散文英译| 朱自清《匆匆》及五个英译本（增添葛浩文译本）

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《匆匆》是中国现代杰出散文家朱自清的一篇优美脍炙人口的散文。文章主题关于时光流逝，内容紧扣题目“匆匆”二字，表达了作者对时光飞逝，人生短暂的无奈和惋惜。文章字句纯朴简练，清新隽永。该篇写于1922年3月，正值“五四”运动落潮期。当时的知识分子勇于图新救国，追求理想，虽迫于当时政治环境压迫，在经历彷徨，苦闷，静思之后，不甘沉沦，知难而上，不断进取。朱自清便是如此。此《匆匆》中，作者依托春景言情，消极彷徨中却对未来还是带有积极的美好憧憬。本次选五个英文译本，译者分别为许景城、张培基、朱纯深、张梦井、葛浩文。对于前四个译本的分析，厦门大学外文系口译专业的郭顺同学（已毕业）的《自建语料库初探——以《匆匆》四种译本的翻译批评为例》从语料库相关理论的视角分析探讨过。欲知详情，查看其文，此处不赘述。河北卫视新闻主播王益豪朗诵中文原文，双语主播李强朗诵许景城英译文，录音师张晖对音频进行编辑配乐。特此感谢。

为你读诗

（中文朗诵：王益豪 英文朗诵：李强    音频编辑：张晖）

中英对照

匆匆

The Flight of Time

朱自清

By Zhu Ziqing

许景城 译

    燕子去了，有再来的时候；杨柳枯了，有再青的时候；桃花谢了，有再开的时候。但是，聪明的，你告诉我，我们的日子为什么一去不复返呢？——是有人偷了他们罢：那是谁？又藏在何处呢？是他们自己逃走了罢：现在又到了哪里呢？

    Gone are swallows, but they may come back again; withered are willows, but they may turn green again; fading away are peach blossoms, but they may flower again. Now, you my sage would you please tell me, why should our days roll by, never to return? Are they stolen by someone?  If so, who could it be, and where could they be hidden? If they run away by themselves, where are they now?

    我不知道他们给了我多少日子；但我的手确乎是渐渐空虚了。在默默里算着，八千多日子已经从我手中溜去；像针尖上一滴水滴在大海里，我的日子滴在时间的流里，没有声音，也没有影子。我不禁头涔涔而泪潸潸了。

    I have no idea how many days I am granted, but I could feel that their weight in my hands becomes less and less. In contemplation, I count, there are more than eight thousand days having slipped away through my fingers. Like a drop of water falling off the point of a needle down to the sea, my days are dripping into the stream of time, soundless and traceless. Aware of this, I feel sweats exuding from my forehead, and tears brimming in my eyes.

    去的尽管去了，来的尽管来着；去来的中间，又怎样地匆匆呢？早上我起来的时候，小屋里射进两三方斜斜的太阳。太阳他有脚啊，轻轻悄悄地挪移了；我也茫茫然跟着旋转。于是——洗手的时候，日子从水盆里过去；吃饭的时候，日子从饭碗里过去；默默时，便从凝然的双眼前过去。我觉察他去的匆匆了，伸出手遮挽时，他又从遮挽着的手边过去。天黑时，我躺在床上，他便伶伶俐俐地从我身上跨过，从我脚边飞去了。等我睁开眼和太阳再见，这算又溜走了一日。我掩着面叹息。但是新来的日子的影儿又开始在叹息里闪过了。

    What should be gone will be gone for ever, and what should come will keep coming for good. Between going and coming, there is a flight of time! When I get up in the morning, the sunshine the slanting sun sheds beams into my room, edging away gently and quietly,as if he is footed. Without awareness, I feel myself already echoing his revolution.Thus, when I wash my hands, the sink washes away the day. When I have a meal, the bowl vanishes the day. When I am in contemplation, my gazing eyes feel the day passing by. When I feel it in a rush, I try to hold it to only find it slipping away from my outstretched hands. When night falls and I lie on my bed, it swiftly strides over my body and flits past my feet. When I wake and see the sun again, another day rolls by already. Burying my face in my hands, I heave a sigh, and the new day begins thrilling through it.

    在逃去如飞的日子里，在千门万户的世界里的我能做些什么呢？只有徘徊罢了，只有匆匆罢了；在八千多日的匆匆里，除徘徊外，又剩些什么呢？过去的日子如轻烟，被微风吹散了，如薄雾，被初阳蒸融了；我留着些什么痕迹呢？我何曾留着像游丝样的痕迹呢？我赤裸裸来到这世界，转眼间也将赤裸裸地回去罢？但不能平的，为什么偏要白白走这一遭啊？

    Amid the fleeting days, what could I do in the world of hustle and bustle, but roaming and sighing the flight of time? What have I done in the flight of eight thousand days, except roaming and roving? The bygone days like wisps of smoke, have been blown away by breezes and like clusters of thin mist, have been evaporated by the rising sun. What trace have I left behind me? Alas! Nothing! Nay, not even a gossamer-like trail! I have come to this world stark naked, and in a wink, shall I go back as stark naked as the beginning? However, I can’t get over it: why must I get through this journey of life for nothing?

    你聪明的，告诉我，我们的日子为什么一去不复返呢？

    You my sage, please tell me, why should our days roll by, never to return?

翻译时间：2011-3-21

于北京林业大学外语学院

修改时间：2016-2-1

于英国班戈大学英语文学院

其他英译本

译本1：

Transient Days 

By Zhu Ziqiing 

张培基 译

    If swallows go away, they will come back again. If willows wither, they will turn green again. If peach blossoms fade, they will flower again. But, tell me, you the wise, why should our days go by never to return? Perhaps they have been stolen by someone. But who could it be and where could he hide them? Perhaps they have just run away by themselves. But where could they be at the present moment? 

    I don’t know how many days I am entitled to altogether, but my quota of then is undoubtedly wearing away. Counting up silently, I find that more than 8000 days have already slipped away through my fingers. Like a drop of water falling off a needle point into the ocean, my days are quietly dripping into the stream of time without leaving a trace. At the thought of this, sweat oozes from my forehead and tears trickle down my cheeks. 

    What is gone is gone, what is to come keeps coming. How swift is the transition in between! When I get up in the morning, the slanting sun casts two or three squarish patches of light into my small room. The sun has feet too, edging away softly and stealthily. And, without knowing it, I am already caught in its revolution. Thus the day flows away through the sink when I wash my hands; vanishes in the rice bowl when I have my meal; passes away quietly before the fixed gaze of my eyes when I am lost in reverie. Aware of its fleeting presence, I reach out for it only to find it brushing past my outstretched hands. In the evening, when I lie on my bed, it nimbly strides over my body and flits past my feet. By the time when I open my eyes to meet the sun again, another day is already gone. I heave a sigh, my head buried in my hands. But, in the midst of my sighs, a new day is flashing past. 

    Living in this world with its fleeting days and teeming millions, what can I do but waver and wander and live a transient life? What have I been doing during the 8000 fleeting days except wavering and wandering? The bygone days, like wisps of smoke, have been dispersed by gentle winds, and, like thin mists, have been evaporated by the rising sun. What traces have I left behind? No, nothing, not even gossamer-like traces. I have come to this world stark naked, and in the twinkling of an eye, I am to go back as stark naked as ever. However, I am taking it very much to heart: why should I be made to pass through this world for nothing at all? 

    O you the wise, would you tell me please: why should our days go by never to return?

From Zhang, P., 1995, Selected Modern Chinese Essays, Shanghai Foreign Language Education Press.

译本2：

Rush

朱纯深 译

    Swallows may have gone, but there is a time of return; willow trees may have died back, but there is a time of regreening; peach blossoms may have fallen, but they will bloom again. Now, you the wise, tell me, why should our days leave us, never to return? - If they had been stolen by someone, who could it be? Where could he hide them? If they had made the escape themselves, then where could they stay at the moment?

    I don't know how many days I have been given to spend, but I do feel my hands are getting empty. Taking stock silently, I find that more than eight thousand days have already slid away from me. Like a drop of water from the point of a needle disappearing into the ocean, my days are dripping into the stream of time, soundless, traceless. Already sweat is starting on my forehead, and tears welling up in my eyes.

    Those that have gone have gone for good, those to come keep coming; yet in between, how swift is the shift, in such a rush? When I get up in the morning, the slanting sun marks its presence in my small room in two or three oblongs. The sun has feet, look, he is treading on, lightly and furtively; and I am caught, blankly, in his revolution. Thus--the day flows away through the sink when I wash my hands, wears off in the bowl when I eat my meal, and passes away before my day-dreaming gaze as reflect in silence. I can feel his haste now, so I reach out my hands to hold him back, but he keeps flowing past my withholding hands. In the evening, as I lie in bed, he strides over my body, glides past my feet, in his agile way. The moment I open my eyes and meet the sun again, one whole day has gone. I bury my face in my hands and heave a sigh. But the new day begins to flash past in the sigh.

    What can I do, in this bustling world, with my days flying in their escape? Nothing but to hesitate, to rush. What have I been doing in that eight-thousand-day rush, apart from hesitating? Those bygone days have been dispersed as smoke by a light wind, or evaporated as mist by the morning sun. What traces have I left behind me? Have I ever left behind any gossamer traces at all? I have come to the world, stark naked; am I to go back, in a blink, in the same stark nakedness? It is not fair though: why should I have made such a trip for nothing!

    You the wise, tell me, why should our days leave us, never to return? 

From Zhu, C., 1994, ‘Rush’, Chinese Translators, (3), 63-64.

译本3：

Days Gone By 

张梦井 译

    When the swallows have gone, there is still time to return; when the poplar and willow trees have become withered, there is still time to see green; when the peach flowers have already faded, there is still time to blossom. But please tell me, the genius, why then have my days gone and never returned? If some people have stolen them, then who are they? And where are they hidden?If they have escaped by themselves, then where are they now?

    I don't know how many days I have been given, but the days in my hands are becoming numbered. Counting silently, eight thousand days have slipped by. Just like water drops a pinpoint dripping slowly into the vast ocean, my days beendripping into the river of time, quietly and invisibly. I can’t help dripping with sweat and weeping many tears.

    Although the goings have gone and the comings are constantly coming, how hurried is the time between? When I get up in the morning, I see two or three ribbons of light streaming into my room. The sun also has feet; it moves away on tiptoe and I follow it aimlessly. When I wash my hands, my days wash off into my basin; when I am eating, the days vanish from my bowl; and when I am sitting silently, my days pass by my gazing eyes. When I feel them go away so hurriedly, I reach out my hands only to hold them back before they are beyond my grasp. When it is dark, I lie upon my bed and watch days cleverly jump over my body or fly away from my feet. When I open my eyes to meet the sun again, another day has gone by. I cover my face and sigh, but the spark of a new day begins to flash away in my breath.

    In these swiftly escaping days, what can I do in this world amongst thousands of households? I can do nothing but hesitate and hurry. In these over eight thousand hurried days, what has been left to me besides hesitation? The past days like light smoke are blown away with the breeze or like a thin layer of mist evaporate with the morning sun. And what mark haveI left in the world? When have I ever left a mark as tiny as a hairspring? I came to this world naked, soon I’ll leave here naked too. But, it's unfair to me. . . why did I come to this world for nothing?

    You, the genius, please tell me why our days have gone by and have never returned?

From Zhang, M., Du, Y., 1999, Translation of Famous Chinese Essays, Qingdao Press. 

译本4：

匆匆
Haste
朱自清
By Zhu Ziqing
Howard Goldblatt 译

The swallows may go, but they will return another day; the willows may whither, but they will turn green again; the peach blossoms may fade and fall, but they will bloom again. You who are wiser than I, tell me, then: why is it that the days, once gone, never again return? Are they stolen by someone? Then, by whom? And where are they hidden? Or do they run away by themselves? Then, where are they now?

I do not know how many days I’ve been given, yet slowly but surely my supply is diminishing. Counting silently to myself, I can see that more than 8,000 of them have already slipped through my fingers, each like a drop of water on the head of a pin, falling into the ocean. My days are disappearing into the stream of time, noiselessly and without a trace; uncontrollably, my sweat and tears stream down.

What’s gone is gone, and what is coming cannot be halted. From what is gone to what is yet to come, why must it pass so quickly? In the morning when I get up, there are two or three rays of sunlight slanting into my small room. The sun, does it have feet? Stealthily it moves along, as I too, unknowingly, follow its progress. Then as I wash up, the day passes through my washbasin, and at breakfast through my rice bowl. When I am standing still and quiet, my eyes carefully follow its progress past me. I can sense that it is hurrying alone, and when I stretch out my hands to cover and hold it, it soon emerges from under my hands and moves along. At night, as I lie on my bed, agilely it strides across my body and flies past my feet. And when I open my eyes to greet the sun again, another day has slipped by. I bury my face in my hands and heave a sigh. But the shadow of the new day begins darting by, even in the midst of my sighing.

During these fleeting days what can I, only one among so many, accomplish? Nothing more than to pace irresolutely, nothing more than to hurry along. In these more than 8,000 days of hurrying, what have I to show but some irresolute wanderings? The days that are gone are like smoke that has been dissipated by a breeze, like thin mists that have been burned off under the onslaught of the morning sun. What mark will I leave behind? Will the trace I leave behind be so much as a gossamer thread? Naked I came into this world, and in a twinkling still naked I will leave it. But what I cannot accept this: why should I make this journey in vain?

You who are wiser than I, please tell me why it is that once gone, our days never return.

选自： 《英文巴士》微信公众号2016-04-21。

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