"I'm suffocating," said Pilate. "Suffocating!"
With a cold, damp hand he tore the clasp off the collar of his cloak, and it fell on the sand.
"It's stifling today, a thunderstorm is brewing," rejoined Kaifa, staring intently at the procurator's reddened face and foreseeing all the torments yet to come. "What a terrible month Nisan has been this year!"
"No," said Pilate, "it's not the sultry weather that's making me suffocate, it's you, Kaifa."
也是一只自由泳的小鸟
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He was trying to understand what was tormenting him. Was it the corridor with the blue lights that had stuck his mind? Was it the thought that there was nothing worse in the world than to lose your mind? Yes, yes, of course, it was that too. But that, after all, was a universal response. There must be something else. But what was it? It was the insult, that was it. Yes, yes, the insulting words that Bezdomny had thrown in his face. And the worst thing was not that they were insulting, but that they were true.
He was coming to realize and to acknowledge that he could not rectify anything in his life, he could only forget.
