盖斯科因作品

狮鬃之光

要是我有一根蜡烛，我会渴望带着恶意而愤怒的贪婪，将它咬断成两半。为什么蜡烛，除非裹在那夹在古代僧侣书开过光的书页之间的橡树叶中，才会发光呢？我憎恨看见它们那样融化，起初失去脑袋然后失去尾巴，平衡它们的残留物，就像鱼贩把货物平衡在一堆柳条篮子顶上。最好去取一磅装在火锅上的黄油。黄油要好得多，因为它不会咬舌头。

捆在矿工额头上的灯投射出蓝紫色的光，轻轻落在一条地下河的表面。鹰在沿岸筑巢，在河床铁锈色的沙里，找得到新石器时代的老虎石化的爪子。我常常睡在那里，而当我醒来，始终都好像有一队外国游客在夜里那样经过，在微光朦胧的隧道的每个尽头，他们用手臂作手势，进行长篇大论。我从来就不可能向他们解释破碎的帘子为什么挤满蛤蟆，或者那道壮观的楼梯为什么会破败不堪。我早就朝着如此的深洞吐痰；我从未见过这样的朝圣者，带着铃铛、书籍、篮子……

然而，让我们暂停下来，考虑那发生在这条走廊遥远的尽头的骚乱的原因吧。波浪把一只小船骸卷起来抛到了沙地上，在撞碎的木桶和那艘船的饼干碎屑中间，一个人看得见一颗被割裂的脑袋试图对聚集的大众说话。它的下巴作出的强劲的努力，等于那试图挣脱其系在上面的起重机的井架力量的十倍。它覆盖着太阳黑子，无疑将在大约一刻钟结束时突然熊熊燃起来。把你的手放在那巨大的额头上，你会摸到囚禁在下面的鸟逐渐在运动。每只鸟的嘴喙里都衔着一只皮手套，每只手套的指头都沾满了火药。最后的爆炸被定时，跟拆毁那座石膏纪念碑同步发生——那座纪念碑被竖立在公园中，纪念一只野蛮的看门狗的受害者，接近19世纪末，那只狗在这些地区造成了巨大的破坏。

这样的脑袋不会像传教士的脑袋那样清晰地说话。让我们为阿尔卑斯山的传教建起一座庙宇，让我们在阿尔卑斯的每一座山脚下编织一块巨大的地毯，表达我们对破裂的冰川和培养光辉之云的忏悔与赎罪的愿望。我们的整个童年都是在这些伟大的高处的阴影中度过的，因此，我们现在要用那沾染着我们血迹的耀眼的衣裳装饰它们，难道不是唯一正确的选择吗？我常常表达过躺在洞穴地面的欲望，好像我的愿望终于即将得到满足。我挺直地戴上了头饰？

一对乳白色的雌鹿拉着灵柩车，从更远的房间幽暗的阴影中隐隐驶来，车上装饰着百合花的羽毛，装饰着那看起来就像是剑兰的卷丹簇拥的枝条。它几乎拥有11月篝火的外貌，因为一个失败的阴谋，那堆火在公共广场点燃。灯盏一一开启，那棵枝状大烛台之树的叶片，就像涂抹了黄油的金子闪耀，湾流的浪沫像阳光下的玉米闪烁，整个效果就是热气、鼓声和烟火的效果。现在，那形成庆祝仪式的中心饰物的怪物之蛋迸裂而开，一个活生生的大天使跃出来。9个月之前，她还只是一颗穿过外太空的荒野而飞快旋动的原子，如今她的长袍闪烁着汗水，所有的目光都转向她。她在她那状若船桨的巨大的黄铜喇叭上猛地一吹，整个灿烂的盛会就化为尘埃。

然而，是谁把一根绷带蒙在我的眼睛上，因此我才再也看不见正在发生的事情？一根浸透了揉碎的桂树叶芳香的绷带，捕蝶人就使用这样的方法。我有那种在黄包车里被拉走的感觉，我可以发誓，我听见了我身后的脚步声，运送的车轮沿着楼梯大声碰撞下来。一簇簇锋利的小贝壳生长在我的眼睑下面，要扔给鱼的蚂蚁卵，静静躺在那行军的暴君脚下的尘埃里的蝶蛹——那些暴君最终都将累得倒下去，把傲慢的脸掩埋在泥潭里面。

THE LIGHT OF THE LION' S MANE

If I had a candle I would bite it in half， avid with spite and angry greed. Why is it that candles give no light unless they are wrapped in oak-leaves that have been pressed between the pages of books illuminated by ancient monks？ I hate to see them melting away like that， losing first their heads and then their tails， and balancing what remains of them as a fishmonger balances his wares on top of a pile of wicker baskets. It would be better to send for a pound of butter on a chafing-dish. Butter is far better， for it does not bite the tongue.

The violet light thrown by the lamp strapped on to the miner's forehead falls gently on to the surface of a subterranean river. Eagleshave made their nests along the banks， and the fosilized claws of the neolithic tiger are to be found in the rusty sand of the river's bed. I often sleep there， and when I wake up it always seems as though a procession of foreign tourists had passed by that way during the night， gesticulating with their arms and making lengthy speeches at every turn of the twilit tunnel. I should never have been able to explain to them why the tattered curtains are alive with toads， or why the spectacular staircase is in ruins. It is a long time since I spat into so deep a hole; I have never seen such pilgrims， with their bells， their books， their baskets. . .

But let us pause to consider the cause of the disturbance that is taking place at the far end of this corridor. The waves have thrown up the remains of a small vessel on to the sanded floor and among the shattered casks and the crumbs of the ship's biscuits one can see a dissevered head that is trying to speak to the assembled multitude.The muscular effort made by its jaw is equal to ten times the strength of a derrick trying to break away from the crane to which it is tethered. It is covered with sunspots and will undoubtedly burst into flame at the end of a quarter of an hour or so. Lay your hand on the massive forehead and you will feel the gradual movement of the birds that are imprisoned underneath. Each bird carries a leather glove in its beak， and the fingers of each glove are packed with gunpowder. The final explosion has been timed to coincide with the demolition of the plaster-of-paris monument that has been set up in the middle of the park to commemorate the victims of a savage watchdog who wrought great ravages in these parts towards the end of the nineteenth century.

Heads such as these do not speak as clearly as the heads of missionaries. Let us set up a temple for the Alpine nussion， and let us weave a great carpet at the foot of every mountain in the Alps， to express our penitence and our desire to make amends for the brokenglaciers and the training clouds of glory. Our whole childhood was spent in the shadow of these great heights， so is it not only right that we should decorate them now with dazzling garments stained with our own blood？ I have often expressed a desire to lie down on the floor of a cave， and it seems that my wish is at last about to be granted. Have I put on my head-dress straight？

Looming out of the doomy shadows of the further chamber there comes a great catafalque drawn by a pair of milk-white does and decked with plumes of lilies and clustering branches of tiger-lilies that look like sword-lilies. It has almost the appearance of a November bonfire set alight in the public square because of a plot that failed.The lights are turned on one by one， the leaves of the candelabrumtrees are shining like buttered gold， the foam of the Gulf Stream gitters like corn in the sun， and the whole effect is one of heat，drums and fireworks. The monster Egg that forms the centrepiece of these celebrations now bursts open， and a living Archangel leaps out.Nine months ago she was but an atom whirling through the wastes of outer space， and now her robe is bright with sweat and all eyes are turned towards her. She blows one blast on her vast brass trumpet shaped like an oar， and the whole brilliant pageant falls to dust.

But who has tied a bandage round my eyes so that I can no longer see what is happening？ A bandage saturated with the scent of crushed laurel-leaves， which is used by butterfly-hunters. I have the sensation of being driven away in a rickshaw， I could swear that I heard footsteps behind me， the wheels of the conveyance bump loudly down the stairs. Clusters of sharp little shells are growing beneath my eyelids， ants'eggs to throw to the fishes， chrysalises lying quietly in the dust beneath the feet of the marching tyrants，who will all fall down with fatigue in the end， and bury their arrogant faces in the mire.