Chapter 78

There were many skies. The sky was invaded by great white clouds, flat on the bottom but round and billowy on top. The sky was completely cloudless, of a blue quite shattering to the senses. The sky was a heavy, suffocating blanket of grey cloud, but without promise of rain. The sky was thinly overcast. The sky was dappled with small, white, fleecy clouds. The sky was streaked with high, thin clouds that looked like a cotton ball stretched apart. The sky was a featureless milky haze. The sky was a density of dark and blustery rain clouds that passed by without delivering rain. The sky was painted with a small number of flat clouds that looked like sandbars. The sky was a mere block to allow a visual effect on the horizon: sunlight flooding the ocean, the vertical edges between light and shadow perfectly distinct. The sky was a distant black curtain of falling rain. The sky was many clouds at many levels, some thick and opaque, others looking like smoke. The sky was black and spitting rain on my smiling face. The sky was nothing but falling water, a ceaseless deluge that wrinkled and bloated my skin and froze me stiff.

There were many seas. The sea roared like a tiger. The sea whispered in your ear like a friend telling you secrets. The sea clinked like small change in a pocket. The sea thundered like avalanches. The sea hissed like sandpaper working on wood. The sea sounded like someone vomiting. The sea was dead silent.

And in between the two, in between the sky and the sea, were all the winds.

And there were all the nights and all the moons.

To be a castaway is to be a point perpetually at the centre of a circle. However much things may appear to change - the sea may shift from whisper to rage, the sky might go from fresh blue to blinding white to darkest black - the geometry never changes. Your gaze is always a radius. The circumference is ever great. In fact, the circles multiply. To be a castaway is to be caught in a harrowing ballet of circles. You are at the centre of one circle, while above you two opposing circles spin about. The sun distresses you like a crowd, a noisy, invasive crowd that makes you cup your ears, that makes you close your eyes, that makes you want to hide. The moon distresses you by silently reminding you of your solitude; you open your eyes wide to escape your loneliness. When you look up, you sometimes wonder if at the centre of a solar storm, if in the middle of the Sea of Tranquillity, there isn't another one like you also looking up, also trapped by geometry, also struggling with fear, rage, madness, hopelessness, apathy.

Otherwise, to be a castaway is to be caught up in grim and exhausting opposites. When it is light, the openness of the sea is blinding and frightening. When it is dark, the darkness is claustrophobic. When it is day, you are hot and wish to be cool and dream of ice cream and pour sea water on yourself. When it is night you are cold and wish to be warm and dream of hot curries; and wrap yourself in blankets. When it is hot, you are parched and wish to be wet. When it rains, you are nearly drowned and wish to be dry. When there is food, there is too much of it and you must feast. When there is none, there is truly none and you starve. When the sea is flat and motionless, you wish it would stir. When it rises up and the circle that imprisons you is broken by hills of water, you suffer that peculiarity of the high seas, suffocation in open spaces, and you wish the sea would be flat again. The opposites often take place at the same moment, so that when the sun is scorching you till you are stricken down, you are also aware that it is drying the strips of fish and meat that are hanging from your lines and that it is a blessing for your solar stills. Conversely, when a rain squall is replenishing your fresh water supplies, you also know that the humidity will affect your cured provisions and that some will probably go bad, turning pasty and green. When rough weather abates, and it becomes clear that you have survived the sky's attack and the sea's treachery, your jubilation is tempered by the rage that so much fresh water should fall directly into the sea and by the worry that it is the last rain you will ever see, that you will die of thirst before the next drops fall.

The worst pair of opposites is boredom and terror. Sometimes your life is a pendulum swing from one to the other. The sea is without a wrinkle. There is not a whisper of wind. The hours last forever. You are so bored you sink into a state of apathy close to a coma. Then the sea becomes rough and your emotions are whipped into a frenzy. Yet even these two opposites do not remain distinct. In your boredom there are elements of terror: you break down into tears; you are filled with dread; you scream; you deliberately hurt yourself And in the grip of terror - the worst storm - you yet feel boredom, a deep weariness with it all.

Only death consistently excites your emotions, whether contemplating it when life is safe and stale, or fleeing it when life is threatened and precious.

Life on a lifeboat isn't much of a life. It is like an end game in chess, a game with few pieces. The elements couldn't be more simple, nor the stakes higher. Physically it is extraordinarily arduous, and morally it is killing. You must make adjustments if you want to survive. Much becomes expendable. You get your happiness where you can. You reach a point where you're at the bottom of hell, yet you have your arms crossed and a smile on your face, and you feel you're the luckiest person on earth. Why? Because at your feet you have a tiny dead fish.

第七十八章

    天   空有很多种。天空被大片的白云占据了。云的底部是平的，顶部却是圆的，仿佛巨浪一般。天空万里无云，蓝得令人的感官都感到震惊。天空是一块灰色云层组成的  令人窒息的厚重的毯子，却不像要下雨。天空有一层薄薄的云。天空被细小的羊毛般的白云点缀得斑斑驳驳。天空有一条条高高的薄薄的云，仿佛棉花球向远方延   伸。天空是没有轮廓的乳白色的一片混沌。天空密布着黑色的汹涌翻卷的雨云，云过去了，却没有下雨。天空上涂画着几片像是沙洲的扁平的云。天空只是地平线上   表现视觉效果的一大块屏幕：阳光倾泻在洋面上，光与影之间垂直的边缘异常清晰。天空是远处黑色的雨帘。天空是不同层面的不同云朵，有些又厚又不透明，另一  些却仿佛轻烟。天空是黑色的，在把雨啐到我微笑的脸上。天空就是落下的水，是无休无止的汹涌的洪水，让我的皮肤变皱肿起，将我的身体冻僵。

    大   海有很多种。大海像老虎一样咆哮。大海在你耳边轻声低语，像一个朋友在告诉你秘密。大海像口袋里的硬币一样丁当作响。大海发出雪崩一般的轰隆声。大海发出   像砂纸打磨木头一般的沙沙声。大海的声音仿佛有人在呕吐。大海死一般沉寂。在两者之间，在天空与大海之间，是所有的风。还有所右的夜晚和所有的月亮。做一   个失事的人，就是在圆圈的中心永远做一个点。无论事物似乎发生了多么大的变化——大海可能从耳语变得狂怒，天空可能从清新的蓝色变成炫目的白色再变成最黑  暗的黑色——但几何图形永远不变。半径永远是你注视的目光。周长永远都那么长。实际上，圆圈在增多。做一个失事的人，就是被困在令人苦恼的旋舞的圆圈当   中。你在一个圆圈的中心，而在你头顶上，有两只相对的圆圈在旋转。太阳像一群人，一群吵吵闹闹的爱干扰的人一样折磨你，让你堵上耳朵，让你闭起眼睛，让你   想要躲起来。月亮默默地提醒你，你的孤独，用这种方式来折磨你；为了逃离孤独，你睁大了眼睛。当你抬起头来的时候，有时候你想知道在太阳风暴的中心，在平   静之海的中央，是不是还有一个人也像你一样在抬头看，也像你一样被几何图形所困，也像你一样挣扎着与恐惧、愤怒、疯狂、无助和冷漠做斗争.此外，做一个失  事的人就是被困在阴森可怖和令人精疲力竭的对立物之间。天亮的时候，浩瀚无垠的大海使人炫目，使人恐惧。天黑的时候，一片黑暗能让人患上幽闭恐怖症。白   天，你太热了，你渴望清凉，梦想着冰淇淋，把海水泼在身上。夜晚，你太冷了，你渴望温暖，梦想着热咖喱，把自己裹在毯子里。热的时候，你被太阳烘烤，希望   能下雨。下雨的时候，你差点儿被淹死，希望天气干燥。有食物的时候，食物太多了，你必须大吃一顿。没有食物的时候，那是真的什么也没有，你只能挨饿。当大   海风平浪静，毫无生气的时候，你希望它能动一动。当大海卷起波涛，囚禁你的圆圈被小山一般的海浪打破的时候，你得忍受波涛汹涌的大海的怪癖，忍受在开阔的   空间的窒息，你希望它能够平静下来。对立的事物常常同时发生，因此，当太阳灼烤着你，把你击倒的时候，你明白太阳同时也在烤着挂在你的绳子上的一条条鱼和  肉，而且这对太阳能蒸馏器有好处。相反，当一场雨飑在补足你的淡水储备的时候，同时你知道湿气会影响你贮藏的食品，有些食品也许会坏掉，会变得像面糊一   样，颜色发绿。暴风雨停息天空变得晴朗，你经历了天空的袭击和大海的背叛而活了下来这时你欢快的心情会被愤怒冲淡，你生气地看到这么多的淡水直接落进了海  里，你担心这是你见到的最后一场雨，在下一次下雨之前你就会渴死了。

    最糟糕的一对对立物是乏味和恐惧。有时候你的生活就是从一边荡到另一 边  的钟摆。大海平滑如镜。没有一丝风。时间永无尽头。你感到太乏味了，陷入了类似昏迷的漠然的状态之中。接着，大海变得狂暴，汹涌的波涛把你的感情抽打得发   狂。然而，即使是这两种对立物之间的界限也并不总是那么明显。乏味之中也有恐惧的成分：你精神崩溃，眼泪夺眶而出；你心里充满了畏惧；你尖叫；你故意伤害  自己。在恐惧——最糟糕的暴风雨——攫住你的时候，你仍感到乏味，对一切都感到厌烦。

    只有死亡不断地激起你的情感，无论是在生活安全而显得陈腐的时候考虑它，还是在生活受到威胁而显得珍贵的时候逃避它。

    救  生艇上的生活不是什么了不起的生活。它就像象棋残局，没有几个棋子。自然环境不能再简单了，输赢也不能再多了。它给你带来极度的艰苦，它让你感到心力交   瘁。要想活下来，你必须做一些调整。很多东西都能变得有用。你尽可能获取快乐。你到了地狱底层，却交叉双臂，面带微笑，感到自己是世界上最幸运的人。为什  么？因为在你脚下有一条小小的死鱼。