◎董繼平譯

悲傷的插曲

包括那沒(méi)讓我厭倦的事物在內(nèi)，一切都讓我厭倦。我的幸福痛苦得就像我的痛苦。

但愿我能成為一個(gè)孩子，在農(nóng)場(chǎng)上的蓄水池里行駛紙船，頂棚是一個(gè)縱橫交叉的格架，充滿鄉(xiāng)野氣息，葡萄藤把陽(yáng)光的方格圖案和綠色陰影投射到那發(fā)光、幽暗的淺水表面。

在我與生活之間，有一層薄薄的玻璃。無(wú)論我多么清楚地看見(jiàn)并理解生活，我也無(wú)法觸及它。

把我的悲傷合理化？如果合理化盡心費(fèi)力，又是為了什么呢？悲傷的人無(wú)法盡力。

我甚至無(wú)法棄絕我如此憎惡的生活中的那些陳腐行為。棄絕就是努力，我并沒(méi)讓它在我的內(nèi)心做任何努力。

我多么頻繁地后悔沒(méi)有成為那輛小車(chē)的司機(jī)或者那輛馬車(chē)的車(chē)夫！或者成為任何在想象中陳腐的另一個(gè)人——他的生活，因?yàn)椴粚儆谖遥脤?duì)它的欲望美妙地充滿了我，也用它的相異性充滿了我！如果我是他們當(dāng)中的一員，我就不會(huì)像懼怕一件事物那樣懼怕生活，把生活當(dāng)成總體來(lái)思考，不會(huì)壓碎我的思考的肩頭。

我的夢(mèng)是一個(gè)愚蠢的庇護(hù)之處，就像迎著閃電的雨傘。

我如此倦怠，如此可憐，如此缺少手勢(shì)和行為。

無(wú)論我多么深入探究自己，我所有的夢(mèng)之路都通往憂慮的林間空地。

有些時(shí)候，做夢(mèng)甚至也回避我，一個(gè)著迷的夢(mèng)者，然后我看見(jiàn)事物栩栩如生的細(xì)節(jié)。那我在其中避難的霧靄消散。每一片看得見(jiàn)的刀鋒都切割我靈魂的皮膚。我看見(jiàn)的每一件粗糙的事物創(chuàng)傷我的一部分，我的那一部分辨認(rèn)出它的粗糙。每個(gè)物體看得見(jiàn)的重量沉甸甸地重壓在我的靈魂里面。

這就相當(dāng)于我的生活仿佛遭到它鞭笞。

DOLOROUS INTERLUDE

Everything wearies me，including what doesn’t weary me.My happiness is as painful as my pain.

If only I could be a child sailing paper boats in a cistern on the farm，with a rustic canopy of criss-crossing trellis vines projecting chequers of sunlight and green shade on the shiny dark surface of the shallow water.

There’s a thin sheet of glass between me and life.However clearly I see and understand life，I can’t touch it.

Rationalize my sadness?What for，if rationalization takes effort?Sad people can’t make an effort.

I can’t even renounce those banal acts of life that I so abhor.To renounce is an effort，and I don’t have it in me to make any effort.

How often I regret not being the driver of that car or the coachman of that carriage!Or any imaginary banal Other whose life，because it’s not mine，deliciously fills me with desire for it and fills me with its otherness!If I were one of them，I wouldn’t dread life like a Thing，and the thought of life as a Whole wouldn’t crush the shoulders of my thinking.

My dreams are a stupid shelter，like an umbrella against lightning.

I’m so listless，so pathetic，so short on gestures and acts.

However deeply I delve into myself，all of my dreams’pathslead to clearings of anxiety.

There are times when dreaming eludes even me，an obsessive dreamer，and then I see things in vivid detail.The mist in which I take refuge dissipates.And every visible edge cuts the skin of my soul.Every harsh thing I see wounds the part of me that recognizes its harshness.Every object’s visible weight weighs heavy inside my soul.

It’s as if my life amounted to being thrashed by it.

插曲

生活開(kāi)始之前，我就退出了生活，因?yàn)槲疑踔猎趬?mèng)中也不曾發(fā)現(xiàn)它吸引人。夢(mèng)幻本身讓我厭倦，而這就給我?guī)?lái)了一種虛假的外部感覺(jué)，就像是來(lái)到了一條無(wú)限之路的盡頭的感覺(jué)。我從自身中滿溢而出，意外地到達(dá)我不熟悉的地方，那是我徒勞地停滯不前之處。我是我曾經(jīng)做過(guò)的某種事物。我從來(lái)不在我感覺(jué)我在的地方，如果我尋找自己，我就不知道誰(shuí)在尋找我。我對(duì)萬(wàn)事萬(wàn)物的厭倦已經(jīng)讓我麻木。我從靈魂深處感到被放逐。

我觀察自己。我是我自己的觀眾。在我不知道我為什么凝視之前，我的感覺(jué)就像外部事物而逝去。無(wú)論我做什么，我都讓自己厭煩。一切事物，深及它們植于神秘中的根，都有我的厭煩的顏色。

時(shí)間給予我的花朵已經(jīng)枯萎了。我能做的唯一事情就是慢慢拔下它們的花瓣。這樣做，預(yù)示著老年！

最輕微的活動(dòng)就像英雄業(yè)績(jī)重壓在我身上。僅僅想到一個(gè)手勢(shì)就讓我厭倦，仿佛那是我確實(shí)想到過(guò)要去做的事情。

我并不渴求什么。生活傷害我。在我所在的地方，還在我能想到我在的別的任何地方，我都不太好。

那理想的事物，就是別再有什么行動(dòng)，僅僅是噴泉虛假的行動(dòng)——為了落在同一個(gè)地方而升起，在太陽(yáng)下毫無(wú)意義地閃閃發(fā)光，在夜間的寂靜中發(fā)出聲音，因此無(wú)論誰(shuí)在做夢(mèng)，都會(huì)想起他夢(mèng)中的河流，健忘地微笑。

INTERLUDE

I bowed out of life before it began，for not even in dreams did I find it attractive.Dreams themselves wearied me，and this brought me a false，external sensation，as of having come to the end of an infinite road.I overflowed from myself to end up I don’t know where，and that’s where I’ve uselessly stagnated.I’m something that I used to be.I’m never where I feel I am，and if I seek myself，I don’t know who’s seeking me.My boredom with everything has numbed me.I feel banished from my soul.

I observe myself.I’m my own spectator.My sensations pass，like external things，before I don’t know what gaze of mine.I bore myself no matter what I do.All things，down to their roots in mystery，have the colour of my boredom.

The flowers Time gave me were already wilted.The only thing I can do is pluck their petals slowly.And this is so fraught with old age!

The slightest action weighs on me like a heroic deed.The mere idea of a gesture wearies me，as if it were something I actually thought of doing.

I aspire to nothing.Life hurts me.I’m not well where I am nor anywhere else I can think of being.

What would be ideal is to have no more action than the false action of a fountain-to go up so as to fall down in the same place，pointlessly shimmering in the sun and making sound in the silence of the night so that whoever dreams would think of rivers in his dream and smile forgetfully.