iancaldwell&dustinthomason.theruleoffour-第12部分

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　To　his　imaginable　surprise；　the　young　man　smiled。
　〃Leviathan；〃　said　Curry；　who'd　written　a　junior　paper　on　Hobbes　while　at　Princeton。　〃And　you've　forgotten　solitary。　'The　life　of　man　is　solitary；　poor；　nasty；　brutish；　and　short。'　〃
　〃No；〃　replied　Taft　with　a　burbling　grin；　just　before　collapsing　onto　a　streetlight；　〃I　did　not　forget　it。　I　simply　reserve　solitary　for　myself。　Poor；　nasty；　brutish；　and　short；　however；　are　all　yours。〃
　And　with　that；　Paul　said；　Curry　hailed　a　cab；　ushered　Taft　into　it；　and　returned　to　his　own　apartment　where；　for　the　next　twelve　hours；　Taft　remained　in　a　deep　and　crapulent　stupor。
　The　story　goes　that　when　he　awoke；　confused　and　embarrassed；　the　two　men　struck　up　a　clumsy　conversation。　Curry　explained　his　line　of　work；　as　did　Taft；　and　it　seemed　the　awkwardness　of　the　situation　might　undo　the　meeting；　when；　in　a　moment　of　inspiration；　Curry　mentioned　the　Hypnerotomachia；　a　book　he'd　studied　under　a　popular　Princeton　professor　named　McBee。
　I　can　only　imagine　Taft's　response。　Not　only　had　he　heard　of　the　mystery　surrounding　the　book；　but　he　must've　noticed　the　spark　it　created　in　Curry's　eyes。　According　to　my　father；　the　two　men　began　to　discuss　the　circumstances　of　their　lives；　quickly　realizing　what　they　had　in　mon。　Taft　despised　other　academics；　finding　their　work　shortsighted　and　trivial；　while　Curry　saw　his　workaday　colleagues　as　papery　characters；　dull　and　one…dimensional。　Both　detected　an　absence　of　full…bloodedness　in　others；　an　absence　of　purpose。　And　maybe　that　explained　the　lengths　to　which　they　went　to　overe　their　differences。
　For　there　were　differences；　and　not　small　ones。　Taft　was　a　mercurial　creature；　hard　to　know　and　harder　to　love。　He　drank　heavily　in　pany；　and　just　as　much　when　he　was　alone。　His　intelligence　was　relentless　and　wild；　a　fire　even　he　couldn't　control。　It　swallowed　entire　books　at　a　sitting；　finding　flaws　in　arguments；　gaps　in　evidence；　errors　in　interpretation；　in　subjects　far　from　his　own。　Paul　said　that　it　wasn't　a　destructive　personality　Taft　had；　but　a　destructive　mind。　The　fire　grew　the　more　he　fed　it；　leaving　nothing　behind。　When　it　had　burned　everything　in　its　path；　there　was　only　one　thing　left　for　it　to　do。　In　time；　it　would　turn　on　itself。
　Curry；　by　contrast；　was　a　creator；　not　a　destroyer…a　man　of　possibilities　rather　than　facts。　Borrowing　from　Michelangelo；　he　would　say　that　life　was　like　sculpture：　a　matter　of　seeing　what　others　couldn't；　then　chiseling　away　the　rest。　To　him　the　old　book　was　just　a　block　of　stone　waiting　to　be　carved。　If　no　one　in　five　hundred　years　had　understood　it；　then　the　time　had　e　for　new　eyes　and　fresh　hands；　and　the　bones　of　the　past　be　damned。
　For　all　these　differences；　then；　it　wasn't　long　before　Taft　and　Curry　found　their　mon　ground。　Besides　the　ancient　book；　what　they　shared　was　a　deep　investment　in　abstractions。　They　believed　in　the　notion　of　greatness…greatness　of　spirit；　destiny；　grand　design。　Like　twin　mirrors　placed　face…to…face；　their　reflections　doubling　back；　they　had　seen　themselves　in　earnest　for　the　first　time；　and　a　thousand　strong。　It　was　the　strange　but　predictable　consequence　of　their　friendship　that　it　left　them　more　solitary　than　when　they　began。　The　rich　human　backdrop　of　Taft's　and　Curry's　worlds…their　colleagues　and　college　friends；　their　sisters　and　mothers　and　former　flames…darkened　into　an　empty　stage　with　a　single　spotlight。　To　be　sure；　their　careers　flourished。　It　wasn't　long　before　Taft　was　a　historian　of　great　renown；　and　Curry　the　proprietor　of　a　gallery　that　would　make　his　name。
　But　then；　madness　in　great　ones　must　not　unwatched　go。　The　two　men　led　a　slavish　existence。　Their　only　source　of　relief　came　in　the　form　of　weekly　meetings　on　Saturday　nights；　when　they　would　regroup　at　one　or　the　other's　apartment；　or　at　an　empty　diner；　and　transform　the　one　interest　they　had　in　mon　into　a　shared　diversion：　the　Hypnerotomachia。
　Winter　had　fallen　that　year　when　Richard　Curry　finally　introduced　Taft　to　the　one　friend　of　his　who'd　never　fallen　out　of　touch…the　one　Curry　had　met　long　ago　in　Professor　McBee's　class　at　Princeton；　who　harbored　his　own　interest　in　the　Hypnerotomachia。
　Imagining　my　father　in　those　days　is　difficult　for　me。　The　man　I　see　is　already　married；　marking　the　heights　of　his　three　children　on　the　office　wall；　wondering　when　his　only　son　will　start　to　grow；　fussing　over　old　books　in　dead　languages　as　the　world　pitches　and　turns　around　him。　But　that's　the　man　we　made　him　into；　my　mother　and　sisters　and　I；　not　the　one　Richard　Curry　knew。　My　father；　Patrick　Sullivan；　had　been　Curry's　best　friend　at　Princeton。　The　two　considered　themselves　the　kings　of　campus；　and　I　imagine　they　shared　the　kind　of　friendship　that　made　it　seem　that　way。　My　father　played　a　season　of　junior　varsity　basketball；　every　minute　of　it　on　the　bench；　until　Curry；　as　captain　of　the　lightweight　football　team；　recruited　him　onto　the　gridiron；　where　my　father　acquitted　himself　better　than　anyone　expected。　The　two　roomed　together　the　following　year；　sharing　almost　every　meal；　as　juniors；　they　even　double…dated　twin　sisters　from　Vassar　named　Molly　and　Martha　Roberts。　The　relationship；　which　my　father　once　pared　to　a　hallucination　in　a　hall　of　mirrors；　ended　the　following　spring　when　the　sisters　wore　identical　dresses　to　a　dance；　and　the　two　men；　having　drunk　too　much　and　having　paid　attention　too　little；　made　separate　passes　at　the　twin　the　other　was　dating。
　I　have　to　believe　that　my　father　and　Vincent　Taft　appealed　to　different　sides　of　Richard　Curry's　personality。　The　laid…back；　catholic…minded　midwestern　boy　and　the　fearsome；　focused　New　Yorker　were　different　animals；　and　they　must've　sensed　it　from　the　first　handshake；　when　my　father's　palm　was　swallowed　in　Taft's　meaty　butcher's　grip。
　Of　the　three　of　them；　it　was　Taft　who　had　the　darkest　mind。　The　parts　of　the　Hypnerotomachia　that　fascinated　him　were　the　bloodiest　and　most　arcane。　He　devised　systems　of　interpretation　to　understand　the　meaning　of　sacrifices　in　the　story…the　way　animals'　necks　were　cut；　the　way　characters　died…to　impose　meaning　onto　the　violence。　He　labored　over　the　dimensions　of　buildings　mentioned　in　the　story；　manipulating　them　to　find　numerological　patterns；　cross…checking　them　with　astrological　tables　and　calendars　from　Colonna's　time；　hoping　to　find　matches。　From　where　he　stood；　the　best　approach　was　to　confront　the　book　head…on；　match　wits　with　its　author；　and　defeat　him。　According　to　my　father；　Taft　had　always　believed　that　he　would　one　day　outsmart　Francesco　Colonna。　That　day；　as　far　as　we　knew；　had　never　e。
　My　father's　approach　could　not　have　been　more　different。　What　fascinated　him　most　about　the　Hypnerotomachia　was　its　candid　sexual　dimension。　In　the　more　prudish　centuries　after　its　publication；　pictures　from　the　book　were　censored；　blacked　out；　or　torn　up　entirely；　the　same　way　many　Renaissance　nudes　were　repainted　with　fig　leaves　when　tastes　changed　and　sensibilities　were　offended。　In　the　case　of　Michelangelo；　it　seems　fair　to　cry　foul。　But　even　today；　some　of　the　prints　from　the　Hypnerotomachia　seem　a　little　shocking。
　Parades　of　naked　men　and　women　are　only　the　beginning。　Poliphilo　follows　a　gaggle　of　nymphs　to　a　springtime　party…and　there；　hovering　in　the　middle　of　the　festivities；　is　the　enormous　penis　of　the　god　Priapus；　the　focal　point　of　the　entire　picture。　Earlier；　the　mythological　queen　Leda　is　caught　in　the　heat　of　passion　with　Zeus；　who　is　shown　lodged　between　her　thighs　in　the　shape　of　a　swan。　The　text　is　even　more　explicit；　describing　encounters　too　bizarre　for　the　woodcuts。　When　Poliphilo　is　overe　with　physical　attraction　to　the　architecture　he　sees；　he　admits　to　having　sex　with　buildings。　At　least　once；　he　claims　the　pleasure　was　mutual。
　All　of　it　fascinated　my　father；　whose　view　of　the　book　understandably　shared　little　with　Taft's。　Instead　of　considering　it　a　rigid；　mathematical　treatise；　my　father　viewed　the　Hypnerotomachia　as　a　tribute　to　the　love　of　a　man　for　a　woman。　It　was　the　only　work　of　art　he　knew　that　mimicked　the　beautiful　chaos　of　that　emotion。　The　dreaminess　of　the　story；　the　unrelenting　confusion　of　its　characters；　and　the　desperate　wandering　of　a　man　in　search　of　love　all　resonated　with　him。
　As　a　result；　my　father…and；　at　the　beginning　of　his　research；　Paul…felt　that　Taft's　approach　was　misguided。　The　day　you　figure　out　love；　my　father　told　me　once；　you'll　understand　what　Colonna　meant。　If　there　was　truly　anything　to　be　known　about　it；　my　father　believed　it　must　be　found　outside　the　book：　in　diaries；　letters；　family　documents。　He　never　told　me　as　much；　but　I　think　he　always　suspected　that　there　was　a　great　secret　locked　inside　the　pages。　Against　Taft's　formulations；　though；　my　father　felt　it　was　a　secret　about　love：　an　affair　between　Colonna　and　a　woman　below　his　station；　a　political　powder　keg；　an　illegitimate　heir；　a　romance　of　the　kind　teenagers　imagine　before　the　ugly　bride　of　adulthood　es　and　snuffs　out　childish　things。
　
　
　However　much　his　approach　differed　from　Taft's；　though；　when　my　father　arrived　in　Manhattan　for　a　research　year　away　from　the　University　of　Chicago；　he　sensed　that　the　two　men　were　making　great　strides。　Curry　insisted　that　his　old　friend　join　the