按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
ed； she changed the subject。
THE BEAUTY OF NEW YORK
Franz and Sabina would walk the streets of New York for hours at a time。 The view changed with each step； as if they were following a winding mountain path surrounded by breathtaking scenery： a young man kneeling in the middle of the sidewalk praying；
a few steps away； a beautiful black woman leaning against a tree； a man in a black suit directing an invisible orchestra while crossing the street； a fountain spurting water and a group of construction workers sitting on the rim eating lunch； strange iron ladders running up and down buildings with ugly red facades； so ugly that they were beautiful； and next door； a huge glass skyscraper backed by another； itself topped by a small Arabian pleasure…dome with turrets； galleries； and gilded columns。
She was reminded of her paintings。 There； too； incongruous things came together： a steelworks construction site superimposed on a kerosene lamp； an old…fashioned lamp with a painted…glass shade shattered into tiny splinters and rising up over a desolate landscape of marshland。
Franz said； Beauty in the European sense has always had a premeditated quality to it。 We've always had an aesthetic intention and a long…range plan。 That's what enabled Western man to spend decades building a Gothic cathedral or a Renaissance piazza。 The beauty of New York rests on a completely different base。 It's unintentional。 It arose independent of human design； like a stalagmitic cavern。 Forms which are in themselves quite ugly turn up fortuitously； without design； in such incredible surroundings that they sparkle with a sudden wondrous poetry。
Sabina said； Unintentional beauty。 Yes。 Another way of putting it might be 'beauty by mistake。' Before beauty disappears entirely from the earth； it will go on existing for a while by mistake。 'Beauty by mistake'—the final phase in the history of beauty。
And she recalled her first mature painting； which came into being because some red paint had dripped on it by mistake。 Yes； her paintings were based on beauty by mistake； and New York was the secret but authentic homeland of her painting。
Franz said； Perhaps New York's unintentional beauty is much richer and more varied than the excessively strict and composed beauty of human design。 But it's not our European beauty。 It's an alien world。
Didn't they then at last agree on something？
No。 There is a difference。 Sabina was very much attracted by the alien quality of New York's beauty。 Franz found it intriguing but frightening； it made him feel homesick for Europe。
SABINA'S COUNTRY
Sabina understood Franz's distaste for America。 He was the embodiment of Europe： his mother was Viennese； his father French； and he himself was Swiss。
Franz greatly admired Sabina's country。 Whenever she told him about herself and her friends from home； Franz heard the words prison； persecution； enemy tanks； emigration； pamphlets； banned books； banned exhibitions； and he felt a curious mixture of envy and nostalgia。
He made a confession to Sabina。 A philosopher once wrote that everything in my work is unverifiable speculation and called me a 'pseudo…Socrates。' I felt terribly humiliated and made a furious response。 And just think； that laughable episode was the greatest conflict I've ever experienced！ The pinnacle of the dramatic possibilities available to my life！ We live in two different dimensions； you and I。 You came into my life like Gulliver entering the land of the Lilliputians。
Sabina protested。 She said that conflict； drama； and tragedy didn't mean a thing； there was nothing inherently valuable in them； nothing deserving of respect or admiration。 What was truly enviable was Franz's work and the fact that he had the peace and quiet to devote himself to it。
Franz shook his head。 When a society is rich； its people don't need to work with their hands； they can devote themselves to activities of the spirit。 We have more and more universities and more and more students。 If students are going to earn degrees； they've got to come up with dissertation topics。 And since dissertations can be written about everything under the sun； the number of topics is infinite。 Sheets of paper covered with words pile up in archives sadder than cemeteries； because no one ever visits them； not even on All Souls' Day。 Culture is perishing in overproduction； in an avalanche of words； in the madness of quantity。 That's why one banned book in your former country means infinitely more than the billions of words spewed out by our universities。
It is in this spirit that we may understand Franz's weakness for revolution。 First he sympathized with Cuba； then with China； and when the cruelty of their regimes began to appall him； he resigned himself with a sigh to a sea of words with no weight and no resemblance to life。 He became a professor in Geneva （where there are no demonstrations）； and in a burst of abnegation （in womanless； paradeless solitude） he published several scholarly books； all of which received considerable acclaim。 Then one day along came Sabina。 She was a revelation。 She came from a land where revolutionary illusion had long since faded but where the thing he admired most in revolution remained： life on a large scale； a life of risk； daring； and the danger of death。 Sabina had renewed his faith in the grandeur of human endeavor。 Superimposing the painful drama of her country on her person； he found her even more beautiful。
The trouble was that Sabina had no love for that drama。 The words prison； persecution； banned books； occupation； tanks were ugly； without the slightest trace of romance。 The only word that evoked in her a sweet； nostalgic memory of her homeland was the word cemetery。
CEMETERY
Cemeteries in Bohemia are like gardens。 The graves are covered with grass and colorful flowers。 Modest tombstones are lost in the greenery。 When the sun goes down； the cemetery sparkles with tiny candles。 It looks as though the dead are dancing at a children's ball。 Yes； a children's ball； because the dead are as innocent as children。 No matter how brutal life becomes； peace always reigns in the cemetery。 Even in wartime； in Hitler's time； in Stalin's time； through all occupations。 When she felt low； she would get into the car； leave Prague far behind； and walk through one or another of the country cemeteries she loved so well。 Against a backdrop of blue hills； they were as beautiful as a lullaby。
For Franz a cemetery was an ugly dump of stones and bones。
6
I'd never drive。 I'm scared stiff of accidents！ Even if they don't kill you； they mark you for life！ And so saying； the sculptor made an instinctive grab for the finger he had nearly chopped off one day while whittling away at a wood statue。 It was a miracle the finger had been saved。
What do you mean？ said Marie…Claude in a raucous voice。 She was in top form。 I was in a serious accident once； and I wouldn't have missed it for the world。 And I've never had more fun than when I was in that hospital！ I couldn't sleep a wink； so I just read and read； day and night。
They all looked at her in amazement。 She basked in it。 Franz reacted with a mixture of disgust （he knew that after the accident in question his wife had fallen into a deep dep