生命不能承受之轻-第42部分

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reza：　on　the　surface；　an　intelligible　lie；　underneath；　the　unintelligible　truth　showing　through。
But　the　people　who　struggle　against　what　we　call　totalitarian　regimes　cannot　function　with　queries　and　doubts。　They；　too；　need　certainties　and　simple　truths　to　make　the　multitudes　understand；　to　provoke　collective　tears。
Sabina　had　once　had　an　exhibit　that　was　organized　by　a　political　organization　in　Germany。　When　she　picked　up　the　catalogue；　the　first　thing　she　saw　was　a　picture　of　herself　with　a　drawing　of　barbed　wire　superimposed　on　it。　Inside　she　found　a　biography　that　read　like　the　life　of　a　saint　or　martyr：　she　had　suffered；　struggled　against　injustice；　been　forced　to　abandon　her　bleeding　homeland；　yet　was　carrying　on　the　struggle。　Her　paintings　are　a　struggle　for　happiness　was　the　final　sentence。
She　protested；　but　they　did　not　understand　her。
Do　you　mean　that　modern　art　isn't　persecuted　under　Communism？
My　enemy　is　kitsch；　not　Communism！　she　replied；　infuriated。
From　that　time　on；　she　began　to　insert　mystifications　in　her　biography；　and　by　the　time　she　got　to　America　she　even　managed　to　hide　the　fact　that　she　was　Czech。　It　was　all　merely　a　desperate　attempt　to　escape　the　kitsch　that　people　wanted　to　make　of　her　life。

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She　stood　in　front　of　her　easel　with　a　half…finished　canvas　on　it；　the　old　man　in　the　armchair　behind　her　observing　every　stroke　of　her　brush。
It's　time　we　went　home；　he　said　at　last　with　a　glance　at　his　watch。
She　laid　down　her　palette　and　went　into　the　bathroom　to　wash。　The　old　man　raised　himself　out　of　the　armchair　and　reached　for　his　cane；　which　was　leaning　against　a　table。　The　door　of　the　studio　led　directly　out　to　the　lawn。　It　was　growing　dark。　Fifty　feet　away　was　a　white　clapboard　house。　The　ground…floor　windows　were　lit。　Sabina　was　moved　by　the　two　windows　shining　out　into　the　dying　day。
All　her　life　she　had　proclaimed　kitsch　her　enemy。　But　hadn't　she　in　fact　been　carrying　it　with　her？　Her　kitsch　was　her　image　of　home；　all　peace；　quiet；　and　harmony；　and　ruled　by　a　loving　mother　and　wise　father。　It　was　an　image　that　took　shape　within　her　after　the　death　of　her　parents。　The　less　her　life　resembled　that　sweetest　of　dreams；　the　more　sensitive　she　was　to　its　magic；　and　more　than　once　she　shed　tears　when　the　ungrateful　daughter　in　a　sentimental　film　embraced　the　neglected　father　as　the　windows　of　the　happy　family's　house　shone　out　into　the　dying　day。
She　had　met　the　old　man　in　New　York。　He　was　rich　and　liked　paintings。　He　lived　alone　with　his　wife；　also　aging；　in　a　house　in　the　country。　Facing　the　house；　but　still　on　his　land；　stood　an　old　stable。　He　had　had　it　remodeled　into　a　studio　for　Sabina　and　would　follow　the　movements　of　her　brush　for　days　on　end。
Now　all　three　of　them　were　having　supper　together。　The　old　woman　called　Sabina　my　daughter；　but　all　indications　would　lead　one　to　believe　the　opposite；　namely；　that　Sabina　was　the　mother　and　that　her　two　children　doted　on　her；　worshipped　her；　would　do　anything　she　asked。
Had　she　then；　herself　on　the　threshold　of　old　age；　found　the　parents　who　had　been　snatched　from　her　as　a　girl？　Had　she　at　last　found　the　children　she　had　never　had　herself？
She　was　well　aware　it　was　an　illusion。　Her　days　with　the　aging　couple　were　merely　a　brief　interval。　The　old　man　was　seriously　ill；　and　when　his　wife　was　left　on　her　own；　she　would　go　and　live　with　their　son　in　Canada。　Sabina's　path　of　betrayals　would　then　continue　elsewhere；　and　from　the　depths　of　her　being；　a　silly　mawkish　song　about　two　shining　windows　and　the　happy　family　living　behind　them　would　occasionally　make　its　way　into　the　unbearable　lightness　of　being。
Though　touched　by　the　song；　Sabina　did　not　take　her　feeling　seriously。　She　knew　only　too　well　that　the　song　was　a　beautiful　lie。　As　soon　as　kitsch　is　recognized　for　the　lie　it　is；　it　moves　into　the　context　of　non…kitsch；　thus　losing　its　authoritarian　power　and　becoming　as　touching　as　any　other　human　weakness。　For　none　among　us　is　superman　enough　to　escape　kitsch　completely。　No　matter　how　we　scorn　it；　kitsch　is　an　integral　part　of　the　human　condition。
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Kitsch　has　its　source　in　the　categorical　agreement　with　being。
But　what　is　the　basis　of　being？　God？　Mankind？　Struggle？　Love？　Man？　Woman？
Since　opinions　vary；　there　are　various　kitsches：　Catholic；　Protestant；　Jewish；　Communist；　Fascist；　democratic；　feminist；　European；　American；　national；　international。
Since　the　days　of　the　French　Revolution；　one　half　of　Europe　has　been　referred　to　as　the　left；　the　other　half　as　the　right。　Yet　to　define　one　or　the　other　by　means　of　the　theoretical　principles　it　professes　is　all　but　impossible。　And　no　wonder：　political　movements　rest　not　so　much　on　rational　attitudes　as　on　the　fantasies；　images；　words；　and　archetypes　that　come　together　to　make　up　this　or　that　political　kitsch。
The　fantasy　of　the　Grand　March　that　Franz　was　so　intoxicated　by　is　the　political　kitsch　joining　leftists　of　all　times　and　tendencies。　The　Grand　March　is　the　splendid　march　on　the　road　to　brotherhood；　equality；　justice；　happiness；　it　goes　on　and　on；　obstacles　notwithstanding；　for　obstacles　there　must　be　if　the　march　is　to　be　the　Grand　March。
The　dictatorship　of　the　proletariat　or　democracy？　Rejection　of　the　consumer　society　or　demands　for　increased　productivity？　The　guillotine　or　an　end　to　the　death　penalty？　It　is　all　beside　the　point。　What　makes　a　leftist　a　leftist　is　not　this　or　that　theory　but　his　ability　to　integrate　any　theory　into　the　kitsch　called　the　Grand　March。
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Franz　was　obviously　not　a　devotee　of　kitsch。　The　fantasy　of　the　Grand　March　played　more　or　less　the　same　role　in　his　life　as　the　mawkish　song　about　the　two　brightly　lit　windows　in　Sabina's。　What　political　party　did　Franz　vote　for？　I　am　afraid　he　did　not　vote　at　all；　he　preferred　to　spend　Election　Day　hiking　in　the　mountains。　Which　does　not；　of　course；　imply　that　he　was　no　longer　touched　by　the　Grand　March。　It　is　always　nice　to　dream　that　we　are　part　of　a　jubilant　throng　marching　through　the　centuries；　and　Franz　never　quite　forgot　the　dream。
One　day；　some　friends　phoned　him　from　Paris。　They　were　planning　a　march　on　Cambodia　and　invited　him　to　join　them。
Cambodia　had　recently　been　through　American　bombardment；　a　civil　war；　a　paroxysm　of　carnage　by　local　Communists　that　reduced　the　small　nation　by　a　fifth；　and　finally　occupation　by　neighboring　Vietnam；　which　by　then　was　a　mere　vassal　of　Russia。　Cambodia　was　racked　by　famine；　and　people　were　dying　for　want　of　medical　care。　An　international　medical　committee　had　repeatedly　requested　permission　to　enter　the　country；　but　the　Vietnamese　had　turned　them　down。　The　idea　was　for　a　group　of　important　Western　intellectuals　to　march　to　the　Cambodian　border　and　by　means　of　this　great　spectacle　performed　before　the　eyes　of　the　world　to　force　the　occupied　country　to　allow　the　doctors　in。
The　friend　who　spoke　to　Franz　was　one　he　had　marched　with　through　the　streets　of　Paris。　At　first　Franz　was　thrilled　by　the　invitation；　but　then　his　eye　fell　on　his　student…mistress　sitting　across　the　room　in　an　armchair。　She　was　looking　up　at　him；　her　eyes　magnified　by　the　big　round　lenses　in　her　glasses。　Franz　had　the　feeling　those　eyes　were　begging　him　not　to　go。　And　so　he　apologetically　declined。
No　sooner　had　he　hung　up　than　he　regretted　his　decision。　True；　he　had　taken　care　of　his　earthly　mistress；　but　he　had　neglected　his　unearthly　love。　Wasn't　Cambodia　the　same　as　Sabina's　country？　A　country　occupied　by　its　neighbor's　Communist　army！　A　country　that　had　felt　the　brunt　of　Russia's　fist！　All　at　once；　Franz　felt　that　his　half…forgotten　friend　had　contacted　him　at　Sabina's　secret　bidding。
Heavenly　bodies　know　all　and　see　all。　If　he　went　on　the　march；　Sabina　would　gaze　down　on　him　enraptured；　she　would　understand　that　he　had　remained　faithful　to　her。
Would　you　be　terribly　upset　if　I　went　on　the　march？　he　asked　the　girl　with　the　glasses；　who　counted　every　day　away　from　him　a　loss；　yet　could　not　deny　him　a　thing。
Several　days　later　he　was　in　a　large　jet　taking　off　from　Paris　with　twenty　doctors　and　about　fifty　intellectuals　（professors；　writers；　diplomats；　singers；　actors；　and　mayors）　as　well　as　four　hundred　reporters　and　photographers。
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The　plane　landed　in　Bangkok。　Four　hundred　and　seventy　doctors；　intellectuals；　and　reporters　made　their　way　to　the　large　ballroom　of　an　international　hotel；　where　more　doctors；　actors；　singers；　and　professors　of　linguistics　had　gathered　with　several　hundred　journalists　bearing　notebooks；　tape　recorders；　and　cameras；　still　and　video。　On　the　podium；　a　group　of　twenty　or　so　Americans　sitting　at　a　long　table　were　presiding　over　the　proceedings。
The　French　intellectuals　with　whom　Franz　had　entered　the　ballroom　felt　slighted　and　humiliated。　The　march　on　Cambodia　had　been　their　idea；　and　here　the　Americans；　supremely　unabashed　as　usual；　had　not　only　taken　over；　but　had　taken　over　in　English　without　a　thought　that　a　Dane　or　a　Frenchman　might　not　understand　them。　And　because　the　Danes　had　long　since　forgotten　that　they　once　formed　a　nation　of　their　own；　the　French　were　the　only　Europeans　capable　of　protest。　So　high　were　their　principles　that　they　refused　to　protest　in　English；　and　made　their　case　to　the　Americans　on　the　podium　in　their　mother　tongue。　The　Americans；　not　und