译里索思长诗：月光奏鸣曲
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知不知斋主
发布于2012-04-22 09:47:50
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接上篇
我们将在圣·尼古拉教堂的大理石台阶上停留一小会儿，
然后你下山我回来，
我左边感觉到一股温暖，那温暖来自偶尔碰到的你的夹克，
来自邻里窗户的灯光，
以及月光皎洁的白雾，如一队银色天鹅 --
我不惧怕这样的显灵，因为以前
在好多个春日傍晚，我曾和上帝交谈过，
祂在这样的月色下披着光雾，显现在我的面前 --
同时还有很多年轻男子，比你还英俊，我向祂祭奉 --
我溶化了，那样白，那样不可接近，在我白色的火焰之间，在白净的月色之下，
被男人们意淫的目光和青年们试探的狂欢焚烧净尽，
被包围在壮美的古铜色的身体之间，
那些练游泳，划船，田径和足球的强健的四肢（我装着没看见他们），
前额，嘴唇，喉咙，膝盖，手指和眼睛，
胸，手臂，还有那玩意儿（我真的没看他们）
-- 你知道，有时候，当你被迷住的时候，你会忘了让你痴迷的是什么，痴迷本身已经足够 --
我的上帝，那双眼多么明亮，我被提升为被遗弃的星辰的神，
因为，在内外包围之中，
我已别无它路，除了这条向上或向下的路 – 不，这还不够。
让我们一起走吧。
我知道很晚了，请原谅，
我独处了这么多年 -- 那些白天，夜晚，和猩红的正午 --
固执，孤独，贞洁，
贞洁而孤独即便在我的婚床上，
写着荣耀的诗置于上帝的膝盖，
我确信，这些诗一如镂刻于无暇的大理石
将超越你我的生命，远远超越。这还不够。
让我们一起走吧。
这栋房子再也不能忍受我了。
我也承受不了再背负着它。
你总要小心翼翼，小心翼翼地
用大橱柜顶住墙
用椅子支住桌子
用手扶住椅子
用肩膀扛住摇摇欲坠的悬梁。
而这架钢琴，就象一口封闭的棺材，不敢打开。
你必须小心翼翼，小心翼翼，以防他们坍塌，坠落。我受不了。
让我们一起走吧。
尽管这房子整个已死，它却毫无死的意思。
它执意要和这死境共存
与这死境相依为命
与死亡的必然相依为命
执意要为这死境管好家，这些不断霉烂的床和柜子。
让我们一起走吧。
在这里，当我在暮霭中散步，无论脚步有多轻，
无论是穿着拖鞋还是光着脚，
总会听到某种声响：玻璃窗或者镜子裂开的声音，
总会听到一些脚步声 -- 不是我自己的。
在外面的大街上，也许听不到这些脚步声 --
他们说忏悔心总穿着木鞋 --
而且如果你透过尘土和裂缝窥入这面或那面镜子，
你能分辨出你的脸 -- 灰暗而更为散碎的脸，
你的脸，你倾尽一生都在维护它的干净和完整。
杯沿在月光下泛光
象一把圆形的剃须刀 -- 我怎么能把它举到唇边？
无论我有多渴 -- 我怎么能举它到唇边 -- 明白了吗？
我已经有了打比方的心情 -- 至少它还留在我身上，
再次让我相信我的智力还没有衰退。
让我们一起走吧。
有时候，当暮色降临，我会有种感觉
那个养熊的人正带着他的笨重老母熊经过我的窗前，
她的皮毛满是烧痕沾着草刺
在邻近的街道扬起尘土
起荒凉的尘烟敬香给薄暮，
孩子们已回家吃晚饭而且不让再出门，
但他们还会在墙后猜测老笨熊什么时候经过 --
这只疲倦的熊挟她隐退的智慧经过，不知目标不知理由 --
她长得笨重不再能立起后腿跳舞，
不能戴着雷丝帽哄孩子们，闲人和无赖们，
她只想躺倒在地
任由他们在肚子上踩踏，玩她最后的游戏，
为她的退隐显示她可怕的力量，
显示她对别人兴趣的冷漠，对她唇中的环套以及牙齿冲动的冷漠，
以及对疼痛和生命，
这个死亡（甚至是慢性死亡）的铁杆同谋，的冷漠
以及最终对死亡和生命整体与知觉的冷漠
它们超越了知识与行动对她的奴役
但谁能玩这游戏到底？
老笨熊再次起来接着往前走
屈服于她的颈带，环套和牙齿，
在美丽而无戒心的孩子们扔下铜钱后张开磨破的嘴唇微笑
（他们美丽完全因为他们没有戒心）
然后说声谢谢。因为年老的熊
只会说这样的话：谢谢，谢谢。
让我们一起走吧。
【待续】
We’ll pause for a little at the top of St. Nicholas’ marble steps,
and afterward you’ll descend and I will turn back,
having on my left side the warmth from a casual touch of your jacket
and some squares of light, too, from small neighborhood windows
and this pure white mist from the moon, like a great procession of silver swans –
and I do not fear this manifestation, for at another time
on many spring evenings I talked with God who appeared to me
clothed in the haze and glory of such a moonlight –
and many young men, more handsome even than you, I sacrificed to him –
I dissolved, so white, so unapproachable, amid my white flame, in the whiteness of moonlight,
burnt up by men’s vocarious eyes and the tentative rapture of youths,
besieged by splendid bronzed bodies,
strong limbs exercising at the pool, with oars, on the track, at soccer (I pretended not to see them),
foreheads, lips and throats, knees, fingers and eyes,
chests and arms and things (and truly I did not see them)
-- you know, sometimes, when you’re entranced, you forget what entranced you, the entrancement alone is enough –
my God, what star-bright eyes, and I was lifted up to an apotheosis of disavowed stars
because, besieged thus from without and from within,
no other road was left me save only the way up or the way down. – No, it is not enough.
Let me come with you.
I know it’s very late. Let me,
because for so many years – days, nights, and crimson noons – I’ve stayed alone,
unyielding, alone and immaculate,
even in my marriage bed immaculate and alone,
writing glorious verses to lay on the knees of God,
verses that, I assure you, will endure as if chiselled in flawless marble
beyond my life and your life, well beyond. It is not enough.
Let me come with you.
This house can’t bear me anymore.
I cannot endure to bear it on my back.
You must always be careful, be careful,
to hold up the wall with the large buffet
to hold up the table with the chairs
to hold up the chairs with your hands
to place your shoulder under the hanging beam.
And the piano, like a closed black coffin. You do not dare to open it.
You have to be so careful, so careful, lest they fall, lest you fall. I cannot bear it.
Let me come with you.
This house, despite all its dead, has no intention of dying.
It insists on living with its dead
on living off its dead
on living off the certainty of its death
and on still keeping house for its dead, the rotting beds and shelves.
Let me come with you.
Here, however quietly I walk through the mist of evening,
whether in slippers or barefoot,
there will be some sound: a pane of glass cracks or a mirror,
some steps are heard – not my own.
Outside, in the street, perhaps these steps are not heard --
repentance, they say, wears wooden shoes –
and if you look into this or that other mirror,
behind the dust and the cracks,
you discern – darkened and more fragmented – your face,
your face, which all your life you sought only to keep clean and whole.
The lip of the glass gleams in the moonlight
like a round razor – how can I lift it to my lips?
however much I thirst – how can I lift it – Do you see?
I am already in a mood for similes – this at least is left me,
reassuring me still that my wits are not failing.
Let me come with you.
At times, when evening descends, I have the feeling
that outside the window the bear-keeper is going by with his old heavy she-bear,
her fur full of burns and thorns,
stirring dust in the neighborhood street
a desolate cloud of dust that censes the dusk,
and the children have gone home for supper and aren’t allowed outdoors again,
even though behind the walls they divine the old bear’s passing –
and the tired bear passes in the wisdom of her solitude, not knowing wherefore and why –
she’s grown heavy, can no longer dance on her hind legs,
can’t wear her lace cap to amuse the children, the idlers, the importunate,
and all she wants is to lie down on the ground
letting them trample on her belly, playing thus her final game,
showing her dreadful power for resignation,
her indifference to the interest of others, to the rings in her lips, the compulsion of her teeth,
her indifference to the interest of the others, to the rings in her lips, the compulsion of her teeth,
her indifference to pain and to life
with the sure complicity of death – even a slow death –
her final indifference to death with the continuity and knowledge of life
which transcends her enslavement with knowledge and with action.
But who can play this game to the end?
And the bear gets up again and moves on
obedient to her leash, her rings, her teeth,
smiling with torn lips at the pennies the beautiful and unsuspecting children toss
(beautiful precisely because unsuspecting)
and saying thank you. Because bears that have grown old
can say only one thing: thank you; thank you.
Let me come with you.
[ 本帖最后由 知不知斋主 于 2012-4-22 13:42 编辑 ]
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姜海舟
发布于2012-04-22 10:35:00
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回复 2# 的帖子
关注。我去年也尝试译过 http://www.jintian.net/bb/viewthread.php?tid=47894
[ 本帖最后由 姜海舟 于 2012-4-22 13:03 编辑 ]
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知不知斋主
发布于2012-04-22 11:04:33
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回复 3# 的帖子
谢谢关注。
我还真不知道你去年翻过。我是看到梁小曼他们翻里索思，于是特意搜了一下里索思的诗。一搜就搜到了这首，初读就被感染了，于是就开始翻译。
你翻了也好。正好可以让网友们比较一下两个版本。我初读了一下你给的链接，坦率的说，你的误解误译太多，以至原诗的美感大受损失。你若发现我的误译，也请指出。
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知不知斋主
发布于2012-04-22 12:41:08
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接上篇
这栋房子让我窒息。这厨房尤其象大海深处。悬着的咖啡壶放着光
象眼睛又圆又大的一条不可能存在的鱼，
盘碟慢慢地象水母一样摇荡，
海草和贝壳卡在我的头发里 -- 后来我拽不脱他们 --
我回不到水面 --
托盘悄然从我的手上掉下来 -- 我下沉
看到我呼出的水泡上升，上升
然后我试图转移视线不看他们
又不知道碰巧在上面看到这些水泡的人会说写什么，
也许他们会说有人溺水了，或者有个潜水员在海底深处探索？
事实上不止一次，在那儿，在没入的深水中，我发现了
沉船残骸中的翡翠、珍珠和珍宝，过去的，现在的以及将来的，
意外的巧遇，几乎永恒的确认，
一种喘息，一种不朽的微笑，他们这么说，
一种幸福，喜悦，甚至灵感，
翡翠，珍珠以及蓝宝石；
只是我不知道怎么给他们 --不，我确实给了他们；
只是我不知道他们会不会接受 --但我还是给了他们。
让我们一起走吧。
等我一会儿，我拿件夹克。
这天气变化多端，我必须小心。
今天傍晚很潮湿，说实话，你不觉得这月光好像加重了寒冷？
让我给你的衬衫系上扣 -- 你的胸部很健壮
-- 这月亮也健壮 -- 我是说这扶手椅 -- 而且无论什么时候我从桌上拿起这杯子
它底下就留下一个静寂的洞。我会立刻用手掌捂住
好看不见它 -- 然后把杯子放回原处；
月亮就是这世界头盖骨中的一个洞 -- 别往里面看，
它有磁力会把你吸住 -- 别看，千万别看，
听我的 -- 你会掉进去。这个令人目眩的东西，
优美，精致 --你会陷进去 --
这口大理石砌成的月亮井，
倒影摇动，静默翅膀以及那些神秘的声音 -- 你没听见吗？
下降的路，深而又深，
上升的路，深而又深，
高耸的雕像被卷入张开的翅膀，
这冷漠的静寂的善深而又深 --
灯光在对岸颤动，使你在自己的波浪中摇荡，
这海洋的呼吸。优美，精致
这令人晕眩的东西 --
小心， 你会摔倒。别看我，
对我而言，我的位置就是这颤栗 -- 辉煌的眩晕。因而每天傍晚
我都会有点头疼，这令人晕眩的咒语。
我常常悄悄走到对面的药店买几片阿司匹林，
但有时我觉得太累了，就在家呆着任它头疼
听着墙中水管发出的空洞的声音，
或者喝点咖啡，通常还都心不在焉，
做了两杯 -- 谁喝另一杯？
这很滑稽，我会把它放在窗沿凉一凉
有时就把两杯都喝了，看着窗外药店的那亮绿的球体
那很象一列静静的火车的绿灯，这列车是来接我走的，
我带着手绢，已穿坏的鞋，黑色的皮夹，以及我的诗集，
但不带衣箱 -- 要它有什么用？
让我们一起走吧。
哦，你要走了？晚安。不，我不和你一起走了。晚安。
我待会儿自己去。谢谢你。因为我最终得
离开这所破旧的房子。
我得看一看这城市 -- 不，不是这月亮 --
这有着无情之手的城市，日日劳作中的城市，
用面包和它的拳头宣誓的城市，
背负我们所有人的城市 -- 背负
我们的卑微，罪孽和仇恨，
我们的雄心，无知和衰老。
我要听一听这城市的脚步，
不再听你的脚步
或上帝的，我自己的脚步。晚安。
【房间渐渐暗了下来。似乎月被一朵云遮住了。突然，好像有人调高了附近酒吧无线电的音量，传来一段熟悉的乐句。我听出是“月光奏鸣曲”，正是它的第一乐章，它轻柔的奏着，弥漫整个场景。年青男子将要下山，那雕塑般的嘴唇上，带着讥讽又或许是同情的微笑。在他到达圣·尼古拉教堂并要走下台阶的时候，他将大笑 --
大声的，按捺不住的大笑。在这样的月光下他的笑根本没有声响，很不适宜。也许唯一的不适宜就是无所不宜。很快，这位年青男子将归于沉默，变得严肃起来，说道：“一个时代的衰落。”然后，他再一次完全平静下来，重新解开衬衣扣，继续前行。至于这位黑衣妇人，我不知道她是否最终离开了这所宅子。月又明亮起来。在房间的角落里，阴影更浓了，带着一种难以忍受的失落感，几近愤怒，与其说是为这生活，不如说是为无用的忏悔。你听见了吗？无线电继续播放。
1956年6月，雅典】
-- 完 --
This house stifles me. The kitchen especially
is like the depths of the sea. The hanging coffeepots gleam
like round, huge eyes of improbable fish,
the plates undulate slowly like medusas,
seaweed and shells catch in my hair – later I can’t pull them loose –
I can’t get back to the surface –
the tray falls silently from my hands – I sink down
and I see the bubbles from my breath rising, rising
and I try to divert myself watching them
and I wonder what someone would say who happened to be above and saw these bubbles,
perhaps that someone was drowning or a diver exploring the depths?
And in fact more than a few times I’ve discovered there, in the depths of drowning,
coral and pearls and treasures of shipwrecked vessels,
unexpected encounters, past, present, and yet to come,
a confirmation almost of eternity,
a certain respite, a certain smile of immortality, as they say,
a happiness, an intoxication, inspiration even,
coral and pearls and sapphires;
only I don’t know how to give them – no, I do give them;
only I don’t know if they can take them – but still, I give them.
Let me come with you.
One moment while I get my jacket.
The way this weather’s so changeable, I must be careful.
It’s damp in the evening, and doesn’t the moon
seem to you, honestly, as if it intensifies the cold?
Let me button your shirt – how strong your chest is
–how strong the moon – the armchair, I mean – and whenever I lift the cup from the table
a hole of silence is left underneath. I place my palm over it at once
so as not to see through it – I put the cup back in its place;
and the moon’s a hole in the skull of the world – don’t look through it,
it’s a magnetic force that draws you – don’t look, don’t any of you look,
listen to what I’m telling you – you’ll fall in. This giddiness,
beautiful, ethereal – you will fall in –
the moon’s marble well,
shadows stir and mute wings, mysterious voices – don’t you hear them?
Deep, deep the fall,
deep, deep the ascent,
the airy statue enmeshed in its open wings,
deep, deep the inexorable benevolence of the silence –
trembling lights on the opposite shore, so that you sway in your own wave,
the breathing of the ocean. Beautiful, ethereal
this giddiness – be careful, you’ll fall. Don’t look at me,
for me my place is this wavering – this splendid vertigo. And so every evening
I have little headache, some dizzy spells.
Often I slip out to the pharmacy across the street for a few aspirin,
but at times I’m too tired and I stay here with my headache
and listen to the hollow sound the pipes make in the walls,
or drink some coffee, and, absentminded as usual,
I forget and make two – who’ll drink the other?
It’s really funny, I leave it on the window-sill to cool
or sometimes drink them both, looking out the window at the bright green globe of the pharmacy
that’s like the green light of a silent train coming to take me away
with my handkerchiefs, my run-down shoes, my black purse, my verses,
but no suitcases – what would one do with them?
Let me come with you.
Oh, are you going? Goodnight. No, I won’t come. Goodnight.
I’ll be going myself in a little. Thank you. Because, in the end, I must
get out of this broken-down house.
I must see a bit of the city – no, not the moon –
the city with its calloused hands, the city of daily work,
the city that swears by bread and by its fist,
the city that bears all of us on its back
with our pettiness, sins, and hatreds,
our ambitions, our ignorance and our senility.
I need to hear the great footsteps of the city,
and no longer to hear your footsteps
or God’s, or my own. Goodnight.
The room grows dark. It looks as though a cloud may have covered the moon. All at
once, as if someone had turned up the radio in the nearby bar, a very familiar musical
phrase can be heard. Then I realize that “The Moonlight Sonata”, just the first
movement, has been playing very softly through this entire scene. The Young Man will
go down the hill now with an ironic and perhaps sympathetic smile on his finely
chiselled lips and with a feeling of release. Just as he reaches St. Nicolas, before he
goes down the marble steps, he will laugh – a loud, uncontrollable laugh. His laughter
will not sound at all unseemly beneath the moon. Perhaps the only unseemly thing will
be that nothing is unseemly. Soon the Young Man will fall silent, become serious, and
say: “The decline of an era.” So, thoroughly calm once more, he will unbutton his shirt
again and go on his way. As for the woman in black, I don’t know whether she finally
did get out of the house. The moon is shining again. And in the corners of the room the
shadows intensify with an intolerable regret, almost fury, not so much for the life, as for
the useless confession. Can you hear? The radio plays on:
ATHENS, JUNE 1956
[ 本帖最后由 知不知斋主 于 2012-4-22 12:53 编辑 ]
