No， no， nothing is proved， nothing is known. And if I were to get up at this very moment and ascertain that the mark on the wall is really— what shall we say？—the head of a gigantic old nail， driven in two hundred years ago， which has now， owing to the patient attrition of many generations of housemaids， revealed its head above the coat of paint， and is taking its first view of modern life in the sight of a white- walled fire-lit room， what should I gain？—Knowledge？ Matter for further speculation？ I can think sitting still as well as standing up. And what is knowledge？ What are our learned men save the descendants of witches and hermits who crouched in caves and in woods brewing herbs， interrogating shrew-mice and writing down the language of the stars？ And the less we honour them as our superstitions dwindle and our respect for beauty and health of mind increases… Yes， one could imagine a very pleasant world. A quiet， spacious world， with the flowers so red and blue in the open fields. A world without professors or specialists or house-keepers with the profiles of policemen， a worldwhich one could slice with one’s thought as a fish slices the water with his fin， grazing the stems of the water-lilies， hanging suspended over nests of white sea eggs… How peaceful it is drown here， rooted in the centre of the world and gazing up through the grey waters， with their sudden gleams of light， and their reflections—if it were not for Whitaker’s Almanack—if it were not for the Table of Precedency！
I must jump up and see for myself what that mark on the wall really is—a nail， a rose-leaf， a crack in the wood？
Here is nature once more at her old game of self-preservation. This train of thought， she perceives， is threatening mere waste of energy， even some collision with reality， for who will ever be able to lift a finger against Whitaker’s Table of Precedency？ The Archbishop of Canterbury is followed by the Lord High Chancellor； the Lord High Chancellor is followed by the Archbishop of York. Everybody follows somebody， such is the philosophy of Whitaker； and the great thing is to know who follows whom. Whitaker knows， and let that， so Nature counsels， comfort you， instead of enraging you； and if you can’t be comforted， if you must shatter this hour of peace， think of the mark on the wall.
I understand Nature’s game—her prompting to take action as a way of ending any thought that threatens to excite or to pain. Hence， I suppose， comes our slight contempt for men of action—men， we assume， who don’t think. Still， there’s no harm in putting a full stop to one’s disagreeable thoughts by looking at a mark on the wall.
Indeed， now that I have fixed my eyes upon it， I feel that I have grasped a plank in the sea； I feel a satisfying sense of reality which at once turns the two Archbishops and the Lord High Chancellor to the shadows of shades. Here is something definite， something real. Thus， waking from a midnight dream of horror， one hastily turns on the light and lies quiescent， worshipping the chest of drawers， worshipping solidity， worshipping reality， worshipping the impersonal world which is a proof of some existence other than ours. That is what one wants to be sureof… Wood is a pleasant thing to think about. It comes from a tree； and trees grow， and we don’t know how they grow. For years and years they grow， without paying any attention to us， in meadows， in forests， and by the side of rivers—all things one likes to think about. The cows swish their tails beneath them on hot afternoons； they paint rivers so green that when a moorhen dives one expects to see its feathers all green when it comes up again. I like to think of the fish balanced against the stream like flags blown out； and of water-beetles slowly raiding domes of mud upon the bed of the river. I like to think of the tree itself： —first the close dry sensation of being wood； then the grinding of the storm； then the slow， delicious ooze of sap. I like to think of it， too， on winter’s nights standing in the empty field with all leaves close-furled， nothing tender exposed to the iron bullets of the moon， a naked mast upon an earth that goes tumbling， tumbling， all night long. The song of birds must sound very loud and strange in June； and how cold the feet of insects must feel upon it， as they make laborious progresses up the creases of the bark， or sun themselves upon the thin green awning of the leaves， and look straight in front of them with diamond-cut red eyes… One by one the fibres snap beneath the immense cold pressure of the earth， then the last storm comes and， falling， the highest branches drive deep into the ground again. Even so， life isn’t done with； there are a million patient， watchful lives still for a tree， all over the world， in bedrooms， in ships， on the pavement， lining rooms， where men and women sit after tea， smoking cigarettes. It is full of peaceful thoughts， happy thoughts， this tree. I should like to take each one separately—but something is getting in the way… Where was I？ What has it all been about？ A tree？ A river？ The Downs？ Whitaker’s Almanack？ The fields of asphodel？ I can’t remember a thing. Everything’s moving， falling， slipping， vanishing… There is a vast upheaval of matter. Someone is standing over me and saying—“I’m going out to buy a newspaper.” “Yes？”
“Though it’s no good buying newspapers… Nothing ever happens. Curse this war； God damn this war！ … All the same， I don’t see why we should have a snail on our wall.”
Ah， the mark on the wall！ It was a snail.
45
Robinson Crusoe
鲁滨孙漂流记（节选）
And now being to enter into a melancholy Relation of a Scene of silent Life， such perhaps as was never heard of in the World before， I shall take it from its Beginning， and continue it in its Order. It was， by my Account， the 30th. of Sept. when， in the Manner as above said， I first set Foot upon this horrid Island， when the Sun being， to us， in its Autumnal Equinox， was almost just over my Head， for I reckon’d my self， by Observation， to be in the Latitude of 9 Degrees 22 Minutes North of the Line.
