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露易丝.格丽克(2020年诺奖获得者)诗歌试译

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 楼主| 发表于 2020-11-23 15:02:30 | 显示全部楼层


第一场雪

   (选自A VILLAGE LIFE (2009))
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符


   就像一个孩子,大地睡着,
   故事大概是这样的。

   但我不累,它说。
   妈妈说,你也许不累,但我累了---

   你可以从她的脸上看到它,每个人都可以。

   所以雪不得不下,睡眠不得不来。
   因为母亲对她的生命讨厌得要死,需要安静。



First Snow


   Like a child, the earth's going to sleep,
   or so the story goes.

   But I’m not tired, it says.
   And the mother says, You may not be tired but I’m tired---

   You can see it in her face, everyone can.
   So the snow has to fall, sleep has to come.
   Because the mother's sick to death of her life and needs silence.







蚯蚓

   (选自A VILLAGE LIFE (2009))
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符

   凡人站在地上,拒绝
   进入大地:你告诉自己,
   你能够深刻地看到
   你所产生的冲突,但是面对死亡,
   你就不会深入挖掘---如果你感觉到
   怜悯吞噬了你,你没有
   妄想:不是所有的怜悯都是由高到低下降,有些
   从大地本身升起,持续
   但缺乏强迫。我们可以一分为二,但你的
   核心残缺,你的思想
   挣脱你的感情---
   压制不会欺骗
   像我们这样的有机体:
   一旦你进入大地,你就不会害怕大地;
   一旦你在恐惧中栖身,
   死亡就会变成一张通道或隧道的网,就像
   海绵或蜂巢一样,作为我们的一部分,
   你可以自由探索。也许
   你会在这些旅行中发现
   一种逃避你的完整性---作为男人和女人
   都无法自由地
   在你的身体里记录任何
   在你的精神上留下印记的东西。



Earthworm



   Mortal standing on top of the earth, refusing
   to enter the earth: you tell yourself
   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.







在河边

   (选自A VILLAGE LIFE (2009))
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符

   那年夏天的一个晚上,我母亲决定是时候告诉我
   她所说的快乐的事情,尽管你可以看到
   她对这个仪式感到有些不安,她试图
   先握住我的手来掩饰,好像家里有人刚刚去世---
   她讲话时一直拉着我的手,
   这更像是关于机械工程的演讲
   比起关于快乐的谈话。在她的另一只手中,
   她有一本书,很明显,她从中吸取了主要的事实。
   她对别人,我的两个兄弟姐妹也做了同样的事情,
   这本书总是同一本,深蓝色,
   尽管我们每个人都有自己的副本。

   封面上画有一条线
   显示一对男女手牵手
   但站得相当远,就像两条土路两边的人。

   很明显,她和我父亲对他们所做的事没有说一句话,
   据我判断,不快乐。
   同时,无论是什么东西把人类团结在一起,
   都几乎不像那些冷漠的黑白图,它暗示着,
   其他事情中,你只能
   和异性一起获得快乐,
   所以你得不到两个插座,再说,也没有插头。

   学校没有上课。
   我回到房间关上门
   我母亲走进厨房
   我父亲正在为自己和他的隐形客人斟酒
   他们---惊奇---没有出现。
   不,只是我父亲和他的朋友圣灵
   开了一个晚上的派对,直到瓶子喝光,
   然后我父亲继续坐在桌子前
   面前放着一本打开的书。
   巧妙地,为了不让精神为难,
   我父亲处理了所有的眼镜,
   先是他自己的,然后是别人的,像每个别的夜晚一样来回走动。

   那时,我已经离开了家。
   那是夏天,我的朋友们常在河边碰头。
   整件事看起来十分尴尬
   但事实是,除了孩子们,也许我们不懂机械。
   孩子们的钥匙就在他们面前,如果他们愿意的话,就在他们手中,
   他们中的许多人说他们已经用过了,
   不过一旦一个男孩说了这句话,其他人也说了,
   当然人们还有哥哥姐姐。

   我们坐在河边,通常聊父母
   特别是性。很多信息都被分享,
   当然,这个话题永远有趣。
   我给大家看了我的书,《理想婚姻》---我们对它笑得很开心。
   一天晚上,一个男孩带来了一瓶酒,我们把它传了一会儿。

   那年夏天,我们越来越明白
   将要发生的事情
   会改变我们。
   而这团体,我们所有曾经以这种方式相遇的人,
   这团体会破碎,就像一个脱落的贝壳
   于是鸟儿才能出现。
   当然只有两只鸟会出现,配对的鸟。

   我们坐在河边的芦苇丛中
   扔小石子。当石头撞击,
   你可以看到星星在一秒钟内成倍增加,一些灯的小爆炸
   闪光并熄灭。有一个男孩我开始喜欢,
   不是说而是看。
   我喜欢坐在他后面研究他的后颈。

   过了一会儿,我们一起起来,穿过黑暗
   回到村子里。在田野上,天空晴朗,
   到处都是星星,就像在河里,虽然这些都是真的星星,
   即使死了也是真的。

   但是河里的那些---
   它们就像是有一个想法突然间爆炸成上千个想法,
   不是真实的,也许,但不知何故更逼真。

   当我回到家,我妈妈睡着了,我爸爸还在桌旁
   看书。我说,你的朋友走了吗?
   他目不转睛地看了我一会儿,
   然后说,你妈妈和我经常晚饭后一起
   喝一杯酒。



At the River



   One night that summer my mother decided it was time to tell me about
   what she referred to as pleasure, though you could see she felt
   some sort of unease about this ceremony, which she tried to cover up
   by first taking my hand, as though somebody in the family had just died---
   she went on holding my hand as she made her speech,
   which was more like a speech about mechanical engineering
   than a conversation about pleasure. In her other hand,
   she had a book from which, apparently, she'd taken the main facts.
   She did the same thing with the others, my two brothers and sister,
   and the book was always the same book, dark blue,
   though we each got our own copy.

   There was a line drawing on the cover
   showing a man and woman holding hands
   but standing fairly far apart, like people on two sides of a dirt road.

   Obviously, she and my father did not have a language for what they did
   which, from what I could judge, wasn't pleasure.
   At the same time, whatever holds human beings together
   could hardly resemble those cool black-and-white diagrams, which suggested,
   among other things, that you could only achieve pleasure
   with a person of the opposite sex,
   so you didn't get two sockets, say, and no plug.

   School wasn't in session.
   I went back to my room and shut the door
   and my mother went into the kitchen
   where my father was pouring glasses of wine for himself and his invisible guest
   who---surprise---doesn't appear.
   No, it's just my father and his friend the Holy Ghost
   partying the night away until the bottle runs out,
   after which my father continues sitting at the table
   with an open book in front of him.
   Tactfully, so as not to embarrass the Spirit,
   my father handled all the glasses,
   first his own, then the other, back and forth like every other night.

   By then, I was out of the house.
   It was summer; my friends used to meet at the river.
   The whole thing seemed a grave embarrassment
   although the truth was that, except for the boys, maybe we didn’t understand mechanics.
   The boys had the key right in front of them, in their hands if they wanted,
   and many of them said they'd already used it,
   though once one boy said this, the others said it too,
   and of course people had older brothers and sisters.

   We sat at the edge of the river discussing parents in general
   and sex in particular. And a lot of information got shared,
   and of course the subject was unfailingly interesting.
   I showed people my book, Ideal Marriage---we all had a good laugh over it.
   One night a boy brought a bottle of wine and we passed it around for a while.

   More and more that summer we understood
   that something was going to happen to us
   that would change us.
   And the group, all of us who used to meet this way,
   the group would shatter, like a shell that falls away
   so the bird can emerge.
   Only of course it would be two birds emerging, pairs of birds.

   We sat in the reeds at the edge of the river
   throwing small stones. When the stones hit,
   you could see the stars multiply for a second, little explosions of light
   flashing and going out. There was a boy I was beginning to like,
   not to speak to but to watch.
   I liked to sit behind him to study the back of his neck.

   And after a while we'd all get up together and walk back through the dark
   to the village. Above the field, the sky was clear,
   stars everywhere, like in the river, though these were the real stars,
   even the dead ones were real.

   But the ones in the river---
   they were like having some idea that explodes suddenly into a thousand ideas,
   not real, maybe, but somehow more lifelike.

   When I got home, my mother was asleep, my father was still at the table,
   reading his book. And I said, Did your friend go away?
   And he looked at me intently for a while,
   then he said, Your mother and I used to drink a glass of wine together
   after dinner.







走廊

   (选自A VILLAGE LIFE (2009))
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符

   有一扇敞开的门,你可以从那里看到厨房---
   总有一股美妙的气味从那里传来,
   但让他感到麻痹的是那个地方的温暖,
   中间的炉子散发着热量---

   有些生命就是这样。
   热在中心,如此稳定,没有人会想到它。
   但他拿着的钥匙打开了另一扇门,
   另一边,温暖并没有等着他。
   他自己做的---他和酒。

   第一杯是他自己回家。
   他能闻到炖肉的味道,一股红酒和橘皮混合在小牛肉里的味道。
   他妻子在卧室里唱歌,哄孩子们入睡。
   他慢慢地喝着,让妻子打开门,她的手指放在嘴唇上,
   然后让她急切地朝他冲去拥抱他。
   之后会有炖肉。

   但随之而来的几杯使她消失。
   她带着孩子们,公寓缩小到原来的样子。
   他发现了别人---不精确的另一个人,
   而是一个鄙视亲密关系的自我,好像婚姻的隐私
   是两个人关在一起的门
   没有人能单独离开,妻子,丈夫都不能,
   所以热量被困在那里直到它们窒息,
   就像它们住在电话亭里一样---

   然后酒就没了。他洗了脸,在公寓里徘徊。
   夏天---生命在炎热中腐烂。
   有些夜晚,他仍能听到一个女人在为她的孩子唱歌;
   另一些夜晚,在卧室门后,她赤裸的身体根本不存在。



A Corridor



   There's an open door through which you can see the kitchen---
   always some wonderful smell coming from there,
   but what paralyzes him is the warmth of that place,
   the stove in the center giving out heat---

   Some lives are like that.
   Heat's at the center, so constant no one gives it a thought.
   But the key he's holding unlocks a different door,
   and on the other side, warmth isn't waiting for him.
   He makes it himself---him and the wine.

   The first glass is himself coming home.
   He can smell the daube, a smell of red wine and orange peel mixed in with the veal.
   His wife is singing in the bedroom, putting the children to sleep.
   He drinks slowly, letting his wife open the door, her finger to her lips,
   and then letting her eagerly rush toward him to embrace him.
   And afterward there will be the daube.

   But the glasses that follow cause her to disappear.
   She takes the children with her; the apartment shrinks back to what it was.
   He has found someone else---not another person exactly,
   but a self who despises intimacy, as though the privacy of marriage
   is a door that two people shut together
   and no one can get out alone, not the wife, not the husband,
   so the heat gets trapped there until they suffocate,
   as though they were living in a phone booth---

   Then the wine is gone. He washes his face, wanders around the apartment.
   It’s summer---life rots in the heat.
   Some nights, he still hears a woman singing to her children;
   other nights, behind the bedroom door, her naked body doesn't exist.







 楼主| 发表于 2020-11-23 15:04:54 | 显示全部楼层

疲劳

   (选自A VILLAGE LIFE (2009))
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符

   整个冬天他都睡觉。
   然后他起来,他刮脸---
   重新成为一个男人需要很长时间,
   他镜子里的脸耸起黑发。

   大地现在就像一个女人,等着他。
   一种巨大的希望---把他们连在一起,
   他自己和这个女人。

   现在他必须整天工作来证明他应得的。
   中午:他累了,渴了。
   但如果他现在退出,他将一无所获。

   汗水覆盖着他的后背和手臂
   就像他的生命从他身上倾泻而出
   没有什么能代替它。

   他像动物一样工作,然后
   像机器一样,毫无感觉。
   但这种联系永远不会破裂
   尽管大地现在正在反击,夏天炎热的疯狂---

   他蹲下,让泥土从指间流过。

   太阳下山,黑暗降临。
   现在夏天过去了,大地又硬又冷;
   在路上,有几处孤立的火燃烧。

   没有留下爱,
   只有隔阂和仇恨。



Fatigue



   All winter he sleeps.
   Then he gets up, he shaves---
   it takes a long time to become a man again,
   his face in the mirror bristles with dark hair.

   The earth now is like a woman, waiting for him.
   A great hopefulness---that’s what binds them together,
   himself and this woman.

   Now he has to work all day to prove he deserves what he has.
   Midday: he’s tired, he’s thirsty.
   But if he quits now he’ll have nothing.

   The sweat covering his back and arms
   is like his life pouring out of him
   with nothing replacing it.

   He works like an animal, then
   like a machine, with no feeling.
   But the bond will never break
   though the earth fights back now, wild in the summer heat---

   He squats down, letting the dirt run through his fingers.

   The sun goes down, the dark comes.
   Now that summer’s over, the earth is hard, cold;
   by the road, a few isolated fires burn.

   Nothing remains of love,
   only estrangement and hatred.







燃烧的树叶

   (选自A VILLAGE LIFE (2009))
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符

   离房子和谷仓不远,
   农场工人正在烧枯叶。

   它们不会自动消失;
   你必须捅它们
   像农场工人每年捅树叶堆
   直到它向空气中释放出一股烟味。

   然后,在一个小时左右,它真的很活跃,
   像活的东西一样炽热。

   烟散去后,房子就安全了。
   一个女人站在后面,
   把干衣服叠成柳条篮子。

   于是它又过了一年,
   死亡给生命留下了空间,
   尽可能多,
   但烧房子的空间太大了。

   日落。马路对面,
   农场工人正在清扫冰冷的灰烬。
   有时有一些逃走,无害地随风飘荡。

   然后空气静止。
   在起火的地方,一圈石头里只有裸露的泥土。
   在大地和黑暗之间什么也没有。



Burning Leaves



   Not far from the house and barn,
   the farm worker's burning dead leaves.

   They don’t disappear voluntarily;
   you have to prod them along
   as the farm worker prods the leaf pile every year
   until it releases a smell of smoke into the air.

   And then, for an hour or so, it's really animated,
   blazing away like something alive.

   When the smoke clears, the house is safe.
   A woman's standing in the back,
   folding dry clothes into a willow basket.

   So it’s finished for another year,
   death making room for life,
   as much as possible,
   but burning the house would be too much room.

   Sunset. Across the road,
   the farm worker's sweeping the cold ashes.
   Sometimes a few escape, harmlessly drifting around in the wind.

   Then the air is still.
   Where the fire was, there's only bare dirt in a circle of rocks.
   Nothing between the earth and the dark.







晚上散步

   (选自A VILLAGE LIFE (2009))
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符

   既然她老了,
   年轻人不再靠近她
   所以夜晚自由了,
   黄昏时分那些如此危险的街道
   变得和草地一样安全。

   到了午夜,镇上安静了。
   月光映在石墙上;
   在人行道上,你可以听到男人们
   急匆匆赶回家到妻子和母亲身边神经质的声音;这么晚,
   门锁上了,窗户变暗。

   当他们经过时,他们没有注意到她。
   她就像草地上的一片干草。
   于是她以前从不离开地面的眼睛
   现在自由地去他们喜欢的地方。

   当她厌倦了街道,天气好的时候,她
   走在城镇尽头的田野里。
   有时,在夏天,她会走到河边。

   年轻人过去常常聚集在离这里不远的地方,
   但现在由于缺少雨水,河水变浅了,于是
   河岸荒芜了---

   然后有野餐。
   男孩和女孩最终成双成对;
   过了一会儿,他们走进森林,
   那里总是暮色朦胧---

   树林现在空了---
   这些赤裸的身体找到了其他藏身之处。

   在河里,只有足够的水让夜空
   在灰色的石头上形成图案。月亮很亮,
   是许多石头中的一块。风起了,
   吹着河边生长的小树。

   当你看着一具尸体,你会看到一段历史。
   一旦那具尸体看不见,
   它试图讲述的故事就消失---

   在这样的夜晚,她会一直走到桥,
   在回头以前。
   一切仍然有夏天的味道。
   她的身体似乎又恢复了年轻时的样子,
   在清淡的夏装下闪闪发光。



Walking at Night



   Now that she is old,
   the young men don’t approach her
   so the nights are free,
   the streets at dusk that were so dangerous
   have become as safe as the meadow.

   By midnight, the town's quiet.
   Moonlight reflects off the stone walls;
   on the pavement, you can hear the nervous sounds
   of the men rushing home to their wives and mothers; this late,
   the doors are locked, the windows darkened.

   When they pass, they don't notice her.
   She's like a dry blade of grass in a field of grasses.
   So her eyes that used never to leave the ground
   are free now to go where they like.

   When she's tired of the streets, in good weather she walks
   in the fields where the town ends.
   Sometimes, in summer, she goes as far as the river.

   The young people used to gather not far from here
   but now the river's grown shallow from lack of rain, so
   the bank’s deserted---

   There were picnics then.
   The boys and girls eventually paired off;
   after a while, they made their way into the woods
   where it's always twilight---

   The woods would be empty now---
   the naked bodies have found other places to hide.

   In the river, there's just enough water for the night sky
   to make patterns against the gray stones. The moon's bright,
   one stone among many others. And the wind rises;
   it blows the small trees that grow at the river’s edge.

   When you look at a body you see a history.
   Once that body isn't seen anymore,
   the story it tried to tell gets lost---

   On nights like this, she’ll walk as far as the bridge
   before she turns back.
   Everything still smells of summer.
   And her body begins to seem again the body she had as a young woman,
   glistening under the light summer clothing.







阴影之路

   (选自A VILLAGE LIFE (2009))
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符

   在大多数日子里,太阳唤醒了我。
   即使在黑暗的日子里,早晨也会有很多光线---
   百叶窗不会合在一起的细线。

   早上---我睁开眼睛。
   每天早上我都会重复看到这个地方有多脏,有多可怕。
   所以我上班从不迟到---这不是一个消磨时间的地方,
   阳光明媚时看着泥土堆积。

   白天上班时,我忘了它。
   我想到了工作:把彩色珠子装进塑料瓶。
   当我黄昏回家,房间幽暗——
   办公室的影子遮住了赤裸的地板。
   它告诉我住在这里的任何人都是命中注定的。

   当我在这样的心情时,
   我会去酒吧,看电视上的体育节目。

   有时我会和店主说话。
   他说情绪并不意味什么---
   阴影意味着黑夜即将来临,而不是说白昼永远不会回来。
   他让我把办公桌挪开,我得到了不同的阴影,也许
   不同的诊断。

   如果我们单独一起,他就把电视音量关小。
   队员们不停地撞来撞去
   但我们听到的都是我们自己的声音。

   如果没有比赛,他会选一部电影。
   这是一回事---没有声音,所以只有图像。
   电影结束时,我们比较交流着,看看我们是否都看到了同一个故事。
   有时我们花几个小时看这些垃圾。

   当我走回家,已经是晚上。你一次也看不出这些房子有多破旧。
   这部电影在我脑海中:我告诉自己,我在追随男主角的道路。
   男主角冒险出走---那是黎明。
   他走后,相机会收集其他东西的照片。
   当他回来时,它已经知道了所有要知道的事情,
   仅仅是通过观察房间。

   现在没有影子。
   房间里,一片漆黑,夜晚的空气很凉爽。
   夏天,你可以闻到橘子花的味道。
   如果有风,一棵树就可以---你不需要整个果园。

   我做男主角做的事。
   他打开窗户。他与大地重逢。



Via delle Ombre



   On most days, the sun wakes me.
   Even on dark days, there’s a lot of light in the mornings---
   thin lines where the blinds don't come together.
   It’s morning---I open my eyes.
   And every morning I see again how dirty this place is, how grim.
   So I'm never late for work---this isn’t a place to spend time in,
   watching the dirt pile up as the sun brightens.

   During the day at work, I forget about it.
   I think about work: getting colored beads into plastic vials.
   When I get home at dusk, the room is shadowy---
   the shadow of the bureau covers the bare floor.
   It's telling me whoever lives here is doomed.

   When I'm in moods like that,
   I go to a bar, watch sports on television.

   Sometimes I talk to the owner.
   He says moods don't mean anything---
   the shadows mean night is coming, not that daylight will never return.
   He tells me to move the bureau; I’ll get different shadows, maybe
   a different diagnosis.

   If we're alone, he turns down the volume of the television.
   The players keep crashing into each other
   but all we hear are our own voices.

   If there’s no game, he’ll pick a film.
   It’s the same thing---the sound stays off, so there's only images.
   When the film's over, we compare notes, to see if we both saw the same story.
   Sometimes we spend hours watching this junk.

   When I walk home it’s night. You can’t see for once how shabby the houses are.
   The film is in my head: I tell myself I’m following the path of the hero.
   The hero ventures out---that's dawn.
   When he's gone, the camera collects pictures of other things.
   When he gets back, it already knows everything there is to know,
   just from watching the room.

   There's no shadows now.
   Inside the room, it's dark; the night air is cool.
   In summer, you can smell the orange blossoms.
   If there's wind, one tree will do it---you don't need the whole orchard.

   I do what the hero does.
   He opens the window. He has his reunion with earth.








 楼主| 发表于 2020-11-24 19:10:09 | 显示全部楼层

猎人

   (选自A VILLAGE LIFE (2009))
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符

   一个漆黑的夜晚---街道属于猫。
   猫和它们发现要杀的诸如此类的小东西---
   猫像它们在山上的祖先一样快
   像它们的祖先一样饥饿。

   几乎没有月亮。所以夜晚很凉爽---
   没有月亮加热它。夏天就要结束,
   但目前还有足够的东西可以捕猎
   尽管老鼠很安静,像猫一样警惕。

   闻闻空气---一个寂静的夜晚,一个爱的夜晚。
   每隔一段时间一次有尖叫声
   从下面的街道传来
   那里猫在用牙齿咬老鼠的腿。

   一旦老鼠尖叫,它就死了。那尖叫就像一张地图:
   它告诉猫在哪里找到喉咙。在那之后,
   尖叫来自于一具尸体。

   你很幸运能在这样的夜晚相爱,
   温暖仍然足够到可以赤裸地躺在床单上,
   汗流浃背,因为这是艰苦的工作,这份爱,不管别人怎么说。

   死老鼠躺在街上,猫把它们扔在那里。
   很高兴你现在不在街上,
   在街上的清洁工来扫除它们之前。太阳升起时,
   它不会对它所发现的世界失望,
   街道将为接下来的新的一天和夜晚而干净。

   刚还高兴你躺在床上,
   爱的叫声就淹没了尸体的尖叫。



Hunters



   A dark night---the streets belong to the cats.
   The cats and whatever small thing they find to kill---
   The cats are fast like their ancestors in the hills
   and hungry like their ancestors.

   Hardly any moon. So the night’s cool---
   no moon to heat it up. Summer's on the way out
   but for now there's still plenty to hunt
   though the mice are quiet, watchful like the cats.

   Smell the air---a still night, a night for love.
   And every once in a while a scream
   rising from the street below
   where the cat's digging his teeth into the rat's leg.

   Once the rat screams, it's dead. That scream is like a map:
   it tells the cat where to find the throat. After that,
   the scream's coming from a corpse.

   You're lucky to be in love on nights like this,
   still warm enough to lie naked on top of the sheets,
   sweating, because it's hard work, this love, no matter what anyone says.

   The dead rats lie in the street, where the cat drops them.
   Be glad you're not on the street now,
   before the street cleaners come to sweep them away. When the sun rises,
   it won't be disappointed with the world it finds,
   the streets will be clean for the new day and the night that follows.

   Just be glad you were in bed,
   where the cries of love drown out the screams of the corpses.






一张纸条

   (选自A VILLAGE LIFE (2009))
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符

   今天我去看医生---
   医生说我快死了,
   没用那些词,但当我说它时,
   她没有否认---

   你对你的身体做了什么,她的沉默说。
   我们把它给你,看看你对它做了什么,
   你怎么滥用它。
   我说的不仅仅是香烟,她说,
   还有糟糕的饮食,饮料。

   她是一个年轻的女人,那件僵硬的白大衣乔装她的身体。
   她的头发往后拉,女性的小发束
   被一根黑色的带子压住。她在这里不自在,

   在书桌后面,她脑袋上部放着她的毕业证书,
   读着一串列着的数字,
   有些标记是为了引起她的注意。
   她的脊椎也很直,不显示感觉。

   没人教我如何保养我的身体。
   你是在你母亲或祖母的注视下长大的。
   一旦你摆脱了她们,你妻子就会接手,但她很紧张,
   她不会走得太远。于是这身体归我,
   医生责怪我因为---总是由女人监督,
   我告诉你,她们漏掉了很多。

   医生看着我---
   我们之间,一堆书和文件夹。
   除了我们,诊所是空的。

   这里有个活板门,穿过那扇门,
   死人的国度。活着的人推你过去,
   他们希望你先到那里,在他们前面。

   医生知道这一点。她有她的书,
   我有我的香烟。最后
   她在一张纸条上写了些东西。
   这将有助于你的血压,她说。

   我把它装进口袋,一个要走的标志。
   一旦我到了外面,我把它撕碎,就像一张通往另一个世界的门票。

   她狂热地来这里,
   一个她不认识任何人的地方。
   她一个人;她没有结婚戒指。
   她一个人回家,回到村外的住处。
   她一天喝一杯酒,
   她的晚餐不是晚餐。

   她脱下那件白大衣:
   在那件外套和她的身体之间,
   只有一层薄薄的棉花。
   在某种程度上,它也会消失。

   为了出生,你的身体与死亡达成协议,
   从那一刻起,它所要做的就是欺骗---

   你一个人上床。也许你睡着了,也许你永远不会醒来。
   但很长一段时间你听到每一个声音。
   这是一个像任何夏夜一样的夜晚,黑暗永远不会降临。



A Slip of Paper


   Today I went to the doctor---
   the doctor said I was dying,
   not in those words, but when I said it
   she didn’t deny it---

   What have you done to your body, her silence says.
   We gave it to you and look what you did to it,
   how you abused it.
   I'm not talking only of cigarettes, she says,
   but also of poor diet, of drink.

   She's a young woman; the stiff white coat disguises her body.
   Her hair's pulled back, the little female wisps
   suppressed by a dark band. She's not at ease here,

   behind her desk, with her diploma over her head,
   reading a list of numbers in columns,
   some flagged for her attention.
   Her spine's straight also, showing no feeling.

   No one taught me how to care for my body.
   You grow up watched by your mother or grandmother.
   Once you're free of them, your wife takes over, but she's nervous,
   she doesn't go too far. So this body I have,
   that the doctor blames me for---it's always been supervised by women,
   and let me tell you, they left a lot out.

   The doctor looks at me---
   between us, a stack of books and folders.
   Except for us, the clinic’s empty.

   There's a trap-door here, and through that door,
   the country of the dead. And the living push you through,
   they want you there first, ahead of them.

   The doctor knows this. She has her books,
   I have my cigarettes. Finally
   she writes something on a slip of paper.
   This will help your blood pressure, she says.

   And I pocket it, a sign to go.
   And once I'm outside, I tear it up, like a ticket to the other world.

   She was crazy to come here,
   a place where she knows no one.
   She's alone; she has no wedding ring.
   She goes home alone, to her place outside the village.
   And she has her one glass of wine a day,
   her dinner that isn’t a dinner.

   And she takes off that white coat:
   between that coat and her body,
   there's just a thin layer of cotton.
   And at some point, that comes off too.

   To get born, your body makes a pact with death,
   and from that moment, all it tries to do is cheat---

   You get into bed alone. Maybe you sleep, maybe you never wake up.
   But for a long time you hear every sound.
   It's a night like any summer night; the dark never comes.






蝙蝠

   (选自A VILLAGE LIFE (2009))
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符

   有两种视觉:
   看物体,属于
   光学的科学,与
   超越物体的看相对,这是
   由于剥夺的结果。人类嘲笑黑暗,拒绝
   你所不知道的世界:虽然黑暗
   充满了障碍,但在领域
   狭窄、信号稀少的情况下,有可能
   有强烈的意识。黑夜在我们
   心中孕育出了比你更专注的思想,虽然是基本的:
   人的自我,被囚禁在眼睛里的人,
   有一条你看不见的路,在眼睛够不到的地方,
   哲学家们称之为
   通过否定:为了给光创造一个地方
   神秘主义者闭上眼睛---他所寻找的
   种类的启发,摧毁了
   依赖事物的生物。



Bats



   There are two kinds of vision:
   the seeing of things, which belongs
   to the science of optics, versus
   the seeing beyond things, which
   results from deprivation. Man mocking the dark, rejecting
   worlds you do not know: though the dark
   is full of obstacles, it is possible to have
   intense awareness when the field is narrow
   and the signals few. Night has bred in us
   thought more focused than yours, if rudimentary:
   man the ego, man imprisoned in the eye,
   there is a path you cannot see, beyond the eye’s reach,
   what the philosophers have called
   the via negativa: to make a place for light
   the mystic shuts his eyes---illumination
   of the kind he seeks destroys
   creatures who depend on things.






燃烧的树叶

   (选自A VILLAGE LIFE (2009))
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符

   火烧向晴朗的天空,
   急切而狂暴,就像一只动物试图得到自由
   而狂奔,就像大自然想要的那样---

   当它像这样燃烧,
   叶子是不够的---它
   贪婪,掠夺,

   拒绝被容纳,接受限制---

   周围有一堆石头。
   越过石头,大地被梳理干净,赤裸---

   最后树叶不见了,燃料也没了,
   最后的火焰向上和横向燃烧---

   石头的同心圆和灰色的土圈里
   环绕着几点火花;
   农夫用靴子在其上跺脚。

   不可能相信这会起作用---
   不是因为像这样的火,那些最后的火花
   仍然在抵抗,没有完成,
   相信他们最终会得到一切

   因为很明显,它们并没有被击败,
   只是休眠或休息,尽管没有人知道
   它们代表的是生还是死。



Burning Leaves



   The fire burns up into the clear sky,
   eager and furious, like an animal trying to get free
   to run wild as nature intended---

   When it burns like this,
   leaves aren’t enough---it’s
   acquisitive, rapacious,

   refusing to be contained, to accept limits---

   There's a pile of stones around it.
   Past the stones, the earth's raked clean, bare---

   Finally the leaves are gone, the fuel's gone,
   the last flames burn upwards and sidewards---

   Concentric rings of stones and gray earth
   circle a few sparks;
   the farmer stomps on these with his boots.

   It's impossible to believe this will work---
   not with a fire like this, those last sparks
   still resisting, unfinished,
   believing they will get everything in the end

   since it is obvious they are not defeated,
   merely dormant or resting, though no one knows
   whether they represent life or death.






三月

   (选自A VILLAGE LIFE (2009))
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符

   光在天空中停留的时间更长,但它是一种寒冷的光,
   它不能从冬天带来缓解。

   我的邻居盯着窗外,
   和她的狗说话。他在花园里嗅闻,
   试图就那些死花下结论。

   这一切有点早。
   一切仍然非常空---
   不过,今天和昨天有些不同。

   我们可以看到那座山:山顶在冰捕捉到光的地方闪烁。
   但边角的雪融化,露出赤裸的岩石。

   我邻居在叫狗,让她发出令人难以置信的像狗的声音。
   狗很有礼貌,当她叫的时候他抬起头来,
   但他一动不动。所以她继续叫,
   她那失败的吠声慢慢退化成人声。

   她一生都梦想住在海边
   但命运并没有把她放在那里。
   它嘲笑她的梦;
   它把她锁在山上,那里没人逃跑。

   太阳垂照大地,大地繁荣昌盛。
   每个冬天,它像地下的岩石升得
   越来越高,大地变成岩石,冰冷而排斥。

   她说希望杀死她的父母,它杀死她的祖父母。
   每年春天它和小麦一起升起
   在酷暑和严寒之间的热量死去。
   最后,他们告诉她住在海边,
   似乎这有什么不同。

   到了晚春,她会喋喋不休,但现在她只剩下两个词,
   “从不和仅仅”,来表达生活欺骗她的感觉。

   从来没有海鸥的叫声,只有,在夏天,蟋蟀,蝉。
   只有田野的气味,而她想要的一切
   只是大海的气味,消失的气味。

   太阳下山时,田野上的天空变成
   一种灰粉色。云是丝线,洋红和深红色。

   大地到处沙沙作响,没有静躺。
   狗感觉到了这一点,他的耳朵在抽搐。

   他来来回回地走着,模糊记得
   其他年份的这种兴高采烈。发现的季节
   开始了。总是一样的发现,但对狗来说,
   令人陶醉又新鲜,不自欺欺人。

   我告诉我的邻居我们会这样
   当我们失去记忆。我问她是否见过大海
   她说,有一次,在电影里。
   这是一个悲伤的故事,完全没有任何结果。

   情人分手。海浪拍打海岸,每一个波浪留下的痕迹
   都被随之而来的波浪抹去。
   永远不要积累,一浪永远不要努力建在另一浪上,
   永远不要承诺避风港---

   海洋不会随着地球的变化而变化,
   它不说谎。
   你问大海,你能答应我什么,
   它说的是真理,它说的是抹去。

   最后狗走进去。
   我们看着新月,
   一开始很微弱,后来越来越清晰
   夜幕降临。
   很快,它将成为早春的天空,延伸到倔强的蕨类植物和紫罗兰上面。

   没有什么可以被强迫去生活。
   地球现在像毒品,像远方的声音,
   爱人或主人。最后,你要按照声音告诉你的去做。
   它说着忘却,你忘却。
   它说着重新开始,你重新开始。



March



   The light stays longer in the sky,but it’s a cold light,
   it brings no relief from winter.

   My neighbor stares out the window,
   talking to her dog. He’s sniffing the garden,
   trying to reach a decision about the dead flowers.

   It's a little early for all this.
   Everything's still very bare---
   nevertheless, something's different today from yesterday.

   We can see the mountain: the peak's glittering where the ice catches the light.
   But on the sides the snows melted, exposing bare rock.

   My neighbor's calling the dog, making her unconvincing doglike sounds.
   The dog's polite; he raises his head when she calls,
   but he doesn't move. So she goes on calling,
   her failed bark slowly deteriorating into a human voice.

   All her life she dreamed of living by the sea
   but fate didn’t put her there.
   It laughed at her dreams;
   it locked her up in the hills, where no one escapes.

   The sun beats down on the earth, the earth flourishes.
   And every winter, it's as though the rock underneath the earth rises
   higher and higher and the earth becomes rock, cold and rejecting.

   She says hope killed her parents, it killed her grandparents.
   It rose up each spring with the wheat
   and died between the heat of summer and the raw cold.
   In the end, they told her to live near the sea,
   as though that would make a difference.

   By late spring she’ll be garrulous, but now she’s down to two words,
   never and only, to express this sense that life’s cheated her.

   Never the cries of the gulls, only, in summer, the crickets, cicadas.
   Only the smell of the field, when all she wanted
   was the smell of the sea, of disappearance.

   The sky above the fields has turned a sort of grayish pink
   as the sun sinks. The clouds are silk yarn, magenta and crimson.

   And everywhere the earth is rustling, not lying still.
   And the dog senses this stirring; his ears twitch.

   He walks back and forth, vaguely remembering
   from other years this elation. The season of discoveries
   is beginning. Always the same discoveries, but to the dog,
   intoxicating and new, not duplicitous.

   I tell my neighbor we'll be like this
   when we lose our memories. I ask her if she's ever seen the sea
   and she says, once, in a movie.
   It was a sad story, nothing worked out at all.

   The lovers part. The sea hammers the shore, the mark each wave leaves
   wiped out by the wave that follows.
   Never accumulation, never one wave trying to build on another,
   never the promise of shelter---

   The sea doesn’t change as the earth changes;
   it doesn’t lie.
   You ask the sea, what can you promise me
   and it speaks the truth; it says erasure.

   Finally the dog goes in.
   We watch the crescent moon,
   very faint at first, then clearer and clearer
   as the night grows dark.
   Soon it will be the sky of early spring, stretching above the stubborn ferns and violets.

   Nothing can be forced to live.
   The earth is like a drug now, like a voice from far away,
   a lover or master. In the end, you do what the voice tells you.
   It says forget, you forget.
   It says begin again, you begin again.






 楼主| 发表于 2020-11-24 19:12:40 | 显示全部楼层

春天的夜晚

   (选自A VILLAGE LIFE (2009))
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符

   他们告诉她,她是从她妈妈的洞里出来的
   但真的不可能相信
   这么娇嫩的东西竟然会从这么胖的东西里
   出来---她妈妈光着身子
   看起来像只猪。她想认为
   孩子们告诉她是在取笑她的无知;
   他们认为他们可以告诉她任何事
   因为她不是从乡下来的,那里的人们知道这些事。

   她想把这个主题讲完,完全地。困扰着她的是
   想象母亲身体里的这个空间,
   时不时地排放人类,
   先是把他们藏起来,然后把他们扔到这个世界,

   一直给他们下药,激发她依恋在她床上的
   同样的感觉,这种孤独感,这种平静,
   这种独特感---

   也许她妈妈还有这种感觉。
   这可以解释为什么她从来没有看到
   他们俩之间的巨大差异

   因为他们曾经是同一个人---

   她在镜子里看到自己的脸,小鼻子
   陷在脂肪里,同时她听到
   孩子们的笑声,因为他们告诉她
   它不是从脸上开始的,傻瓜,
   是从身体开始的---

   晚上躺在床上,她把被子拉得尽可能高,
   一直拉到脖子---

   她发现了这东西,一个自我,
   并开始珍惜它,
   现在它将被包装成肉身,丢失了---

   她觉得她妈妈对她做了这件事,意味着这要发生。
   因为不管她努力用她的思想干什么,
   她的身体都不服从,

   它的自满,它的终结,将使她的思想隐形,
   没有人会看到---

   她轻轻地把床单移到一边。
   在它下面,是她的身体,仍然美丽和新鲜
   任何地方没有任何标记。在她看来仍然
   和她的思想一模一样,如此一致
   以至于似乎透明,几乎,

   她再次
   爱上它,并发誓保护它。


A Night in Spring


   They told her she came out of a hole in her mother
   but really it’s impossible to believe
   something so delicate could come out of something
   so fat---her mother naked
   looks like a pig. She wants to think
   the children telling her were making fun of her ignorance;
   they think they can tell her anything
   because she doesn’t come from the country, where people know these things.

   She wants the subject to be finished, dead. It troubles her
   to picture this space in her mother's body,
   releasing human beings now and again,
   first hiding them, then dropping them into the world,

   and all along drugging them, inspiring the same feelings
   she attaches to her bed, this sense of solitude, this calm,
   this sense of being unique---

   Maybe her mother still has these feelings.
   This could explain why she never sees
   the great differences between the two of them

   because at one point they were the same person---

   She sees her face in the mirror, the small nose
   sunk in fat, and at the same time she hears
   the children's laughter as they tell her
   it doesn’t start in the face, stupid,
   it starts in the body---

   At night in bed, she pulls the quilt as high as possible,
   up to her neck---

   She has found this thing, a self,
   and come to cherish it,
   and now it will be packed away in flesh and lost---

   And she feels her mother did this to her, meant this to happen.
   Because whatever she may try to do with her mind,
   her body will disobey,
   that its complacency, its finality, will make her mind invisible,
   no one will see---

   Very gently, she moves the sheet aside.
   And under it, there is her body, still beautiful and new
   with no marks anywhere. And it seems to her still
   identical to her mind, so consistent with it as to seem
   transparent, almost,

   and once again
   she falls in love with it and vows to protect it.






收获

   (选自A VILLAGE LIFE (2009))
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符

   现在是市场的秋天---
   再买西红柿不明智。
   它们的外表依然漂亮,
   一些完美的圆形和红色,罕见的变种
   畸形,个别的,就像人类的大脑覆盖着红色的油布---

   在里面,它们不见了。黑色,发霉---
   你不能吃一口而不着急。
   各处,在被污染的东西中,一种水果
   仍然完好无损,在腐烂开始之前被采摘。

   代替西红柿,没有人真正想要的收割。
   南瓜,很多南瓜。
   葫芦,干辣椒的绳子,大蒜的辫子。
   工匠们把枯花编成花环;
   他们在干薰衣草周围系上少量彩色纱线。
   人们暂时继续购买这些东西
   好像他们认为农民会记得
   确保一切回复正常:
   藤蔓回复承受新豌豆;
   最初的小莴苣,如此脆弱,如此娇嫩,将开始
   从泥土中刺出。

   相反,天很早就黑了。
   雨越来越大,它们承载着
   枯叶的重量。

   在黄昏,现在,一种威胁,不祥的气氛。
   人们自己也有这种感觉,他们给季节起了一个名字,
   收割,给这些东西安上一个更好的面孔。

   葫芦烂在地上,甜蓝葡萄完了。
   也许有一些根,但是土地太硬,农民们认为
   不值得努力把它们挖出来。为了什么?

   站在集市上在薄薄的伞下,在雨中,在寒冷中,
   再没有顾客?

   然后霜降了,再也没有收获的问题了。
   雪开始了;生命末端的伪装。
   大地现在是白色的,月亮升起时田野闪闪发光。

   我坐在卧室的窗前,看着降雪。
   大地像一面镜子:
   平静遇上平静,超脱遇上超脱。

   活着的,活在地下。
   死了的,死也不挣扎。



Harvest


   It's autumn in the market---
   not wise anymore to buy tomatoes.
   They’re beautiful still on the outside,
   some perfectly round and red, the rare varieties
   misshapen, individual, like human brains covered in red oilcloth---

   Inside, they're gone. Black, moldy---
   you can't take a bite without anxiety.
   Here and there, among the tainted ones, a fruit
   still perfect, picked before decay set in.

   Instead of tomatoes, crops nobody really wants.
   Pumpkins, a lot of pumpkins.
   Gourds, ropes of dried chilies, braids of garlic.
   The artisans weave dead flowers into wreaths;
   they tie bits of colored yarn around dried lavender.
   And people go on for a while buying these things
   as though they thought the farmers would see to it
   that things went back to normal:
   the vines would go back to bearing new peas;
   the first small lettuces, so fragile, so delicate, would begin
   to poke out of the dirt.

   Instead, it gets dark early.
   And the rains get heavier; they carry
   the weight of dead leaves.

   At dusk, now, an atmosphere of threat, of foreboding.
   And people feel this themselves; they give a name to the season,
   harvest, to put a better face on these things.

   The gourds are rotting on the ground, the sweet blue grapes are finished.
   A few roots, maybe, but the ground's so hard the farmers think
   it isn't worth the effort to dig them out. For what?
   To stand in the marketplace under a thin umbrella, in the rain, in the cold,
   no customers anymore?

   And then the frost comes; there’s no more question of harvest.
   The snow begins; the pretense of life ends.
   The earth is white now; the fields shine when the moon rises.

   I sit at the bedroom window, watching the snow fall.
   The earth is like a mirror:
   calm meeting calm, detachment meeting detachment.

   What lives, lives underground.
   What dies, dies without struggle.







忏悔

   (选自A VILLAGE LIFE (2009))
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符

   他有时偷窃,因为他们没有自己的树,
   他喜欢水果。恰好不偷---
   他假装自己是动物;他吃地上的东西,
   就像动物一样吃。这是他对神父说的,
   他不认为把恰好躺在那里腐烂的东西拿走是一种罪过,
   今年就像别的每一年。

   作为一个男人,作为一个人,牧师同意这个男孩,
   但是作为一个牧师,他惩罚他,尽管忏悔是很轻的,
   以免扼杀想象力:这个,他会给
   一个拿走了不属于他的东西的小得多的男孩。

   但男孩反对。他愿意忏悔,
   因为他喜欢神父,但他拒绝相信耶稣
   把这棵无花果树给了这个女人;他想知道
   耶稣用他从房地产中得到的全部钱做了什么,
   不仅是在这个村庄,而且在整个国家。

   部分地他是在开玩笑,但另一方面是认真的,
   牧师很生气---这个男孩超出了他的深度,
   他无法解释,虽然基督不处理财产,
   但无花果树仍然属于女人,即使她从不摘无花果。
   也许有一天,在男孩的鼓励下,
   那女人会成为一个圣人,和陌生人分享她的无花果树和她的大房子,
   但目前她是人类,她的祖先建造了这座房子。

   牧师很高兴把话题从金钱上移开,
   这让他很紧张,回到“家庭或传统”之类的词汇上来,
   在那里他感觉更安全。男孩盯着他看---
   他很清楚知道他是如何利用一个高龄老太太,
   他是如何试图吸引牧师,以打动他的。但他鄙视
   现在开始的演讲;
   他想用自己的逃跑来嘲弄牧师:如果他那么爱家庭,
   为什么牧师没有像他父母那样结婚呢,继续他所来的路线。

   但他沉默了。这些话意味着不会有
   疑问,也不会试图去解释---那些话已经被说出。
   “谢谢你,父,”他说。



Confession



   He steals sometimes, because they don't have their own tree
   and he loves fruit. Not steals exactly---
   he pretends he's an animal; he eats off the ground,
   as the animals would eat. This is what he tells the priest,
   that he doesn't think it should be a sin to take what would just lie there and rot,
   this year like every other year.

   As a man, as a human being, the priest agrees with the boy,
   but as a priest he chastises him, though the penance is light,
   so as to not kill off imagination: what he'd give
   to a much younger boy who took something that wasn't his.

   But the boy objects. He's willing to do the penance
   because he likes the priest, but he refuses to believe that Jesus
   gave this fig tree to this woman; he wants to know
   what Jesus does with all the money he gets from real estate,
   not just in this village but in the whole country.

   Partly he's joking but partly he's serious
   and the priest gets irritated---he's out of his depth with this boy,
   he can't explain that though Christ doesn't deal in property,
   still the fig tree belongs to the woman, even if she never picks the figs.
   Perhaps one day, with the boy's encouragement,
   the woman will become a saint and share her fig tree and her big house with strangers,
   but for the moment she's a human being whose ancestors built this house.

   The priest is pleased to have moved the conversation away from money,
   which makes him nervous, and back to words like family or tradition,
   where he feels more secure. The boy stares at him---
   he knows perfectly well the ways in which he's taken advantage of a senile old lady,
   the ways he's tried to charm the priest, to impress him. But he despises
   speeches like the one beginning now;
   he wants to taunt the priest with his own flight: if he loves family so much,
   why didn't the priest marry as his parents married, continue the line from which he came.

   But he's silent. The words that mean there will be
   no questioning, no trying to reason---those words have been uttered.
   “Thank you, Father,” he says.








 楼主| 发表于 2020-11-25 12:29:59 | 显示全部楼层
  
婚姻
   
   (选自A VILLAGE LIFE (2009))
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   整个星期,他们又来到海边
   海水的声音把一切都染上了色彩。
   蓝色的天空充满了窗户。
   但唯一的声音是海浪重击海岸的声音---
   愤怒。对某事愤怒。不管是什么
   一定是他为什么离开。愤怒,虽然他从来没有打过她,
   但可能一句话也没说。
   
   所以,另一种方式的答案就由她自己来决定,
   从海上,也许,或者是突然升起的
   灰色云层。海的气味在床单里,
   阳光和风的味道,酒店的味道,新鲜和甜蜜,
   因为它们每天都在变化。
   
   他从不使用语言。对他来说,语言是用来安排
   做生意的。永不为愤怒,永不为温柔。
   
   她抚摸他的背。她把脸贴在它上面,
   即使它就像把你的脸贴在墙上一样。
   
   他们之间的沉默是古老的:它说
   这些是边界。
   
   他没有睡觉,甚至没有假装睡觉。
   他的呼吸没有规律:他不情愿地呼吸;
   他不想保证自己活着。
   他呼出甚快,好像国王驱逐奴仆。
   
   寂静之下,大海的声音,
   大海的暴力四处蔓延,没有结束,没有结束,
   他的呼吸推动着海浪---
   
   但她知道她是谁,她知道自己想要什么。
   只要是真的,如此自然的东西就不会伤害她。
  
  
  
Marriage
   
   
   
   All week they've been by the sea again
   and the sound of the sea colors everything.
   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.
  
  
  
  
   
   (选自A VILLAGE LIFE (2009))
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   春天来得很快:一夜之间
   梅树开花,
   温暖的空气里充满了鸟鸣。
   
   在犁过的泥土里,有人画了一幅太阳的图画
   带着来自于四周的光线
   但因为背景是泥土,所以太阳是黑色的。
   没有签名。
   
   唉,很快一切都会消失:
   鸟儿在呼唤,娇嫩的花朵。最后,
   甚至大地本身也会跟随艺术家的名字进入遗忘。
   
   尽管如此,这位艺术家还是想要
   一种庆祝的气氛。
   
   多么美丽的花朵---象征着生命的坚韧。
   鸟儿迫不及待地靠近。
   ---
   primavera:意大利语:春
   《春》(Primavera)是意大利画家桑德罗•波提切利创作于1482年的名画。这幅画被描述在2009年的《文化和价值》中,是西方艺术上最著名的画作之一。根据1998年的《波提切利,春》,它也是世界上被写的最多,最受争议的作品之一。虽然大多数评论家认为这幅画,描绘一群神话人物在一个花园,是寓意为郁郁葱葱的增长的春天,但是它其他含义也被探索。其中,这项工作有时被认为是阐释柏拉图式的爱,这幅画本身是没有名字的。
  
  
  
Primavera
   
   
   
   Spring comes quickly: overnight
   the plum tree blossoms,
   the warm air fills with bird calls.
   
   In the plowed dirt, someone has drawn a picture of the sun
   with rays coming out all around
   but because the background is dirt, the sun is black.
   There is no signature.
   
   Alas, very soon everything will disappear:
   the bird calls, the delicate blossoms. In the end,
   even the earth itself will follow the artist's name into oblivion.
   
   Nevertheless, the artist intends
   a mood of celebration.
   
   How beautiful the blossoms are---emblems of the resilience of life.
   The birds approach eagerly.
  
  
  
  
无花果
   
   (选自A VILLAGE LIFE (2009))
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   我妈妈做无花果酒---
   水煮丁香,有时放一些胡椒。
   黑无花果,从我们的树上。
   酒是红色的,胡椒在果汁里留下烟味。
   我过去总觉得我在另一个国家。
   
   在那之前,会有鸡肉。
   在秋天,有时会充满野蘑菇。
   总是没时间这么做。
   雨刚下过,天气必须好。
   有时候只是鸡肉,里面有柠檬。
   
   她会打开酒。没什么特别的---
   她从邻居那里得到的东西。
   我很怀念这些酒---我现在买的味道不太好。
   
   我为我丈夫做这些东西,
   但他不喜欢。
   他想要他妈妈做的菜,但我做得不好。
   当我尝试时,我会生气---
   
   他想把我变成一个我从来不是的人。
   他觉得这很简单---
   你切碎鸡肉,在锅里放少许西红柿。
   大蒜,如果有大蒜的话。
   一小时后,你就在天堂。
   
   他认为我的工作是学习,而不是他教我的
   工作。我妈妈做的菜,我不需要学。
   我的手已经知道了,只是在我做作业时
   闻到了丁香。
   轮到我的时候,我是对的。我确实知道。
   我第一次尝到它们,我的童年又回来了。
   当我们年轻的时候,情况就不同了。
   我和我丈夫---我们相爱。我们曾想要的一切
   是彼此接触。
   
   他回家了,他累了。
   一切都很艰难---赚钱很难,看着自己的身体变化
   很难。当你年轻的时候,你可以解决这些问题---
   有些事情暂时很难,但你有信心。
   如果不成功,你会做别的事。
   
   他最在乎夏天---太阳到达他。
   这儿很残忍,你能感觉到世界在变老。
   草变干了,花园里充满杂草和鼻涕虫。
   
   它曾经是我们最好的时光。
   他下班回家时的光明的时间---
   我们会把它们变成黑暗的时间。
   
   每件事都是一个大秘密---
   甚至我们每晚说的事。
   
   太阳慢慢落下,
   我们会看到城市的灯光亮起。
   夜色星光熠熠---星星
   在高楼上闪闪发光。
   
   有时我们会点蜡烛。
   但大多数夜晚,不点。大多数夜晚,我们会躺在黑暗中,
   双臂相拥。
   
   但是有一种感觉,你可以控制灯光---
   那是一种美妙的感觉;你可以使整个房间
   重新明亮,或者你可以躺在晚上的空气中,
   聆听汽车的声音。
   
   过一会儿我们安静下来。夜晚会变得安静。
   但是我们没有睡觉,我们不想失去知觉。
   我们已准许晚上带我们一起去;
   我们躺在那里,不干涉。一个小时又一个小时,每个人
   都在听对方的呼吸,看着床头的
   窗户里灯光的变化---
   
   不管在那扇窗户里发生了什么,
   我们和它都很和谐。
  
  
  
Figs
   
   
   
   My mother made figs in wine---
   poached with cloves, sometimes a few peppercorns.
   Black figs, from our tree.
   And the wine was red, the pepper left a taste of smoke in the syrup.
   I used to feel I was in another country.
   
   Before that, there'd be chicken.
   In autumn, sometimes filled with wild mushrooms.
   There wasn't always time for that.
   And the weather had to be right, just after the rain.
   Sometimes it was just chicken, with a lemon inside.
   
   She'd open the wine. Nothing special---
   something she got from the neighbors.
   I miss that wine---what I buy now doesn't taste as good.
   
   I make these things for my husband,
   but he doesn't like them.
   He wants his mother's dishes, but I don't make them well.
   When I try, I get angry---
   
   He's trying to turn me into a person I never was.
   He thinks it's a simple thing---
   you cut up a chicken, throw a few tomatoes into the pan.
   Garlic, if there's garlic.
   An hour later, you're in paradise.
   
   He thinks it's my job to learn, not his job
   to teach me. What my mother cooked, I don't need to learn.
   My hands already knew, just from smelling the cloves
   while I did my homework.
   When it was my turn, I was right. I did know.
   The first time I tasted them, my childhood came back.
   When we were young, it was different.
   My husband and I---we were in love. All we ever wanted
   was to touch each other.
   
   He comes home, he's tired.
   Everything is hard---making money is hard, watching your body change
   is hard. You can take these problems when you're young---
   something’s difficult for a while, but you’re confident.
   If it doesn't work out, you'll do something else.
   
   He minds summer most---the sun gets to him.
   Here it's merciless, you can feel the world aging.
   The grass turns dry, the gardens get full of weeds and slugs.
   
   It was the best time for us once.
   The hours of light when he came home from work---
   we'd turn them into hours of darkness.
   Everything was a big secret---
   even the things we said every night.
   
   And slowly the sun would go down;
   we’d see the lights of the city come on.
   The nights were glossy with stars---stars
   glittered above the high buildings.
   
   Sometimes we’d light a candle.
   But most nights, no. Most nights we'd lie there in the darkness,
   with our arms around each other.
   
   But there was a sense you could control the light---
   it was a wonderful feeling; you could make the whole room
   bright again, or you could lie in the night air,
   listening to the cars.
   
   We'd get quiet after a while. The night would get quiet.
   But we didn't sleep, we didn't want to give up consciousness.
   We had given the night permission to carry us along;
   we lay there, not interfering. Hour after hour, each one
   listening to the other's breath, watching the light change
   in the window at the end of the bed---
   
   whatever happened in that window,
   we were in harmony with it.
   
   
  
  
  
  
在舞会上
   
   (选自A VILLAGE LIFE (2009))
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   我们每年挂两次圣诞灯---
   在圣诞节为我们的主降生,在八月底,
   作为对丰收的祝福---
   接近终点,但在终点之前,
   每个人都会来看,
   即使是年纪最大的几乎不能走路的人---
   
   他们必须看到彩灯,
   夏天也总是有音乐---
   音乐和跳舞。
   
   对年轻人来说,这就是一切。
   你的生活就是在这里---完成的一切在星光下
   开始在广场的灯光下开始。
   香烟的雾,女人们聚集在彩色遮阳篷下
   唱着当年流行的任何歌曲,
   脸颊因阳光而变褐色,因酒而变红。
   
   我记得所有的一切---我和我朋友,我们如何被音乐改变,
   那些女人,我记得她们是多么勇敢,胆小者
   和其他人一起---
   
   我们被施了咒语,但这也是一种疾病,
   男人和女人选择彼此几乎是偶然的,随机的,
   灯光闪烁,令人误解,
   因为无论你做什么,你都会永远做下去---
   
   而当时看来
   这样的游戏,真的---快乐,随意,
   像烟一样消散,像香水在女人的胸前,
   强烈,因为你的眼睛闭上了。
   
   这些事情如何决定?
   凭嗅觉,凭感觉---男人会走近女人,
   请她跳舞,但这意味着
   你能让我碰你吗,这个女人可以说
   很多事,以后再问我,她可以说,再问我一次。
   或者她可以说不,转身离开,
   好像当晚除了你之外什么都没有发生过
   你还是不够,或者她可以说是的,我喜欢跳舞
   这意味着是的,我想被触摸。
  
  
  
At the Dance
   
   
   
   Twice a year we hung the Christmas lights---
   at Christmas for our Lord's birth, and at the end of August,
   as a blessing on the harvest---
   near the end but before the end,
   and everyone would come to see,
   even the oldest people who could hardly walk---
   
   They had to see the colored lights,
   and in summer there was always music, too---
   music and dancing.
   
   For the young, it was everything.
   Your life was made here---what was finished under the stars
   started in the lights of the plaza.
   Haze of cigarettes, the women gathered under the colored awnings
   singing along with whatever songs were popular that year,
   cheeks brown from the sun and red from the wine.
   
   I remember all of it---my friends and I, how we were changed by the music,
   and the women, I remember how bold they were, the timid ones
   along with the others---
   
   A spell was on us, but it was a sickness too,
   the men and women choosing each other almost by accident, randomly,
   and the lights glittering, misleading,
   because whatever you did then you did forever---
   
   And it seemed at the time
   such a game, really---lighthearted, casual,
   dissipating like smoke, like perfume between a woman’s breasts,
   intense because your eyes are closed.
   
   How were these things decided?
   By smell, by feel---a man would approach a woman,
   ask her to dance, but what it meant was
   will you let me touch you, and the woman could say
   many things, ask me later, she could say, ask me again.
   Or she could say no, and turn away,
   as though if nothing but you happened that night
   you still weren't enough, or she could say yes, I’d love to dance
   which meant yes, I want to be touched.
  
  
  
  
孤独
   
   (选自A VILLAGE LIFE (2009))
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   今天天很黑,透过雨,
   山看不见了。唯一的声音
   是雨,把生命推向地下。
   随着雨,寒冷来临。
   今晚没有月亮,没有星星。
   
   夜里起了风,
   整个上午抽打着麦子---
   到了中午就停了。但是风暴继续,
   浸湿了干涸的田地,然后淹没了它们---
   
   大地消失。
   什么也看不见,只有雨
   在黑暗的窗户上闪闪发光。
   这是休息的地方,没有东西移动---
   
   现在我们又回到了从前,
   生活在黑暗中
   没有语言和视觉的动物---
   
   没什么证明我还活着。
   只有雨,雨是无尽的。
  
  
  
Solitude
   
   
   It's very dark today; through the rain,
   the mountain isn't visible. The only sound
   is rain, driving life underground.
   And with the rain, cold comes.
   There will be no moon tonight, no stars.
   
   The wind rose at night;
   all morning it lashed against the wheat---
   at noon it ended. But the storm went on,
   soaking the dry fields, then flooding them---
   
   The earth has vanished.
   There’s nothing to see, only the rain
   gleaming against the dark windows.
   This is the resting place, where nothing moves---
   
   Now we return to what we were,
   animals living in darkness
   without language or vision---
   
   Nothing proves I’m alive.
   There is only the rain, the rain is endless.
  
  
  
  
蚯蚓
   
   (选自A VILLAGE LIFE (2009))
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   不做人类并不可悲
   完全生活在大地球里也不
   卑微或空虚:捍卫它的卓越
   是心灵的本性,就像那些
   在表面行走的人怕死的本性一样---一个人的
   位置决定他的感受。然而
   走在一个事物之上并不是要战胜它---
   更多的是相反的,一种伪装的依赖,
   通过它,奴隶完成了主人。同样地
   心灵蔑视它无法控制的东西,
   而这又会反过来摧毁它。返回并不痛苦
   没有语言和视觉:如果,像佛教徒一样,
   一个人拒绝离开
   自我的存货,一个人出现在一个
   心灵无法想象的空间里,完全是物理的,而不是
   隐喻的。你的词语是什么?“无穷”,意味着
   无法测量。
  
  
  
Earthworm
   
   
   
   It is not sad not to be human
   nor is living entirely within the earth
   demeaning or empty: it is the nature of the mind
   to defend its eminence, as it is the nature of those
   who walk on the surface to fear the depths---one’s
   position determines one’s feelings. And yet
   to walk on top of a thing is not to prevail over it---
   it is more the opposite, a disguised dependency,
   by which the slave completes the master. Likewise
   the mind disdains what it can’t control,
   which will in turn destroy it. It is not painful to return
   without language or vision: if, like the Buddhists,
   one declines to leave
   inventories of the self, one emerges in a space
   the mind cannot conceive, being wholly physical, not
   metaphoric. What is your word? Infinity, meaning
   that which cannot be measured.
  
  
  
  
橄榄树
   
   (选自A VILLAGE LIFE (2009))
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   这栋楼是砖砌的,所以夏天墙壁变热。
   夏天过去了,它们仍然很热
   尤其是在南边---你能感觉到那儿的阳光,在砖上,
   仿佛意味着在墙上留下印记,不仅仅是从上面掠过它
   在通往山丘的路上。我在这里休息,靠在墙上,
   抽烟。
   
   老板们并不介意---他们开玩笑说,如果生意失败,
   他们只会租墙面。大笑话---大家大声笑着。
   但你不能吃---他们不想让老鼠在这里,寻找残羹剩饭。
   
   其他一些人不在乎自己是否热,感觉到阳光
   从温暖的砖头照在他们的背上。他们想知道风景在哪里。
   对我来说,我看到的并不重要。我在那些山上长大;
   我将葬在那里。在这中间,我不需要一直偷看。
   
   我妻子说当我说这样的话时,我的嘴就会变得更痛苦。
   她爱这个村子---每天她都想念她母亲。
   她怀念她的青春---我们如何在那里相识相爱。
   我们的孩子如何在那里出生。她知道她再也回不去了
   但她保持着希望---
   
   晚上躺在床上,她的眼睛一片模糊。她谈到橄榄树,
   长长的银色叶子在阳光下闪闪发光。
   树皮,树木本身,如此柔软,苍白的灰色,就像它们背后的岩石。
   
   她记得她采摘了橄榄,是它制造了最好的卤水。
   我记得那时她的手,有醋味。
   还有橄榄的苦味,在你知道不吃它们
   从树上摘下来摘下前。
   
   我提醒她如果没有人来治疗,它们多么没用。
   用盐水浸泡它们,放在外面阳光下---
   我告诉她一切自然万物对我来说都是这样的,无用而痛苦。
   就像一个陷阱---你会因为橄榄叶而掉进它,
   因为它们很漂亮。
   
   你长大,看着山峦,太阳如何在它们后面设置背景。
   还有橄榄树,摇曳着,闪闪发光。你意识到,如果你不快点出来
   你会死,就好像这美堵住你的嘴,以至你不能呼吸---
   
   我告诉她我知道我们被困在这里。但是被正派的人
   困住,他们甚至重修餐厅,
   比被太阳和山丘困住更好。当我在这里抱怨,
   我的声音被听到了---有人的声音被听到了。有争论,有愤怒。
   但是人类是在互相交谈,我和妻子说话的方式。
   交谈着,即使他们不同意,当其中一个只是假装。
   
   在另一种生活,你的绝望仅仅变成沉默。
   太阳消失在西边的山后面---
   当它回来,你完全没有提到你的痛苦。
   所以你的声音消失。你停止尝试,不仅和太阳一起,
   还和人类一起。那些让你快乐的小事
   再也无法让你理解。
   
   我知道这里的事很难。主人们---我知道他们有时会撒谎。
   但有些真理会毁了一个生命;同样,有些谎言
   是慷慨、温暖和舒适的,就像砖墙上的太阳。
   
   所以当你想到墙的时候,你不会想到“监狱”。
   更多的是相反的---你想到你逃脱的一切,在这里。
   然后我妻子放弃这晚上,她转过她的背。
   有些晚上她会哭一会。
   她唯一的武器是真相---这是真的,山很美。
   橄榄树真的像银。
   
   但一个接受谎言的人,一个因为温暖
   而接受谎言的支持的人,在一段时间内是愉快的---
   那个人永远不会明白,不管她有多爱他。
  
  
  
Olive Trees
   
   
   
   The building's brick, so the walls get warm in summer.
   When the summer goes, they're still warm,
   especially on the south side---you feel the sun there, in the brick,
   as though it meant to leave its stamp on the wall, not just sail over it
   on its way to the hills. I take my breaks here, leaning against the wall,
   smoking cigarettes.
   
   The bosses don’t mind---they joke that if the business fails,
   they'll just rent wall space. Big joke---everyone laughs very loud.
   But you can’t eat---they don't want rats here, looking for scraps.
   
   Some of the others don’t care about being warm, feeling the sun on their backs
   from the warm brick. They want to know where the views are.
   To me, it isn’t important what I see. I grew up in those hills;
   I’ll be buried there. In between, I don’t need to keep sneaking looks.
   
   My wife says when I say things like this my mouth goes bitter.
   She loves the village---every day she misses her mother.
   She misses her youth---how we met there and fell in love.
   How our children were born there. She knows she'll never go back
   but she keeps hoping---
   
   At night in bed, her eyes film over. She talks about the olive trees,
   the long silver leaves shimmering in the sunlight.
   And the bark, the trees themselves, so supple, pale gray like the rocks behind them.
   
   She remembers picking the olives, who made the best brine.
   I remember her hands then, smelling of vinegar.
   And the bitter taste of the olives, before you knew not to eat them
   fresh off the tree.
   
   And I remind her how useless they were without people to cure them.
   Brine them, set them out in the sun---
   And I tell her all nature is like that to me, useless and bitter.
   It’s like a trap---and you fall into it because of the olive leaves,
   because they're beautiful.
   
   You grow up looking at the hills, how the sun sets behind them.
   And the olive trees, waving and shimmering. And you realize that if you don't get out fast
   you’ll die, as though this beauty were gagging you so you couldn’t breathe---
   
   And I tell her I know we’re trapped here. But better to be trapped
   by decent men, who even re-do the lunchroom,
   than by the sun and the hills. When I complain here,
   my voice is heard ---somebody’s voice is heard. There’s dispute, there’s anger.
   But human beings are talking to each other, the way my wife and I talk.
   Talking even when they don't agree, when one of them is only pretending.
   
   In the other life, your despair just turns into silence.
   The sun disappears behind the western hills---
   when it comes back, there's no reference at all to your suffering.
   So your voice dies away. You stop trying, not just with the sun,
   but with human beings. And the small things that made you happy
   can't get through to you anymore.
   
   I know things are hard here. And the owners---I know they lie sometimes.
   But there are truths that ruin a life; the same way, some lies
   are generous, warm and cozy like the sun on the brick wall.
   
   So when you think of the wall, you don't think prison.
   More the opposite---you think of everything you escaped, being here.
   And then my wife gives up for the night, she turns her back.
   Some nights she cries a little.
   Her only weapon was the truth—it is true, the hills are beautiful.
   And the olive trees really are like silver.
   
   But a person who accepts a lie, who accepts support from it
   because it’s warm, it’s pleasant for a little while---
   that person shell never understand, no matter how much she loves him.
  
  
   

 楼主| 发表于 2020-11-26 20:21:01 | 显示全部楼层
  
日出
   
   (选自A VILLAGE LIFE (2009))
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   一年的这个时候,窗台上的山峦,
   百里香和迷迭香的气味在那儿弥漫,
   挤进岩石之间的狭窄空间,
   往下,是真正的泥土,
   与其他东西竞争,蓝莓和醋栗,
   蜜蜂喜欢的小灌木树---
   无论我们吃什么,都有山丘的气味,
   即使几乎什么都没有。
   或许这就是尝着的味道什么也不像的东西,百里香和迷迭香。
   
   也许,这也是它看起来的样子---
   漂亮,像山峦,树的线条上的岩石
   用芳香的草本植物结网,
   小植物闪耀着露水---
   
   爬上那里等待黎明是件大事,
   看到太阳从岩石后面滑出时看到的东西,
   你看不到,你想象的东西;
   
   你的眼睛会走到它们所能的一样远,达到河边,比如说,
   剩下的你的脑子会做---
   
   如果你错过了一天,总有第二天,
   如果你错过了一年,那也没关系,
   山峦没到任何地方,
   百里香和迷迭香不断回来,
   太阳不断升起,灌木丛不断结出果实---
   
   路灯熄灭了,这里是黎明。
   它开了:那是黄昏。
   不管怎样,没人抬头看。每个人都向前推进,
   过去的味道无处不在,
   百里香和迷迭香摩擦你的衣服,
   太多幻觉的味道---
   
   我回去了,但没有逗留。
   我关心的每个人都不见了,
   有的死了,有的消失在一个不存在的地方,
   那些我们梦寐以求的地方,因为我们从山顶上看到了它们---
   我得看看田野是否还在闪烁,
   太阳说世界有多美的同样的谎言
   当你只需要知道一切的一个地方,有没有人住在那里。
   如果有,你知道一切。
   
   在他们之间,山峦和天空占据了整个空间。
   不管剩下什么,都归我们所有一段时间。
   但迟早山丘会把它夺回,交给动物。
   也许月亮会把海洋送到那里
   而我们曾经生活过的地方将是一条小溪或河流,盘旋在山脚下,
   向天空支付倒影的问候---
   
   蓝色的夏天。下雪时是白色的。
  
  
  
Sunrise
   
   
   
   This time of year, the window boxes smell of the hills,
   the thyme and rosemary that grew there,
   crammed into the narrow spaces between the rocks
   and, lower down, where there was real dirt,
   competing with other things, blueberries and currants,
   the small shrubby trees the bees love---
   Whatever we ate smelled of the hills,
   even when there was almost nothing.
   Or maybe that's what nothing tastes like, thyme and rosemary.
   
   Maybe, too, that’s what it looks like---
   beautiful, like the hills, the rocks above the tree line
   webbed with sweet-smelling herbs,
   the small plants glittering with dew---
   
   It was a big event to climb up there and wait for dawn,
   seeing what the sun sees as it slides out from behind the rocks,
   and what you couldn't see, you imagined;
   
   your eyes would go as far as they could, to the river, say,
   and your mind would do the rest---
   
   And if you missed a day, there was always the next,
   and if you missed a year, it didn't matter,
   the hills weren't going anywhere,
   the thyme and rosemary kept coming back,
   the sun kept rising, the bushes kept bearing fruit---
   
   The streetlight's off: that's dawn here.
   It's on: that's twilight.
   Either way, no one looks up. Everyone just pushes ahead,
   and the smell of the past is everywhere,
   the thyme and rosemary rubbing against your clothes,
   the smell of too many illusions---
   
   I went back but I didn’t stay.
   Everyone I cared about was gone,
   some dead, some disappeared into one of those places that don't exist,
   the ones we dreamed about because we saw them from the top of the hills---
   I had to see if the fields were still shining,
   the sun telling the same lies about how beautiful the world is
   when all you need to know of a place is, do people live there.
   If they do, you know everything.
   
   Between them, the hills and sky took up all the room.
   Whatever was left, that was ours for a while.
   But sooner or later the hills will take it back, give it to the animals.
   And maybe the moon will send the seas there
   and where we once lived will be a stream or river coiling around the base of the hills,
   paying the sky the compliment of reflection---
   
   Blue in summer. White when the snowfalls.
  
  
  
  
温暖的一天
   
   (选自A VILLAGE LIFE (2009))
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   今天阳光灿烂
   所以我的邻居在河里洗她的睡衣---
   她回家时把所有东西都叠在篮子里,
   喜不自禁,好像她的生命刚刚
   延长了十年。洁净让她快乐---
   它说你可以重新开始,
   旧的错误不会阻碍你。
   
   一个好邻居---我们互相留下
   我们的隐私。刚才,
   她对自己歌唱,把湿漉漉的洗涤物钉在绳子上。
   
   点点滴滴,像这样的日子
   似乎正常。但是冬天很难:
   夜幕降临得很早,晨曦一片灰暗
   伴随灰色的,持续的雨---几个月的雨,
   然后雪,像寂静一样从天而降,
   湮没了树木和花园。
   
   今天,一切都过去了。
   鸟儿们回来了,在种子上叽叽喳喳。
   所有的雪融化,果树覆盖着新长的绒毛。
   一些夫妇甚至走在草地上,承诺他们承诺的任何东西。
   
   我们站在阳光下,阳光治愈我们。
   它不会匆匆离去。它悬在我们的头顶上,一动不动,
   就像一个对他受欢迎感到高兴的演员。
   
   我的邻居安静了一会儿,
   盯着山,听着鸟。
   
   这么多衣服,从哪里来的?
   我的邻居还在外面,
   把它们固定在线上,好像篮子永远不空---
   
   尽管太阳开始在天空中移动得更低,
   但它仍然是满满的,什么也没有完成;
   记得,现在还不是夏天,只是春天的开始;
   温暖还没有深入人心,寒冷又回来了---
   
   她感觉到了,好像最后一块亚麻布在她手里冻住了。
   她看着她的手---它们多老。这不是开始,而是结束。
   成人们,他们现在都死了。
   只有孩子们留下,孤零零地,长大。
  
  
  
A Warm Day
   
   
   
   Today the sun was shining
   so my neighbor washed her nightdresses in the river---
   she comes home with everything folded in a basket,
   beaming, as though her life had just been
   lengthened a decade. Cleanliness makes her happy---
   it says you can begin again,
   the old mistakes needn't hold you back.
   
   A good neighbor---we leave each other
   to our privacies. Just now,
   she's singing to herself, pinning the damp wash to the line.
   
   Little by little, days like this
   will seem normal. But winter was hard:
   the nights coming early, the dawns dark
   with a gray, persistent rain---months of that,
   and then the snow, like silence coming from the sky,
   obliterating the trees and gardens.
   
   Today, all that's past us.
   The birds are back, chattering over seeds.
   All the snow's melted; the fruit trees are covered with downy new growth.
   A few couples even walk in the meadow, promising whatever they promise.
   
   We stand in the sun and the sun heals us.
   It doesn't rush away. It hangs above us, unmoving,
   like an actor pleased with his welcome.
   
   My neighbor’s quiet a moment,
   staring at the mountain, listening to the birds.
   
   So many garments, where did they come from?
   And my neighbor’s still out there,
   fixing them to the line, as though the basket would never be empty---
   
   It's still full, nothing is finished,
   though the sun's beginning to move lower in the sky;
   remember, it isn't summer yet, only the beginning of spring;
   warmth hasn't taken hold yet, and the cold's returning---
   
   She feels it, as though the last bit of linen had frozen in her hands.
   She looks at her hands---how old they are. It’s not the beginning, it’s the end.
   And the adults, they're all dead now.
   Only the children are left, alone, growing old.
  
  
  
  
燃烧的树叶
   
   (选自A VILLAGE LIFE (2009))
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   枯叶很快抓住了火。
   它们燃烧得很快;很快,
   它们从某物变成了虚无。
   
   中午。天空是冷的,蓝色的;
   在火下,是灰色的大地。
   
   一切进展得多快,烟消散得多快。
   在那堆树叶的地方,
   一片突然间似乎广阔的空虚。
   
   在马路对面,一个男孩注视着。
   他呆了很长时间,注视着树叶燃烧。
   也许这就是大地死时你是如何知道的原因---
   它会点火。
  
  
  
Burning Leaves
   
   
   
   The dead leaves catch fire quickly.
   And they burn quickly; in no time at all,
   they change from something to nothing.
   
   Midday. The sky is cold, blue;
   under the fire, there's gray earth.
   
   How fast it all goes, how fast the smoke clears.
   And where the pile of leaves was,
   an emptiness that suddenly seems vast.
   
   Across the road, a boy's watching.
   He stays a long time, watching the leaves burn.
   Maybe this is how you’ll know when the earth is dead---
   it will ignite.
  
  
  
  
十字路口
   
   (选自A VILLAGE LIFE (2009))
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   我的身体,既然我们太长时间不再一起旅行,
   因此我开始对你感到一种新的柔情,非常原始和陌生,
   就像我年轻时对爱的记忆---
   
   爱的目标常常是愚蠢的
   但其选择,强度从不。
   预先要求太多,不能承诺的太多---
   
   我的灵魂如此可怕,如此暴力:
   原谅它的残酷。
   好像它是灵魂,我的手小心翼翼地在你身上移动,
   
   不希望冒犯你
   而是渴望,最终,实现作为实体的表达:
   
   我想念的不是大地,
   而是想念你。
  
  
  
Crossroads
   
   
   
   
   My body, now that we will not be traveling together much longer
   I begin to feel a new tenderness toward you, very raw and unfamiliar,
   like what I remember of love when I was young---
   
   love that was so often foolish in its objectives
   but never in its choices, its intensities.
   Too much demanded in advance, too much that could not be promised---
   
   My soul has been so fearful, so violent:
   forgive its brutality.
   As though it were that soul, my hand moves over you cautiously,
   
   not wishing to give offense
   but eager, finally, to achieve expression as substance:
   
   it is not the earth I will miss,
   it is you I will miss.
  
  
  
  
蝙蝠
   ---献给埃伦.平斯基
   
   (选自A VILLAGE LIFE (2009))
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   关于死亡,人们可能会注意到
   那些有发言权的人保持沉默:
   另一些人强迫自己走上讲坛或
   舞台中心---经验
   总是比理论更可取,他们很少是
   真正的超视者,信念也不是
   洞察力的共同方面。仰望夜空:
   如果通过感官分散注意力是生命的本质
   你现在看到的似乎是死亡的模拟,蝙蝠
   在黑暗中旋转---但人类对死亡
   一无所知。如果我们怎么行为就是你怎么感受的,
   这不是死亡的面貌,这是生活的面貌。
   你也是瞎子。你也在黑暗中的连枷。
   一种可怕的孤独包围着所有
   面对死亡的人。正如玛格利斯所说:死亡
   把我们都吓沉默了。
  
  
  
Bats
   ---for Ellen Pinsky
   
   
   
   
   Concerning death, one might observe
   that those with authority to speak remain silent:
   others force their way to the pulpit or
   center stage---experience
   being always preferable to theory, they are rarely
   true clairvoyants, nor is conviction
   the common aspect of insight. Look up into the night:
   if distraction through the senses is the essence of life
   what you see now appears to be a simulation of death, bats
   whirling in darkness --- But man knows
   nothing of death. If how we behave is how you feel,
   this is not what death is like, this is what life is like.
   You too are blind. You too flail in darkness.
   A terrible solitude surrounds all beings who
   confront mortality. As Margulies says: death
   terrifies us all into silence.
  
  
  
  
丰富
   
   (选自A VILLAGE LIFE (2009))
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   夏天的晚上,一阵凉风吹拂着,搅动小麦。
   小麦弯腰,桃树的叶子
   在夜前沙沙作响。
   
   黑暗中,一个男孩正在穿过田野:
   第一次,他触摸一个女孩,
   于是他护送一个回家,带着男人的饥渴。
   
   果实慢慢成熟
   一棵树上的篮子和篮子
   所以每年腐烂一些
   几个星期内太多:
   之前和之后,什么都没有。
   
   在一排排麦子之间
   你可以看到老鼠,它们在地上
   闪动,快跑,尽管麦子高耸在它们的上方,
   翻腾着,就像夏日的风吹拂。
   
   月亮是圆的。一种奇怪的声音
   从田野传来---也许是风。
   
   但对老鼠来说,这是一个像夏天一样的夜晚。
   水果和谷物:丰富的时期。
   没有人死,没有人挨饿。
   
   除了麦子的轰鸣声,没有其他声音。
  
  
  
Abundance
   
   
   
   A cool wind blows on summer evenings, stirring the wheat.
   The wheat bends, the leaves of the peach trees
   rustle in the night ahead.
   
   In the dark,a boy’s crossing the field:
   for the first time, he’s touched a girl
   so he walks home a man, with a man's hungers.
   
   Slowly the fruit ripens---
   baskets and baskets from a single tree
   so some rots every year
   and for a few weeks there's too much:
   before and after, nothing.
   
   Between the rows of wheat
   you can see the mice, flashing and scurrying
   across the earth, though the wheat towers above them,
   churning as the summer wind blows.
   
   The moon is full. A strange sound
   comes from the field---maybe the wind.
   
   But for the mice it’s a night like any summer night.
   Fruit and grain: a time of abundance.
   Nobody dies, nobody goes hungry.
   
   No sound except the roar of the wheat.
  
  
  
  
仲夏
   
   (选自A VILLAGE LIFE (2009))
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   在这样的夜晚,我们经常在采石场游泳,
   男孩们在做游戏,要求他们撕掉女孩们的衣服
   而女孩们则在合作,(1)因为她们从去年夏天就有了新的身体,
   她们想展示它们,勇敢的人
   从高高的岩石上跳下---身体挤入水。
   
   夜晚潮湿,仍然。这块石头又凉又湿,
   大理石为墓地,为我们从未见过的建筑,
   遥远城市里的建筑。
   
   在多云的夜晚,你是瞎子。那些夜晚,岩石很危险,
   但从另一个角度来说,一切都很危险,这就是我们所追求的。
   夏天开始了。然后男孩和女孩开始结对
   但总是有几个留在最后---有时他们放哨,
   有时候,他们会假装和其他人一样私奔,
   但是在树林里,他们能做什么呢?没人想成为他们。
   但他们无论如何都会出现,好像某个晚上他们的运气会改变,
   命运也会是一个不同的命运。
   
   不过,在开始和结束时,我们都在一起。
   晚上做完杂务,较小的孩子们上床睡觉后,
   我们就自由了。没有人说什么,但我们知道我们见面的晚上
   和不见面的晚上。有一两次,在夏末,
   我们可以看到一个婴儿出自于所有接吻的一切。
   
   对这两个人来说,这太可怕了,就像独自一个人一样可怕。
   游戏结束。我们坐在岩石上抽烟,
   担心那些不在那里的人。
   
   最后穿过田野回家,
   因为第二天总是有工作。
   第二天,我们又是小孩子,早上坐在前面的台阶上,
   吃着桃子。只不过,有嘴似乎是一种荣幸。
   
   然后去工作,这意味着在田里帮忙。
   一个男孩为一位老太太干活,做架子。
   这所房子很旧,可能是在建山的时候建的。
   
   然后白天就消失了。我们在做梦,等待夜晚。
   暮色中站在前门,看着影子变长。
   厨房里总有一个声音在抱怨热,
   想让热分开。
   
   然后热量爆发,夜色晴朗。
   你想到了你以后会遇到的男孩或女孩。
   你想到走进树林躺下,
   在水里练习你学过的所有事情。
   虽然有时你看不见和你在一起的人,
   但没有人可以代替那个人。
   
   夏日的夜晚闪闪发光;田野里,萤火虫闪闪发光。
   对于那些理解这些事情的人来说,星星在传递信息:
   你会离开你出生的村庄
   在另一个国家,你会变得非常富有,非常强大,
   但是你总是会为你留下的东西而悲伤,即使你说不出它是什么,
   最终你会回来寻找它。
   -----
   (1)男人暴力,女人配合,就像大地渴望,配合太阳的强暴,这个主题格丽克的诗已经出现很多次了。大概女人最知道这层深渊,如前面说到的多丽丝.莱辛,耶利内克。本帖前面说到库切的《耻》,同样的问题他几乎就要窥见答案了,但滑过了。男作家很少有这视力,当然,伟大的乔伊斯,普鲁斯特,卡夫卡,陀斯妥耶夫斯基,莎士比亚,尼采例外,这些顶峰们永远例外。还有拉伯雷。
  
  
  
Midsummer
   
   On nights like this we used to swim in the quarry,
   the boys making up games requiring them to tear off the girls' clothes
   and the girls cooperating, because they had new bodies since last summer
   and they wanted to exhibit them, the brave ones
   leaping off the high rocks---bodies crowding the water.
   
   The nights were humid, still. The stone was cool and wet,
   marble for graveyards, for buildings that we never saw,
   buildings in cities far away.
   
   On cloudy nights, you were blind. Those nights the rocks were dangerous,
   but in another way it was all dangerous, that was what we were after.
   The summer started. Then the boys and girls began to pair off
   but always there were a few left at the end ---sometimes they'd keep watch,
   sometimes they'd pretend to go off with each other like the rest,
   but what could they do there, in the woods? No one wanted to be them.
   But they'd show up anyway, as though some night their luck would change,
   fate would be a different fate.
   
   At the beginning and at the end, though, we were all together.
   After the evening chores, after the smaller children were in bed,
   then we were free. Nobody said anything, but we knew the nights we'd meet
   and the nights we wouldn't. Once or twice, at the end of summer,
   we could see a baby was going to come out of all that kissing.
   
   And for those two, it was terrible, as terrible as being alone.
   The game was over. We'd sit on the rocks smoking cigarettes,
   worrying about the ones who weren't there.
   
   And then finally walk home through the fields,
   because there was always work the next day.
   And the next day, we were kids again, sitting on the front steps in the morning,
   eating a peach. Just that, but it seemed an honor to have a mouth.
   And then going to work, which meant helping out in the fields.
   One boy worked for an old lady, building shelves.
   The house was very old, maybe built when the mountain was built.
   
   And then the day faded. We were dreaming, waiting for night.
   Standing at the front door at twilight, watching the shadows lengthen.
   And a voice in the kitchen was always complaining about the heat,
   wanting the heat to break.
   
   Then the heat broke, the night was clear.
   And you thought of the boy or girl you'd be meeting later.
   And you thought of walking into the woods and lying down,
   practicing all those things you were learning in the water.
   And though sometimes you couldn’t see the person you were with,
   there was no substitute for that person.
   
   The summer night glowed; in the field, fireflies were glinting.
   And for those who understood such things, the stars were sending messages:
   You will leave the village where you were born
   and in another country you'll become very rich, very powerful,
   but always you will mourn something you left behind, even though you can't say what it was,
   and eventually you will return to seek it.
  
  

 楼主| 发表于 2020-11-27 14:26:30 | 显示全部楼层
脱粒
   
   (选自A VILLAGE LIFE (2009))
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   山后的天空之光
   虽然太阳不见了---这光
   像太阳的影子,掠过大地。
   
   以前,太阳高的时候,
   你不能看天空,否则你会失明。
   每天的那个时候,男人们不工作。
   他们躺在阴凉处,等待,休息;
   他们的汗衫沾满了汗水。
   
   但是在树下很凉爽,
   就像一瓶水在周围传播。
   一个绿色的雨篷在他们头上,挡住了阳光。
   没有说话,只有树叶在热浪中沙沙作响,
   还有水从手到手移动的声音。
   
   这一两个小时是一天中最好的时间。
   不睡,不醒,不喝酒,
   女人遥远
   于是日子突然变得平静,安静和广阔,
   没有女人的骚动。
   
   男人们躺在他们的帐篷下,除了炎热,
   好像工作已经完成。
   在田野之外,河水无声、静止不动---
   浮渣让表面斑驳陆离。
   
   对男人来说,他们知道时间什么时候消失。
   
   烧瓶储存,面包,如果有面包。
   树叶变暗了一点,影子变了。
   太阳又开始移动,带着男人们,
   不管他们的喜好。
   
   在田野上,酷热依旧,甚至在衰退。
   机器停在原地,
   耐心地,等待男人们归来。
   
   天空很明亮,但暮色即将来临。
   麦子必须脱粒,还剩许多时间
   完成工作之前。
   然后,穿过田野走回家,
   对付晚上。
   
   那么多时间最好地被忘记。
   紧张,不能睡觉,女人柔软的身体
   总是靠得更近---
   在树林的那个时间:那是现实。
   这就是梦。
Threshing
   
   
   
   The sky’s light behind the mountain
   though the sun is gone---this light
   is like the sun's shadow, passing over the earth.
   
   Before, when the sun was high,
   you couldn't look at the sky or you'd go blind.
   That time of day, the men don't work.
   They lie in the shade, waiting, resting;
   their undershirts are stained with sweat.
   
   But under the trees it’s cool,
   like the flask of water that gets passed around.
   A green awning's over their heads, blocking the sun.
   No talk, just the leaves rustling in the heat,
   the sound of the water moving from hand to hand.
   
   This hour or two is the best time of day.
   Not asleep, not awake, not drunk,
   and the women far away
   so that the day becomes suddenly calm, quiet and expansive,
   without the women's turbulence.
   
   The men lie under their canopy, apart from the heat,
   as though the work were done.
   Beyond the fields, the river's soundless, motionless---
   scum mottles the surface.
   
   To a man, they know when the hour's gone.
   The flask gets put away, the bread, if there's bread.
   The leaves darken a little, the shadows change.
   The sun's moving again, taking the men along,
   regardless of their preferences.
   
   Above the fields, the heat's fierce still, even in decline.
   The machines stand where they were left,
   patient, waiting for the men's return.
   
   The sky's bright, but twilight is coming.
   The wheat has to be threshed; many hours remain
   before the work is finished.
   And afterward, walking home through the fields,
   dealing with the evening.
   
   So much time best forgotten.
   Tense, unable to sleep, the woman's soft body
   always shifting closer---
   That time in the woods: that was reality.
   This is the dream.
  
乡村生活
   
   (选自A VILLAGE LIFE (2009))
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   死亡和不确定性等待着我
   就像它们等待所有人,阴影评估我
   因为毁灭一个人需要时间,
   悬挂的元素
   需要保留---
   
   星期天我遛邻居的狗
   因此她能去教堂为生病的母亲祈祷。
   
   狗在门口等我。夏天和冬天
   我们走同一条路,清晨,在悬崖的底部。
   有时狗会离开我---一两分钟,
   我在树后面看不见它。他为此感到非常自豪,
   他偶尔会显示这个诡计,然后又放弃
   作为对我的喜爱---
   
   后来,我回到家里去拾柴。
   
   每次散步时我保存在我脑海中的画面:
   生长在路边的香薄荷;
   早春,狗追着小灰鼠,
   
   所以有一会儿似乎可以
   不去想身体的控制减弱,身体
   与虚空的比例不断变化,
   
   祈祷变成了为死者祈祷。
   
   正午,教堂的钟声结束。光线过量:
   静静地,大雾覆盖草地,所以你看不到
   远处的山,覆盖着冰雪。
   
   当它再次出现,我的邻居认为
   她的祈祷得到了回应。太多的光,她无法控制自己的幸福---
   它必须在语言中迸发出来。“你好,”她喊道,好像
   那是她最好的翻译。
   
   她相信圣母,就像我相信山,
   尽管有一次雾永远不会升起。
   但每个人都把希望寄托在不同的地方。
   
   我做汤,往我的杯子里倒酒。
   我很紧张,就像一个接近青春期的孩子。
   很快就会确定你是什么,
   一件事,男孩还是女孩。不再都是。
   孩子想:我想对发生的事情有发言权。
   但孩子什么都没说。
   
   当我还是个孩子的时候,我没有预见到这一点。
   
   后来,太阳落山了,影子聚集,
   低矮的灌木丛发出沙沙声,就像动物们彻夜醒着。
   里面,只有火光。它慢慢地褪色;
   现在只有最重的木头
   还在乐器架上闪烁。
   我听到有时来自于它们,
   甚至锁在它们箱子里的音乐。
   
   当我是一只鸟,我相信我会是一个男人。
   那是长笛。号角回答,
   当我是一个男人,我喊着是一只鸟。
   然后音乐消失。它透漏给我的秘密
   也消失了。
   
   窗外,月亮挂在大地上空,
   毫无意义,却充满了信息。
   
   它死了,它一直是死物,
   但它假装是别的东西,
   像一颗星星一样燃烧,令人信服,所以你觉得有时候
   它实际上可以让大地上的某些东西生长。
   
   如果有一个灵魂的形象,我想就是这样。
   
   我在黑暗中穿梭,仿佛这对我来说是自然的,
   好像我已经是其中的一个因素。
   镇静而宁静,天亮了。
   在集市那天,我带着莴苣去市场。
A Village Life
   
   
   
   The death and uncertainty that await me
   as they await all men, the shadows evaluating me
   because it can take time to destroy a human being,
   the element of suspense
   needs to be preserved---
   
   On Sundays I walk my neighbor's dog
   so she can go to church to pray for her sick mother.
   
   The dog waits for me in the doorway. Summer and winter
   we walk the same road, early morning, at the base of the escarpment.
   Sometimes the dog gets away from me---for a moment or two,
   I can't see him behind some trees. He's very proud of this,
   this trick he brings out occasionally, and gives up again
   as a favor to me---
   
   Afterward, I go back to my house to gather firewood.
   
   I keep in my mind images from each walk:
   monarda growing by the roadside;
   in early spring, the dog chasing the little gray mice,
   
   so for a while it seems possible
   not to think of the hold of the body weakening, the ratio
   of the body to the void shifting,
   
   and the prayers becoming prayers for the dead.
   
   Midday, the church bells finished. Light in excess:
   still, fog blankets the meadow, so you can't see
   the mountain in the distance, covered with snow and ice.
   
   When it appears again, my neighbor thinks
   her prayers are answered. So much light she can’t control her happiness---
   it has to burst out in language. Hello, she yells, as though
   that is her best translation.
   
   She believes in the Virgin the way I believe in the mountain,
   though in one case the fog never lifts.
   But each person stores his hope in a different place.
   
   I make my soup, I pour my glass of wine.
   I'm tense, like a child approaching adolescence.
   Soon it will be decided for certain what you are,
   one thing, a boy or girl. Not both any longer.
   And the child thinks: I want to have a say in what happens.
   But the child has no say whatsoever.
   
   When I was a child, I did not foresee this.
   
   Later, the sun sets, the shadows gather,
   rustling the low bushes like animals just awake for the night.
   Inside, there's only firelight. It fades slowly;
   now only the heaviest wood's still
   flickering across the shelves of instruments.
   I hear music coming from them sometimes,
   even locked in their cases.
   
   When I was a bird, I believed I would be a man.
   That's the flute. And the horn answers,
   when I was a man, I cried out to be a bird.
   Then the music vanishes. And the secret it confides in me
   vanishes also.
   
   In the window, the moon is hanging over the earth,
   meaningless but full of messages.
   
   It’s dead, it’s always been dead,
   but it pretends to be something else,
   burning like a star, and convincingly, so that you feel sometimes
   it could actually make something grow on earth.
   
   If there's an image of the soul, I think that's what it is.
   
   I move through the dark as though it were natural to me,
   as though I were already a factor in it.
   Tranquil and still, the day dawns.
   On market day, I go to the market with my lettuces.

以上的诗全部来自于《诗1962—2012》(Poems 1962-2012)英语版,至此本人已全本译完。
   
   以下的诗译自于《忠贞之夜》(Faithful and Virtuous Night)。

   
  
寓言
   
   (选自Faithful and Virtuous Night)
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   首先摆脱我们的世俗财产,正如圣弗朗西斯所教导的那样,
   为了使我们的灵魂不被得失
   分心,为了
   使我们的身体
   能够轻易在山口上自由移动,然后我们必须讨论
   我们可以去哪里或去哪里旅行,第二个问题是
   我们是否应该有一个目的,针对这个
   我们中的许多人激烈地争辩说,这样的目的
   对应于世俗的货物,意味着限制或压缩,
   而其他人则说,正是籍于这个词,我们才是神圣的
   朝圣者,而不是流浪者:在我们的头脑中,这个词被翻译成
   一个梦,一种寻求的东西,籍于浓缩,这样我们就可以看到它
   在石头间闪闪发光,而不是
   盲目地经过;每一个
   深一层的问题,我们都同样彻底,辩论,反复争论,
   因此我们变得,有人说,不那么灵活,更加顺从,
   就像一场无用的战争中的士兵。雪落在我们身上,风吹着,
   及时减轻---雪所在的地方,许多花出现,
   星星照耀的地方,太阳从树的线条上升起
   于是我们又有了影子;这种情况多次发生。
   还有雨,有时也有洪水,还有雪崩,我们中的
   一些人迷失于其中,我们似乎定期
   达成了协议,我们的食堂
   扛在肩上;但那一刻永远过去了,所以
   (多年之后)我们仍然处于第一阶段,仍然
   准备开始旅行,但我们还是改变了;
   我们可以从彼此身上看出这一点;我们虽然
   从未移动过,但已经改变了,有人说,啊,看哪,我们如何变老,只是
   日夜旅行,既不向前,也不侧身,这似乎是
   一种奇怪的奇迹道路。那些相信我们应该有一个目标的人
   相信这就是目的,而那些觉得我们必须保持自由
   以面对真相的人则认为它已经被揭示。
Parable
   
   
   
   
   First divesting ourselves of worldly goods, as St. Francis teaches,
   in order that our souls not be distracted
   by gain and loss, and in order also
   that our bodies be free to move
   easily at the mountain passes, we had then to discuss
   whither or where we might travel, with the second question being
   should we have a purpose, against which
   many of us argued fiercely that such purpose
   corresponded to worldly goods, meaning a limitation or constriction,
   whereas others said it was by this word we were consecrated
   pilgrims rather than wanderers: in our minds, the word translated as
   a dream, a something-sought, so that by concentrating we might see it
   glimmering among the stones, and not
   pass blindly by; each
   further issue we debated equally fully, the arguments going back and forth,
   so that we grew, some said, less flexible and more resigned,
   like soldiers in a useless war. And snow fell upon us, and wind blew,
   which in time abated---where the snow had been, many flowers appeared,
   and where the stars had shone, the sun rose over the tree line
   so that we had shadows again; many times this happened.
   Also rain, also flooding sometimes, also avalanches, in which
   some of us were lost, and periodically we would seem
   to have achieved an agreement, our canteens
   hoisted upon our shoulders; but always that moment passed, so
   (after many years) we were still at that first stage, still
   preparing to begin a journey, but we were changed nevertheless;
   we could see this in one another; we had changed although
   we never moved, and one said, ah, behold how we have aged, traveling
   from day to night only, neither forward nor sideward, and this seemed
   in a strange way miraculous. And those who believed we should have a purpose
   believed this was the purpose, and those who felt we must remain free
   in order to encounter truth felt it had been revealed.
  
冒险
   
   (选自Faithful and Virtuous Night)
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   1.
   
   有一天晚上,当我睡着的时候,我突然意识到,
   我已经完成长期以来
   奴役我的那些多情的冒险。 完成了爱?
   我的心咕哝着。对此,我回应说,许多深刻的发现
   等待我们,希望,同时,我不会被要求
   为它们命名。因为我不能命名它们。但相信它们存在---
   这一定算进了某物吗?
   
   2.
   
   第二天晚上带来了同样的思想,
   这次是关于诗歌的,在随后的夜晚
   各种各样别的激情和感觉,同样地,
   被永远抛在一边,每天晚上,我的心
   都在抗议它的未来,就像一个小孩被剥夺了最喜欢的玩具。
   但这些告别,我说,是事物的方式。
   每次临别时,又一次我提到
   对我们开放的广阔领土。有了这句话,我变成
   一个光荣的骑士,骑进落日,我的心
   变成我脚下的骏马。
   
   3.
   
   我,你会明白,正进入死亡的王国,
   尽管为什么这片风景如此传统
   我说不出。这里,白天也很长
   而岁月却很短。太阳沉落在远处的山上。
   星星闪闪发光,月亮盈亏。不久
   来自过去的面孔向我显示:
   我的母亲和父亲,我幼小的妹妹;他们似乎还没有
   说完他们要说的话,虽然现在
   我可以听到他们,因为我的心是静止的。
   
   4.
   
   在这一点上,我到达了悬崖
   但这条小路并没有,我看到,从另一边下降;
   相反,它变平了,它一直在这个高度上
   一直延伸到肉眼所能看到的地方,尽管
   支撑它的山渐渐完全消失
   于是我发现自己在空中平稳地骑行---
   四周,死者都在为我欢呼,发现他们的喜悦
   被回应他们的任务所抹杀-
   
   5.
   
   因为我们以前都是总体的肉身,
   现在我们是薄雾。
   因为我们以前是有阴影的物体,
   现在我们是没有形式的物质,就像蒸发的化学物质。
   嘶鸣,嘶鸣,我的心说,
   或者也许不,不---很难知道。
   
   6.
   
   这里的幻觉结束。我躺在床上,晨曦
   心满意足地升起,羽毛被子
   半埋在白色中,漂浮在我的下身。
   你和我在一起---第二个枕套上有个凹痕。
   我们从死亡中逃出---或者这是悬崖上的风景?
An Adventure
   
   
   
   1.
   
   It came to me one night as I was falling asleep
   that I had finished with those amorous adventures
   to which I had long been a slave.Finished with love?
   my heart murmured. To which I responded that many profound discoveries
   awaited us, hoping, at the same time, I would not be asked
   to name them. For I could not name them. But the belief that they existed---
   surely this counted for something?
   
   2.
   
   The next night brought the same thought,
   this time concerning poetry, and in the nights that followed
   various other passions and sensations were, in the same way,
   set aside forever, and each night my heart
   protested its future, like a small child being deprived of a favorite toy.
   But these farewells, I said, are the way of things.
   And once more I alluded to the vast territory
   opening to us with each valediction.And with that phrase I became
   a glorious knight riding into the setting sun,and my heart
   became the steed underneath me.
   
   3.
   
   I was, you will understand, entering the kingdom of death,
   though why this landscape was so conventional
   I could not say. Here, too, the days were very long
   while the years were very short. The sun sank over the far mountain.
   The stars shone, the moon waxed and waned. Soon
   faces from the past appeared to me:
   my mother and father, my infant sister; they had not, it seemed,
   finished what they had to say, though now
   I could hear them because my heart was still.
   
   4.
   
   At this point, I attained the precipice
   but the trail did not, I saw, descend on the other side;
   rather, having flattened out, it continued at this altitude
   as far as the eye could see, though gradually
   the mountain that supported it completely dissolved
   so that I found myself riding steadily through the air---
   All around, the dead were cheering me on, the joy of finding them
   obliterated by the task of responding to them---
   
   5.
   
   As we had all been flesh together,
   now we were mist.
   As we had been before objects with shadows,
   now we were substance without form, like evaporated chemicals.
   Neigh, neigh, said my heart,
   or perhaps nay, nay---it was hard to know.
   
   6.
   
   Here the vision ended. I was in my bed, the morning sun
   contentedly rising, the feather comforter
   mounded in white drifts over my lower body.
   You had been with me--- there was a dent in the second pillowcase.
   We had escaped from death--- or was this the view from the precipice?
  
往昔
   
   (选自Faithful and Virtuous Night)
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   天空中的微光
   突然出现在
   两根松枝之间,它们的细针
   
   现在蚀刻在辐射面上
   在这之上
   高高的、羽毛般的天空---
   
   闻闻空气。这就是白松的气味,
   当风吹过它,最强烈
   它发出的声音也同样奇怪,
   就像电影中的风声---
   
   移动的阴影。绳子
   发出它们制造的声音。你现在听到的
   将是夜莺,“脊索动物”,
   雄鸟求偶的声音---
   
   绳子移动。吊床
   在风中摇曳,牢牢地
   系在两棵松树之间。
   “闻闻空气。那是白松的气味。”
   
   你听到的是我母亲的声音
   还是仅仅是
   空气通过树木时发出的声音
   
   因为它会发出什么声音,
   什么都没有经过?
The Past
   
   
   
   Small light in the sky appearing
   suddenly between
   two pine boughs, their fine needles
   
   now etched onto the radiant surface
   and above this
   high, feathery heaven---
   
   Smell the air. That is the smell of the white pine,
   most intense when the wind blows through it
   and the sound it makes equally strange,
   like the sound of the wind in a movie---
   
   Shadows moving. The ropes
   making the sound they make. What you hear now
   will be the sound of the nightingale,chordata,
   the male bird courting the female---
   
   The ropes shift. The hammock
   sways in the wind, tied
   firmly between two pine trees.
   Smell the air. That is the smell of the white pine.
   
   It is my mother’s voice you hear
   or is it only the sound the trees make
   when the air passes through them
   
   because what sound would it make,
   passing through nothing?
  

 楼主| 发表于 2020-11-28 15:50:56 | 显示全部楼层



   忠贞之夜
   
   (选自Faithful and Virtuous Night)
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   我的故事简单开始:我能说话,我很高兴。
   或者:我能说话,所以我很高兴。
   或者说:我很高兴,所以说话。
   我像一束明亮的光穿过黑暗的房间。
   
   如果如此难开始,想象结束会是什么---
   在我的床上,印有彩色帆船的床单
   输送,同时,冒险的幻觉(以探险的形式)
   轻轻摇动的感觉,如摇篮。
   
   春天,窗帘飘动。
   微风吹进房间,带来了第一批昆虫。
   嗡嗡声像祈祷声。
   
   组成
   大容量记忆体的回忆。
   薄雾中的清晰点,断断续续可见,
   就像灯塔,其任务之一
   就是发射信号。
   
   但是灯塔的真正意义是什么?
   这是北方,它说。
   不:我是你安全的避风港。
   
   令他非常恼火,我和我哥哥共用这个房间。
   为了惩罚我的存在,他让我保持清醒,在黄色的夜灯下
   读冒险故事。
   
   很久以前的习惯:我哥哥躺在床的一边,
   克制但自愿如此,
   他明亮的头歪在手上,脸遮蔽着---
   
   在我说话时,
   我哥哥正在读一本他称为
   忠贞之夜的书。
   这个晚上是他读书,在里面,我醒着睡吗?
   不---那是很久以前的一个夜晚,一个黑暗的湖里
   一块石头出现,石头上
   一把剑生长着。(1)
   
   印象在我脑海里来来去去,
   一种微弱的嗡嗡声,像昆虫一样。
   当我没有注意到我哥哥,我躺在我们共用的小床上
   盯着天花板---从不是
   我最喜欢的房间的部分。它让我想起
   我看不见的东西,天空很明显,但更痛苦的是
   我的父母穿着白色旅行服坐在白云上。
   
   然而我也在旅行
   在这种情况下,极其细微地
   从那天晚上到第二天早上
   我也有一套特别的服装:
   条纹睡衣。
   
   如果你想象春天里的某一天。
   无害的一天:我的生日。
   楼下,早餐桌上有三份礼物。
   
   在一个盒子里,在第二个盒子里
   放着印有花押字的手帕,彩色铅笔
   排成三排,就像学校的照片。
   在最后一个盒子里,有一本书叫《我的第一个读者》。
   
   我姨妈折叠印刷好的包装纸;
   丝带被卷成整洁的球。
   我哥哥递给我一块
   用银纸包着的巧克力。
   
   然后,突然间,我独自一人。
   
   也许一个很小的孩子的职业
   就是观察和倾听:
   
   从这个意义上说,每个人都没闲着。
   我听着我们喂食的鸟的各种声音,
   昆虫部落在孵化,小昆虫
   在窗台上爬行,头顶上
   我姨妈的缝纫机
   在一堆衣服上钻孔---
   
   焦躁,你焦躁吗?
   你是不是在等着白天的结束,等着你哥哥回到他的书上?
   为了夜晚的归来,忠诚、贞洁、
   修复,暂时,你和你父母
   之间的裂痕?
   
   这并没有,当然,立即发生。
   与此同时,是我的生日;
   不知怎么,光明的开始变成
   没完没了的中部。
   
   四月下旬温和。头顶上
   鼓胀的云朵,漂浮在苹果树之间。
   我挑选《我的第一个读者》,它似乎是
   一个关于两个孩子的故事---我读不懂这些字。
   
   在第三页,一只狗出现了。
   在第五页,有一只球---一个孩子
   把它扔得比似乎可能的高,于是
   狗飘进天空进入球。
   这似乎就是那个故事。
   
   我翻了几页。当我翻完
   我又开始翻,所以故事就呈现出一个圆形,
   就像十二宫。它让我晕眩。黄色的球
   
   似乎是偶然的,孩子的手
   和狗的嘴都平等地在家里---
   
   手在我下面,举起我。
   它们可能是任何人的手,
   男人的,女人的。
   眼泪落在我裸露的皮肤上。谁的眼泪?
   要不然是我们冒雨出去,等车来?
   
   这一天变得不稳定。
   裂缝出现在广阔的蓝色中,或者,
   更准确地说,突然的黑云
   强加给蔚蓝的背景。
   
   某个地方,在遥远的时光倒流中,
   我的母亲和父亲
   正踏上他们最后的旅程,
   我母亲深情地吻着刚出生的婴儿,我的父亲
   把我哥哥扔到空中。
   
   我坐在窗前,交替着
   上第一节阅读课,同时
   看着时光流逝,我
   哲学和宗教的入门。
   
   也许我睡着了。当我醒来时
   天变了。下着小雨,
   让一切都变得清新和新鲜---
   
   我继续盯着
   那只狗疯狂地
   与那只黄色的球重聚,一个
   很快就会被
   另一个取代的物体,也许是一个柔软的玩具---
   
   然后突然晚上就来了。
   我听到我哥哥的声音在叫他回家了。
   他看起来多么老,比今天早上还老。
   他把书放在伞架旁边
   去洗脸。
   他校服的袖口
   垂在膝盖下。
   
   你不知道
   当连续的事情停止时
   对一个小孩子来说有多震惊。
   
   在这种情况下,缝纫室的声音,
   像一个钻孔机,但非常遥远---
   消失了。到处都是寂静。
   然后,在寂静中,脚步声。
   然后我们就在一起,我姨妈和我哥哥。
   
   然后茶摆好了。
   在我的座位,一片姜饼,
   在薄片中央,
   一支蜡烛,待会儿点着。
   你多安静,我姨妈说。
   
   这是真的---
   声音没从我嘴里出来。然而
   它们在我的脑海里,也许,表达得
   不那么确切,也许在想,
   尽管那时它们对我来说仍然像声音。
   
   有什么东西在什么都没有的地方。
   或者我应该说,那里什么都没有
   但被问题所沾染---
   
   环绕我脑海里的问题;它们有一种
   以某种方式组织起来的性质,就像行星---
   
   外面,夜幕降临。这是
   那个失去的夜晚吗,星星覆盖,月光洒落,
   像某种化学物质保存着
   一切浸没在其中的东西?
   
   我姨妈点燃了蜡烛。
   
   黑暗掠过大地
   海上的夜色漂浮
   被捆绑在一块木板上---
   
   如果我能说话,我会说什么?
   我想我会说
   再见,因为从某种意义上说
   那是再见---
   
   唉,我能做什么?我不再是
   一个孩子。
   
   我觉得黑暗令人欣慰。
   我隐约看见,枕套上
   蓝黄相间的帆船。
   
   我单独和我哥哥在一起;
   我们躺在黑暗中,一起呼吸,
   最深的亲密。
   
   我突然想到,所有人划分为
   希望前进的人
   和希望后退的人。
   或者你可以说,那些想继续前进的人
   和那些想
   被炽热的剑挡住其道的人。
   
   哥哥拉着我的手。
   很快它也会飘走
   尽管也许,在我哥哥的心目中,
   它将通过变成虚构而幸存---
   
   终于开始了,一个人如何停止?
   我想我可以仅仅等着被打断
   就像我父母那样,被一棵大树的情况---
   乱撞,这么说,最后一次
   将在两座山之间驶过。
   有时,他们说,像睡着,
   是我继续做的事。
   
   第二天,我又可以说话。
   我姨妈喜出望外---
   似乎我的幸福已经
   传给了她,但后来
   她更需要它,她要抚养两个孩子。
   
   我满足于沉思。
   我和彩色铅笔一起度过了我的白天
   (我很快就用光了较暗的颜色)
   尽管我所看到的,当我告诉姨妈,
   不是对这个世界更真实的描述
   比起它随后穿越我自己虚无之后的
   转变的想象。
   
   有时,我说,就像春天的世界。
   
   当我不专注于这个世界
   我画了一些我母亲的画
   其中我姨妈摆姿势,
   握着,在我的要求下,
   一根梧桐树的嫩枝。
   
   至于我沉默的奥秘:
   我对我灵魂的退却
   并不感到更困惑
   比起对它的回归,因为它空手而归---
   
   它走得多么深,这个灵魂,
   就像一个在百货商店里的孩子,
   在寻找它的母亲---
   
   也许这就像一个潜水员
   在他的箱子里只有足够的空气
   探索其深度几分钟左右---
   然后肺部送他回来。
   
   但是,我敢肯定,有什么东西反抗肺部,
   可能是一个死亡愿望---
   (我用“灵魂”这个词作为妥协)。
   
   当然,从某种意义上说,我不是两手空空的:
   我有彩色铅笔。
   从另一个角度来说,这就是我的观点:
   我接受了替代品。
   
   使用鲜明的颜色是很有挑战性的,
   一个留下的,尽管我姨妈当然偏爱它们---
   她认为所有的孩子都应该轻松愉快。
   
   时间就这样过去了:我变成了
   一个像我哥哥一样的男孩,后来
   一个男人。
   
   我想我会离开你。似乎
   没有完美的结局。
   真的,有无限的结局。
   或者也许,一旦一个人开始
   有最合适的结局。
   ----
   
   (1)似乎是瓦格纳四联剧《尼伯龙根的指环》之《女武神》第一幕的场景,尤其是剑的意象,但不是从石头长出,而是宝剑诺通在树上闪烁。
   (2)瓦格纳四联剧《尼伯龙根的指环》之《众神的黄昏》第一幕终曲。深夜,齐格弗里得用宝剑诺通把他和布伦希尔德隔开,以遵从他和季比宏主人龚特的诺言。
Faithful and Virtuous Night
   
   
   
   My story begins very simply: I could speak and I was happy.
   Or: I could speak, thus I was happy.
   Or:I was happy,thus speaking.
   I was like a bright light passing through a dark room.
   
   If it is so difficult to begin, imagine what it will be to end---
   On my bed, sheets printed with colored sailboats
   conveying, simultaneously, visions of adventure (in the form of exploration)
   and sensations of gentle rocking, as of a cradle.
   
   Spring, and the curtains flutter.
   Breezes enter the room, bringing the first insects.
   A sound of buzzing like the sound of prayers.
   
   Constituent
   Memories of a large memory.
   Points of clarity in a mist,intermittently visible,
   like a lighthouse whose one task
   is to emit a signal.
   
   But what really is the point of the lighthouse?
   This is north, it says.
   Not: I am your safe harbor.
   
   Much to his annoyance, I shared this room with my older brother.
   To punish me for existing, he kept me awake, reading
   adventure stories by the yellow nightlight.
   
   The habits of long ago: my brother on his side of the bed,
   subdued but voluntarily so,
   his bright head bent over his hands, his face obscured---
   
   At the time of which I’m speaking,
   my brother was reading a book he called
   the faithful and virtuous night.
   Was this the night in which he read, in which I lay awake?
   No---it was a night long ago, a lake of darkness in which
   a stone appeared, and on the stone
   a sword growing.
   
   Impressions came and went in my head,
   a faint buzz, like the insects.
   When not observing my brother, I lay in the small bed we shared
   staring at the ceiling---never
   my favorite part of the room. It reminded me
   of what I couldn’t see, the sky obviously, but more painfully
   my parents sitting on the white clouds in their white travel outfits.
   
   And yet I too was traveling,
   in this case imperceptibly
   from that night to the next morning,
   and I too had a special outfit:
   striped pyjamas.
   
   Picture if you will a day in spring.
   A harmless day: my birthday.
   Downstairs, three gifts on the breakfast table.
   
   In one box, pressed handkerchiefs with a monogram
   In the second box, colored pencils arranged
   in three rows, like a school photograph.
   In the last box, a book called My First Reader.
   
   My aunt folded the printed wrapping paper;
   the ribbons were rolled into neat balls.
   My brother handed me a bar of chocolate
   wrapped in silver paper.
   
   Then, suddenly, I was alone.
   
   Perhaps the occupation of a very young child
   is to observe and listen:
   
   In that sense, everyone was occupied---
   I listened to the various sounds of the birds we fed,
   the tribes of insects hatching, the small ones
   creeping along the windowsill, and overhead
   my aunt’s sewing machine drilling
   holes in a pile of dresses---
   
   Restless, are you restless?
   Are you waiting for day to end, for your brother to return to his book?
   For night to return, faithful, virtuous,
   repairing, briefly, the schism between
   you and your parents?
   
   This did not, of course, happen immediately.
   Meanwhile, there was my birthday;
   somehow the luminous outset became
   the interminable middle.
   
   Mild for late April. Puffy
   clouds overhead, floating among the apple trees.
   I picked up My First Reader, which appeared to be
   a story about two children---I could not read the words.
   
   On page three, a dog appeared.
   On page five, there was a ball---one of the children
   threw it higher than seemed possible, whereupon
   the dog floated into the sky to join the ball.
   That seemed to be the story.
   
   I turned the pages. When I was finished
   I resumed turning, so the story took on a circular shape,
   like the zodiac. It made me dizzy. The yellow ball
   
   seemed promiscuous, equally
   at home in the child’s hand and the dog’s mouth---
   
   Hands underneath me, lifting me.
   They could have been anyone’s hands,
   a man’s, a woman’s.
   Tears falling on my exposed skin. Whose tears?
   Or were we out in the rain, waiting for the car to come?
   
   The day had become unstable.
   Fissures appeared in the broad blue, or,
   more precisely, sudden black clouds
   imposed themselves on the azure background.
   
   Somewhere, in the far backward reaches of time,
   my mother and father
   were embarking on their last journey,
   my mother fondly kissing the new baby, my father
   throwing my brother into the air.
   
   I sat by the window, alternating
   my first lesson in reading with
   watching time pass, my introduction to
   philosophy and religion.
   
   Perhaps I slept. When I woke
   the sky had changed. A light rain was falling,
   making everything very fresh and new---
   
   I continued staring
   at the dog’s frantic reunions
   with the yellow ball, an object
   soon to be replaced
   by another object, perhaps a soft toy---
   
   And then suddenly evening had come.
   I heard my brother’s voice calling to say he was home.
   How old he seemed, older than this morning.
   He set his books beside the umbrella stand
   and went to wash his face.
   The cuffs of his school uniform
   dangled below his knees.
   
   You have no idea how shocking it is
   to a small child when
   something continuous stops.
   
   The sounds, in this case, of the sewing room,
   like a drill, but very far away---
   Vanished. Silence was everywhere.
   And then, in the silence, footsteps.
   And then we were all together, my aunt and my brother.
   
   Then tea was set out.
   At my place, a slice of ginger cake
   and at the center of the slice,
   one candle, to be lit later.
   How quiet you are, my aunt said.
   
   It was true---
   sounds weren’t coming out of my mouth. And yet
   they were in my head, expressed, possibly,
   as something less exact, thought perhaps,
   though at the time they still seemed like sounds to me.
   
   Something was there where there had been nothing.
   Or should I say, nothing was there
   but it had been defiled by questions---
   
   Questions circled my head; they had a quality
   of being organized in some way, like planets---
   
   Outside, night was falling. Was this
   that lost night, star-covered, moonlight-spattered,
   like some chemical preserving
   everything immersed in it?
   
   My aunt had lit the candle.
   
   Darkness overswept the land
   and on the sea the night floated
   strapped to a slab of wood---
   
   If I could speak, what would I have said?
   I think I would have said
   goodbye, because in some sense
   it was goodbye---
   
   Well, what could I do? I wasn’t
   a baby anymore.
   
   I found the darkness comforting.
   I could see, dimly, the blue and yellow
   sailboats on the pillowcase.
   
   I was alone with my brother;
   we lay in the dark, breathing together,
   the deepest intimacy.
   
   It had occurred to me that all human beings are divided
   into those who wish to move forward
   and those who wish to go back.
   Or you could say, those who wish to keep moving
   and those who want to be stopped in their tracks
   as by the blazing sword.(2)
   
   
   My brother took my hand.
   Soon it too would be floating away
   though perhaps, in my brother’s mind,
   it would survive by becoming imaginary---
   
   Having finally begun, how does one stop?
   I suppose I can simply wait to be interrupted
   as in my parents, case by a large tree---
   the barge, so to speak, will have passed
   for the last time between the mountains.
   Something, they say, like falling asleep,
   which I proceeded to do.
   
   The next day, I could speak again.
   My aunt was overjoyed---
   it seemed my happiness had been
   passed on to her, but then
   she needed it more, she had two children to raise.
   
   I was content with my brooding.
   I spent my days with the colored pencils
   (I soon used up the darker colors)
   though what I saw, as I told my aunt,
   was less a factual account of the world
   than a vision of its transformation
   subsequent to passage through the void of myself.
   
   Something, I said, like the world in spring.
   
   When not preoccupied with the world
   I drew pictures of my mother
   for which my aunt posed,
   holding, at my request,
   a twig from a sycamore.
   
   As to the mystery of my silence:
   I remained puzzled
   less by my soul’s retreat than
   by its return, since it returned empty-handed---
   
   How deep it goes, this soul,
   like a child in a department store,
   seeking its mother---
   
   Perhaps it is like a diver
   with only enough air in his tank
   to explore the depths for a few minutes or so---
   then the lungs send him back.
   
   But something, I was sure, opposed the lungs,
   possibly a death wish---
   (I use the word soul as a compromise).
   
   Of course, in a certain sense I was not empty-handed:
   I had my colored pencils.
   In another sense, that is my point:
   I had accepted substitutes.
   
   It was challenging to use the bright colors,
   the ones left, though my aunt preferred them of course---
   she thought all children should be lighthearted.
   
   And so time passed: I became
   a boy like my brother, later
   a man.
   
   I think here I will leave you. It has come to seem
   there is no perfect ending.
   Indeed, there are infinite endings.
   Or perhaps, once one begins,
   there are only endings.

 楼主| 发表于 2020-11-28 15:53:17 | 显示全部楼层
  

   记忆理论
   
   (选自Faithful and Virtuous Night)
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   很久很久以前,在我成为一个饱受折磨的艺术家之前,饱受渴望的折磨,却不能形成持久的依恋,在此之前很久,我是一个光荣的统治者,把一个分裂的国家全部合并---所以有一个算命的人对我说,他检查了我的手掌。伟大的事物,她说,在你前面,也许在你身后;很难确定。然而,她补充道,区别是什么?马上你就是一个和算命先生牵手的孩子。剩下的都是假设和梦想。
Theory of Memory
   
   
   
   Long, long ago, before I was a tormented artist, afflicted with longing yet incapable of forming durable attachments, long before this, I was a glorious ruler uniting all of a divided country---so I was told by the fortune-teller who examined my palm. Great things, she said, are ahead of you, or perhaps behind you; it is difficult to be sure. And yet, she added, what is the difference? Right now you are a child holding hands with a fortune-teller. All the rest is hypothesis and dream.
  
措辞严厉的沉默
   
   (选自Faithful and Virtuous Night)
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   让我告诉你某些事,老妇人说。
   我们坐着,互相面对,
   在某某地方的公园里,这座城市
   以木制玩具闻名。
   
   当时,我已经逃离了一段悲伤的恋情,
   作为一种忏悔或自我惩罚,我在
   一家工厂工作,用手雕刻着小小的手和脚。
   
   公园是我的安慰,尤其是在日落后
   安静的几个小时里,公园经常被抛弃。
   但是今天晚上,当我进入一个叫做伯爵夫人的花园时,
   我发现有人在我前面。现在我突然觉得
   我本可以走在前面,但我已经
   设定在这个目的地;我整天都在想着
   那片空地上种的樱花树,它们的开花期差不多结束了。
   
   我们静静地坐着。暮色降临,
   随之而来的是一种圈用地的感觉,
   就像在火车车厢里。
   
   她说,我小时候喜欢在黄昏时分走在花园的小路上
   如果路够长我会看到月亮升起。
   这是我最大的乐趣:不是性,不是食物,不是世俗的娱乐。
   我更喜欢月亮升起,有时我会听到,
   在同一时刻,《费加罗的婚礼》
   最后合奏的崇高音符。音乐是从哪里来的?
   我从不知道。
   
   因为花园小径的本质
   是循环的,每天晚上,在我漫步之后,
   我会发现自己在前门,盯着它,
   几乎不能理解,在黑暗中,那个闪闪发光的把手。
   
   这是,她说,一个伟大的发现,尽管是我的真实生活。
   但某些夜晚,她说,月亮在云层中几乎看不见
   音乐从未开始。一个纯粹沮丧的夜晚。
   第二天晚上,我还是会重新开始,通常一切都会好起来。
   
   我想不出说什么。这个故事,在我写出来时毫无意义,
   事实上,在每一个阶段都被入迷的停顿
   和延长的间歇打断,于是到了这个时候,夜晚已经开始。
   
   啊,这广阔的夜晚,如此渴望
   容纳陌生感知的夜晚。我觉得有些重要的秘密
   即将交给我,就像火炬
   在接力赛中从一只手传递到另一只。
   
   我真诚地道歉,她说。
   我把你误认为是我的一个朋友。
   她指了指我们坐在其中的雕像,
   英雄的男人们,自我牺牲的圣女们
   胸前抱着花岗岩婴儿。
   没有改变,她说,就像人类一样。
   我放弃它们,她说。
   但我从来没有失去环形航行的爱好。
   如果我错了,请纠正我。
   
   在我们头顶上,樱花已经开始
   在夜空中散开,或者也许星星正在漂流,
   飘流和瓦解,在它们降落的地方
   新的世界将形成。
   
   不久之后,我回到了我的家乡城市
   和我以前的爱人团聚。
   然而,我的思想越来越多地回到这件事上,
   从各个角度研究它,每年都更强烈地被确信,
   尽管缺乏证据,它包含着某种秘密。
   我最后得出结论,无论什么信息
   都不包含在演讲中---所以,我意识到,我母亲曾经和我说话,
   她那措辞严厉的沉默
   警告我,惩罚我---
   
   似乎在我看来,我不仅回到了我的爱人身边,
   而且现在又回到了伯爵夫人的花园里
   那里的樱花树依然盛开
   就像一个朝圣者在寻求补偿和宽恕,
   
   所以我猜想,在某个时候,
   会有一扇门有一个闪闪发光的把手,
   但什么时候,在哪儿发生,我不知道。

   
   
   A Sharply Worded Silence
   
   
   
   Let me tell you something, said the old woman.
   We were sitting, facing each other,
   in the park at____, a city famous for
   its wooden toys.
   
   At the time, I had run away from a sad love affair,
   and as a kind of penance or self-punishment, I was working
   at a factory, carving by hand the tiny hands and feet.
   
   The park was my consolation,particularly in the quiet hours
   after sunset, when it was often abandoned.
   But on this evening, when I entered what was called the Contessa’s Garden,
   I saw that someone had preceded me.It strikes me now
   I could have gone ahead, but I had been
   set on this destination; all day I had been thinking of the cherry trees
   with which the glade was planted, whose time of blossoming had nearly ended.
   
   We sat in silence. Dusk was falling,
   and with it came a feeling of enclosure
   as in a train cabin.
   
   When I was young, she said, I liked walking the garden path at twilight
   and if the path was long enough I would see the moon rise.
   That was for me the great pleasure: not sex, not food, not worldly amusement.
   I preferred the moon’s rising, and sometimes I would hear,
   at the same moment, the sublime notes of the final ensemble
   of The Marriage of Figaro. Where did the music come from?
   I never knew.
   
   Because it is the nature of garden paths
   to be circular, each night, after my wanderings,
   I would find myself at my front door, staring at it,
   barely able to make out, in darkness, the glittering knob.
   
   It was, she said, a great discovery, albeit my real life.
   But certain nights, she said, the moon was barely visible through the clouds
   and the music never started. A night of pure discouragement.
   And still the next night I would begin again, and often all would be well.
   
   I could think of nothing to say. This story, so pointless as I write it out,
   was in fact interrupted at every stage with trance-like pauses
   and prolonged intermissions, so that by this time night had started.
   
   Ah the capacious night, the night
   so eager to accommodate strange perceptions. I felt that some important secret
   was about to be entrusted to me, as a torch is passed
   from one hand to another in a relay.
   
   My sincere apologies, she said.
   I had mistaken you for one of my friends.
   And she gestured toward the statues we sat among,
   heroic men, self-sacrificing saintly women
   holding granite babies to their breasts.
   Not changeable, she said, like human beings.
   I gave up on them, she said.
   But I never lost my taste for circular voyages.
   Correct me if I’m wrong.
   
   Above our heads, the cherry blossoms had begun
   to loosen in the night sky, or maybe the stars were drifting,
   drifting and falling apart, and where they landed
   new worlds would form.
   
   Soon afterward I returned to my native city
   and was reunited with my former lover.
   And yet increasingly my mind returned to this incident,
   studying it from all perspectives, each year more intensely convinced,
   despite the absence of evidence, that it contained some secret.
   I concluded finally that whatever message there might have been
   was not contained in speech---so, I realized, my mother used to speak to me,
   her sharply worded silences
   cautioning me and chastising me---
   
   and it seemed to me I had not only returned to my lover
   but was now returning to the Contessa’s Garden
   in which the cherry trees were still blooming
   like a pilgrim seeking expiation and forgiveness,
   
   so I assumed there would be, at some point,
   a door with a glittering knob,
   but when this would happen and where I had no idea.
   
   
    

   

 楼主| 发表于 2020-11-29 14:17:58 | 显示全部楼层
国外游客
   
   (选自Faithful and Virtuous Night)
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   1.
   
   有时在我进入
   生命的那个时间
   人们更喜欢暗指他人
   而不是他们自己,半夜里
   电话响了。它响个不停
   好像世界需要我,
   但事实恰恰相反。
   
   我躺在床上,试图分析
   指环。它有
   我母亲的固执和我父亲
   痛苦的尴尬。
   
   当我拿起它,线路死了。
   或者是电话是好的,打电话的人死了?
   或者不是电话,而也许是门?
   
   2.
   
   我妈妈和爸爸在严寒中站在
   前门的台阶上。我妈妈盯着我,
   一个女儿,一个同类的女性。
   你从来没想过我们,她说。
   
   你的书到达天堂时,我们会读它们。
   几乎再也不提我们,也几乎不提你姐姐。
   他们指着我死去的姐姐,一个完全陌生的人,
   紧紧地抱在我母亲的怀里。
   
   如果不是我们,她说,你就不存在。
   你姐姐---你有你姐姐的灵魂。
   之后他们消失,就像摩门教传教士。
   
   3.
   
   街上又是白色的,
   所有的灌木丛都被大雪覆盖
   树闪烁着,被冰包裹。
   
   我躺在黑暗中,等待夜晚结束。
   这似乎是我曾知道的最长的夜晚,
   比我出生的那晚更长。
   
   我一直在写你的事,我大声说。
   每次我说“我”,都是指你。
   
   4.
   
   街外一片寂静。
   听筒侧卧在乱七八糟的床单里;
   几小时前,它那不耐烦的悸动已经停止了。
   
   我把它放在原处,
   长线在家具下漂动。
   
   我看着雪花飘落,
   与其说是模糊了东西
   不如说是让它们看起来比原来更大。
   
   谁会在半夜打电话?
   麻烦的电话,绝望的电话。
   快乐睡得像婴儿。
Visitors from Abroad
   
   
   
   1.
   
   Sometime after I had entered
   that time of life
   people prefer to allude to in others
   but not in themselves, in the middle of the night
   the phone rang. It rang and rang
   as though the world needed me,
   though really it was the reverse.
   
   I lay in bed, trying to analyze
   the ring. It had
   my mother’s persistence and my father’s
   pained embarrassment.
   
   When I picked it up, the line was dead.
   Or was the phone working and the caller dead?
   Or was it not the phone, but the door perhaps?
   
   2.
   
   My mother and father stood in the cold
   on the front steps. My mother stared at me,
   a daughter, a fellow female.
   You never think of us, she said.
   
   We read your books when they reach heaven.
   Hardly a mention of us anymore, hardly a mention of your sister.
   And they pointed to my dead sister, a complete stranger,
   Tightly wrapped in my mother’s arms.
   
   But for us, she said, you wouldn’t exist.
   And your sister---you have your sister’s soul.
   After which they vanished, like Mormon missionaries.
   
   3.
   
   The street was white again,
   all the bushes covered with heavy snow
   and the trees glittering, encased with ice.
   
   I lay in the dark, waiting for the night to end.
   It seemed the longest night I had ever known,
   longer than the night I was born.
   
   I write about you all the time, I said aloud.
   Every time I say “I,” it refers to you.
   
   4.
   
   Outside the street was silent.
   The receiver lay on its side among the tangled sheets;
   its peevish throbbing had ceased some hours before.
   
   I left it as it was,
   its long cord drifting under the furniture.
   
   I watched the snow falling,
   not so much obscuring things
   as making them seem larger than they were.
   
   Who would call in the middle of the night?
   Trouble calls, despair calls.
   Joy is sleeping like a baby.
   
  
土著风景
   
   (选自Faithful and Virtuous Night)
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   你踩到你父亲了,我母亲说,
   事实上,我正站在一张草床的
   中央,修剪得如此整齐,它可能是
   我父亲的坟墓,虽然没有石头这么说。
   
   你踩到你父亲了,她重复着,
   这次声音更大,对我来说它开始变得奇怪,
   因为她自己已经死了,甚至医生都承认。
   
   我轻轻地移到一边,在那里
   我父亲结束,我母亲开始。
   
   墓地一片寂静。风吹过树林;
   我能听到,很微弱,几路远处的哭泣声,
   除此之外,一只狗在哀鸣。
   
   这些声音最后减弱了。交叉越过我的脑海
   我没有被驱车赶到这里的记忆,
   去了现在看来是一个墓地的地方,尽管在我的脑海里
   可能只是一个墓地;也许这是一个公园,如果不是一个公园,
   一个花园或凉亭,芬芳的,我现在意识到,有玫瑰的芬芳---
   “生活的甜蜜”填满空气,甜蜜的生活,
   正如俗话所说。在某个时候,
   
   我突然想到我是一个人。
   其他人去了哪里,
   我的表兄弟姐妹,凯特琳和阿比盖尔?
   
   这时光线渐渐暗淡。等着
   送我们回家的车在哪里?
   
   然后我开始寻找一些选择。我感到
   一种焦躁在我的心里渐渐增长,走近,我可以说,是焦虑。
   最后,在远处,我认出一列小火车,
   停了,似乎,在一些树叶后面,列车员
   在门框上徘徊,抽着烟。
   
   别忘了我,我喊道,现在运转着
   许多情节,许多母亲和父亲---
   
   别忘了我,我喊道,当我终于够到他时。
   夫人,他说,指着铁轨,
   你肯定知道这是终点,铁轨不会走得更远。
   他的话是严厉的,但他的眼睛是和蔼的;
   这促使我更加努力处理我的事。
   但是他们回去了,我说,我说起
   他们的坚强,好像他们前面有许多这样的返回。
   
   你知道,他说,我们的工作很困难:我们面临着
   许多悲伤和失望。
   他越来越坦率地凝视着我。
   我曾经像你一样,他补充道,爱上了动荡。
   
   现在我像对一个老朋友说:
   你怎么样,我说,既然他可以自由离开,
   你不想回家,
   再看看这个城市吗?
   
   这是我的家,他说。
   城市---城市是我消失的地方。
Aboriginal Landscape
   
   
   
   
   You’re stepping on your father, my mother said,
   and indeed I was standing exactly in the center
   of a bed of grass, mown so neatly it could have been
   my father’s grave, although there was no stone saying so.
   
   You’re stepping on your father, she repeated,
   louder this time, which began to be strange to me,
   since she was dead herself; even the doctor had admitted it.
   
   I moved slightly to the side, to where
   my father ended and my mother began.
   
   The cemetery was silent. Wind blew through the trees;
   I could hear, very faintly, sounds of weeping several rows away,
   and beyond that, a dog wailing.
   
   At length these sounds abated. It crossed my mind
   I had no memory of being driven here,
   to what now seemed a cemetery, though it could have been
   a cemetery in my mind only; perhaps it was a park, or if not a park,
   a garden or bower, perfumed, I now realized, with the scent of roses---
   douceur de vivre filling the air, the sweetness of living,
   as the saying goes. At some point,
   
   it occurred to me I was alone.
   Where had the others gone,
   my cousins and sister, Caitlin and Abigail?
   
   By now the light was fading. Where was the car
   waiting to take us home?
   
   I then began seeking for some alternative. I felt
   an impatience growing in me, approaching, I would say, anxiety.
   Finally, in the distance, I made out a small train,
   stopped, it seemed, behind some foliage, the conductor
   lingering against a doorframe, smoking a cigarette.
   
   Do not forget me, I cried, running now
   over many plots, many mothers and fathers—
   
   Do not forget me, I cried, when at last I reached him.
   Madam, he said, pointing to the tracks,
   surely you realize this is the end, the tracks do not go farther.
   His words were harsh, and yet his eyes were kind;
   this encouraged me to press my case harder.
   But they go back, I said, and I remarked
   their sturdiness, as though they had many such returns ahead of them.
   
   You know, he said, our work is difficult: we confront
   much sorrow and disappointment.
   He gazed at me with increasing frankness.
   I was like you once, he added, in love with turbulence.
   
   Now I spoke as to an old friend:
   What of you, I said, since he was free to leave,
   have you no wish to go home,
   to see the city again?
   
   This is my home, he said.
   The city—the city is where I disappear.
  
乌托邦
   
   (选自Faithful and Virtuous Night)
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   当火车停下时,女人说,你必须上车。但我怎么知道,孩子问,这是正确的火车?这将是正确的火车,女人说,因为现在是正确的时间。一列火车驶近车站;灰色烟雾的云涌出烟囱。我多么害怕,孩子想着,攥着她要送给祖母的黄色郁金香。她的头发被紧紧地编成辫子,以经得起旅途。然后,她一声不吭,上了火车,火车上传来一种奇怪的声音,不是她说的那种语言,更像是呻吟或哭泣。
Utopia
   
   
   
   When the train stops, the woman said, you must get on it. But how will I know, the child asked, it is the right train? It will be the right train, said the woman, because it is the right time. A train approached the station; clouds of grayish smoke streamed from the chimney. How terrified I am, the child thinks, clutching the yellow tulips she will give to her grandmother. Her hair has been tightly braided to withstand the journey. Then, without a word, she gets on the train, from which a strange sound comes, not in a language like the one she speaks, something more like a moan or a cry.
  
康沃尔
   
   (选自Faithful and Virtuous Night)
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   一个词掉进薄雾
   像一个小孩的球掉进高高的草丛
   在那里它保持着诱惑
   闪耀,闪烁,直到
   金色爆炸揭示出
   仅仅是田野里的毛茛。
   
   词/薄雾,词/薄雾,因此它陪伴着我。
   然而,我的沉默从不完整---
   
   像远景中升起的一块窗帘,
   有时雾消散了:唉,游戏结束。
   游戏结束,这个词已经被
   被一些元素稍稍压扁
   所以它是现在,既被恢复又没用。
   
   我租用,当时,在乡下的一幢房子。
   田野和山脉取代了高楼大厦。
   田野,奶牛,潮湿草地上的夕阳。
   夜晚和白天辨认出轮流的鸟鸣声,
   忙碌的低语和沙沙声,交织成
   一种类似于寂静的东西。
   
   我坐着,我四处走动。当夜幕降临,
   我回到屋里。我借着蜡烛
   为自己做了一顿适量的晚餐。
   晚上,如果可以的话,我会写日记。
   
   远远地,远远地我听见牛铃
   穿过草地。
   夜色以它的方式渐渐平静。
   我感到消失的文字
   和他们的同伴躺在一起,
   就像一本无人认领的传记碎片。
   
   这完全是,当然,一个很大的错误。
   我,我相信,正面对结局:
   就像一条土路的裂缝,
   结局出现在我面前---
   
   就好像我父母面对的自由
   变成了一个深渊如一棵树成形,一个黑洞
   在泥土中膨胀,那里,在白天
   一个简单的影子就可以做到。
   
   它是,终于,回家的宽慰。
   
   当我到达时,工作室里挤满了箱子。
   一箱箱的管子,一箱箱
   装着我的静物的各种物品,
   花瓶和镜子,我
   盛满木蛋的蓝碗。
   
   至于杂志:
   我努力。我坚持。
   我把椅子移到阳台---
   
   街灯亮了,
   在河边成行。
   办公室里一片漆黑。
   在河边,
   雾气环绕灯光;
   人们,一会儿,看不到灯光
   但一种奇怪的光芒弥漫着雾,
   它的来源是个谜。
   
   夜幕渐深。雾气
   缭绕在点亮的灯泡上。
   我想那就是它可见的地方;
   在其他地方,这仅仅是事物存在的方式,
   模糊了它们曾经锐利的地方。
   
   我合上书。
   一切都在我身后,一切都过去了。
   
   前面,正如我所说的,是沉默。
   
   我没和任何人说话。
   有时电话铃响了。
   
   昼夜交替,天地
   轮流被照亮。
Cornwall
   
   
   A word drops into the mist
   like a child’s ball into high grass
   where it remains seductively
   flashing and glinting until
   the gold bursts are revealed to be
   simply field buttercups.
   
   Word/mist, word/mist: thus it was with me.
   And yet, my silence was never total---
   
   Like a curtain rising on a vista,
   sometimes the mist cleared: alas, the game was over.
   The game was over and the word had been
   somewhat flattened by the elements
   so it was now both recovered and useless.
   
   I was renting, at the time, a house in the country.
   Fields and mountains had replaced tall buildings.
   Fields, cows, sunsets over the damp meadow.
   Night and day distinguished by rotating birdcalls,
   the busy murmurs and rustlings merging into
   something akin to silence.
   
   I sat, I walked about. When night came,
   I went indoors. I cooked modest dinners for myself
   by the light of candles.
   Evenings, when I could, I wrote in my journal.
   
   Far, far away I heard cowbells
   crossing the meadow.
   The night grew quiet in its way.
   I sensed the vanished words
   lying with their companions,
   like fragments of an unclaimed biography.
   
   It was all, of course, a great mistake.
   I was, I believed, facing the end:
   like a fissure in a dirt road,
   the end appeared before me---
   
   as though the free that confronted my parents
   had become an abyss shaped like a tree, a black hole
   expanding in the dirt, where by day
   a simple shadow would have done.
   
   It was, finally, a relief to go home.
   
   When I arrived, the studio was filled with boxes.
   Cartons of tubes, boxes of the various
   objects that were my still lives,
   the vases and mirrors, the blue bowl
   I filled with wooden eggs.
   
   As to the journal:
   I tried. I persisted.
   I moved my chair onto the balcony---
   
   The streetlights were coming on,
   lining the sides of the river.
   The offices were going dark.
   At the river’s edge,
   fog encircled the lights;
   one could not, after a while, see the lights
   but a strange radiance suffused the fog,
   its source a mystery.
   
   The night progressed. Fog
   swirled over the lit bulbs.
   I suppose that is where it was visible;
   elsewhere, it was simply the way things were,
   blurred where they had been sharp.
   
   I shut my book.
   It was all behind me, all in the past.
   
   Ahead, as I have said, was silence.
   
   I spoke to no one.
   Sometimes the phone rang.
   
   Day alternated with night, the earth and sky
   taking turns being illuminated.
   
  
后记
   
   (选自Faithful and Virtuous Night)
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   读我刚刚写的东西,我现在相信
   我陡然停下来,所以我的故事似乎
   有点扭曲,结局,正如它发生的那样,不是突然的
   而是一种人为的雾那样的东西
   喷洒在舞台上,以许可艰难的场景变化。
   
   我为什么停止?有人凭直觉
   辨别出一个形状,我内心的艺术家
   介入了停止交通,似乎是?
   
   一个形状。或者命运,正如诗人们所说,
   凭直觉知道,在很久以前的几个小时里---
   
   我一定曾有过这样的想法。
   然而,我不喜欢这个词
   在我看来,它似乎是一个拐杖,一个阶段,
   一个思想的青春期,也许---
   
   仍然,它是我自己使用的一个术语,
   频繁地解释我的失败。
   命运,天命,其设计和警告
   现在在我看来似乎只是
   局部的对称,在巨大的混乱中
   转喻的小玩意儿---
   
   我看到的是混乱。
   我的刷子凝固---我画不出来。
   
   黑暗,寂静:这就是感觉。
   
   那么我们叫它什么?
   一种 “视觉危机”,我相信,
   与我父母面对的那棵树相对应,
   
   但鉴于他们被迫
   向前进入障碍物,
   我要么后退要么逃跑---
   
   雾覆盖舞台(我的生活)。
   人物来来往往,服装变化,
   我的刷子手从一边到另一边移动
   远离画布,
   从一边到另一边,就像挡风玻璃雨刷器。
   
   当然,这就是沙漠,黑夜。
   (事实上,伦敦一条拥挤的街道上,
   游客们挥舞着彩色地图。)
   
   一个人说一个词:“我”。
   从这条溪流
   伟大的形态---
   
   我做了一次深呼吸。我意识到
   那个牵引气息的人
   并不是我故事中的那个人,他那稚嫩的手
   自信地挥舞着蜡笔---
   
   我曾经是那个人吗?一个孩子,也是
   一个探索者,对他来说,道路突然变得清晰,植被
   为他分离---
   
   更远,不再被视野遮蔽,康德
   也许在去桥的路上
   所经历的那种崇高的孤独---
   (我们同享一个生日。)
   
   外面,节日的街道上
   挂着,一月下旬,耗尽的圣诞灯。
   一个女人靠在她爱人的肩膀上
   用她微弱的女高音唱着雅克.布雷尔---
   
   好极了!门关上了。
   现在什么都逃不掉,什么也进不了---
   
   我没有动我感觉到沙漠
   向前延伸,伸展到(现在看来似乎)
   四面八方,在我说话的时候不断移动,
   
   于是我不断地
   面对面与空虚同在,那
   崇高的继子,
   
   他,结果证明,
   既是我的主题,也是我的媒介
   
   我的孪生兄弟会说什么,我的思想
   有没有抵达他?
   
   也许他会说
   在我的实例中,没有任何障碍(为了争论)
   在那之后,我会
   被交付给宗教,一个
   回答信仰问题的墓地。
   
   雾已经散去了。空画布
   向内转到墙。
   
   “那只小猫死了”(于是这首歌消失)。
   
   “我能从死亡站立吗”,灵魂问。
   太阳说是的。
   沙漠回答
   你的声音是风中散落的沙子。
Afterword
   
   
   
   Reading what I have just written, I now believe
   I stopped precipitously, so that my story seems to have been
   slightly distorted, ending, as it did, not abruptly
   but in a kind of artificial mist of the sort
   sprayed onto stages to allow for difficult set changes.
   
   Why did I stop? Did some instinct
   discern a shape, the artist in me
   intervening to stop traffic, as it were?
   
   A shape. Or fate, as the poets say,
   intuited in those few long-ago hours---
   
   I must have thought so once.
   And yet I dislike the term
   which seems to me a crutch, a phase,
   the adolescence of the mind, perhaps---
   
   Still, it was a term I used myself,
   frequently to explain my failures.
   Fate, destiny, whose designs and warnings
   now seem to me simply
   local symmetries, metonymic
   baubles within immense confusion---
   
   Chaos was what I saw.
   My brush froze---I could not paint it.
   
   Darkness, silence: that was the feeling.
   
   What did we call it then?
   A “crisis of vision” corresponding, I believed,
   to the tree that confronted my parents,
   
   but whereas they were forced
   forward into the obstacle,
   I retreated or fled—
   
   Mist covered the stage (my life).
   Characters came and went, costumes were changed,
   my brush hand moved side to side
   far from the canvas,
   side to side, like a windshield wiper.
   
   Surely this was the desert, the dark night.
   (In reality, a crowded street in London,
   the tourists waving their colored maps.)
   
   One speaks a word: I.
   Out of this stream
   the great forms---
   
   I took a deep breath. And it came to me
   the person who drew that breath
   was not the person in my story, his childish hand
   confidently wielding the crayon---
   
   Had I been that person? A child but also
   an explorer to whom the path is suddenly clear, for whom
   the vegetation parts---
   
   And beyond, no longer screened from view, that exalted
   solitude Kant perhaps experienced
   on his way to the bridges---
   (We share a birthday.)
   
   Outside, the festive streets
   were strung, in late January, with exhausted Christmas lights.
   A woman leaned against her lover’s shoulder
   singing Jacques Brel in her thin soprano---
   
   Bravo! the door is shut.
   Now nothing escapes, nothing enters---
   
   I hadn’t moved I felt the desert
   stretching ahead, stretching (it now seems)
   on all sides, shifting as I speak,
   
   so that I was constantly
   face-to-face with blankness, that
   stepchild of the sublime,
   
   which, it turns out,
   has been both my subject and my medium
   
   What would my twin have said, had my thoughts
   reached him?
   
   Perhaps he would have said
   in my case there was no obstacle (for the sake of argument)
   after which I would have been
   referred to religion, the cemetery where
   questions of faith are answered.
   
   The mist had cleared. The empty canvases
   were turned inward against the wall.
   
   The little cat is dead (so the song went).
   
   Shall I be raised from death, the spirit asks.
   And the sun says yes.
   And the desert answers
   your voice is sand scattered in wind.
   

 楼主| 发表于 2020-11-30 18:26:44 | 显示全部楼层
午夜
   
   (选自Faithful and Virtuous Night)
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   最后黑夜包围了我;
   我漂浮在它上面,也许在它里面,
   或者它载着我,就像一条河载着
   一条船,同时
   它在我的头顶上盘旋,
   星光灿烂,然而却很黑暗。
   
   这些是我为之而活的时刻。
   我被,我觉得,神秘地提升到了世界之上
   以至于行动最终不可能
   这使思想不仅可能,而且无限。
   
   它没有尽头。我不需要,我觉得
   做任何事。每件事
   都会为我做,或者对我做,
   如果不做,它就没必要。
   
   我在阳台上。
   我右手拿着一杯苏格兰威士忌
   里面有两块冰块正在融化。
   
   我陷入了沉默。
   那就像夜晚,我的记忆---它们就像星星
   被固定在其中,当然,尽管
   如果人们能像天文学家一样看到它们
   他就会发现它们是无尽的火焰,就像地狱的火焰。
   我把玻璃杯放在铁栏杆上。
   
   下面,河水闪耀。正如我所说,
   一切都在闪耀---星星,桥上的灯光,重要的
   照明建筑似乎停在河边
   然后又重新开始,人类的工作
   被大自然打断。我不时看见
   晚上快乐的游船,因为夜晚温暖,
   它们仍然是满的。
   
   这是我童年最伟大的游览。
   短暂的火车之旅,在河边喝了一杯庆祝茶后达到顶点,
   然后是我姨妈称之为我们的漫步,
   然后是在黑暗的水面上来回游弋的小船自身---
   
   我姨妈手里的硬币交给了船长。
   我的票被递给我,每次一个新的号码。
   然后船进入水流。
   我握着我哥哥的手。
   我们看着这些纪念碑互相接替
   总是以同样的顺序
   这样我们就可以走进未来
   同时经历不断的重现。
   
   船在河上行驶,然后又回来。
   它穿过时间运动,然后
   又经过时间的倒转,虽然我们的方向
   一直向前,船头不断地
   在水里撕开一条路。
   
   这就像是一个宗教仪式
   会众们站在那里
   等待,注视着,
   这就是全部的意义,注视。
   
   城市漂浮过去,
   一半在右边,一半在左边。
   
   看看这座城市多美,
   我姨妈会对我们说。因为
   它被点燃了,我想。或许是因为
   有人在印刷的小册子上这样说。
   
   后来我们坐了最后一班火车。
   我经常睡觉,甚至我哥哥也睡。
   我们是乡下的孩子,不习惯这种紧张。
   你们两个孩子都累坏了,我姨妈说,
   好像我们整个童年都有
   精疲力竭的特性。
   火车外,猫头鹰在叫。
   
   我们到家时多么累。
   我穿着袜子上床睡觉了。
   
   那晚很黑。
   月亮升起了。
   我看见我姨妈用手抓住栏杆。
   
   极为兴奋,鼓掌欢呼,
   其他人爬上上层甲板
   看着陆地消失在海洋中---
Midnight
   
   
   At last the night surrounded me;
   I floated on it, perhaps in it,
   or it carried me as a river carries
   a boat, and at the same time
   it swirled above me,
   star-studded but dark nevertheless.
   
   These were the moments I lived for.
   I was, I felt, mysteriously lifted above the world
   so that action was at last impossible
   which made thought not only possible but limitless.
   
   It had no end. I did not, I felt,
   need to do anything. Everything
   would be done for me, or done to me,
   and if it was not done, it was not essential.
   
   I was on my balcony.
   In my right hand I held a glass of Scotch
   in which two ice cubes were melting.
   
   Silence had entered me.
   It was like the night, and mymemories---they were like stars
   in that they were fixed, though of course
   if one could see as do the astronomers
   one would see they are unending fires, like the fires of hell.
   I set my glass on the iron railing.
   
   Below, the river sparkled. As I said,
   everything glittered---the stars, the bridge lights, the important
   illumined buildings that seemed to stop at the river
   then resume again, man’s work
   interrupted by nature. From time to time I saw
   the evening pleasure boats; because the night was warm,
   they were still full.
   
   This was the great excursion of my childhood.
   The short train ride culminating in a gala tea by the river,
   then what my aunt called our promenade,
   then the boat itself that cruised back and forth over the dark water---
   
   The coins in my aunt’s hand passed into the hand of the captain.
   I was handed my ticket, each time a fresh number.
   Then the boat entered the current.
   I held my brother’s hand.
   We watched the monuments succeeding one another
   always in the same order
   so that we moved into the future
   while experiencing perpetual recurrences.
   
   The boat traveled up the river and then back again.
   It moved through time and then
   through a reversal of time, though our direction
   was forward always, the prow continuously
   breaking a path in the water.
   
   It was like a religious ceremony
   in which the congregation stood
   awaiting, beholding,
   and that was the entire point, the beholding.
   
   The city drifted by,
   half on the right side, half on the left.
   
   See how beautiful the city is,
   my aunt would say to us. Because
   it was lit up, I expect. Or perhaps because
   someone had said so in the printed booklet.
   
   Afterward we took the last train.
   I often slept, even my brother slept.
   We were country children, unused to these intensities.
   You boys are spent, my aunt said,
   as though our whole childhood had about it
   an exhausted quality.
   Outside the train, the owl was calling.
   
   How tired we were when we reached home.
   I went to bed with my socks on.
   
   The night was very dark.
   The moon rose.
   I saw my aunt’s hand gripping the railing.
   
   In great excitement, clapping and cheering,
   the others climbed onto the upper deck
   to watch the land disappear into the ocean—
  
石头里的剑
   
   (选自Faithful and Virtuous Night)
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   我的分析者短暂抬起头。
   自然,我看不见他
   但我学会了,在我们一起的岁月里,
   凭直觉知道这些动作。像往常一样,
   他拒绝承认
   是否我是对的。我的机灵对抗
   他的推诿:我们的小游戏。
   
   在这样的时刻,我觉得分析
   很活跃:它似乎给我带来了
   一种我倾向于压抑的
   狡猾的活泼。我的分析者
   对我的表现漠不关心
   现在非常使人欣慰。我们之间
   
   生长了一种亲密关系
   就像城堡周围的森林。
   
   百叶窗关上了。犹豫的
   光柱穿过地毯前进。
   透过窗台上的一条小长条,
   我看到了外面的世界。
   
   一直以来,我有一种晕眩的感觉
   漂浮在我的生命之上。生命
   在遥远的地方发生。但它
   还在发生吗:这就是问题。
   
   夏末:光逐渐消失。
   逃出的碎片在盆栽植物上闪烁。
   
   这项分析已进入第七年。
   我又开始画画了---
   适度的小草图,偶尔
   有以功能性物体为模型的
   三维结构---
   
   然而,分析需要
   我很多时间。这一次
   从中扣除的东西:这
   也是问题所在。
   
   我躺着,看着窗户,
   长时间的沉默交替着
   一些无精打采的沉思
   和反问---
   
   我的分析者,我觉得,在看着我。
   所以,在我的想象中,一个母亲凝视着她熟睡的孩子,
   宽恕先行于理解。
   
   或者,更可能的是,我哥哥一定也这样盯着我看---
   也许我们之间的沉默预示着
   这种沉默,其中,所有未说出口的东西
   以某种方式都被分享了。这似乎是个谜。
   
   然后时间结束。
   
   我像上升一样下降;
   门卫打开了门。
   
   那天的温和天气一直保持着。
   在商店的上方,有条纹的遮阳篷张开
   保护水果。
   
   餐馆、商店、电话亭
   有过期报纸和香烟。
   当外面变得更暗,
   内部变得更亮。
   
   也许毒品起作用了?
   在某个时刻,街灯亮了。
   
   我感觉到,突然,一种相机开始转动的感觉;
   我意识到我周围的运动,我的同类们
   被盲目的行为崇拜所驱使---
   
   我多么强烈地抵制这些!
   在我看来,它似乎是肤浅和虚假的,或者也许
   是局部的和虚假的---
   然而真理---唉,我所看到的真理
   被表达为静止。
   
   我走了一会儿,凝视着画廊的窗户---
   我的朋友们成名了。
   
   在背景中我能听到河流,
   从那里传来了遗忘的味道
   夹杂着餐馆里的盆栽草药---
   
   我已经安排好加入一个老熟人的晚餐。
   他就在我们惯常的餐桌旁;
   酒倒了,他正和侍者接洽,
   讨论羊肉的事。
   
   和往常一样,晚餐时爆发了一场小争论,表面上
   是关于美学的。它被允许通过。
   
   外面,桥闪烁着。
   汽车来来回回冲,河水
   回光闪烁,仿照这座桥。自然
   反映艺术:那种效应的某种东西。
   我的朋友发现这个形象很有说服力。
   
   他是个作家。他的许多小说,当时,
   都受到好评。一部很像另一部。
   然而,他的自满掩盖了痛苦
   就像也许我的痛苦掩盖了自满。
   我们互相认识多年了。
   
   又一次,我指责他懒惰。
   又一次,他把这个词扔回去---
   
   他举起杯子,把它倒过来。
   这是你的纯洁,他说,这是你的完美主义---
   玻璃杯是空的,在桌布上没有留下痕迹。
   
   酒已经冲到我头上。
   我慢慢地走回家,沉思着,有点醉了。
   酒已经冲到我头上,或者
   那一夜本身,夏末的甜蜜?
   
   正是批评家,他说,
   批评家有这观点。我们艺术家
   (他包括我)我们艺术家
   只是在我们游戏中的孩子。
The Sword in the Stone
   
   
   
   My analyst looked up briefly.
   Naturally I couldn’t see him
   but I had learned, in our years together,
   to intuit these movements. As usual,
   he refused to acknowledge
   whether or not I was right. My ingenuity versus
   his evasiveness: our little game.
   
   At such moments, I felt the analysis
   was flourishing: it seemed to bring out in me
   a sly vivaciousness I was
   inclined to repress. My analyst’s
   indifference to my performances
   was now immensely soothing. An intimacy
   
   had grown up between us
   like a forest around a castle.
   
   The blinds were closed. Vacillating
   bars of light advanced across the carpeting.
   Through a small strip above the windowsill,
   I saw the outside world.
   
   All this time I had the giddy sensation
   of floating above my life. Far away
   that life occurred. But was it
   still occurring: that was the question.
   
   Late summer: the light was fading.
   Escaped shreds flickered over the potted plants.
   
   The analysis was in its seventh year.
   I had begun to draw again---
   modest little sketches, occasional
   three-dimensional constructs
   modeled on functional objects—
   
   And yet, the analysis required
   much of my time. From what
   was this time deducted: that
   was also the question.
   
   I lay, watching the window,
   long intervals of silence alternating
   with somewhat listless ruminations
   and rhetorical questions---
   
   My analyst, I felt, was watching me.
   So, in my imagination, a mother stares at her sleeping child,
   forgiveness preceding understanding.
   
   Or, more likely, so my brother must have gazed at me---
   perhaps the silence between us prefigured
   this silence, in which everything that remained unspoken
   was somehow shared. It seemed a mystery.
   
   Then the hour was over.
   
   I descended as I had ascended;
   the doorman opened the door.
   
   The mild weather of the day had held.
   Above the shops, striped awnings had unfurled
   protecting the fruit.
   
   Restaurants, shops, kiosks
   with late newspapers and cigarettes.
   The insides grew brighter
   as the outside grew darker.
   
   Perhaps the drugs were working?
   At some point, the streetlights came on.
   
   I felt, suddenly, a sense of cameras beginning to turn;
   I was aware of movement around me, my fellow beings
   driven by a mindless fetish for action---
   
   How deeply I resisted this!
   It seemed to me shallow and false, or perhaps
   partial and false---
   Whereas truth---well, truth as I saw it
   was expressed as stillness.
   
   I walked awhile, staring into the windows of the galleries---
   my friends had become famous.
   
   I could hear the river in the background,
   from which came the smell of oblivion
   interlaced with potted herbs from the restaurants---
   
   I had arranged to join an old acquaintance for dinner.
   There he was at our accustomed table;
   the wine was poured; he was engaged with the waiter,
   discussing the lamb.
   
   As usual, a small argument erupted over dinner, ostensibly
   concerning aesthetics. It was allowed to pass.
   
   Outside, the bridge glittered.
   Cars rushed back and forth, the river
   glittered back, imitating the bridge. Nature
   reflecting art: something to that effect.
   My friend found the image potent.
   
   He was a writer. His many novels, at the time,
   were much praised. One was much like another.
   And yet his complacency disguised suffering
   as perhaps my suffering disguised complacency.
   We had known each other many years.
   
   Once again, I had accused him of laziness.
   Once again, he flung the word back---
   
   He raised his glass and turned it upside-down.
   This is your purity, he said, this is your perfectionism---
   The glass was empty; it left no mark on the tablecloth.
   
   The wine had gone to my head.
   I walked home slowly, brooding, a little drunk.
   The wine had gone to my head, or was it
   the night itself, the sweetness at the end of summer?
   
   It is the critics, he said,
   the critics have the ideas. We artists
   (he included me)---we artists
   are just children at our games.
   
  
被禁止的音乐
   
   (选自Faithful and Virtuous Night)
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   管弦乐队演奏了一段时间,通过了行板,谐谑曲,柔板后,第一个长笛手把他的头放在支架上,因为直到明天不需要他,这时出现了被称为“被禁止的音乐”的乐段,因为它不能,作曲家规定,被演奏。与此同时它必须存在,而且必须被越过,间隔时间听凭指挥决定。但今晚,指挥决定,必须演奏它---他渴望成名。长笛手惊醒了。某事发生在他耳朵,他以前从来没有感觉到过的事。他的睡眠结束。我现在在哪里,他想。然后他重复一遍,就像一个老人躺在地板上,而不是躺在床上。我现在在哪里?
  Forbidden Music
   
   
   
   After the orchestra had been playing for some time, and had passed the andante, the scherzo, the poco adagio, and the first flautist had put his head on the stand because he would not be needed until tomorrow, there came a passage that was called the forbidden music because it could not, the composer specified, be played. And still it must exist and be passed over, an interval at the discretion of the conductor. But tonight, the conductor decides, it must be played--- he has a hunger to make his name. The flautist wakes with a start. Something has happened to his ears, something he has never felt before. His sleep is over. Where am I now, he thinks. And then he repeated it, like an old man lying on the floor instead of in his bed. Where am I now?
   
打开的窗户
   
   (选自Faithful and Virtuous Night)
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   一位上了年纪的作家养成了在开始写小说之前把结尾写在一张纸上的习惯,之后他会收集一堆纸,典型的情况是,冬天(的纸堆)薄,当白天很短,夏天则比较密集,当他的思想又变得松散和联想,像年轻人的思想一样广阔。不管它们的数量,他都会把这些空白页放在最后一页上,这样就隐藏了它。只有这样,这个故事才会出现在他眼前,冬天纯洁而优雅,夏天更自由。通过这些手段,他已成为公认的大师。
   
   他首先在没有钟的房间里工作,相信光线会告诉他一天什么时候结束。夏天,他喜欢窗户开着。那么,在夏天,冬天的风是怎么进入房间的呢?你是对的,他对风喊道,这就是我所缺少的,这种果断和突然,这种惊奇---哦,如果我能做到这一点,我将是一个神!他躺在书房冰冷的地板上,看着风搅动书页,把写过的和未写的混合在一起,结局在它们中。
The Open Window
   
   
   
   An elderly writer had formed the habit of writing the words the end on a piece of paper before he began his stories, after which he would gather a stack of pages, typically thin in winter when the daylight was brief, and comparatively dense in summer when his thought became again loose and associative, expansive like the thought of a young man. Regardless of their number, he would place these blank pages over the last, thus obscuring it. Only then would the story come to him, chaste and refined in winter, more free in summer. By these means he had become an acknowledged master.
   
   He worked by preference in a room without clocks, trusting the light to tell him when the day was finished. In summer, he liked the window open. How then, in summer, did the winter wind enter the room? You are right, he cried out to the wind, this is what I have lacked, this decisiveness and abruptness, this surprise—O, if I could do this I would be a god! And he lay on the cold floor of the study watching the wind stirring the pages, mixing the written and unwritten, the end among them.
忧郁的助手
   
   (选自Faithful and Virtuous Night)
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   我有一个助手,但他很忧郁,
   如此忧郁以至于妨碍了他的工作。
   他要打开我的信,那是很少的,
   并回答需要回答的那些,
   在底部留下一个空间让我签名。
   在我的签名下,他自己的首字母缩写,
   因这种形式,从一开始,他就非常自豪。
   电话铃响时,他将说
   他的雇主这会儿没空,
   并提出转达一条消息。
   
   几个月后,他来找我。
   大师,他说(这是他对我的名字),
   我对你已经无用了,你必须赶我出去。
   我看见他已经收拾好行囊,
   准备走了,虽然是晚上
   下雪了。我的心随他而去。
   好吧,我说,如果你不能履行这几项职责,
   你能做什么?他指了指
   他那饱含泪水的眼睛。我可以哭泣,他说。
   那么你必须为我哭泣,我告诉他,
   就像基督为人类哭泣。
   
   他仍然犹豫不决。
   你的生活是令人羡慕的,他说;
   当我哭的时候,我必须想到什么?
   我告诉他,我的日子的,
   时间,正在流出的,空虚,
   我的成就毫无意义,
   我说话的时候,我有一种奇怪的感觉
   我又一次为另一个人
   感觉到了什么---
   
   他完全不动地站着。
   我在壁炉里点了一把小火;
   我记得听到垂死的原木发出满足的低语---
   
   大师,他说,你给了
   我的痛苦以意义。
   
   那是一个奇怪的时刻。
   整个交流过程似乎既充满深深的欺诈
   又极为真实,仿佛空虚和无意义之类的字眼
   激起了一些记忆中的情感
   它现在又依附于这个场合和这个人身上。
   
   他的脸容光焕发。他的眼泪
   在火光中闪烁着红色和金色。
   然后他走了。
   
   外面雪正下着,
   风景变成了一系列
   平淡无奇的概括
   到处标示着神秘的
   形状,在雪飘落的地方。
   街道是白色的,各种各样的树都是白色的---
   表面的变化,但这不真正是
   我们看到的一切吗?
The Melancholy Assistant
   
   
   
   I had an assistant, but he was melancholy,
   so melancholy it interfered with his duties.
   He was to open my letters, which were few,
   and answer those that required answers,
   leaving a space at the bottom for my signature.
   And under my signature, his own initials,
   in which formality, at the outset, he took great pride.
   When the phone rang, he was to say
   his employer was at the moment occupied,
   and offer to convey a message.
   
   After several months, he came to me.
   Master, he said (which was his name for me),
   I have become useless to you; you must turn me out.
   And I saw that he had packed his bags
   and was prepared to go, though it was night
   and the snow was falling. My heart went out to him.
   Well, I said, if you cannot perform these few duties,
   what can you do? And he pointed to his eyes,
   which were full of tears. I can weep, he said.
   Then you must weep for me, I told him,
   as Christ wept for mankind.
   
   Still he was hesitant.
   Your life is enviable, he said;
   what must I think of when I cry?
   And I told him of the emptiness of my days,
   and of time, which was running out,
   and of the meaninglessness of my achievement,
   and as I spoke I had the odd sensation
   of once more feeling something
   for another human being---
   
   He stood completely still.
   I had lit a small fire in the fireplace;
   I remember hearing the contented murmurs of the dying logs---
   
   Master, he said, you have given
   meaning to my suffering.
   
   It was a strange moment.
   The whole exchange seemed both deeply fraudulent
   and profoundly true, as though such words as emptiness and meaninglessness
   had stimulated some remembered emotion
   which now attached itself to this occasion and person.
   
   His face was radiant. His tears glinted
   red and gold in the firelight.
   Then he was gone.
   
   Outside the snow was falling,
   the landscape changing into a series
   of bland generalizations
   marked here and there with enigmatic
   shapes where the snow had drifted.
   The street was white, the various trees were white---
   Changes of the surface, but is that not really
   all we ever see?
   

 楼主| 发表于 2020-12-1 16:11:07 | 显示全部楼层
缩短的旅行
   
   (选自Faithful and Virtuous Night)
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   我发现楼梯比我预想的要难一些,所以我坐了下来,可以说,在行程的中途。因为栏杆对面有一扇大窗户,所以我可以用外面街上的小戏剧和喜剧来娱乐自己,虽然没有我认识的人经过,也没有人,当然,能帮助我。据我所见,楼梯本身也没有在使用。你必须起来,我的哥们儿,我告诉自己。因为这似乎突然间不可能了,我做了第二件最好的事情:我准备睡觉,我的头和胳膊放在上面的楼梯上,我的身体蹲在下面。过了一会儿,一个小女孩出现在楼梯顶上,拉着一位老妇人的手。奶奶,小女孩叫道,楼梯上有个死汉!我们必须让他睡觉,祖母说。我们必须安静地走过。他的生命在这样一个时刻,无论是回到开始还是前进到终点,似乎都是不可忍受的;因此,他决定,在这里,在世事当中停下来,尽管这使他成为其他人的障碍,比如我们自己。但我们决不能放弃希望;在我自己的一生中,她接着说,有这样一段时光,尽管那是很久以前的事了。在这里,让她孙女走在她面前,这样她们就可以不打扰我地通过。
   
   我本想听听她的全部故事,因为她经过时,似乎是一个精力充沛的女人,随时准备享受生活,同时又直率,没有幻想。但很快她们的声音减弱变成了耳语,或者她们已经远去了。我们回来时能见到他吗,孩子喃喃地说。到那时他早就走了,她祖母说,他已经结束爬上爬下,视情况而定。那我现在就说再见,小女孩说。她跪在我下面,念着一个我认为是希伯来人对死者的祈祷。先生,她低声说,我祖母告诉我你没死,但我想这也许能减轻你的恐惧,我不会在合适的时间来这儿唱。
   
   当你再次听到这句话时,她说,如果你记得你第一次如何听到这些话,一个小女孩的声音时,也许这些话就不会那么吓人了。
A Foreshortened Journey
   
   
   
   I found the stairs somewhat more difficult than I had expected and so I sat down, so to speak, in the middle of the journey. Because there was a large window opposite the railing, I was able to entertain myself with the little dramas and comedies of the street outside, though no one I knew passed by, no one,certainly, who could have assisted me. Nor were the stairs themselves in use, as far as I could see. You must get up, my lad, I told myself. Since this seemed suddenly impossible, I did the next best thing: I prepared to sleep, my head and arms on the stair above, my body crouched below. Sometime after this, a little girl appeared at the top of the staircase, holding the hand of an elderly woman. Grandmother, cried the little girl, there is a dead man on the staircase! We must let him sleep, said the grandmother. We must walk quietly by. He is at that point in life at which neither returning to the beginning nor advancing to the end seems bearable; therefore, he has decided to stop, here, in the midst of things, though this makes him an obstacle to others, such as ourselves. But we must not give up hope; in my own life, she continued, there was such a time, though that was long ago. And here, she let her granddaughter walk in front of her so they could pass me without disturbing me.
   
   I would have liked to hear the whole of her story, since she seemed, as she passed by, a vigorous woman, ready to take pleasure in life, and at the same time forthright, without illusions. But soon their voices faded into whispers, or they were far away. Will we see him when we return, the child murmured. He will be long gone by then, said her grandmother, he will have finished climbing up or down, as the case may be. Then I will say goodbye now, said the little girl. And she knelt below me, chanting a prayer I recognized as the Hebrew prayer for the dead. Sir, she whispered, my grandmother tells me you are not dead, but I thought perhaps this would soothe you in your terrors, and I will not be here to sing it at the right time.
   
   When you hear this again, she said, perhaps the words will be less intimidating, if you remember how you first heard them, in the voice of a little girl.
  
接近地平线
   
   (选自Faithful and Virtuous Night)
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   一天早上我醒来,右臂不能动。
   我遭受到,定期的,相当大的
   疼痛,在那边,在画画的手臂上,
   但这次没痛。
   的确,没有感觉。
   我的医生一小时内就到了。
   马上就有了其他医生的问题,
   各种各样的检查,程序---
   我把医生打发走了
   雇了一个秘书来抄写这些笔记,
   其技能,我敢肯定,胜任我的需要。
   他低着头坐在床边,
   可能是为了避免被描述。
   
   于是我们开始。空气中
   有一种欢乐的感觉,
   仿佛鸟儿在歌唱。
   穿过开着的窗户一阵阵芳香空气的气味吹来。
   
   我的生日(我记得)快到了。
   也许这两个伟大的时刻会抵触
   我会看到我的自我相遇,来来往往---
   当然,我原版的自我大部分
   已经死了,所以一个鬼魂将被迫
   拥抱一份残缺。
   
   天,唉,还很远,
   从床上真的看不到。
   它现在作为一个遥远的假设而存在,
   一个完全不受现实约束的自由之地。
   我发现自己想象着老年的胜利,
   完美的、有远见的图画
   用我左手画出---
   “左”,也像“剩余。”
   
   窗户关上了。再次沉默,倍增。
   在我的右臂,所有的感觉都消失了。
   就像空姐宣布
   飞行服务的音频部分结束。
   
   “感觉已经离去”---我想
   这会制作一块很好的墓碑。
   
   但我错误地暗示
   以前发生的这件事。
   事实上,我一直被感情所困扰;
   正是表达的天赋
   让我常常失望。
   让我失望,折磨我,几乎一辈子。
   
   秘书抬起头来,
   充满了死亡的来临
   所激起的抽象敬意。
   它禁不住,真的,但毛骨悚然的是,
   这种形状从混乱中出现。
   
   一台机器,我看到,安装在我的床边
   用来通知我的来访者
   我朝地平线的前进。
   
   我自己的凝视不停地向它漂移,
   不稳定的线条轻轻地
   上升,下降,
   就像摇篮曲中的人声。
   
   然后声音渐渐平静。
   在这一点,我的灵魂将与无限
   融为一体,它被
   一条直线代表,
   就像一个负号。
   
   我没有继承人
   从某种意义上说,我没有什么实质性的东西
   可以留下。
   
   也许时间会修正这种失望。
   那些认识我的人在这里找不到新闻;
   我很同情。那些
   我的感情所羁的人
   会原谅,我希望,被
   这种情况所迫造成的扭曲。
   
   我会简短的。结论
   正如空姐所说,
   我们的短途飞行。
   
   人们从不认识的所有人
   都挤进了过道,所有人都被
   漏进了终点站。
Approach of the Horizon
   
   
   
   One morning I awoke unable to move my right arm.
   I had, periodically, suffered from considerable
   pain on that side, in my painting arm,
   but in this instance there was no pain.
   Indeed, there was no feeling.
   My doctor arrived within the hour.
   There was immediately the question of other doctors,
   various tests, procedures---
   I sent the doctor away
   and instead hired the secretary who transcribes these notes,
   whose skills, I am assured, are adequate to my needs.
   He sits beside the bed with his head down,
   possibly to avoid being described.
   
   So we begin. There is a sense
   of gaiety in the air,
   as though birds were singing.
   Through the open window come gusts of sweet scented air.
   
   My birthday (I remember) is fast approaching.
   Perhaps the two great moments will collide
   and I will see my selves meet, coming and going---
   Of course, much of my original self
   is already dead, so a ghost would be forced
   to embrace a mutilation.
   
   The sky, alas, is still far away,
   not really visible from the bed.
   It exists now as a remote hypothesis,
   a place of freedom utterly unconstrained by reality.
   I find myself imagining the triumphs of old age,
   immaculate, visionary drawings
   made with my left hand---
   “left,” also, as “remaining.”
   
   The window is closed. Silence again, multiplied.
   And in my right arm^ all feeling departed.
   As when the stewardess announces the conclusion
   of the audio portion of one’s in-flight service.
   
   Feeling has departed---it occurs to me
   this would make a fine headstone.
   
   But I was wrong to suggest
   this has occurred before.
   In fact, I have been hounded by feeling;
   it is the gift of expression
   that has so often failed me.
   Failed me, tormented me, virtually all my life.
   
   The secretary lifts his head,
   filled with the abstract deference
   the approach of death inspires.
   It cannot help, really, but be thrilling,
   this emerging of shape from chaos.
   
   A machine, I see, has been installed by my bed
   to inform my visitors
   of my progress toward the horizon.
   
   My own gaze keeps drifting toward it,
   the unstable line gently
   ascending, descending,
   like a human voice in a lullaby.
   
   And then the voice grows still.
   At which point my soul will have merged
   with the infinite, which is represented
   by a straight line,
   like a minus sign.
   
   I have no heirs
   in the sense that I have nothing of substance
   to leave behind.
   
   Possibly time will revise this disappointment.
   Those who know me well will find no news here;
   I sympathize. Those to whom
   I am bound by affection
   will forgive, I hope, the distortions
   compelled by the occasion.
   
   I will be brief. This concludes,
   as the stewardess says,
   our short flight.
   
   And all the persons one will never know
   crowd into the aisle, and all are funneled
   into the terminal.
  
白色系列
   
   (选自Faithful and Virtuous Night)
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符
   
   一天连接另一天。
   冬天过去了。圣诞彩灯
   和破旧的星星一起落下
   在各条商业街上串接。
   花车出现在潮湿的人行道上,
   金属桶里装满了榅桲和银莲花。
   
   结局来了又去了。
   或者我应该说,每隔一段时间都接近结局;
   我穿过它就像飞机穿过云层。
   另一方面,厕所上方的空标牌仍然在发光。
   
   我姨妈死了。我哥哥搬到美国去了。
   
   在我手腕上,手表的表面在虚假的黑暗中闪烁
   (电影正在放映)。
   这就是它的特殊之处,一种蓝色的跳动
   使数字易于阅读,即使在没有光线的情况下。
   慷慨,我一直在想。
   
   然而,时针平静的经过
   不再代表我对时间的感知
   它已经变成了一种静止不动的感觉
   表示跨越遥远距离的运动。
   
   手在动;
   十二,据我观察,又变成了一。
   然而现在,时间就是这样一种环境,在其中
   我置身在我的乘客们中,
   就像婴儿置身在他结实的婴儿床里
   或者,为了延伸这一点,就像未出生的孩子
   在他母亲的子宫里打滚。
   子宫外,大地已经陷落;
   我能看见闪电击中机翼的闪烁。
   当我的资金用完,
   我去蒙大拿州
   我哥哥土地上的一间小房子
   住了一段时间。
   
   我在黑暗中到达;
   在机场,我的包丢了。
   
   在我看来,我并没有
   水平移动,而是从一个很低的地方
   移到了一个很高的地方,
   也许还在空中。
   
   事实上,蒙大拿就像月亮---
   我哥哥自信地在结冰的路面上驾车行驶,
   不时停下来指出
   一些杰出的建筑。
   
   我们,基本上,沉默。
   我意识到我们已经恢复了
   儿时的准备,
   我们的双腿相触,方向盘
   现在代替了书本。
   
   然而,从最深层的意义上说,它们是可以互换的:
   我和我哥哥不是一直都在操纵,
   他自己和我,从我们荒凉的卧室
   引向一个岩石和湖泊的夜晚
   被到处伸出的宝剑打断吗---
   天空一片漆黑。大地又白又冷。
   
   我看着夜幕渐渐消逝。在白雪之上
   太阳升起,把雪变成奇怪的粉红色。
   
   然后我们到了。
   我们在寒冷的大厅里站了一会儿,等着热起来。
   我哥哥写下我的杂货清单。
   穿过我哥哥的脸,
   悲伤的波浪和喜悦的波浪交替出现。
   
   当然,我想到了康沃尔的房子。
   奶牛,单调的夏日钟的音乐---
   
   我感到,如你猜到的,一种明显恐惧的瞬间。
   
   然后我一个人。
   第二天,我的包到了。
   
   我打开了我少量的行李。
   我父母结婚那天的那张照片
   现在又添了一张
   我姨妈流产时的青年照片,那是她
   珍爱并传给我的纪念品。
   
   除此之外,只有化妆品和药,
   还有我收集的一小部分冬装。
   
   我哥哥给我带来了书和杂志。
   他教我各种新的世界技能
   我很快就没有用它们。
   
   但对我来说,这是一个新世界:
   什么都没有,也不应该发生什么。
   下雪了。有些下午,
   我给我哥哥的妻子上绘画课。
   在某些时候,我又开始画画。
   
   对这件作品的价值
   无法作出任何判断。
   可以说这些画是
   极好的,完全是白色的。油漆
   涂得很厚,笔触极不规则---
   
   白茫茫的田野,蓝色的
   光芒,闪烁,西方天空的蔚蓝,
   或者我自诩为
   蓝色观察面的东西。向我讲述了另一个世界。
   
   我领我的百姓,它说,
   到旷野
   在那里他们必得洁净。
   
   我哥哥的妻子会痴迷地站着。
   有时我的侄子来了
   (他很快就会成为我的生活伴侣)。
   我看到了,她会说,一张孩子的脸。
   
   她的意思是,我想,从表面散发出来的感觉,
   无助或凄凉的感觉---
   
   外面,下雪了。
   我已经,我觉得,被它的寂静所接纳。
   同时,每一次行程都是一个决定,
   不是一个有意识的决定,然而是一个决定,
   就像,例如,当凶手扣动扳机时。
   
   这些,他说。这就是我的意思。
   或者也许,我需要做的。
   或者,这就是我能做的一切。
   在这里,我相信,这个类比
   以一片混乱的道德判断而告终。
   
   后来,我预期,他什么也不记得。
   同样地,我也不能确切地说
   这些画是如何产生的,尽管最后
   有很多,很难运回家。
   
   当我返回,哈瑞和我在一起。
   我相信,他是个温文尔雅的男孩
   喜欢家庭生活。
   事实上,尽管学业压力很大
   他还是自学做饭。
   
   我们互相适合。他经常边工作边唱。
   所以我妈妈唱(或者,更可能的是,我姨妈告发了)。
   我要求,经常,一些我喜欢的特别的歌,
   他开始学了。他是,正如我所说,
   一个乐于助人的男孩。小山是活的,他唱着,
   一遍又一遍。有时,在我阴暗的心情里,
   雅克•布雷尔一直萦绕在我心头。
   
   这只小猫死了,意味着,我想,
   一个人最后的希望。
   
   猫死了,哈利唱道,
   没有他的身体他将毫无意义。
   在哈利的声音里,这是深深的安慰。
   
   有时他的声音颤抖,因为剧烈的感情,
   然后有片刻群山活力四射
   猫却死了。
   
   但我们不需要,总的来说,在两者之间作出选择。
   
   仍然,更黑暗的歌曲激励着他,每一段都获得变奏。
   
   猫死了,谁会,现在
   把他的心压在我的心上温暖我?
   
   希望的终结,我想这意味着,
   但在哈利的声音里,似乎有一扇大门正转动着打开-
   白雪覆盖的猫消失在高高的树枝上;
   啊当我跟随时,我会看到什么?

   
   
   
   173Faithful and Virtuous Night - Louise Glück // PDF// P588
   
   
   
    173Faithful and Virtuous Night - Louise Glück // PDF// P593
   

   The White Series
   
   
   
   One day continuously followed another.
   Winter passed. The Christmas lights came down
   together with the shabby stars
   strung across the various shopping streets.
   Flower carts appeared on the wet pavements,
   the metal pails filled with quince and anemones.
   
   The end came and went.
   Or should I say, at intervals the end approached;
   I passed through it like a plane passing through a cloud.
   On the other side, the vacant sign still glowed above the lavatory.
   
   My aunt died. My brother moved to America.
   
   On my wrist, the watch face glistened in the false darkness
   (the movie was being shown).
   This was its special feature, a kind of bluish throbbing
   which made the numbers easy to read, even in the absence of light.
   Princely, I always thought.
   
   And yet the serene transit of the hour hand
   no longer represented my perception of time
   which had become a sense of immobility
   expressed as movement across vast distances.
   
   The hand moved;
   the twelve, as I watched, became the one again.
   Whereas time was now this environment in which
   I was contained with my fellow passengers,
   as the infant is contained in his sturdy crib
   or, to stretch the point, as the unborn child
   wallows in his mother’s womb.
   Outside the womb, the earth had fallen away;
   I could see flares of lightning striking the wing.
   When my funds were gone,
   I went to live for a while
   in a small house on my brother’s land
   in the state of Montana.
   
   I arrived in darkness;
   at the airport, my bags were lost.
   
   It seemed to me I had moved
   not horizontally but rather from a very low place
   to something very high,
   perhaps still in the air.
   
   Indeed, Montana was like the moon---
   My brother drove confidently over the icy road,
   from time to time stopping to point out
   some rare formation.
   
   We were, in the main, silent.
   It came to me we had resumed
   the arrangements of childhood,
   our legs touching, the steering wheel
   now substituting for the book.
   
   And yet, in the deepest sense, they were interchangeable:
   had not my brother always been steering,
   both himself and me, out of our bleak bedroom
   into a night of rocks and lakes
   punctuated with swords sticking up here and there---
   The sky was black. The earth was white and cold.
   
   I watched the night fading. Above the white snow
   the sun rose, turning the snow a strange pinkish color.
   
   Then we arrived.
   We stood awhile in the cold hall, waiting for the heat to start.
   My brother wrote down my list of groceries.
   Across my brother’s face,
   waves of sadness alternated with waves of joy.
   
   I thought, of course, of the house in Cornwall.
   The cows, the monotonous summery music of the bells---
   
   I felt, as you will guess, an instant of stark terror.
   
   And then I was alone.
   The next day, my bags arrived.
   
   I unpacked my few belongings.
   The photograph of my parents on their wedding day
   to which was now added
   a photograph of my aunt in her aborted youth, a souvenir
   she had cherished and passed on to me.
   
   Beyond these, only toiletries and medications,
   together with my small collection of winter clothes.
   
   My brother brought me books and journals.
   He taught me various new world skills
   for which I would soon have no use.
   
   And yet this was to me the new world:
   there was nothing, and nothing was supposed to happen.
   The snow fell. Certain afternoons,
   I gave drawing lessons to my brother’s wife.
   At some point, I began to paint again.
   
   It was impossible to form
   any judgment of the work’s value.
   Suffice to say the paintings were
   immense and entirely white. The paint had been
   applied thickly, in great irregular strokes---
   
   Fields of white and glimpses, flashes
   of blue, the blue of the western sky,
   or what I called to myself
   watch-face blue. It spoke to me of another world.
   
   I have led my people, it said,
   into the wilderness
   where they will be purified.
   
   My brother’s wife would stand mesmerized.
   Sometimes my nephew came
   (he would soon become my life companion).
   I see, she would say, the face of a child.
   
   She meant, I think, that feelings emanated from the surface,
   feelings of helplessness or desolation---
   
   Outside, the snow was falling.
   I had been, I felt, accepted into its stillness.
   And at the same time, each stroke was a decision,
   not a conscious decision, but a decision nevertheless,
   as when, for example, the murderer pulls the trigger.
   
   This, he is saying. This is what I mean to do.
   Or perhaps, what I need to do.
   Or, this is all I can do.
   Here, I believe, the analogy ends
   in a welter of moral judgments.
   
   Afterward, I expect, he remembers nothing.
   In the same way, I cannot say exactly
   how these paintings came into being,though in the end
   there were many of them, difficult to ship home.
   
   When I returned,Harry was with me.
   He is, I believe, a gentle boy
   with a taste for domesticity.
   In fact, he has taught himself to cook
   despite the pressures of his academic schedule.
   
   We suit each other. Often he sings as he goes about his work.
   So my mother sang (or, more likely, so my aunt reported).
   I request, often, some particular song to which I am attached,
   and he goes about learning it. He is,as I say,
   an obliging boy. The hills are alive, he sings,
   over and over. And sometimes, in my darker moods,
   the Jacques Brel which has haunted me.
   
   The little cat is dead, meaning, I suppose,
   one’s last hope.
   
   The cat is dead, Harry sings,
   he will be pointless without his body.
   In Harry’s voice, it is deeply soothing.
   
   Sometimes his voice shakes, as with great emotion,
   and then for a while the hills are alive overwhelms
   the cat is dead.
   
   But we do not, in the main, need to choose between them.
   
   Still, the darker songs inspire him; each verse acquires variations.
   
   The cat is dead: who will press, now,
   his heart over my heart to warm me?
   
   The end of hope, I think it means,
   and yet in Harry’s voice it seems a great door is swinging open---
   The snow-covered cat disappears in the high branches;
   O what will I see when I follow?
   
   
   
    


 楼主| 发表于 2020-12-2 15:21:29 | 显示全部楼层


  
马和骑手

   (选自Faithful and Virtuous Night)
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符

   从前有一匹马,马上有一个骑手。他们在秋日的阳光下打量着,走近一座陌生的城市,显得多么英俊!人们聚集在街上,或从高高的窗户里呼叫。老妇人们坐在花盆中间。但当你四处寻找另一匹马或骑手,你徒然寻找。我的朋友,动物说,为什么不抛弃我?独自一人,你可以在这里找到路。但是抛弃你,另一个说,就是把我自己的一部分抛在脑后,当我不知道你是哪一部分的时候,我怎么能做到呢?
  
  

  
The Horse and Rider


   Once there was a horse, and on the horse there was a rider. How handsome they looked in the autumn sunlight, approaching a strange city! People thronged the streets or called from the high windows. Old women sat among flowerpots. But when you looked about for another horse or another rider, you looked in vain. My friend, said the animal, why not abandon me? Alone,you can find your way here. But to abandon you, said the other, would be to leave a part of myself behind, and how can I do that when I do not know which part you are?
  



  
一部虚构的作品

   (选自Faithful and Virtuous Night)
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符

   当我翻过最后一页,许多夜晚以后,一阵悲伤笼罩我。他们去了哪里,这些看起来如此真实的人?为了分散自己的注意力,我走到外面的夜色中;本能地,我点燃了一支烟。黑暗中,香烟闪烁,就像幸存者点燃的火。但谁会看到这光,这无限星辰中的一个小点呢?我在黑暗中站了一会儿,香烟在发光,变得越来越小,每一次呼吸都在耐心地摧毁我。它有多小,有多短。短暂,短暂,但现在我的内心,这是星星永远不会有的。
  
  

  
A Work of Fiction


   As I turned over the last page, after many nights, a wave of sorrow enveloped me. Where had they all gone, these people who had seemed so real? To distract myself, I walked out into the night; instinctively, I lit a cigarette. In the dark, the cigarette glowed, like a fire lit by a survivor. But who would see this light, this small dot among the infinite stars? I stood awhile in the dark, the cigarette glowing and growing small, each breath patiently destroying me. How small it was, how brief. Brief, brief, but inside me now, which the stars could never be.
  
  



  
一天的故事

   (选自Faithful and Virtuous Night)
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符

   1.

   今早我像往常一样
   被从百叶窗里射进来的窄条光吵醒了
   于是我的第一个想法是光的本性
   是不完整的---

   我想象光,在百叶窗遮住它之前它就存在着---
   它一定是多么受挫,就像一个
   被太多毒品愚钝的头脑。

   2

   我很快就发现自己
   在我那张狭窄的桌子上;在我的右边,
   是一顿小餐的残余。

   语言充斥着我的脑海,狂喜
   交织极度的绝望---

   但是,如果时间的本质是变化,
   那么事物怎么能变成虚无?
   这是我问自己的问题。

   3.

   直到深夜,我坐在桌子旁沉思
   直到我的头变得如此沉重和空虚
   我被迫躺下。
   但我没有躺下。相反,我把头靠在
   我前面赤裸木头上的胳膊上。
   像窝里的雏鸟,我的头
   枕在胳膊上。

   那是干旱的季节。
   我听到钟在报时,三点,然后四点---
   我从这一点开始在房间里踱步
   不久后外面的街道
   其转弯和蜿蜒对我来说
   就像这样的夜晚一样熟悉。我走来走去,
   本能地模仿时钟的指针。
   我的鞋子上,我往下看时,覆盖着灰尘。

   这时,月亮和星星已经暗淡。
   但是教堂塔楼里的钟还在发光---

   4.

   于是我回家。
   我在楼梯尽头的门廊上
   站了很久,
   拒绝开门。

   太阳升起。
   空气变得沉重,
   不是因为它有更大的物质
   而是因为没有留下什么东西可以呼吸。

   我闭上眼睛。
   我在对立结构
   和叙事结构之间左右为难---

   5.

   房间和我离开时一样。
   角落里有张床。
   窗户下面有张桌子。

   有光线在窗户上混合自身
   直到我升起百叶窗
   其上它被重新分配
   当光线在树荫下摇曳。
  
  

  
The Story of a Day



   1.

   I was awakened this morning as usual
   by the narrow bars of light coming through the blinds
   so that my first thought was that the nature of light
   was incompleteness---

   I pictured the light as it existed before the blinds stopped it---
   how thwarted it must be, like a mind
   dulled by too many drugs.

   2.

   I soon found myself
   at my narrow table; to my right,
   the remains of a small meal.

   Language was filling my head, wild exhilaration
   alternated with profound despair---

   But if the essence of time is change,
   how can anything become nothing?
   This was the question I asked myself.

   3.

   Long into the night I sat brooding at my table
   until my head was so heavy and empty
   I was compelled to lie down.
   But I did not lie down. Instead, I rested my head on my arms
   which I had crossed in front of me on the bare wood.
   Like a fledgling in a nest, my head
   lay on my arms.

   It was the dry season.
   I heard the clock tolling, three, then four---
   I began at this point to pace the room
   and shortly afterward the streets outside
   whose turns and windings were familiar to me
   from nights like this. Around and around I walked,
   instinctively imitating the hands of the clock.
   My shoes, when I looked down, were covered with dust.

   By now the moon and stars had faded.
   But the clock was still glowing in the church tower---

   4.

   Thus I returned home.
   I stood a long time
   on the stoop where the stairs ended,
   refusing to unlock the door.

   The sun was rising.
   The air had become heavy,
   not because it had greater substance
   but because there was nothing left to breathe.

   I closed my eyes.
   I was torn between a structure of oppositions
   and a narrative structure---

   5.

   The room was as I left it.
   There was the bed in the corner.
   There was the table under the window.

   There was the light battering itself against the window
   until I raised the blinds
   at which point it was redistributed
   as flickering among the shade trees.

  
  



  
夏季花园

   (选自Faithful and Virtuous Night)
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符

   1.

   几周前,我发现了一张我母亲
   坐在阳光下的照片,她的脸就像成功或胜利一样通红。
   阳光灿烂。狗
   睡在她的脚边,那里时间也在睡,
   平静而不动,像所有照片中一样。

   我擦了擦妈妈脸上的灰尘。
   事实上,一切都被尘封;在我看来,似乎持续的
   怀旧阴霾,保护着所有童年的遗物。
   背景中,各类公园家具,树,和灌木。

   太阳在天空中运动得更低,阴影变长变暗。
   我清除的灰尘越多,这些阴影就越长。
   夏天到了。孩子们
   斜靠在玫瑰花边上,它们的影子
   和玫瑰的影子融为一体。

   一个词突然出现在我的脑海里,指的是
   这种移动和变化,这些
   现在显而易见的抹除---
   它出现了,很快就消失了。
   是盲目还是黑暗,危险,混乱?

   夏天来了,然后秋天。树叶在转动,
   在青铜和赭色糊状物中孩子们的光明斑点。

   2.

   当我从这些事件中稍微恢复过来,
   就像我发现它一样,我把这张照片放在
   一本古代平装书的书页之间,
   其中许多部分都
   在空白处作了注释,有时用文字,但更多的时候是用
   热情洋溢的问题和感叹语
   意思是“我同意”或“我不确定,困惑不解”---

   墨水褪色了。我不知道
   读者是怎么想的
   但透过这些斑点,我能感觉到
   紧迫感,仿佛眼泪已经落下。

   我握住书片刻。
   它是《威尼斯之死》(译文);
   我记下了这一页,免得,就像弗洛伊德相信的那样,
   没有什么是意外。

   于是,这张小照片
   又被埋葬,像过去埋葬在未来。
   在页边空白处有两个字,
   用一个箭头连在一起:“不孕”和,下一页,“遗忘”---
   “在他看来,似乎那苍白可爱的
   召唤师在外面朝他微笑,招手……”

   3.

   花园多么安静,
   没有微风弄皱山茱萸樱桃。
   夏天来了。

   多么安静
   既然生活胜利了。粗糙的

   梧桐树柱子
   支撑着不动的
   植物支架,

   下面的草坪
   郁郁葱葱、五彩缤纷---

   在天空的中央,
   一个自高自大的上帝。

   事物存在,他说。它们存在,它们不变;
   反应也不变。

   多么安静,舞台
   和观众,呼吸
   似乎是一种侵入。

   他一定很近,
   草地没有影子。

   多么安静,多么沉默,
   就像庞贝城的一个下午。

   4.

   妈妈昨晚死了,
   妈妈永远没死。

   冬天在空中,
   很多月份过去了
   然而还在空中。

   那是五月十日。
   风信子和苹果花
   在后花园盛开。

   我们可以听到
   玛丽亚在捷克斯洛伐克唱歌-

   “我多么的孤独”---
   那种歌。

   “我多么孤独,
   没有母亲,没有父亲,
   没有他们,我的大脑显得如此空虚。”

   泥土里飘来阵阵芳香;
   盘子放在水槽里,
   漂洗过,但没有叠起来。

   月圆时
   玛丽亚正在叠洗涤物;

   僵硬的床单变成
   月光下干燥的白色长方形。

   我多么孤独,但在音乐中
   我的孤寂是我的快乐。

   那是五月十日
   就像九日,八日一样。

   母亲睡在床上
   两臂伸开,她的头
   在它们之间保持平衡

   5.

   比阿特丽斯把孩子们带到锡达赫斯特的公园。
   阳光灿烂。飞机
   在头顶上来回飞过,和平地,因为战争结束。

   这是她的想象世界:
   真假无关紧要。

   重新擦亮而且辉煌---
   这就是世界。尘埃
   还没有从物体表面长出。

   飞机来回穿梭,飞往
   罗马和巴黎---除非你飞过公园
   否则你到不了那里。一切
   都必须通过,没有什么能阻挡---

   孩子们牵着手,喜欢
   玫瑰的味道。
   他们分别是五岁和七岁。

   无限,无限---这
   就是她对时间的感知。

   她坐在一张长凳上,稍微被橡树掩藏。
   远处,恐惧逼近又消失;
   火车站传来它发出的声音。
   天空是粉红色和橙色的,因为一天过去而更老。

   没有风。夏日
   在绿草上投下橡树形的影子。
  
  

  
A Summer Garden


   1.

   Several weeks ago I discovered a photograph of my mother
   sitting in the sun, her face flushed as with achievement or triumph.
   The sun was shining. The dogs
   were sleeping at her feet where time was also sleeping,
   calm and unmoving as in all photographs.

   I wiped the dust from my mother’s face.
   Indeed, dust covered everything; it seemed to me the persistent
   haze of nostalgia that protects all relics of childhood.
   In the background, an assortment of park furniture, trees, and shrubbery.

   The sun moved lower in the sky, the shadows lengthened and darkened.
   The more dust I removed, the more these shadows grew.
   Summer arrived. The children
   leaned over the rose border, their shadows
   merging with the shadows of the roses.

   A word came into my head, referring
   to this shifting and changing, these erasures
   that were now obvious---
   it appeared, and as quickly vanished.
   Was it blindness or darkness, peril, confusion?

   Summer arrived, then autumn. The leaves turning,
   the children bright spots in a mash of bronze and sienna.

   2.

   When I had recovered somewhat from these events,
   I replaced the photograph as I had found it
   between the pages of an ancient paperback,
   many parts of which had been
   annotated in the margins, sometimes in words but more often
   in spirited questions and exclamations
   meaning “I agree” or “I’m unsure, puzzled”---

   The ink was faded. Here and there I couldn’t tell
   what thoughts occurred to the reader
   but through the blotches I could sense
   urgency, as though tears had fallen.

   I held the book awhile.
   It was Death in Venice (in translation);
   I had noted the page in case, as Freud believed,
   nothing is an accident.

   Thus the little photograph
   was buried again, as the past is buried in the future.
   In the margin there were two words,
   linked by an arrow: “sterility” and, down the page, “oblivion”---

   “And it seemed to him the pale and lovely
   Summoner out there smiled at him and beckoned...”

   3.

   How quiet the garden is;
   no breeze ruffles the Cornelian cherry.
   Summer has come.

   How quiet it is
   now that life has triumphed. The rough

   pillars of the sycamores
   support the immobile
   shelves of the foliage,

   the lawn beneath
   lush, iridescent---

   And in the middle of the sky,
   the immodest god.

   Things are, he says. They are, they do not change;
   response does not change.

   How hushed it is, the stage
   as well as the audience; it seems
   breathing is an intrusion.

   He must be very close,
   the grass is shadowless.

   How quiet it is, how silent,
   like an afternoon in Pompeii.

   4.

   Mother died last night,
   Mother who never dies.

   Winter was in the air,
   many months away
   but in the air nevertheless.

   It was the tenth of May.
   Hyacinth and apple blossom
   bloomed in the back garden.

   We could hear
   Maria singing songs from Czechoslovakia---

   How alone I am---
   songs of that kind.

   How alone I am,
   no mother, no father---
   my brain seems so empty without them.

   Aromas drifted out of the earth;
   the dishes were in the sink,
   rinsed but not stacked.

   Under the full moon
   Maria was folding the washing;

   the stiff sheets became
   dry white rectangles of moonlight.

   How alone I am, but in music
   my desolation is my rejoicing.

   It was the tenth of May
   as it had been the ninth, the eighth.

   Mother slept in her bed,
   her arms outstretched, her head
   balanced between them

   5.

   Beatrice took the children to the park in Cedarhurst.
   The sun was shining. Airplanes
   passed back and forth overhead, peaceful because the war was over.

   It was the world of her imagination:
   true and false were of no importance.

   Freshly polished and glittering---
   that was the world. Dust
   had not yet erupted on the surface of things.

   The planes passed back and forth, bound
   for Rome and Paris---you couldn’t get there
   unless you flew over the park. Everything
   must pass through, nothing can stop---

   The children held hands, leaning
   to smell the roses.
   They were five and seven.

   Infinite, infinite---that
   was her perception of time.

   She sat on a bench, somewhat hidden by oak trees.
   Far away, fear approached and departed;
   from the train station came the sound it made.
   The sky was pink and orange, older because the day was over.

   There was no wind. The summer day
   cast oak-shaped shadows on the green grass.
  
  



  
公园里的那一对

   (选自Faithful and Virtuous Night)
   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符

   一个男人独自在公园里散步,一个女人也在他身边行走,也是独自一个。人们怎么知道?它们之间好像存在一条线,就像一条运动场上的一条线。然而,在一张照片中,他们可能是一对夫妻,厌倦了彼此,厌倦了在一起度过的许多冬天。在另一个时候,他们可能是陌生人,碰巧要相遇。她把书掉在地上,弯腰捡起书,无意中,他的手和她的心像孩子的音乐盒一样弹开了。从盒子里出来一个木制的小芭蕾舞演员。这是我创造的,男人想,虽然她只能原地旋转,但她仍然是某种舞蹈演员,而不仅仅是一块木头。这一定能解释从树上传来的令人费解的音乐。
  
  

  
The Couple in the Park



   A man walks alone in the park and beside him a woman walks, also alone. How does one know? It is as though a line exists between them, like a line on a playing field. And yet, in a photograph they might appear a married couple, weary of each other and of the many winters they have endured together. At another time, they might be strangers about to meet by accident. She drops her book; stooping to pick it up, she touches, by accident, his hand and her heart springs open like a child’s music box. And out of the box comes a little ballerina made of wood. I have created this, the man thinks; though she can only whirl in place, still she is a dancer of some kind, not simply a block of wood. This must explain the puzzling music coming from the trees.

  
  

  《Faithful and Virtuous Night》已全本翻译完毕,下面是几首散诗:



  
死结

   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符


   我说,“听着,天使,让我从这一口戒掉。”
   我说,“让我解脱,从这垃圾,这
   滥用谷类,滥用
   伏特加和番茄汁的稳定饮食中,
   你种下的‘情书’在小摆设中。”
   留下的是我反击的方式。
   我照顾他的贫血,洗碗
   四个月---整个恶毒的,
   标准同居。但是亲爱的,亲爱的,
   如果现在我梦到你的手,你的头发,
   这就是我错过的死结的
   生动性。像棋局。思想反对思想。
  
  

  
Dead End

   I said, “Listen, angel, wean me from this bit.”
   I said, “Divorce me from this crap, this steady diet
   Of abuse with cereal, abuse
   With vodka and tomato juice,
   Your planted billets doux among the bric-a-brac.”
   Staying was my way of hitting back.
   I tended his anemia and did the dishes
   Four months---the whole vicious,
   Standard cohabitation. But my dear, my dear,
   If now I dream about your hands, your hair,
   It is the vividness of that dead end
   I miss.Like chess.Mind against mind.
  
  



  
加湿器
   ---和罗伯特.平斯基

   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符

   封闭空间的挑战者,如头部,封闭通道的
   开启器,以便
   使进入鼻子的阳光再次

   从耳朵、汽化器、喷雾器中流出,它们
   发出的柔和嘶嘶声听起来像是另一个人

   但不那么古怪,更稳定,或者,如果不像人,
   则由人携带,由我母亲带到我童年的
   病室---正如弗洛伊德所说,

   你为什么总是生病,路易丝?他的雪茄
   混淆了雾气和烟雾,干扰了
   康复---具体化为

   这些鬼魂的召唤者,白色塑料浴桶伴随你优雅的
   清澈浴缸,消毒的水煮沸,
   无菌,无味,

   我母亲不在的时候
   由我管理,这台机器

   我理解:生活
   会是什么样子,如果
   我们买不到
   东西照顾我们

   并把它们带回家,远离药剂师的怜悯,
   在我们的胳膊上,如果我们不能把
   施舍,炼金术,带到我们卧室的安全,
   如果夜晚不再有

   声音,持续的
   安静,温暖的蒸汽的安静,不像
   人类的呼吸,虽然有规律,如果世界上没有什么

   比自我更有希望,
   抚慰它, 祝福它。
  
  

  
Humidifier
   —After Robert Pinsky




   Defier of closed space, such as the head, opener
   Of the sealed passageways, so that
   Sunlight entering the nose can once again

   Exit the ear, vaporizer, mist machine, whose
   Soft hiss sounds like another human being

   But less erratic, more stable, or, if not like a human being,
   Carried by one, by my mother to the sick chamber
   Of my childhood --- as Freud said,

   Why are you always sick, Louise? his cigar
   Confusing mist with smoke, interfering
   With healing---Embodied

   Summoner of these ghosts, white plastic tub with your elegant
   Clear tub, the water sanitized by boiling,
   Sterile, odorless,

   In my mother’s absence
   Run by me, the one machine

   I understand: what
   Would life be if we could not buy
   Objects to care for us

   And bear them home, away from the druggists’ pity,
   If we could not carry in our own arms
   Alms, alchemy, to the safety of our bedrooms,
   If there were no more

   Sounds in the night, continuous
   Hush, hush of warm steam, not
   Like human breath though regular, if there were nothing in the world

   More hopeful than the self,
   Soothing it, wishing it well.

  
  




  
早上九点的独白

   作者:(美)露易丝.格丽克(Louise Glück)
   译者:剑郭琴符

   “这不是一件小事,如歌地
   从这到这。和他
   住在一起从十六年前
   开始就一直狂热。十六年来,我一直坐着
   等着事情好转。我不得不笑。
   你知道,我曾经梦到我可能会消沉至死
   否则他会再次坠入爱河,然后把软管转向
   其他人。嗯,我想他已经干了。
   我想我感觉到缺席,今天他留下水煮
   鸡蛋,像垂死的眼睛瞪着,他的烤面包没有动。”
  
  

  
Monologue at Nine A.M.   



   “It’s no small thing,this coming
   To this cantabile. Living
   With him’s been fever from outset
   Sixteen years ago. For sixteen years I’ve sat
   And waited for things to get better. I have to laugh.
   You know, I used to dream that I might ebb to death
   Or else he fall in love again and turn the hose
   On someone else. Well, I suppose he has.
   I thought I sensed an absence, and today he left his poached
   Egg staring like a dying eye, his toast untouched."
  




 楼主| 发表于 2020-12-2 15:24:52 | 显示全部楼层
露易丝.格丽克的诗歌翻译告一段落。

 楼主| 发表于 2020-12-3 19:08:56 | 显示全部楼层
本帖最后由 剑郭琴符 于 2020-12-4 08:42 编辑


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