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| 2022/07/23 05:49:02瀏覽324｜回應0｜推薦5 | |
| Selected poems：《宇宙重建了自身：佩索阿詩精選》 重新清點了自己所擁有的Pessoa詩集中譯本，依購書的時間序，包含了閔雪飛、歐凡、李魁賢、程一身、楊鐵軍、韋白、姚鳳、楊子、張維民、張家綺。 近日，再入手程一身的新譯本《宇宙重建了自身：佩索阿詩精選》。 其中，我個人喜愛的〈煙草店〉(The Tobacco Shop)，併同 Richard Zenith 的英譯，再次摘要分享。 https://www.books.com.tw/products/CN11767835 宇宙重建了自身：佩索阿詩精選 作者：費爾南多‧佩索阿 譯者：程一身 出版社：中信出版社 出版日期：2022/05/01 語言：簡體中文 費爾南多‧佩索阿 (Fernando Pessoa)(1888—1935)，20世紀最偉大的葡語作家、詩人，葡萄牙後期象徵主義的代表人物之一。文評家布魯姆稱他與聶魯達是最能代表20世紀的詩人。1888年生於葡萄牙里斯本，生前做着與文學無關的會計、商業翻譯，四十七歲病逝，留下大量作品。死後兩萬五千多頁未整理的手稿，包括詩歌、散文、文學批評、哲學論文、翻譯等公開，引起轟動。佩索阿的作品世界由眾多的“異名者”組成，構建了一個龐大、完整、神秘的文學宇宙。 程一身，本名肖學周。河南人。詩人、譯者。著有詩集《北大十四行》《有限事物的無限吸引》，專著《朱光潛詩歌美學引論》《為新詩賦形》《朱光潛評傳》，編著《外國精美詩歌讀本》；主編“新詩經典”叢書；譯著《我將宇宙隨身攜帶》《白鷺》《坐在你身邊看雲》《歐洲故土》《宇宙重建了自身》等。 〈煙草店〉 我是虛無。 從不會成為任何事物。 也不願成為任何事物。 除此以外，我心裡擁有這個世界所有的夢。 我房間的窗戶， 世界上數百萬房間中的一間， 無人知道他是誰 (如果他們知道他是誰，他們會知道什麼？)， 你關注著不斷有人走過的大街的 秘密， 關注著所有思想都難以抵達的大街， 真實的，不可能真實的，確定的，離奇確定的， 伴隨著潛藏在石頭和生命中的事物的秘密， 伴隨著使牆壁潮濕、 使男人頭髮變白的死神， 伴隨著驅使汽車沿虛無的道路一直行駛的 命運。 今天，我被打敗了，好像我認識了真理。 今天，我頭腦清醒，似乎我就要死了 與萬物不再有任何聯繫 除了一份告別辭之外， 這座房子和街道的這邊變成 一列火車廂，一聲程的 汽笛， 從我頭腦內部鳴響 在離開時，我的神經一震， 骨頭嘎吱作響。 今天，我如此迷惑，像一個有思想、 發現和遺忘的人。 今天，我被忠誠撕成了兩半： 一個忠誠是對街道對面的煙草店， 作為一件外在真實的事物， 一個忠誠是對一切皆夢的感覺， 作為一件內心真實的事物。 我完全失敗了。 因為我沒有完成任何計劃，或許都是 虛無。 他們給我的學徒期—— 我已經把它從房子後面的窗戶 拋下去。 我走進設計宏偉的鄉村。 但在那裡只遇到草和樹， 如果有人，他們就像多餘的。 我離開窗子，坐在一張椅子裡。 我會想什麼？ …… 我已活過，學過，愛過，甚至信過， 今天沒有一個乞丐我不羨慕， 僅僅因為不是我。 我看著每一個穿著舊衣，身患潰瘍，躺著的人， 我想：或許你從未活過，學過，愛過， 信過 (因為有可能不做任何事情就能做到 所有這些事情)； 或許你幾乎不曾存在過， 就像一個蜥蜴的尾巴被切斷了 那是一條缺了蜥蜴、來回扭動的尾巴。 我明白自己沒有相應的技巧， 我本來可以明白卻沒有明白。 我穿上花俏的衣服是錯的。 他們馬上認出了我，因為我不是那樣的人， 而我沒有揭穿謊言，迷失了自我。 當我試圖取下面具時， 它卻黏在我臉上。 當我揭下它，在鏡中觀看自己， 我已經變老了。 我醉了，試圖進入我不曾脫下的戲裝 卻徒勞無益。 我丟下面具去衣帽間睡覺 像一條被管理者容忍的狗 因為他是無害的。 而我在這裡，寫這個故事證明 我是崇高的。 我的無用之詩的悅耳本質， 但願我能遇到你，我自己 寫出的重要作品， 而不是一直面對煙草店的 反面， 把存在的意識踩在腳下 就像踩著把酒鬼絆得跌跌撞撞的地毯 或被流浪漢偷去卻分文不值的門墊。 但煙草店主已來到門口 並停在那裡。 我看著他，頭不安地歪扭著， 心也不安地領悟著。 他會死我也會死。 他會留下店招牌，我會留下詩。 在某個階段，店招牌也會死， 這些詩也會。 在某個階段之後，店招牌所在的街道 會死， 還有寫這些詩所用的語言。 後來會死的是這個旋轉的地球， 所有這些都發生在它上面。 在其他衛星的類似系統裡， 人們將繼續創作像詩一樣的東西， 生活在像店招牌一樣的事物之下。 總是一件事物反對另一件， 總是一件事物像另一件一樣無用， 總是不可能的事像真實的事一樣愚蠢， 總是潛在的神秘像表面的神秘的睡眠 一樣確定， 總是這個事物或總是其他事物 或既非一件事物也非其他事物。 但是一個男人已走進煙草店 (去買煙？) 貌似真實的現實突然向我降臨。 我半站起身，精力充沛，堅信不疑，富於人性， 決定寫這些詩，在詩裡我說的完全相反。 我點燃一支煙，因為我想寫他們 我抽著煙，品味著從所有思想中獲得的解放， 我跟隨煙霧就像我自己的路線 享受著，一個感覺敏銳而令人滿意的時刻， 從所有思考和意識 ——玄學是感覺不適的結果—— 中解放出來。 隨後我陷入我的椅子裡 繼續抽煙。 只要命運允許，我就會繼續抽煙。 (如果我娶了我的洗衣女工的女兒 或許我會幸福。) 這時我從椅子上站起來。我走到窗前。 那個男人已經走出煙草店（將零錢 塞進他的褲袋裡？) 啊，我認識他；是史蒂夫，他不懂玄學。 (煙草店主已來到門口。) 似乎憑借某種非凡的直覺，史蒂夫轉身 看見了我。 他朝我揮手打招呼，我向他喊道： 再見，史蒂夫！隨後宇宙在我眼裡 已重建了自身，卻仍不理想也不符合希望， 而那個煙草店主露出了微笑。 1928年1月15日，里斯本 The Tobacco Shop Im nothing. Ill always be nothing. I cant want to be something. But I have in me all the dreams of the world. Windows of my room, The room of one of the worlds millions nobody knows (And if they knew me, what would they know?), You open onto the mystery of a street continually crossed by people, A street inaccessible to any and every thought, Real, impossibly real, certain, unknowingly certain, With the mystery of things beneath the stones and beings, With death making the walls damp and the hair of men white, With Destiny driving the wagon of everything down the road of nothing. Today Im defeated, as if Id learned the truth. Today Im lucid, as if I were about to die And had no greater kinship with things Than to say farewell, this building and this side of the street becoming A row of train cars, with the whistle for departure Blowing in my head And my nerves jolting and bones creaking as we pull out. Today Im bewildered, like a man who wondered and discovered and forgot. Today Im torn between the loyalty I owe To the outward reality of the Tobacco Shop across the street And to the inward reality of my feeling that everythings a dream. I failed in everything. Since I had no ambition, perhaps I failed in nothing. I left the education I was given, Climbing down from the window at the back of the house. I went to the country with big plans. But all I found was grass and trees, And when there were people they were just like the others. I step back from the window and sit in a chair. What should I think about? … Ive lived, studied, loved, and even believed, And today theres not a beggar I dont envy just because he isnt me. I look at the tatters and sores and falsehood of each one, And I think: perhaps you never lived or studied or loved or believed (For its possible to do all of this without having done any of it); Perhaps youve merely existed, as when a lizard has its tail cut off And the tail keeps on twitching, without the lizard. I made of myself what I was no good at making, And what I could have made of myself I didnt. I put on the wrong costume And was immediately taken for someone I wasnt, and I said nothing and was lost. When I went to take off the mask, It was stuck to my face. When I got it off and saw myself in the mirror, I had already grown old. I was drunk and no longer knew how to wear the costume hat I hadnt taken off. I threw out the mask and slept in the closet Like a dog tolerated by the management Because its harmless, And Ill write down this story to prove Im sublime. Musical essence of my useless verses, If only I could look at you as something I had made Instead of always looking at the Tobacco Shop across the street, Trampling on my consciousness of existing, Like a rug a drunkard stumbles on Or a doormat stolen by gypsies and its not worth a thing. But the Tobacco Shop Owner has come to the door and is standing there. I look at him with the discomfort of a half-twisted neck Compounded by the discomfort of a half-grasping soul. He will die and I will die. Hell leave his signboard, Ill leave my poems. His sign will also eventually die, and so will my poems. Eventually the street where the sign was will die, And so will the language in which my poems were written. Then the whirling planet where all of this happened will die. On other planets of other solar systems something like people Will continue to make things like poems and to live under things like signs, Always one thing facing the other, Always one thing as useless as the other, Always the impossible as stupid as reality, Always the inner mystery as true as the mystery sleeping on the surface. Always this thing or always that, or neither one thing nor the other. But a man has entered the Tobacco Shop (to buy tobacco?), And plausible reality suddenly hits me. I half rise from my chair–energetic, convinced, human– And will try to write these verses in which I say the opposite. I light up a cigarette as I think about writing them, And in that cigarette I savor a freedom from all thought. My eyes follow the smoke as if it were my own trail And I enjoy, for a sensitive and fitting moment, A liberation from all speculation And an awareness that metaphysics is a consequence of not feeling very well. Then I lean back in the chair And keep smoking. As long as Destiny permits, Ill keep smoking. (If I married my washwomans daughter Perhaps I would be happy.) I get up from the chair. I go to the window. The man has come out of the Tobacco Shop (putting change into his pocket?). Ah, I know him: its unmetaphysical Esteves. (The Tobacco Shop Owner has come to the door.) As if by divine instinct, Esteves turns around and sees me. He waves hello, I shout back "Hello, Esteves!" and the universe Falls back into place without ideals or hopes, and the Owner of the Tobacco Shop smiles. https://www.ronnowpoetry.com/contents/pessoa/TobaccoShop.html The Tobacco Shop (translated by Richard Zenith) |
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| ( 知識學習｜隨堂筆記 ) |
