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| 2019/09/13 05:22:38瀏覽381｜回應1｜推薦7 | |
| Excerpt：《不安之書》(The Book of Disquiet) 06 〈278 / 生者與死者〉 大部分的人不由自主地生活在虛幻之中，格格不入。「大多數人並非自己，而是別人。」奧斯卡‧王爾德說，他說得沒錯。有些人終其一生追求的都是他們不想要的；有些人追求的乃他們所欲，卻對他們沒有絲毫用處；還有人迷失了他們自己…… 然而大多數人還是不需要任何理由就會感到快樂，享受生活。人們並不會時常流淚，而當他們抱怨之際，便形成了他的文學。悲觀主義並不是可行的民主規則。那些為這世界感到悲傷的人都是孤立的——他們只為自身悲傷。萊奧帕爾迪或肯塔爾就沒有心上人？那麼整個宇宙就充滿了痛苦。維尼感覺沒有被別人全心全意地愛著他？這個世界就是一座監獄。夏多布里昂產生了奢望？人類的生活沉悶乏味，約伯身上長滿了瘡？這個塵世無處不滿布瘡痍。有些人踏在傷心人的痛腳上。可憐他的腳啊，還有那太陽和星辰。 人類吃著，愛著，長此以往，從不停輟，對這一切漠然視之，只在必須哭的時候哭，而且哭的時間盡可能短——例如，為喪子之慟而哭，死去的兒子很快就會被忘得一亁二淨，除了他的生日才會被想起；或因為金錢的損失而哭，更多的錢源源而來之際，或者人們對這損失已經習以為常之際，便會停止哭泣。 生存的意願復甦，延續。死者已被埋葬。我們的損失會被遺忘。 278 Most men spontaneously live a fictitious and alien life. Most people are other people, said Oscar Wilde, and he was right. Some spend their lives in pursuit of something they dont want; others pursue something they want thats useless to them; still others lose themselves…… But most men are happy and enjoy life for no reason. Man usually doesnt weep much, and when he complains, thats his literature. Pessimism isnt viable as a democratic formula. Those who lament the worlds woes are isolated — they lament only their own. A Leopardi or an Antero de Quental doesnt have a sweetheart? Then the universe is a torment. A Vigny feels hes inadequately loved? The world is a prison. A Chateaubriand dreams the impossible? Human life is tedious. A Job is covered with boils? Earth is covered with boils. People step on some sad fellows corns? Alas for his feet, the suns and the stars! Indifferent to all this, humanity keeps on eating and loving, weeping over only what it must weep, and for as short a time as possible — over the death of a son, for instance, who is soon forgotten except on his birthday, or over the loss of money, which only causes weeping until more money comes along or one gets used to the loss. The will to live recovers and carries on. The dead are buried. Our losses are forgotten. 〈285 / 我從未醒過〉 我幾乎確信自己從未醒來過。我不知道自己在生活中有沒有作夢，在夢裡有沒有生活，或者說夢與生活彼此交錯，交織成某種東西，從而組成我的意識自我。 有時候，當我勤奮地過生活時，對自我的認識和對別人的一樣清晰，我的心裡會被一種奇怪的疑惑感困擾：我開始懷疑自己是否真正存在，我是不是別人的夢。彷彿親臨其境一般，我能夠將自己想像成小說裡的人物，按照書裡的冗長文風，在繁雜敘述下的現實中活動。 我常常發現，某些虛構的人物比那些現實與我們交談的朋友和熟人更鮮明。這使我產生一種幻想，覺得世界的一切事物是否就是互相連接的一連串夢和小說。就像小盒子疊進大盒子，依此無限堆疊下去，每件事都是故事裡的故事，就像《天方夜譚》，虛構的故事在沒有盡頭的夜裡無限延續下去。 如果我思考，那麼一切對我來說都很荒謬；如果我感覺，麼一切對我來說都很陌生；如果我渴望，那是某一個我在渴望。如果我做了什麼，我可以肯定那與我無關。我作夢時就像被人描寫，我感覺時就像被人描畫，我渴望時就像要被交貨的貨物，被裝進貨車，然後貨車朝著想必是我的終點站——一個我不想去的地方——駛去，直到抵達目的地。 一切是多麼混亂不堪！只看不想、只讀不寫該有多好！我的所見欺騙我，但我不認為那是我的所見。我的所讀令我苦惱，但我不必因寫下它而感到難受。作為意識清醒的思想者，作為已達到「我知我所知」的第二意識層次沉思者，去思考這一切該有多痛苦！去思考還是去感受？或者說生活的幕後還有第三種選擇？昏暗無序的單調，合攏的扇子，不得不生活的倦怠感…… 285 Im almost convinced that Im never awake. Im not sure if Im not in fact dreaming when I live, and living when I dream, or if dreaming and living are for me intersected, intermingled things that together form my conscious self. Sometimes, when Im actively engaged in life and have as clear a notion of myself as the next man, my mind is beset by a strange feeling of doubt: I begin to wonder if I exist, if I might not be someone elses dream. I can imagine, with an almost carnal vividness, that I might be the character of a novel, moving within the reality constructed by a complex narrative, in the long waves of its style. Ive often noticed that certain fictional characters assume a prominence never attained by the friends and acquaintances who talk and listen to us in visible, real life. And this makes me fantasize about whether everything in the sum total of the world might not be an interconnected series of dreams and novels, like little boxes inside larger boxes that are inside yet larger ones, everything being a story made up of stories, like A Thousand and One Nights, unreally taking place in the never-ending night. If I think, everything seems absurd to me; if I feel, everything seems strange; if I want, its something in me that does the wanting. Whenever theres action in me, Im sure I wasnt responsible for it. If I dream, it seems Im being written. If I feel, it seems Im being painted. If I want, it seems that Ive been placed in a vehicle, like freight to be delivered, and that I continue with a movement I imagine is my own towards a destination I dont want until I get there. How confusing it all is! How much better it is to see rather than think, to read rather than write! What I see may deceive me, but dont consider it mine. What I read may distress me, but I dont have to feel bad for having written it. How painful everything is when we think of it as conscious thinkers, as contemplative beings whose consciousness has reached that second stage by which we know that we know! Although the day is gorgeous, I cant help but think this way. To think or to feel? Or what third thing among the stage-sets in the back? Tedium of twilight and disarray, shut fans, weariness from having had to live... 中譯：劉勇軍／野人出版社， 英譯：Richard Zenith／Penguin Classics |
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| ( 知識學習｜隨堂筆記 ) |
