1857：看啊，我在此轻叩大门
奥里弗拉姆(Oriflamme)的第五号拍品，1857年五月五日拍卖。从斯特拉斯克尼先生的私人图书馆的废墟中发现的“帕西法尔”笔记本碎片，严重焚毁，已得到部分修复。
“M.,
在此，我记录一下我在高贵之举社团的经历，我在仓促中写下这些文字，因而可能不甚清晰。随你的喜好使用它。
在为牡鹿之门的谜语作准备时（我会在后面解释），入梦者需要多次穿过纯白之门。纯白之门古时又名白骨之门,象牙之门。言语无法穿过纯白之门，入梦者从此踏入居屋时，声音都会被留在其外。
纯白之门是变化无常的。那晚我已经备好了合用的药草，并且有希望在当晚进入其中。要知道，一旦进入漫宿，记忆就会叫人心潮澎湃，直到泪流满面。醒来后回忆起它的台阶、画廊和自窗中透露的灯光，就像一个晴朗的秋日清晨时那半梦半醒间的记忆一样……我发现，我每晚进行入睡的准备时，心情就好似是在等待着一个反复无常的情人，的确，睡眠确实是反复无常的……
但最终我还是又走到了漫宿外围，我们称之为“边境”的地方，我们相信它在林地之中。边境无休止的呼吸与变化着——有人说，他们是居屋的肢体——但我从不赞同那些将居屋视作有机体的观点。它们的确不是石头，但相比于血肉，它们或许更像石头。那晚，边境染上了在我们社团里被称为“危险之色”的颜色。因此，在到达纯白之门之前，我就已经有了一种相当大的忧虑——今晚或许不是一个探索太阳之居屋的恰当时间。但即使纯白之门也不能让人轻易放弃，何况那晚我对穿过牡鹿之门抱有很大的期望……因此我决定继续前进。
我绕过被称为转轮之寺的高大岩石，纯白之门映入眼前。门前聚集着一群亡者。即使隔着这样远的距离，也能清晰辨认出它们。你可能会意识到，那些亡者穿过纯白之门——它们的话语也被从其身上夺走——就像入梦者一样，这就是为什么我们在漫宿中遇到的亡者常常保持沉默。然而我很快发现，它们的动作完全不像亡者。
那里有——
我想说有一条河从门中流出。不过它不是河流，也不是脓液，然而也不是任何让人欢欣的事物。但当我试图更具体的描述它时，我的笔在我手中毫无征兆地折断了。夫人，我很抱歉这些语义不详的省略，但我不想招致那个司辰入梦。扶摇蜘蛛意欲统治，而戴冠之孳只意在感染与嬗变。我不相信边境是居屋的肢体，但我敢断言那晚遇见的亡者已经尽数变成了戴冠之孳的肢体。如果您遇到了它们，请切勿让它们触碰到您——甚至不要看它们的脸——哪怕一眼。我要为了双角斧，漆黑亚麻和其他更古老的司辰而感谢太阳。我想要不是它们，或许我们现在也全部变成了那孳生之物的一部分。
那晚我没能穿过纯白之门，我流着泪跑进了黑夜，蜷缩在林地的根系与叶片之间。我将我与飞蛾的紧密联系归功于这段经历。
PS1:倒数第二段关于纯白之门前场景的描述的翻译引自灰机wiki中扶摇蜘蛛和戴冠之孳界面，稍作修改。
PS2: 突然意识到大概率已经有人做过了这些文本的翻译，不过我在网上暂时还没找到完整的翻译，所以暂且只能自力更生-_-
PS3: Weather Factory似乎对设定进行了一些更改。这个文本在2017年被放出来时，标题是“Around 1890s, in the Third History, the Crowned Growth coulde be perceived through the White Door”,然而在这次的Boh附带的文本合集里，事件发生的时间被提前到了1857年甚至更早。
原文
1857: Behold I Stand At the Door and Knock
Oriflamme’s, Lot 5, Auction 5th May ’57. Fragments of the notebooks of ‘Parsival’, recovered from the wreck of Mr Strathcoyne’s private library. Extensive fire-damage, reconstructed in part.
“M.,
Herein I have set down my recollections of my time with the Society of the Noble Endeavour. I write in haste & may be lacking clarity. Make what you will of it.
In preparation for the Riddle of the Stag Door (which I will describe later) a dreamer passes through the White Door, not once but many times. The White Door was known anciently as the Bone Door or the Ivory Door. Speech may not pass its valves, and dreamers are mute when they enter the House
The White Door is fickle. I had prepared the proper tisanes & I had some hope of entrance that night. You should know that once one has entered the Mansus, the memory of it hooks & tears. One recalls its stairs and galleries and the light of its windows with a sentiment like that of half-waking memories on clear autumn mornings… I found then that I prepared my limbs for sleep with the trembling anticipation of one who awaits a fickle lover, and that sleep, indeed, was fickle…
But at length I walked again in the outer precincts of the Mansus, that place we call the Bounds, which we dare to believe above the Wood. The Bounds breathe & change – they are some say the limbs of the House – but I have never subscribed to the notion that the House is an organism. It is not stone, but it is more like stone than flesh. That night they were hued with what we in the Society called the perilous colour. I had a considerable apprehension, before I ever saw the door, that this was not a night to be abroad in the precincts of the House of the Sun. But one does not surrender easily even the White Door, and I had high hopes that year of passing the Stag Door early… so on I went.
I rounded the high rock that is called the Temple of the Wheel, and the White Door came into view. There was a crowd of the Dead before it. Even at that distance, it was clear that is what they were. You may be aware that some Dead pass the White Door – their speech is taken from them, as the speech of dreamers, and that is why the Dead we meet in the Mansus are so often mute. But their movements, I quickly saw, were not the movements of the Dead.
There was –
I shall say there was a river flowing through the door. It was not a river, and neither was it pus, nor joy, but when I tried to articulate it better, my pen snapped in my hand. I apologise for the apophatic ellipsis, Madame, but I have no wish to tempt that Hour into my dreams. The Rising Spider wishes dominion, but the Growth wishes only to infect and become. I do not believe the Bounds are the limbs of the House, but I must aver that the Dead that night had become the limbs of the Crowned Growth. Should you meet them, do not permit them to touch you. Do not even look upon their faces. I thank the Sun for the Horned Axe, the Black-Flax, the other older Hours. Without them I wonder whether we might not all be the Growth.
I did not pass the White Door that night. I ran crying into the night and I recollected myself only curled among the roots and blades of the Wood. To that episode, I ascribe my affinity with the Moth…”