这几天，我在重看《喧哗与骚动》（Sound and Fury）中昆丁自杀的那一章。
Pretty soon the car came. I got on it, they turning to look at my eye, and found a seat on the left side.
The lights were on in the car, so while we ran between trees I couldn't see anything except my own face and a woman across the aisle with a hat sitting right on top of her head, with a broken feather in it, but when we ran out of the trees I could see the twilight again, that quality of light as if time really had stopped for a while, with the sun hanging just under the horizon, and then we passed the marquee where the old man had been eating out of the sack, and the road going on under the twilight, into twilight and the sense of water peaceful and swift beyond.
Then the car went on, the draft building steadily up in the open door until it was drawing steadily through the car with the odor of summer and darkness except honeysuckle.
Honeysuckle was the saddest odor of all, I think.
I remember lots of them. Wistaria was one.
On the rainy days when Mother wasn't feeling quite bad enough to stay away from the windows we used to play under it.
When Mother stayed in bed Dilsey would put old clothes on us and let us go out in the rain because she said rain never hurt young folks.
But if Mother was up we always began by playing on the porch until she said we were making too much noise, then we went out and played under the wisteria frame.
This was where I saw the river for the last time this morning, about here.
I could feel water beyond the twilight, smell.
When it bloomed in the spring and it rained the smell was everywhere you didn't notice it so much at other times but when it rained the smell began to come into the house at twilight either it would rain more at twilight or there was something in the light itself but it always smelled strongest then until I would lie in bed thinking when will it stop when will it stop.
The draft in the door smelled of water, a damp steady breath.
Sometimes I could put myself to sleep saying that over and over until after the honeysuckle got all mixed up in it the whole thing came to symbolis night and unrest I seemed to be lying neither asleep nor awake looking down a long corridor of gray halflight where all stable things had become shadowy paradoxical all I had done shadows all I had felt suffered taking visible form antic and perverse mocking without relevance inherent themselves with the denial of the significance they should have affirmed thinking I was I was not who was not was not who.
I could smell the curves of the river beyond the dusk and I saw the last light supine and tranquil upon tideflats like pieces of broken mirror, then beyond them lights began in the pale clear air, trembling a little like butterflies hovering a long way off.
The car stopped.
I got out, with them looking at my eye.
When the trolley came it was full.
I stopped on the back platform.
"Seats up front," the conductor said.
I looked into the car. There were no seats on the left side.
"I'm not going far," I said. "I'll just stand here."
We crossed the river.
The bridge, that is, arching slow and high into space, between silence and nothingness where lights-- yellow and red and green--trembled in the clear air, repeating themselves.
"Better go up front and get a seat," the conductor said.
"I get off pretty soon," I said. "A couple of blocks."
㊣ 本文永久链接： 福克纳《喧哗与骚动》：昆丁的自杀