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| Excerpt：費爾南多．佩索阿的《不安之書》(陳實 譯) 最初接觸Pessoa是從韓少功翻譯的《惶然錄》開始，然後入手劉勇軍翻譯的《不安之書》之後，才真正體會到他的文字之美。再之後，則是各種中譯及英譯的詩集。 這一本《不安之書》應該是個人收藏的第四個中譯本，以下連同英譯的部分一起摘要分享。 書名：不安之書 作者：費爾南多．佩索阿（Fernando Pessoa） 譯者：陳實 出版社：花城 出版日期：2021/1 《不安之書》是葡萄牙作家費爾南多·佩索阿創作的隨筆集，由其逝世後遺留的兩萬余頁手稿中五百餘篇碎片化文字整理而成，2021年陳實譯本經花城出版社出版。佩索阿生前鮮為人知，後因未刊手稿中展現的現代主義文學特徵被重新發掘。 【Excerpt】 〈“我思想……”〉 我思想，從而造出自己、回聲和深淵。我深入自己之內，從而繁殖自己。最短的插曲——光線的轉變，枯葉下墜，花瓣乾菱剝落，牆外的聲音，或者聲音背後的人（在應該傾聽這聲音的眾人旁邊）的足音，古老大宅半掩的大門，通向月色下重疊樓房的前庭拱門——所有這些不屬於我的一切，以共鳴和懷戀的繩子捆住我通向感覺的沈思。在每一種感覺裡，我都是另一個人，我在每一種模糊的印象裡痛苦地更生自己。 我依靠不屬於我的印象生活，放任的浪子，只是另一個版本的我。 By thinking, I made of myself both echo and abyss. By going deeper inside myself, I became many. The slightest incident — a change in the light, the coiling fall of a dry leaf, a yellowing petal detaching itself, a voice from the other side of the wall, or the footsteps of the person doing the talking alongside the footsteps of the person listening, the door to the old garden left ajar, the courtyard opening through an arch onto the houses clustered together in the moonlight — all those things, which do not belong to me, bind me to my delicate meditations with bonds of resonance and nostalgia. In each one of those sensations, I am a different “I”; I painfully renew myself in each indefinite impression. I live on impressions that do not belong to me, I am a squanderer of renunciations, always different in my way of being me. 〈“我永遠生活於現在……”〉 我永遠生活於現在。未來怎樣我不知道，而過去已非我所有。前者具有一切可能性，使我感到壓力，後者是虛無的現實。我無所企望，亦無所懷戀。已經知道以前的生活是什麼樣子——往往與心願完全相反——我還能對明天的生活有什麼假設，除了它會是我不假設不期望的樣子，而發生在我身上的外來事件甚至會通過我的意志發生？過去沒有任何事件能讓我產生重複一次的空想。我從來只是自己的殘渣或者幻影。我的過去代表跟我的願望完全相反的一切。我甚至不思念曾經有過的感覺，因為感覺必須在目前的一刻——這一刻過去了，就不可能倒翻書頁。故事會繼續發展，不過內容會不一樣。 I live always in the present. I know nothing of the future and no longer have a past. The former weighs me down with a thousand possibilities, the latter with the reality of nothingness. I have neither hopes for the future nor longings for what was. Knowing what my life has been up until now — so often so contrary to the way I wished it to be — what assumptions can I make about my life except that it will be neither what I presume nor what I want it to be, that it will be something that happens to me from outside, even against my own will? Nothing in my past life fills me with the vain desire to repeat it. I have never been anything more than a mere vestige, a simulacrum of myself. My past is everything I never managed to become. Not even the feelings associated with past moments make me nostalgic; what one feels is of the moment; once that is past the page turns and the story continues, but not the text. 市中心一棵樹搖動的黑影，憂傷的池子輕悄的水聲，修剪過的草地的綠——入夜前的公園啊，這一刻你就是我的整個宇宙，因為你是我有意識的感覺的全部內容。我對生活的要求，只是想感覺它消失在這樣意料之外的黃昏裡，消失於陌生兒童在這樣的花園裡玩遊戲的笑聲裡。花園的周圍是憂鬱的街道，上面，在高高的樹枝之外？是蒼老的天空，星星又一次閃現。 Brief, dark shadow of a city tree, the light sound of water falling into a sad pool, the green of smooth grass — a public park on the edge of dusk — in this moment you are the whole universe to me, because you entirely fill my every conscious feeling. I want nothing more from life than to feel it ebbing away into these unexpected evenings, to the sound of other people’s children playing in gardens fenced in by the melancholy of the surrounding streets, and above, the high branches of the trees, vaulted by the ancient sky in which the stars are just beginning to reappear. （1930.6.13） 〈“白晝流暢地沒入虛脫的紫色……”〉 白晝流暢地沒入虛脫的紫色。誰都說不出我是誰，也不知道我本來是誰。我從不知名的山走進不知名的山谷，在柔弱的暮色裡，我的腳步是留在林中空地上的軌跡。我所愛的每一個人都把我遺忘在陰影裡。沒有人知道最後一班船的時間。關於沒有人會給我寫的那封信，郵政局也沒有消息。 Fluidly, the departing day dies amid spent purples. No one will tell me who I am, nor knows who I was. I came down from the unknown mountain to the equally unknown valley, and my steps in the slow evening were just tracks left in the clearings of the forest. Everyone I loved abandoned me to the shadows. No one knew the time of the last boat. In the post there was no sign of the letter no one would write. 然而一切都不真實。他們不肯透露沒有人告訴過他們的任何一個故事，關於那個許久以前把希望寄託於虛假旅行而離去的人，那個霞霧與下不了決心前來的人所生的兒子，也沒有人確實知道一點什麼。在那些遲遲不肯離開的人之中，我知道一個名字，跟一切名字相同：影子。 Yes, everything was false. No tales were told that others might have told before, and no one had any firm information about the person who left earlier in the hope of embarking on some illusory boat, child of the coming fog and of future indecision. Among the latecomers I have a name but that, like everything else, is mere shadow. （1931.9.16） 〈“我的靈魂是一個秘密的樂園……”〉 我的靈魂是一個秘密的樂園，我不知道在我裡面彈撥、敲打的是什麼樂器——弦樂器、竪琴、鈸、鼓。我只知道演奏的交響曲是我自己。 每種努力是一種罪行，因為每一個動作是一個死去的夢。 你的雙手是被囚禁的鴿子。你的嘴唇是（在我眼前叫的）靜默的鴿子。 你一切動作都是鳥。你蹲下的時候是燕子，望我的時候是禿鷹，裝出高傲貴婦姿態的時候是蒼鷹。我望你的時候看見一個有許多翅膀撲動著的水池…… 你不是別的什麼，只是翅膀…… My soul is a hidden orchestra; I do not know what instruments, what violins and harps, drums and tambours, sound and clash inside me. I know myself only as a symphony. All effort is a crime because every gesture is but a dead dream. Your hands are like caged doves. Your lips are silent turtle doves (which my eyes can see cooing). All your gestures are birds. You are a swallow when you stoop down, a condor when you look at me, an eagle in your ecstasies as a proud, indifferent woman. You are merely a fluttering of wings, like those of the […], you are the lake of my seeing. You are all winged, winged […] …… （英譯：Margaret Jull Costa） |
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