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范静哗译2020诺奖得主露易丝·格利克 | 中英对照
你，我们还在学着崇拜。
我们所知的只是，人的本性并非
只爱那以爱回报者。
露易丝·格利克诗选
范静哗 译
已获译者授权推送
祝婚歌
还有其他人；他们的身体
是一场准备。
我来了，看它就是那样的。
是一连串的哭声。
世界上如此大的痛苦——身体的
悲伤无形体，它的语言
是饥饿——
大厅里，盒装的玫瑰：
它们的意思是
混乱。然后开始的是
婚姻可怕的慈善，
丈夫与妻子，
在金色光芒中攀爬绿色山丘，
直到不再有山丘，
只有一片扁扁的平原被天空拦住。
他说：这是我的手。
但那是很久以前的事了。
这是我的手，它不会伤害你。
Epithalamium
There were others; their bodies
I have come to see it as that.
As a stream of cries.
So much pain in the world—the formless
grief of the body, whose language
is hunger—
And in the hall, the boxed roses:
what they mean
is chaos. Then begins
the terrible charity of marriage,
husband and wife
climbing the green hill in gold light
until there is no hill,
only a flat plain stopped by the sky.
Here is my hand, he said.
But that was long ago.
Here is my hand that will not harm you.
©Mikalojus Konstantinas Ciurlionis丨Sorrow (I) (1907)
榆树
整个白天，我都企图把需求
和欲望分开。此刻，在黑暗中，
我感到我们只有苦涩的悲伤，
建筑的人、刨木材的人，
因为我一直目不转睛
看着这些榆树，
看出创造树的过程是折磨，
树，扭动而不移动，
我也已明白
除了扭曲的形体，它造不出别的。
Elms
All day I tried to distinguish
I feel only bitter sadness for us,
the builders, the planers of wood,
because I have been looking
steadily at these elms
and seen the process that creates
the writhing, stationary tree
is torment, and have understood
it will make no forms but twisted forms.
瓷碗
它排除了用途：
一个模拟的女人体，
这样的光线下，
我看不出时间对她做了什么。
几片叶子落下。一阵风将长草吹出一道缝，
一条不通任何地方的小径。那只手
不由自主地抬起；从她脸前划过，
迷茫得那么彻底——
草左右摇摆，
似乎那样动就是
休息的一种表现。
绿色上的
珠白。草地里的
瓷手。
Porcelain Bowl
It rules out use:
body of a woman is arranged,
and in this light
I cannot see what time has done to her.
A few leaves fall. A wind parts the long grass,
making a path going nowhere. And the hand
involuntarily lifts; it moves across her face
so utterly lost—
The grass sways,
as though that motion were
an aspect of repose.
Pearl white
on green. Ceramic
hand in the grass.
©Mikalojus Konstantinas Ciurlionis丨Vision (1905)
晨祷
阳光普照；邮筒旁，桦树干叉开，
树下，有冰翼、歌后等白水仙中空的花茎，
野生紫罗兰的深色叶子。诺亚说，
抑郁者厌恨春天，内心与外部世界
没搭成平衡。我成为另一类
个案——虽说是抑郁，但还可说是
深情依恋着那棵活着的树，身体真的是
蜷在裂开的树干中，几乎安宁，在黄昏的雨中
几乎能感到树汁
起泡、升涌：诺亚说，这是
抑郁者的误判，体认为一棵树，
而欢快的心却游荡
在园中，像一片飘零的叶子，一个
只是部分而非整体的形象。
Matins
The sun shines; by the mailbox, leaves
Underneath, hollow stems of the white daffodils, Ice Wings, Cantatrice; dark
leaves of the wild violet. Noah says
depressives hate the spring, imbalance
between the inner and the outer world. I make
another case--being depressed, yes, but in a sense passionately
attached to the living tree, my body
actually curled in the split trunk, almost at peace, in the evening rain
almost able to feel
sap frothing and rising: Noah says this is
an error of depressives, identifying
with a tree, whereas the happy heart
wanders the garden like a falling leaf, a figure for
the part, not the whole.
晨祷
一个复制版，某种意义上
一个异于天堂的地方，设计出来
用于教训一顿；除此之外
都一样——两边都是美，美得
没有另一种可能——只是
我们不知道那教训是什么。我们
被单独丢下，彼此损耗。黑暗岁月
随之而来；我们轮流
在那园中劳作，当泥土因花瓣
而迷蒙，我们的眼睛满溢着
初始的泪水，有的花
深红，有的呈肉色——
我们从未想到过你，
你，我们还在学着崇拜。
我们所知的只是，人的本性并非
只爱那以爱回报者。
Matins
a replica, a place in one sense
different from heaven, being
designed to teach a lesson: otherwise
the same--beauty on either side, beauty
without alternative--Except
we didn't know what was the lesson. Left alone,
we exhausted each other. Years
of darkness followed; we took turns
working the garden, the first tears
filling our eyes as earth misted with petals, some
dark red, some flesh colored--
We never thought of you
whom we were learning to worship.
We merely knew it wasn't human nature to love
only what returns love.
野芝麻
你的心很冷，你就会这样生活。
在高大的枫树下。
太阳很难碰到我。
有时，我在早春看到它，很遥远地升着。
然后，树叶长到它上方，把它完全遮了。我感到它
透过树叶闪耀，毫无规律，
像有人用金属调羹敲击玻璃杯外侧。
活的物体对光的需求
程度并不相同。我们有些人。
制造自己的光：一片银色叶子
像一条无人用得上的小径，那些大枫树下的
阴暗中，一片浅浅的银色湖水。
但这你早已知晓。
你，还有其他人，他们认为
你为真理而活着，引申出去，一切
冷冰冰的，你都爱。
Lamium
under the great maple trees.
The sun hardly touches me.
Sometimes I see it in early spring, rising very far away.
Then leaves grow over it, completely hiding it. I feel it
glinting through the leaves, erratic,
like someone hitting the side of a glass with a metal spoon.
Living things don’t all require
light in the same degree. Some of us
make our own light: a silver leaf
like a path no one can use, a shallow
lake of silver in the darkness under the great maples.
But you know this already.
You and the others who think
you live for truth and, by extension, love
all that is cold.
©Mikalojus Konstantinas Ciurlionis丨Mists (1906)
描画
孩子画身体轮廓。
她懂得那儿有什么，却无法填进去。
缺少支撑的线条内，她懂得，
缺的是生命；她已从另一处
剪来一个背景。像任何孩子一样，
她转向母亲。
而你画了那颗心，
堵向她创造的空无。
Portrait
A child draws the outline of a body.
she cannot fill in what she knows is there.
Within the unsupported line, she knows
that life is missing; she has cut
one background from another. Like a child,
she turns to her mother.
And you draw the heart
against the emptiness she has created.
镜像
我在夜里幽暗的窗户中看到自己
就像这样耗去：
想着死亡，其它感官内容
都被排除在外，结果便是生命
很容易放弃，既然
它没包含任何东西：甚至
我母亲的呼声都不能
令他改变或回转，
因为他相信
人一旦爱不了另一位同类，
在这世界就没有位置。
Mirror Image
Tonight I saw myself in the dark window as
was spent like this,
thinking of death, to the exclusion
of other sensual matters, so in the end that life
was easy to give up, since
it contained nothing: even
my mother’s voice couldn’t make him
change or turn back
as he believed
that once you can’t love another human being
you have no place in the world.
©Mikalojus Konstantinas Ciurlionis丨Joseph's Dream (1907)
厄洛斯
我把椅子拖到旅馆窗前，看雨。
我沉浸于某种梦幻，或恍惚中——
沉入爱，却又
什么都不求。
似乎连抚摸你、再见到你，也非必要。
我要的只是：
房间、椅子、雨点落下的声音，
一钟头又一钟头，春夜温暖。
我再不需要什么；我知足到底了。
心，已变得很小，很少一点就填满了它。
我看着雨在黑暗的城市上空落下沉厚的雨片——
没牵扯你进来。我可以让你
过你需要的生活。
黎明时，雨减弱了。我做起了
人们天亮时的事，我自判无罪，
却像一个梦游者走动。
这足够了，并且不再牵涉你。
在陌生的城市过了几天。
说过一次话，抚摸过一次手。
然后，我脱下结婚戒指。
那是我想要的：一丝不挂。
Eros
I had drawn my chair to the hotel window, to watch the rain.
I was in a kind of dream, or trance –
in love, and yet
I wanted nothing.
It seemed unnecessary to touch you, to see you again.
I wanted only this:
the room, the chair, the sound of the rain falling,
hour after hour, in the warmth of the spring night.
I needed nothing more; I was utterly sated.
My heart had become very small; it took very little to fill it.
I watched the rain falling in heavy sheets over the darkened city –
You were not concerned. I could let you
live as you needed to live.
At dawn the rain abated. I did the things
one does in daylight, I acquitted myself,
but I moved like a sleepwalker.
It was enough and it no longer involved you.
A few days in a strange city.
A conversation, the touch of a hand.
And afterward, I took off my wedding ring.
That was what I wanted: to be naked.
蚯蚓
凡有寿限的，都站在泥土表层，拒绝
这重重矛盾，造就了你，
你能看得深透，可是面对死亡，你
不愿挖掘得多深——要是你感到
怜悯令你撕裂，就说明你
没有幻想症：并非所有的怜悯
都是由高贵施舍给低微，有些
是从大地内部升起，坚毅
而无胁迫。我们可以一断两截，但你
要残就残在内核，你的灵魂
与你的情感分离——
压抑欺骗不了
我们这类生物：
一旦进入泥土，便不会恐惧泥土；
一旦你栖居于你的恐惧，
死亡也不过是织一张地道或暗沟的网，
就像海绵或蜂窝，这些都已成为
我们的一部分，你尽可自由探索。也许，
你们会在这些旅途中发现一种
你们理解不了的完整——正如男男女女，
你们从未能自在地
将精神留下的任何印记
刻录到身体里。
Earthworm
Mortal standing on top of the earth, refusing
you are able to see deeply
the conflicts of which you are made but, facing death,
you will not dig deeply—if you sense
that pity engulfs you, you are not
delusional: not all pity
descends from higher to lesser, some
arises out of the earth itself, persistent
yet devoid of coercion. We can be split in two, but you are
mutilated at the core, your mind
detached from your feelings—
repression does not deceive
organisms like ourselves:
once you enter the earth, you will not fear the earth;
once you inhabit your terror,
death will come to seem a web of channels or tunnels like
a sponge’s or honeycomb’s, which, as part of us,
you will be free to explore. Perhaps
you will find in these travels
a wholeness that eluded you—as men and women
you were never free
to register in your body whatever left
a mark on your spirit.
©Mikalojus Konstantinas Ciurlionis丨Pisces (1907)
婚姻
他们又回到海边一个星期，
蓝天盈窗，
但海浪拍岸带来惟一的声响——
愤怒。愤怒于什么。无论是什么，
肯定就是他掉头的原因。愤怒，虽说他从未对她动过手，
从未说过一句狠话，很可能没有。
所以要想找到答案，她得另想办法，
也许从大海中，或者从海上突然升起的
铅灰的云端。床单里有海水味，
太阳味、风味，宾馆味，清新中带着香甜，
因为床单每天都换。
他从不费口舌。口舌，在他看来，是用来安排事情，
做生意的。从不用来泄愤，从不用于柔情。
她抹抹他后背，把脸贴上去，
然而那就像把脸贴在墙上。
他们之间的沉默那么古老，它说，
这些是边界。
他没睡，甚至没有假装在睡。
他呼吸得并不匀称：吸气时有点不情愿；
他并不想答应自己要活着。
呼气时畅快得多，就像国王要放逐臣仆。
沉默的下面，大海的声音，
大海的狂暴四处铺展，还没结束，还没结束，
他的呼吸驾驭着海浪——
但她明白自己到底是谁，到底想要什么。
只要这些是真切的，自然的事就伤害不到她。
Marriage
All week they’ve been by the sea again
Blue sky fills the window.
But the only sound is the sound of the waves pounding the shore—
angry. Angry at something. Whatever it is
must be why he’s turned away. Angry, though he’d never hit her,
never say a word, probably.
So it’s up to her to get the answer some other way,
from the sea, maybe, or the gray clouds suddenly
rising above it. The smell of the sea is in the sheets,
the smell of sun and wind, the hotel smell, fresh and sweet
because they’re changed every day.
He never uses words. Words, for him, are for making arrangements,
for doing business. Never for anger, never for tenderness.
She strokes his back. She puts her face up against it,
even though it’s like putting your face against a wall.
And the silence between them is ancient: it says
these are the boundaries.
He isn’t sleeping, not even pretending to sleep.
His breathing’s not regular: he breathes in with reluctance;
he doesn’t want to commit himself to being alive.
And he breathes out fast, like a king banishing a servant.
Beneath the silence, the sound of the sea,
the sea’s violence spreading everywhere, not finished, not finished,
his breath driving the waves—
But she knows who she is and she knows what she wants.
As long as that’s true, something so natural can’t hurt her.
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