字體:小 中 大 | |
|
|
2022/07/28 05:36:15瀏覽461|回應0|推薦6 | |
Selected poems:諾貝爾文學獎全集47:1975年 孟德雷詩選 在孟德雷半個世紀的創作生涯中,總括言之,他的態度可以說是從雷奥帕第 (Leopardi) 的古典派方向以來,接近於厭世的悲觀論者。這種悲觀色彩鮮少純粹情感的抒發,而以一種成熟理性的洞察來表達悲觀色彩的本身,同時仍具有質問和反抗的批判特質。他的信念,是可憐的人性業已淪落,歷史的敎訓已不足為戒,而世界性的困乏也已經壞到谷底了。當他觀察當今的危機時,他發現到眞正的邪惡,乃是人們已經完全遺棄了另一個時代的價值體系;換句話說,遺棄了對於過去的偉大心靈的記憶,這羣偉大的心靈會經嘔心瀝血地樹立一些價值觀,使我們能夠創造出在地球上的生存依據和生活環境。 然而,他聽天由命的悲觀色彩,仍包容著一種對於生命本能可以繼續求進的信心,這種生命本能可以征服陳年累月的障礙。詩並不是一種大衆化的媒體,如果孟德雷不相信詩中所隱含的深奥意境,他或許夠不上是位天生的詩人。縱然如此,今天在我們這個時代,詩仍然是股溫和而無法觸及的力量,足以反應人類良知的心聲。雖然這種心聲被視為非常微弱,但是它無法毁滅,而且更是不可或缺的。 ——安德斯‧奥斯特林 (瑞典學院常任秘書),〈頒獎辭〉 https://zh.wikipedia.org/zh-tw/%E5%9F%83%E4%B9%8C%E6%9D%B0%E5%B0%BC%E5%A5%A5%C2%B7%E8%92%99%E5%A1%94%E8%8E%B1 埃烏傑尼奧·蒙塔萊(義大利語:Eugenio Montale,1896年10月12日-1981年9月12日),義大利詩人、散文家、翻譯家,1975年諾貝爾文學獎得主。 諾貝爾文學獎全集47:1975年 孟德雷詩選 作者:孟德雷 譯者:楊渡 出版社:遠景出版社 出版日期:1982/10 〈粗糙的與本質的〉 我曾盼望成為粗糙的 和本質的 一如翻滚的珍珠 讓海鹽咬嚙侵蝕 如一時間外的碎片 冰冷的永恆意志的見證者 但不了,我只渴望 注視着生命無常的泡沫 在自身,在他人——一個遲遲 行動,且不毁滅他人的人 我渴想找出罪惡 在這世界滋生的罪惡,如桅桿 有輕微的裂紋卻緊鎖了 世界的齒輪的運轉,刹那間 我看見一切的事件,猶如 平衡已彼暴雨沖激 在一條道路上醒覺的我 同自己的心對抗,並且可能 需要一把利刃斬絕潔凈 ——那自我抉擇的煎熬呵 而我所需的内涵絕非 你咆哮的扉頁 但我不復後悔……當你 再度以交談解開纏結的內在 如今你的狂奮已升到星際 ROUGH AND ESSENTIAL I would have wanted to be rough and essential as the pebbles you turn over gnawed by the sea salt; a splinter outside time, witness to a cold perpetual will. No, I was a man intent on watching the transient bubbling of life in himself, in others -a man who delays action, that no one then destroys. I wanted to search out the evil that bores through the world, the levers slight flaw locking the gears of the universe: and I saw all the events of the minute as though poised to crash in a downpour of pieces. In the wake of one road I took the opposite offer to heart; and maybe I needed the knife that cuts clean, the clenched mind that chooses. The text I needed was not your roaring page. But I regret nothing: again you undo the inward tangle with your talk. And now your delirium climbs starward. 〈四季〉 我底夢盼不在四個季節裏 不在冬天 冬天把我們驅近那破舊的 暖氣機,把冰柱撒到已然 轉灰的鬢髮上 不在浪子於郊野 燃起的篝火上,不在 垂覆屋簷的地獄煙霧 甚至不在僅僅存在獄中的 那棵聖誕樹 我底夢呀不在春天 那古典虛構了的年代 也不在那無法再予射擊的 鑿痕之中 也不在土撥鼠從洞穴窺看時 顫音的歡叫聲裏 甚至不在敞開的客棧和藏酒地下室裏 在幻覺底下,天空不再下雨 或許只在異鄉下雨,誰管得著呢? 我底夢呀不在夏日 那神經病患帶著惡兆底 錯誤的妄念和狂亂 不在稻草人底黑色傀儡裏 不在海豚撕破了的拖網的纏結裏 不在早晨悶溽的陽光下 也不在他水底的旅程 ——他已把往昔和自己淹溺在水裏 我底夢呀不在 霧和酒一般紅的秋天 那只能在巴勃奈羅的日曆或曆書上 尋獲的季節,不在那黝暗短暫的黃昏 不在收割時節或者禮拜式的過程 不在孔雀的哀鳴或油磨坊的 轉動中 也不在幼蟲和睡鼠的 阻擾之中 我底夢呀不兮從四季的子宮裏 醒來,但是在永恆裏 它活在秩序的逝亡中 唯有上帝知道,是否 那是時間, 是否它毫無用處 The Seasons My dream is not in the four seasons. Not in winter that pulls up close to tired radiators and sprays icicles on hair already gray, not in bonfires in the outskirts lit by homeless vagrants, not in the miasmal smoke lapping cornices and eaves, and not even in the Christmas tree which survives, maybe, only in prisons. My dream is not in spring, the fabled age of which the ancients speak. not in pruned branches struggling to sprout, nor the shrill chitter of the woodchuck nosing from his burrow; and not even in the opening of taverns and bistros in the illusion that now the rain will stop, or maybe go rain somewhere else, who knows where. My dream is not in summer neurotic with mirages and ill-omened lunar months, nor in the scarecrows black puppet, nor the meshes of the dragnet shredded by dolphins, not in the humid glare of its mornings and not in the underwater wanderings of the man who drowns with himself and his past. My dream is not in autumn misty and musty, an autumn to be found only in calendars and farmers almanacs, not in its black- lightninged evenings, in harvest or holy-day processions, in the screams of peacocks, in the turning of olive presses, in shutting out larva and dormouse. My dream never rises from the womb of the seasons, but in the timeless moment that lives where reasons die and God only knows whether it was time or whether useless. 〈靜寂〉 今天這兒舉行常有的罷工 街道沒有了行人 唯有收音機自牆的另一面 遙遙傳來聲音。晚一些 有人會來到這兒住下 我不懂生產又能怎樣 即使春天自身也緩緩地生產著 他們已早早把暖器機關掉 並且了解郵政系統失效 許多齒輪也自然地不轉了 甚至死者也開始騷動起來 他們也是總體靜寂的 局部。妳躺身在墓碑之下 我想不必去搖醒妳的 因妳永遠醒著。即或是 今天,宇宙都已沉睡時 In Silence General strike today. Deserted streets, no noise. Only a transistor the other side of the wall: someone must have moved in a few days ago. I wonder if production will fall. This year even spring is late in producing. They turned off the central heating in anticipation. They noticed that the postal system wasnt working. Its no disaster, this suspension of normal operations. And inevitably a few gears arent engaged. Even the dead have started agitating. Theyre part of the total silence too. Youre underground. No point arousing you, youre always awake. Even today, in the universal sleep. 〈鬼魂〉 …… 那異鄉人的名字有四個音節 而你再也不會遇見 如今他已逝世無疑 一個畫家,他甚至要和妳調情 妳溫順地默允著,因他很害羞 多年前我們曾經談到 如今妳已逝世,我也忘記他的名字 但這兒有地下的期刊 印著藝術家的面容或圖畫 在這世紀的萌芽時期 在世紀的花蕾中枯萎了 他後面跟一個畫家,真是心悸呵 但是,誰能說什麼呢? 或許妳是他的克麗西亞 但妳不知道,我不很喜歡這麼想 我只想知道兩軸間的線 為何糾纏不清;而如果 幻想不是失落的本源 而我只是幻想的臨摹 THE GHOST …four syllables, the name of a stranger you never met again and who’s now dead no doubt. A painter; he even flirted with you, you admitted, though mildly, for he was shy. We talked about it many years ago; then you died and I’ve forgotten his name. But here’s a clandestine periodical with faces or pictures of artists nipped in the bud at the outset of this century, and there’s a painting by him, quite horrible, but then who can say? Tomorrow it will be a masterpiece. Perhaps you were his Clizia and did not know it. I don’t relish the idea much. I wonder why the threads of the two spools got so entangled; and if that phantasm is not the lost original and I its facsimile. |
|
( 知識學習|隨堂筆記 ) |