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ادبی-داستان نویسی-داستان کوتاه-نقد ادبی-مینیمال-افسانه ها-اسطوره-شعر-نقد شعر

Ohenry

IN GILT letters on the ground glass of the door of room No. 962 were the words: "Robbins & Hartley, Brokers." The clerks had gone. It was past five, and with the solid tramp of a drove of prize Percherons, scrub- women were invading the cloud-capped twenty-story office building. A puff of red-hot air flavoured with lemon peelings, soft-coal smoke and train oil came in through the half-open windows.

Robbins, fifty, something of an overweight beau, and addicted to first nights and hotel palm-rooms, pretended to be envious of his partner's commuter's joys.


"Going to be something doing in the humidity line to-night," he said. "You out-of-town chaps will be the people, with your katydids and moonlight and long drinks and things out on the front porch."


Hartley, twenty-nine, serious, thin, good-looking, ner- vous, sighed and frowned a little.


"Yes," said he, "we always have cool nights in Floral- hurst, especially in the winter."


A man with an air of mystery came in the door and went up to Hartley.


"I've found where she lives," he announced in the portentous half-whisper that makes the detective at work a marked being to his fellow men.


Hartley scowled him into a state of dramatic silence and quietude. But by that time Robbins had got his cane and set his tie pin to his liking, and with a debonair nod went out to his metropolitan amusements.


"Here is the address," said the detective in a natural tone, being deprived of an audience to foil.


Hartley took the leaf torn out of the sleuth's dingy memorandum book. On it were pencilled the words "Vivienne Arlington, No. 341 East --th Street, care of Mrs. McComus."


"Moved there a week ago," said the detective. "Now, if you want any shadowing done, Mr. Hartley, I can do you as fine a job in that line as anybody in the city. It will be only $7 a day and expenses. Can send in a daily typewritten report, covering -- "


"You needn't go on," interrupted the broker. "It isn't a case of that kind. I merely wanted the address. How much shall I pay you?"


"One day's work," said the sleuth. "A tenner will cover it."


Hartley paid the man and dismissed him. Then he left the office and boarded a Broadway car. At the first large crosstown artery of travel he took an eastbound car that deposited him in a decaying avenue, whose ancient structures once sheltered the pride and glory of the town.


Walking a few squares, he came to the building that he sought. It was a new flathouse, bearing carved upon its cheap stone portal its sonorous name, "The Vallambrosa." Fire-escapes zigzagged down its front -- these laden with household goods, drying clothes, and squalling children evicted by the midsummer heat. Here and there a pale rubber plant peeped from the miscellaneous mass, as if wondering to what kingdom it belonged -- vegetable, animal or artificial.


Hartley pressed the "McComus" button. The door latch clicked spasmodically -- now hospitably, now doubt- fully, as though in anxiety whether it might be admitting friends or duns. Hartley entered and began to climb the stairs after the manner of those who seek their friends in city flat-houses -- which is the manner of a boy who climbs an apple-tree, stopping when he comes upon what he wants.


On the fourth floor he saw Vivienne standing in an open door. She invited him inside, with a nod and a bright, genuine smile. She placed a chair for him near a window, and poised herself gracefully upon the edge of one of those Jekyll-and-Hyde pieces of furniture that are masked and mysteriously hooded, unguessable bulks by day and inquisitorial racks of torture by night.


Hartley cast a quick, critical, appreciative glance at her before speaking, and told himself that his taste in choosing had been flawless.


Vivienne was about twenty-one. She was of the purest Saxon type. Her hair was a ruddy golden, each filament of the neatly gathered mass shining with its own lustre and delicate graduation of colour. In perfect harmony were her ivory-clear complexion and deep sea-blue eyes that looked upon the world with the ingenuous calmness of a mermaid or the pixie of an undiscovered mountain stream. Her frame was strong and yet possessed the grace of absolute naturalness. And yet with all her North- ern clearness and frankness of line and colouring, there seemed to be something of the tropics in her -- something of languor in the droop of her pose, of love of ease in her ingenious complacency of satisfaction and comfort in the mere act of breathing -- something that seemed to claim for her a right as a perfect work of nature to exist and be admired equally with a rare flower or some beauti- ful, milk-white dove among its sober-hued companions.


She was dressed in a white waist and dark skirt - that discreet masquerade of goose-girl and duchess.


"Vivienne," said Hartley, looking at her pleadingly, "you did not answer my last letter. It was only by nearly a week's search that I found where you had moved to. Why have you kept me in suspense when you knew how anxiously I was waiting to see you and hear from you?"


The girl looked out the window dreamily.


"Mr. Hartley," she said hesitatingly, "I hardly know what to say to you. I realize all the advantages of your offer, and sometimes I feel sure that I could be contented with you. But, again, I am doubtful. I was born a city girl, and I am afraid to bind myself to a quiet sub- urban life."


"My dear girl," said Hartley, ardently, "have I not told you that you shall have everything that your heart can desire that is in my power to give you? You shall come to the city for the theatres, for shopping and to visit your friends as often as you care to. You can trust me, can you not?"


"To the fullest," she said, turning her frank eyes upon him with a smile. "I know you are the kindest of men, and that the girl you get will be a lucky one. I learned all about you when I was at the Montgomerys'."


"Ah!" exclaimed Hartley, with a tender, reminiscent light in his eye; "I remember well the evening I first saw you at the Montgomerys'. Mrs. Montgomery was sound- ing your praises to me all the evening. And she hardly did you justice. I shall never forget that supper. Come, Vivienne, promise me. I want you. You'll never regret coming with me. No one else will ever give you as pleasant a home."


The girl sighed and looked down at her folded hands.


A sudden jealous suspicion seized Hartley.


"Tell me, Vivienne," he asked, regarding her keenly, "is there another -- is there some one else ?"


A rosy flush crept slowly over her fair cheeks and neck.


"You shouldn't ask that, Mr. Hartley," she said, in some confusion. "But I will tell you. There is one other -- but he has no right -- I have promised him nothing."


"His name?" demanded Hartley, sternly.


"Townsend."


"Rafford Townsend!" exclaimed Hartley, with a grim tightening of his jaw. "How did that man come to know you? After all I've done for him -- "


"His auto has just stopped below," said Vivienne, bending over the window-sill. "He's coming for his answer. Oh I don't know what to do!"


The bell in the flat kitchen whirred. Vivienne hurried to press the latch button.


"Stay here," said Hartley. "I will meet him in the hall."


Townsend, looking like a Spanish grandee in his light tweeds, Panama hat and curling black mustache, came up the stairs three at a time. He stopped at sight of Hartley and looked foolish.


"Go back," said Hartley, firmly, pointing downstairs with his forefinger.


"Hullo!" said Townsend, feigning surprise. "What's up? What are you doing here, old man?"


"Go back," repeated Hartley, inflexibly. "The Law of the Jungle. Do you want the Pack to tear you in pieces? The kill is mine."


"I came here to see a plumber about the bathroom connections," said Townsend, bravely.


"All right," said Hartley. "You shall have that lying plaster to stick upon your traitorous soul. But, go back." Townsend went downstairs, leaving a bitter word to be wafted up the draught of the staircase. Hartley went back to his wooing.


"Vivienne," said he, masterfully. "I have got to have you. I will take no more refusals or dilly-dallying."


"When do you want me?" she asked.


"Now. As soon as you can get ready."


She stood calmly before him and looked him in the eye.


"Do you think for one moment," she said, "that I would enter your home while Héloise is there?"


Hartley cringed as if from an unexpected blow. He folded his arms and paced the carpet once or twice.


"She shall go," he declared grimly. Drops stood upon his brow. "Why should I let that woman make my life miserable? Never have I seen one day of freedom from trouble since I have known her. You are right, Vivienne. Héloise must be sent away before I can take you home. But she shall go. I have decided. I will turn her from my doors."


"When will you do this?" asked the girl.


Hartley clinched his teeth and bent his brows together.


"To-night," he said, resolutely. "I will send her away to-night."


"Then," said Vivienne, "my answer is 'yes.' Come for me when you will."


She looked into his eyes with a sweet, sincere light in her own. Hartley could scarcely believe that her sur- render was true, it was so swift and complete.


"Promise me," he said feelingly, "on your word and honour."


"On my word and honour," repeated Vivienne, softly.


At the door he turned and gazed at her happily, but yet as one who scarcely trusts the foundations of his joy.


"To-morrow," he said, with a forefinger of reminder uplifted.


"To-morrow," she repeated with a smile of truth and candour.


In an hour and forty minutes Hartley stepped off the train at Floralhurst. A brisk walk of ten minutes brought him to the gate of a handsome two-story cottage set upon a wide and well-tended lawn. Halfway to the house he was met by a woman with jet-black braided hair and flowing white summer gown, who half strangled him without apparent cause.


When they stepped into the hall she said:


"Mamma's here. The auto is coming for her in half an hour. She came to dinner, but there's no dinner."


"I've something to tell you," said Hartley. "I thought to break it to you gently, but since your mother is here we may as well out with it."


He stooped and whispered something at her ear.


His wife screamed. Her mother came running into the hall. The dark-haired woman screamed again- the joyful scream of a well-beloved and petted woman.


"Oh, mamma!" she cried ecstatically, "what do you think? Vivienne is coming to cook for us! She is the one that stayed with the Montgomerys a whole year. And now, Billy, dear," she concluded, "you must go right down into the kitchen and discharge Héloise. She has been drunk again the whole day long."

نوشته شده در سه شنبه چهاردهم اردیبهشت 1389ساعت 18:7 توسط hamed| |




ROALD DAHL

DOWN below there was only a vast white undulating sea of cloud. Above there was the sun, and the sun was white like the clouds, because it is never yellow when one looks at it from high in the air.

 


He was still flying the Spitfire. His right hand was on the stick, and he was working the rudder bar with his left leg alone. It was quite easy. The machine was flying well, and he knew what he was doing.


 


Everything is fine, he thought. I'm doing all right. I'm doing nicely. I know my way home. I'll be there in half an hour. When I land I shall taxi in and switch off my engine and I shall say, help me to get out, will you. I shall make my voice sound ordinary and natural and none of them will take any notice. Then I shall say, someone help me to get out. I can't do it alone because I've lost one of my legs. They'll all laugh and think that I'm joking, and I shall say, all right, come and have a look, you unbelieving bastards. Then Yorky will climb up onto the wing and look inside. He'll probably be sick because of all the blood and the mess. I shall laugh and say, for God's sake, help me out.


 


He glanced down again at his right leg. There was not much of it left. The cannon shell had taken him on the thigh, just above the knee, and now there was nothing but a great mess and a lot of blood. But there was no pain. When he looked down, he felt as though he were seeing something that did not belong to him. It had nothing to do with him. It was just a mess which happened to be there in the cockpit; something strange and unusual and rather interesting. It was like finding a dead cat on the sofa.


 


He really felt fine, and because he still felt fine, he felt excited and unafraid.


 


I won't even bother to call up on the radio for the blood wagon, he thought. It isn't necessary. And when I land I'll sit there quite normally and say, some of you fellows come and help me out, will you, because I've lost one of my legs. That will be funny. I'll laugh a little while I'm saying it; I'll say it calmly and slowly, and they'll think I'm joking. When Yorky comes up onto the wing and gets sick, I'll say, Yorky, you old son of a bitch, have you fixed my car yet? Then when I get out I'll make my report and later I'll go up to London. I'll take that half bottle of whisky with me and I'll give it to Bluey. We'll sit in her room and drink it. I'll get the water out of the bathroom tap. I won't say much until it's time to go to bed, then Ill say, Bluey, I've got a surprise for you. I lost a leg today. But I don't mind so long as you don't. It doesn't even hurt. We'll go everywhere in cars. I always hated walking, except when I walked down the street of the coppersmiths in Bagdad, but I could go in a rickshaw. I could go home and chop wood, but the head always flies off the ax. Hot water, that's what it needs; put it in the bath and make the handle swell. I chopped lots of wood last time I went home, and I put the ax in the bath. . . .


 


Then he saw the sun shining on the engine cowling of his machine. He saw the rivets in the metal, and he remembered where he was. He realized that he was no longer feeling good; that he was sick and giddy. His head kept falling forward onto his chest because his neck seemed no longer to have- any strength. But he knew that he was flying the Spitfire, and he could feel the handle of the stick between the fingers of his right hand.


 


I'm going to pass out, he thought. Any moment now I'm going to pass out.


 


He looked at his altimeter. Twenty-one thousand. To test himself he tried to read the hundreds as well as the thousands. Twenty-one thousand and what? As he looked the dial became blurred, and he could not even see the needle. He knew then that he must bail out; that there was not a second to lose, otherwise he would become unconscious. Quickly, frantically, he tried to slide back the hood with his left hand, but he had not the strength. For a second he took his right hand off the stick, and with both hands he managed to push the hood back. The rush of cold air on his face seemed to help. He had a moment of great clearness, and his actions became orderly and precise. That is what happens with a good pilot. He took some quick deep breaths from his oxygen mask, and as he did so, he looked out over the side of the cockpit. Down below there was only a vast white sea of cloud, and he realized that he did not know where he was.


 


It'll be the Channel, he thought. I'm sure to fall in the drink.


 


He throttled back, pulled off his helmet, undid his straps, and pushed the stick hard over to the left. The Spitfire dripped its port wing, and turned smoothly over onto its back. The pilot fell out.


 


As he fell he opened his eyes, because he knew that he must not pass out before he had pulled the cord. On one side he saw the sun; on the other he saw the whiteness of the clouds, and as he fell, as he somersaulted in the air, the white clouds chased the sun and the sun chased the clouds. They chased each other in a small circle; they ran faster and faster, and there was the sun and the clouds and the clouds and the sun, and the clouds came nearer until suddenly there was no longer any sun, but only a great whiteness. The whole world was white, and there was nothing in it. It was so white that sometimes it looked black, and after a time it was either white or black, but mostly it was white. He watched it as it turned from white to black, and then back to white again, and the white stayed for a long time, but the black lasted only for a few seconds. He got into the habit of going to sleep during the white periods, and of waking up just in time to see the world when it was black. But the black was very quick. Sometimes it was only a flash, like someone switching off the light, and switching it on again at once, and so whenever it was white, he dozed off.


 


One day, when it was white, he put out a hand and he touched something. He took it between his fingers and crumpled it. For a time he~lay there, idly letting the tips of his fingers play with the thing which they had touched. Then slowly he opened his eyes, looked down at his hand, and saw that he was holding something which was white. It was the edge of a sheet. He knew it was a sheet because he could see the texture of the material and the stitchings on the hem. He screwed up his eyes, and opened them again quickly. This time he saw the room. He saw the bed in which he was lying; he saw the grey walls and the door and the green curtains over the window. There were some roses on the table by his bed.


 


Then he saw the basin on the table near the roses. It was a white enamel basin, and beside it there was a small medicine glass.


 


This is a hospital, he thought. I am in a hospital. But he could remember nothing. He lay back on his pillow, looking at the ceiling and wondering what had happened. He was gazing at the smooth greyness of the ceiling which was so clean and gray, and then suddenly he saw a fly walking upon it. The sight of this fly, the suddenness of seeing this small black speck on a sea of gray, brushed the surface of his brain, and quickly, in that second, he remembered everything. He remembered the Spitfire and he remembered the altimeter showing twenty-one thousand feet. He remembered the pushing back of the hood with both hands, and he remembered the bailing out. He remembered his leg.


 


It seemed all right now. He looked down at the end of the bed, but he could not tell. He put one hand underneath the bedclothes and felt for his knees. He found one of them, but when he felt for the other, his hand touched something which was soft and covered in bandages.


 


Just then the door opened and a nurse came in.


 


"Hello," she said. "So you've waked up at last."


 


She was not good-looking, but she was large and clean. She was between thirty and forty and she had fair hair. More than that he did not notice.


 


"Where am I?"


 


"You're a lucky fellow. You landed in a wood near the beach. You're in Brighton. They brought you in two days ago, and now you're all fixed up. You look fine."


 


"I've lost a leg," he said.


 


"That's nothing. We'll get you another one. Now you must go to sleep. The doctor will be coming to see you in about an hour." She picked up the basin and the medicine glass and went out.


 


But he did not sleep. He wanted to keep his eyes open because he was frightened that if he shut them again everything would go away. He lay looking at the ceiling. The fly was still there. It was very energetic. It would run forward very fast for a few inches, then it would stop. Then it would run forward again, stop, run forward, stop, and every now and then it would take off and buzz around viciously in small circles. It always landed back in the same place on the ceiling and started running and stopping all over again. He watched it for so long that after a while it was no longer a fly, but only a black speck upon a sea of gray, and he was still watching it when the nurse opened the door, and stood aside while the doctor came in. He was an Army doctor, a major, and he had some last war ribbons on his chest. He was bald and small, but he had a cheerful face and kind eyes.


 


"Well, well," he said. "So you've decided to wake up at last. How are you feeling?"


 


"I feel all right."


 


"That's the stuff. You'll be up and about in no time."


 


The doctor took his wrist to feel his pulse.


 


"By the way," he said, "some of the lads from your squadron were ringing up and asking about you. They wanted to come along and see you, but I said that they'd better wait a day or two. Told them you were all right, and that they could come and see you a little later on. Just lie quiet and take it easy for a bit. Got something to read?" He glanced at the table with the roses. "No. Well, nurse will look after you. She'll get you anything you want." With that he waved his hand and went out, followed by the large clean nurse.


 


When they had gone, he lay back and looked at the ceiling again. The fly was still there and as he lay watching it he heard the noise of an airplane in the distance. He lay listening to the sound of its engines. It was a long way away. I wonder what it is, he thought. Let me see if I can place it. Suddenly he jerked his head sharply to one side. Anyone who has been bombed can tell the noise of a Junkers 88. They can tell most other German bombers for that matter, but especially a Junkers 88. The engines seem to sing a duet. There is a deep vibrating bass voice and with it there is a high pitched tenor. It is the singing of the tenor which makes the sound of a JU-88 something which one cannot mistake.


 


He lay listening to the noise, and he felt quite certain about what it was. But where were the sirens, and where the guns? That German pilot certainly had a nerve coming near Brighton alone in daylight.


 


The aircraft was always far away, and soon the noise faded away into the distance. Later on there was another. This one, too, was far away, but there was the same deep undulating bass and the high singing tenor, and there was no mistaking it. He had heard that noise every day during the battle.


 


He was puzzled. There was a bell on the table by the bed. He reached out his hand and rang it. He heard the noise of footsteps down the corridor, and the nurse came in.


 


"Nurse, what were those airplanes?"


 


"I'm sure I don't know. I didn't hear them. Probably fighters or bombers. I expect they were returning from France. Why, what's the matter?"


 


"They were JU-88's. I'm sure they were JU-88's. I know the sound of the engines. There were two of them. What were they doing over here?"


 


The nurse came up to the side of his bed and began to straighten out the sheets and tuck them in under the mattress.


 


"Gracious me, what things you imagine. You mustn't worry about a thing like that. Would you like me to get you something to read?"


 


"No, thank you."


 


She patted his pillow and brushed back the hair from his forehead with her hand.


 


"They never come over in daylight any longer. You know that. They were probably Lancasters or Flying Fortresses."


 


"Nurse."


 


"Yes."


 


"Could I have a cigarette?"


 


"Why certainly you can."


 


She went out and came back almost at once with a packet of Players and some matches. She handed one to him and when he had put it in his mouth, she struck a match and lit it.


 


"If you want me again," she said, "just ring the bell," and she went out.


 


Once toward evening he heard the noise of another aircraft. It was far away, but even so he knew that it was a single-engined machine. But he could not place it. It was going fast; he could tell that. But it wasn't a Spit, and it wasn't a Hurricane. It did not sound like an American engine either. They make more noise. He did not know what it was, and it worried him greatly. Perhaps I am very ill, he thought. Perhaps I am imagining things. Perhaps I am a little delirious. I simply do not know what to think.


 


That evening the nurse came in with a basin of hot water and began to wash him.


 


"Well," she said, "I hope you don't still think that we're being bombed."


 


She had taken off his pajama top and was soaping his right arm with a flannel. He did not answer.


 


She rinsed the flannel in the water, rubbed more soap on it, and began to wash his chest.


 


"You're looking fine this evening," she said. "They operated on you as soon as you came in. They did a marvelous job. You'll be all right. I've got a brother in the RAF," she added. "Flying bombers."


 


He said, "I went to school in Brighton."


 


She looked up quickly. "Well, that's fine," she said. "I expect you'll know some people in the town."


 


"Yes," he said, "I know quite a few."


 


She had finished washing his chest and arms, and now she turned back the bedclothes, so that his left leg was uncovered. She did it in such a way that his bandaged stump remained under the sheets. She undid the cord of his pajama trousers and took them off. There was no trouble because they had cut off the right trouser leg, so that it could not interfere with the bandages. She began to wash his left leg and the rest of his body. This was the first time he had had a bed bath, and he was embarrassed. She laid a towel under his leg, and she was washing his foot with the flannel. She said, "This wretched soap won't lather at all. It's the water. It's as hard as nails."


 


He said, "None of the soap is very good now and, of course, with hard water it's hopeless." As he said it he remembered something. He remembered the baths which he used to take at school in Brighton, in the long stone-floored bathroom which had four baths in a room. He remembered how the water was so soft that you had to take a shower afterwards to get all the soap off your body, and he remembered how the foam used to float on the surface of the water, so that you could not see your legs underneath. He remembered that sometimes they were given calcium tablets because the school doctor used to say that soft water was bad for the teeth.


 


"In Brighton," he said, "the water isn't . . ."


 


He did not finish the sentence. Something had occurred to him; something so fantastic and absurd that for a moment he felt like telling the nurse about it and having a good laugh.


 


She looked up. "The water isn't what?" she said.


 


"Nothing," he answered. "I was dreaming.


 


She rinsed the flannel in the basin, wiped the soap off his leg, and dried him with a towel.


 


"It's nice to be washed," he said. "I feel better." He was feeling his face with his hands. "I need a shave."


 


"We'll do that tomorrow," she said. "Perhaps you can do it yourself then."


 


That night he could not sleep. He lay awake thinking of the Junkers 88's and of the hardness of the water. He could think of nothing else. They were JU-88's, he said to himself. I know they were. And yet it is not possible, because they would not be flying around so low over here in broad daylight. I know that it is true, and yet I know that it is impossible. Perhaps I am ill. Perhaps I am behaving like a fool and do not know what I am doing or saying. Perhaps I am delirious. For a long time he lay awake thinking these things, and once he sat up in bed and said aloud, "I will prove that I am not crazy. I will make a little speech about something complicated and intellectual. I will talk about what to do with Germany after the war." But before he had time to begin, he was asleep.


 


He woke just as the first light of day was showing through the slit in the curtains over the window. The room was still dark, but he could tell that it was already beginning to get light outside. He lay looking at the grey light which was showing through the slit in the curtain, and as he lay there he remembered the day before. He remembered the Junkers 88's and the hardness of the water; he remembered the large pleasant nurse and the kind doctor, and now the small grain of doubt took root in his mind and it began to grow.


 


He looked around the room. The nurse had taken the roses out the night before, and there was nothing except the table with a packet of cigarettes, a box of matches and an ash tray. Otherwise, it was bare. It was no longer warm or friendly. It was not even comfortable. It was cold and empty and very quiet.


 


Slowly the grain of doubt grew, and with it came fear, a light, dancing fear that warned but did not frighten; the kind of fear that one gets not because one is afraid, but because one feels that there is something wrong. Quickly the doubt and the fear grew so that he became restless and angry, and when he touched his forehead with his hand, he found that it was damp with sweat. He knew then that he must do something; that he must find some way of proving to himself that he was either right or wrong, and he looked up and saw again the window and the green curtains. From where he lay, that window was right in front of him, but it was fully ten yards away. Somehow he must reach it and look out. The idea became an obsession with him, and soon he could think of nothing except the window. But what about his leg? He put his hand underneath the bedclothes and felt the thick bandaged stump which was all that was left on the right-hand side. It seemed all right. It didn't hurt. But it would not be easy.


 


He sat up. Then he pushed the bedclothes aside and put his left leg on the floor. Slowly, carefully, he swung his body over until he had both hands on the floor as well; and then he was out of bed, kneeling on the carpet. He looked at the stump. It was very short and thick, covered with bandages. It was beginning to hurt and he could feel it throbbing. He wanted to collapse, lie down on the carpet and do nothing, but he knew that he must go on.


 


With two arms and one leg, he crawled over towards the window. He would reach forward as far as he could with his arms, then he would give a little jump and slide his left leg along after them. Each time he did, it jarred his wound so that he gave a soft grunt of pain, but he continued to crawl across the floor on two hands and one knee. When he got to the window he reached up, and one at a time he placed both hands on the sill. Slowly he raised himself up until he was standing on his left leg. Then quickly he pushed aside the curtains and looked out.


 


He saw a small house with a gray tiled roof standing alone beside a narrow lane, and immediately behind it there was a plowed field. In front of the house there was an untidy gar- den, and there was a green hedge separating the garden from the lane. He was looking at the hedge when he saw the sign. It was just a piece of board nailed to the top of a short pole, and because the hedge had not been trimmed for a long time, the branches had grown out around the sign so that it seemed almost as though it had been placed in the middle of the hedge. There was something written on the board with white paint, and he pressed his head against the glass of the window, trying to read what it said. The first letter was a G, he could see that. The second was an A, and the third was an R. One after another he man- aged to see what the letters were. There were three words, and slowly he spelled the letters out aloud to himself as he managed to read them. G-A-R-D-E A-U C-H-I-E-N. Garde au chien. That is what it said.


 


He stood there balancing on one leg and holding tightly to the edges of the window sill with his hands, staring at the sign and at the whitewashed lettering of the words. For a moment he could think of nothing at all. He stood there looking at the sign, repeating the words over and over to himself, and then slowly he began to realize the full meaning of the thing. He looked up at the cottage and at the plowed field. He looked at the small orchard on the left of the cottage and he looked at the green countryside beyond. "So this is France," he said. "I am France."


 


Now the throbbing in his right thigh was very great. It felt as though someone was pounding the end of his stump with a hammer, and suddenly the pain became so intense that it affected his head and for a moment he thought he was going to fall. Quickly he knelt down again, crawled back to the bed and hoisted himself in. He pulled the bedclothes over himself and lay back on the pillow, exhausted. He could still think of nothing at all except the small sign by the hedge, and the plowed field and the orchard. It was the words on the sign that he could not forget.


 


It was some time before the nurse came in. She came carrying a basin of hot water and she said, "Good morning, how are you today?"


 


He said, "Good morning, nurse."


 


The pain was still great under the bandages, but he did not wish to tell this woman anything. He looked at her as she busied herself with getting the washing things ready. He looked at her more carefully now. Her hair was very fair. She was tall and big-boned, end her face seemed pleasant. But there was something a little uneasy about her eyes. They were never still. They never looked at anything for more than a moment and they moved too quickly from one place to another in the room. There was something about her movements also. They were too sharp and nervous to go well with the casual manner in which she spoke.


 


She set down the basin, took off his pajama top and began to wash him.


 


"Did you sleep well?"


 


"Yes."


 


"Good," she said. She was washing his arms and his chest.


 


"I believe there's someone coming down to see you from the Air Ministry after breakfast," she went on. "They want a report or something. I expect you know all about it. How you got shot down and all that. I won't let him stay long, so don't worry."


 


He did not answer. She finished washing him, and gave him a toothbrush and some tooth powder. He brushed his teeth, rinsed his mouth and spat the water out into the basin.


 


Later she brought him his breakfast on a tray, but he did not want to eat. He was still feeling weak and sick, and he wished only to lie still and think about what had happened. And there was a sentence running through his head. It was a sentence which Johnny, the Intelligence Officer of his squadron, always repeated to the pilots every day before they went out. He could see Johnny now, leaning against the wall of the dispersal hut with his pipe in his hand, saying, "And if they get you, don't forget, just your name, rank and number. Nothing else. For God's sake, say nothing else."


 


"There you are," she said as she put the tray on his lap. "I've got you an egg. Can you manage all right?"


 


"Yes."


 


She stood beside the bed. "Are you feeling all right?"


 


"Yes."


 


"Good. If you want another egg I might be able to get you one."


 


"This is all right."


 


"Well, just ring the bell if you want any more." And she went out.


 


He had just finished eating, when the nurse came in again.


 


She said, "Wing Commander Roberts is here. I've told him that he can only stay for a few minutes."


 


She beckoned with her hand and the Wing Commander came in.


 


"Sorry to bother you like this," he said.


 


He was an ordinary RAF officer, dressed in a uniform which was a little shabby, and he wore wings and a DFC. He was fairly tall and thin with plenty of black hair. His teeth, which were irregular and widely spaced, stuck out a little even when he closed his mouth. As he spoke he took a printed form and a pencil from his pocket, and he pulled up a chair and sat down.


 


"How are you feeling?"


 


There was no answer.


 


"Tough luck about your leg. I know how you feel. I hear you put up a fine show before they got you."


 


The man in the bed was lying quite still, watching the man in the chair.


 


The man in the chair said, "Well, let's get this stuff over. I'm afraid you'll have to answer a few questions so that I can fill in this combat report. Let me see now, first of all, what was your squadron?"


 


The man in the bed did not move. He looked straight at the Wing Commander and he said, "My name is Peter Williamson. My rank is Squadron Leader and my number is nine seven two four five seven."

نوشته شده در سه شنبه چهاردهم اردیبهشت 1389ساعت 18:5 توسط hamed| |

پرنازکریمی

بالاخره تصمیم گرفتم به خاطر استرسم برم دکتر. همیشه از دکتر رفتن میترسیدم. بدم می‌اومد. استرس می‌گرفتم. اما وقتی به‌خاطر خود استرس بخوای بری دکتر، اوضاع خیلی فرق می‌کنه! به‌هر حال من رفتم پیش دکتر و دکتر گفت که دستمو بذارم روی میز. ماسک زده بود. می‌ترسید من یا بقیه‌ی آدمایی که می‌اومدن پیشش، آنفولانزای خوکی یا مرغی یا آنفولانزاهای دیگه داشته باشیم. اما من نداشتم. خودشم اینو می‌دونست. به‌هر حال دستمو گذاشتم روی میزش و اون دوتا از انگشتاشو گذاشت رو مچ دستم که نبضمو بگیره اما یه لایه‌ی ضخیم استرس روی نبضمو پوشونده بود، مثل یه عایق حسی، و اون نتونست نبضمو بگیره. خودشو انداخت رو پشتی صندلیش شل، گفت که نمی‌تونه نبضمو بگیره. خودکارشو برداشت روی کاغذ خط‌خطی، نسخه می‌نوشت. من نمی‌تونستم بخونم. داشتم می‌ترسیدم که چی داره می‌نویسه. وقتی مهرشو زد پایین نوشته‌ها گفت که باید برم و از استرسم عکس بگیرم. کاغذو برداشتم و رفتم. رفتم پیش یکی از دوستام که توی رادیولوژی کار می‌کنه. کارشو اصلن دوست نداره، اما نمی‌دونم چه‌طور شد که سر از اون‌جا درآورد. اصلن از اون آدمای خشک و بی‌حسی نیست که از کار کردن تو یه هم‌چین جاهایی خوشحالن. شایدم نیستن. من که اونا نیستم که بدونم خوشحال هستن با نیستن. به‌هرحال من رفتم پیش اون دوستم و خوشحال بودم، چون همون‌قدر که از دکتر رفتن بدم می‌اومد، از رادیولوژی هم بدم می‌اومد، اما خوب، این‌دفعه یه آشنا اون‌جا بود. دوستم به من گفت که بشینم روی صندلی و چند ثانیه نفس نکشم. از اون صندلی‌ها بود که وقتی بالاسرتو نیگا می‌کنی یه عالمه دستگاه‌های عجیب و غریب گنده‌رو می‌بینی که تو هوا معلقن، اما هیچ‌وقت نمی‌افتن انگار. بعد همیشه یاد اون دوربینای کوچولویی می‌افتی که معمولن وقتایی که خوشحالی می‌بینیشون، و اونارو با این غولای بی سر و پای زشت مقایسه می‌کنی.(اون می‌گه اونا غولای بی سر و پای زشت نیستن. اونا مث پیرمردایین که گاهی صدای چرق چروق استخوناشونو می‌شنوه.) اما آخرش هیچی، فقط باید چند لحظه نفس نکشی. همین. گرچه این کار سختی بود، اما به‌هرحال، من این‌کارو کردم و اون هم عکسشو گرفت. اما بعدش اومد و گفت که عکس خراب شده. گفت این استرسه انگار تکون خورده و سرعت عکس هم پایین بوده، برای همین عکس تار شده بود. گفت که من دوباره بشینم و سعی کنم که این استرسرو یه‌جوری نگرش دارم که وول نخوره و ساکت باشه. من سعی خودمو کردم، حتا نفس هم نکشیدم. به هیچی فکر کردم. اما عکس بازم خراب شد. ما پنج شش بار دیگه هم امتحان کردیم و هردومون خسته شدیم. دوستم سرعت دوربینو خیلی برد بالا، اما بازهم عکس درست نشد. اون گفت تو این چند سالی که داره این‌کارو انجام می‌ده، عکس‌های زیادی از استرس‌های مختلف گرفته، از استرس قبل از ازدواج، استرس مدرسه، استرس ترس از پدر، استرس پس‌لرزه، استرس کنکور، استرس زایمان،  استرس مردن، و همه‌ی این‌ها. اما هیچ‌کدومشون مثل این نبودن. اون گفت حتا یه‌بار از یه استرس کفش پاشنه‌بلند هم عکس گرفته اما حتا اون‌هم خیلی آروم‌تر بوده.


دوستم که خیلی هم مهربونه منو بغل کرد و گفت که ناراحت نباشم. اما گفت که این از اون استرس‌های کم‌یابیه که قابل عکس‌برداری نیستن. من هم ازش تشکر کردم، همه‌ی عکس‌های خرابو باهاش حساب کردم و اومدم بیرون. عکس‌هارو برداشتم که ازون‌ها به‌عنوان شابلون برای چاپ استفاده کنم.


برگشتن راه زیادی رو پیاده اومدیم. روی سنگ‌فرش‌ها راه می‌رفتیم.


فکر می‌کردیم، به همه‌ی اتفاق‌های اون‌روز.


 اون دوست نداشت از پیش من بره، ساکت بود. قدم‌های غمگینشو با چارخونه‌های پیاده‌رو تنظیم می‌کرد.


به خونه برگشتیم. دیگه شب شده بود. توی اتاقم، روی تخت دراز کشیده بودم، و استرس هم کنارم بود.


دستامون زیر سرمون بود و به سقف خیره بودیم.


همه جا ساکت بود.


فکر می‌کردیم.


.


اون با صدای زیرش می‌خوند...


Dance me


To the end of Love



 


 


 


 تهران- دی88

نوشته شده در سه شنبه چهاردهم اردیبهشت 1389ساعت 17:59 توسط hamed| |

وحید شاکر

کودکی که هیچ‌گاه تنها نشد


 شاید آخرین تصویری که از کودکی در ذهنم مانده، به زمانی برمی‌گردد که هنوز مدرسه نمی‌رفتم. خوشحال بودم که به من اجازه داده شده که خودم به تنهایی از سویر مارکت محله خرید کنم. به خیابان که رسیدم با جمعیتی مواجه شدم که اطراف کامیونی که ظاهرا با کسی برخورد کرده بود، ایستاده بودند. عده ای هم گریه می‌کردند. من فقط یک لنگه کفش و یک50 تومانیِ مچاله شده وذرّه ای خونی که نقش زمین شده بود را دیدم. اما هیچگاه نگاهِ هراسانِ مادرم که سوی جمعیت می‌دوید را فراموش نمی‌کنم!


اردبیل – زمستان 88


 میمِ مادر


پوک عمیقی به سیگارش زد و یک بار دیگه خودش را در آینه‌ی شکسته‌ی داخل اتاق ورانداز کرد. تمامِ تن و دستش پر بود از خالکوبی، بخصوص بازوی دست چپش که بزرگ نوشته شده بود: “سلطان غم مادر”. طاقتش سر آمده و ترس توام با لذتی تمام وجودش را تسخیر کرده بود. سرنگ را برداشت و به رگش فرو کرد، درست همانجایی که میمِ مادر افتاده بود!


تهران -  بهار 89


جنگل ساکت‌تر از همیشه بود


جنگل ساکت‌تر از همیشه بود. مرد تفنگ را روی تن آهو نشانه رفت، هراس عجیبی در چشمانش حس می‌شد. نفس عمیقی کشید و شلیک کرد. لبخندی از روی رضایت زد و با شوق از لا به لای درخت های انبوه خودش را به شکار رساند، اما خبری نبود. مطمئنا یک بچه آهو نمی‌توانست خرسِ گرسنه را سیر کند !


تهران -  بهار 89


www.neveesa.com


نوشته شده در سه شنبه چهاردهم اردیبهشت 1389ساعت 17:58 توسط hamed| |

سینما

نوشته :دکتر جوانبخت


مي‌خواهد مرا به سينما ببرد. شما که نمي‌دانيد چه آخر و عاقبتي منتظر من است. خودم هم نمي‌دانم. قرار است فيلم جديدي را ببينيم که پايان‌اش معلوم نيست. مشغول نوشتن داستاني هستم که به خاطر نوشتن‌اش مدت سه شبانه‌روز در منزل مانده‌ام، اما او مي‌خواهد ام‌شب حتماً از خانه خارج شويم. نمي‌دانم کدام سينما را انتخاب کرده. حتا نمي‌دانم بازيگران اين فيلم چه کساني هستند؟ فقط به من گفته که تماشايش کنم مثل خودش که هميشه منتظر ديدن صحنه‌ي آخر است. صحنه‌اي که هيچ کسي نتواند آن را پيش‌بيني کند.

- داري مرا به ديدن فيلمي مي‌بري که آخرش معلوم نيست.
- نگران نباش! حتما از اين فيلم خوش‌ات خواهد آمد.
- اگر نيامد چه؟
تبسمي بر لب‌هايش مي‌افتد. يک نگاه شيطنت‌آميز از برق چشم‌هايش به طرف‌ام مي‌دود.
- در آن صورت بايد از نوشتن دست بکشي و وارد سينما بشوي!
گيج شده‌ام. نه مي‌دانم منظورش چيست نه مي‌توانم آن را از لاي چين و چروک صورت مهربان‌اش پيدا کنم. خيلي مبهم است. عين يک معما که لحظه به لحظه بزرگتر مي‌شود و مثل سايه‌اي من را در خود مي‌پوشاند. زيگزاگ رفتن‌هايش را در جواب‌ها دوست دارم. او هميشه همين‌طور بوده. در مدرسه هم من را در پيچ و خم جواب‌هايش حسابي مي‌دوانيد و آن‌قدر نفس‌ام را مي‌گرفت که حس مي‌کردم جنازه‌ام به آخر خط رسيده و هيچ دونده‌اي در دنيا به اندازه‌ي من ندويده است.
- مگر قرار است ام‌روز مرا وارد سينما بکني؟
- درست است! و به همين خاطر تو را آن‌جا مي‌برم.
- به نظرم دي‌شب کم خوابيده‌اي، چون داري هذيان مي‌گويي.
- نه، اتفاقا حواس‌ام خوب جمع است و مي‌دانم چه مي‌گويم. براي اين که از حرف‌ام مطمئن شوي، فقط مي‌گويم که در اين فيلم قرار است بازي‌گر نقش اول بميرد.
ياد فيلمي مي‌افتم که هفته‌ي پيش در تلويزيون ديدم. يک فيلم مستند از زنده‌گي عقاب‌ها بود. جوجه عقاب‌ها در آشيانه منتظر برگشت مادرشان مي‌مانند و چاره‌اي جز باز و بسته کردن مدام منقارهايشان به علامت گرسنه‌گي ندارند. وقتي مادرشان سر مي‌رسد تکه‌هاي گوشت شکار را از منقار مادرشان مي‌گيرند. وقتِ يادگيري پرواز هم با عجله مي‌خواهند بپرند، اما مادرشان مانع از افتادن‌شان مي‌شود. بالاخره پرواز را ياد مي‌گيرند، اما تعدادي از آن‌ها در غياب مادرشان از صخره پرت مي‌شوند و مي‌ميرند. جوجه عقاب‌ها مي‌خواهند نقش اول را در زنده‌گي‌شان بازي کنند، به همين خاطر زنده‌گي به آن‌ها رحمي نمي‌کند. به نظرم مي‌آيد که سرنوشت انسان‌ها به جوجه عقاب‌ها شباهت دارد، وقتي که طبيعت انسان‌ها را نير ناکام مي‌گذارد.
- چه کسي نقش اول را بازي مي‌کند؟
- اين را فعلا نمي‌توانم به تو بگويم.
- فيلم کي شروع مي‌شود؟
- چند دقيقه‌اي‌ست که شروع شده، اما اگر قدري بجنبي به ديدن بقيه‌ي آن خواهيم رسيد. راستي، هوا باراني‌ست.
سريع باراني‌ام را تن‌ام مي‌کنم.
- چتر يادت نرود.
چترم را به دست‌ام مي‌گيرم.
شما در حين خواندن اين داستان چند لحظه مکث مي‌کنيد. انگار صدايي در ذهن‌تان مي‌آيد. به فکر من هم باشيد که قرار است به هواي فيلم ديدن از خودم بيرون بيايم. نه انگار که بايد حتما با او بروم. پس به دنبال‌ام بياييد.
- من آماده‌ام.
- آخ، يادم رفت! بايد به بليت‌‌فروش زنگ مي‌زدم. معلوم نيست همه‌ي بليت‌ها را فروخته يا نه.
- تازه الآن يادت افتاد؟
- چند لحظه صبر کن.
از روزنامه‌اي که روي ميزم است، صفحه‌ي سينماها را پيدا مي‌کند.
- اين‌جاست، اين هم شماره‌ي تلفن سينما.
- اما اسم سينما را که ننوشته.
- مگر قرار نشد تا رسيدن به سينما صبر کني؟
- اين که شماره‌ي تلفن من است!
- تو کاري نداشته باش. شماره را حتما اشتباهي نوشته‌اند!
به متن روزنامه خيره شدم. حق با او بود. شماره را «شما آره» نوشته بودند! شايد منظورشان اين بود که شما که اين داستان را مي‌خوانيد هم بله! منظورم اين است که شما مسؤول بردن من به اين فيلم هستيد و من خبر نداشتم! بايد ارتباط شما را با او از خودش بپرسم. اصلا ممکن است اگر شما را بشناسد، شما را هم مثل من به اين فيلم ببرد. شايد هم شما قبلا او را با خودتان براي ديدن اين فيلم برده بوديد!
- به نظرم تو داري چيزي را از من پنهان مي‌کني. راست‌اش را بگو.
- تو هميشه اين‌قدر عجله داري؟ بايد اسم‌ات را بگذارند نويسنده‌ي هفت ماهه!
هنوز حرف ما تمام نشده که تلفن زنگ مي‌زند.
- گوشي را بردار ببين کيست.
- مگر نمي‌خواهي به سينما برويم؟
- چرا، اما گوشي را بردار.
من که منتظر زنگ کسي نيستم با بي‌ميلي گوشي را بر مي‌دارم. سلام به شما خواننده‌گان اين متن! گفتم چند دقيقه از پشت خط اين داستان با کسي مکالمه کنم. نمي‌دانستم که خط تلفن به شما مي‌رسد. اين بار هم او مثل هميشه مرا سورپريز کرد. شايد شما که اين داستان را مي‌خوانيد بليت‌فروش فيلمي باشيد که بايد ام‌شب ببينم. فيلمي داغ داغ است. حتما حين تماشا کردن‌اش خواهم پخت! از خودتان مي‌پرسيد: "اصلا نويسنده‌ي اين متن چه آشي براي‌ام پخته؟ او که خودش در آش اين فيلم پخته!"
- تو که به من گقتي بازيگر نقش اول در اين فيلم مي‌ميرد.
- درست است. فکر کردي رفتن به اين فيلم تحت اراده‌ي تو بود؟
- خوب، نه! من فکر مي‌کردم انتخاب با من نيست، اما ما که به سينما نرفتيم.
- همين الآن هم در سينما هستيم! خوب دقت کن.
به دور و برم نگاه مي‌کنم. ما هنوز از اتاق‌ام خارج نشده‌ايم. روي داستاني که روي ميز کارم است خم مي‌شود و مهر «بدون پايان» را روي کاغذي مي‌زند که داستان نيمه تمام شده‌ام را بر آن نوشته‌ام.
- تو فقط يک بازي‌گر بوده‌اي، يک بازي‌گر مرده!
شما که اين داستان را مي‌خوانيد چند لحظه مکث مي‌کنيد. صدايي در ذهن‌تان زمزمه مي‌کند: "آيا من اصلا آخرين کلمه‌ي اين داستان را خواهم خواند؟ آيا من آخر اين فيلم را خواهم ديد؟ آيا من به هنرپيشه‌ي اول خواهم رسيد؟ آيا من ..."

نوشته شده در سه شنبه چهاردهم اردیبهشت 1389ساعت 17:56 توسط hamed| |

منم که شهره شهرم به عشق ورزیدن
منم که دیده نیالودم به بد دیدن


وفا کنیم و ملامت کشیم و خوش باشیم
که در طریقت ما کافریست رنجیدن


به پیر میکده گفتم که چیست راه نجات
بخواست جام می و گفت عیب پوشیدن


مراد دل ز تماشای باغ عالم چیست
به دست مردم چشم از رخ تو گل چیدن


به می پرستی از آن نقش خود زدم بر آب
که تا خراب کنم نقش خود پرستیدن


به رحمت سر زلف تو واثقم ور نه
کشش چو نبود از آن سو چه سود کوشیدن


عنان به میکده خواهیم تافت زین مجلس
که وعظ بی عملان واجب است نشنیدن


ز خط یار بیاموز مهر با رخ خوب
که گرد عارض خوبان خوش است گردیدن


مبوس جز لب ساقی و جام می حافظ
که دست زهدفروشان خطاست بوسیدن


[حافظ شيرازي]


متنی که پیش روست، متن شاعرانه ای است که سرشار از تقابل هاست. تقابل اصلی در متن، تقابل عشق حقیقی و زهد ریایی است که بیشتر تقابل های موجود در متن در خدمت این تقابل اصلی اند.
لوی اشتراوس در مقام انسان شناسی ساختارگرا ، تخالف های دوتایی بنیادی را در بسیاری از اندیشه های بدوی کشف کرده بود؛ به عنوان مثال بلند و پست، روشن و تاریک و ...
در این شعر نیز صف آرایی عجیبی از این تقابل ها می بینیم:
 صدای شاعر "منی " ست عاشق پیشه در تقابل با "تویی" که زهد ریایی را برگزیده ای : "منم که شهره ی شهرم به عشق ورزیدن/ منم که دیده نیالودم به بد دیدن".
کلماتی که در این جدول تقابل ها در ردیف "من عاشق" قرار می گیرند، عبارتند از: "وفا" که در تقابل با "بی وفایی" است. که در خدمت تقابل اصلی  یعنی تقابل عشق و زهد ریایی قرارمی گیرد.
"وفا" که از آن ِ"عشق" است و"بی وفایی" از آن ِ ریاکار:" وفا کنیم و ملامت کشیم و خوش باشیم/ که در طریقت ما کافریست رنجیدن".
 "رنجیدن" در تقابل با "آسایش"، که "رنجیدن" از آن ِ عاشق است و "آسایش" حقیر زندگی روزمره از آن ِ زاهد ریاکار:
" که در طریقت ما کافری ست رنجیدن"
"راه نجات " در تقابل با "گمراهی"، که نتیجه ی عاشقی ِ بی چشم داشت است و "گمراهی" عاقبت زندگی ریاکارانه برگزیدن: "به پیر میکده گفتم که چیست راه نجات/ بخواست جام می و گفت عیب پوشیدن".
"عیب پوشی" در تقابل با     "پرده دری "، که عاشق ِ صاحب کرامت ِ عاشقی به آن مزین است و زاهد ریاکار ، کاری جز پرده دری ندارد که در واقع تضمین زندگی حقیرش است.
"خودپرستی"یا "خودخواهی" در تقابل با "فروتنی" است که زاهد ریاکار به خاطر دچار بودن به خودپرستی است که دیگری می آزارد و پرده دری می کند، اما عاشق از خود گام بیرون نهاده است،پس همه معشوق شده است و خودی نمانده است که در برابر عشق عرض اندام نماید.
"میکده" در تقابل با "مجلس وعظ" است. از آنجا که "می" در محور جانشینی ، استعاره از عشق است و وجه شبه که در هر دو "ازخود بیخود شدن" است حذف شده است. پس در محور جانشینی،"می"به جای "عشق" نشسته است، پس عاشق "میکده " را به جای "مجلس وعظ زاهد" بر می گزیند تا از خود پرستیدن رهایی یابد. که ویژگی مهم عشق رهایی از خود است و جایی در وجود برای دیگری در نظر گرفتن است. عاشق؛ ابدیت فعال است و زاهد؛ منفعل تاریخ ِ مصرف دار است.
"شنیدن" در تقابل با " نشنیدن" است. عاشق به وعظ زاهد که قرار گرفتن در گفتمان مسلط و ایدئولوژی تحمیل شده است، وقعی نمی نهد. پس هرگز صدای او را نمی شنود و نمی خواهد که بشنود.
چنان که ذکر شد ، تقابل اصلی در این شعر ، تقابل میان عشق ِ بی ریا و زهد ریایی است ، که این مفهوم از دل تقابل و تنش، با هماهنگی زیبایی گره خورده است. هماهنگی میان عشق و عناصرش که در تقابل با نیروی بازدارنده ی گفتمان غالب است.
این تقابل حتی در وزن شعر نیز به چشم می خورد. وزن شعر از دو رکن" ت َ تن ت َ تن"و " ت َ ت َ تن تن" به تناوب تشکیل شده است که خود مفهوم تقابل میان دو مفهوم اصلی در شعر را در فضای موسیقیایی تاکید می کند.
و اما اتحاد"دال" و"مدلول" را تولد نشانه در متن نامیده اند و معناآفرینی، برقراری رابطه بین نشانه هاست.
تاکید بر عاشقی گزیدن، نشانه ای است در متن که از اتحاد دال هایی چون :"وفا"،"رنجش"،"راه نجات"، "کشش"،"عارض خوبان" ، " جام می" و ... با مدلول هایی چون: "در راه عشق صبوری کردن" ، "ایمان به پایان خوش عشق داشتن" ،  "جاذبه ی راه و روش عاشقی" ، "دریافتن زیبایی هستی" ، گره می خورد.
 متن با کنار هم نشاندن این نشانه ها بر" شیوه ی عاشقی برگزیدن " تاکید می ورزد.
کارکرد نشانه ها در متن همه تقبیح زهد عوام فریبانه و تشویق عشق ورزیدن است."جام می"، "میکده"، "ساقی" در محور هم نشینی، مجاز از شراب نابی است که این شراب نادر در محور جانشینی، استعاره ازعشق است.عشقی که در تقابل اصلی با گفتمان غالب و مسلط جامعه است و مهم ترین نشانه ای است که در متن از اتحاد دال ها و مدلول ها حاصل شده است.
اما وزن شعر که ریتمیک و از ارکان متناوب  تشکیل شده است بر فضای غنایی اثر تاثیر دلنشینی نهاده است.
از نظر ساختاری قافیه که در آن اختلاف معنا بر پایه ی همسانی آوایی، شکل گرفته است، بسیار هوشمندانه به کار گرفته شده است. قافیه مصدر فعل است که وجه امری در ان مستتر است.
 در این متن، شاعر از ده کلمه در قافیه استفاده کرده است که نیمی از آن ها امر به انجام کار و نیمی دیگر به انجام ندادن کاری است... که قافیه نیزدراین متن شاعرانه در خدمت مفهوم تقابل اصلی در متن است.
تمامی افعال امر مثبت، در خدمت مفهوم توصیه به تجربه عاشقی است: "عشق ورزیدن"، "گردیدن گرد رخ زیبای یار" و ...  و افعال بازدارنده نیز نشانه هایی هستند که کارکرد آن ها "نفی طریقی جز عشق برگزیدن" و "نفی ریاکاری " است:
"خراب کردن نقش خود پرستیدن"،"کافری ست رنجیدن"،"وعظ بی عملان را نشنیدن"،"دست زهد فروشان را نبوسیدن" و...
چنان که گفته آمد ساختار اصلی در این متن بر اساس تقابل میان عشق ناب و بی ریای انسانی با نفاق و ریای زهد فروشانه است که در واقع الگوی تکرارشونده در متن است.


نویسنده:زهرا عبدی

IranPoetry.com

نوشته شده در سه شنبه چهاردهم اردیبهشت 1389ساعت 17:51 توسط hamed| |


رمان شازده احتجاب یک واکاوی  عمیق در فرهنگ  و تاریخ دست خورده ی این مرزوبوم است.این رمان منشور عجیبی است که از هر منظری که با آن مواجه شوی به چشم انداز جدیدی دست می یابی .


شاید داروی چند لایه بودن که نه ، هزار لایه بودن این فرهنگ پیچ در پیچ ما واکاوی هایی از این دست باشد. فرهنگی که در کمال شگفتی چنان متناقض عمل می کند که تو نمی دانی این عملکرد حاصل تاثیر کدام لایه ی پنهانی بود. مانند دستی که بدون اراده ی تو بر صورت کسی سیلی می زند و تو را چنان شرمنده می کند که ...


اما برای دیگران که در این فرهنگ زندگی نمی کنند باور این که این دست  ازلایه ای پنهان فرمان می گیرد که ما را بدان دسترسی نیست بسیار دشوار است.این رمان از این جهت بسیار قابل تامل است که به ما فرصت می دهد تا به لایه های عمیق تری از این فرهنگ هزار تو نفوذ کنیم و طعم ناخودآگاه جمعی خود را تجربه کنیم. علت انتخاب  منظر نقد اسطوره ای یونگی  بر این نوشته نیز می تواند این باشد ، اگرچه این متن قابلیت های فراوانی برای بررسی های متعدد ، از نظرگاه های متعدد دارد. شاید با خواندن این متن جواب این  سوال که در انتخابات های ما معمولا چه اتفاقی می افتد که گروه کثیری به یک باره چنین متناقض عمل می کنند ، را به دست آوریم!!؟؟؟  
 


سفر به گردش احوال


رمان شازده احتجاب یک سفر است. سفر گروهی شخصیت هایی که پیچیدگی های شخصیتی و روحی آنها از رابطه ها و سنت ها و تاریخ پیچیده و هزارتوی ایرانی، ناشی می شود. آن بخشی از تاریخ که دوران بارداری اش چنان سپری می شود که به هنگام زادن ، جنین ناقص است که بر زمین می ریزد.


اما الگوی سفر در این داستان دو جنبه دارد. بخشی از آن  خواننده است که سهمی از آن ناخودآگاه جمعی را دارد، از یک نقطه سفر خود را شروع  می کند و به همان نقطه باز می گردد،اما با تغییری شگرف در معرفت خویش از آن ناخودآگاه جمعی . شازده، فخرالنساء و...به نوعی بازیگران  ناخودآگاه جمعی ما هستند. اما جنبه ی  دیگر سفر ، به شازده و دیگر شخصیت های داستان باز می گردد. الگوی سفر شازده ، سفری است از معصومیت به تجربه و در این راه دچار “initiation” می شود. سفر از معصومیتی که از همان ابتدای کودکی مورد سوءاستفاده قرار می گیرد و منیره خاتون جزء اولین تجربه های این گذار است. این سفر قربانی نیز دارد. فخری، فخرالنساء و شازده از قربانیان این سفر هستند. قربانی تاریخ نوشته شده ای که به نوعی سرنوشت آنان را رقم می زند. فخرالنساء در کارکرد دوگانه ی خویش در داستان ، در جایی شخصیت اغواگر زیبایی است که در نهایت باعث هلاکت شازده می شود و در جایی دیگر آنیمای وجود شازده است. فخرالنسای کنونی که به نوعی در وجود فخری هم به تصویر کشیده می شود، بخش ویران گر اوست و فخرالنسای گذشته نیمه ی گمشده ی شازده است  که سعی می کند در فخری بازسازی اش کند. سیلان ذهن و پس و پیش شدن زمان داستان هم  به همین علت است زیرا شازده به دنبال آنیما (فخرالنسای گذشته)در حال و گذشته سفر می کند. داستان بن بست عظیمی است . هر حرکتی به نقطه ی شروع باز می گردد و دور باطلی است.


شازده نمی تواند فخرالنسا را ترک کند، چون بخش گمشده ی وجود اوست و عاشقش است. از طرفی نمی تواند با او باشد ،چون او تبدیل به آن بخشی از تاریخ شده است که شازده از آن فراری است.


نیمه ی تاریک (shadow) فخرالنسا و شازده ، همان تاریخی است که چون لکه ی سیاهی بر دامان توری سپید فخرالنسا نشسته است و او برای رهایی از این بخش به فرافکنی متوسل می شود و تنفر حاصل از آن را نصیب شازده می کند. او را در معرض تهمت چندزنی و صیغه و... قرار می دهد تا بتواند از شرّ آن بخش تیره خلاص شود و شازده هم همین کار را با فخری می کند.


اما در نماد پردازی ، لباس سفید فخرالنسا به موتیفی تبدیل می شود که شاید بتوان آنرا لباس سفید قربانی دانست . اشاره به عدد هفت و هم سن وسالی شراب و دوران نامزدی حکایت از آن دارد که این عشق دوران بلوغ خود را طی کرده ، اما به مقصد نرسیده است و چون میوه ای کال در شاخه گندیده است و تمام این داستان دست و  پازدنی سهمناک در گردابی تیره است. گردابی که خواننده ی داستان نیز در همان بخش ناخودآگاه جمعی در سرگیجه ی حاصل از آن شریک است.


منبع:    IranPoetry.com/Hadi Mohammadzadeh/©2004-2010 • All Rights Reserved


نوشته شده در سه شنبه چهاردهم اردیبهشت 1389ساعت 17:40 توسط hamed| |

رمان شازده احتجاب یک واکاوی  عمیق در فرهنگ  و تاریخ دست خورده ی این مرزوبوم است.این رمان منشور عجیبی است که از هر منظری که با آن مواجه شوی به چشم انداز جدیدی دست می یابی .


شاید داروی چند لایه بودن که نه ، هزار لایه بودن این فرهنگ پیچ در پیچ ما واکاوی هایی از این دست باشد. فرهنگی که در کمال شگفتی چنان متناقض عمل می کند که تو نمی دانی این عملکرد حاصل تاثیر کدام لایه ی پنهانی بود. مانند دستی که بدون اراده ی تو بر صورت کسی سیلی می زند و تو را چنان شرمنده می کند که ...


اما برای دیگران که در این فرهنگ زندگی نمی کنند باور این که این دست  ازلایه ای پنهان فرمان می گیرد که ما را بدان دسترسی نیست بسیار دشوار است.این رمان از این جهت بسیار قابل تامل است که به ما فرصت می دهد تا به لایه های عمیق تری از این فرهنگ هزار تو نفوذ کنیم و طعم ناخودآگاه جمعی خود را تجربه کنیم. علت انتخاب  منظر نقد اسطوره ای یونگی  بر این نوشته نیز می تواند این باشد ، اگرچه این متن قابلیت های فراوانی برای بررسی های متعدد ، از نظرگاه های متعدد دارد. شاید با خواندن این متن جواب این  سوال که در انتخابات های ما معمولا چه اتفاقی می افتد که گروه کثیری به یک باره چنین متناقض عمل می کنند ، را به دست آوریم!!؟؟؟  
 


سفر به گردش احوال


رمان شازده احتجاب یک سفر است. سفر گروهی شخصیت هایی که پیچیدگی های شخصیتی و روحی آنها از رابطه ها و سنت ها و تاریخ پیچیده و هزارتوی ایرانی، ناشی می شود. آن بخشی از تاریخ که دوران بارداری اش چنان سپری می شود که به هنگام زادن ، جنین ناقص است که بر زمین می ریزد.


اما الگوی سفر در این داستان دو جنبه دارد. بخشی از آن  خواننده است که سهمی از آن ناخودآگاه جمعی را دارد، از یک نقطه سفر خود را شروع  می کند و به همان نقطه باز می گردد،اما با تغییری شگرف در معرفت خویش از آن ناخودآگاه جمعی . شازده، فخرالنساء و...به نوعی بازیگران  ناخودآگاه جمعی ما هستند. اما جنبه ی  دیگر سفر ، به شازده و دیگر شخصیت های داستان باز می گردد. الگوی سفر شازده ، سفری است از معصومیت به تجربه و در این راه دچار “initiation” می شود. سفر از معصومیتی که از همان ابتدای کودکی مورد سوءاستفاده قرار می گیرد و منیره خاتون جزء اولین تجربه های این گذار است. این سفر قربانی نیز دارد. فخری، فخرالنساء و شازده از قربانیان این سفر هستند. قربانی تاریخ نوشته شده ای که به نوعی سرنوشت آنان را رقم می زند. فخرالنساء در کارکرد دوگانه ی خویش در داستان ، در جایی شخصیت اغواگر زیبایی است که در نهایت باعث هلاکت شازده می شود و در جایی دیگر آنیمای وجود شازده است. فخرالنسای کنونی که به نوعی در وجود فخری هم به تصویر کشیده می شود، بخش ویران گر اوست و فخرالنسای گذشته نیمه ی گمشده ی شازده است  که سعی می کند در فخری بازسازی اش کند. سیلان ذهن و پس و پیش شدن زمان داستان هم  به همین علت است زیرا شازده به دنبال آنیما (فخرالنسای گذشته)در حال و گذشته سفر می کند. داستان بن بست عظیمی است . هر حرکتی به نقطه ی شروع باز می گردد و دور باطلی است.


شازده نمی تواند فخرالنسا را ترک کند، چون بخش گمشده ی وجود اوست و عاشقش است. از طرفی نمی تواند با او باشد ،چون او تبدیل به آن بخشی از تاریخ شده است که شازده از آن فراری است.


نیمه ی تاریک (shadow) فخرالنسا و شازده ، همان تاریخی است که چون لکه ی سیاهی بر دامان توری سپید فخرالنسا نشسته است و او برای رهایی از این بخش به فرافکنی متوسل می شود و تنفر حاصل از آن را نصیب شازده می کند. او را در معرض تهمت چندزنی و صیغه و... قرار می دهد تا بتواند از شرّ آن بخش تیره خلاص شود و شازده هم همین کار را با فخری می کند.


اما در نماد پردازی ، لباس سفید فخرالنسا به موتیفی تبدیل می شود که شاید بتوان آنرا لباس سفید قربانی دانست . اشاره به عدد هفت و هم سن وسالی شراب و دوران نامزدی حکایت از آن دارد که این عشق دوران بلوغ خود را طی کرده ، اما به مقصد نرسیده است و چون میوه ای کال در شاخه گندیده است و تمام این داستان دست و  پازدنی سهمناک در گردابی تیره است. گردابی که خواننده ی داستان نیز در همان بخش ناخودآگاه جمعی در سرگیجه ی حاصل از آن شریک است.


نوشته شده در سه شنبه چهاردهم اردیبهشت 1389ساعت 17:39 توسط hamed| |


 


فروغ با دردهای اجتماع پیوند خورد


ترانه جوانبخت


www.javanbakht.net


در اشعار فروغ فرخزاد ظرافت‌‏هاي زباني پرداختن به دردهاي جامعه ونيز زباني اروتيك به چشم مي‌‏خورد.
فروغ در ابتدا در محدوده نگاه خود به زندگي شعر مي‌‏سرود اما رفته‌‏رفته از اين نگاه فاصله گرفت و با دردهاي اجتماع پيوند خورد. اين پيوند از ضروريات دروني هر شاعر است و در شعر فروغ به خوبي ساخته و پرداخته شد.


در سه مجموعه شعر اول فروغ زبان او در شعر فرقی با دیگر شعرا ندارد. او با شعر کلاسیک احساس و فکر خود را بیان می کند و هنوز به شعر مدرن نپرداخته است. اما از کتاب "تولدی دیگر" زبان خاص شعر فروغ ظاهر می شود.


او در برخي از اشعارش با نگاهي زنانه به حضور مرد مي‌‏نگرد و اين حضور را براي روحش ضروري مي‌‏بيند. بيان اين امر توسط يك شاعر زن در ايران تابو به حساب مي‌‏آمد و فروغ اين تابو را شكست. همين امر سبب شد كه نگاه بسياري به شعر او معطوف شود و به او به عنوان شاعري متفاوت بنگرند.


فروغ در اشعار پاياني‌‏اش به شكلي جدي به بيان دردهاي اجتماعي پرداخته است و همين امر نام او را بيشتر بر سر زبان‌‏ها به عنوان شاعری درد آشنا انداخته‌‏است.


اگر فروغ مرد بود شعرش آنقدر مطرح نمي‌‏شد زيرا پرداختن به زبان اروتيك در شعر مردان يك تابو به حساب نمي‌‏آيد. مردان نسبت به زنان از آزادي بیشتري در اين زمينه برخوردار بوده‌‏اند. فروغ در واقع با پرداختن به زباني اروتيك و بازگويي امور زندگي خود در شعر از حصار محدوديت‌‏هايي كه در جامعه براي زنان وجود داشت گذشت. اين كار به شجاعت احتياج داشت و فروغ اين شجاعت را داشت. همين امر او را در رقابت با شعراي مطرح معاصرش شاعري موفق نشان می دهد.


جدا شدن او از پرويز شاپور و زندگي آزادي كه كرد در نگاهش به هم زيستي با مردان عصيان در زندگي يك زن به حساب مي‌‏آيد و او با شجاعت از اين عصيان در اشعارش نوشت. مي‌‏توان گفت عصيان او در زندگي به عنوان يك زن و نيز يك شاعر با هم در يك راستا بوده‌‏است.
 


پنجره ها در اشعار فروغ بسیارند و هر یک نماد خاصی ست که او به بیان آنها در شعر پرداخته است. پنجره فقط وسیله ای برای دیدن نیست بلکه برای شنیدن صداها و لمس ستاره های خیال در شب هایی ست که به انتظار عدالت و تغییر زندگی اش با مظاهر طبیعت الفت داشت و از آن در اشعار خود می نوشت.


در زنی که در شعرفروغ نمایان می شود در نگاه اول خود فروغ را می بینیم اما در نگاه بعدی زنان رنج کشیده جامعه در شعر او ظاهر می شوند. او از اندوه زنانی برای ما می گوید که مردانشان با بی تفاوتی به آنها خیانت کرده اند.


فروغ سهم خود و زنان دیگری که زندگی به آنها رحمی نکرده را در آسمانی جدا شده می بیند. آسمان خوشبختی که پرده زندگی آن را از او دریغ کرده است.


فروغ از خیانت آدمی به خودش نیز شکوه می کند. وقتی که هفت سالگی فقط دوره خاطره ای دوراز کودکی ست و آدمی از آن فاصله دارد. عشق نیازی به قاضی ندارد و این مورد مهمی ست که فروغ در شعر خود از آن می گوید. از نظر فروغ آدمی بی چراغ در پی یافتن واقعیت وجود خود تاوان قضاوتی که بر عشق کرده را می پردازد.


او از ریاکاران زمانه خود هم گله دارد که جز ویرانی چیزی به ارمغان نیاوردند و حس اعتماد به واسطه آنها از ذهن دیگران دور شد.


شاعر شدن آسان است. شاعر ماندن سخت است چون برای شاعر ماندن باید در شعر زندگی کرد و از آن فاصله نگرفت. شعر برای فروغ یک آینه بود. او خود را همچون حجمی زاینده افکار جدید می دید که در زندگی و سفر محدود به زمان از تصویر خود آگاه است و از مهمانی شعر برمی گردد. فروغ در شعر نفس کشید و لحظه به لحظه زندگی اش را در شعر منعکس دید.


اگر فروغ زنده بود احتمال زياد داشت كه به اشعار متفاوت كه در شعر معاصر ديده مي‌‏شود رو آورد. با توجه به جست‌‏و‌‏جوگري‌‏هايي كه او از نظر زبان در شعر داشت اين رويكرد امري بسيار محتمل به نظر مي‌‏رسد. فروغ اگر زنده بود حتما در شعر متفاوت معاصر حرف‌‏هاي براي گفتن داشت.


نویسنده:ترانه جوانبخت


نوشته شده در سه شنبه چهاردهم اردیبهشت 1389ساعت 17:33 توسط hamed| |

خانه تکانی شاید یکی از ویژگی های افتخارآمیز فرهنگ ایرانی باشد: ستایش پاکی و نظم در متن زندگی. . .

بارها، و به شکل های گونه گون، از این آیین پارسی گفته ام. در برنامه های رادیویی آخر سال  به هر بهانه ای از معناهای پنهان و آشکار آن حرف ها زده ام. راستش را بخواهید وقتی از رفتارهای معنوی ایرانی سخن می گویم حالم خوش می شود. ( چیزی به اسم معنادرمانی داریم؟ )

اما چون راستش را خواسته اید باید اعتراف کنم روزهای آخر اسفند، روزهای عذاب آوری برای من است، هیچ کاری سخت تر از جا به جا کردن کتاب هایی نیست که در طول سال در گوشه و کنار خانه جا خوش کرده اند. . . برای همین، حس می کنم وقتی از خانه تکانی می گویم لااقل با خودم روراست نیستم.

به هر حال، اسفند هم به فروردین خواهد رسید و جهان پاکیزه خواهد شد. خواهد شد؟

پرتره ی محمود سنجری

نوشته شده در سه شنبه چهاردهم اردیبهشت 1389ساعت 17:25 توسط hamed| |