第一百五十一章 第五章 他的边界
第五章 他的边界
野孩热爱城市，也热爱孤独，因为他身上有几分哲人的气质。他是菲斯库斯式的城市爱好者，又是弗拉库斯式的乡村爱好者。
在哲人眼中，若有所思地漫游，也就是所谓的闲逛，是一种消磨时间的绝妙方式。尤其是在那种相当不合常规的、既丑陋又奇特、由两种性质构成的地带，它们环绕着某些大城市，尤其是巴黎。研究郊区就是研究两栖动物。树木的尽头，屋顶的开始；青草的尽头，石板的开始；犁沟的尽头，店铺的开始；车辙的尽头，激情的开始；天籁的尽头，人声的开始；因此，它具有非凡的趣味。
因此，在这些并不那么吸引人的地方，被过往的漫步者深深印上“忧郁”这个形容词的地方，思想家的那些表面上漫无目的的散步便由此产生。
写下这些文字的人曾长期在巴黎的城关附近游荡，这对他来说是一段深沉的记忆的来源。那修剪得短短的草皮，那些碎石小路，那白垩，那水洼，那荒芜和休耕地的单调，那在洼地上突然出现的早市蔬菜，那野蛮与市民的混合，那些巨大的荒凉角落，军营的鼓声在那里喧闹地练习，发出一种像婴儿学语般的战斗声响，那些白天的隐士、夜晚的杀手，那在风中笨拙地转动的磨坊，采石场的辘轳，公墓角落的露天茶室；那巨大而阴暗的墙壁的神秘魅力，它们方正地交叉着广阔而模糊的、被阳光淹没并充满蝴蝶的土地——这一切都吸引着他。
地球上几乎没有人不知道那些奇特的地方：冰窖、阴沟、布满弹痕的格勒内尔丑墙、蒙帕纳斯、狼阱、马恩河畔的奥比耶、鼠丘、伊苏瓦尔墓、沙蒂永的平石板，那里有一个古老而枯竭的采石场，除了种蘑菇之外别无他用，并且被一块腐朽的木板活门与地面齐平地封着。罗马的郊野是一种概念，巴黎的郊区是另一种概念；面对一片展现在我们面前的乡野，只看田野、房屋或树木，那就是停留在表面；一切事物的面貌都是上帝的思绪。平原与城市交接的地方，总是印着某种刺骨的忧郁。自然和人性同时在那里向你发出呼唤。那里的地方独特性便显现出来。
任何像我一样，在我们近郊接壤的这片孤寂之地（可以称之为巴黎的冥界）游荡过的人，都曾在某个极荒凉的地方，在最意想不到的时刻，在一道稀疏的篱笆后面，或在一道阴森的墙壁角落里，看到一群喧闹的孩子，他们散发着臭味，满身泥泞，尘土飞扬，衣衫褴褛，头发蓬乱，玩着捉迷藏，头上戴着矢车菊花环。这些都是从穷苦人家逃出来的小家伙。外环路是他们的呼吸空间；郊区属于他们。他们永远在那里逃学。他们在那里天真地唱着他们那套下流歌曲。他们就在那里，或者更确切地说，他们存在着，远离一切视线，在五六月甜蜜的阳光下，跪在一个地洞旁，用拇指弹着弹珠，为半个铜子争吵，不负责任，轻浮，自由而快乐；而一旦他们看见你，就会想起他们有一门营生，必须谋生，于是便向你兜售一只装满金龟子的旧羊毛袜，或是一束丁香花。与这些陌生孩子的邂逅，是巴黎郊区迷人而又令人心酸的魅力之一。
有时，这群男孩中会有几个小女孩——她们是他们的姐妹吗？——几乎已是年轻姑娘，瘦削，狂热，手被晒得黝黑，布满雀斑，头上戴着罂粟花和黑麦穗，快乐，憔悴，赤着脚。可以看到她们在麦田里狼吞虎咽地吃着樱桃。傍晚可以听到她们的笑声。这些群体，在正午的炽热光芒中温暖地照亮，或在暮色中隐约可见，长久地占据着深思者，这些景象与他的梦境交织在一起。
巴黎，中心，郊区，圆周；这对那些孩子来说，就是整个地球。他们从不敢越过这个范围。他们无法逃脱巴黎的氛围，正如鱼无法逃脱水。对他们来说，城门两里格之外便一无所有：伊夫里、让蒂伊、阿尔克伊、贝尔维尔、奥贝维利耶、梅尼蒙当、舒瓦西勒鲁瓦、比扬古、默东、伊西、旺夫、塞夫勒、皮托、讷伊、热讷维利耶、科隆布、罗曼维尔、沙图、阿涅尔、布吉瓦尔、南泰尔、昂吉安、努瓦西勒塞克、诺让、古尔奈、德朗西、戈内斯；宇宙就在那里终结。
The gamin loves the city, he also loves solitude, since he has
something of the sage in him. _Urbis amator_, like Fuscus; _ruris
amator_, like Flaccus.
To roam thoughtfully about, that is to say, to lounge, is a fine
employment of time in the eyes of the philosopher; particularly in that
rather illegitimate species of campaign, which is tolerably ugly but
odd and composed of two natures, which surrounds certain great cities,
notably Paris. To study the suburbs is to study the amphibious animal.
End of the trees, beginning of the roofs; end of the grass, beginning
of the pavements; end of the furrows, beginning of the shops, end of
the wheel-ruts, beginning of the passions; end of the divine murmur,
beginning of the human uproar; hence an extraordinary interest.
Hence, in these not very attractive places, indelibly stamped by the
passing stroller with the epithet: _melancholy_, the apparently
objectless promenades of the dreamer.
He who writes these lines has long been a prowler about the barriers of
Paris, and it is for him a source of profound souvenirs. That
close-shaven turf, those pebbly paths, that chalk, those pools, those
harsh monotonies of waste and fallow lands, the plants of early
market-garden suddenly springing into sight in a bottom, that mixture
of the savage and the citizen, those vast desert nooks where the
garrison drums practise noisily, and produce a sort of lisping of
battle, those hermits by day and cut-throats by night, that clumsy mill
which turns in the wind, the hoisting-wheels of the quarries, the
tea-gardens at the corners of the cemeteries; the mysterious charm of
great, sombre walls squarely intersecting immense, vague stretches of
land inundated with sunshine and full of butterflies,—all this
attracted him.
There is hardly any one on earth who is not acquainted with those
singular spots, the Glacière, the Cunette, the hideous wall of Grenelle
all speckled with balls, Mont-Parnasse, the Fosse-aux-Loups, Aubiers on
the bank of the Marne, Mont-Souris, the Tombe-Issoire, the Pierre-Plate
de Châtillon, where there is an old, exhausted quarry which no longer
serves any purpose except to raise mushrooms, and which is closed, on a
level with the ground, by a trap-door of rotten planks. The campagna of
Rome is one idea, the banlieue of Paris is another; to behold nothing
but fields, houses, or trees in what a stretch of country offers us, is
to remain on the surface; all aspects of things are thoughts of God.
The spot where a plain effects its junction with a city is always
stamped with a certain piercing melancholy. Nature and humanity both
appeal to you at the same time there. Local originalities there make
their appearance.
Any one who, like ourselves, has wandered about in these solitudes
contiguous to our faubourgs, which may be designated as the limbos of
Paris, has seen here and there, in the most desert spot, at the most
unexpected moment, behind a meagre hedge, or in the corner of a
lugubrious wall, children grouped tumultuously, fetid, muddy, dusty,
ragged, dishevelled, playing hide-and-seek, and crowned with
corn-flowers. All of them are little ones who have made their escape
from poor families. The outer boulevard is their breathing space; the
suburbs belong to them. There they are eternally playing truant. There
they innocently sing their repertory of dirty songs. There they are, or
rather, there they exist, far from every eye, in the sweet light of May
or June, kneeling round a hole in the ground, snapping marbles with
their thumbs, quarrelling over half-farthings, irresponsible, volatile,
free and happy; and, no sooner do they catch sight of you than they
recollect that they have an industry, and that they must earn their
living, and they offer to sell you an old woollen stocking filled with
cockchafers, or a bunch of lilacs. These encounters with strange
children are one of the charming and at the same time poignant graces
of the environs of Paris.
Sometimes there are little girls among the throng of boys,—are they
their sisters?—who are almost young maidens, thin, feverish, with
sunburnt hands, covered with freckles, crowned with poppies and ears of
rye, gay, haggard, barefooted. They can be seen devouring cherries
among the wheat. In the evening they can be heard laughing. These
groups, warmly illuminated by the full glow of midday, or indistinctly
seen in the twilight, occupy the thoughtful man for a very long time,
and these visions mingle with his dreams.
Paris, centre, banlieue, circumference; this constitutes all the earth
to those children. They never venture beyond this. They can no more
escape from the Parisian atmosphere than fish can escape from the
water. For them, nothing exists two leagues beyond the barriers: Ivry,
Gentilly, Arcueil, Belleville, Aubervilliers, Ménilmontant,
Choisy-le-Roi, Billancourt, Meudon, Issy, Vanvre, Sèvres, Puteaux,
Neuilly, Gennevilliers, Colombes, Romainville, Chatou, Asnières,
Bougival, Nanterre, Enghien, Noisy-le-Sec, Nogent, Gournay, Drancy,
Gonesse; the universe ends there.
