got　nine　hundred　dollars　in　de　bank.　Tea　Cake　got　me　into　wearing　em—following　behind　him.　Tea　Cake　aint　wasted　up　no　money　of　mine,　and　he　aint　left　me　for　no　young　gal,　neither.　He　give　me　every　consolation　in　de　world.　Hed　tell　em　so　too,　if　he　was　here.　If　he　wasnt　gone.”

Pheoby　dilated　all　over　with　eagerness,　“Tea　Cake　gone?”

“Yeah,　Pheoby,　Tea　Cake　is　gone.　And　dats　de　only　reason　you　see　me　back　here—cause　Ah　aint　got　nothing　to　make　me　happy　no　more　where　Ah　was　at.　Down　in　the　Everglades　there,　down　on　the　muck.”

“Its　hard　for　me　to　understand　what　you　mean,　de　way　you　tell　it.　And　then　again　Ahm　hard　of　understandin　at　times.”

“Naw,　taint　nothin　lak　you　might　think.　So　taint　no　use　in　me　telling　you　somethin　unless　Ah　give　you　de　understandin　to　go　long　wid　it.　Unless　you　see　de　fur,　a　mink　skin　aint　no　different　from　a　coon　hide.　Looka　heah,　Pheoby,　is　Sam　waitin　on　you　for　his　supper?”

“Its　all　ready　and　waitin.　If　he　aint　got　sense　enough　to　eat　it,　dats　his　hard　luck.”

“Well　then,　we　can　set　right　where　we　is　and　talk.　Ah　got　the　house　all　opened　up　to　let　dis　breeze　get　a　little　catchin.”

“Pheoby,　we　been　kissinfriends　for　twenty　years,　so　Ah　depend　on　you　for　a　good　thought.　And　Ahm　talking　to　you　from　dat　standpoint.”

Time　makes　everything　old　so　the　“Pheoby,　we　been　kissinfriends　for　twenty　years,　so　Ah　depend　on　you　for　a　good　thought.　And　Ahm　talking　to　you　from　dat　standpoint.”

Time　makes　everything　old　so　the　kissing,　young　darkness　became　a　monstropolous　old　thing　while　Janie　talked.

Chapter　2

Janie　saw　her　life　like　a　great　tree　in　leaf　with　the　things　suffered,　things　enjoyed,　things　done　and　undone.　Dawn　and　doom　was　in　the　branches.　“Ah　know　exactly　what　Ah　got　to　tell　yuh,　but　its　hard　to　know　where　to　start　at.

“Ah　aint　never　seen　mah　papa.　And　Ah　didnt　know　im　if　Ah　did.　Mah　mama　neither.　She　was　gone　from　round　dere　long　before　Ah　wuz　big　enough　tuh　know.　Mah　grandma　raised　me.　Mah　grandma　and　de　white　folks　she　worked　wid.　She　had　a　house　out　in　de　backyard　and　dats　where　Ah　wuz　born.　They　was　quality　white　folks　up　dere　in　West　Florida.　Named　Washburn.　She　had　four　granchillun　on　de　place　and　all　of　us　played　together　and　dats　how　come　Ah　never　called　mah　Grandma　nothin　but　Nanny,　cause　dats　what　everybody　on　de　place　called　her.　Nanny　used　to　ketch　us　in　our　devilment　and　lick　every　youngun　on　de　place　and　Mis　Washburn　did　de　same.　Ah　reckon　dey　never　hit　us　ah　lick　amiss　cause　dem　three　boys　and　us　two　girls　wuz　pretty　aggravatin,　Ah　speck.

“Ah　was　wid　dem　white　chillun　so　much　till　Ah　didnt　know　Ah　wuznt　white　till　Ah　was　round　six　years　old.　Wouldnt　have　found　it　out　then,　but　a　man　come　long　takin　pictures　and　without　askin　anybody,　Shelby,　dat　was　de　oldest　boy,　he　told　him　to　take　us.　Round　a　week　later　de　man　brought　de　picture　for　Mis　Washburn　to　see　and　pay　him　which　she　did,　then　give　us　all　a　good　lickin.

“So　when　we　looked　at　de　picture　and　everybody　got　pointed　out　there　wasnt　nobody　left　except　a　real　dark　little　girl　with　long　hair　standing　by　Eleanor.　Dats　where　Ah　wuz　sposed　to　be,　but　Ah　couldnt　recognize　dat　dark　chile　as　me.　So　Ah　ast,　‘where　is　me?　Ah　dont　see　me.’

“Everybody　laughed,　even　Mr.　Washburn.　Miss　Nellie,　de　Mama　of　de　chillun　who　come　back　home　after　her　husband　dead,　she　pointed　to　de　dark　one　and　said,　‘Dats　you,　Alphabet,　dont　you　know　yo　ownself?’

“Dey　all　useter　call　me　Alphabet　cause　so　many　people　had　done　named　me　different　names.　Ah　looked　at　de　picture　a　long　time　and　seen　it　was　mah　dress　and　mah　hair　so　Ah　said:

“‘Aw,　aw!　Ahm　colored!’

“Den　dey　all　laughed　real　hard.　But　before　Ah　seen　de　picture　Ah　thought　Ah　wuz　just　like　de　rest.

“Us　lived　dere　havin　fun　till　de　chillum　at　school　got　to　teasin　me　bout　livin　in　de　white　folks　backyard.　Dere　wuz　uh　knotty　head　gal　name　Mayrella　dat　useter　git　mad　every　time　she　look　at　me.　Mis　Washburn　useter　dress　me　up　in　all　de　clothes　her　granchillun　didnt　need　no　mo　which　still　wuz　bettern　whut　de　rest　uh　de　colored　chillun　had.　And　then　she　useter　put　hair　ribbon　on　mah　head　fuh　me　tuh　wear.　Dat　useter　rile　Mayrella　uh　lot.　So　she　would　pick　at　me　all　de　time　and　put　some　others　up　tuh　do　de　same.　Theyd　push　me　way　from　de　ring　plays　and　make　out　they　couldnt　play　wid　nobody　dat　lived　on　premises.　Den　theyd　tell　me　not　to　be　takin　on　over　mah　looks　cause　they　mama　told　em　bout　de　hound　dawgs　huntin　mah　papa　all　night　long.　Bout　Mr.　Washburn　and　de　sheriff　puttin　de　bloodhounds　on　de　trail　tuh　ketch　mah　papa　for　whut　he　done　tuh　mah　mama.　Dey　didnt　tell　about　how　he　wuz　seen　tryin　tuh　git　in　touch　wid　mah　mama　later　on　so　he　could　marry　her.　Naw,　dey　didnt　talk　dat　part　of　it　atall.　Dey　made　it　sound　real　bad　so　as　tuh　crumple　mah　feathers.　None　of　em　didnt　even　remember　whut　his　name　wuz,　but　dey　all　knowed　de　bloodhound　part　by　heart.　Nanny　didnt　love　tuh　see　me　wid　mah　head　hung　down,　so　she　figgered　it　would　be　mo　better　fuh　me　if　us　had　uh　house.　She　got　de　land　and　everything　and　then　Mis　Washburn　helped　out　uh　whole　heap　wid　things.”

Pheobys　hungry　listening　helped　Janie　to　tell　her　story.　So　she　went　on　thinking　back　to　her　young　years　and　explaining　them　to　her　friend　in　soft,　easy　phrases　while　all　around　the　house,　the　night　time　put　on　flesh　and　blackness.

She　thought　awhile　and　decided　that　her　conscious　life　had　commenced　at　Nannys　gate.　On　a　late　afternoon　Nanny　had　called　her　to　come　inside　the　house　because　she　had　spied　Janie　letting　Johnny　Taylor　kiss　her　over　the　gatepost.

It　was　a　spring　afternoon　in　West　Florida.　Janie　had　spent　most　of　the　day　under　a　blossoming　pear　tree　in　the　backyard.　She　had　been　spending　every　minute　that　she　could　steal　from　her　chores　under　that　tree　for　the　last　three　days.　That　was　to　say,　ever　since　the　first　tiny　bloom　had　opened.　It　had　called　her　to　come　and　gaze　on　a　mystery.　From　barren　brown　stems　to　glistening　leafbuds;　from　the　leafbuds　to　snowy　virginity　of　bloom.　It　stirred　her　tremendously.　How?　Why?　It　was　like　a　flute　song　forgotten　in　another　existence　and　remembered　again.　What?　How?　Why?　This　singing　she　heard　that　had　nothing　to　do　with　her　ears.　The　rose　of　the　world　was　breathing　out　smell.　It　followed　her　through　all　her　waking　moments　and　caressed　her　in　her　sleep.　It　connected　itself　with　other　vaguely　felt　matters　that　had　struck　her　outside　observation　and　buried　themselves　in　her　flesh.　Now　they　emerged　and　quested　about　her　consciousness.

She　was　stretched　on　her　back　beneath　the　pear　tree　soaking　in　the　alto　chant　of　the　visiting　bees,　the　gold　of　the　sun　and　the　panting　breath　of　the　breeze　when　the　inaudible　voice　of　it　all　came　to　her.　She　saw　a　dustbearing　bee　sink　into　the　sanctum　of　a　bloom;　the　thousand　sistercalyxes　arch　to　meet　the　love　embrace　and　the　ecstatic　shiver　of　the　tree　from　root　to　tiniest　branch　creaming　in　every　blossom　and　frothing　with　delight.　So　this　was　a　marriage!　She　had　been　summoned　to　behold　a　revelation.　Then　Janie　felt　a　pain　remorseless　sweet　that　left　her　limp　and　languid.

After　a　while　she　got　up　from　where　she　was　and　went　over　the　little　garden　field　entire.　She　was　seeking　confirmation　of　the　voice　and　vision,　and　everywhere　she　found　and　acknowledged　answers.　A　personal　answer　for　all　other　creations　except　herself.　She　felt　an　answer　seeking　her,　but　where?　When?　How?　She　found　herself　at　the　kitchen　door　and　stumbled　inside.　In　the　air　of　the　room　were　flies　tumbling　and　singing,　marrying　and　giving　in　marriage.　When　she　reached　the　narrow　hallway　she　was　reminded　that　her　grandmother　was　home　with　a　sick　headache.　She　was　lying　across　the　bed　asleep　so　Janie　tipped　on　out　of　the　front　door.　Oh　to　be　a　pear　tree—any　tree　in　bloom!　With　kissing　bees　singing　of　the　beginning　of　the　world!　She　was　sixteen.　She　had　glossy　leaves　and　bursting　buds　and　she　wanted　to　struggle　with　life　but　it　seemed　to　elude　her.　Where　were　the　singing　bees　for　her?　Nothing　on　the　place　nor　in　her　grandmas　house　answered　her.　She　searched　as　much　of　the　world　as　she　could　from　the　top　of　the　front　steps　and　then　went　on　down　to　the　front　gate　and　leaned　over　to　gaze　up　and　down　the　road.　Looking,　waiting,　breathing　short　with　impatience.　Waiting　for　the　world　to　be　made.

Through　pollinated　air　she　saw　a　glorious　being　coming　up　the　road.　In　her　former　blindness　she　had　known　him　as　shiftless　Johnny　Taylor,　tall　and　lean.　That　was　before　the　golden　dust　of　pollen　had　beglamored　his　rags　and　her　eyes.

In　the　last　stages　of　Nannys　sleep,　she　dreamed　of　voices.　Voices　faroff　but　persistent,　and　gradually　coming　nearer.　Janies　voice.　Janie　talking　in　whispery　snatches　with　a　male　voice　she　couldnt　quite　place.　That　brought　her　wide　awake.　She　bolted　upright　and　peered　out　of　the　window　and　saw　Johnny　Taylor　lacerating　her　Janie　with　a　kiss.

“Janie!”

The　old　womans　voice　was　so　lacking　in　command　and　reproof,　so　full　of　crumbling　dissolution,—that　Janie　half　believed　that　Nanny　had　not　seen　her.　So　she　extended　herself　outside　of　her　dream　and　went　inside　of　the　house.　That　was　the　end　of　her　childhood.

Nannys　head　and　face　looked　like　the　standing　roots　of　some　old　tree　that　had　been　torn　away　by　storm.　Foundation　of　ancient　power　that　no　longer　mattered.　The　cooling　palma　christi　leaves　that　Janie　had　bound　about　her　grandmas　head　with　a　white　rag　had　wilted　down　and　become　part　and　parcel　of　the　woman.　Her　eyes　didnt　bore　and　pierce.　They　diffused　and　melted　Janie,　the　room　and　the　world　into　one　comprehension.

“Janie,　youse　uh　oman,　now,　so—”　“Naw,　Nanny,　naw　Ah　aint　no　real　oman　yet.”

The　thought　was　too　new　and　heavy　for　Janie.　She　fought　it　away.

Nanny　closed　her　eyes　and　nodded　a　slow,　weary　affirmation　many　times　before　she　gave　it　voice.

“Yeah,　Janie,　youse　got　yo　womanhood　on　yuh.　So　Ah　mout　ez　well　tell　yuh　whut　Ah　been　savin　up　for　uh　spell.　Ah　wants　to　see　you　married　right　away.

“Me,　married?　Naw,　Nanny,　no　maam!　Whut　Ah　know　bout　uh　husband?”

“Whut　Ah　seen　just　now　is　plenty　for　me,　honey,　Ah　dont　want　no　trashy　nigger,　no　breathandbritches,　lak　Johnny　Taylor　usin　yo　body　to　wipe　his　foots　on.”

Nannys　words　made　Janies　kiss　across　the　gatepost　seem　like　a　manure　pile　after　a　rain.

“Look　at　me,　Janie.　Dont　set　dere　wid　yo　head　hung　down.　Look　at　yo　ole　grandma!”　Her　voice　began　snagging　on　the　prongs　of　her　feelings.　“Ah　dont　want　to　be　talkin　to　you　lak　dis.　Fact　is　Ah　done　been　on　mah　knees　to　mah　Maker　manys　de　time　askin　please—for　Him　not　to　make　de　burden　too　heavy　for　me　to　bear.”

“Nanny,　Ah　just—Ah　didnt　mean　nothin　bad.”

“Dats　what　makes　me　skeered.　You　dont　mean　no　harm.　You　dont　even　know　where　harm　is　at.　Ahm　ole　now.　Ah　cant　be　always　guidin　yo　feet　from　harm　and　danger.　Ah　wants　to　see　you　married　right　away.

“Who　Ahm　goin　tuh　marry　offhand　lak　dat?　Ah　dont　know　nobody.”

“De　Lawd　will　provide.　He　know　Ah　done　bore　de　burden　in　de　heat　uh　de　day.　Somebody　done　spoke　to　me　bout　you　long　time　ago.　Ah　aint　said　nothin　cause　dat　wasnt　de　way　Ah　placed　you.　Ah　wanted　yuh　to　school　out　and　pick　from　a　higher　bush　and　a　sweeter　berry.　But　dat　aint　yo　idea,　Ah　see.”

“Nanny,　who—who　dat　been　askin　you　for　me?”

“Brother　Logan　Killicks.　Hes　a　good　man,　too.”

“Naw,　Nanny,　no　maam!　Is　dat　whut　he　been　hangin　round　here　for?　He　look　like　some　ole　skullhead　in　de　grave　yard.

The　older　woman　sat　bolt　upright　and　put　her　feet　to　the　floor,　and　thrust　back　the　leaves　from　her　face.

“So　you　dont　want　to　marry　off　decent　like,　do　yuh?　You　just　wants　to　hug　and　kiss　and　feel　around　with　first　one　man　and　then　another,　huh?　You　wants　to　make　me　suck　de　same　sorrow　yo　mama　did,　eh?　Mah　ole　head　aint　gray　enough.　Mah　back　aint　bowed　enough　to　suit　yuh!”

The　vision　of　Logan　Killicks　was　desecrating　the　pear　tree,　but　Janie　didnt　know　how　to　tell　Nanny　that.　She　merely　hunched　over　and　pouted　at　the　floor.

“Janie.”

“Yes,　maam.”

“You　answer　me　when　Ah　speak.　Dont　you　set　dere　poutin　wid　me　after　all　Ah　done　went　through　for　you!”

She　slapped　the　girls　face　violently,　and　forced　her　head　back　so　that　their　eyes　met　in　struggle.　With　her　hand　uplifted　for　the　second　blow　she　saw　the　huge　tear　that　welled　up　from　Janies　heart　and　stood　in　each　eye.　She　saw　the　terrible　agony　and　the　lips　tightened　down　to　hold　back　the　cry　and　desisted.　Instead　she　brushed　back　the　heavy　hair　from　Janies　face　and　stood　there　suffering　and　loving　and　weeping　internally　for　both　of　them.

“Come　to　yo　Grandma,　honey.　Set　in　her　lap　lak　yo　use　tuh.　Yo　Nanny　wouldnt　harm　a　hair　uh　yo　head.　She　dont　want　nobody　else　to　do　it　neither　if　she　kin　help　it.　Honey,　de　white　man　is　de　ruler　of　everything　as　fur　as　Ah　been　able　tuh　find　out.　Maybe　its　some　place　way　off　in　de　ocean　where　de　black　man　is　in　power,　but　we　dont　know　nothin　but　what　we　see.　So　de　white　man　throw　down　de　load　and　tell　de　nigger　man　tuh　pick　it　up.　He　pick　it　up　because　he　have　to,　but　he　dont　tote　it.　He　hand　it　to　his　womenfolks.　De　nigger　woman　is　de　mule　uh　de　world　so　fur　as　Ah　can　see.　Ah　been　prayin　fuh　it　tuh　be　different　wid　you.　Lawd,　Lawd,　Lawd!”

For　a　long　time　she　sat　rocking　with　the　girl　held　tightly　to　her　sunken　breast.　Janies　long　legs　dangled　over　one　arm　of　the　chair　and　the　long　braids　of　her　hair　swung　low　on　the　other　side.　Nanny　half　sung,　half　sobbed　a　running　chantprayer　over　the　head　of　the　weeping　girl.

“Lawd　have　mercy!　It　was　a　long　time　on　de　way　but　Ah　reckon　it　had　to　come.　Oh　Jesus!　Do,　Jesus!　Ah　done　de　best　Ah　could.”

Finally,　they　both　grew　calm.

“Janie,　how　long　you　been　lowin　Johnny　Taylor　to　kiss　you?”

“Only　dis　one　time,　Nanny.　Ah　dont　love　him　at　all.　Whut　made　me　do　it　is—oh,　Ah　dont　know.”

“Thank　yuh,　Massa　Jesus.”

“Ah　aint　gointuh　do　it　no　mo,　Nanny.　Please　dont　make　me　marry　Mr.　Killicks.”

“‘Taint　Logan　Killicks　Ah　wants　you　to　have,　baby,　its　protection.　Ah　aint　gittin　ole,　honey.　Ahm　done　ole.　One　mornin　soon,　now,　de　angel　wid　de　sword　is　gointuh　stop　by　here.　De　day　and　de　hour　is　hid　from　me,　but　it　wont　be　long.　Ah　ast　de　Lawd　when　you　was　uh　infant　in　mah　arms　to　let　me　stay　here　till　you　got　grown.　He　done　spared　me　to　see　de　day.　Mah　daily　prayer　now　is　tuh　let　dese　golden　moments　rolls　on　a　few　days　longer　till　Ah　see　you　safe　in　life.”　“Lemme　wait,　Nanny,　please,　jus　a　lil　bit　mo’.”

“Dont　think　Ah　dont　feel　wid　you,　Janie,　cause　Ah　do.　Ah　couldnt　love　yuh　no　more　if　Ah　had　uh　felt　yo　birth　pains　mahself.　Fact　uh　de　matter,　Ah　loves　yuh　a　whole　heap　moren　Ah　do　yo　mama,　de　one　Ah　did　birth.　But　you　got　to　take　in　consideration　you　aint　no　everyday　chile　like　most　of　em.　You　aint　got　no　papa,　you　might　jus　as　well　say　no　mama,　for　de　good　she　do　yuh.　You　aint　got　nobody　but　me.　And　mah　head　is　ole　and　tilted　towards　de　grave.　Neither　can　you　stand　alone　by　yoself.　De　thought　uh　you　bein　kicked　around　from　pillar　tuh　post　is　uh　hurtin　thing.　Every　tear　you　drop　squeezes　a　cup　uh　blood　outa　mah　heart.　Ah　got　tuh　try　and　do　for　you　befo　mah　head　is　cold.”

A　sobbing　sigh　burst　out　of　Janie.　The　old　woman　answered　her　with　little　soothing　pats　of　the　hand.

“You　know,　honey,　us　colored　folks　is　branches　without　roots　and　that　makes　things　come　round　in　queer　ways.　You　in　particular.　Ah　was　born　back　due　in　slavery　so　it　wasnt　for　me　to　fulfill　my　dreams　of　whut　a　woman　oughta　be　and　to　do.　Dats　one　of　de　holdbacks　of　slavery.　But　nothing　cant　stop　you　from　wishin.　You　cant　beat　nobody　down　so　low　till　you　can　rob　em　of　they　will.　Ah　didnt　want　to　be　used　for　a　workox　and　a　broodsow　and　Ah　didnt　want　mah　daughter　used　dat　way　neither.　It　sho　wasnt　mah　will　for　things　to　happen　lak　they　did.　Ah　even　hated　de　way　you　was　born.　But,　all　de　same　Ah　said　thank　God,　Ah　got　another　chance.　Ah　wanted　to　preach　a　great　sermon　about　colored　women　sittin　on　high,　but　they　wasnt　no　pulpit　for　me.　Freedom　found　me　wid　a　baby　daughter　in　mah　arms,

美國內戰（1861—1865）結束以後，黑人奴隸製被廢除，黑人得以解放，獲得自由。　so　Ah　said　Ahd　take　a　broom　and　a　cookpot　and　throw　up　a　highway　through　de　wilderness　for　her.　She　would　expound　what　Ah　felt.　But　somehow　she　got　lost　offa　de　highway　and　next　thing　Ah　knowed　here　you　was　in　de　world.　So　whilst　Ah　was　tendin　you　of　nights　Ah　said　Ahd　save　de　text　for　you.　Ah　been　waitin　a　long　time,　Janie,　but　nothin　Ah　been　through　aint　too　much　if　you　just　take　a　stand　on　high　ground　lak　Ah　dreamed.”

Old　Nanny　sat　there　rocking　Janie　like　an　infant　and　thinking　back　and　back.　Mindpictures　brought　feelings,　and　feelings　dragged　out　dramas　from　the　hollows　of　her　heart.

“Dat　mornin　on　de　big　plantation　close　to　Savannah,　a　rider　come　in　a　gallop　tellin　bout　Sherman　takin　Atlanta.　Marse　Roberts　son　had　done　been　kilt　at　Chickamauga.　So　he　grabbed　his　gun　and　straddled　his　best　horse　and　went　off　wid　de　rest　of　de　grayheaded　men　and　young　boys　to　drive　de　Yankees　back　into　Tennessee.

“They　was　all　cheerin　and　cryin　and　shoutin　for　de　men　dat　was　ridin　off.　Ah　couldnt　see　nothin　cause　yo　mama　wasnt　but　a　week　old,　and　Ah　was　flat　uh　mah　back.　But　pretty　soon　he　let　on　he　forgot　somethin　and　run　into　mah　cabin　and　made　me　let　down　mah　hair　for　de　last　time.　He　sorta　wropped　his　hand　in　it,　pulled　mah　big　toe,　lak　he　always　done,　and　was　gone　after　de　rest　lak　lightnin.　Ah　heard　em　give　one　last　whoop　for　him.　Then　de　big　house　and　de　quarters　got　sober　and　silent.

“It　was　de　cool　of　de　evenin　when　Mistis　come　walkin　in　mah　door.　She　throwed　de　door　wide　open　and　stood　dere　lookin　at　me　outa　her　eyes　and　her　face.　Look　lak　she　been　livin　through　uh　hundred　years　in　January　without　one　day　of　spring.　She　come　stood　over　me　in　de　bed.

“‘Nanny,　Ah　come　to　see　that　baby　uh　yourn.

“Ah　tried　not　to　feel　de　breeze　off　her　face,　but　it　got　so　cold　in　dere　dat　Ah　was　freezin　to　death　under　the　kivvers.　So　Ah　couldnt　move　right　away　lak　Ah　aimed　to.　But　Ah　knowed　Ah　had　to　make　haste　and　do　it.

“‘You　better　git　dat　kivver　offa　dat　youngun　and　dat　quick!’　she　clashed　at　me.　‘Look　lak　you　dont　know　who　is　Mistis　on　dis　plantation,　Madam.　But　Ah　aims　to　show　you.’

“By　dat　time　I　had　done　managed　tuh　unkivver　mah　baby　enough　for　her　to　see　de　head　and　face.

“‘Nigger,　whuts　yo　baby　doin　wid　gray　eyes　and　yaller　hair?’　She　begin　tuh　slap　mah　jaws　ever　which　away.　Ah　never　felt　the　fust　ones　cause　Ah　wuz　too　busy　gittin　de　kivver　back　over　mah　chile.　But　dem　last　lick　burnt　me　lak　fire.　Ah　had　too　many　feelins　tuh　tell　which　one　tuh　follow　so　Ah　didnt　cry　and　Ah　didnt　do　nothin　else.　But　then　she　kept　on　astin　me　how　come　mah　baby　look　white.　She　asted　me　dat　maybe　twentyfive　or　thirty　times,　lak　she　got　tuh　sayin　dat　and　couldnt　help　herself.　So　Ah　told　her,　‘Ah　dont　know　nothin　but　what　Ahm　told　tuh　do,’　cause　Ah　aint　nothin　but　uh　nigger　and　uh　slave.’

“Instead　of　pacifyin　her　lak　Ah　thought,　look　lak　she　got　madder.　But　Ah　reckon　she　was　tired　and　wore　out　cause　she　didnt　hit　me　no　more.　She　went　to　de　foot　of　de　bed　and　wiped　her　hands　on　her　handksher.　‘Ah　wouldnt　dirty　mah　hands　on　yuh.　But　first　thing　in　de　mornin　de　overseer　will　take　you　to　de　whippin　post　and　tie　you　down　on　yo　knees　and　cut　de　hide　offa　yo　yaller　back.　One　hundred　lashes　wid　a　rawhide　on　yo　bare　back.　Ahll　have　you　whipped　till　de　blood　run　down　to　yo　heels!　Ah　mean　to　count　de　licks　mahself.　And　if　it　kills　you　Ahll　stand　de　loss.　Anyhow,　as　soon　as　dat　brat　is　a　month　old　Ahm　going　to　sell　it　offa　dis　place.’

“She　flounced　on　off　and　let　her　wintertime　wid　me.　Ah　knowed　mah　body　wasnt　healed,　but　Ah　couldnt　consider　dat.　In　de　black　dark　Ah　wrapped　mah　baby　de　best　Ah　knowed　how　and　made　it　to　de　swamp　by　de　river.　Ah　knowed　de　place　was　full　uh　moccasins　and　other　bitin　snakes,　but　Ah　was　more　skeered　uh　whut　was　behind　me.　Ah　hide　in　dere　day　and　night　and　suckled　de　baby　every　time　she　start　to　cry,　for　fear　somebody　might　hear　her　and　Ahd　git　found.　Ah　aint　sayin　uh　friend　or　two　didnt　feel　mah　care.　And　den　de　Good　Lawd　seen　to　it　dat　Ah　wasnt　taken.　Ah　dont　see　how　come　mah　milk　didnt　kill　mah　chile,　wid　me　so　skeered　and　worried　all　de　time.　De　noise　uh　de　owls　skeered　me;　de　limbs　of　dem　cypress　trees　took　to　crawlin　and　movin　round　after　dark,　and　two　three　times　Ah　heered　panthers　prowlin　round.　But　nothin　never　hurt　me　cause　de　Lawd　knowed　how　it　was.

“Den,　one　night　Ah　heard　de　big　guns　boomin　lak　thunder.　It　kept　up　all　night　long.　And　de　next　mornin　Ah　could　see　uh　big　ship　at　a　distance　and　a　great　stirrin　round.　So　Ah　wrapped　Leafy　up　in　moss　and　fixed　her　good　in　a　tree　and　picked　mah　way　on　down　to　de　landin.　The　men　was　all　in　blue在美國內戰中，穿著藍色軍服的士兵屬於北方聯邦的軍隊。,　and　Ah　heard　people　say　Sherman　was　comin　to　meet　de　boats　in　Savannah,　and　all　of　us　slaves　was　free.　So　Ah　run　got　mah　baby　and　got　in　quotation　wid　people　and　found　a　place　Ah　could　stay.

“But　it　was　a　long　time　after　dat　befo　de　Big　Surrender　at　Richmond在美國內戰中，南方軍隊戰敗，在裏士滿投降。.　Den　de　big　bell　ring　in　Atlanta　and　all　de　men　in　gray　uniforms在美國內戰中，穿著灰色軍服的士兵屬於南方聯邦的軍隊。　had　to　go　to　Moultrie,　and　bury　their　swords　in　de　ground　to　show　they　was　never　to　fight　about　slavery　no　mo.　So　den　we　knowed　we　was　free.

“Ah　wouldnt　marry　nobody,　though　Ah　could　have　uh　heap　uh　times,　cause　Ah　didnt　want　nobody　mistreating　mah　baby.　So　Ah　got　with　some　good　white　people　and　come　down　here　in　West　Florida　to　work　and　make　de　sun　shine　on　both　sides　of　de　street　for　Leafy.

“Mah　Madam　help　me　wid　her　just　lak　she　been　doin　wid　you.　Ah　put　her　in　school　when　it　got　so　it　was　a　school　to　put　her　in.　Ah　was　spectin　to　make　a　school　teacher　outa　her.

“But　one　day　she　didnt　come　home　at　de　usual　time　and　Ah　waited　and　waited,　but　she　never　come　all　dat　night.　Ah　took　a　lantern　and　went　round　askin　everybody　but　nobody　aint　seen　her.　De　next　mornin　she　come　crawlin　in　on　her　hands　and　knees.　A　sight　to　see.　Dat　school　teacher　had　done　hid　her　in　de　woods　all　night　long,　and　he　had　done　raped　mah　baby　and　run　on　off　just　before　day.

“She　was　only　seventeen,　and　somethin　lak　dat　to　happen!　Lawd　amussy!　Look　lak　Ah　kin　see　it　all　over　again.　It　was　a　long　time　before　she　was　well,　and　by　dat　time　we　knowed　you　was　on　de　way.　And　after　you　was　born　she　took　to　drinkin　likker　and　stayin　out　nights.　Couldnt　git　her　to　stay　here　and　nowhere　else.　Lawd　knows　where　she　is　right　now.　She　aint　dead,　cause　Ahd　know　it　by　mah　feelings,　but　sometimes　Ah　wish　she　was　at　rest.

“And,　Janie,　maybe　it　wasnt　much,　but　Ah　done　de　best　Ah　kin　by　you.　Ah　raked　and　scraped　and　bought　dis　lil　piece　uh　land　so　you　wouldnt　have　to　stay　in　de　white　folks　yard　and　tuck　yo　head　befo　other　chillun　at　school.　Dat　was　all　right　when　you　was　little.　But　when　you　got　big　enough　to　understand　things,　Ah　wanted　you　to　look　upon　yoself.　Ah　dont　want　yo　feathers　always　crumpled　by　folks　throwin　up　things　in　yo　face.　And　Ah　cant　die　easy　thinkin　maybe　de　menfolks　white　or　black　is　makin　a　spit　cup　outa　you:　Have　some　sympathy　fuh　me.　Put　me　down　easy,　Janie,　Ahm　a　cracked　plate.”

Questions　for　Discussion

1.　What　kind　of　black　feminist　ideas　does　Zora　Neale　Hurston　express　in　Their　Eyes　Were　Watching　God?

2.　How　can　we　interpret　the　writing　strategies　used　in　Their　Eyes　Were　Watching　God　from　the　perspective　of　postcolonialism?

3.　Whats　the　big　conflict　represented　in　the　novel,　and　how　can　we　understand　the　misunderstanding　among　black　folks?

2.　Invisible　Man

作者簡介

拉爾夫·艾裏森（1914—1994）是20世紀最重要的美國作家之一，一生隻出版了一部小說《看不見的人》，但創作了大量評論性文章和短篇故事。艾裏森於1914年出生於俄克拉荷馬城的一個貧寒之家，父親在1916年的一場事故中去世，母親獨自承擔了養育孩子的重任。小學時他首次接觸到音樂教育，對音樂的熱愛伴隨了他的一生，音樂影響了他的小說和批評創作。1933年，他高中畢業前往阿拉巴馬州的塔斯克基學院學習作曲。雖然受到古典音樂的訓練，但他深愛爵士樂和搖擺樂，並將這兩種風格揉入自己的作曲中，這使得他與學院上下的保守風氣格格不入。此時他的興趣部分地轉向文學，接觸到艾略特的現代主義詩歌，其現代主義風格對艾裏森後來創作《看不見的人》影響很大。1936年，他離開塔斯克基學院，北上紐約哈萊姆，結識了蘭斯頓·休斯和理查德·賴特，進入哈萊姆文人團體，也由此接觸到設立在哈萊姆的美國共產黨總部。在為聯邦作家項目工作期間，艾裏森收集了大量非裔美國民間故事和奴隸敘事，頭腦中漸漸形成了很多之後在創作《看不見的人》時的想法和意象。二戰中他在美國商船上服役，同時出版了幾篇最知名的短篇故事，包括“賓戈遊戲之王”和“飛回家”等。1952年《看不見的人》出版後，艾裏森立刻著手開始創作第二部小說，但1967年的一場大火毀掉了他的手稿，雖然艾裏森後來一直試圖重寫這部小說，但直至1994年患癌去世也未能完成。在他去世後，這部小說最終以《六月慶典》（1999）為題出版。艾裏森一生創作了數量驚人的短篇故事、書評和評論。他有關文學、藝術、文化、民主和爵士樂的文章至今仍是對美國社會最明晰最具鑒賞力的評述。此類文章主要收集在《影子與行動》（Shadow　and　Act,　1964）、《去高地》（Going　to　the　Territory,　1986）以及他去世後由別人編輯整理出版的《艾裏森文選》（1994）中，他對20世紀美國黑人文學第二次浪潮的興起做出了巨大貢獻。

作品簡介與賞析

小說的無名主人公曾是生活在美國南方的一個好孩子，從懂事起就一直努力按照學校教育所灌輸的一整套價值觀念塑造自己，直到大學期間無意間讓一名白人校董看到了校長布萊索希望掩蓋的黑人的真實生活後，他受到懲罰，被學校除名。北上紐約尋找工作時，他一再受挫，最後終於在一家油漆廠找到了工作，卻被其他工人視為工賊。油漆廠發生爆炸，他身受重傷，廠醫院卻將他當實驗品，致使他一度失去意識。流浪哈萊姆時，他在街頭為一對黑人老夫婦仗義執言，其演講口才頗為左翼組織“兄弟會”首領傑克兄弟賞識，允其加入，但隻是被當作拉選票的工具。最後，主人公為兄弟會所不容，又遭到黑人民族主義極端分子拉斯的追殺，隻能遁入地下，棲居在紐約一所公寓的地下室，與社會斷絕往來。小說揭示了美國社會的悖論：這個國家依照先輩的理想建國，然而現實表明它早已背叛了這些理想。

《看不見的人》於1952年由蘭登書屋出版，獲得廣泛好評。第二年獲得國家圖書獎，艾裏森成為第一位獲此殊榮的非裔美國作家。1965年，《圖書周刊》經過問卷調查，將《看不見的人》推選為1945年以來美國最出色的一部作品。在一片讚譽聲中也不乏批評的聲音。有人責難艾裏森沒有從“抗議小說”的立場出發進行創作。對此，艾裏森回應道：“我要求把我的小說作為藝術來評價；如果失敗，那是美學上的失敗，而不是因為我是否進行過意識形態的鬥爭。”事實上，這部作品經受了時間的考驗，被譽為美國最偉大的小說之一，躋身於經典美國文學的殿堂。

小說結構由序曲、正文和尾聲三部分組成，以第一人稱敘述人“淪為看不見的人後藏身於地下”開頭，中間回憶他曾經的地上生活，結尾則敘述他重新回到地下，組成了一個環形結構。在時間的處理上，敘事由現在的狀態，追溯過往，之後又回到現在，從而將敘述者的過去、現在和將來連成一個有機整體。就類型而言，它屬於成長小說，記錄了敘述人認識社會和自我的成長經曆。與主人公的成長經曆相對應的是小說采用了流浪漢小說的模式。小說中事件發生地頻繁轉換：從偏僻鄉間到高等學府，從南方到北方，從工廠到醫院，從客棧到社區。小說追隨著主人公的腳步，從童年走入成年，從天真走入覺醒。與此同時，社會的方方麵麵和各色人等透過他的眼睛，呈現在讀者麵前。

下文選自小說的序曲和第一章。主人公兼敘事人“我”用倒敘的手法講述了自己為何藏身地下，成為一個看不見的人。而小說以一句“我是一個看不見的人”開啟全書的靈魂——序曲，奠定了全書的主題、形式和基調。序曲中“我”以社會反叛者的姿態描述了自己的地下生活，揭開美國文化的瘡疤：“我的洞溫暖如春，光線充足。確實是光線充足。恐怕走遍整個紐約也找不到像我這個洞這樣明亮的地方，即使百老彙也不例外。帝國大廈晚上燈火通明，連攝影師也覺得光線理想，但也比不上我的洞。那是騙人的。這兩個地方看來明亮，其實是我們整個文明最為黑暗的場所——請原諒，我該說我們整個文化最為黑暗的地方”……主人公自述自己20年來過著行屍走肉的生活，“直到發現自己是個看不見的人，才意識到自己是個活人。”

第一章中的主人公追述了自己中學畢業前夕的一件往事。作為優秀學生代表，“我”被邀請在本鎮白人頭麵人物的集會上發表自己的畢業演說。“我”趕到集會地，卻發現自己必須參加一場以娛樂白人為目的的格鬥。格鬥者由黑人青少年組成，為爭取獎金開展一場你死我活的格鬥，同時受盡白人戲耍侮辱。格鬥結束，“我”遍體鱗傷，仍然努力完成自己的演講。作為獎勵，“我”得到一隻高級公文包，裏麵是一張州立黑人學院的獎學金證書。當晚“我”夢見自己打開公文包，發現裏麵無數信封套著的一封短信，上麵寫著：“敬啟者，務必讓這個小黑鬼不停地跑下去。”這句話無情地揭示了美國社會種族關係的本質。

Prologue

I　am　an　invisible　man.　No,　I　am　not　a　spook　like　those　who　haunted　Edgar　Allan　Poe;　nor　am　I　one　of　your　Hollywoodmovie　ectoplasms.　I　am　a　man　of　substance,　of　flesh　and　bone,　fiber　and　liquids—and　I　might　even　be　said　to　possess　a　mind.　I　am　invisible,　understand,　simply　because　people　refuse　to　see　me.　Like　the　bodiless　heads　you　see　sometimes　in　circus　sideshows,　it　is　as　though　I　have　been　surrounded　by　mirrors　of　hard,　distorting　glass.　When　they　approach　me　they　see　only　my　surroundings,　themselves,　or　figments　of　their　imagination—indeed,　everything　and　anything　except　me.

Nor　is　my　invisibility　exactly　a　matter　of　a　biochemical　accident　to　my　epidermis.　That　invisibility　to　which　I　refer　occurs　because　of　a　peculiar　disposition　of　the　eyes　of　those　with　whom　I　come　in　contact.　A　matter　of　the　construction　of　their　inner　eyes,　those　eyes　with　which　they　look　through　their　physical　eyes　upon　reality.　I　am　not　complaining,　nor　am　I　protesting　either.　It　is　sometimes　advantageous　to　be　unseen,　although　it　is　most　often　rather　wearing　on　the　nerves.　Then　too,　youre　constantly　being　bumped　against　by　those　of　poor　vision.　Or　again,　you　often　doubt　if　you　really　exist.　You　wonder　whether　you　arent　simply　a　phantom　in　other　peoples　minds.　Say,　a　figure　in　a　nightmare　which　the　sleeper　tries　with　all　his　strength　to　destroy.　Its　when　you　feel　like　this　that,　out　of　resentment,　you　begin　to　bump　people　back.　And,　let　me　confess,　you　feel　that　way　most　of　the　time.　You　ache　with　the　need　to　convince　yourself　that　you　do　exist　in　the　real　world,　that　youre　a　part　of　all　the　sound　and　anguish,　and　you　strike　out　with　your　fists,　you　curse　and　you　swear　to　make　them　recognize　you.　And,　alas,　its　seldom　successful.

One　night　I　accidentally　bumped　into　a　man,　and　perhaps　because　of　the　near　darkness　he　saw　me　and　called　me　an　insulting　name.　I　sprang　at　him,　seized　his　coat　lapels　and　demanded　that　he　apologize.　He　was　a　tall　blond　man,　and　as　my　face　came　close　to　his　he　looked　insolently　out　of　his　blue　eyes　and　cursed　me,　his　breath　hot　in　my　face　as　he　struggled.　I　pulled　his　chin　down　sharp　upon　the　crown　of　my　head,　butting　him　as　I　had　seen　the　West　Indians　do,　and　I　felt　his　flesh　tear　and　the　blood　gush　out,　and　I　yelled,　“Apologize!　Apologize!”　But　he　continued　to　curse　and　struggle,　and　I　butted　him　again　and　again　until　he　went　down　heavily,　on　his　knees,　profusely　bleeding.　I　kicked　him　repeatedly,　in　a　frenzy　because　he　still　uttered　insults　though　his　lips　were　frothy　with　blood.　Oh　yes,　I　kicked　him!　And　in　my　outrage　I　got　out　my　knife　and　prepared　to　slit　his　throat,　right　there　beneath　the　lamplight　in　the　deserted　street,　holding　him　in　the　collar　with　one　hand,　and　opening　the　knife　with　my　teeth—when　it　occurred　to　me　that　the　man　had　not　seen　me,　actually;　that　he,　as　far　as　he　knew,　was　in　the　midst　of　a　walking　nightmare!　And　I　stopped　the　blade,　slicing　the　air　as　I　pushed　him　away,　letting　him　fall　back　to　the　street.　I　stared　at　him　hard　as　the　lights　of　a　car　stabbed　through　the　darkness.　He　lay　there,　moaning　on　the　asphalt;　a　man　almost　killed　by　a　phantom.　It　unnerved　me.　I　was　both　disgusted　and　ashamed.　I　was　like　a　drunken　man　myself,　wavering　about　on　weakened　legs.　Then　I　was　amused:　Something　in　this　mans　thick　head　had　sprung　out　and　beaten　him　within　an　inch　of　his　lifewithin　an　inch　of　his　life:　使他幾乎喪命。.　I　began　to　laugh　at　this　crazy　discovery.　Would　he　have　awakened　at　the　point　of　death?　Would　Death　himself　have　freed　him　for　wakeful　living?　But　I　didnt　linger.　I　ran　away　into　the　dark,　laughing　so　hard　I　feared　I　might　rupture　myself.　The　next　day　I　saw　his　picture　in　the　Daily　News,　beneath　a　caption　stating　that　he　had　been　“mugged.”　Poor　fool,　poor　blind　fool,　I　thought　with　sincere　compassion,　mugged　by　an　invisible　man!

Most　of　the　time　(although　I　do　not　choose　as　I　once　did　to　deny　the　violence　of　my　days　by　ignoring　it)　I　am　not　so　overtly　violent.　I　remember　that　I　am　invisible　and　walk　softly　so　as　not　to　awaken　the　sleeping　ones.　Sometimes　it　is　best　not　to　awaken　them;　there　are　few　things　in　the　world　as　dangerous　as　sleepwalkers.　I　learned　in　time　though　that　it　is　possible　to　carry　on　a　fight　against　them　without　their　realizing　it.　For　instance,　I　have　been　carrying　on　a　fight　with　Monopolated　Light　&　PowerMonopolated　Light　&　Power：獨營電燈電力公司。　for　some　time　now.　I　use　their　service　and　pay　them　nothing　at　all,　and　they　dont　know　it.　Oh,　they　suspect　that　power　is　being　drained　off,　but　they　dont　know　where.　All　they　know　is　that　according　to　the　master　meter　back　there　in　their　power　station　a　hell　of　a　lot　of　free　current　is　disappearing　somewhere　into　the　jungle　of　Harlem.　The　joke,　of　course,　is　that　I　dont　live　in　Harlem　but　in　a　border　area.　Several　years　ago　(before　I　discovered　the　advantages　of　being　invisible)　I　went　through　the　routine　process　of　buying　service　and　paying　their　outrageous　rates.　But　no　more.　I　gave　up　all　that,　along　with　my　apartment,　and　my　old　way　of　life:　That　way　based　upon　the　fallacious　assumption　that　I,　like　other　men,　was　visible.　Now,　aware　of　my　invisibility,　I　live　rentfree　in　a　building　rented　strictly　to　whites,　in　a　section　of　the　basement　that　was　shut　off　and　forgotten　during　the　nineteenth　century,　which　I　discovered　when　I　was　trying　to　escape　in　the　night　from　Ras　the　DestroyerRas　the　Destroyer：煞星拉斯，小說中的黑人極端主義分子。.　But　thats　getting　too　far　ahead　of　the　story,　almost　to　the　end,　although　the　end　is　in　the　beginning　and　lies　far　ahead.

The　point　now　is　that　I　found　a　home—or　a　hole　in　the　ground,　as　you　will.　Now　dont　jump　to　the　conclusion　that　because　I　call　my　home　a　“hole”　it　is　damp　and　cold　like　a　grave;　there　are　cold　holes　and　warm　holes.　Mine　is　a　warm　hole.　And　remember,　a　bear　retires　to　his　hole　for　the　winter　and　lives　until　spring;　then　he　comes　strolling　out　like　the　Easter　chick　breaking　from　its　shell.　I　say　all　this　to　assure　you　that　it　is　incorrect　to　assume　that,　because　Im　invisible　and　live　in　a　hole,　I　am　dead.　I　am　neither　dead　nor　in　a　state　of　suspended　animation.　Call　me　JacktheBearJacktheBear：爵士音樂家艾靈頓（Duke　Ellington）　(1899—1974)和他的樂隊在1940年的一個唱片標題。,　for　I　am　in　a　state　of　hibernation.

My　hole　is　warm　and　full　of　light.　Yes,　full　of　light.　I　doubt　if　there　is　a　brighter　spot　in　all　New　York　than　this　hole　of　mine,　and　I　do　not　exclude　Broadway.　Or　the　Empire　State　Building　on　a　photographers　dream　night.　But　that　is　taking　advantage　of　you.　Those　two　spots　are　among　the　darkest　of　our　whole　civilization—pardon　me,　our　whole　culture　(an　important　distinction,　Ive　heard)—which　might　sound　like　a　hoax,　or　a　contradiction,　but　that　(by　contradiction,　I　mean)　is　how　the　world　moves:　Not　like　an　arrow,　but　a　boomerang.　(Beware　of　those　who　speak　of　the　spiral　of　history;　they　are　preparing　a　boomerang.　Keep　a　steel　helmet　handy.)　I　know;　I　have　been　boomeranged　across　my　head　so　much　that　I　now　can　see　the　darkness　of　lightness.　And　I　love　light.　Perhaps　youll　think　it　strange　that　an　invisible　man　should　need　light,　desire　light,　love　light.　But　maybe　it　is　exactly　because　I　am　invisible.　Light　confirms　my　reality,　gives　birth　to　my　form.　A　beautiful　girl　once　told　me　of　a　recurring　nightmare　in　which　she　lay　in　the　center　of　a　large　dark　room　and　felt　her　face　expand　until　it　filled　the　whole　room,　becoming　a　formless　mass　while　her　eyes　ran　in　bilious　jelly　up　the　chimney.　And　so　it　is　with　me.　Without　light　I　am　not　only　invisible,　but　formless　as　well;　and　to　be　unaware　of　ones　form　is　to　live　a　death.　I　myself,　after　existing　some　twenty　years,　did　not　become　alive　until　I　discovered　my　invisibility.

That　is　why　I　fight　my　battle　with　Monopolated　Light　&　Power.　The　deeper　reason,　I　mean:　It　allows　me　to　feel　my　vital　aliveness.　I　also　fight　them　for　taking　so　much　of　my　money　before　I　learned　to　protect　myself.　In　my　hole　in　the　basement　there　are　exactly　1,　369　lights.　Ive　wired　the　entire　ceiling,　every　inch　of　it.　And　not　with　fluorescent　bulbs,　but　with　the　older,　moreexpensivetooperate　kind,　the　filament　type.　An　act　of　sabotage,　you　know.　Ive　already　begun　to　wire　the　wall.　A　junk　man　I　know,　a　man　of　vision,　has　supplied　me　with　wire　and　sockets.　Nothing,　storm　or　flood,　must　get　in　the　way　of　our　need　for　light　and　ever　more　and　brighter　light.　The　truth　is　the　light　and　light　is　the　truth.　When　I　finish　all　four　walls,　then　Ill　start　on　the　floor.　Just　how　that　will　go,　I　dont　know.　Yet　when　you　have　lived　invisible　as　long　as　I　have　you　develop　a　certain　ingenuity.　Ill　solve　the　problem.　And　maybe　Ill　invent　a　gadget　to　place　my　coffee　pot　on　the　fire　while　I　lie　in　bed,　and　even　invent　a　gadget　to　warm　my　bed—like　the　fellow　I　saw　in　one　of　the　picture　magazines　who　made　himself　a　gadget　to　warm　his　shoes!　Though　invisible,　I　am　in　the　great　American　tradition　of　tinkers.　That　makes　me　kin　to　Ford,　Edison　and　Franklin.　4　Call　me,　since　I　have　a　theory　and　a　concept,　a　“thinkertinker.”　Yes,　Ill　warm　my　shoes;　they　need　it,　theyre　usually　full　of　holes.　Ill　do　that　and　more.

Now　I　have　one　radiophonograph;　I　plan　to　have　five.　There　is　a　certain　acoustical　deadness　in　my　hole,　and　when　I　have　music　I　want　to　feel　its　vibration,　not　only　with　my　ear　but　with　my　whole　body.　Id　like　to　hear　five　recordings　of　Louis　ArmstrongLouis　Armstrong：路易斯·阿姆斯特朗（1900—1971），美國著名爵士音樂家。　playing　and　singing　“What　Did　I　Do　to　Be　so　Black　and　Blue”—all　at　the　same　time.　Sometimes　now　I　listen　to　Louis　while　I　have　my　favorite　dessert　of　vanilla　ice　cream　and　sloe　gin.　I　pour　the　red　liquid　over　the　white　mound,　watching　it　glisten　and　the　vapor　rising　as　Louis　bends　that　military　instrument　into　a　beam　of　lyrical　sound.　Perhaps　I　like　Louis　Armstrong　because　hes　made　poetry　out　of　being　invisible.　I　think　it　must　be　because　hes　unaware　that　he　is　invisible.　And　my　own　grasp　of　invisibility　aids　me　to　understand　his　music.　Once　when　I　asked　for　a　cigarette,　some　jokers　gave　me　a　reefer,　which　I　lighted　when　I　got　home　and　sat　listening　to　my　phonograph.　It　was　a　strange　evening.　Invisibility,　let　me　explain,　gives　one　a　slightly　different　sense　of　time,　youre　never　quite　on　the　beat.　Sometimes　youre　ahead　and　sometimes　behind.　Instead　of　the　swift　and　imperceptible　flowing　of　time,　you　are　aware　of　its　nodes,　those　points　where　time　stands　still　or　from　which　it　leaps　ahead.　And　you　slip　into　the　breaks　and　look　around.　Thats　what　you　hear　vaguely　in　Louis　music.

Once　I　saw　a　prizefighter　boxing　a　yokel.　The　fighter　was　swift　and　amazingly　scientific.　His　body　was　one　violent　flow　of　rapid　rhythmic　action.　He　hit　the　yokel　a　hundred　times　while　the　yokel　held　up　his　arms　in　stunned　surprise.　But　suddenly　the　yokel,　rolling　about　in　the　gale　of　boxing　gloves,　struck　one　blow　and　knocked　science,　speed　and　footwork　as　cold　as　a　welldiggers　posterior.　The　smart　money　hit　the　canvas.　The　long　shot　got　the　nod.　The　yokel　had　simply　stepped　inside　of　his　opponents　sense　of　time.　So　under　the　spell　of　the　reefer　I　discovered　a　new　analytical　way　of　listening　to　music.　The　unheard　sounds　came　through,　and　each　melodic　line　existed　of　itself,　stood　out　clearly　from　all　the　rest,　said　its　piece,　and　waited　patiently　for　the　other　voices　to　speak.　That　night　I　found　myself　hearing　not　only　in　time,　but　in　space　as　well.　I　not　only　entered　the　music　but　descended,　like　DanteDante：但丁，意大利詩人，文藝複興運動的先驅人物，代表作是史詩《神曲》。,　into　its　depths.　And　beneath　the　swiftness　of　the　hot　tempo　there　was　a　slower　tempo　and　a　cave　and　I　entered　it　and　looked　around　and　heard　an　old　woman　singing　a　spiritual　as　full　of　Weltschmerz　as　flamencoflamenco:　弗拉門科舞曲，一種西班牙舞。,　and　beneath　that　lay　a　still　lower　level　on　which　I　saw　a　beautiful　girl　the　color　of　ivory　pleading　in　a　voice　like　my　mothers　as　she　stood　before　a　group　of　slaveowners　who　bid　for　her　naked　body,　and　below　that　I　found　a　lower　level　and　a　more　rapid　tempo　and　I　heard　someone　shout:

“Brothers　and　sisters,　my　text　this　morning　is　the　‘Blackness　of　Blackness.’”

And　a　congregation　of　voices　answered:　“That　blackness　is　most　black,　brother,　most　black...”

“In　the　beginning...”

“At　the　very　start,”　they　cried.

“...there　was　blackness...”

“Preach　it...”

“...and　the　sun...”

“The　sun,　Lawd...”

“...was　bloody　red...”

“Red...”

“Now　black　is...”　the　preacher　shouted.

“Bloody...”

“I　said　black　is...”

“Preach　it,　brother...”

“...an　black　aint...”

“Red,　Lawd,　red:　He　said　its　red!”

“Amen,　brother...”

“Black　will　git　you...”

“Yes,　it　will...”

“Yes,　it　will...”

“...an　black　wont...”

“Now,　it　wont!”

“It　do...”

“It　do,　Lawd...”

“...an　it　dont.”

“Halleluiah...”

“...Itll　put　you,　glory,　glory,　Oh　my　Lawd,　in　the　whales　belly.”

“Preach　it,　dear　brother...”

“....an　make　you　tempt...”

“Good　God　amighty!”

“Old　Aunt　Nelly!”

“Black　will　make　you...”

“Black...”

“...or　black　will　unmake　you...”

“Aint　it　the　truth,　Lawd?”

And　at　that　point　a　voice　of　trombone　timbre　screamed　at　me,　“Git　out　of　here,　you　fool!　Is　you　ready　to　commit　treason?”

And　I　tore　myself　away,　hearing　the　old　singer　of　spirituals　moaning,　“Go　curse　your　God,　boy,　and　die.”

I　stopped　and　questioned　her,　asked　her　what　was　wrong.

“I　dearly　loved　my　master,　son,”　she　said.

“You　should　have　hated　him,”　I　said.

“He　gave　me　several　sons,”　she　said,　“and　because　I　loved　my　sons　I　learned　to　love　their　father　though　I　hated　him　too.”

“I　too　have　become　acquainted　with　ambivalence,”　I　said.　“Thats　why　Im　here.”

“Whats　that?”

“Nothing,　a　word　that　doesnt　explain　it.　Why　do　you　moan?”

“I　moan　this　way　cause　hes　dead,”　she　said.

“Then　tell　me,　who　is　that　laughing　upstairs?”

“Thems　my　sons.　They　glad.”

“Yes,　I　can　understand　that　too,”　I　said.

“I　laughs　too,　but　I　moans　too.　He　promised　to　set　us　free　but　he　never　could　bring　hisself　to　do　it.　Still　I　loved　him...”

“Loved　him?　You　mean...?”

“Oh　yes,　but　I　loved　something　else　even　more.”

“What　more?”

“Freedom.”

“Freedom,”　I　said.　“Maybe　freedom　lies　in　hating.”

“Naw,　son,　its　in　loving.　I　loved　him　and　give　him　the　poison　and　he　withered　away　like　a　frostbit　apple.　Them　boys　would　a　tore　him　to　pieces　with　they　homemade　knives.”

“A　mistake　was　made　somewhere,”　I　said,　“Im　confused.”　And　I　wished　to　say　other　things,　but　the　laughter　upstairs　became　too　loud　and　moanlike　for　me　and　I　tried　to　break　out　of　it,　but　I　couldnt.　Just　as　I　was　leaving　I　felt　an　urgent　desire　to　ask　her　what　freedom　was　and　went　back.　She　sat　with　her　head　in　her　hands,　moaning　softly;　her　leatherbrown　face　was　filled　with　sadness.

“Old　woman,　what　is　this　freedom　you　love　so　well?”　I　asked　around　a　corner　of　my　mind.

She　looked　surprised,　then　thoughtful,　then　baffled.　“I　done　forgot,　son.　Its　all　mixed　up.　First　I　think　its　one　thing,　then　I　think　its　another.　It　gits　my　head　to　spinning.　I　guess　now　it　aint　nothing　but　knowing　how　to　say　what　I　got　up　in　my　head.　But　its　a　hard　job,　son.　Too　much　is　done　happen　to　me　in　too　short　a　time.　Hits　like　I　have　a　fever.　Ever　time　I　starts　to　walk　my　head　gits　to　swirling　and　I　falls　down.　Or　if　it　aint　that,　its　the　boys;　they　gits　to　laughing　and　wants　to　kill　up　the　white　folks.　Theys　bitter,　thats　what　they　is...”

“But　what　about　freedom?”

“Leave　me　lone,　boy;　my　head　aches!”

I　left　her,　feeling　dizzy　myself.　I　didnt　get　far.

Suddenly　one　of　the　sons,　a　big　fellow　six　feet　tall,　appeared　out　of　nowhere　and　struck　me　with　his　fist.

“Whats　the　matter,　man?”　I　cried.

“You　made　Ma　cry!”

“But　how?”　I　said,　dodging　a　blow.

“Askin　her　them　questions,　thats　how.　Git　outa　here　and　stay,　and　next　time　you　got　questions　like　that,　ask　yourself!”

He　held　me　in　a　grip　like　cold　stone,　his　fingers　fastening　upon　my　windpipe　until　I　thought　I　would　suffocate　before　he　finally　allowed　me　to　go.　I　stumbled　about　dazed,　the　music　beating　hysterically　in　my　ears.　It　was　dark.　My　head　cleared　and　I　wandered　down　a　dark　narrow　passage,　thinking　I　heard　his　footsteps　hurrying　behind　me.　I　was　sore,　and　into　my　being　had　come　a　profound　craving　for　tranquillity,　for　peace　and　quiet,　a　state　I　felt　I　could　never　achieve.　For　one　thing,　the　trumpet　was　blaring　and　the　rhythm　was　too　hectic.　A　tomtom　beating　like　heartthuds　began　drowning　out　the　trumpet,　filling　my　ears.　I　longed　for　water　and　I　heard　it　rushing　through　the　cold　mains　my　fingers　touched　as　I　felt　my　way,　but　I　couldnt　stop　to　search　because　of　the　footsteps　behind　me.

“Hey,　Ras,”　I　called.　“Is　it　you,　Destroyer?　Rinehart?”

No　answer,　only　the　rhythmic　footsteps　behind　me.　Once　I　tried　crossing　the　road,　but　a　speeding　machine　struck　me,　scraping　the　skin　from　my　leg　as　it　roared　past.

Then　somehow　I　came　out　of　it,　ascending　hastily　from　this　underworld　of　sound　to　hear　Louis　Armstrong　innocently　asking,

What　did　I　do

To　be　so　black

And　blue?

At　first　I　was　afraid;　this　familiar　music　had　demanded　action,　the　kind　of　which　I　was　incapable,　and　yet　had　I　lingered　there　beneath　the　surface　I　might　have　attempted　to　act.　Nevertheless,　I　know　now　that　few　really　listen　to　this　music.　I　sat　on　the　chairs　edge　in　a　soaking　sweat,　as　though　each　of　my　1,　369　bulbs　had　every　one　become　a　klieg　light　in　an　individual　setting　for　a　third　degree　with　Ras　and　Rinehart　in　charge.　It　was　exhausting—as　though　I　had　held　my　breath　continuously　for　an　hour　under　the　terrifying　serenity　that　comes　from　days　of　intense　hunger.　And　yet,　it　was　a　strangely　satisfying　experience　for　an　invisible　man　to　hear　the　silence　of　sound.　I　had　discovered　unrecognized　compulsions　of　my　being—even　though　I　could　not　answer　“yes”　to　their　promptings.　I　havent　smoked　a　reefer　since,　however;　not　because　theyre　illegal,　but　because　to　see　around　corners　is　enough　(that　is　not　unusual　when　you　are　invisible).　But　to　hear　around　them　is　too　much;　it　inhibits　action.　And　despite　Brother　JackBrother　Jack：兄弟會頭目傑克兄弟，書中人物。　and　all　that　sad,　lost　period　of　the　Brotherhood,　I　believe　in　nothing　if　not　in　action.

Please,　a　definition:　A　hibernation　is　a　covert　preparation　for　a　more　overt　action.

Besides,　the　drug　destroys　ones　sense　of　time　completely.　If　that　happened,　I　might　forget　to　dodge　some　bright　morning　and　some　cluck　would　run　me　down　with　an　orange　and　yellow　street　car,　or　a　bilious　bus!　Or　I　might　forget　to　leave　my　hole　when　the　moment　for　action　presents　itself.

Meanwhile　I　enjoy　my　life　with　the　compliments　of　Monopolated　Light　&　Power.　Since　you　never　recognize　me　even　when　in　closest　contact　with　me,　and　since,　no　doubt,　youll　hardly　believe　that　I　exist,　it　wont　matter　if　you　know　that　I　tapped　a　power　line　leading　into　the　building　and　ran　it　into　my　hole　in　the　ground.　Before　that　I　lived　in　the　darkness　into　which　I　was　chased,　but　now　I　see.　Ive　illuminated　the　blackness　of　my　invisibility—and　vice　versa.　And　so　I　play　the　invisible　music　of　my　isolation.　The　last　statement　doesnt　seem　just　right,　does　it?　But　it　is;　you　hear　this　music　simply　because　music　is　heard　and　seldom　seen,　except　by　musicians.　Could　this　compulsion　to　put　invisibility　down　in　black　and　white　be　thus　an　urge　to　make　music　of　invisibility?　But　I　am　an　orator,　a　rabblerouser—Am?　I　was,　and　perhaps　shall　be　again.　Who　knows?　All　sickness　is　not　unto　death,　neither　is　invisibility.

I　can　hear　you　say,　“What　a　horrible,　irresponsible　bastard!”　And　youre　right.　I　leap　to　agree　with　you.　I　am　one　of　the　most　irresponsible　beings　that　ever　lived.　Irresponsibility　is　part　of　my　invisibility;　any　way　you　face　it,　it　is　a　denial.　But　to　whom　can　I　be　responsible,　and　why　should　I　be,　when　you　refuse　to　see　me?　And　wait　until　I　reveal　how　truly　irresponsible　I　am.　Responsibility　rests　upon　recognition,　and　recognition　is　a　form　of　agreement.　Take　the　man　whom　I　almost　killed:　Who　was　responsible　for　that　near　murder—I?　I　dont　think　so,　and　I　refuse　it.　I　wont　buy　it.　You　cant　give　it　to　me.　He　bumped　me,　he　insulted　me.　Shouldnt　he,　for　his　own　personal　safety,　have　recognized　my　hysteria,　my　“danger　potential”?　He,　let　us　say,　was　lost　in　a　dream　world.　But　didnt　he　control　that　dream　world—which,　alas,　is　only　too　real!—and　didnt　he　rule　me　out　of　it?　And　if　he　had　yelled　for　a　policeman,　wouldnt　I　have　been　taken　for　the　offending　one?　Yes,　yes,　yes!　Let　me　agree　with　you,　I　was　the　irresponsible　one;　for　I　should　have　used　my　knife　to　protect　the　higher　interests　of　society.　Some　day　that　kind　of　foolishness　will　cause　us　tragic　trouble.　All　dreamers　and　sleepwalkers　must　pay　the　price,　and　even　the　invisible　victim　is　responsible　for　the　fate　of　all.　But　I　shirked　that　responsibility;　I　became　too　snarled　in　the　incompatible　notions　that　buzzed　within　my　brain.　I　was　a　coward...

But　what　did　I　do　to　be　so　blue?　Bear　with　me.

Chapter　1

It　goes　a　long　way　back,　some　twenty　years.　All　my　life　I　had　been　looking　for　something,　and　everywhere　I　turned　someone　tried　to　tell　me　what　it　was.　I　accepted　their　answers　too,　though　they　were　often　in　contradiction　and　even　selfcontradictory.　I　was　nave.　I　was　looking　for　myself　and　asking　everyone　except　myself　questions　which　I,　and　only　I,　could　answer.　It　took　me　a　long　time　and　much　painful　boomeranging　of　my　expectations　to　achieve　a　realization　everyone　else　appears　to　have　been　born　with:　That　I　am　nobody　but　myself.　But　first　I　had　to　discover　that　I　am　an　invisible　man!

And　yet　I　am　no　freak　of　nature,　nor　of　history.　I　was　in　the　cards,　other　things　having　been　equal　(or　unequal)　eightyfive　years　ago.　I　am　not　ashamed　of　my　grandparents　for　having　been　slaves.　I　am　only　ashamed　of　myself　for　having　at　one　time　been　ashamed.　About　eightyfive　years　ago　they　were　told　that　they　were　free,　united　with　others　of　our　country　in　everything　pertaining　to　the　common　good,　and,　in　everything　social,　separate　like　the　fingers　of　the　hand.　And　they　believed　it.　They　exulted　in　it.　They　stayed　in　their　place,　worked　hard,　and　brought　up　my　father　to　do　the　same.　But　my　grandfather　is　the　one.　He　was　an　odd　old　guy,　my　grandfather,　and　I　am　told　I　take　after　him.　It　was　he　who　caused　the　trouble.　On　his　deathbed　he　called　my　father　to　him　and　said,　“Son,　after　Im　gone　I　want　you　to　keep　up　the　good　fight.　I　never　told　you,　but　our　life　is　a　war　and　I　have　been　a　traitor　all　my　born　days,　a　spy　in　the　enemys　country　ever　since　I　give　up　my　gun　back　in　the　ReconstructionReconstruction：美國南方重建時期（1865—1877）。.　Live　with　your　head　in　the　lions　mouth.　I　want　you　to　overcome　em　with　yeses,　undermine　em　with　grins,　agree　em　to　death　and　destruction,　let　em　swoller　you　till　they　vomit　or　bust　wide　open.”　They　thought　the　old　man　had　gone　out　of　his　mind.　He　had　been　the　meekest　of　men.　The　younger　children　were　rushed　from　the　room,　the　shades　drawn　and　the　flame　of　the　lamp　turned　so　low　that　it　sputtered　on　the　wick　like　the　old　mans　breathing.　“Learn　it　to　the　younguns,”　he　whispered　fiercely;　then　he　died.

But　my　folks　were　more　alarmed　over　his　last　words　than　over　his　dying.　It　was　as　though　he　had　not　died　at　all,　his　words　caused　so　much　anxiety.　I　was　warned　emphatically　to　forget　what　he　had　said　and,　indeed,　this　is　the　first　time　it　has　been　mentioned　outside　the　family　circle.　It　had　a　tremendous　effect　upon　me,　however.　I　could　never　be　sure　of　what　he　meant.　Grandfather　had　been　a　quiet　old　man　who　never　made　any　trouble,　yet　on　his　deathbed　he　had　called　himself　a　traitor　and　a　spy,　and　he　had　spoken　of　his　meekness　as　a　dangerous　activity.　It　became　a　constant　puzzle　which　lay　unanswered　in　the　back　of　my　mind.　And　whenever　things　went　well　for　me　I　remembered　my　grandfather　and　felt　guilty　and　uncomfortable.　It　was　as　though　I　was　carrying　out　his　advice　in　spite　of　myself.　And　to　make　it　worse,　everyone　loved　me　for　it.　I　was　praised　by　the　most　lilywhite　men　of　the　town.　I　was　considered　an　example　of　desirable　conduct—just　as　my　grandfather　had　been.　And　what　puzzled　me　was　that　the　old　man　had　defined　it　as　treachery.　When　I　was　praised　for　my　conduct　I　felt　a　guilt　that　in　some　way　I　was　doing　something　that　was　really　against　the　wishes　of　the　white　folks,　that　if　they　had　understood　they　would　have　desired　me　to　act　just　the　opposite,　that　I　should　have　been　sulky　and　mean,　and　that　that　really　would　have　been　what　they　wanted,　even　though　they　were　fooled　and　thought　they　wanted　me　to　act　as　I　did.　It　made　me　afraid　that　some　day　they　would　look　upon　me　as　a　traitor　and　I　would　be　lost.　Still　I　was　more　afraid　to　act　any　other　way　because　they　didnt　like　that　at　all.　The　old　mans　words　were　like　a　curse.　On　my　graduation　day　I　delivered　an　oration　in　which　I　showed　that　humility　was　the　secret,　indeed,　the　very　essence　of　progress.　(Not　that　I　believed　this—how　could　I,　remembering　my　grandfather?—I　only　believed　that　it　worked.)　It　was　a　great　success.　Everyone　praised　me　and　I　was　invited　to　give　the　speech　at　a　gathering　of　the　towns　leading　white　citizens.　It　was　a　triumph　for　our　whole　community.

It　was　in　the　main　ballroom　of　the　leading　hotel.　When　I　got　there　I　discovered　that　it　was　onthe　occasion　of　a　smoker,　and　I　was　told　that　since　I　was　to　be　there　anyway　I　might　as　well　take　part　in　the　battle　royal　to　be　fought　by　some　of　my　schoolmates　as　part　of　the　entertainment.　The　battle　royal　came　first.

All　of　the　towns　big　shots　were　there　in　their　tuxedoes,　wolfing　down　the　buffet　foods,　drinking　beer　and　whiskey　and　smoking　black　cigars.　It　was　a　large　room　with　a　high　ceiling.　Chairs　were　arranged　in　neat　rows　around　three　sides　of　a　portable　boxing　ring.　The　fourth　side　was　clear,　revealing　a　gleaming　space　of　polished　floor.　I　had　some　misgivings　over　the　battle　royal,　by　the　way.　Not　from　a　distaste　for　fighting,　but　because　I　didnt　care　too　much　for　the　other　fellows　who　were　to　take　part.　They　were　tough　guys　who　seemed　to　have　no　grandfathers　curse　worrying　their　minds.　No　one　could　mistake　their　toughness.　And　besides,　I　suspected　that　fighting　a　battle　royal　might　detract　from　the　dignity　of　my　speech.　In　those　preinvisible　days　I　visualized　myself　as　a　potential　Booker　T.　WashingtonBooker　T.　Washington：布克·華盛頓，黑奴出生的美國教育家，強調美國黑人的經濟平等勝過社會平等。.　But　the　other　fellows　didnt　care　too　much　for　me　either,　and　there　were　nine　of　them.　I　felt　superior　to　them　in　my　way,　and　I　didnt　like　the　manner　in　which　we　were　all　crowded　together　into　the　servants　elevator.　Nor　did　they　like　my　being　there.　In　fact,　as　the　warmly　lighted　floors　flashed　past　the　elevator　we　had　words　over　the　fact　that　I,　by　taking　part　in　the　fight,　had　knocked　one　of　their　friends　out　of　a　nights　work.

We　were　led　out　of　the　elevator　through　a　rococo16　hall　into　an　anteroom　and　told　to　get　into　our　fighting　togs.　Each　of　us　was　issued　a　pair　of　boxing　gloves　and　ushered　out　into　the　big　mirrored　hall,　which　we　entered　looking　cautiously　about　us　and　whispering,　lest　we　might　accidentally　be　heard　above　the　noise　of　the　room.　It　was　foggy　with　cigar　smoke.　And　already　the　whiskey　was　taking　effect.　I　was　shocked　to　see　some　of　the　most　important　men　of　the　town　quite　tipsy.　They　were　all　there—bankers,　lawyers,　judges,　doctors,　fire　chiefs,　teachers,　merchants.　Even　one　of　the　more　fashionable　pastors.　Something　we　could　not　see　was　going　on　up　front.　A　clarinet　was　vibrating　sensuously　and　the　men　were　standing　up　and　moving　eagerly　forward.　We　were　a　small　tight　group,　clustered　together,　our　bare　upper　bodies　touching　and　shining　with　anticipatory　sweat;　while　up　front　the　big　shots　were　becoming　increasingly　excited　over　something　we　still　could　not　see.　Suddenly　I　heard　the　school　superintendent,　who　had　told　me　to　come,　yell,　“Bring　up　the　shinesshines：（貶）黑家夥。,　gentlemen!　Bring　up　the　little　shines!”

We　were　rushed　up　to　the　front　of　the　ballroom,　where　it　smelled　even　more　strongly　of　tobacco　and　whiskey.　Then　we　were　pushed　into　place.　I　almost　wet　my　pants.　A　sea　of　faces,　some　hostile,　some　amused,　ringed　around　us,　and　in　the　center,　facing　us,　stood　a　magnificent　blonde—stark　naked.　There　was　dead　silence.　I　felt　a　blast　of　cold　air　chill　me.　I　tried　to　back　away,　but　they　were　behind　me　and　around　me.　Some　of　the　boys　stood　with　lowered　heads,　trembling.　I　felt　a　wave　of　irrational　guilt　and　fear.　My　teeth　chattered,　my　skin　turned　to　goose　flesh,　my　knees　knocked.　Yet　I　was　strongly　attracted　and　looked　in　spite　of　myself.　Had　the　price　of　looking　been　blindness,　I　would　have　looked.　The　hair　was　yellow　like　that　of　a　circus　kewpie　doll,　the　face　heavily　powdered　and　rouged,　as　though　to　form　an　abstract　mask,　the　eyes　hollow　and　smeared　a　cool　blue,　the　color　of　a　baboons　butt.　I　felt　a　desire　to　spit　upon　her　as　my　eyes　brushed　slowly　over　her　body.　Her　breasts　were　firm　and　round　as　the　domes　of　East　Indian　temples,　and　I　stood　so　close　as　to　see　the　fine　skin　texture　and　beads　of　pearly　perspiration　glistening　like　dew　around　the　pink　and　erected　buds　of　her　nipples.　I　wanted　at　one　and　the　sametime　to　run　from　the　room,　to　sink　through　the　floor,　or　go　to　her　and　cover　her　from　my　eyes　and　the　eyes　of　the　others　with　my　body;　to　feel　the　soft　thighs,　to　caress　her　and　destroy　her,　to　love　her　and　murder　her,　to　hide　from　her,　and　yet　to　stroke　where　below　the　small　American　flag　tattooed　upon　her　belly　her　thighs　formed　a　capital　V.　I　had　a　notion　that　of　all　in　the　room　she　saw　only　me　with　her　impersonal　eyes.

And　then　she　began　to　dance,　a　slow　sensuous　movement;　the　smoke　of　a　hundred　cigars　clinging　to　her　like　the　thinnest　of　veils.　She　seemed　like　a　fair　birdgirl　girdled　in　veils　calling　to　me　from　the　angry　surface　of　some　gray　and　threatening　sea.　I　was　transported.　Then　I　became　aware　of　the　clarinet　playing　and　the　big　shots　yelling　at　us.　Some　threatened　us　if　we　looked　and　others　if　we　did　not.　On　my　right　I　saw　one　boy　faint.　And　now　a　man　grabbed　a　silver　pitcher　from　a　table　and　stepped　close　as　he　dashed　ice　water　upon　him　and　stood　him　up　and　forced　two　of　us　to　support　him　as　his　head　hung　and　moans　issued　from　his　thick　bluish　lips.　Another　boy　began　to　plead　to　go　home.　He　was　the　largest　of　the　group,　wearing　dark　red　fighting　trunks　much　too　small　to　conceal　the　erection　which　projected　from　him　as　though　in　answer　to　the　insinuating　lowregistered　moaning　of　the　clarinet.　He　tried　to　hide　himself　with　his　boxing　gloves.

And　all　the　while　the　blonde　continued　dancing,　smiling　faintly　at　the　big　shots　who　watched　her　with　fascination,　and　faintly　smiling　at　our　fear.　I　noticed　a　certain　merchant　who　followed　her　hungrily,　his　lips　loose　and　drooling.　He　was　a　large　man　who　wore　diamond　studs　in　a　shirtfront　which　swelled　with　the　ample　paunch　underneath,　and　each　time　the　blonde　swayed　her　undulating　hips　he　ran　his　hand　through　the　thin　hair　of　his　bald　head　and,　with　his　arms　upheld,　his　posture　clumsy　like　that　of　an　intoxicated　panda,　wound　his　belly　in　a　slow　and　obscene　grind.　This　creature　was　completely　hypnotized.　The　music　had　quickened.　As　the　dancer　flung　herself　about　with　a　detached　expression　on　her　face,　the　men　began　reaching　out　to　touch　her.　I　could　see　their　beefy　fingers　sink　into　the　soft　flesh.　Some　of　the　others　tried　to　stop　them　and　she　began　to　move　around　the　floor　in　graceful　circles,　as　they　gave　chase,　slipping　and　sliding　over　the　polished　floor.　It　was　mad.　Chairs　went　crashing,　drinks　were　spilt,　as　they　ran　laughing　and　howling　after　her.　They　caught　her　just　as　she　reached　a　door,　raised　her　from　the　floor,　and　tossed　her　as　college　boys　are　tossed　at　a　hazing,　and　above　her　red,　fixedsmiling　lips　I　saw　the　terror　and　disgust　in　her　eyes,　almost　like　my　own　terror　and　that　which　I　saw　in　some　of　the　other　boys.　As　I　watched,　they　tossed　her　twice　and　her　soft　breasts　seemed　to　flatten　against　the　air　and　her　legs　flung　wildly　as　she　spun.　Some　of　the　more　sober　ones　helped　her　to　escape.　And　I　started　off　the　floor,　heading　for　the　anteroom　with　the　rest　of　the　boys.

Some　were　still　crying　and　in　hysteria.　But　as　we　tried　to　leave　we　were　stopped　and　ordered　to　get　into　the　ring.　There　was　nothing　to　do　but　what　we　were　told.　All　ten　of　us　climbed　under　the　ropes　and　allowed　ourselves　to　be　blindfolded　with　broad　bands　of　white　cloth.　One　of　the　men　seemed　to　feel　a　bit　sympathetic　and　tried　to　cheer　us　up　as　we　stood　with　our　backs　against　the　ropes.　Some　of　us　tried　to　grin.　“See　that　boy　over　there?”　one　of　the　men　said.　“I　want　you　to　run　across　at　the　bell　and　give　it　to　him　right　in　the　belly.　If　you　dont　get　him,　Im　going　to　get　you.　I　dont　like　his　looks.”　Each　of　us　was　told　the　same.　The　blindfolds　were　put　on.　Yet　even　then　I　had　been　going　over　my　speech.　In　my　mind　each　word　was　as　bright　as　flame.　I　felt　the　cloth　pressed　into　place,　and　frowned　so　that　it　would　be　loosened　when　I　relaxed.

But　now　I　felt　a　sudden　fit　of　blind　terror.　I　was　unused　to　darkness.　It　was　as　though　I　had　suddenly　found　myself　in　a　dark　room　filled　with　poisonous　cottonmouths.　I　could　hear　the　bleary　voices　yelling　insistently　for　the　battle　royal　to　begin.

“Get　going　in　there!”

“Let　me　at　that　big　nigger!”

I　strained　to　pick　up　the　school　superintendents　voice,　as　though　to　squeeze　some　security　out　of　that　slightly　more　familiar　sound.

“Let　me　at　those　black　sonsabitches!”　someone　yelled.

“No,　Jackson,　no!”　another　voice　yelled.　“Here,　somebody,　help　me　hold　Jack.”

“I　want　to　get　at　that　gingercolored　nigger.　Tear　him　limb　from　limb,”　the　first　voice　yelled.

I　stood　against　the　ropes　trembling.　For　in　those　days　I　was　what　they　called　gingercolored,　and　he　sounded　as　though　he　might　crunch　me　between　his　teeth　like　a　crisp　ginger　cookie.

Quite　a　struggle　was　going　on.　Chairs　were　being　kicked　about　and　I　could　hear　voices　grunting　as　with　a　terrific　effort.　I　wanted　to　see,　to　see　more　desperately　than　ever　before.　But　the　blindfold　was　tight　as　a　thick　skinpuckering　scab　and　when　I　raised　my　gloved　hands　to　push　the　layers　of　white　aside　a　voice　yelled,　“Oh,　no　you　dont,　black　bastard!　Leave　that　alone!”

“Ring　the　bell　before　Jackson　kills　him　a　cooncoon:　黑鬼。!”　someone　boomed　in　the　sudden　silence.　And　I　heard　the　bell　clang　and　the　sound　of　the　feet　scuffing　forward.

A　glove　smacked　against　my　head.　I　pivoted,　striking　out　stiffly　as　someone　went　past,　and　felt　the　jar　ripple　along　the　length　of　my　arm　to　my　shoulder.　Then　it　seemed　as　though　all　nine　of　the　boys　had　turned　upon　me　at　once.　Blows　pounded　me　from　all　sides　while　I　struck　out　as　best　I　could.　So　many　blows　landed　upon　me　that　I　wondered　if　I　were　not　the　only　blindfolded　fighter　in　the　ring,　or　if　the　man　called　Jackson　hadnt　succeeded　in　getting　me　after　all.

Blindfolded,　I　could　no　longer　control　my　motions.　I　had　no　dignity.　I　stumbled　about　like　a　baby　or　a　drunken　man.　The　smoke　had　become　thicker　and　with　each　new　blow　it　seemed　to　sear　and　further　restrict　my　lungs.　My　saliva　became　like　hot　bitter　glue.　A　glove　connected　with　my　head,　filling　my　mouth　with　warm　blood.　It　was　everywhere.　I　could　not　tell　if　the　moisture　I　felt　upon　my　body　was　sweat　or　blood.　A　blow　landed　hard　against　the　nape　of　my　neck.　I　felt　myself　going　over,　my　head　hitting　the　floor.　Streaks　of　blue　light　filled　the　black　world　behind　the　blindfold.　I　lay　prone,　pretending　that　I　was　knocked　out,　but　felt　myself　seized　by　hands　and　yanked　to　my　feet.　“Get　going,　black　boy!　Mix　it　up!”　My　arms　were　like　lead,　my　head　smarting　from　blows.　I　managed　to　feel　my　way　to　the　ropes　and　held　on,　trying　to　catch　my　breath.　A　glove　landed　in　my　midsection　and　I　went　over　again,　feeling　as　though　the　smoke　had　become　a　knife　jabbed　into　my　guts.　Pushed　this　way　and　that　by　the　legs　milling　around　me,　I　finally　pulled　erect　and　discovered　that　I　could　see　the　black,　sweatwashed　forms　weaving　in　the　smokyblue　atmosphere　like　drunken　dancers　weaving　to　the　rapid　drumlike　thuds　of　blows.

Everyone　fought　hysterically.　It　was　complete　anarchy.　Everybody　fought　everybody　else.　No　group　fought　together　for　long.　Two,　three,　four,　fought　one,　then　turned　to　fight　each　other,　were　themselves　attacked.　Blows　landed　below　the　belt　and　in　the　kidney,　with　the　gloves　open　as　well　as　closed,　and　with　my　eye　partly　opened　now　there　was　not　so　much　terror.　I　moved　carefully,　avoiding　blows,　although　not　too　many　to　attract　attention,　fighting　from　group　to　group.　The　boys　groped　about　like　blind,　cautious　crabs　crouching　to　protect　their　midsections,　their　heads　pulled　in　short　against　their　shoulders,　their　arms　stretched　nervously　before　them,　with　their　fists　testing　the　smokefilled　air　like　the　knobbed　feelers　of　hypersensitive　snails.　In　one　corner　I　glimpsed　a　boy　violently　punching　the　air　and　heard　him　scream　in　pain　as　he　smashed　his　hand　against　a　ring　post.　For　a　second　I　saw　him　bent　over　holding　his　hand,　then　going　down　as　a　blow　caught　his　unprotected　head.　I　played　one　group　against　the　other,　slipping　in　and　throwing　a　punch　then　stepping　out　of　range　while　pushing　the　others　into　the　melee　to　take　the　blows　blindly　aimed　at　me.　The　smoke　was　agonizing　and　there　were　no　rounds,　no　bells　at　threeminute　intervals　to　relieve　our　exhaustion.　The　room　spun　round　me,　a　swirl　of　lights,　smoke,　sweating　bodies　surrounded　by　tense　white　faces.　I　bled　from　both　nose　and　mouth,　the　blood　spattering　upon　my　chest.

The　men　kept　yelling,　“Slug　him,　black　boy!　Knock　his　gets　out!”

“Uppercut　him!　Kill　him!　Kill　that　big　boy!”

Taking　a　fake　fall,　I　saw　a　boy　going　down　heavily　beside　me　as　though　we　were　felled　by　a　single　blow,　saw　a　sneakerclad　foot　shoot　into　his　groin　as　the　two　who　had　knocked　him　down　stumbled　upon　him.　I　rolled　out　of　range,　feeling　a　twinge　of　nausea.

The　harder　we　fought　the　more　threatening　the　men　became.　And　yet,　I　had　begun　to　worry　about　my　speech　again.　How　would　it　go?　Would　they　recognize　my　ability?　What　would　they　give　me?

I　was　fighting　automatically　when　suddenly　I　noticed　that　one　after　another　of　the　boys　was　leaving　the　ring.　I　was　surprised,　filled　with　panic,　as　though　I　had　been　left　alone　with　an　unknown　danger.　Then　I　understood.　The　boys　had　arranged　it　among　themselves.　It　was　the　custom　for　the　two　men　left　in　the　ring　to　slug　it　out　for　the　winners　prize.　I　discovered　this　too　late.　When　the　bell　sounded　two　men　in　tuxedoes　leaped　into　the　ring　and　removed　the　blindfold.　I　found　myself　facing　Tatlock,　the　biggest　of　the　gang.　I　felt　sick　at　my　stomach.　Hardly　had　the　bell　stopped　ringing　in　my　ears　than　it　clanged　again　and　I　saw　him　moving　swiftly　toward　me.　Thinking　of　nothing　else　to　do　I　hit　him　smash　on　the　nose.　He　kept　coming,　bringing　the　rank　sharp　violence　of　stale　sweat.　His　face　was　a　black　blank　of　a　face,　only　his　eyes　alive—with　hate　of　me　and　aglow　with　a　feverish　terror　from　what　had　happened　to　us　all.　I　became　anxious.　I　wanted　to　deliver　my　speech　and　he　came　at　me　as　though　he　meant　to　beat　it　out　of　me.　I　smashed　him　again　and　again,　taking　his　blows　as　they　came.　Then　on　a　sudden　impulse　I　struck　him　lightly　and　as　we　clinched,　I　whispered,　“Fake　like　I　knocked　you　out,　you　can　have　the　prize.”

“Ill　break　your　behind,”　he　whispered　hoarsely.

“For　them?”

“For　me,　sonofabitch!”

They　were　yelling　for　us　to　break　it　up　and　Tatlock　spun　me　half　around　with　a　blow,　and　as　a　joggled　camera　sweeps　in　a　reeling　scene,　I　saw　the　howling　red　faces　crouching　tense　beneath　the　cloud　of　bluegray　smoke.　For　a　moment　the　world　wavered,　unraveled,　flowed,　then　my　head　cleared　and　Tatlock　bounced　before　me.　That　fluttering　shadow　before　my　eyes　was　his　jabbing　left　hand.　Then　falling　forward,　my　head　against　his　damp　shoulder,　I　whispered,

“Ill　make　it　five　dollars　more.”

“Go　to　hell!”

But　his　muscles　relaxed　a　trifle　beneath　my　pressure　and　I　breathed,　“Seven?”

“Give　it　to　your　ma,”　he　said,　ripping　me　beneath　the　heart.

And　while　I　still　held　him　I　butted　him　and　moved　away.　I　felt　myself　bombarded　with　punches.　I　fought　back　with　hopeless　desperation.　I　wanted　to　deliver　my　speech　more　than　anything　else　in　the　world,　because　I　felt　that　only　these　men　could　judge　truly　my　ability,　and　now　this　stupid　clown　was　ruining　my　chances.　I　began　fighting　carefully　now,　moving　in　to　punch　him　and　out　again　with　my　greater　speed.　A　lucky　blow　to　his　chin　and　I　had　him　going　too—until　I　heard　a　loud　voice　yell,　“I　got　my　money　on　the　big　boy.”

Hearing　this,　I　almost　dropped　my　guard.　I　was　confused:　Should　I　try　to　win　against　the　voice　out　there?　Would　not　this　go　against　my　speech,　and　was　not　this　a　moment　for　humility,　for　nonresistance?　A　blow　to　my　head　as　I　danced　about　sent　my　right　eye　popping　like　a　jackinthebox　and　settled　my　dilemma.　The　room　went　red　as　I　fell.　It　was　a　dream　fall,　my　body　languid　and　fastidious　as　to　where　to　land,　until　the　floor　became　impatient　and　smashed　up　to　meet　me.　A　moment　later　I　came　to.　An　hypnotic　voice　said　FIVE　emphatically.　And　I　lay　there,　hazily　watching　a　dark　red　spot　of　my　own　blood　shaping　itself　into　a　butterfly,　glistening　and　soaking　into　the　soiled　gray　world　of　the　canvas.

When　the　voice　drawled　TEN　I　was　lifted　up　and　dragged　to　a　chair.　I　sat　dazed.　My　eye　pained　and　swelled　with　each　throb　of　my　pounding　heart　and　I　wondered　if　now　I　would　be　allowed　to　speak.　I　was　wringing　wet,　my　mouth　still　bleeding.　We　were　grouped　along　the　wall　now.　The　other　boys　ignored　me　as　they　congratulated　Tatlock　and　speculated　as　to　how　much　they　would　be　paid.　One　boy　whimpered　over　his　smashed　hand.　Looking　up　front,　I　saw　attendants　in　white　jackets　rolling　the　portable　ring　away　and　placing　a　small　square　rug　in　the　vacant　space　surrounded　by　chairs.　Perhaps,　I　thought,　I　will　stand　on　the　rug　to　deliver　my　speech.

Then　the　M.　C.　M.　C.：master　of　ceremonies,　司儀。　called　to　us,　“Come　on　up　here　boys　and　get　your　money.”

We　ran　forward　to　where　the　men　laughed　and　talked　in　their　chairs,　waiting.　Everyone　seemed　friendly　now.

“There　it　is　on　the　rug,”　the　man　said.　I　saw　the　rug　covered　with　coins　of　all　dimensions　and　a　few　crumpled　bills.　But　what　excited　me,　scattered　here　and　there,　were　the　gold　pieces.

“Boys,　its　all　yours,”　the　man　said.　“You　get　all　you　grab.”

“Thats　right,　SamboSambo：（貶）傻寶，黑鬼。,”　a　blond　man　said,　winking　at　me　confidentially.

I　trembled　with　excitement,　forgetting　my　pain.　I　would　get　the　gold　and　the　bills,　I　thought.　I　would　use　both　hands.　I　would　throw　my　body　against　the　boys　nearest　me　to　block　them　from　the　gold.

“Get　down　around　the　rug　now,”　the　man　commanded,　“and　dont　anyone　touch　it　until　I　give　the　signal.”

“This　ought　to　be　good,”　I　heard.

As　told,　we　got　around　the　square　rug　on　our　knees.　Slowly　the　man　raised　his　freckled　hand　as　we　followed　it　upward　with　our　eyes.

I　heard,　“These　niggers　look　like　theyre　about　to　pray!”

Then,　“Ready,”　the　man　said.　“Go!”

I　lunged　for　a　yellow　coin　lying　on　the　blue　design　of　the　carpet,　touching　it　and　sending　a　surprised　shriek　to　join　those　rising　around　me.　I　tried　frantically　to　remove　my　hand　but　could　not　let　go.　A　hot,　violent　force　tore　through　my　body,　shaking　me　like　a　wet　rat.　The　rug　was　electrified.　The　hair　bristled　up　on　my　head　as　I　shook　myself　free.　My　muscles　jumped,　my　nerves　jangled,　writhed.　But　I　saw　that　this　was　not　stopping　the　other　boys.　Laughing　in　fear　and　embarrassment,　some　were　holding　back　and　scooping　up　the　coins　knocked　off　by　the　painful　contortions　of　the　others.　The　men　roared　above　us　as　we　struggled.

“Pick　it　up,　goddamnit,　pick　it　up!”　someone　called　like　a　bassvoiced　parrot.　“Go　on,　get　it!”

I　crawled　rapidly　around　the　floor,　picking　up　the　coins,　trying　to　avoid　the　coppers　and　to　get　greenbacks　and　the　gold.　Ignoring　the　shock　by　laughing,　as　I　brushed　the　coins　off　quickly,　I　discovered　that　I　could　contain　the　electricity—a　contradiction,　but　it　works.　Then　the　men　began　to　push　us　onto　the　rug.　Laughing　embarrassedly,　we　struggled　out　of　their　hands　and　kept　after　the　coins.　We　were　all　wet　and　slippery　and　hard　to　hold.　Suddenly　I　saw　a　boy　lifted　into　the　air,　glistening　with　sweat　like　a　circus　seal,　and　dropped,　his　wet　back　landing　flush　upon　the　charged　rug,　heard　him　yell　and　saw　him　literally　dance　upon　his　back,　his　elbows　beating　a　frenzied　tattoo　upon　the　floor,　his　muscles　twitching　like　the　flesh　of　a　horse　stung　by　many　flies.　When　he　finally　rolled　off,　his　face　was　gray　and　no　one　stopped　him　when　he　ran　from　the　floor　amid　booming　laughter.

“Get　the　money,”　the　M.　C.　called.　“Thats　good　hard　American　cash!”

And　we　snatched　and　grabbed,　snatched　and　grabbed.　I　was　careful　not　to　come　too　close　to　the　rug　now,　and　when　I　felt　the　hot　whiskey　breath　descend　upon　me　like　a　cloud　of　foul　air　I　reached　out　and　grabbed　the　leg　of　a　chair.　It　was　occupied　and　I　held　on　desperately.

“Leggo,　nigger!　Leggo!”

The　huge　face　wavered　down　to　mine　as　he　tried　to　push　me　free.　But　my　body　was　slippery　and　he　was　too　drunk.　It　was　Mr.　Colcord,　who　owned　a　chain　of　movie　houses　and　“entertainment　palaces.”　Each　time　he　grabbed　me　I　slipped　out　of　his　hands.　It　became　a　real　struggle.　I　feared　the　rug　more　than　I　did　the　drunk,　so　I　held　on,　surprising　myself　for　a　moment　by　trying　to　topple　him　upon　the　rug.　It　was　such　an　enormous　idea　that　I　found　myself　actually　carrying　it　out.　I　tried　not　to　be　obvious,　yet　when　I　grabbed　his　leg,　trying　to　tumble　him　out　of　the　chair,　he　raised　up　roaring　with　laughter,　and,　looking　at　me　with　soberness　dead　in　the　eye,　kicked　me　viciously　in　the　chest.　The　chair　leg　flew　out　of　my　hand　and　I　felt　myself　going　and　rolled.　It　was　as　though　I　had　rolled　through　a　bed　of　hot　coals.　It　seemed　a　whole　century　would　pass　before　I　would　roll　free,　a　century　in　which　I　was　seared　through　the　deepest　levels　of　my　body　to　the　fearful　breath　within　me　and　the　breath　seared　and　heated　to　the　point　of　explosion.　Itll　all　be　over　in　a　flash,　I　thought　as　I　rolled　clear.　Itll　all　be　over　in　a　flash.

But　not　yet,　the　men　on　the　other　side　were　waiting,　red　faces　swollen　as　though　from　apoplexy　as　they　bent　forward　in　their　chairs.　Seeing　their　fingers　coming　toward　me　I　rolled　away　as　a　fumbled　football　rolls　off　the　receivers　fingertips,　back　into　the　coals.　That　time　I　luckily　sent　the　rug　sliding　out　of　place　and　heard　the　coins　ringing　against　the　floor　and　the　boys　scuffling　to　pick　them　up　and　the　M.　C.　calling,　“All　right,　boys,　thats　all.　Go　get　dressed　and　get　your　money.”

I　was　limp　as　a　dish　rag.　My　back　felt　as　though　it　had　been　beaten　with　wires.

When　we　had　dressed　the　M.　C.　came　in　and　gave　us　each　five　dollars,　except　Tatlock,　who　got　ten　for　being　last　in　the　ring.　Then　he　told　us　to　leave.　I　was　not　to　get　a　chance　to　deliver　my　speech,　I　thought.　I　was　going　out　into　the　dim　alley　in　despair　when　I　was　stopped　and　told　to　go　back.　I　returned　to　the　ballroom,　where　the　men　were　pushing　back　their　chairs　and　gathering　in　groups　to　talk.

The　M.　C.　knocked　on　a　table　for　quiet.　“Gentlemen,”　he　said,　“we　almost　forgot　an　important　part　of　the　program.　A　most　serious　part,　gentlemen.　This　boy　was　brought　here　to　deliver　a　speech　which　he　made　at　his　graduation　yesterday...”

“Bravo!”

“Im　told　that　he　is　the　smartest　boy　weve　got　out　there　in　Greenwood.　Im　told　that　he　knows　more　big　words　than　a　pocketsized　dictionary.”

Much　applause　and　laughter.

“So　now,　gentlemen,　I　want　you　to　give　him　your　attention.”

There　was　still　laughter　as　I　faced　them,　my　mouth　dry,　my　eye　throbbing.　I　began　slowly,　but　evidently　my　throat　was　tense,　because　they　began　shouting,　“Louder!　Louder!”

“We　of　the　younger　generation　extol　the　wisdom　of　that　great　leader　and　educatorthat　great　leader　and　educator：　指布克·華盛頓。,”　I　shouted,　“who　first　spoke　these　flaming　words　of　wisdom:　‘A　ship　lost　at　sea　for　many　days　suddenly　sighted　a　friendly　vessel.　From　the　mast　of　the　unfortunate　vessel　was　seen　a　signal:　“Water,　water;　we　die　of　thirst!”　The　answer　from　the　friendly　vessel　came　back:　“Cast　down　your　bucket　where　you　are.”　The　captain　of　the　distressed　vessel,　at　last　heeding　the　injunction,　cast　down　his　bucket,　and　it　came　up　full　of　fresh　sparkling　water　from　the　mouth　of　the　Amazon　River.　　And　like　him　I　say,　and　in　his　words,　‘To　those　of　my　race　who　depend　upon　bettering　their　condition　in　a　foreign　land,　or　who　underestimate　the　importance　of　cultivating　friendly　relations　with　the　southern　white　man,　who　is　his　nextdoor　neighbor,　I　would　say:　“Cast　down　your　bucket　where　you　are”—cast　it　down　in　making　friends　in　every　manly　way　of　the　people　of　all　races　by　whom　we　are　surrounded...’”

I　spoke　automatically　and　with　such　fervor　that　I　did　not　realize　that　the　men　were　still　talking　and　laughing　until　my　dry　mouth,　filling　up　with　blood　from　the　cut,　almost　strangled　me.　I　coughed,　wanting　to　stop　and　go　to　one　of　the　tall　brass,　sandfilled　spittoons　to　relieve　myself,　but　a　few　of　the　men,　especially　the　superintendent,　were　listening　and　I　was　afraid.　So　I　gulped　it　down,　blood,　saliva　and　all,　and　continued.　(What　powers　of　endurance　I　had　during　those　days!　What　enthusiasm!　What　a　belief　in　the　rightness　of　things!)　I　spoke　even　louder　in　spite　of　the　pain.　But　still　they　talked　and　still　they　laughed,　as　though　deaf　with　cotton　in　dirty　ears.　So　I　spoke　with　greater　emotional　emphasis.　I　closed　my　ears　and　swallowed　blood　until　I　was　nauseated.　The　speech　seemed　a　hundred　times　as　long　as　before,　but　I　could　not　leave　out　a　single　word.　All　had　to　be　said,　each　memorized　nuance　considered,　rendered.　Nor　was　that　all.　Whenever　I　uttered　a　word　of　three　or　more　syllables　a　group　of　voices　would　yell　for　me　to　repeat　it.　I　used　the　phrase　“social　responsibility”　and　they　yelled:

“Whats　that　word　you　say,　boy?”

“Social　responsibility,”　I　said.

“What?”

“Social...”

“Louder.”

“...responsibility.”

“More!”

“Respon—”

“Repeat!”

“—sibility.”

The　room　filled　with　the　uproar　of　laughter　until,　no　doubt　distracted　by　having　to　gulp　down　my　blood,　I　made　a　mistake　and　yelled　a　phrase　I　had　often　seen　denounced　in　newspaper　editorials,　heard　debated　in　private.

“Social...”

“What?”　they　yelled.

“...equality—”

The　laughter　hung　smokelike　in　the　sudden　stillness.　I　opened　my　eyes,　puzzled.　Sounds　of　displeasure　filled　the　room.　The　M.C.　rushed　forward.　They　shouted　hostile　phrases　at　me.　But　I　did　not　understand.

A　small　dry　mustached　man　in　the　front　row　blared　out,　“Say　that　slowly,　son!”

“What,　sir?”

“What　you　just　said!”

“Social　responsibility,　sir,”　I　said.

“You　werent　being　smart,　were　you,　boy?”　he　said,　not　unkindly.

“No,　sir!”

“You　sure　that　about　‘equality’　was　a　mistake?”

“Oh,　yes,　sir,”　I　said.　“I　was　swallowing　blood.”

“Well,　you　had　better　speak　more　slowly　so　we　can　understand.　We　mean　to　do　right　by　you,　but　youve　got　to　know　your　place　at　all　times.　All　right,　now,　go　on　with　your　speech.”

I　was　afraid.　I　wanted　to　leave　but　I　wanted　also　to　speak　and　I　was　afraid　theyd　snatch　me　down.

“Thank　you,　sir,”　I　said,　beginning　where　I　had　left　off,　and　having　them　ignore　me　as　before.

Yet　when　I　finished　there　was　a　thunderous　applause.　I　was　surprised　to　see　the　superintendent　come　forth　with　a　package　wrapped　in　white　tissue　paper,　and,　gesturing　for　quiet,　address　the　men.

“Gentlemen,　you　see　that　I　did　not　overpraise　this　boy.　He　makes　a　good　speech　and　some　day　hell　lead　his　people　in　the　proper　paths.　And　I　dont　have　to　tell　you　that　that　is　important　in　these　days　and　times.　This　is　a　good,　smart　boy,　and　so　to　encourage　him　in　the　right　direction,　in　the　name　of　the　Board　of　Education　I　wish　to　present　him　a　prize　in　the　form　of　this...”

He　paused,　removing　the　tissue　paper　and　revealing　a　gleaming　calfskin　brief　case.

“...in　the　form　of　this　firstclass　article　from　Shad　Whitmores　shop.”

“Boy,”　he　said,　addressing　me,　“take　this　prize　and　keep　it　well.　Consider　it　a　badge　of　office.　Prize　it.　Keep　developing　as　you　are　and　some　day　it　will　be　filled　with　important　papers　that　will　help　shape　the　destiny　of　your　people.”

I　was　so　moved　that　I　could　hardly　express　my　thanks.　A　rope　of　bloody　saliva　forming　a　shape　like　an　undiscovered　continent　drooled　upon　the　leather　and　I　wiped　it　quickly　away.　I　felt　an　importance　that　I　had　never　dreamed.

“Open　it　and　see　whats　inside,”　I　was　told.

My　fingers　atremble,　I　complied,　smelling　the　fresh　leather　and　finding　an　officiallooking　document　inside.　It　was　a　scholarship　to　the　state　college　for　Negroes.　My　eyes　filled　with　tears　and　I　ran　awkwardly　off　the　floor.

I　was　overjoyed;　I　did　not　even　mind　when　I　discovered　that　the　gold　pieces　I　had　scrambled　for　were　brass　pocket　tokens　advertising　a　certain　make　of　automobile.

When　I　reached　home　everyone　was　excited.　Next　day　the　neighbors　came　to　congratulate　me.　I　even　felt　safe　from　grandfather,　whose　deathbed　curse　usually　spoiled　my　triumphs.　I　stood　beneath　his　photograph　with　my　brief　case　in　hand　and　smiled　triumphantly　into　his　stolid　black　peasants　face.　It　was　a　face　that　fascinated　me.　The　eyes　seemed　to　follow　everywhere　I　went.

That　night　I　dreamed　I　was　at　a　circus　with　him　and　that　he　refused　to　laugh　at　the　clowns　no　matter　what　they　did.　Then　later　he　told　me　to　open　my　brief　case　and　read　what　was　inside　and　I　did,　finding　an　official　envelope　stamped　with　the　state　seal;　and　inside　the　envelope　I　found　another　and　another,　endlessly,　and　I　thought　I　would　fall　of　weariness.　“Thems　years,”　he　said.　“Now　open　that　one.”　And　I　did　and　in　it　I　found　an　engraved　document　containing　a　short　message　in　letters　of　gold.　“Read　it,”　my　grandfather　said.　“Out　loud!”

“To　Whom　It　May　Concern,”　I　intoned.　“Keep　This　NiggerBoy　Running.”

I　awoke　with　the　old　mans　laughter　ringing　in　my　ears.

(It　was　a　dream　I　was　to　remember　and　dream　again　for　many　years　after.　But　at　that　time　I　had　no　insight　into　its　meaning.　First　I　had　to　attend　college.)

Questions　for　Discussion

1.　The　novel　is　entitled　“Invisible　Man”　and　the　invisible　man　is　the　narrator　and　protagonist　of　the　story.　Is　his　invisibility　literal　or　figurative?　What　does　it　mean　for　a　black　to　be　invisible　in　a　white　world?

2.　How　does　the　narrator\/protagonist　feel　upon　hearing　his　grandfathers　words　at　deathbed?　What　causes　the　feeling?

3.　How　do　you　relate　the　invisible　man　as　a　model　black　citizen　in　the　South　to　the　ideas　advocated　by　Booker　T.　Washington,　who　is　mentioned　many　times　in　this　novel?

3.　The　Color　Purple

作者簡介

艾麗斯·沃克（1944—）是當代美國黑人文學最有影響力的人物之一，黑人女性主義的倡導人，提出“婦女主義”以區別於白人女性主義。她出生於佐治亞州一個貧苦佃農家庭，8歲時，一隻眼睛被打瞎。高中畢業後去了亞特蘭大的斯佩爾曼學院讀書，後轉到紐約的薩拉·勞倫斯學院。大學三年級時她去非洲訪問，非洲後來成為她小說的一個背景。1965年大學畢業後，她前往密西西比州工作，積極投身民權運動，這段經曆為她的小說《梅麗蒂恩》提供了素材。1970年，她重新發現了哈萊姆文藝複興時期的黑人女作家赫斯頓，後者對沃克產生了重大影響。

沃克的創作包括長篇小說、詩歌、短篇故事以及文學批評。主要有長篇小說《格蘭奇·科普蘭的第三次生命》（1970）、《梅麗蒂恩》（1976)、《紫色》（1982）、《我熟悉的一切之神廟》（1989）、《擁有歡樂的秘密》（1992）、《我父親的微笑之光》（1989）、《魔鬼是我的敵人》（2008），詩集《一度》（1968）、《篤信地球之善》（2003）,短篇小說集《愛情與麻煩：黑人婦女的故事》（1973）、《傷心前行》(2000),及批評文集《尋找我們母親的花園》（1983）等。

作品簡介與賞析

沃克的代表作《紫色》為她贏得美國國家圖書獎和普利策小說獎，刻畫了20世紀初掙紮在社會最底層的美國黑人婦女的生活原貌和心路曆程。全書采用書信體，以樸素的文字、真摯的情感和生動的黑人土語記錄了黑人婦女們當下的生活。全書由主人公西麗及其妹妹的書信組成。西麗14歲時被繼父強暴，生下兩個孩子都被他送人，孤苦無依的西麗隻能給上帝寫信傾訴痛苦。嫁給某某先生後，常遭丈夫打罵；妹妹耐蒂為躲避繼父糾纏前來投靠，卻因拒絕某某先生的示愛被後者趕走。耐蒂後來去非洲當傳教士，她給西麗的來信卻被某某先生藏了起來。知道了實情的西麗非常憤怒，在某某先生的情人薩格的幫助下，離家前往孟菲斯做裁縫謀生，獲得了經濟上的獨立。某某先生後來也逐漸意識到自己的錯誤而真心懺悔，兩人言歸於好。小說結尾，耐蒂帶著西麗的孩子從非洲回來，一家人最終團聚。

沃克把《紫色》稱為一部曆史小說，但它不同於通常意義上的“正史”，而是民間的曆史，聚焦黑人家庭，尤其是黑人婦女當下生活的曆史。這樣的曆史敘事與人們意識之中的傳統曆史有著很大出入。小說呈現了南方黑人婦女那段無人提及的曆史，揭示了黑人內部的性別壓迫和兩性衝突，如繼父和丈夫某某先生對西麗的淩辱和欺壓，兒媳索菲亞的女性抗爭意識以及由此引發的與丈夫之間的矛盾。在刻畫黑人婦女追求自我解放和尊嚴的同時，沃克也準確抓住了黑人男性的複雜心理：他們既是受害者，同時又是施害者，他們將種族歧視帶給自己的創傷和無力感轉移、發泄到妻兒身上。

從底層黑人婦女的視角出發來記錄曆史是該小說的一大特色。此外，作家對文類的選擇和語言的運用也獨具匠心。

首先，沃克對書信體小說的挪用深化了黑人女性主體複歸這一主題。在《紫色》中，書信既是貫穿全文的內容，也構成了小說的敘事框架。值得注意的是，西麗的大部分信件都是寫給上帝這個不存在的讀者的，在受述人缺席的情況下，原本作為敘述核心的敘述內容讓位於敘述行為本身，後者對於敘述人本人的意義得以凸顯。寫信上升為小說最為重要的情節，正是寫信這一行為，使得西麗從失語狀態中掙脫出來，讓她在自己日益變得自信強大的聲音中找回自我。書信見證了西麗的成長，讓她從逆來順受的無知少女轉變為自立堅強的新女性，這個曆程使黑人女性書寫本身成為小說的主題。

其次，西麗用黑人土語寫信，而受過教育的妹妹則用標準英語寫信。相比之下，後者的語言顯然不如前者那樣生動傳神，因為西麗富於本土特色的表達抓住了黑人民間語言的精髓，得以和思想、話語緊密聯係起來。換句話說，基於共同現實和心理意識的黑人語言負載著黑人文化及其價值觀，以一種差異性的重複，改寫了白人的標準英語及其內含的價值觀，在與主流話語形成對抗的同時消解後者。

此外，沃克提出的“婦女主義”概念是其作品解讀的重要索引。赫斯頓的小說，特別是《他們眼望上蒼》，以濃厚的南方黑人文化和黑人女性特有的語言、形象和象征，深深地影響著沃克。無論從主題還是形式上來看，沃克的作品都是對這位“精神向導”的文學先輩的致敬。如今，《紫色》已成為“黑人婦女小說的一種格式”。可以說，沃克的“婦女主義”模式，正是將赫斯頓的作品作為黑人女性寫作的範本，建構出來的現代黑人婦女文學的經典模式。沃克致力於塑造那些經曆了女性意識和族群意識的雙重覺醒，自立自強、互相關愛的黑人婦女形象，致力於建構一個黑人民族兩性和諧的理想社會。換句話說，婦女主義體現了女性主義的多元性，它既從種族的視角去審視女性主義研究，又從性屬的視角去審視黑人研究，以差異性的表述——彙合了種族、性屬、階級的多聲話語——拓展了二者，是黑人婦女獨特的文化經曆在美學上的表述。

《紫色》發表後好評如潮，1985年被改編成電影，2005年又被改編成音樂劇，進一步擴大了作者的影響力。

下麵的選文出自《紫色》的三封信。第一封信敘述了西麗的兒媳——性格勇猛剛烈的索菲亞——的不幸遭遇。因為對市長太太頂嘴，又用拳頭回敬了市長的耳光，索菲亞被一群警察毆打致殘後關進了監獄。第二封信記錄了索菲亞在獄中遭受的非人待遇，以及她雖然表麵順從，卻日夜想著殺人的瘋狂的心理狀態。第三封信和前兩封信在時間上相隔近12年，講述索菲亞被親朋好友設法弄出監獄後在市長家度過十來年奴隸般的幫傭生活，終於得以回家與親人相聚，卻變得畏畏縮縮，失去了以往的鬥誌。席上西麗宣布自己的計劃——要離開某某先生，追隨薩格前往孟菲斯開創新生活。此舉引起軒然大波，遭到某某先生的極力反對，卻得到家中婦女們的一致讚同。西麗等女性的勇氣和姐妹情誼極大地鼓舞了索菲亞，她的抗爭精神開始複蘇。三封信都出自西麗，用黑人口語體創作，與標準英語在拚寫和語法上都有著較大差異。

Dear　God，

Harpo

Harpo：哈波，西麗丈夫某某先生的長子。　mope.　Wipe　the　counter,　light　a　cigarette,　look　outdoors,　walk　up　and　down.　Little　Squeak

Squeak:　哈波的情人。　run　long　all　up　under　him　trying　to　git　his　tension.　Baby　this,　she　say,　Baby　that.　Harpo　look　through　her　head,　blow　smoke.

Squeak　come　over　to　the　corner　where　me　and　Mr.

Mr.　:　某某先生，西麗的丈夫。　at.　She　got　two　bright　gold　teef　in　the　side　of　her　mouth,　generally　grin　all　the　time.　Now　she　cry.　Miss　Celie,　she　say,　What　the　matter　with　Harpo?

Sofia

Sofia:　索菲亞，哈波的妻子。　in　jail,　I　say.

In　jail?　She　look　like　I　say　Sofia　on　the　moon.

What　she　in　jail　for?　she　ast.

Sassing　the　mayors　wife,　I　say.

Squeak　pull　up　a　chair.　Look　down　my　throat.

What　your　real　name?　I　ast　her.　She　say,　Mary　Agnes.

Make　Harpo　call　you　by　your　real　name,　I　say.　Then　maybe　he　see　you　even　when　he　trouble.

She　look　at　me　puzzle.　I　let　it　go.　I　tell　her　what　one　of　Sofia　sister　tell　me　and　Mr.　.

Sofia　and　the　prizefighter

the　prizefighter:　拳擊手，索菲亞的情人。　and　all　the　children　got　in　the　prizefighter　car　and　went　to　town.　Clam　out　on　the　street　looking　like　somebody.　Just　then　the　mayor　and　his　wife　come　by.

All　these　children,　say　the　mayors　wife,　digging　in　her　pocketbook.　Cute　as　little　buttons　though,　she　say.　She　stop,　put　her　hand　on　one　of　the　children　head.　Say,　and　such　strong　white　teef.

Sofia　and　the　prizefighter　dont　say　nothing.　Wait　for　her　to　pass.　Mayor　wait　too,　stand　back　and　tap　his　foot,　watch　her　with　a　little　smile.　Now　Millie,　he　say.　Always　going　on　over　colored.

Always　going　on　over　colored:　你老要打量這些黑人。　Miss　Millie　finger　the　children　some　more,　finally　look　at　Sofia　and　the　prizefighter.　She　look　at　the　prizefighter　car.　She　eye　Sofia　wristwatch.　She　say　to　Sofia,　All　your　children　so　clean,　she　say,　would　you　like　to　work　for　me,　be　my　maid?

Sofia　say,　Hell　no.

She　say,　What　you　say?

Sofia　say,　Hell　no.

Mayor　look　at　Sofia,　push　his　wife　out　the　way.　Stick　out　his　chest.　Girl,　what　you　say　to　Miss　Millie?

Sofia　say,　I　say,　Hell　no.

He　slap　her.

I　stop　telling　it　right　there.

Squeak　on　the　edge　of　her　seat.　She　wait.　Look　down　my　throat　some　more.

No　need　to　say　no　more,　Mr.　say.　You　know　what　happen　if　somebody　slap　Sofia.

Squeak　go　white　as　a　sheet.　Naw,　she　say.

Naw　nothing,　I　say.　Sofia　knock　the　man　down.

The　polices　come,　start　slinging　the　children　off　the　mayor,　bang　they　heads　together.　Sofia　really　start　to　fight.　They　drag　her　to　the　ground.

This　far　as　I　can　go　with　it,　look　like.　My　eyes　git　full　of　water　and　my　throat　close.

Poor　Squeak　all　scrunch　down　in　her　chair,　trembling.

They　beat　Sofia,　Mr.　say.

Squeak　fly　up　like　she　sprung,　run　over　hind　the　counter　to　Harpo,　put　her　arms　round　him.　They　hang　together　a　long　time,　cry.

What　the　prizefighter　do　in　all　this?　I　ast　Sofia　sister,　Odessa.

Odessa:　奧德莎，索菲亞的姐姐。

He　want　to　jump　in,　she　say.　Sofia　say　No,　take　the　children　home.

Polices　have　they　guns　on　him　anyway.　One　move,　he　dead.　Six　of　them,　you　know.

Mr.　go　plead　with　the　sheriff　to　let　us　see　Sofia.　Bub

Bub:　鮑勃，某某先生的次子。　be　in　so　much　trouble,　look　so　much　like　the　sheriff,　he　and　Mr.　almost　on　family　terms.　Just　long　as　Mr.　know　he　colored.

Sheriff　say,　She　a　crazy　woman,　your　boys　wife.　You　know　that?

Mr.　say,　Yassur,　us　do　know　it.　Been　trying　to　tell　Harpo　she　crazy　for　twelve　years.　Since　way　before　they　marry.　Sofia　come　from　crazy　peoples,　Mr.　say,　it　not　all　her　fault.　And　then　again,　the　sheriff　know　how　womens　is,　anyhow.

Sheriff　think　bout　the　women　he　know,　say,　Yep,　you　right　there.

Mr.　say,　Wegon　tell　her　she　crazy　too,　if　us　ever　do　git　in　to　see　her.

Sheriff　say,　Well　make　sure　you　do.　And　tell　her　she　lucky　she　alive.

When　I　see　Sofia　I　dont　know　why　she　still　alive.　They　crack　her　skull,　they　crack　her　ribs.　They　tear　her　nose　loose　on　one　side.　They　blind　her　in　one　eye.　She　swole　from　head　to　foot.　Her　tongue　the　size　of　my　arm,　it　stick　out　tween　her　teef　like　a　piece　of　rubber.　She　cant　talk.　And　she　just　about　the　color　of　a　eggplant.

Scare　me　so　bad　I　near　bout　drop　my　grip.　But　I　dont.　I　put　it　on　the　floor　of　the　cell,　take　out　comb　and　brush,　nightgown,　witch　hazel　and　alcohol　and　I　start　to　work　on　her.　The　colored　tendant　bring　me　water　to　wash　her　with,　and　I　start　at　her　two　little　slits　for　eyes.

Dear　God,

They　put　Sofia　to　work　in　the　prison　laundry.　All　day　long　from　five　to　eight　she　washing　clothes.　Dirty　convict　uniforms,　nasty　sheets　and　blankets　piled　way　over　her　head.　Us　see　her　twice　a　month　for　half　a　hour.　Her　face　yellow　and　sickly,　her　fingers　look　like　fatty　sausage.

Everything　nasty　here,　she　say,　even　the　air.　Food　bad　enough　to　kill　you　with　it.　Roaches　here,　mice,　flies,　lice　and　even　a　snake　or　two.　If　you　say　anything　they　strip　you,　make　you　sleep　on　a　cement　floor　without　a　light.

How　you　manage?　us　ast.

Every　time　they　ast　me　to　do　something,　Miss　Celie,　I　act　like　Im　you.　I　jump　right　up　and　do　just　what　they　say.

She　look　wild　when　she　say　that,　and　her　bad　eye　wander　round　the　room.

Mr.　suck　in　his　breath.　Harpo　groan.　Miss　Shug

Shug:　薩格，布魯斯歌手，某某先生的情人，後成為西麗的好友和情人，並幫助她覺醒和成長。　cuss.　She　come　from　Memphis　special　to　see　Sofia.

I　cant　fix　my　mouth　to　say　how　I　feel.

Im　a　good　prisoner,　she　say.　Best　convict　they　ever　see.　They　cant　believe　Im　the　one　sass　the　mayors　wife,　knock　the　mayor　down.　She　laugh.　It　sound　like　something　from　a　song.　The　part　where　everybody　done　gone　home　but　you.

Twelve　years　a　long　time　to　be　good　though,　she　say.

Maybe　you　git　out　on　good　behavior,　say　Harpo.

Good　behavior　aint　good　enough　for　them,　say　Sofia.　Nothing　less　than　sliding　on　your　belly　with　your　tongue　on　they　boots　can　even　git　they　attention.　I　dream　of　murder,　she　say,　I　dream　of　murder　sleep　or　wake.

Us　dont　say　nothing.

How　the　children?　she　ast.

They　all　fine,　say　Harpo.　Tween　Odessa　and　Squeak,　they　git　by.

Say　thank　you　to　Squeak,　she　say.　Tell　Odessa　I　think　about　her.

Dear　Nettie

Nettie:　耐蒂，西麗的妹妹。,

When　I　told　Shug　Im　writing　to　you　instead　of　to　God,　she　laugh.　Nettie　dont　know　these　people,　she　say.　Considering　who　I　been　writing　to,　this　strike　me　funny.

It　was　Sofia　you　saw　working　as　the　mayors　maid.　The　woman　you　saw　carrying　the　white　womans　packages　that　day　in　town.　Sofia　Mr.　s　son　Harpos　wife.　Polices　lock　her　up　for　sassing　the　mayors　wife　and　hitting　the　mayor　back.　First　she　was　in　prison　working　in　the　laundry　and　dying　fast.　Then　us　got　her　move　to　the　mayors　house.　She　had　to　sleep　in　a　little　room　up　under　the　house,　but　it　was　better　than　prison.　Flies,　maybe,　but　no　rats.

Anyhow,　they　kept　her　eleven　and　a　half　years,　give　her　six　months　off　for　good　behavior　so　she　could　come　home　early　to　her　family.　Her　bigger　children　married　and　gone,　and　her　littlest　children　mad　at　her,　dont　know　who　she　is.　Think　she　act　funny,　look　old　and　dote　on　that　little　white　gal　she　raise.

Yesterday　us　all　had　dinner　at　Odessas　house.　Odessa　Sofias　sister.　She　raise　the　kids.　Her　and　her　husband　Jack.　Harpos　woman　Squeak,　and　Harpo　himself.

Sofia　sit　down　at　the　big　table　like　theres　no　room　for　her.　Children　reach　cross　her　like　shenot　there.　Harpo　and　Squeak　act　like　a　old　married　couple.　Children　call　Odessa　mama.　Call　Squeak　little　mama.　Call　Sofia　“Miss.”　The　only　one　seem　to　pay　her　any　tention　at　all　is　Harpo　and　Squeaks　little　girl,　Suzie　Q.　She　sit　cross　from　Sofia　and　squinch　up　her　eyes　at　her.

As　soon　as　dinner　over,　Shug　push　back　her　chair　and　light　a　cigarette.　Now　is　come　the　time　to　tell　yall,　she　say.

Tell　us　what?　Harpo　ast.

Us　leaving,　she　say.

Yeah?　say　Harpo,　looking　round　for　the　coffee.　And　then　looking　over　at　Grady.

Us　leaving,　Shug　say　again.　Mr.　look　struck,　like　he　always　look　when　Shug　say　she　going　anywhere.　He　reach　down　and　rub　his　stomach,　look　off　side　her　head　like　nothing　been　said.

Grady　say,　Such　good　peoples,　thats　the　truth.　The　salt　of　the　earth.

The　salt　of　the　earth:　都是些高尚的人。　But—time　to　move　on.

Squeak　not　saying　nothing.　She　got　her　chin　glued　to　her　plate.　Im　not　saying　nothing　either.　Im　waiting　for　the　feathers　to　fly.Im　waiting　for　the　feathers　to　fly:　我等著吵架呢。

Celie　is　coming　with　us,　say　Shug.

Mr.　s　head　swivel　back　straight.　Say　what?　he　ast.

Celie　is　coming　to　Memphis　with　me.

Over　my　dead　body,　Mr.　say.

You　satisfied　that　what　you　want,　Shug　say,　cool　as　clabber.

Shug　say,　cool　as　clabber:　薩格很冷靜地說。

Mr.　start　up　from　his　seat,　look　at　Shug,　plop　back　down　again.　He　look　over　at　me.　I　thought　you　was　finally　happy,　he　say.　What　wrong　now?

You　a　lowdown　dog　is　whats　wrong,　I　say.　Its　time　to　leave　you　and　enter　into　the　Creation.　And　your　dead　body　just　the　welcome　mat　I　need.

Say　what?　he　ast.　Shock.

All　round　the　table　folkses　mouths　be　dropping　open.

You　took　my　sister　Nettie　away　from　me,　I　say.　And　she　was　the　only　person　love　me　in　the　world.

Mr.　start　to　sputter.　ButButButButBut.　Sound　like　some　kind　of　motor.

But　Nettie　and　my　children　coming　home　soon,　I　say.　And　when　she　do,　all　us　together　gon　whup　your　ass.

Nettie　and　your　children!　say　Mr.　____.　You　talking　crazy.

I　got　children,　I　say.　Being　brought　up　in　Africa.　Good　schools,　lots　of　fresh　air　and　exercise.　Turning　out　a　heap　better　than　the　fools　you　didnt　even　try　to　raise.

Hold　on,　say　Harpo.

Oh,　hold　on　hell,　I　say.　If　you　hadnt　tried　to　rule　over　Sofia　the　white　folks　never　would　have　caught　her.

Sofia　so　surprise　to　hear　me　speak　up　she　aint　chewed　for　ten　minutes.

Thats　a　lie,　say　Harpo.

A　little　truth　in　it,　say　Sofia.

Everybody　look　at　her　like　they　surprise　she　there.　It　like　a　voice　speaking　from　the　grave.

You　was　all　rotten　children,　I　say.　You　made　my　life　a　hell　on　earth.　And　your　daddy　here　aint　dead　horses　shit.

Mr.　reach　over　to　slap　me.　I　jab　my　case　knife　in　his　hand.

You　bitch,　he　say.　What　will　people　say,　you　running　off　to　Memphis　like　you　dont　have　a　house　to　look　after?

Shug　say,　Albert.　Try　to　think　like　you　got　some　sense.　Why　any　woman　give　a　shit　what　people　think　is　a　mystery　to　me.

Well,　say　Grady,　trying　to　bring　light.　A　woman　cant　git　a　man　if　peoples　talk.

Shug　look　at　me　and　us　giggle.　Then　us　laugh　sure　nuff.　Then　Squeak　start　to　laugh.　Then　Sofia.　All　us　laugh　and　laugh.

Shug　say,　Aint　they　something?　Us　say　um　hum,　and　slap　the　table,　wipe　the　water　from　our　eyes.

Harpo　look　at　Squeak.　Shut　up　Squeak,　he　say.　It　bad　luck　for　women　to　laugh　at　men.

She　say,　Okay.　She　sit　up　straight,　suck　in　her　breath,　try　to　press　her　face　together.

He　look　at　Sofia.　She　look　at　him　and　laugh　in　his　face.　I　already　had　my　bad　luck,　she　say.　I　had　enough　to　keep　me　laughing　the　rest　of　my　life.

Harpo　look　at　her　like　he　did　the　night　she　knock　Mary　Agnes　down.　A　little　spark　fly　cross　the　table.

A　little　spark　fly　cross　the　table:　桌上空氣緊張得快冒火星了。

I　got　six　children　by　this　crazy　woman,　he　mutter.

Five,　she　say.

He　so　outdone　he　cant　even　say,　Say　what?

He　look　over　at　the　youngest　child.　She　sullen,　mean,　mischeevous　and　too　stubborn　to　live　in　this　world.　But　he　love　her　best　of　all.　Her　name　Henrietta.

Henrietta,　he　say.

She　say,　Yesssss...like　they　say　it　on　the　radio.

Everything　she　say　confuse　him.　Nothing,　he　say.　Then　he　say,　Gogit　me　a　cool　glass　of　water.

She　dont　move.

Please,　he　say.

She　go　git　the　water,　put　it　by　his　plate,　give　him　a　peck　on　the　cheek.　Say,　Poor　Daddy.　Sit　back　down.

You　not　gitting　a　penny　of　my　money,　Mr.　say　to　me.　Not　one　thin　dime.

Did　I　ever　ast　you　for　money?　I　say.　I　never　ast　you　for　nothing.　Not　even　for　your　sorry　hand　in　marriage.

Shug　break　in　right　there.　Wait,　she　say.　Hold　it.　Somebody　else　going　with　us　too.　No　use　in　Celie　being　the　only　one　taking　the　weight.

Everybody　sort　of　cut　they　eyes　at　Sofia.　She　the　one　they　cant　quite　find　a　place　for.　She　the　stranger.

It　aint　me,　she　say,　and　her　look　say,　Fuck　you　for　entertaining　the　thought.　She　reach　for　a　biscuit　and　sort　of　root　her　behind　deeper　into　her　seat.　One　look　at　this　big　stout　graying,　wildeyed　woman　and　you　know　not　even　to　ast.　Nothing.

But　just　to　clear　this　up　neat　and　quick,　she　say,　Im　home.　Period.

Her　sister　Odessa　come　and　put　her　arms　round　her.　Jack

Jack:　奧德莎的丈夫，索菲亞的姐夫。　move　up　close.

Course　you　is,　Jack　say.

Mama　crying?　ast　one　of　Sofia　children.

Miss　Sofia　too,　another　one　say.

But　Sofia　cry　quick,　like　she　do　most　things.

Who　going?　she　ast.

Nobody　say　nothing.　It　so　quiet　you　can　hear　the　embers　dying　back　in　the　stove.　Sound　like　they　falling　in　on　each　other.

Finally,　Squeak　look　at　everybody　from　under　her　bangs.　Me,　she　say.　Im　going　North.

You　going　What?　say　Harpo.　He　so　surprise.　He　begin　to　sputter,　sputter,　just　like　his　daddy.　Sound　like　I　dont　know　what.

I　want　to　sing,　say　Squeak.

Sing!　say　Harpo.

Yeah,　say　Squeak.　Sing.　I　aint　sung　in　public　since　Jolentha　was　born.　Her　name　Jolentha.　They　call　her　Suzie　Q.

You　aint　had　to　sing　in　public　since　Jolentha　was　born.　Everything　you　need　I　done　provided　for.

I　need　to　sing,　say　Squeak.

Listen　Squeak,　say　Harpo.　You　cant　go　to　Memphis.　Thats　all　there　is　to　it.

Mary　Agnes,　say　Squeak.

Squeak,　Mary　Agnes,　what　difference　do　it　make?

It　make　a　lot,　say　Squeak.　When　I　was　Mary　Agnes　I　could　sing　in　public.

Just　then　a　little　knock　come　on　the　door.

Odessa　and　Jack　look　at　each　other.　Come　in,　say　Jack.

A　skinny　little　white　woman　stick　most　of　herself　through　the　door.

Oh,　you　all　are　eating　dinner,　she　say.　Excuse　me.

Thats　all　right,　say　Odessa.　Us　just　finishing　up.　But　theres　plenty　left.　Why　dont　you　sit　down　and　join　us.　Or　I　could　fix　you　something　to　eat　on　the　porch.

Oh　lord,　say　Shug.

It　Eleanor　Jane

Eleanor　Jane:　埃莉諾·簡，市長的女兒，索菲亞帶大的白人女孩。,　the　white　girl　Sofia　used　to　work　for.

She　look　round　till　she　spot　Sofia,　then　she　seem　to　let　her　breath　out.　No　thank　you,　Odessa,　she　say.　I　aint　hungry.　I　just　come　to　see　Sofia.

Sofia,　she　say.　Can　I　see　you　on　the　porch　for　a　minute.

All　right,　Miss　Eleanor,　she　say.　Sofia　push　back　from　the　table　and　they　go　out　on　the　porch.　A　few　minutes　later　us　hear　Miss　Eleanor　sniffling.　Then　she　really　boohoo.

What　the　matter　with　her?　Mr.　ast.

Henrietta　say,　Problimbszzzz...like　somebody　on　the　radio.

Odessa　shrug.　She　always　underfoot,　she　say.

A　lot　of　drinking　in　that　family,　say　Jack.　Plus,　they　cant　keep　that　boy　of　theirs　in　college.　He　get　drunk,　aggravate　his　sister,　chase　women,　hunt　niggers,　and　that　aint　all.

That　enough,　say　Shug.　Poor　Sofia.

Pretty　soon　Sofia　come　back　in　and　sit　down.

What　the　matter?　ast　Odessa.

A　lot　of　mess　back　at　the　house,　say　Sofia.

You　got　to　go　back　up　there?　Odessa　ast.

Yeah,　say　Sofia.　In　a　few　minutes.　But　Ill　try　to　be　back　before　the　children　go　to　bed.

Henrietta　ast　to　be　excuse,　say　she　got　a　stomach　ache.

Squeak　and　Harpos　little　girl　come　over,　look　up　at　Sofia,　say,　You　gotta　go　Misofia?

Sofia　say,　Yeah,　pull　her　up　on　her　lap.　Sofia　on　parole,　she　say.　Got　to　act　nice.

Suzie　Q　lay　her　head　on　Sofia　chest.　Poor　Sofia,　she　say,　just　like　she　heard　Shug.　Poor　Sofia.

Mary　Agnes,　darling,　say　Harpo,　look　how　Suzie　Q　take　to　Sofia.

Yeah,　say　Squeak,　children　know　good　when　they　see　it.　She　and　Sofia　smile　at　one　nother.

Go　on　sing,　say　Sofia,　Ill　look　after　this　one　till　you　come　back.

You　will?　say　Squeak.

Yeah,　say　Sofia.

And　look　after　Harpo,　too,　say　Squeak.　Please　maam.

Amen

Questions　for　Discussion

1.　In　the　first　letter,　what　does　the　incident　which　leads　up　to　Sofias　ending　up　in　jail　tell　us　about　U.　S.　racial　relations　in　the　story?　And　how　does　the　incident　reveal　Sofias　personality?

2.　How　do　you　understand　Sofias　statement　in　the　second　letter　that　shes　the　best　convict　yet　at　the　same　time　dreaming　of　murder　sleep　or　wake?

3.　At　the　beginning　of　the　third　letter,　Sofias　experience　as　a　prisoner　and　as　a　maid　for　the　mayors　family　turns　her　into　a　different　person.　Yet　with　the　conflict　between　men　and　women　in　Mr.　s　household　unfolding,　her　old　defiant　self　returns.　What　do　you　think　effects　the　change?

4.　Why　does　Squeak,　in　the　third　letter,　emphasize　her　real　name　Mary　Agnes?　What　does　a　name　mean　to　a　black　woman,　given　the　glaring　sexism　within　the　black　community　in　the　story?

4.　Beloved

作者簡介

托妮·莫裏森(1931—2019)是當代美國黑人文壇最耀眼的明星，獲得包括普利策獎和諾貝爾文學獎在內的諸多獎項。她在黑人傳統文學的基礎上不斷探索，形成了自己的創作特色，是繼賴特、埃裏森之後美國黑人文學史上的又一座高峰。

莫裏森出生於美國中西部俄亥俄州洛雷恩鎮的一個黑人家庭。父母對黑人音樂和民間故事的熱愛讓莫裏森從小就深受黑人文化的熏陶。1949年，她考入霍華德大學，主修英語，副修古典文學。本科畢業後前往康奈爾大學深造，獲文學碩士學位，碩士論文是關於福克納和伍爾夫的小說。1958年，她與牙買加建築師哈羅德·莫裏森結婚。1964年離婚後，她獨自撫養兩個兒子。從1965年到1984年，莫裏森擔任蘭登書屋出版公司的教科書編輯和小說類圖書編輯。在此期間編輯了《黑人之書》(The　Black　Book,　1974)——一部彙集了記載美國黑人曆史的照片和文本的大作。從1984到1989年，她在紐約州立大學任教，1989年後在普林斯頓大學任教，筆耕不輟，至今已經出版11部長篇小說，包括《最藍的眼睛》(1970)、《秀拉》(1973)、《所羅門之歌》(1977)、《柏油娃》(1981),反映美國黑人百年曆史的三部曲《寵兒》(1987)、《爵士樂》(1992)、《樂園》(1998)；進入21世紀以來陸續發表《愛》(2003)、《恩惠》(2008)、《家園》(2012),和《願上帝保佑你，孩子》(2015)。除長篇小說之外，她還創作了戲劇、短篇故事、兒童書籍以及批評文集《在黑暗中嬉戲——白人性與文學想象》(1992)、《他者之源》(2017)和《自尊之源》(2019)。

作品簡介與賞析

《寵兒》是莫裏森最知名的小說，出版後一年即獲得普利策獎，作者也因這部小說獲得諾貝爾文學獎。2006年，《紐約時報書評》組織100名作家和編輯評選25年來美國最佳小說，《寵兒》高居榜首。小說主人公塞絲以真實的美國曆史人物——逃亡黑奴瑪格麗特·加納為原型。1855年，從肯塔基州的種植園“甜蜜之家”出逃到俄亥俄州的女黑奴塞絲麵對前來抓捕的白人，為避免自己的孩子重蹈奴隸的悲慘命運，她親手殺死不到兩歲的女兒，出獄後讓人在其墓碑上刻上“寵兒”二字。18年後，一個自稱名叫寵兒的年輕女子走進了塞絲的生活，從此一切都改變了……故事的開頭是1873年，處於重建時期的美國南方依然盛行著蓄奴製時代的種族暴行。塞絲和女兒丹芙獨自住在辛辛那提城郊，基本不與人往來。之前同在“甜蜜之家”為奴的保羅·D來到她家，引發了她對過去的痛苦回憶。與此同時，18年前被母親殺死的女兒寵兒的鬼魂重返人間，前來向塞絲索愛。在設計趕走保羅·D後，寵兒無限度地向塞絲提出各種要求，讓後者變成母愛的奴隸。最後，丹芙帶著一群黑人鄰居前來驅鬼，寵兒終於消失，塞絲也從過去的陰影中走了出來。

《寵兒》著力刻畫了蓄奴製對已獲自由的美國黑人的身心傷害，體現了作家在小說創作中慣常表現的政治敏銳性。20世紀的最後25年，一種新的文類——新奴隸敘事在美國黑人文壇悄然興起。以埃裏克斯·哈利的《根》為標誌，一大批新奴隸敘事體小說次第登場。為了辨明後民權運動時代自由的含義，這批作品重新開啟了對奴隸製的探討，其中最受讚譽的便是《寵兒》。《寵兒》以深刻的批判意識和高度的人文關懷，改寫了被主流曆史觀所忽視與邊緣化的黑人曆史，還原了他們的生存狀態，講述美國南方重建時期，已成為自由人的黑奴重建自我身份的故事。小說對外部世界著墨不多，重點追蹤人物的內心發展軌跡，通過倒敘的方式，由幾個主要人物的敘事聲音將情節依次推進。透過主要敘事人也是主人公塞絲的意識和回憶，大部分的故事情節得以浮現。

小說的敘事技巧堪稱完美。首先，它打破了傳統的時間順序和線形敘事，將過去的點點滴滴穿插到現在的時間層麵上，不僅使得故事的進展十分緩慢，而且混淆了過去與現在的時間界限，使二者渾然一體。這種表現手法淋漓盡致地展現了人物不願卻不得不麵對過去的痛苦而混亂的心境。其次，小說基於聲音和聽覺的敘事特點十分明顯。在小說起始的寥寥數頁裏，第三人稱敘事人的敘事聲音就已不露痕跡地迅速將書中幾個主要人物推上前台。如果說敘事聲音在編織情節的過程中將不同的身份賦予人物，那麼人物形象的逐漸豐滿乃至呼之欲出，則應歸功於書中出現的其他種種聲音：人物的對話、內心獨白、歌謠、布道、多聲部的合唱等，它們構成一部波瀾壯闊的交響樂，成為黑人重建自我、締結家庭紐帶關係、從群體中汲取力量的重要手段。再次，則是作者對黑人口語體的大量運用。她在小說中成功地吸取和發揚了黑人文化傳統獨特的魅力，把從黑奴時代起就開始流傳的民間口頭文學的傳統運用到自己的創作中。作品多處采用口吻親切、如同嘮家常一般的口語體，字裏行間透露出聽者和說者雙方的默契，同時在書中零星散落條條線索，留下了一處處空白，需要讀者用自己的想象力和經驗來填補。這使文本具有了強大的召喚力，在文本與讀者之間形成一種動態交流。讀者不再是被動地接受文本，而是必須主動參與到小說情節的建構和想象中。

雖然屬於基於事實的新奴隸敘事體，作家卻將現實與超現實相結合，賦予小說魔幻現實主義的色彩。比如，小說第一章就以“凶宅鬧鬼”的情節牢牢抓住讀者，把哥特式小說元素放在這部取材於真人真事的故事中，其顛覆意味躍然紙上。西方理性主義傳統把鬼視為被排斥、被壓製、被放逐的對象，而寵兒這個冤鬼卻能肉身還魂，回到人間索取那過早丟失的母愛。與寵兒的鬼魂相比，真正可怕的其實是蓄奴製，盡管已在法律層麵被廢除，但它的餘響依然如鬼魅般如影隨形，是黑人心中不可觸及的傷痕。這種情節安排也反映了莫裏森與黑人本土文化的契合。她的小說富含神話寓言、民俗儀式、民間傳說、民間信仰、黑人音樂等黑人傳統文化的因素，也帶有明顯的非洲傳統宗教觀和生死觀的印記。相信、接受、容忍鬼魂的存在，甚至與之交流的情形，在書中隨處可見。在一次訪談中，莫裏森明確表示她相信鬼魂的存在。對這一主題的渲染其實反襯出她所倡導的黑人民族傳統對現代文明既定秩序的有力反駁。

莫裏森還善於通過塑造身份神秘、性格模糊的人物形象來構建開放性的小說文本。寵兒究竟是人是鬼？這是個至今依然爭議不休的問題。實際上，小說的開放性表明，莫裏森在小說中交叉運用了偏重雙重意識的非裔美國人的視角，和重視多樣性、多聲部和過程的後現代視角，結合了西方傳統文學的精髓和黑人口頭文學的特質，體現了藝術性和思想性的完美融合，成為20世紀後半葉唯有《看不見的人》能與之比肩的最具影響力的美國黑人小說。

下文選自《寵兒》第一章。凶宅鬧鬼與故人來訪的重合開啟了女主人公的意識流動，記憶深處的過往點滴泛起，作者以高超的敘事技巧將過去與現在、現實與幻象巧妙地編織在一起，吸引著讀者去探尋故事的真相。

One

124　WAS　SPITEFUL.　Full　of　a　babys　venom.　The　women　in　the　house　knew　it　and　so　did　the　children.　For　years　each　put　up　with　the　spite　in　his　own　way,　but　by　1873　Sethe　and　her　daughter　Denver　were　its　only　victims.　The　grandmother,　Baby　Suggs,　was　dead,　and　the　sons,　Howard　and　Buglar,　had　run　away　by　the　time　they　were　thirteen　years　old—as　soon　as　merely　looking　in　a　mirror　shattered　it　(that　was　the　signal　for　Buglar);　as　soon　as　two　tiny　hand　prints　appeared　in　the　cake　(that　was　it　for　Howard).　Neither　boy　waited　to　see　more;　another　kettleful　of　chickpeas　smoking　in　a　heap　on　the　floor;　soda　crackers　crumbled　and　strewn　in　a　line　next　to　the　door　sill.　Nor　did　they　wait　for　one　of　the　relief　periods:　the　weeks,　months　even,　when　nothing　was　disturbed.　No.　Each　one　fled　at　once—the　moment　the　house　committed　what　was　for　him　the　one　insult　not　to　be　borne　or　witnessed　a　second　time.　Within　two　months,　in　the　dead　of　winter,　leaving　their　grandmother,　Baby　Suggs;　Sethe,　their　mother;　and　their　little　sister,　Denver,　all　by　themselves　in　the　gray　and　white　house　on　Bluestone　Road.　It　didnt　have　a　number　then,　because　Cincinnati　didnt　stretch　that　far.　In　fact,　Ohio　had　been　calling　itself　a　state　only　seventy　years　when　first　one　brother　and　then　the　next　stuffed　quilt　packing　into　his　hat,　snatched　up　his　shoes,　and　crept　away　from　the　lively　spite　the　house　felt　for　them.

Baby　Suggs　didnt　even　raise　her　head.　From　her　sickbed　she　heard　them　go　but　that　wasnt　the　reason　she　lay　still.　It　was　a　wonder　to　her　that　her　grandsons　had　taken　so　long　to　realize　that　every　house　wasnt　like　the　one　on　Bluestone　Road.　Suspended　between　the　nastiness　of　life　and　the　meanness　of　the　dead,　she　couldnt　get　interested　in　leaving　life　or　living　it,　let　alone　the　fright　of　two　creepingoff　boys.　Her　past　had　been　like　her　present—intolerable—and　since　she　knew　death　was　anything　but　forgetfulness,　she　used　the　little　energy　left　her　for　pondering　color.

“Bring　a　little　lavender　in,　if　you　got　any.　Pink,　if　you　dont.”

And　Sethe　would　oblige　her　with　anything　from　fabric　to　her　own　tongue.　Winter　in　Ohio　was　especially　rough　if　you　had　an　appetite　for　color.　Sky　provided　the　only　drama,　and　counting　on　a　Cincinnati　horizon　for　lifes　principal　joy　was　reckless　indeed.　So　Sethe　and　the　girl　Denver　did　what　they　could,　and　what　the　house　permitted,　for　her.　Together　they　waged　a　perfunctory　battle　against　the　outrageous　behavior　of　that　place;　against　turnedover　slop　jars,　smacks　on　the　behind,　and　gusts　of　sour　air.　For　they　understood　the　source　of　the　outrage　as　well　as　they　knew　the　source　of　light.

Baby　Suggs　died　shortly　after　the　brothers　left,　with　no　interest　whatsoever　in　their　leavetaking　or　hers,　and　right　afterward　Sethe　and　Denver　decided　to　end　the　persecution　by　calling　forth　the　ghost　that　tried　them　so.　Perhaps　a　conversation,　they　thought,　an　exchange　of　views　or　something　would　help.　So　they　held　hands　and　said,　“Come　on.　Come　on.　You　may　as　well　just　come　on.”

The　sideboard　took　a　step　forward　but　nothing　else　did.

“Grandma　Baby　must　be　stopping　it,”　said　Denver.　She　was　ten　and　still　mad　at　Baby　Suggs　for　dying.

Sethe　opened　her　eyes.　“I　doubt　that,”　she　said.

“Then　why　dont　it　come?”

“You　forgetting　how　little　it　is,”　said　her　mother.　“She　wasnt　even　two　years　old　when　she　died.　Too　little　to　understand.　Too　little　to　talk　much　even.”

“Maybe　she　dont　want　to　understand,”　said　Denver.

“Maybe.　But　if　shed　only　come,　I　could　make　it　clear　to　her.”　Sethe　released　her　daughters　hand　and　together　they　pushed　the　sideboard　back　against　the　wall.　Outside　a　driver　whipped　his　horse　into　the　gallop　local　people　felt　necessary　when　they　passed　124.

“For　a　baby　she　throws　a　powerful　spell,”　said　Denver.

“No　more　powerful　than　the　way　I　loved　her,”　Sethe　answered　and　there　it　was　again.　The　welcoming　cool　of　unchiseled　headstones;

the　one　she　selected　to　lean　against　on　tiptoe,　her　knees　wide　open　as　any　grave.　Pink　as　a　fingernail　it　was,　and　sprinkled　with　glittering　chips.　Ten　minutes,　he　said.　You　got　ten　minutes　Ill　do　it　for　free.

Ten　minutes　for　seven　letters.　With　another　ten　could　she　have　gotten　“Dearly”　too?　She　had　not　thought　to　ask　him　and　it　bothered　her　still　that　it　might　have　been　possible—that　for　twenty　minutes,　a　half　hour,　say,　she　could　have　had　the　whole　thing,　every　word　she　heard　the　preacher　say　at　the　funeral　(and　all　there　was　to　say,　surely)　engraved　on　her　babys　headstone:　Dearly　Beloved.　But　what　she　got,　settled　for,　was　the　one　word　that　mattered.　She　thought　it　would　be　enough,　ruttingrutting:　苟合。

among　the　headstones　with　the　engraver,　his　young　son　looking　on,　the　anger　in　his　face　so　old;　the　appetite　in　it　quite　new.　That　should　certainly　be　enough.　Enough　to　answer　one　more　preacher,　one　more　abolitionist　and　a　town　full　of　disgust.

Counting　on　the　stillness　of　her　own　soul,　she　had　forgotten　the　other　one:　the　soul　of　her　baby　girl.　Who　would　have　thought　that　a　little　old　baby　could　harbor　so　much　rage?　Rutting　among　the　stones　under　the　eyes　of　the　engravers　son　was　not　enough.　Not　only　did　she　have　to　live　out　her　years　in　a　house　palsied　by　the　babys　fury　at　having　its　throat　cut,　but　those　ten　minutes　she　spent　pressed　up　against　dawncolored　stone　studded　with　star　chips,　her　knees　wide　open　as　the　grave,　were　longer　than　life,　more　alive,　more　pulsating　than　the　baby　blood　that　soaked　her　fingers　like　oil.

“We　could　move,”　she　suggested　once　to　her　motherinlaw.

“Whatd　be　the　point?”　asked　Baby　Suggs.　“Not　a　house　in　the　country　aint　packed　to　its　rafters　with　some　dead　Negros　grief.　We　lucky　this　ghost　is　a　baby.　My　husbands　spirit　was　to　come　back　in　here?　or　yours?　Dont　talk　to　me.　You　lucky.　You　got　three　left.　Three　pulling　at　your　skirts　and　just　one　raising　hell　from　the　other　side.　Be　thankful,　why　dont　you?　I　had　eight.　Every　one　of　them　gone　away　from　me.　Four　taken,　four　chased,　and　all,　I　expect,　worrying　somebodys　house　into　evil.”　Baby　Suggs　rubbed　her　eyebrows.　“My　firstborn.　All　I　can　remember　of　her　is　how　she　loved　the　burned　bottom　of　bread.　Can　you　beat　that?　Eight　children　and　thats　all　I　remember.”

“Thats　all　you　let　yourself　remember,”　Sethe　had　told　her,　but　she　was　down　to　one　herself—one　alive,　that　is—the　boys　chased　off　by　the　dead　one,　and　her　memory　of　Buglar　was　fading　fast.　Howard　at　least　had　a　head　shape　nobody　could　forget.　As　for　the　rest,　she　worked　hard　to　remember　as　close　to　nothing　as　was　safe.　Unfortunately　her　brain　was　devious.　She　might　be　hurrying　across　a　field,　running　practically,　to　get　to　the　pump　quickly　and　rinse　the　chamomile　sap　from　her　legs.　Nothing　else　would　be　in　her　mind.　The　picture　of　the　men　coming　to　nurse　her　was　as　lifeless　as　the　nerves　in　her　back　where　the　skin　buckled　like　a　washboard.　Nor　was　there　the　faintest　scent　of　ink　or　the　cherry　gum　and　oak　bark　from　which　it　was　made.　Nothing.　Just　the　breeze　cooling　her　face　as　she　rushed　toward　water.　And　then　sopping　the　chamomile　away　with　pump　water　and　rags,　her　mind　fixed　on　getting　every　last　bit　of　sap　off—on　her　carelessness　in　taking　a　shortcut　across　the　field　just　to　save　a　half　mile,　and　not　noticing　how　high　the　weeds　had　grown　until　the　itching　was　all　the　way　to　her　knees.　Then　something.　The　plash　of　water,　the　sight　of　her　shoes　and　stockings　awry　on　the　path　where　she　had　flung　them;　or　Here　Boy　lapping　in　the　puddle　near　her　feet,　and　suddenly　there　was　Sweet　HomeSweet　Home:　“甜蜜之家”，塞絲出逃之前所在的種植園的名字。

rolling,　rolling,　rolling　out　before　her　eyes,　and　although　there　was　not　a　leaf　on　that　farm　that　did　not　make　her　want　to　scream,　it　rolled　itself　out　before　her　in　shameless　beauty.　It　never　looked　as　terrible　as　it　was　and　it　made　her　wonder　if　hell　was　a　pretty　place　too.　Fire　and　brimstone　all　right,　but　hidden　in　lacy　groves.　Boys　hanging　from　the　most　beautiful　sycamores　in　the　world.　It　shamed　her—remembering　the　wonderful　soughing　trees　rather　than　the　boys.　Try　as　she　might　to　make　it　otherwise,　the　sycamores　beat　out　the　children　every　time　and　she　could　not　forgive　her　memory　for　that.

When　the　last　of　the　chamomile　was　gone,　she　went　around　to　the　front　of　the　house,　collecting　her　shoes　and　stockings　on　the　way.　As　if　to　punish　her　further　for　her　terrible　memory,　sitting　on　the　porch　not　forty　feet　away　was　Paul　D,　the　last　of　the　Sweet　Home　men.　And　although　she　she　said,　“Is　that　you?”

“Whats　left.”　He　stood　up　and　smiled.　“How　you　been,　girl,　besides　barefoot?”

When　she　laughed　it　came　out　loose　and　young.　“Messed　up　my　legs　back　yonder.　Chamomile.”

He　made　a　face　as　though　tasting　a　teaspoon　of　something　bitter.　“I　dont　want　to　even　hear　bout　it.　Always　did　hate　that　stuff.”

Sethe　balled　up　her　stockings　and　jammed　them　into　her　pocket.　“Come　on　in.”

“Porch　is　fine,　Sethe.　Cool　out　here.”　He　sat　back　down　and　looked　at　the　meadow　on　the　other　side　of　the　road,　knowing　the　eagerness　he　felt　would　be　in　his　eyes.

“Eighteen　years,”　she　said　softly.

“Eighteen,”　he　repeated.　“And　I　swear　I　been　walking　every　one　of　em.　Mind　if　I　join　you?”　He　nodded　toward　her　feet　and　began　unlacing　his　shoes.

“You　want　to　soak　them?　Let　me　get　you　a　basin　of　water.”　She　moved　closer　to　him　to　enter　the　house.

“No,　uh　uh.　Cant　baby　feet.　A　whole　lot　more　tramping　they　got　to　do　yet.”

“You　cant　leave　right　away,　Paul　D.　You　got　to　stay　awhile.”

“Well,　long　enough　to　see　Baby　Suggs,　anyway.　Where　is　she?”

“Dead.”

“Aw　no.　When?”

“Eight　years　now.　Almost　nine.”

“Was　it　hard?　I　hope　she　didnt　die　hard.”

Sethe　shook　her　head.　“Soft　as　cream.　Being　alive　was　the　hard　part.　Sorry　you　missed　her　though.　Is　that　what　you　came　by　for?”

“Thats　some　of　what　I　came　for.　The　rest　is　you.　But　if　all　the　truth　be　known,　I　go　anywhere　these　days.　Anywhere　they　let　me　sit　down.”

“You　looking　good.”

“Devils　confusion.　He　lets　me　look　good　long　as　I　feel　bad.”　He　looked　at　her　and　the　word　“bad”　took　on　another　meaning.

Sethe　smiled.　This　is　the　way　they　were—had　been.　All　of　the　Sweet　Home　men,　before　and　after　Halle,　treated　her　to　a　mild　brotherly　flirtation,　so　subtle　you　had　to　scratch　for　it.

Except　for　a　heap　more　hair　and　some　waiting　in　his　eyes,　he　looked　the　way　he　had　in　Kentucky.　Peachstone　skin;　straightbacked.　For　a　man　with　an　immobile　face　it　was　amazing　how　ready　it　was　to　smile,　or　blaze　or　be　sorry　with　you.　As　though　all　you　had　to　do　was　get　his　attention　and　right　away　he　produced　the　feeling　you　were　feeling.　With　less　than　a　blink,　his　face　seemed　to　change—underneath　it　lay　the　activity.

“I　wouldnt　have　to　ask　about　him,　would　I?　Youd　tell　me　if　there　was　anything　to　tell,　wouldnt　you?”　Sethe　looked　down　at　her　feet　and　saw　again　the　sycamores.

“Id　tell　you.　Sure　Id　tell　you.　I　dont　know　any　more　now　than　I　did　then.”　Except　for　the　churn,　he　thought,　and　you　dont　need　to　know　that.　“You　must　think　hes　still　alive.”

“No.　I　think　hes　dead.　Its　not　being　sure　that　keeps　him　alive.”

“What　did　Baby　Suggs　think?”

“Same,　but　to　listen　to　her,　all　her　children　is　dead.　Claimed　she　felt　each　one　go　the　very　day　and　hour.”

“When　she　say　Halle　went?”

“Eighteen　fiftyfive.　The　day　my　baby　was　born.”

“You　had　that　baby,　did　you?　Never　thought　youd　make　it.”

He　chuckled.　“Running　off　pregnant.”

“Had　to.　Couldnt　be　no　waiting.”　She　lowered　her　head　and　thought,　as　he　did,　how　unlikely　it　was　that　she　had　made　it.　And　if　it　hadnt　been　for　that　girl　looking　for　velvet,　she　never　would　have.

“All　by　yourself　too.”　He　was　proud　of　her　and　annoyed　by　her.　Proud　she　had　done　it;　annoyed　that　she　had　not　needed　Halle　or　him　in　the　doing.

“Almost　by　myself.　Not　all　by　myself.　A　whitegirl　helped　me.”

“Then　she　helped　herself　too,　God　bless　her.”

“You　could　stay　the　night,　Paul　D.”

“You　dont　sound　too　steady　in　the　offer.”

Sethe　glanced　beyond　his　shoulder　toward　the　closed　door.　“Oh　its　truly　meant.　I　just　hope　youll　pardon　my　house.　Come　on　in.　Talk　to　Denver　while　I　cook　you　something.”

Paul　D　tied　his　shoes　together,　hung　them　over　his　shoulder　and　followed　her　through　the　door　straight　into　a　pool　of　red　and　undulating　light　that　locked　him　where　he　stood.

“You　got　company?”　he　whispered,　frowning.

“Off　and　on,”　said　Sethe.

“Good　God.”　He　backed　out　the　door　onto　the　porch.　“What　kind　of　evil　you　got　in　here?”

“Its　not　evil,　just　sad.　Come　on.　Just　step　through.”

He　looked　at　her　then,　closely.　Closer　than　he　had　when　she　first　rounded　the　house　on　wet　and　shining　legs,　holding　her　shoes　and　stockings　up　in　one　hand,　her　skirts　in　the　other.　Halles　girl—the　one　with　iron　eyes　and　backbone　to　match.　He　had　never　seen　her　hair　in　Kentucky.　And　though　her　face　was　eighteen　years　older　than　when　last　he　saw　her,　it　was　softer　now.　Because　of　the　hair.　A　face　too　still　for　comfort;　irises　the　same　color　as　her　skin,　which,　in　that　still　face,　used　to　make　him　think　of　a　mask　with　mercifully　punched　out　eyes.　Halles　woman.　Pregnant　every　year　including　the　year　she　sat　by　the　fire　telling　him　she　was　going　to　run.　Her　three　children　she　had　already　packed　into　a　wagonload　of　others　in　a　caravan　of　Negroes　crossing　the　river.　They　were　to　be　left　with　Halles　mother　near　Cincinnati.　Even　in　that　tiny　shack,　leaning　so　close　to　the　fire　you　could　smell　the　heat　in　her　dress,　her　eyes　did　not　pick　up　a　flicker　of　light.　They　were　like　two　wells　into　which　he　had　trouble　gazing.　Even　punched　out　they　needed　to　be　covered,　lidded,　marked　with　some　sign　to　warn　folks　of　what　that　emptiness　held.　So　he　looked　instead　at　the　fire　while　she　told　him,　because　her　husband　was　not　there　for　the　telling.　Mr.　Garner　was　dead　and　his　wife　had　a　lump　in　her　neck　the　size　of　a　sweet　potato　and　unable　to　speak　to　anyone.　She　leaned　as　close　to　the　fire　as　her　pregnant　belly　allowed　and　told　him,　Paul　D,　the　last　of　the　Sweet　Home　men.

There　had　been　six　of　them　who　belonged　to　the　farm,　Sethe　the　only　female.　Mrs.　Garner,　crying　like　a　baby,　had　sold　his　brother　to　pay　off　the　debts　that　surfaced　the　minute　she　was　widowed.　Then　schoolteacher　arrived　to　put　things　in　order.　But　what　he　did　broke　three　more　Sweet　Home　men　and　punched　the　glittering　iron　out　of　Sethes　eyes,　leaving　two　open　wells　that　did　not　reflect　firelight.

Now　the　iron　was　back　but　the　face,　softened　by　hair,　made　him　trust　her　enough　to　step　inside　her　door　smack　into　a　pool　of　pulsing　red　light.

She　was　right.　It　was　sad.　Walking　through　it,　a　wave　of　grief　soaked　him　so　thoroughly　he　wanted　to　cry.　It　seemed　a　long　way　to　the　normal　light　surrounding　the　table,　but　he　made　it—dryeyed　and　lucky.

“You　said　she　died　soft.　Soft　as　cream,”　he　reminded　her.

“Thats　not　Baby　Suggs,”　she　said.

“Who　then?”

“My　daughter.　The　one　I　sent　ahead　with　the　boys.”

“She　didnt　live?”

“No.　The　one　I　was　carrying　when　I　run　away　is　all　I　got　left.

Boys　gone　too.　Both　of　em　walked　off　just　before　Baby　Suggs　died.”

Paul　D　looked　at　the　spot　where　the　grief　had　soaked　him.　The　red　was　gone　but　a　kind　of　weeping　clung　to　the　air　where　it　had　been.

Probably　best,　he　thought.　If　a　Negro　got　legs　he　ought　to　use　them.　Sit　down　too　long,　somebody　will　figure　out　a　way　to　tie　them　up.　Still...if　her　boys　were　gone...

“No　man?　You　here　by　yourself?”

“Me　and　Denver,”　she　said.

“That　all　right　by　you?”

“Thats　all　right　by　me.”

She　saw　his　skepticism　and　went　on.　“I　cook　at　a　restaurant　in　town.　And　I　sew　a　little　on　the　sly.

Paul　D　smiled　then,　remembering　the　bedding　dress.　Sethe　was　thirteen　when　she　came　to　Sweet　Home　and　already　ironeyed.　She　was　a　timely　present　for　Mrs.　Garner　who　had　lost　Baby　Suggs　to　her　husbands　high　principles.　The　five　Sweet　Home　men　looked　at　the　new　girl　and　decided　to　let　her　be.　They　were　young　and　so　sick　with　the　absence　of　women　they　had　taken　to　calves.　Yet　they　let　the　ironeyed　girl　be,　so　she　could　choose　in　spite　of　the　fact　that　each　one　would　have　beaten　the　others　to　mush　to　have　her.　It　took　her　a　year　to　choose—a　long,　tough　year　of　thrashing　on　pallets　eaten　up　with　dreams　of　her.　A　year　of　yearning,　when　rape　seemed　the　solitary　gift　of　life.　The　restraint　they　had　exercised　possible　only　because　they　were　Sweet　Home　men—the　ones　Mr.　Garner　bragged　about　while　other　farmers　shook　their　heads　in　warning　at　the　phrase.

“Yall　got　boys,”　he　told　them.　“Young　boys,　old　boys,　picky　boys,　stroppin　boys.　Now　at　Sweet　Home,　my　niggers　is　men　every　one　of　em.　Bought　em　thataway,　raised　em　thataway.　Men　every　one.”

“Beg　to　differ,　Garner.　Aint　no　nigger　men.”

“Not　if　you　scared,　they　aint.”　Garners　smile　was　wide.　“But　if　you　a　man　yourself,　youll　want　your　niggers　to　be　men　too.”

“I　wouldnt　have　no　nigger　men　round　my　wife.”

It　was　the　reaction　Garner　loved　and　waited　for.　“Neither　would　I,”　he　said.　“Neither　would　I,”　and　there　was　always　a　pause　before　the　neighbor,　or　stranger,　or　peddler,　or　brotherinlaw　or　whoever　it　was　got　the　meaning.　Then　a　fierce　argument,　sometimes　a　fight,　and　Garner　came　home　bruised　and　pleased,　having　demonstrated　one　more　time　what　a　real　Kentuckian　was:　one　tough　enough　and　smart　enough　to　make　and　call　his　own　niggers　men.

And　so　they　were:　Paul　D　Garner,　Paul　F　Garner,　Paul　A　Garner,　Halle　Suggs　and　Sixo,　the　wild　man.　All　in　their　twenties,　minus　women,　fucking　cows,　dreaming　of　rape,　thrashing　on　pallets,　rubbing　their　thighs　and　waiting　for　the　new　girl—the　one　who　took　Baby　Suggs　place　after　Halle　bought　her　with　five　years　of　Sundays.　Maybe　that　was　why　she　chose　him.　A　twentyyearold　man　so　in　love　with　his　mother　he　gave　up　five　years　of　Sabbaths　just　to　see　her　sit　down　for　a　change　was　a　serious　recommendation.

She　waited　a　year.　And　the　Sweet　Home　men　abused　cows　while　they　waited　with　her.　She　chose　Halle　and　for　their　first　bedding　she　sewed　herself　a　dress　on　the　sly.

“Wont　you　stay　on　awhile?　Cant　nobody　catch　up　on　eighteen　years　in　a　day.”

Out　of　the　dimness　of　the　room　in　which　they　sat,　a　white　staircase　climbed　toward　the　blueandwhite　wallpaper　of　the　second　floor.　Paul　D　could　see　just　the　beginning　of　the　paper;　discreet　flecks　of　yellow　sprinkled　among　a　blizzard　of　snowdrops　all　backed　by　blue.　The　luminous　white　of　the　railing　and　steps　kept　him　glancing　toward　it.　Every　sense　he　had　told　him　the　air　above　the　stairwell　was　charmed　and　very　thin.　But　the　girl　who　walked　down　out　of　that　air　was　round　and　brown　with　the　face　of　an　alert　doll.

Paul　D　looked　at　the　girl　and　then　at　Sethe　who　smiled　saying,　“Here　she　is　my　Denver.　This　is　Paul　D,　honey,　from　Sweet　Home.”

“Good　morning,　Mr.　D.”

“Garner,　baby.　Paul　D　Garner.”

“Yes　sir.”

“Glad　to　get　a　look　at　you.　Last　time　I　saw　your　mama,　you　were　pushing　out　the　front　of　her　dress.”

“Still　is,”　Sethe　smiled,　“provided　she　can　get　in　it.”

Denver　stood　on　the　bottom　step　and　was　suddenly　hot　and　shy.　It　had　been　a　long　time　since　anybody　(goodwilled　whitewoman,　preacher,　speaker　or　newspaperman)　sat　at　their　table,　their　sympathetic　voices　called　liar　by　the　revulsion　in　their　eyes.　For　twelve　years,　long　before　Grandma　Baby　died,　there　had　been　no　visitors　of　any　sort　and　certainly　no　friends.　No　colored　people.　Certainly　no　hazelnut　man　with　too　long　hair　and　no　notebook,　no　charcoal,　no　oranges,　no　questions.　Someone　her　mother　wanted　to　talk　to　and　would　even　consider　talking　to　while　barefoot.　Looking,　in　fact　acting,　like　a　girl　instead　of　the　quiet,　queenly　woman　Denver　had　known　all　her　life.　The　one　who　never　looked　away,　who　when　a　man　got　stomped　to　death　by　a　mare　right　in　front　of　Sawyers　restaurant　did　not　look　away;　and　when　a　sow　began　eating　her　own　litter　did　not　look　away　then　either.　And　when　the　babys　spirit　picked　up　Here　Boy　and　slammed　him　into　the　wall　hard　enough　to　break　two　of　his　legs　and　dislocate　his　eye,　so　hard　he　went　into　convulsions　and　chewed　up　his　tongue,　still　her　mother　had　not　looked　away.　She　had　taken　a　hammer,　knocked　the　dog　unconscious,　wiped　away　the　blood　and　saliva,　pushed　his　eye　back　in　his　head　and　set　his　leg　bones.　He　recovered,　mute　and　offbalance,　more　because　of　his　untrustworthy　eye　than　his　bent　legs,　and　winter,　summer,　drizzle　or　dry,　nothing　could　persuade　him　to　enter　the　house　again.

Now　here　was　this　woman　with　the　presence　of　mind　to　repair　a　dog　gone　savage　with　pain　rocking　her　crossed　ankles　and　looking　away　from　her　own　daughters　body.　As　though　the　size　of　it　was　more　than　vision　could　bear.　And　neither　she　nor　he　had　on　shoes.　Hot,　shy,　now　Denver　was　lonely.　All　that　leaving:　first　her　brothers,　then　her　grandmother—serious　losses　since　there　were　no　children　willing　to　circle　her　in　a　game　or　hang　by　their　knees　from　her　porch　railing.　None　of　that　had　mattered　as　long　as　her　mother　did　not　look　away　as　she　was　doing　now,　making　Denver　long,　downright　long,　for　a　sign　of　spite　from　the　baby　ghost.

“Shes　a　finelooking　young　lady,”　said　Paul　D.　“Finelooking.　Got　her　daddys　sweet　face.”

“You　know　my　father?”

“Knew　him.　Knew　him　well.”

“Did　he,　Maam?”　Denver　fought　an　urge　to　realign　her　affection.

“Of　course　he　knew　your　daddy.　I　told　you,　hes　from　Sweet　Home.”

Denver　sat　down　on　the　bottom　step.　There　was　nowhere　else　gracefully　to　go.　They　were　a　twosome,　saying　“Your　daddy”　and　“Sweet　Home”　in　a　way　that　made　it　clear　both　belonged　to　them　and　not　to　her.　That　her　own　fathers　absence　was　not　hers.　Once　the　absence　had　belonged　to　Grandma　Baby—a　son,　deeply　mourned　because　he　was　the　one　who　had　bought　her　out　of　there.　Then　it　was　her　mothers　absent　husband.　Now　it　was　this　hazelnut　strangers　absent　friend.　Only　those　who　knew　him　(“knew　him　well”)　could　claim　his　absence　for　themselves.　Just　as　only　those　who　lived　in　Sweet　Home　could　remember　it,　whisper　it　and　glance　sideways　at　one　another　while　they　did.　Again　she　wished　for　the　baby　ghost—its　anger　thrilling　her　now　where　it　used　to　wear　her　out.　Wear　her　out.

“We　have　a　ghost　in　here,”　she　said,　and　it　worked.　They　were　not　a　twosome　anymore.　Her　mother　left　off　swinging　her　feet　and　being　girlish.　Memory　of　Sweet　Home　dropped　away　from　the　eyes　of　the　man　she　was　being　girlish　for.　He　looked　quickly　up　the　lightningwhite　stairs　behind　her.

“So　I　hear,”　he　said.　“But　sad,　your　mama　said.　Not　evil.”

“No　sir,”　said　Denver,　“not　evil.　But　not　sad　either.”

“What　then?”

“Rebuked.　Lonely　and　rebuked.”

“Is　that　right?”　Paul　D　turned　to　Sethe.

“I　dont　know　about　lonely,”　said　Denvers　mother.　“Mad,　maybe,　but　I　dont　see　how　it　could　be　lonely　spending　every　minute　with　us　like　it　does.”

“Must　be　something　you　got　it　wants.”

Sethe　shrugged.　“Its　just　a　baby.”

“My　sister,”　said　Denver.　“She　died　in　this　house.”

Paul　D　scratched　the　hair　under　his　jaw.　“Reminds　me　of　that　headless　bride　back　behind　Sweet　Home.　Remember　that,　Sethe?　Used　to　roam　them　woods　regular.”

“How　could　I　forget?　Worrisome...”

“How　come　everybody　run　off　from　Sweet　Home　cant　stop　talking　about　it?　Look　like　if　it　was　so　sweet　you　would　have　stayed.”

“Girl,　who　you　talking　to?”

Paul　D　laughed.　“True,　true.　Shes　right,　Sethe.　It　wasnt　sweet　and　it　sure　wasnt　home.”　He　shook　his　head.

“But　its　where　we　were,”　said　Sethe.　“All　together.　Comes　back　whether　we　want　it　to　or　not.”　She　shivered　a　little.　A　light　ripple　of　skin　on　her　arm,　which　she　caressed　back　into　sleep.　“Denver,”　she　said,　“start　up　that　stove.　Cant　have　a　friend　stop　by　and　dont　feed　him.”

“Dont　go　to　any　trouble　on　my　account,”　Paul　D　said.

“Bread　aint　trouble.　The　rest　I　brought　back　from　where　I　work.　Least　I　can　do,　cooking　from　dawn　to　noon,　is　bring　dinner　home.　You　got　any　objections　to　pike?”

“If　he　dont　object　to　me　I　dont　object　to　him.”

At　it　again,　thought　Denver.　Her　back　to　them,　she　jostled　the　kindlin　and　almost　lost　the　fire.　“Why　dont　you　spend　the　night,　Mr.　Garner?　You　and　Maam　can　talk　about　Sweet　Home　all　night　long.”

Sethe　took　two　swift　steps　to　the　stove,　but　before　she　could　yank　Denvers　collar,　the　girl　leaned　forward　and　began　to　cry.

“What　is　the　matter　with　you?　I　never　knew　you　to　behave　this　way.”

“Leave　her　be,”　said　Paul　D.　“Im　a　stranger　to　her.”

“Thats　just　it.　She　got　no　cause　to　act　up　with　a　stranger.　Oh　baby,　what　is　it?　Did　something　happen?”

But　Denver　was　shaking　now　and　sobbing　so　she　could　not　speak.　The　tears　she　had　not　shed　for　nine　years　wetting　her　far　too　womanly　breasts.

“I　cant　no　more.　I　cant　no　more.”

“Cant　what?　What　cant　you?”

“I　cant　live　here.　I　dont　know　where　to　go　or　what　to　do,　but　I　cant　live　here.　Nobody　speaks　to　us.　Nobody　comes　by.　Boys　dont　like　me.　Girls　dont　either.”

“Honey,　honey.”

“Whats　she　talking　bout　nobody　speaks　to　you?”　asked　Paul　D.

“Its　the　house.　People　dont—”

“Its　not!　Its　not　the　house.　Its　us!　And　its　you!”

“Denver!”

“Leave　off,　Sethe.　Its　hard　for　a　young　girl　living　in　a　haunted　house.　That　cant　be　easy.”

“Its　easier　than　some　other　things.”

“Think,　Sethe.　Im　a　grown　man　with　nothing　new　left　to　see　or　do　and　Im　telling　you　it　aint　easy.　Maybe　you　all　ought　to　move.　Who　owns　this　house?”

Over　Denvers　shoulder　Sethe　shot　Paul　D　a　look　of　snow.　“What　you　care?”

“They　wont　let　you　leave?”

“No.”

“Sethe.”

“No　moving.　No　leaving.　Its　all　right　the　way　it　is.”

“You　going　to　tell　me　its　all　right　with　this　child　half　out　of　her　mind?”

Something　in　the　house　braced,　and　in　the　listening　quiet　that　followed　Sethe　spoke.

“I　got　a　tree　on　my　back　and　a　haint　in　my　house,　and　nothing　in　between　but　the　daughter　I　am　holding　in　my　arms.　No　more　running—from　nothing.　I　will　never　run　from　another　thing　on　this　earth.　I　took　one　journey　and　I　paid　for　the　ticket,　but　let　me　tell　you　something,　Paul　D　Garner:　it　cost　too　much!　Do　you　hear　me?　It　cost　too　much.　Now　sit　down　and　eat　with　us　or　leave　us　be.”

Paul　D　fished　in　his　vest　for　a　little　pouch　of　tobacco—concentrating　on　its　contents　and　the　knot　of　its　string　while　Sethe　led　Denver　into　the　keeping　room　that　opened　off　the　large　room　he　was　sitting　in.　He　had　no　smoking　papers,　so　he　fiddled　with　the　pouch　and　listened　through　the　open　door　to　Sethe　quieting　her　daughter.　When　she　came　back　she　avoided　his　look　and　went　straight　to　a　small　table　next　to　the　stove.　Her　back　was　to　him　and　he　could　see　all　the　hair　he　wanted　without　the　distraction　of　her　face.

“What　tree　on　your　back?”

“Huh.”　Sethe　put　a　bowl　on　the　table　and　reached　under　it　for　flour.

“What　tree　on　your　back?　Is　something　growing　on　your　back?　I　dont　see　nothing　growing　on　your　back.”

“Its　there　all　the　same.”

“Who　told　you　that?”

“Whitegirl.　Thats　what　she　called　it.　Ive　never　seen　it　and　never　will.　But　thats　what　she　said　it　looked　like.　A　chokecherry　tree.　Trunk,　branches,　and　even　leaves.　Tiny　little　chokecherry　leaves.　But　that　was　eighteen　years　ago.　Could　have　cherries　too　now　for　all　I　know.”

Sethe　took　a　little　spit　from　the　tip　of　her　tongue　with　her　forefinger.　Quickly,　lightly　she　touched　the　stove.　Then　she　trailed　her　fingers　through　the　flour,　parting,　separating　small　hills　and　ridges　of　it,　looking　for　mites.　Finding　none,　she　poured　soda　and　salt　into　the　crease　of　her　folded　hand　and　tossed　both　into　the　flour.　Then　she　reached　into　a　can　and　scooped　half　a　handful　of　lard.　Deftly　she　squeezed　the　flour　through　it,　then　with　her　left　hand　sprinkling　water,　she　formed　the　dough.

“I　had　milk,”　she　said.　“I　was　pregnant　with　Denver　but　I　had　milk　for　my　baby　girl.　I　hadnt　stopped　nursing　her　when　I　sent　her　on　ahead　with　Howard　and　Buglar.”

Now　she　rolled　the　dough　out　with　a　wooden　pin.　“Anybody　could　smell　me　long　before　he　saw　me.　And　when　he　saw　me　hed　see　the　drops　of　it　on　the　front　of　my　dress.　Nothing　I　could　do　about　that.　All　I　knew　was　I　had　to　get　my　milk　to　my　baby　girl.　Nobody　was　going　to　nurse　her　like　me.　Nobody　was　going　to　get　it　to　her　fast　enough,　or　take　it　away　when　she　had　enough　and　didnt　know　it.　Nobody　knew　that　she　couldnt　pass　her　air　if　you　held　her　up　on　your　shoulder,　only　if　she　was　lying　on　my　knees.　Nobody　knew　that　but　me　and　nobody　had　her　milk　but　me.　I　told　that　to　the　women　in　the　wagon.　Told　them　to　put　sugar　water　in　cloth　to　suck　from　so　when　I　got　there　in　a　few　days　she　wouldnt　have　forgot　me.　The　milk　would　be　there　and　I　would　be　there　with　it.”

“Men　dont　know　nothing　much,”　said　Paul　D,　tucking　his　pouch　back　into　his　vest　pocket,　“but　they　do　know　a　suckling　cant　be　away　from　its　mother　for　long.”

“Then　they　know　what　its　like　to　send　your　children　off　when　your　breasts　are　full.”

“We　was　talking　bout　a　tree,　Sethe.”

“After　I　left　you,　those　boys　came　in　there　and　took　my　milk.　Thats　what　they　came　in　there　for.　Held　me　down　and　took　it.　I　told　Mrs.　Garner　on　em.　She　had　that　lump　and　couldnt　speak　but　her　eyes　rolled　out　tears.　Them　boys　found　out　I　told　on　em.　Schoolteacher　made　one　open　up　my　back,　and　when　it　closed　it　made　a　tree.　It　grows　there　still.”

“They　used　cowhide　on　you?”

“And　they　took　my　milk.”

“They　beat　you　and　you　was　pregnant?”

“And　they　took　my　milk!”

The　fat　white　circles　of　dough　lined　the　pan　in　rows.　Once　more　Sethe　touched　a　wet　forefinger　to　the　stove.　She　opened　the　oven　door　and　slid　the　pan　of　biscuits　in.　As　she　raised　up　from　the　heat　she　felt　Paul　D　behind　her　and　his　hands　under　her　breasts.　She　straightened　up　and　knew,　but　could　not　feel,　that　his　cheek　was　pressing　into　the　branches　of　her　chokecherry　tree.

Not　even　trying,　he　had　become　the　kind　of　man　who　could　walk　into　a　house　and　make　the　women　cry.　Because　with　him,　in　his　presence,　they　could.　There　was　something　blessed　in　his　manner.　Women　saw　him　and　wanted　to　weep—to　tell　him　that　their　chest　hurt　and　their　knees　did　too.　Strong　women　and　wise　saw　him　and　told　him　things　they　only　told　each　other:　that　way　past　the　Change　of　Life,　desire　in　them　had　suddenly　become　enormous,　greedy,　more　savage　than　when　they　were　fifteen,　and　that　it　embarrassed　them　and　made　them　sad;　that　secretly　they　longed　to　die—to　be　quit　of　it—that　sleep　was　more　precious　to　them　than　any　waking　day.　Young　girls　sidled　up　to　him　to　confess　or　describe　how　welldressed　the　visitations　were　that　had　followed　them　straight　from　their　dreams.　Therefore,　although　he　did　not　understand　why　this　was　so,　he　was　not　surprised　when　Denver　dripped　tears　into　the　stovefire.　Nor,　fifteen　minutes　later,　after　telling　him　about　her　stolen　milk,　her　mother　wept　as　well.　Behind　her,　bending　down,　his　body　an　arc　of　kindness,　he　held　her　breasts　in　the　palms　of　his　hands.　He　rubbed　his　cheek　on　her　back　and　learned　that　way　her　sorrow,　the　roots　of　it;　its　wide　trunk　and　intricate　branches.　Raising　his　fingers　to　the　hooks　of　her　dress,　he　knew　without　seeing　them　or　hearing　any　sigh　that　the　tears　were　coming　fast.　And　when　the　top　of　her　dress　was　around　her　hips　and　he　saw　the　sculpture　her　back　had　become,　like　the　decorative　work　of　an　ironsmith　too　passionate　for　display,　he　could　think　but　not　say,　“Aw,　Lord,　girl.”　And　he　would　tolerate　no　peace　until　he　had　touched　every　ridge　and　leaf　of　it　with　his　mouth,　none　of　which　Sethe　could　feel　because　her　back　skin　had　been　dead　for　years.　What　she　knew　was　that　the　responsibility　for　her　breasts,　at　last,　was　in　somebody　elses　hands.

Would　there　be　a　little　space,　she　wondered,　a　little　time,　some　way　to　hold　off　eventfulness,　to　push　busyness　into　the　corners　of　the　room　and　just　stand　there　a　minute　or　two,　naked　from　shoulder　blade　to　waist,　relieved　of　the　weight　of　her　breasts,　smelling　the　stolen　milk　again　and　the　pleasure　of　baking　bread?　Maybe　this　one　time　she　could　stop　dead　still　in　the　middle　of　a　cooking　meal—not　even　leave　the　stove—and　feel　the　hurt　her　back　ought　to.　Trust　things　and　remember　things　because　the　last　of　the　Sweet　Home　men　was　there　to　catch　her　if　she　sank?

The　stove　didnt　shudder　as　it　adjusted　to　its　heat.　Denver　wasnt　stirring　in　the　next　room.　The　pulse　of　red　light　hadnt　come　back　and　Paul　D　had　not　trembled　since　1856　and　then　for　eightythree　days　in　a　row.　Locked　up　and　chained　down,　his　hands　shook　so　bad　he　couldnt　smoke　or　even　scratch　properly.　Now　he　was　trembling　again　but　in　the　legs　this　time.　It　took　him　a　while　to　realize　that　his　legs　were　not　shaking　because　of　worry,　but　because　the　floorboards　were　and　the　grinding,　shoving　floor　was　only　part　of　it.　The　house　itself　was　pitching.　Sethe　slid　to　the　floor　and　struggled　to　get　back　into　her　dress.　While　down　on　all　fours,　as　though　she　were　holding　her　house　down　on　the　ground,　Denver　burst　from　the　keeping　room,　terror　in　her　eyes,　a　vague　smile　on　her　lips.

“God　damn　it!　Hush　up!”　Paul　D　was　shouting,　falling,　reaching　for　anchor.　“Leave　the　place　alone!　Get　the　hell　out!”　A　table　rushed　toward　him　and　he　grabbed　its　leg.　Somehow　he　managed　to　stand　at　an　angle　and,　holding　the　table　by　two　legs,　he　bashed　it　about,　wrecking　everything,　screaming　back　at　the　screaming　house.　“You　want　to　fight,　come　on!　God　damn　it!　She　got　enough　without　you.　She　got　enough!”