有谁看过john updike的the d**posable rocket？ 能告诉一下它的大意吗？

找到了全文，如下the d**posable rocketjohn updikeinhabiting a male body ** like h**ing a bank account; as long as its healthy, you don’t think much about it. compared to the female body, it ** a low-maintenance proposition: a shower now and then, trim the fingernails every ten days, a haircut once a month. oh yes, sh**ing—scraping or buzzing away at your face every morning. byron, in don juan, thought the repeated nu**ance of sh**ing balanced out the periodic agony, for females, of childbirth. women are, h** lines tell us, condemn’d to child-bed, as men for their sins h**e sh**ing too entail’d upon their chins,— a daily plague, which the aggregate may **erage on the whole with parturition.from the standpoint of reproduction, the male body ** a delivery system, as the female ** a mazy device for retention. once the delivery ** made, men feel a faith but d**tinct falling-off of interest. yet against the enduring realm heroics of birth and nurture should be set the male’s superhuman frenzy to deliver h** goods: he vaults walls, skips sleep, r**ks wallet, health, and h** political future all to ram home h** seed into the gut of the chosen woman. the sense of the chase lives in him as the key to life. h** body **, like a delivery rocket that falls away in space, a d**posable means. men put their bodies at r**k to experience the release from gr**ity.when my tenancy of a male body was fairly new—of six or so years’ duration—i used to jump and fall just for the joy of it. falling—backwards, or downstairs—became a specialty of mine, an attention-getting stunt i was still practicing into my thirties, at sub** parties. falling **, after all, a kind of flying, though of briefer duration than would be ideal. my impulse to hurl myself from high windows and the edges of cliffs belongs to my body, not my mind, which res**ts the siren call of the chasm with all its might; the interior struggle knocks the wind from my lungs and tightens my scrotum and gives any trip to europe, with its alps, castle parapets, and gargoyled cathedral lookouts, a fl**or of night[page 279]mare. falling, strangely, no longer figures in my dreams, as it often did when i was a boy and my subconscious was more honest with me. an airplane, that necessary evil, turns the earth into a map so quickly the brain turns aloof and calm; still, i marvel that there ** no end of young men willing to become jet pilots. any accounting of male-female differences must include the male’s superior recklessness, a drive not, i think, toward death, as the darkest femin**t cosmogonies would h**e it, but to test the limits, to see what the traffic will bear—a kind of mechanic’s curiosity. the number of men who do lasting damage to their young bodies ** striking; war and car accidents aside, secondary-school sports, with the approval of parents and the encouragement of brut**h coaches, take a fearful toll of skulls and knees. we were made for combat, back in the postsimian, east-african days, and the bumping, the whacking, the breathlessness, the painsmothering ** rush form a cumbersome and unfashionable bl**s, but bl**s nevertheless.take your body to the edge, and see if it flies. the male sense of space must differ from that of the female, who has such interesting, active, and significant inner space. the space that interests men ** outer. the fly ball high against the sky, the long pass spiraling overhead, the jet fighter like a scarcely v**ible pinpoint nozzle laying down its vapor trail at forty thousand feet, the gazelle haunch flickering just beyond arrow-reach, the uncountable stars sprinkled on their great black wheel, the horizon, the mountaintop, the quasar—these bring portents with them and awaken a sense of relation with the inv**ible, with the empty. the ideal male body ** taut with lines of potential force, a diagram extending outward; the ideal female body curves around centers of repose. of course, no one ** ideal, and the sexes are somewhat androgynous subdiv**ions of a species: diana the huntress ** a more trendy body time nowadays than languid, overweight venus, and polymorphous dionysus poses for more underwear ads than mars. relatively, though, men’s bodies, however elegant, are designed for covering territory, for moving on.an erection, too, defies gr**ity, flirts with it precariously. it extends the diagram of outward direction into downright detachability—objective in the case of the sperm, subjective in the case of the testicles and pen**. men’s bodies, at th** junction, feel only partly theirs; a demon of sorts has been attached to their lower torsos, whose performance ** erratic and whose errands seem, at times, ridiculous. it ** like h**ing a (much) smaller brother toward whom you feel both fond and impatient; if he ** you, it ** you in curiously simplified and ignoble form. th** sense, of the male body being two of them, ** acknowledged in verbal love play and erotic writing, where the pen** ** playfully given a pet name, and individuation not even the rarest rapture grants a vagina. here, where maleness gathers to a quintessence of itself, there can be no insincerity, there can be no hiding; for sheer nakedness, there ** nothing like a hopeful phallus; its aggressive shape, ** indiv**ible from its tender-skinned vulnerability. the act of intercourse, from the point of view of a consenting female, has an element of mothering, of enwrap[280]ment, of merciful concealment, even. the male body, for th** interval, ** tucked out of harm’s way.to inhabit a male body, then ** to feel somewhat detached from it. it ** not an enemy, but not entirely a friend. our being seems to lie not in cells and muscles but in the traces that our thoughts and actions inscribe on the air. the male body skims the surface of nature’s deeps wherein the blood and pain and mysterious cr**ings of women perpetuate the species. participating less in nature’s processes than the female body, the male body gives the impression—false—of being exempt from time. its power of strength and reach descend in early adolescence, along with acne and sweaty feet, and depart, in imperceptible increments, after thirty or so. it surpr**es me to d**cover, when i remove my shoes and socks, the same **white, hairless angles that struck me as pathetic when i observed them on my father. i felt betrayed when, in some tumble of touch football twenty years ago, i heard my tibia snap; and when, between two reading engagements in cleveland, my appendix tried to burse; and when, the other day, not for the first time, there arose to my nostrils out my [sic] own body the musty attic smell my grandfather’s body had.a man’s body does not betray its tenant as rapidly as a woman’s. never as fine and lovely, it has less d**tance to fall; what rugged beauty it has ** wrinkleproof. it keeps its capability of procreation indecently long. unless intense athletic demands are made upon it, the thing serves well enough to sixty, which ** my age now. from here on, it’s chancy. there are no breasts or ovaries to admit cancer to the male body, but the prostate, that awkwardly located little source of seminal fluid, shows the strain of sexual function with fits of hysterical cell replication, and all that male-bonding beer and potato chips add up on the coronary arteries. a writer whose physical equipment can be minimal as long as it gets him to the desk, the lectern, and new york city once in a while, cannot but be grateful to h** body, especially to h** eyes, those tender and intricate sites where the brain extrudes from the skill, and to h** hands, which hold the pen or tap the keyboard. h** body has been, not himself exactly, but a close pal, potbellied and balding like most of h** other pals now. a man and h** body are like a boy and the buddy who has a driver’s license and the use of h** father’s car for the evening; once goes along, gratefully, for the ride. 20210311