THE OFFICE (Alice Munro) Para.1:The solution to my life occurred to me one evening while I was ironing a shirt.It was simple but audacious.I went into the living room where my husband was watching television and I said,"I think I ought to have an office." Para.2:It sounded fantastic,even to me.What do I want an office for?I have a house;it is pleasant and roomy and has a view of the sea;it provides appropriate places for eating and sleeping,and having baths and conversations with one's friends.Also I have a garden;there is no lack of space. Para.3:No.But here comes the disclosure which is not easy for me:I am a writer.That does not sound right.Too presumptuous;phony,or at least unconvincing.Try again.I write.Is that better?I try to write.That makes it worse.Hypocritical humility.Well then? Para.4:It doesn't matter.However I put it,the words create their space of silence,the delicate moment of exposure.But people are kind,the silence is quickly absorbed by the solicitude of friendly voices,crying variously,how wonderful,and good for you,and well,that is intriguing.And what do you write,they inquire with spirit.Fiction,I reply,bearing my humiliation by this time with ease,even a suggestion of flippancy,which was not always mine,and again,again,the perceptible circles of dismay are smoothed out by such ready and tactful voices-which have however exhausted their stock of consolatory phrases,and can say only,"Ah!" Para.5:So this is what I want an office for(I said to my husband):to write in.I was at once aware that it sounded like a finicky requirement,a piece of rare self-indulgence.To write,as everyone knows,you need a typewriter,or at least a pencil,some paper,a table and chair;I have all these things in a corner of my bedroom.But now I want an office as well. Para.6:And I was not even sure that I was going to write in it,if we come down to that.Maybe I would sit and stare at the wall;even that prospect was not unpleasant to me.It was really the sound of the word"office"that I liked,its sound of dignity and peace.And purposefulness and importance.But I did not care to mention this to my husband,so I launched instead into a high-flown explanation which went,as I remember,like this: Para.7:A house is all right for a man to work in.He brings his work into the house,a place is cleared for it;the house rearranges itself as best it can around him.Everybody recognizes that his work exists.He is not expected to answer the telephone,to find things that are lost,to see why the children are crying,or feed the cat.He can shut his door.Imagine(I said)a mother shutting her door,and the children knowing she is behind it,why,the very thought of it is outrageous to them.A woman who sits staring into space,into a country that is not her husband's or her children's is likewise known to be an offence against nature.So a house is not the same for a woman.She is not someone who walks into the house,to make use of it,and will walk out again.She is the house;there is no separation possible. Para.8:(And this is true,though as usual when arguing for something I am afraid I do not deserve,I put it in too emphatic and emotional terms.At certain times,perhaps on long spring evenings,still rainy and sad,with the cold bulbs in bloom and a light too mild for promise drifting over the sea,I have opened 1
1 THE OFFICE (Alice Munro) Para.1: The solution to my life occurred to me one evening while I was ironing a shirt. It was simple but audacious. I went into the living room where my husband was watching television and I said, “I think I ought to have an office.” Para.2: It sounded fantastic, even to me. What do I want an office for? I have a house; it is pleasant and roomy and has a view of the sea; it provides appropriate places for eating and sleeping, and having baths and conversations with one’s friends. Also I have a garden; there is no lack of space. Para.3: No. But here comes the disclosure which is not easy for me: I am a writer. That does not sound right. Too presumptuous; phony, or at least unconvincing. Try again. I write. Is that better? I try to write. That makes it worse. Hypocritical humility. Well then? Para.4: It doesn’t matter. However I put it, the words create their space of silence, the delicate moment of exposure. But people are kind, the silence is quickly absorbed by the solicitude of friendly voices, crying variously, how wonderful, and good for you, and well, that is intriguing. And what do you write, they inquire with spirit. Fiction, I reply, bearing my humiliation by this time with ease, even a suggestion of flippancy, which was not always mine, and again, again, the perceptible circles of dismay are smoothed out by such ready and tactful voices—which have however exhausted their stock of consolatory phrases, and can say only, “Ah!” Para.5: So this is what I want an office for (I said to my husband): to write in. I was at once aware that it sounded like a finicky requirement, a piece of rare self-indulgence. To write, as everyone knows, you need a typewriter, or at least a pencil, some paper, a table and chair; I have all these things in a corner of my bedroom. But now I want an office as well. Para.6: And I was not even sure that I was going to write in it, if we come down to that. Maybe I would sit and stare at the wall; even that prospect was not unpleasant to me. It was really the sound of the word “office” that I liked, its sound of dignity and peace. And purposefulness and importance. But I did not care to mention this to my husband, so I launched instead into a high-flown explanation which went, as I remember, like this: Para.7: A house is all right for a man to work in. He brings his work into the house, a place is cleared for it; the house rearranges itself as best it can around him. Everybody recognizes that his work exists. He is not expected to answer the telephone, to find things that are lost, to see why the children are crying, or feed the cat. He can shut his door. Imagine (I said) a mother shutting her door, and the children knowing she is behind it; why, the very thought of it is outrageous to them. A woman who sits staring into space, into a country that is not her husband’s or her children’s is likewise known to be an offence against nature. So a house is not the same for a woman. She is not someone who walks into the house, to make use of it, and will walk out again. She is the house; there is no separation possible. Para.8: (And this is true, though as usual when arguing for something I am afraid I do not deserve, I put it in too emphatic and emotional terms. At certain times, perhaps on long spring evenings, still rainy and sad, with the cold bulbs in bloom and a light too mild for promise drifting over the sea, I have opened
the windows and felt the house shrink back into wood and plaster and those humble elements of which is it made,and the life in it subside,leaving me exposed,empty-handed,but feeling a fierce and lawless quiver of freedom,of loneliness too harsh and perfect for me now to bear.Then I know how the rest of the time I am sheltered and encumbered,how insistently I am warmed and bound. Para.9:"Go ahead,if you can find one cheap enough,"is all my husband had to say to this.He is not like me,he does not really want explanations.That the heart of another person is a closed book,is something you will hear him say frequently,and without regret. Para.10:Even then I did not think it was something that could be accomplished.Perhaps at bottom it seemed to me too improper a wish to be granted.I could almost more easily have wished for a mink coat. for a diamond necklace;these are things women do obtain.The children,learning of my plans,greeted them with the most dashing skepticism and unconcern.Nevertheless I went down to the shopping centre which is two blocks from where I live;there I had noticed for several months,and without thinking how they could pertain to me,a couple of For Rent signs in the upstairs windows of a building that housed a drugstore and a beauty parlour.As I went up the stairs I had a feeling of complete unreality;surely renting was a complicated business,in the case of offices;you did not simply knock on the door of the vacant premises and wait to be admitted;it would have to be done through channels.Also,they would want too much money. Para.11:As it turned out,I did not even have to knock.A woman came out of one of the empty offices,dragging a vacuum cleaner,and pushing it with her foot,towards the open door across the hall. which evidently led to an apartment in the rear of the building.She and her husband lived in this apartment; their name was Malley;and it was indeed they who owned the building and rented out the offices.The rooms she had just been vacuuming were,she told me,fitted out for a dentist's office,and so would not interest me,but she would show me the other place.She invited me into her apartment while she put away the vacuum and got her key.Her husband,she said with a sigh I could not interpret,was not at home. Para.12:Mrs.Malley was a black-haired,delicate-looking woman,perhaps in her early forties, slatternly but still faintly appealing,with such arbitrary touches of femininity as the thin line of bright lipstick,the pink feather slippers on obviously tender and swollen feet.She had the swaying passivity,the air of exhaustion and muted apprehension,that speaks of a life spent in close attention on a man who is by turns vigorous,crotchety and dependent.How much of this I saw at first,how much decided on later is of course impossible to tell.But I did think that she would have no children,the stress of her life,whatever it was,did not allow it,and in this I was not mistaken. Para.13:The room where I waited was evidently a combination living room and office.The first things I noticed were models of ships-galleons,clippers,Queen Marys-sitting on the tables,the window sills,the television.Where there were no ships there were potted plants and a clutter of what are sometimes called"masculine"ornaments-china deer heads,bronze horses,huge ashtrays of heavy,veined,shiny material.On the walls were framed photographs and what might have been diplomas.One photo showed a poodle and a bulldog,dressed in masculine and feminine clothing,and assuming with dismal embarrassment a pose of affection.Written across it was"Old Friends."But the room was really dominated by a portrait,with its own light and a gilded frame;it was of a good-looking,fair-haired man in middle age, 2
2 the windows and felt the house shrink back into wood and plaster and those humble elements of which is it made, and the life in it subside, leaving me exposed, empty-handed, but feeling a fierce and lawless quiver of freedom, of loneliness too harsh and perfect for me now to bear. Then I know how the rest of the time I am sheltered and encumbered, how insistently I am warmed and bound.) Para.9: “Go ahead, if you can find one cheap enough,” is all my husband had to say to this. He is not like me, he does not really want explanations. That the heart of another person is a closed book, is something you will hear him say frequently, and without regret. Para.10: Even then I did not think it was something that could be accomplished. Perhaps at bottom it seemed to me too improper a wish to be granted. I could almost more easily have wished for a mink coat, for a diamond necklace; these are things women do obtain. The children, learning of my plans, greeted them with the most dashing skepticism and unconcern. Nevertheless I went down to the shopping centre which is two blocks from where I live; there I had noticed for several months, and without thinking how they could pertain to me, a couple of For Rent signs in the upstairs windows of a building that housed a drugstore and a beauty parlour. As I went up the stairs I had a feeling of complete unreality; surely renting was a complicated business, in the case of offices; you did not simply knock on the door of the vacant premises and wait to be admitted; it would have to be done through channels. Also, they would want too much money. Para.11: As it turned out, I did not even have to knock. A woman came out of one of the empty offices, dragging a vacuum cleaner, and pushing it with her foot, towards the open door across the hall, which evidently led to an apartment in the rear of the building. She and her husband lived in this apartment; their name was Malley; and it was indeed they who owned the building and rented out the offices. The rooms she had just been vacuuming were, she told me, fitted out for a dentist’s office, and so would not interest me, but she would show me the other place. She invited me into her apartment while she put away the vacuum and got her key. Her husband, she said with a sigh I could not interpret, was not at home. Para.12: Mrs. Malley was a black-haired, delicate-looking woman, perhaps in her early forties, slatternly but still faintly appealing, with such arbitrary touches of femininity as the thin line of bright lipstick, the pink feather slippers on obviously tender and swollen feet. She had the swaying passivity, the air of exhaustion and muted apprehension, that speaks of a life spent in close attention on a man who is by turns vigorous, crotchety and dependent. How much of this I saw at first, how much decided on later is of course impossible to tell. But I did think that she would have no children, the stress of her life, whatever it was, did not allow it, and in this I was not mistaken. Para.13: The room where I waited was evidently a combination living room and office. The first things I noticed were models of ships—galleons, clippers, Queen Marys—sitting on the tables, the window sills, the television. Where there were no ships there were potted plants and a clutter of what are sometimes called “masculine” ornaments—china deer heads, bronze horses, huge ashtrays of heavy, veined, shiny material. On the walls were framed photographs and what might have been diplomas. One photo showed a poodle and a bulldog, dressed in masculine and feminine clothing, and assuming with dismal embarrassment a pose of affection. Written across it was “Old Friends.” But the room was really dominated by a portrait, with its own light and a gilded frame; it was of a good-looking, fair-haired man in middle age
sitting behind a desk,wearing a business suit and looking pre-eminently prosperous,rosy and agreeable. Here again,it is probably hindsight on my part that points out that in the portrait there is evident also some uneasiness,some lack of faith the man has in this role,a tendency he has to spread himself too bountifully and insistently,which for all anyone knows may lead to disaster. Para.14:Never mind the Malleys.As soon as I saw that office,I wanted it.It was larger than I needed,being divided in such a way that it would be suitable for a doctor's office.(We had a chiropractor in here but he left,says Mrs.Malley in her regretful but uninformative way.)The walls were cold and bare, white with a little grey,to cut the glare for the eyes.Since there were no doctors in evidence,nor had been, as Mrs.Malley freely told me,for some time,I offered twenty-five dollars a month.She said she would have to speak to her husband. Para.15:The next time I came my offer was agreed upon,and I met Mr.Malley in the flesh.I explained,as I had already done to his wife,that I did not want to make use of my office during regular business hours,but during the weekends and sometimes in the evening.He asked me what I would use it for,and I told him,not without wondering first whether I ought to say I did stenography. Para.16:He absorbed the information with good humour."Ah,you're a writer." Para.17:"Well yes.I write." Para.18:"Then we'll do our best to see you're comfortable here,"he said expansively."I'm a great man for hobbies myself.All these ship-models,I do them in my spare time,they're a blessing for the nerves.People need an occupation for their nerves.I daresay you're the same." Para.19:"Something the same,"I said,resolutely agreeable,even relieved that he saw my behaviour in this hazy and tolerant light.At least he did not ask me,as I half-expected,who was looking after the children,and did my husband approve?Ten years,maybe fifteen,had greatly softened,spread and defeated the man in the picture.His hips and thighs had now a startling accumulation of fat,causing him to move with a sigh,a cushiony settling of flesh,a ponderous matriarchal discomfort.His hair and eyes had faded, his features blurred,and the affable,predatory expression had collapsed into one of troubling humility and chronic mistrust.I did not look at him.I had not planned,in taking an office,to take on the responsibility of knowing any more human beings Para.20:On the weekend I moved in,without the help of my family,who would have been kind.I brought my typewriter and a card table and chair,also a little wooden table on which I set a hot plate,a kettle,a jar of instant coffee,a spoon and a yellow mug.That was all.I brooded with satisfaction on the bareness of my walls,the cheap dignity of my essential furnishings,the remarkable lack of things to dust, wash or polish. Para.21:The sight was not so pleasing to Mr.Malley.He knocked on my door soon after I was settled and said that he wanted to explain a few things to me-about unscrewing the light in the outer room, which I would not need,about the radiator and how to work the awning outside the window.He looked around at everything with gloom and mystification and said it was an awfully uncomfortable place for a lady Para.22:"It's perfectly all right for me,"I said,not as discouragingly as I would have liked to, 3
3 sitting behind a desk, wearing a business suit and looking pre-eminently prosperous, rosy and agreeable. Here again, it is probably hindsight on my part that points out that in the portrait there is evident also some uneasiness, some lack of faith the man has in this role, a tendency he has to spread himself too bountifully and insistently, which for all anyone knows may lead to disaster. Para.14: Never mind the Malleys. As soon as I saw that office, I wanted it. It was larger than I needed, being divided in such a way that it would be suitable for a doctor’s office. (We had a chiropractor in here but he left, says Mrs. Malley in her regretful but uninformative way.) The walls were cold and bare, white with a little grey, to cut the glare for the eyes. Since there were no doctors in evidence, nor had been, as Mrs. Malley freely told me, for some time, I offered twenty-five dollars a month. She said she would have to speak to her husband. Para.15: The next time I came my offer was agreed upon, and I met Mr. Malley in the flesh. I explained, as I had already done to his wife, that I did not want to make use of my office during regular business hours, but during the weekends and sometimes in the evening. He asked me what I would use it for, and I told him, not without wondering first whether I ought to say I did stenography. Para.16: He absorbed the information with good humour. “Ah, you’re a writer.” Para.17: “Well yes. I write.” Para.18: “Then we’ll do our best to see you’re comfortable here,” he said expansively. “I’m a great man for hobbies myself. All these ship- models, I do them in my spare time, they’re a blessing for the nerves. People need an occupation for their nerves. I daresay you’re the same.” Para.19: “Something the same,” I said, resolutely agreeable, even relieved that he saw my behaviour in this hazy and tolerant light. At least he did not ask me, as I half-expected, who was looking after the children, and did my husband approve? Ten years, maybe fifteen, had greatly softened, spread and defeated the man in the picture. His hips and thighs had now a startling accumulation of fat, causing him to move with a sigh, a cushiony settling of flesh, a ponderous matriarchal discomfort. His hair and eyes had faded, his features blurred, and the affable, predatory expression had collapsed into one of troubling humility and chronic mistrust. I did not look at him. I had not planned, in taking an office, to take on the responsibility of knowing any more human beings. Para.20: On the weekend I moved in, without the help of my family, who would have been kind. I brought my typewriter and a card table and chair, also a little wooden table on which I set a hot plate, a kettle, a jar of instant coffee, a spoon and a yellow mug. That was all. I brooded with satisfaction on the bareness of my walls, the cheap dignity of my essential furnishings, the remarkable lack of things to dust, wash or polish. Para.21: The sight was not so pleasing to Mr. Malley. He knocked on my door soon after I was settled and said that he wanted to explain a few things to me—about unscrewing the light in the outer room, which I would not need, about the radiator and how to work the awning outside the window. He looked around at everything with gloom and mystification and said it was an awfully uncomfortable place for a lady. Para.22: “It’s perfectly all right for me,” I said, not as discouragingly as I would have liked to
because I always have a tendency to placate people whom I dislike for no good reason,or simply do not want to know.I make elaborate offerings of courtesy sometimes,in the foolish hope that they will go away and leave me alone. Para.23:"What you want is a nice easy chair to sit in,while you're waiting for inspiration to hit. I've got a chair down in the basement,all kinds of stuff down there since my mother passed on last year. There's a bit of carpet rolled up in a corner down there,it isn't doing anybody any good.We could get this place fixed up so's it'd be a lot more homelike for you." Para.24:But really,I said,but really I like it as it is. Para.25:"If you wanted to run up some curtains,I'd pay you for the material.Place needs a touch of colour,I'm afraid you'll get morbid sitting in here." Para.26:Oh,no,I said,and laughed,I'm sure I won't. Para.27:"It'd be a different story if you was a man.A woman wants things a bit cosier." Para.28:So I got up and went to the window and looked down into the empty Sunday street through the slats of the Venetian blind,to avoid the accusing vulnerability of his fat face and I tried out a cold voice that is to be heard frequently in my thoughts but has great difficulty getting out of my cowardly mouth."Mr Malley,please don't bother me about this any more.I said it suits me.I have everything I want.Thanks for showing me about the light." Para.29:The effect was devastating enough to shame me."I certainly wouldn't dream of bothering you,"he said,with precision of speech and aloof sadness."I merely made these suggestions for your comfort.Had I realized I was in your way,I would of left some time ago."When he had gone I felt better, even a little exhilarated at my victory though still ashamed of how easy it had been.I told myself that he would have had to be discouraged sooner or later,it was better to have it over with at the beginning. Para.30:The following weekend he knocked on my door.His expression of humility was exaggerated,almost enough so to seem mocking,yet in another sense it was real and I felt unsure of myself. Para.31:"I won't take up a minute of your time,"he said."I never meant to be a nuisance.I just wanted to tell you I'm sorry I offended you last time and I apologize.Here's a little present if you will accept.” Para.32:He was carrying a plant whose name I did not know;it had thick,glossy leaves and grew out of a pot wrapped lavishly in pink and silver foil. Para.33:"There,"he said,arranging this plant in a corner of my room."I don't want any bad feelings with you and me.I'll take the blame.And I thought,maybe she won't accept furnishings,but what's the matter with a nice little plant,that'll brighten things up for you." Para.34:It was not possible for me,at this moment,to tell him that I did not want a plant.I hate house plants.He told me how to take care of it,how often to water it and so on;I thanked him.There was nothing else I could do,and I had the unpleasant feeling that beneath his offering of apologies and gifts he was well aware of this and in some way gratified by it.He kept on talking,using the words bad feelings, offended,apologize.I tried once to interrupt,with the idea of explaining that I had made provision for an area in my life where good feelings,or bad,did not enter in,that between him and me,in fact,it was not necessary that there be any feelings at all;but this struck me as a hopeless task.How could I confront,in the open,this craving for intimacy?Besides,the plant in its shiny paper had confused me
4 because I always have a tendency to placate people whom I dislike for no good reason, or simply do not want to know. I make elaborate offerings of courtesy sometimes, in the foolish hope that they will go away and leave me alone. Para.23: “What you want is a nice easy chair to sit in, while you’re waiting for inspiration to hit. I’ve got a chair down in the basement, all kinds of stuff down there since my mother passed on last year. There’s a bit of carpet rolled up in a corner down there, it isn’t doing anybody any good. We could get this place fixed up so’s it’d be a lot more homelike for you.” Para.24: But really, I said, but really I like it as it is. Para.25: “If you wanted to run up some curtains, I’d pay you for the material. Place needs a touch of colour, I’m afraid you’ll get morbid sitting in here.” Para.26: Oh, no, I said, and laughed, I’m sure I won’t. Para.27: “It’d be a different story if you was a man. A woman wants things a bit cosier.” Para.28: So I got up and went to the window and looked down into the empty Sunday street through the slats of the Venetian blind, to avoid the accusing vulnerability of his fat face and I tried out a cold voice that is to be heard frequently in my thoughts but has great difficulty getting out of my cowardly mouth. “Mr. Malley, please don’t bother me about this any more. I said it suits me. I have everything I want. Thanks for showing me about the light.” Para.29: The effect was devastating enough to shame me. “I certainly wouldn’t dream of bothering you,” he said, with precision of speech and aloof sadness. “I merely made these suggestions for your comfort. Had I realized I was in your way, I would of left some time ago.” When he had gone I felt better, even a little exhilarated at my victory though still ashamed of how easy it had been. I told myself that he would have had to be discouraged sooner or later, it was better to have it over with at the beginning. Para.30: The following weekend he knocked on my door. His expression of humility was exaggerated, almost enough so to seem mocking, yet in another sense it was real and I felt unsure of myself. Para.31: “I won’t take up a minute of your time,” he said. “I never meant to be a nuisance. I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry I offended you last time and I apologize. Here’s a little present if you will accept.”Para.32: He was carrying a plant whose name I did not know; it had thick, glossy leaves and grew out of a pot wrapped lavishly in pink and silver foil. Para.33: “There,” he said, arranging this plant in a corner of my room. “I don’t want any bad feelings with you and me. I’ll take the blame. And I thought, maybe she won’t accept furnishings, but what’s the matter with a nice little plant, that’ll brighten things up for you.” Para.34: It was not possible for me, at this moment, to tell him that I did not want a plant. I hate house plants. He told me how to take care of it, how often to water it and so on; I thanked him. There was nothing else I could do, and I had the unpleasant feeling that beneath his offering of apologies and gifts he was well aware of this and in some way gratified by it. He kept on talking, using the words bad feelings, of ended, apologize. I tried once to interrupt, with the idea of explaining that I had made provision for an area in my life where good feelings, or bad, did not enter in, that between him and me, in fact, it was not necessary that there be any feelings at all; but this struck me as a hopeless task. How could I confront, in the open, this craving for intimacy? Besides, the plant in its shiny paper had confused me
Para.35:"How's the writing progressing?"he said,with an air of putting all our unfortunate differences behind him. Para.36:“Oh,about as usual..” Para.37:"Well if you ever run out of things to write about,I got a barrelful."Pause."But I guess I'm just eatin'into your time here,"he said with a kind of painful buoyancy.This was a test,and I did not pass it.I smiled,my eyes held by that magnificent plant;I said it was all right. Para.38:"I was just thinking about the fellow was in here before you.Chiropractor.You could of wrote a book about him." Para.39:I assumed a listening position,my hands no longer hovering over the keys.If cowardice and insincerity are big vices of mine,curiosity is certainly another. Para.40:"He had a good practice built up here.The only trouble was,he gave more adjustments than was listed in the book of chiropractory.Oh,he was adjusting right and left.I came in here after he moved out,and what do you think I found?Sound proofing!This whole room was soundproofed,to enable him to make his adjustments without disturbing anybody.This very room you're sitting writing your stories in. Para.41:"First we knew of it was a lady knocked on my door one day,wanted me to provide her with a passkey to his office.He'd locked his door against her. Para.42:"I guess he just got tired of treating her particular case.I guess he figured he'd been knocking away at it long enough.Lady well on in years,you know,and him just a young man.He had a nice young wife too and a couple of the prettiest children you ever would want to see.Filthy some of the things that go on in this world." Para.43:It took me some time to realize that he told this story not simply as a piece of gossip,but as something a writer would be particularly interested to hear.Writing and lewdness had a vague delicious connection in his mind.Even this notion,however,seemed so wistful,so infantile,that it struck me as a waste of energy to attack it.I knew now I must avoid hurting him for my own sake,not for his.It had been a great mistake to think that a little roughness would settle things. Para.44:The next present was a teapot.I insisted that I drank only coffee and told him to give it to his wife.He said that tea was better for the nerves and that he had known right away I was a nervous person, like himself.The teapot was covered with gilt and roses and I knew that it was not cheap,in spite of its extreme hideousness.I kept it on my table.I also continued to care for the plant,which thrived obscenely in the corner of my room.I could not decide what else to do.He bought me a wastebasket,a fancy one with Chinese mandarins on all eight sides;he got a foam rubber cushion for my chair.I despised myself for submitting to this blackmail.I did not even really pity him;it was just that I could not turn away,I could not turn away from that obsequious hunger.And he knew himself my tolerance was bought;in a way he must have hated me for it. Para.45:When he lingered in my office now he told me stories of himself.It occurred to me that he was revealing his life to me in the hope that I would write it down.Of course he had probably revealed it to plenty of people for no particular reason,but in my case there seemed to be a special,even desperate 5
5 Para.35: “How’s the writing progressing?” he said, with an air of putting all our unfortunate differences behind him. Para.36: “Oh, about as usual.” Para.37: “Well if you ever run out of things to write about, I got a barrelful.” Pause. “But I guess I’m just eatin’ into your time here,” he said with a kind of painful buoyancy. This was a test, and I did not pass it. I smiled, my eyes held by that magnificent plant; I said it was all right. Para.38: “I was just thinking about the fellow was in here before you. Chiropractor. You could of wrote a book about him.” Para.39: I assumed a listening position, my hands no longer hovering over the keys. If cowardice and insincerity are big vices of mine, curiosity is certainly another. Para.40: “He had a good practice built up here. The only trouble was, he gave more adjustments than was listed in the book of chiropractory. Oh, he was adjusting right and left. I came in here after he moved out, and what do you think I found? Sound proofing! This whole room was soundproofed, to enable him to make his adjustments without disturbing anybody. This very room you’re sitting writing your stories in. Para.41: “First we knew of it was a lady knocked on my door one day, wanted me to provide her with a passkey to his office. He’d locked his door against her. Para.42: “I guess he just got tired of treating her particular case. I guess he figured he’d been knocking away at it long enough. Lady well on in years, you know, and him just a young man. He had a nice young wife too and a couple of the prettiest children you ever would want to see. Filthy some of the things that go on in this world.” Para.43: It took me some time to realize that he told this story not simply as a piece of gossip, but as something a writer would be particularly interested to hear. Writing and lewdness had a vague delicious connection in his mind. Even this notion, however, seemed so wistful, so infantile, that it struck me as a waste of energy to attack it. I knew now I must avoid hurting him for my own sake, not for his. It had been a great mistake to think that a little roughness would settle things. Para.44: The next present was a teapot. I insisted that I drank only coffee and told him to give it to his wife. He said that tea was better for the nerves and that he had known right away I was a nervous person, like himself. The teapot was covered with gilt and roses and I knew that it was not cheap, in spite of its extreme hideousness. I kept it on my table. I also continued to care for the plant, which thrived obscenely in the corner of my room. I could not decide what else to do. He bought me a wastebasket, a fancy one with Chinese mandarins on all eight sides; he got a foam rubber cushion for my chair. I despised myself for submitting to this blackmail. I did not even really pity him; it was just that I could not turn away, I could not turn away from that obsequious hunger. And he knew himself my tolerance was bought; in a way he must have hated me for it. Para.45: When he lingered in my office now he told me stories of himself. It occurred to me that he was revealing his life to me in the hope that I would write it down. Of course he had probably revealed it to plenty of people for no particular reason, but in my case there seemed to be a special, even desperate
necessity.His life was a series of calamities,as people's lives often are;he had been let down by people he had trusted,refused help by those he had depended on,betrayed by the very friends to whom he had given kindness and material help.Other people,mere strangers and passersby,had taken time to torment him gratuitously,in novel and inventive ways.On occasion,his very life had been threatened.Moreover his wife was a difficulty,her health being poor and her temperament unstable;what was he to do?You see how it is,he said,lifting his hands,but I live.He looked to me to say yes. Para.46:I took to coming up the stairs on tiptoe,trying to turn my key without making a noise; this was foolish of course because I could not muffle my typewriter.I actually considered writing in longhand,and wished repeatedly for the evil chiropractor's soundproofing.I told my husband my problem and he said it was not a problem at all.Tell him you're busy,he said.As a matter of fact I did tell him; every time he came to my door,always armed with a little gift or an errand,he asked me how I was and I said that today I was busy.Ah,then,he said,as he eased himself through the door,he would not keep me a minute.And all the time,as I have said,he knew what was going on in my mind,how I weakly longed to be rid of him.He knew but could not afford to care. Para.47:One evening after I had gone home I discovered that I had left at the office a letter I had intended to post,and so I went back to get it.I saw from the street that the light was on in the room where I worked.Then I saw him bending over the card table.Of course,he came in at night and read what I had written!He heard me at the door,and when I came in he was picking up my wastebasket,saying he thought he would just tidy things up for me.He went out at once.I did not say anything,but found myself trembling with anger and gratification.To have found a just cause was a wonder,an unbearable relief. Para.48:Next time he came to my door I had locked it on the inside.I knew his step,his chummy cajoling knock.I continued typing loudly,but not uninterruptedly,so he would know I heard.He called my name,as if I was playing a trick,I bit my lips together not to answer.Unreasonably as ever,guilt assailed me but I typed on.That day I saw the earth was dry around the roots of the plant,I let it alone. Para.49:I was not prepared for what happened next.I found a note taped to my door,which said that Mr.Malley would be obliged if I would step into his office.I went at once to get it over with.He sat at his desk surrounded by obscure evidences of his authority;he looked at me from a distance,as one who was now compelled to see me in a new and sadly unfavourable light;the embarrassment which he showed seemed not for himself,but me.He started off by saying,with a rather stagey reluctance,that he had known of course when he took me in that I was a writer. Para.50:"I didn't let that worry me,though I have heard things about writers and artists and that type of person that didn't strike me as very encouraging.You know the sort of thing I mean." Para.51:This was something new;I could not think what it might lead to. Para.52:"Now you came to me and said,Mr.Malley,I want a place to write in.I believed you.I gave it to you.I didn't ask any questions.That's the kind of person I am.But you know the more I think about it,well,the more I am inclined to wonder." Para.53:"Wonder what?"I said. Para.54:"And your own attitude,that hasn't helped to put my mind at ease.Locking yourself in and refusing to answer your door.That's not a normal way for a person to behave.Not if they got nothing to 6
6 necessity. His life was a series of calamities, as people’s lives often are; he had been let down by people he had trusted, refused help by those he had depended on, betrayed by the very friends to whom he had given kindness and material help. Other people, mere strangers and passersby, had taken time to torment him gratuitously, in novel and inventive ways. On occasion, his very life had been threatened. Moreover his wife was a difficulty, her health being poor and her temperament unstable; what was he to do? You see how it is, he said, lifting his hands, but I live. He looked to me to say yes. Para.46: I took to coming up the stairs on tiptoe, trying to turn my key without making a noise; this was foolish of course because I could not muffle my typewriter. I actually considered writing in longhand, and wished repeatedly for the evil chiropractor’s soundproofing. I told my husband my problem and he said it was not a problem at all. Tell him you’re busy, he said. As a matter of fact I did tell him; every time he came to my door, always armed with a little gift or an errand, he asked me how I was and I said that today I was busy. Ah, then, he said, as he eased himself through the door, he would not keep me a minute. And all the time, as I have said, he knew what was going on in my mind, how I weakly longed to be rid of him. He knew but could not afford to care. Para.47: One evening after I had gone home I discovered that I had left at the office a letter I had intended to post, and so I went back to get it. I saw from the street that the light was on in the room where I worked. Then I saw him bending over the card table. Of course, he came in at night and read what I had written! He heard me at the door, and when I came in he was picking up my wastebasket, saying he thought he would just tidy things up for me. He went out at once. I did not say anything, but found myself trembling with anger and gratification. To have found a just cause was a wonder, an unbearable relief. Para.48: Next time he came to my door I had locked it on the inside. I knew his step, his chummy cajoling knock. I continued typing loudly, but not uninterruptedly, so he would know I heard. He called my name, as if I was playing a trick; I bit my lips together not to answer. Unreasonably as ever, guilt assailed me but I typed on. That day I saw the earth was dry around the roots of the plant; I let it alone. Para.49: I was not prepared for what happened next. I found a note taped to my door, which said that Mr. Malley would be obliged if I would step into his office. I went at once to get it over with. He sat at his desk surrounded by obscure evidences of his authority; he looked at me from a distance, as one who was now compelled to see me in a new and sadly unfavourable light; the embarrassment which he showed seemed not for himself, but me. He started off by saying, with a rather stagey reluctance, that he had known of course when he took me in that I was a writer. Para.50: “I didn’t let that worry me, though I have heard things about writers and artists and that type of person that didn’t strike me as very encouraging. You know the sort of thing I mean.” Para.51: This was something new; I could not think what it might lead to. Para.52: “Now you came to me and said, Mr. Malley, I want a place to write in. I believed you. I gave it to you. I didn’t ask any questions. That’s the kind of person I am. But you know the more I think about it, well, the more I am inclined to wonder.” Para.53: “Wonder what?” I said. Para.54: “And your own attitude, that hasn’t helped to put my mind at ease. Locking yourself in and refusing to answer your door. That’s not a normal way for a person to behave. Not if they got nothing to
hide.No more than it's normal for a young woman,says she has a husband and kids,to spend her time rattling away on a typewriter.”“But I don't think that--” Para.55:He lifted his hand,a forgiving gesture."Now all I ask is,that you be open and aboveboard with me,I think I deserve that much,and if you are using that office for any other purpose,or at any other times than you let on,and having your friends or whoever they are up to see you-" Para.56:"I don't know what you mean." Para.57:"And another thing,you claim to be a writer.Well I read quite a bit of material,and I never have seen your name in print.Now maybe you write under some other name?" Para.58:No,”I said Para.59:"Well I don't doubt there are writers whose names I haven't heard,"he said genially. "We'll let that pass.Just you give me your word of honour there won't be any more deceptions,or any carryings-on,et cetera,in that office you occupy-" Para.60:My anger was delayed somehow,blocked off by a stupid incredulity.I only knew enough to get up and walk down the hall,his voice trailing after me,and lock the door.I thought-I must go.But after I had sat down in my own room,my work in front of me,I thought again how much I liked this room, how well I worked in it,and I decided not to be forced out.After all,I felt,the struggle between us had reached a deadlock.I could refuse to open the door,refuse to look at his notes,refuse to speak to him when we met.My rent was paid in advance and if I left now it was unlikely that I would get any refund.I resolved not to care.I had been taking my manuscript home every night,to prevent his reading it,and now it seemed that even this precaution was beneath me.What did it matter if he read it,any more than if the mice scampered over it in the dark? Para.61:Several times after this I found notes on my door.I intended not to read them,but I always did.His accusations grew more specific.He had heard voices in my room.My behaviour was disturbing his wife when she tried to take her afternoon nap.(I never came in the afternoons,except on weekends.)He had found a whisky bottle in the garbage. Para.62:I wondered a good deal about that chiropractor.It was not comfortable to see how the legends of Mr.Malley's life were built up. Para.63:As the notes grew more virulent our personal encounters ceased.Once or twice I saw his stooped,sweatered back disappearing as I came into the hall.Gradually our relationship passed into something that was entirely fantasy.He accused me now,by note,of being intimate with people from Numero Cing.This was a coffee-house in the neighbourhood,which I imagine he invoked for symbolic purposes.I felt that nothing much more would happen now,the notes would go on,their contents becoming possibly more grotesque and so less likely to affect me. Para.64:He knocked on my door on a Sunday morning,about eleven o'clock.I had just come in and taken my coat off and put my kettle on the hot plate. Para.65:This time it was another face,remote and transfigured,that shone with the cold light of intense joy at discovering the proofs of sin. Para.66:"I wonder,"he said with emotion,"if you would mind following me down the hall?" 7
7 hide. No more than it’s normal for a young woman, says she has a husband and kids, to spend her time rattling away on a typewriter.” “But I don’t think that—” Para.55: He lifted his hand, a forgiving gesture. “Now all I ask is, that you be open and aboveboard with me, I think I deserve that much, and if you are using that office for any other purpose, or at any other times than you let on, and having your friends or whoever they are up to see you—” Para.56: “I don’t know what you mean.” Para.57: “And another thing, you claim to be a writer. Well I read quite a bit of material, and I never have seen your name in print. Now maybe you write under some other name?” Para.58: “No,” I said. Para.59: “Well I don’t doubt there are writers whose names I haven’t heard,” he said genially. “We’ll let that pass. Just you give me your word of honour there won’t be any more deceptions, or any carryings-on, et cetera, in that office you occupy—” Para.60: My anger was delayed somehow, blocked off by a stupid incredulity. I only knew enough to get up and walk down the hall, his voice trailing after me, and lock the door. I thought—I must go. But after I had sat down in my own room, my work in front of me, I thought again how much I liked this room, how well I worked in it, and I decided not to be forced out. After all, I felt, the struggle between us had reached a deadlock. I could refuse to open the door, refuse to look at his notes, refuse to speak to him when we met. My rent was paid in advance and if I left now it was unlikely that I would get any refund. I resolved not to care. I had been taking my manuscript home every night, to prevent his reading it, and now it seemed that even this precaution was beneath me. What did it matter if he read it, any more than if the mice scampered over it in the dark? Para.61: Several times after this I found notes on my door. I intended not to read them, but I always did. His accusations grew more specific. He had heard voices in my room. My behaviour was disturbing his wife when she tried to take her afternoon nap. (I never came in the afternoons, except on weekends.) He had found a whisky bottle in the garbage. Para.62: I wondered a good deal about that chiropractor. It was not comfortable to see how the legends of Mr. Malley’s life were built up. Para.63: As the notes grew more virulent our personal encounters ceased. Once or twice I saw his stooped, sweatered back disappearing as I came into the hall. Gradually our relationship passed into something that was entirely fantasy. He accused me now, by note, of being intimate with people from Numero Cinq. This was a coffee-house in the neighbourhood, which I imagine he invoked for symbolic purposes. I felt that nothing much more would happen now, the notes would go on, their contents becoming possibly more grotesque and so less likely to affect me. Para.64: He knocked on my door on a Sunday morning, about eleven o’clock. I had just come in and taken my coat off and put my kettle on the hot plate. Para.65: This time it was another face, remote and transfigured, that shone with the cold light of intense joy at discovering the proofs of sin. Para.66: “I wonder,” he said with emotion, “if you would mind following me down the hall?
Para.67:I followed him.The light was on in the washroom.This washroom was mine and no one else used it,but he had not given me a key for it and it was always open.He stopped in front of it,pushed back the door and stood with his eyes cast down,expelling his breath discreetly. Para.68:"Now who done that?"he said,in a voice of pure sorrow. Para.69:The walls above the toilet and above the washbasin were covered with drawings and comments of the sort you see sometimes in public washrooms on the beach,and in town hall lavatories in the little decaying towns where I grew up.They were done with a lipstick,as they usually are.Someone must have got up here the night before,I thought,possibly some of the gang who always loafed and cruised around the shopping centre on Saturday nights. Para.70:"It should have been locked,"I said,coolly and firmly as if thus to remove myself from the scene."It's quite a mess." Para.71:"It sure is.It's pretty filthy language,in my book.Maybe it's just a joke to your friends, but it isn't to me.Not to mention the art work.That's a nice thing to see when you open a door on your own premises in the morning." Para.72:I said,"I believe lipstick will wash off." Para.73:"I'm just glad I didn't have my wife see a thing like this.Upsets a woman that's had a nice bringing up.Now why don't you ask your friends up here to have a party with their pails and brushes?I'd like to have a look at the people with that kind of a sense of humour." Para.74:I turned to walk away and he moved heavily in front of me. Para.75:"I don't think there's any question how these decorations found their way onto my walls." Para.76:"If you're trying to say I had anything to do with it,"I said,quite flatly and wearily,"you must be crazy..” Para.77:"How did they get there then?Whose lavatory is this?Eh,whose?" Para.78:"There isn't any key to it.Anybody can come up here and walk in.Maybe some kids off the street came up here and did it last night after I went home,how do I know?" Para.79:"It's a shame the way the kids gets blamed for everything,when it's the elders that corrupts them.That's a thing you might do some thinking about,you know.There's laws.Obscenity laws. Applies to this sort of thing and literature too as I believe." Para.80:This is the first time I ever remember taking deep breaths,consciously,for purposes of self-control.I really wanted to murder him.I remember how soft and loathsome his face looked,with the eyes almost closed,nostrils extended to the soothing odour of righteousness,the odour of triumph.If this stupid thing had not happened,he would never have won.But he had.Perhaps he saw something in my face that unnerved him,even in this victorious moment,for he drew back to the wall,and began to say that actually,as a matter of fact,he had not really felt it was the sort of thing I personally would do,more the sort of thing that perhaps certain friends of mine-I got into my own room,shut the door. Para.81:The kettle was making a fearful noise,having almost boiled dry.I snatched it off the hot plate,pulled out the plug and stood for a moment choking on rage.This spasm passed and I did what I had to do.I put my typewriter and paper on the chair and folded the card table.I screwed the top tightly on the 8
8 Para.67: I followed him. The light was on in the washroom. This washroom was mine and no one else used it, but he had not given me a key for it and it was always open. He stopped in front of it, pushed back the door and stood with his eyes cast down, expelling his breath discreetly. Para.68: “Now who done that?” he said, in a voice of pure sorrow. Para.69: The walls above the toilet and above the washbasin were covered with drawings and comments of the sort you see sometimes in public washrooms on the beach, and in town hall lavatories in the little decaying towns where I grew up. They were done with a lipstick, as they usually are. Someone must have got up here the night before, I thought, possibly some of the gang who always loafed and cruised around the shopping centre on Saturday nights. Para.70: “It should have been locked,” I said, coolly and firmly as if thus to remove myself from the scene. “It’s quite a mess.” Para.71: “It sure is. It’s pretty filthy language, in my book. Maybe it’s just a joke to your friends, but it isn’t to me. Not to mention the art work. That’s a nice thing to see when you open a door on your own premises in the morning.” Para.72: I said, “I believe lipstick will wash off.” Para.73: “I’m just glad I didn’t have my wife see a thing like this. Upsets a woman that’s had a nice bringing up. Now why don’t you ask your friends up here to have a party with their pails and brushes? I’d like to have a look at the people with that kind of a sense of humour.” Para.74: I turned to walk away and he moved heavily in front of me. Para.75: “I don’t think there’s any question how these decorations found their way onto my walls.” Para.76: “If you’re trying to say I had anything to do with it,” I said, quite flatly and wearily, “you must be crazy.” Para.77: “How did they get there then? Whose lavatory is this? Eh,whose?” Para.78: “There isn’t any key to it. Anybody can come up here and walk in. Maybe some kids off the street came up here and did it last night after I went home, how do I know?” Para.79: “It’s a shame the way the kids gets blamed for everything, when it’s the elders that corrupts them. That’s a thing you might do some thinking about, you know. There’s laws. Obscenity laws. Applies to this sort of thing and literature too as I believe.” Para.80: This is the first time I ever remember taking deep breaths, consciously, for purposes of self-control. I really wanted to murder him. I remember how soft and loathsome his face looked, with the eyes almost closed, nostrils extended to the soothing odour of righteousness, the odour of triumph. If this stupid thing had not happened, he would never have won. But he had. Perhaps he saw something in my face that unnerved him, even in this victorious moment, for he drew back to the wall, and began to say that actually, as a matter of fact, he had not really felt it was the sort of thing I personally would do, more the sort of thing that perhaps certain friends of mine—I got into my own room, shut the door. Para.81: The kettle was making a fearful noise, having almost boiled dry. I snatched it off the hot plate, pulled out the plug and stood for a moment choking on rage. This spasm passed and I did what I had to do. I put my typewriter and paper on the chair and folded the card table. I screwed the top tightly on the
instant coffee and put it and the yellow mug and the teaspoon into the bag in which I had brought them:it was still lying folded on the shelf.I wished childishly to take some vengeance on the potted plant,which sat in the corner with the flowery teapot,the wastebasket,the cushion,and-I forgot-a little plastic pencil sharpener behind it. Para.82:When I was taking things down to the car Mrs.Malley came.I had seen little of her since that first day.She did not seem upset,but practical and resigned. Para.83:“He is lying down,.”she said.“He is not himself.” Para.84:She carried the bag with the coffee and the mug in it.She was so still I felt my anger leave me,to be replaced by an absorbing depression Para.85:I have not yet found another office.I think that I will try again someday,but not yet.I have to wait at least until that picture fades that I see so clearly in my mind,though I never saw it in reality-Mr.Malley with his rags and brushes and a pail of soapy water,scrubbing in his clumsy way,his deliberately clumsy way,at the toilet walls,stooping with difficulty,breathing sorrowfully,arranging in his mind the bizarre but somehow never quite satisfactory narrative of yet another betrayal of trust.While I arrange words,and think it is my right to be rid of him. 办公室 [加拿大]艾丽丝门罗 温峰宁译 有一晚在熨衣服的时候，我突然想到要怎样解决当前的生活难题。这办法简单而大胆。我走 进起居室，对正在看电视的丈夫说：“我觉得我应该找间办公室。” 这主意即使对我来说也是异想天开的。我要间办公室干什么？我有一间屋子：它宽敞舒适， 还能看到海：它提供空间让我吃好睡好、沐浴更衣，还能让我与朋友交谈：我还有一个花园：我不 缺地方。 不。虽然很难开口，但我还是得说：我是个作家。这样听起来不太对头。太放肆，太假了， 怎么说都不太可信。我说着再说一遍吧。我写作。这样听起来会不会好点？我试着去写。这样听起 来更糟。虚伪的人性啊。好吧，然后呢？ 不管了。无论我怎么说，词语还是会创造出属于自己的寂静空间，在这美妙的时刻里展示一切。 可惜人们太体贴了，寂静很快就被友好之声带来的焦虑打破了，这些声音大叫，太好了，很不错， 好吧，这很有趣。他们还起劲地问，你写些什么呀？我只好回答，小说，于此同时还得忍受着羞辱， 不过我还是轻松自在的，甚至还有几分轻蔑，虽然我并不总是这样。一次又一次，近在眼前的恐慌 还是会被这些巧妙而圆滑的言语平息一但这些言语最终耗尽了安慰的存货，到最后他们只能说一 句，“啊”。 9
9 instant coffee and put it and the yellow mug and the teaspoon into the bag in which I had brought them; it was still lying folded on the shelf. I wished childishly to take some vengeance on the potted plant, which sat in the corner with the flowery teapot, the wastebasket, the cushion, and—I forgot—a little plastic pencil sharpener behind it. Para.82: When I was taking things down to the car Mrs. Malley came. I had seen little of her since that first day. She did not seem upset, but practical and resigned. Para.83: “He is lying down,” she said. “He is not himself.” Para.84: She carried the bag with the coffee and the mug in it. She was so still I felt my anger leave me, to be replaced by an absorbing depression. Para.85: I have not yet found another office. I think that I will try again someday, but not yet. I have to wait at least until that picture fades that I see so clearly in my mind, though I never saw it in reality—Mr. Malley with his rags and brushes and a pail of soapy water, scrubbing in his clumsy way, his deliberately clumsy way, at the toilet walls, stooping with difficulty, breathing sorrowfully, arranging in his mind the bizarre but somehow never quite satisfactory narrative of yet another betrayal of trust. While I arrange words, and think it is my right to be rid of him.办公室 [加拿大]艾丽丝.门罗 温峰宁 译 有一晚在熨衣服的时候，我突然想到要怎样解决当前的生活难题。这办法简单而大胆。我走 进起居室，对正在看电视的丈夫说：“我觉得我应该找间办公室。” 这主意即使对我来说也是异想天开的。我要间办公室干什么？我有一间屋子；它宽敞舒适， 还能看到海；它提供空间让我吃好睡好、沐浴更衣，还能让我与朋友交谈；我还有一个花园；我不 缺地方。 不。虽然很难开口，但我还是得说：我是个作家。这样听起来不太对头。太放肆，太假了， 怎么说都不太可信。我说着再说一遍吧。我写作。这样听起来会不会好点？我试着去写。这样听起 来更糟。虚伪的人性啊。好吧，然后呢？ 不管了。无论我怎么说，词语还是会创造出属于自己的寂静空间，在这美妙的时刻里展示一切。 可惜人们太体贴了，寂静很快就被友好之声带来的焦虑打破了，这些声音大叫，太好了，很不错， 好吧，这很有趣。他们还起劲地问，你写些什么呀？我只好回答，小说，于此同时还得忍受着羞辱， 不过我还是轻松自在的，甚至还有几分轻蔑，虽然我并不总是这样。一次又一次，近在眼前的恐慌 还是会被这些巧妙而圆滑的言语平息——但这些言语最终耗尽了安慰的存货，到最后他们只能说一 句，“啊
所以这就是我想要间办公室的原因（我对我丈夫说）：我要在里面写作。我马上意识到这个 要求太苛刻了，这是一种糟糕的自我放任。大家都知道，要写作，你需要一台打字机，最次也要有 铅笔和纸，一张桌子一把椅子：这些东西我都有，就放在卧室的一角。不过现在我还是要一间办公 室。 其实我也不很确定如果到了那里我会不会在里面写作。或许我只会干坐着看墙，这样想想都 己经让我很不舒服。其实我喜欢的是“办公室”这个词的读音，它有种尊严与平静的气息。还有目标 明晰、意义非凡的感觉。不过我不想把这点告诉丈夫，于是我高谈阔论了一番，我记得好像是这样 说的： 屋子适合男人工作。他将工作带到屋中，带到早己清理好的位置上：屋中周围的环境自动调 整来迎合他。每个人都会承认他的工作。他不需要接电话，找失物，看孩子为什么哭，或者喂猫。 他可以把门关上。（我说）想象一位母亲将房门关上，而孩子们知道她就在门后：为什么他们想到 这里就觉得荒谬过分？一个女人，如果不照看好属于丈夫与孩子的空间领域，她似乎就会被认为是 违背天道的。屋子对女人来说不一样。走进屋子里使用它，然后又走出去一她并不是这种人。她 就是房间：这两者并不是分开的。 (没错，就像平时一样，当我要乞求一些不属于我的东西时，我会选用语气强烈情感泛滥的 表达。有好几次，或许是一个漫长春夜，其时还下着雨，一片悲凉，灯泡冰冷地亮着，光线太微弱 不足以看海，我推开窗户，顿时感到房屋褪变成了木头石膏这些造房用的基础材料，而蜗居其中的 生活则沦陷了，只剩下我两手空空，无瓦遮头，我感到一阵不可理喻的猛烈颤抖，出于自由，出于 残酷的孤独，而这孤独现在则完美得让我无福消受。这以后我才明白，平常我被保护但也被拖累： 我被细心呵护着，但也被紧紧束缚着。) “只要你能找到一间便宜的，去吧”就是我丈夫的回应。他不像我，他并不总需要解释。他常 常会不假思索地说，别人的心思就像一本合上的书一样难以参透。 不过之后我还是觉得这个愿望不太可能实现。或许实际上我并不觉得这是个合适的愿望。本 来我更可以要一件貂皮大衣，一条钻石项链：这些东西女人都想得到。孩子们知道我的计划后，给 予了最尖锐的怀疑，然后就不闻不问了。尽管如此，我还是走到了两个街区外的那个购物中心：在 那有一栋建筑，一间药店和一个漂亮的商店就开在那儿，而它二楼的窗户上贴了好多“有房出租”的 标语。我已经注意它们好几个月了，也不去想究竞适不适合我。我走上楼，感到十分不真实：租赁 可是件复杂的事情，更何况是间办公室：并不是简单地推开一个空院子的门，然后就等着别人让你 进去了：事情要按照一定的方式来完成。况且，他们总是会出高价。 事实证明，我甚至都不用敲门。一个女人刚好从一个空的办公室里出来，拖着一台吸尘器， 用脚推着它，经由过道走向门口，而这条过道明显通向这建筑后方的一间公寓。她和她丈夫就住在 这公寓里：他们姓马利：他们拥有这栋建筑，向人们出租办公室。她告诉我，她刚才清扫的那些房 间适合做牙医诊所，因此我也不会感兴趣，但她会带我去看别的地方。她将吸尘器放好，拿到钥匙， 邀请我进入她的公寓。她用我难以诠释的语气叹息了一声，然后说，她的丈夫，不在家。 马利夫人是个看起来很柔弱的黑发妇女，大概四十出头，衣衫不整，但她轻轻涂着明艳的口 10
10 所以这就是我想要间办公室的原因（我对我丈夫说）：我要在里面写作。我马上意识到这个 要求太苛刻了，这是一种糟糕的自我放任。大家都知道，要写作，你需要一台打字机，最次也要有 铅笔和纸，一张桌子一把椅子；这些东西我都有，就放在卧室的一角。不过现在我还是要一间办公 室。 其实我也不很确定如果到了那里我会不会在里面写作。或许我只会干坐着看墙，这样想想都 已经让我很不舒服。其实我喜欢的是“办公室”这个词的读音，它有种尊严与平静的气息。还有目标 明晰、意义非凡的感觉。不过我不想把这点告诉丈夫，于是我高谈阔论了一番，我记得好像是这样 说的： 屋子适合男人工作。他将工作带到屋中，带到早已清理好的位置上；屋中周围的环境自动调 整来迎合他。每个人都会承认他的工作。他不需要接电话，找失物，看孩子为什么哭，或者喂猫。 他可以把门关上。（我说）想象一位母亲将房门关上，而孩子们知道她就在门后；为什么他们想到 这里就觉得荒谬过分？一个女人，如果不照看好属于丈夫与孩子的空间领域，她似乎就会被认为是 违背天道的。屋子对女人来说不一样。走进屋子里使用它，然后又走出去——她并不是这种人。她 就是房间；这两者并不是分开的。 （没错，就像平时一样，当我要乞求一些不属于我的东西时，我会选用语气强烈情感泛滥的 表达。有好几次，或许是一个漫长春夜，其时还下着雨，一片悲凉，灯泡冰冷地亮着，光线太微弱 不足以看海，我推开窗户，顿时感到房屋褪变成了木头石膏这些造房用的基础材料，而蜗居其中的 生活则沦陷了，只剩下我两手空空，无瓦遮头，我感到一阵不可理喻的猛烈颤抖，出于自由，出于 残酷的孤独，而这孤独现在则完美得让我无福消受。这以后我才明白，平常我被保护但也被拖累； 我被细心呵护着，但也被紧紧束缚着。） “只要你能找到一间便宜的，去吧”就是我丈夫的回应。他不像我，他并不总需要解释。他常 常会不假思索地说，别人的心思就像一本合上的书一样难以参透。 不过之后我还是觉得这个愿望不太可能实现。或许实际上我并不觉得这是个合适的愿望。本 来我更可以要一件貂皮大衣，一条钻石项链；这些东西女人都想得到。孩子们知道我的计划后，给 予了最尖锐的怀疑，然后就不闻不问了。尽管如此，我还是走到了两个街区外的那个购物中心；在 那有一栋建筑，一间药店和一个漂亮的商店就开在那儿，而它二楼的窗户上贴了好多“有房出租”的 标语。我已经注意它们好几个月了，也不去想究竟适不适合我。我走上楼，感到十分不真实；租赁 可是件复杂的事情，更何况是间办公室；并不是简单地推开一个空院子的门，然后就等着别人让你 进去了；事情要按照一定的方式来完成。况且，他们总是会出高价。 事实证明，我甚至都不用敲门。一个女人刚好从一个空的办公室里出来，拖着一台吸尘器， 用脚推着它，经由过道走向门口，而这条过道明显通向这建筑后方的一间公寓。她和她丈夫就住在 这公寓里；他们姓马利；他们拥有这栋建筑，向人们出租办公室。她告诉我，她刚才清扫的那些房 间适合做牙医诊所，因此我也不会感兴趣，但她会带我去看别的地方。她将吸尘器放好，拿到钥匙， 邀请我进入她的公寓。她用我难以诠释的语气叹息了一声，然后说，她的丈夫，不在家。 马利夫人是个看起来很柔弱的黑发妇女，大概四十出头，衣衫不整，但她轻轻涂着明艳的口
