瑣事瑣言

Friday, October 08, 2010

藍田日暖

...my mind having wavered between some distant year and the present moment, Balbec and its surroundings began to dissolve and I asked myself whether the whole of this drive were not a make-believe, Balbec a place to which I had never gone save in imagination, Mme. de Villeparisis a character in a story and the three old trees the reality which one recaptures on raising one’s eyes from the book which one has been reading and which describes an environment into which one has come to believe that one has been bodily transported...

Tuesday, June 29, 2010

譯:哀歌(一)

誰,如果我呼喊,會自天使的行列
傾聽我?即便是,其中的一位
兀然擁我入懷:我必消弭於他
更強大的存在.因為美無非是
可怖的開端,我們尚能忍受,
我們驚慕不已,因為它閑靜而不屑於
毀滅我們.每一個天使都可怖.
於是我自制着並嚥下了欲出的
隱隱嗚咽.唉,我們還能
依仗誰?天使不行,人不行,
而靈通的牲畜已察覺,
在這被解說的世界,我們
並非安坐家中.也許給我們留下
斜坡上的某一株樹,我們日日
見着它;給我們留下昨天的街道
及一個習慣俗成的忠誠,
它喜歡和我們一起,便留下來不走.
哦還有夜,這夜,當充滿宇宙空間的風
吹襲我們的臉龐──,它不為之眷留,這被渴慕的,
淡然着不再熱望的,費力地走近
那顆孤單的心.那麽它對情人們容易些麽?
唉,他們一起只是互相掩蓋了彼此的宿命.
你還不知道嗎?且將臂間的虛空拋向
我們呼吸着的空間;也許鳥兒會在
更隨心的飛翔中感覺到拓寬的空氣.

是的,或許春天需要你.有些星星
渴求你的注意.過去
一陣波濤湧起,或者
你走過一扇開着的窗,
一把小提琴如傾如訴.一切都是付託.
可你能否擔負?你不總是
因期待而心不在焉,彷彿一切都在
向你宣告着一個愛人?(你想把她藏着,
然而那些大而奇異的想法在你身上
進進出出,還常常於夜裡停留下來.)
但若渴望,就請歌唱愛者;他們
聞名的情感還遠遠未臻不朽.
那些,你幾乎嫉妒的,被遺棄的,你發現
他們比滿足的情人更愛着的.一再重新
開始那從未達致的讚美吧;
想想:英雄長存,即使倒下,於他
也不過存在的藉口:他最終的復活.
但疲竭的自然把愛者們
收回懷裡,彷彿沒有力量兩次
承擔這回事.你可曾好好地想一想
Gaspara Stampa,任何一個不獲被愛者
青睞的少女,在這個愛者的升華了的
身上感到:我可否像她一樣呢?
難道這最古老的痛苦於我們不終將
結出更多碩果麽?難道不正是時候,我們愛着
擺脫了被愛者,並顫抖着承受着:
如箭矢承受着弓,以在全力射出時,
完成比本身更多.因為停留即不在.

聲音,聲音.聽吧,我的心,如此外唯有
聖人聽過:那偉大的呼喚將他們
升離地面;他們還是屈膝跪着,
不可思議,維持着,罔覺:
這樣,他們聆聽着.並不是,你能承受
神的聲音,遠不是.但聽那長息,
綿綿不絶,自寂靜生成.
此時自那些年輕的夭亡者向你傳來窸窣之聲.
每當你走進羅馬或那不勒斯的教堂,
他們的命運不都靜靜地向你訴說麽?
或者一則銘文巍然聳立你的面前,
如新近見於聖瑪利亞福莫薩堂的墓誌.
他們何求於我?輕輕地我要抺去那
不義的表象,它有時會稍稍
阻礙了他們靈魂純粹的移動.

的確,說來奇怪,不再居住在地面上,
不再行使那尚未掌握的習俗,
不再賦予玫瑰,及其他自我承諾的物
以人類未來的意義.
不再是無限焦慮的雙手中,
曾經的那個,而即便自己的名姓
也離棄猶如一件壞掉的玩具.
奇怪地,不再祈望所願,奇怪地,
看着原先相關的一切,如此松散地
飄浮在空中.死着是艱難的
而又修修補補着,令人漸漸地
察覺着一點點永恆.──但是生者
全都有一個謬誤,他們太過涇渭分明.
天使(據說)常常不知道,它們究竟
行走在活人還是死者中間.永恆的洪流
自所有年代滔滔奔湧而來,穿越
兩界並淹沒了其中的一切.

終於他們不再需要我們,那些早逝者,
輕輕地脫離塵世,如緩緩地自母親的乳房
斷哺成長.但是我們,需要如此巨大的
奧秘,常由哀傷得以神聖的進步的
我們──:如果沒了他們,我們可以存在嗎?
那傳說不過說說而已麽?那因哀悼利諾
而起的第一支樂曲曾響徹不仁的天地;
當在這震顫着的空間,因一個幾被供奉的青年
突然永別,那片虛空陷入振盪,
至今迷醉着,撫慰着,幫助着我們.

Saturday, June 26, 2010

譯:哀歌(五)

可是,告訴我,他們是誰,這些賣藝者,這些
比我們還更
                    短暫,
很早就被一個不知為了取悅誰的,
永不滿足的意願逼迫着?它將他們絞着,
扭曲着,糾纏着,擺動着,
拋擲出去,又抓回來;他們彷彿自上了油的,
更平滑的空氣跌落到那張破舊的,為他們無數次的
跳躍磨薄了的毡上,那
遺失在宇宙間的毡,
展開如一块膏葯,彷彿城郊的天空
撞痛了那方土地.
而幾乎未能在那兒,
站立着,展示着:那"在着“的
大寫的第一個字母…,然而,最強壯的
男人們,被玩弄着,又再度
在那周而复始的抓拋下翻滾,有如
王者奧古斯特拋弄桌上的鍚盤.


啊,而圍着這個
中心,觀看的玫瑰:
花開,花落.圍着這
花的杵,這蕊,自我的花粉
揚落其上,一再孕育出
厭倦的虛假的果實,從不為他們
察覺的,──裏着一層極薄的假笑的
厭倦,閃閃發光.


那裡:衰頹的舉重者,满臉皺紋,
那老人,如今只能打打鼓,
縮匿在那龐然的皮囊裡,彷彿那裡從前
曾駐着兩個男人,有一個早已
躺在教堂墓地裡,而這一個相比
                     另一個
活了下來,耳已聾,有時還有些
昏亂地,活在那身失偶的皮囊裡.


但年輕的那一個男人,似乎是一個
                      脖頸
和一個修女的兒子:昂然挺拔,
充滿着結實的肌肉和單純.


哦,你們
曾經感受到一種尚輕微的痛楚
有如一件玩物,在某一次他那
長長的復原當中…


你,砰然落地,
那只有果實才知悉的,尚未成熟,
日復一日上百次自那共同構築的
運動之樹(那比流水還迅捷,瞬間
歷經春,夏及秋的樹)
墮下並撞擊到坟墓上:
間或,自你的臉龐一陣愛意
浮現,迎向你那甚少顯露柔情的
母親,卻消失在你的身軀表面,
如漣漪消退,那羞怯的
方現輒止的笑臉…而後再一次
那人拍掌讓你跳下,在你的
不停急促跳動的心臟更清晰感受到
痛楚前,你的腳底涌起
一陣灼痛,而先於那痛楚,
幾滴淚珠充盈進你的眼,
然而,茫然地,
依舊微笑...


天使!哦,拿着它,採擷它,那開着小花的葯草,
找個瓶子,養起它!放在那些仍
                        未曾
朝我們開放的歡悅中間;用華美的甕裝着,
禮讚它,上面刻着花飾的銘文:
                    "Subrisio Saltat."


還有你,親愛的,
你,為最誘人的快樂
無聲忽略了的.也許,
衣服的褶邊快樂,為你──,
或者,在你年輕
飽滿的胸脯上如金屬閃閃發光的綠色綢緞,
感覺萬千寵愛於一身,無所匱乏.

總於不同方式被放到所有顫動着的
                       天平的
沈靜之果,
公然於肩膞間.


哪裡,噢,那個地方在哪──我放它在心裡──
在那裡,他們還久久未能,還自對方
脫開,有如試圖交尾,但未能好好
結合的動物;──
那裡,重物依然沉重;
那裡,自那徒然
旋轉着的杠棒,碟子
搖搖欲墜…


而驟然間,在這艱苦的烏有之處,驟然間,
這無以名狀的所在,這裡,純粹的“太少”
不可思議地轉化着──,變成
那種空虛的“太多”.
那裡,多位數
化為無.


廣場,哦巴黎的廣場,沒完沒了的市墟,
那裡,女帽商,Madame Lamort,
把塵世無休無止的道路,不盡的絲帶
捲繞着,編結着,再從中造出新式的
流蘇,鑲邊,花朵,繡徽,
                  假水果──,全部
都染了虛假的顏色,──以裝飾
命運的廉價的冬帽.


************


天使:或有這樣一處地方,我們不知道,而
                       那裡,
在不可言狀的毡上,愛者們展現了他們在
                       此處
永無法做到的,令人心驚膽戰的
高耸入雲的造型,
他們的欲望的高塔,更因
早已不再有地面,他們只是架在彼此
身上的梯子,顫抖着,──如果他們真做到了,
在圍觀着的看客,那無數沉默着的死者前:
那麽,他們會把他們最後的,一直
珍存的,我們所不知悉的,永遠
適用的幸福的錢幣扔到那張滿足的毡上
那對終於露出發自內心的微笑的
愛侶跟前麽?

Thursday, April 15, 2010

Was mich tief berührt, liegt an dessen poetischen Beschreibungen von alldem. Die scheinbare Hoffnung wie des Frühlings Hauch, jene schlagfertige Betroffentheit, die da ist, unerwartet, aber da und da. Du bist erst von der Freude angriffen, ist es schon weggenommen. Was gibt noch dann neben den unendlichen Ängsten und Elenden?

Ja, das ist schwer, alles ist schwer, wie gesagt. Es ist durchzugehen, zu überschreiten.

Gestern war mein Fieber besser, und heute fängt der Tag wie Frühling an, wie Frühling in Bildern. Ich will versuchen, auszugehen in die Bibliothèque Nationale zu meinem Dichter, den ich so lange nicht gelesen habe, und vielleicht kann ich später langsam durch die Gärten gehen. Vielleicht ist Wind über dem großen Teich, der so wirkliches Wasser hat, und es kommen Kinder, die ihre Schiffe mit den roten Segeln hineinlassen und zuschauen.

Heute habe ich es nicht erwartet, ich bin so mutig ausgegangen, als wäre das das Natürlichste und Einfachste. Und doch, es war wieder etwas da, das mich nahm wie Papier, mich zusammenknüllte und fortwarf, es war etwas Unerhörtes da.

Der Boulevard St-Michel war leer und weit, und es ging sich leicht auf seiner leisen Neigung. Fensterflügel oben öffneten sich mit gläsernem Aufklang, und ihr Glänzen flog wie ein weißer Vogel über die Straße. Ein Wagen mit hellroten Rädern kam vorüber, und weiter unten trug jemand etwas Lichtgrünes. Pferde liefen in blinkernden Geschirren auf dem dunkel gespritzten Fahrdamm, der rein war. Der Wind war erregt, neu, mild, und alles stieg auf: Gerüche, Rufe, Glocken.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

過去,現在,未來.是時間,還是空間?

Graf Brahe hielt es für eine besondere Artigkeit meinem Vater gegenüber, von dessen verstorbener Gemahlin, meiner Mutter, zu sprechen. Er nannte sie Gräfin Sibylle, und alle seine Sätze schlossen, als fragte er nach ihr. Ja es kam mir, ich weiß nicht weshalb, vor, als handle es sich um ein ganz junges Mädchen in Weiß, das jeden Augenblick bei uns eintreten könne. In demselben Tone hörte ich ihn auch von 'unserer kleinen Anna Sophie' reden. Und als ich eines Tages nach diesem Fräulein fragte, das dem Großvater besonders lieb zu sein schien, erfuhr ich, daß er des Großkanzlers Conrad Reventlow Tochter meinte, weiland Friedrichs des Vierten Gemahlin zur linken Hand, die seit nahezu anderthalb hundert Jahren zu Roskilde ruhte. Die Zeitfolgen spielten durchaus keine Rolle für ihn, der Tod war ein kleiner Zwischenfall, den er vollkommen ignorierte, Personen, die er einmal in seine Erinnerung aufgenommen hatte, existierten, und daran konnte ihr Absterben nicht das geringste ändern. Mehrere Jahre später, nach dem Tode des alten Herrn, erzählte man sich, wie er auch das Zukünftige mit demselben Eigensinn als gegenwärtig empfand. Er soll einmal einer gewissen jungen Frau von ihren Söhnen gesprochen haben, von den Reisen eines dieser Söhne insbesondere, während die junge Dame, eben im dritten Monate ihrer ersten Schwangerschaft, fast besinnungslos vor Entsetzen und Furcht neben dem unablässig redenden Alten saß.

Sunday, April 11, 2010

Heute war ein schoener, herbstlicher Morgen. Ich ging durch die Tuilerien. Alles, was gegen Osten lag, vor der Sonne, blendete. Das Angeschiene war vom Nebel verhangen wie von einem lichtgrauen Vorhang. Grau im Grauen sonnten sich die Statuen in den noch nicht enthuellten Gaerten. Enzelne Blumen in den langen Beeten standen auf und sagten: Rot, mit einer erschrockenen Stimme. Dann kam ein sehr grosser, schlanker Mann um die Ecke, von den Champs-Elysees her; er trug eine Kruecke, aber nicht mehr unter die Schulter geschoben, --er hielt sie vor sich her, leicht, und von Zeit zu Zeit stellte er sie fest und laut auf wie einen Heroldstab. Er konnte ein Laecheln der Freude nicht unterdruecken und laechelte, an allem vorbei, der Sonne, den Baeumen zu. Sein Schritt war schuechtern wie der eines Kindes, aber ungewoenlich leicht, voll von Erinnerung an frueheres Gehen.

迷濛的霧幔,和煦的晨光,溫暖濕潤;如在夢中的路人,浮現的微笑,輕悄的步履,沉緬於往昔的回憶.

這是詩.um eines Verses willen的詩.教人淺唱低吟,再三,不以.

Monday, March 29, 2010

白日夢

Ich sitze und lese einen Dichter. Es sind viele Leute im Saal aber man spürt sie nicht. Sie sind in den Büchern. Manchmal bewegen sie sich in den Blättern, wie Menschen, die schlafen und sich umwenden zwischen zwei Träumen. Ach, wie gut ist es doch, unter lesenden Menschen zu sein. Warum sind sie nicht immer so? Du kannst hingehen zu einem und ihn leise anrühren: er fühlt nichts. Und stößt du einen Nachbar beim Aufstehen ein wenig an und entschuldigst dich, so nickt er nach der Seite, auf der er deine Stimme hört, sein Gesicht wendet sich dir zu und sieht dich nicht, und sein Haar ist wie das Haar eines Schlafenden. Wie wohl das tut. Und ich sitze und habe einen Dichter. Was für ein Schicksal. Es sind jetzt vielleicht dreihundert Leute imSaale, die lesen; aber es ist unmöglich, daß sie jeder einzelne einen Dichter haben. (Weiß Gott, was sie haben.) Dreihundert Dichter giebt es nicht. Aber sieh nur, was für ein Schicksal, ich, vielleicht der armsäligste von diesen Lesenden, ein Ausländer: ich habe einen Dichter.

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Of the state of mind which, in that far off year, had been simply an unending torture to me, nothing survived. For there is in this world in which everything wears out, everything perishes, one thing that crumbles into dust, that destroys itself still more completely, leaving behind still fewer traces of itself than Beauty, namely Grief.

I can’t say if it is echo to what I talked with SS, or if my statements given were merely some unconscious echoes to it, before I encountered with it. And, as I wrote this out, it reminded me suddenly of the following lines by Nietzsche:

O Mensch! Gib Acht!
Was spricht die tiefe Mitternacht?
"Ich schlief, ich schlief—,
aus tiefem Traum bin ich erwacht:—
Die Welt ist tief,
und tiefer als der Tag gedacht.
Tief ist ihr Weh—,
Lust—tiefer noch als Herzeleid.
Weh spricht: Vergeh!
Doch all' Lust will Ewigkeit—,
—will tiefe, tiefe Ewigkeit!"


*************************************

Reviewing the painful reflections of which I have just been speaking, I had entered the courtyard of the Guermantes’ mansion and in my distraction I had not noticed an approaching carriage; at the call of the link-man I had barely time to draw quickly to one side, and in stepping backwards I stumbled against some unevenly placed paving stones behind which there was a coach-house. As I recovered myself, one of my feet stepped on a flagstone lower than the one next it. In that instant all my discouragement disappeared and I was possessed by the same felicity which at different moments of my life had given me the view of trees which seemed familiar to me during the drive round Balbec, the view of the belfries of Martinville, the savour of the madeleine dipped in my tea and so many other sensations of which I have spoken and which Vinteuil’s last works had seemed to synthesise. As at the moment when I tasted the madeleine, all my apprehensions about the future, all my intellectual doubts, were dissipated.
Those doubts which had assailed me just before, regarding the reality of my
literary gifts and even regarding the reality of literature itself were dispersed as though by magic. This time I vowed that I should not resign myself to ignoring why, without any fresh reasoning, without any definite hypotheis, the insoluble difficulties of the previous instant had lost all importance as was the case when I tasted the madeleine. The felicity which I now experienced was undoubtedly the same as that I felt when I ate the madeleine, the cause of which I had then postponed seeking. There was a purely material difference in the images evoked. A deep azure intoxicated my eyes, a feeling of freshness, of dazzling light enveloped me and in my desire to capture the sensation, just as I had not dared to move when I tasted the madeleine because of trying to conjure back that of which it reminded me, I stood, doubtless an object of ridicule to the link-men, repeating the movement of a moment since, one foot upon the higher flagstone, the other on the lower one. Merely repeating the movement was useless; but if, oblivious of the Guermantes’ reception, I succeeded in recapturing the sensation which accompanied the movement, again the intoxicating and elusive vision softly pervaded me as though it said “Grasp me as I float by you, if you can, and try to solve the enigma of happiness I offer you.” And then, all at once, I recognized that Venice which my descriptive efforts and pretended snapshots of memory had failed to recall; the sensation I had once felt on two uneven slabs in the Baptistery of St. Mark had been given back to me and was linked with all the other sensations of that and other days which had lingered expectant in their place among the series of forgotten years from which a sudden chance had imperiously called them forth. So too the taste of the little madeleine had recalled Combray. But how was it that these visions of Combray and of Venice at one and at another moment had caused me a joyous certainty sufficient without other proofs to make death indifferent to me? Asking myself this and resolved to find the answer this very day, I entered the Guermantes’ mansion, because we always allow our inner needs to give way to the part we are apparently called upon to play and that day mine was to be a guest.
On reaching the first floor a footman requested me to enter a small boudoir-library adjoining a buffet until the piece then being played had come to an end, the Princesse having given orders that the doors should not be opened during the performance. At that very instant a second premonition occurred to reinforce the one which the uneven paving-stones had given me and to exhort me to persevere in my task. The servant in his ineffectual efforts not to make a noise had knocked a spoon against a plate. The same sort of felicity which the uneven paving-stones had given me invaded my being; this time my sensation was quite different, being that of great heat accompanied by the smell of smoke tempered by the fresh air of a surrounding forest and I realised that what appeared so pleasant was the identical group of trees I had found so tiresome to observe and describe when I was uncorking a bottle of beer in the railway carriage and, in a sort of bewilderment, I believed for the moment, until I had collected myself, so similar was the sound of the spoon against the plate to that of the hammer of a railway employee who was doing something to the wheel of the carriage while the train was at a standstill facing the group of trees, that I was now actually there. One might have said that the portents which that day were to rescue me from my discouragement and give me back faith in literature, were determined to multiply themselves, for a servant, a long time in the service of the Prince de Guermantes, recognised me and, to save me going to the buffet, brought me some cakes and a glass of orangeade into the library. I wiped my mouth with the napkin he had given me and immediately, like the personage in the Thousand and One Nights who unknowingly accomplished the rite which caused the appearance before him of a docile genius, invisible to others, ready to transport him far away, a new azure vision passed before my eyes; but this time it was pure and saline and swelled into shapes like bluish udders. The impression was so strong that the moment I was living seemed to be one with the past and (more bewildered still than I was on the day when I wondered whether I was going to be welcomed by the Princesse de Guermantes or whether everything was going to melt away), I believed that the servant had just opened the window upon the shore and that everything invited me to go downstairs and walk along the sea-wall at high tide; the napkin upon which I was wiping my mouth had exactly the same kind of starchiness as that with which I had attempted with so much difficulty to dry myself before the window the first day of my arrival at Balbec and within the folds of which, now, in that library of the Guermantes mansion, a green-blue ocean spread its plumage like the tail of a peacock. And I did not merely rejoice in those colours, but in that whole instant which produced them, an instant towards which my whole life had doubtless aspired, which a feeling of fatigue or sadness had prevented my ever experiencing at Balbec but which now, pure, disincarnated and freed from the imperfections of exterior perceptions, filled me with joy. The piece they were playing might finish at any moment, and I should be obliged to enter the drawing room. So I forced myself to try to penetrate as quickly as possible into the nature of those identical sensations I had felt three times within a few minutes so as to extract the lesson I might learn from them. I did not stop to consider the extreme difference which there is between the true impression which we have had of a thing and the artificial meaning we give to it when we employ our will to represent it to ourselves, for I remembered with what relative indifference Swann had been able to speak formerly of the days when he was loved, because beneath the words, he felt something else than them, and the immediate pain Vinteuil’s little phrase had caused him by giving him back those very days themselves as he had formerly felt them, and I understood but too well that the
sensation the uneven paving-stones, the taste of the madeleine, had aroused in me, bore no relation to that which I had so often attempted to reconstruct of Venice, of Balbec and of Combray with the aid of a uniform memory. Moreover, I realised that life can be considered commonplace in spite of its appearing so beautiful at particular moments because in the former case one judges and underrates it on quite other grounds than itself, upon images which have no life in them. At most I noted additionally that the difference there is between each real impression—differences which explain why a uniform pattern of life cannot resemble it—can probably be ascribed to this: that the slightest word we have spoken at a particular period of our life, the most insignificant gesture to which we have given vent, were surrounded, bore upon them the reflection of things which logically were unconnected with them, were indeed isolated from them by the intelligence which did not need them for reasoning purposes but in the midst of which—here, the pink evening-glow upon the floral wall-decoration of a rustic restaurant, a feeling of hunger, sexual desire, enjoyment of luxury—there, curling waves beneath the blue of a morning sky enveloping musical phrases which partly emerge like mermaids’ shoulders—the most simple act or gesture remains enclosed as though in a thousand jars of which each would be filled with things of different colours, odours and temperature; not to mention that those vases placed at intervals during the growing years throughout which we ceaselessly change, if only in dream or in thought, are situated at completely different levels and produce the impression of strangely varying climates. It is true that these changes have occurred to us without our being aware of them; but the distance between the memory which suddenly returns and our present personality as similarly between two memories of different years and places, is so great that it would suffice, apart from their specific uniqueness, to make comparison between them impossible. Yes, if a memory, thanks to forgetfulness, has been unable to contract any tie, to forge any link between itself and the present, if it has remained in its own place, of its own date, if it has kept its distance, its isolation in the hollow of a valley or on the peak of a mountain, it makes us suddenly breathe an air new to us just because it is an air we have formerly breathed, an air purer than that the poets have vainly called Paradisiacal, which offers that deep sense of renewal only because it has been breathed before, inasmuch as the true paradises are paradises we have lost. And on the way to it, I noted that there would be great difficulties in creating
the work of art I now felt ready to undertake without its being consciously in my mind, for I should have to construct each of its successive parts out of a different sort of material. The material which would be suitable for memories at the side of the sea would be quite different from those of afternoons at Venice which would demand a material of its own, a new one, of a special transparency and sonority, compact, fresh and pink, different again if I wanted to describe evenings at Rivebelle where, in the dining-room open upon the garden, the heat was beginning to disintegrate, to descend and come to rest on the earth, while the rose-covered walls of the restaurant were lighted up by the last ray of the setting sun and the last water-colours of daylight lingered in the sky. I passed rapidly over all these things, being summoned more urgently to seek the cause of that happiness with its peculiar character of insistent certainty, the search for which I had formerly adjourned. And I began to discover the cause by comparing those varying happy impressions which had the common quality of being felt simultaneously at the actual moment and at a distance in time, because of which common quality the noise of the spoon upon the plate, the unevenness of the paving-stones, the taste of the madeleine, imposed the past upon the present and made me hesitate as to which time I was existing in. Of a truth, the being within me which sensed this impression, sensed what it had in common in former days and now, sensed its extra-temporal character, a being which only appeared when through the medium of the identity of present and past, it found itself in the only setting in which it could exist and enjoy the essence of things, that is, outside Time. That explained why my apprehensions on the subject of my death had ceased from the moment when I had unconsciously recognised the taste of the little madeleine because at that moment the being that I then had been was an extra-temporal being and in consequence indifferent to the vicissitudes of the future. That being had never come to me, had never manifested itself except when I was inactive and in a sphere beyond the enjoyment of the moment, that was my prevailing condition every time that analogical miracle had enabled me to escape from the present. Only that being had the power of enabling me to recapture former days, Time Lost, in the face of which all the efforts of my memory and of my intelligence came to nought. And perhaps, if just now I thought that Bergotte had spoken falsely when he referred to the joys of spiritual life it was because I then gave the name of spiritual life to logical reasonings which had no relation with it, which, had no relation with what now existed in me—just as I found society and life wearisome because I was judging them from memories without Truth while now that a veritable moment of the past had been born again in me three separate times, I had such a desire to live.

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

節譯

我見過死者,任他們離去
並驚訝於他們如此自得,
而迅速於死裡如歸,公正,
有異素日的聲名.只有你,
你回來;掠過我,徘徊不去,
想附上什麽,發出聲響以
揭示你的所在.噢,別取走
我慢慢學得的.我知道;你
迷了途,當你為不管什麽
懷上鄉愁.我們改變着它;
它不在此,它是我們存在的
映像,一旦我們辨識了它.

我以為你走得更遠.苦矣,
正是你,迷途而返,比任何
女人完成更多變化的你.
我們驚愕,因你的死,不,是
你沉重的死如黑暗降臨
我們,將此刻與彼時撕裂:
事關我們;重整一切將是
當務之急,我們不遺餘力.
但是,你自己也驚懼,至今
餘悸未了,於驚懼不復處;
你失卻了你永恆的一角
並重臨此地,我友,在這處
一切未有之地;你茫然地,
第一次,整個兒,失落,恍惚,
無法抓住無盡的自然光輝
如抓住這兒的每件事物;
自那已接納你的循環裡,
有一股不安的無聲的力
將你拉下到可數的時序-:
這一切於夜裡驚醒我,如賊破門.
假如我能說,你不過紆尊
駕臨,出於大度,出於豐裕,
因你那麽安祥,怡然自得,
如孩童四處留連,不畏懼
某處可能有的不測遭遇-:
但不,你祈求.於我,這有如
利鋸加身,教我痛彻筋骨.
責難,將你的幽靈背負的
責難加諸我,當夜裡我縮回
我的肺腑,我的懷腹,以至
我的心最後最深的空虛處,-
這樣的責難也不至殘忍如
你的哀訴.你在祈求甚麼?
說吧,我該遠行?你於某處
是否丟棄了一件東西,它
失落,苦苦追尋着你?是否
要我去某地,你未曾見着,
雖然熟悉如意識的另一半?

Monday, December 21, 2009

到燭光中來吧.我並不害怕
直面死者.他們既然來了,
就當在我們的目光裡停伫,
有如其餘一切的事及物.

來吧;我們願有片刻的寧靜.
看看我書桌上的這枝玫瑰;
光環繞着她,不正如罩着你
一般迷離:她原來不在此
而是於外面園圃,與我無涉,
或者開花,或者凋萎.──而此刻,
她這樣:於她,我的意識何物?

別怕,若我此刻伸手摸索,吁,
在我體內升起,我別無他欲,
我必須領會,即使因此死去.
領會,你就在此處.我摸索着.
如盲人團團摸索一樣物件,
我所感良多,但苦無以名之.
讓我們一同哀哭,有人將你
自鏡中拉出,你還能哭泣嗎?
你不能,你的眼淚的力和質
已被你轉化為成熟的凝視,
並正待將體內所有的液汁
轉變成為一種強大的存在.
它上升並循環,平衡而隨意.
其時,一種偶然,你最後一次
偶然,把你自最遙遠的行進
拉回一個液汁眷戀的世界.
最初,拉回的不是整個的你,
而是一小块,但圍繞這小块,
現實日益增膨,它沉重不已,
你需要整個的自己,於是你
徑自過去,自那法則裡費勁
將自己打成碎片,因你亟需.
然後你挖掘,並自心房幽深
暖濕的土壤裡挖出青綠的
種子,從中萌生你的死:你的,
屬於你生命的,你獨有的死.
而你吞下它們,你的死的核,
如其他的人們,吞下他們的.
你回味着體內的那種甘甜,
你始料未及的,甘甜的唇舌,
你:原本意義上就是甘甜的.

Friday, November 27, 2009

After a certain age our memories are so intertwined with one another that the thing of which we are thinking, the book that we are reading are of scarcely any importance. We have put something of ourself everywhere, everything is fertile, everything is dangerous, and we can make discoveries no less precious than in Pascal’s Pensées in an advertisement of soap.

Thursday, November 19, 2009

一朵玫瑰自身,就是所有玫瑰
:那不可替代者,
圓滿者,流動的名字
被事物的詞藻交織框圍.

沒有她,又何於言說
我們曾有的企望,及
曾經的柔美的歇息
在一次又一次的啟程間.

Eine Rose allein, das ist alle Rosen
und dies: das Unersetzbare,
das Vollendete, der strömende Name
umrahmt vom Text der Dinge

Wie das je sprechen ohne sie,
was unsre Erwartungen waren,
und die sanfte Unterbrechungen,
in der dauernden Abreise.

一再地,縱然我們曉得愛的光景
教堂小墓園裡鐫刻的名
和那可畏而沉默的峽谷,其餘一切的
歸處:我們兩個總是一再地,
走到古老的林蔭下,一再地,
躺臥在花叢中,仰望着穹蒼

Immer wieder, ob wir der Liebe Landschaft auch kennen
Und den kleinen Kirchhof mit seinen klagenden Namen
Und die furchtbar verschweigende Schlucht, in welcher die andern
Enden: immer wieder gehn wir zu zweien hinaus
Unter die alten Bäumen, lagern uns immer wieder
Zwischen die Blumen, gegenüber dem Himmel.

玫瑰沒找到,倒拾回另一首,夾在幫小孩溫習的練習簿裡.