Two Poems dedicated to F. Scott Fitzgerald

Dedication to The Crack-Up
by Edmund Wilson

Scott, your last fragments I arrange tonight,
Assigning commas, setting accents right,
As once I punctuated, spelled and trimmed
When, passing in a Princeton spring—how dimmed
By this damned quarter-century and more!—
You left your Shadow Laurels at my door.
That was a drama webbed of dreams: the scene
A shimmering beglamored bluish-green
Soiled Paris wineshop; the sad hero one
Who loved applause but had his life alone;
Who fed on drink for weeks; forgot to eat,
“Worked feverishly, ” nourished on defeat
A lyric pride, and lent a lyric voice
To all the tongueless knavish tavern boys,
The liquor-ridden, the illiterate;
Got stabbed one midnight by a tavern-mate—
Betrayed, but self-betrayed by stealthy sins—
And faded to the sound of violins.

Tonight, in this dark long Atlantic gale,
I set in order such another tale,
While tons of wind that take the world for scope
Rock blackened waters where marauders grope
Our blue and bathed-in Massachusetts ocean;
The Cape shakes with the depth-bomb’s dumbed concussion;
And guns can interrupt me in these rooms,
Where now I seek to breathe again the fumes
Of iridescent drinking-dens, retrace
The bright hotels, regain the eager pace
You tell of… Scott, the bright hotels turn bleak;
The pace limps or stamps; the wines are weak;
The horns and violins come faint tonight.
A rim of darkness that devours light
Runs like the wall of flame that eats the land;
Blood, brain and labor pour into the sand;
And here, among our comrades of the trade,
Some buzz like husks, some stammer, much afraid,
Some mellowly give tongue and join the drag
Like hounds that bay the bounding anise-bag,
Some swallow darkness and sit hunched and dull,
The stunned beast’s stupor in the monkey-skull.

I climbed, a quarter-century and more
Played out, the college steps, unlatched my door,
And, creature strange to college, found you there:
The pale skin, hard green eyes, and yellow hair—
Intently pinching out before a glass
Some pimples left by parties at the Nass;
Nor did you stop abashed, thus pocked and blotched,
But kept on peering while I stood and watched.
Tonight, from days more distant now, we find,
Than holidays in France were, left behind,
Than spring of graduation from the fall
That saw us grubbing below City Hall,
Through storm and darkness, Time’s contrary stream,
There glides amazingly your mirror’s beam—
To bring before me still, glazed mirror-wise,
The glitter of the hard and emerald eyes.
The cornea tough, the aqueous chamber cold,
Those glassy optic bulbs that globe and hold—
They pass their image on to what they mint,
To blue ice or light buds attune their tint,
And leave us, to turn over, iris-fired,
Not the great Ritz-sized diamond you desired
But jewels in a handful, lying loose:
Flawed amethysts; the moonstone’s milky blues;
Chill blues of pale transparent tourmaline;
Opals of shifty yellow, chartreuse green,
Wherein a vein vermilion flees and flickers—
Tight phials of the spirit’s light mixed liquors;
Some tinsel zircons, common turquoise; but
Two emeralds, green and lucid, one half-cut,
One cut consummately—both take their place
In Letters’ most expensive Cartier case.

And there I have set them out for final show,
And come to the task’s dead-end, and dread to know
Those eyes struck dark, dissolving in a wrecked
And darkened world, that gleam of intellect
That spilled into the spectrum of tune, taste,
Scent, color, living speech, is gone, is lost;
And we must dwell among the ragged stumps,
With owls digesting mice to dismal lumps
Of skin and gristle, monkeys scared by thunder,
Great buzzards that descend to grab the plunder.
And I, your scraps and sketches sifting yet,
Can never thus revive one sapphire jet,
However close I look, however late,
But only spell and point and punctuate.

February, 1942

http://fitzgerald.narod.ru/bio/wilson-dedicat.html


《獻詩》
作者：艾德蒙•威爾遜
譯者：黃昱寧

司科特，我今晚整理著你最後的殘篇
分配著逗號，把重音校準
就如我曾點上標點、拼寫、修剪
而你走過普林斯頓的春天——在這
該死的四分之一多個世紀後顯得多麼黯淡！
——將影子月桂留在我門前。
那是一齣蛛絲般滿織著夢的戲劇：佈景是
一爿微光灼爍的、施了魔法般的、藍綠色的、
骯髒的巴黎酒館；悲傷的主人公是個
熱愛掌聲卻一生煢煢孑立的男人；
他連續幾周酗酒，忘記用餐，
“狂熱地工作”，從失敗中汲取養分
一種抒情的驕傲；他為酒館裡所有失聲的小流氓
還有那些醉酒者和文盲
發出抒情的聲音；
一天午夜他被一個酒友刺殺——
被背叛，是被見不得人的罪孽自我背叛——
然後在小提琴聲中淡出舞臺。

今夜，在這幽暗且漫長的大西洋強風裡
我落筆寫下這麼一個故事
而數噸的風將世界作為活動地帶
撼動染黑的水域，那兒掠奪者們摸索著
我們藍色的、有人洗浴的麻塞諸塞州海洋；
海角隨著深水炸彈被抑住的轟鳴擺蕩；
槍炮可以將我在這些房間裡打斷
現在我在這裡嘗試呼吸那來自
彩虹色澤的酗酒地窖的濃郁氣味，重尋
那些明亮的旅館，重新獲得那熱忱的步伐
你曾訴說過它們……司各特，明亮的旅館已變得荒涼；
步伐不是跛足，就是跺腳；葡萄酒淡而無味；
而今夜的號角和小提琴也微弱難聆。
一圈黑暗吞噬了光線
如吞噬土地的火焰牆般狼奔豸突；
鮮血、腦力和勞作澆入土中；
在這裡，在幹我們這一行的同僚中間
一些人粗嘎地嗡嗡叫，一些人極度恐懼，張口結舌，
一些人發出甜美的聲音，加入了異裝的佇列
就如朝著彈跳的茴芹口袋狂吠的獵犬，
一些人咽下黑暗，弓背坐著，無所事事，
猴子的頭顱裡裝著被打暈的野獸的昏迷。

我花了四分之一個世紀之多
爬上大學的臺階，精疲力竭地打開房門，
學院的異類啊，我在那裡找到了你：
蒼白的膚色，堅定的綠眼睛，黃頭髮——
在鏡子前面聚精會神地朝外瞪
幾個酒窩是拿騷聚會的遺留物；
你並未窘迫地停下，在臉上摳出痘痕，
當我站著注視時，你繼續凝視著。
今夜，從更加遙遠的日子裡，我發現，
比被留在過去的法國假日更遠，
比畢業的春季距離秋季更遠
——秋季我們在市政廳下辛苦勞作——
穿過暴風雨和黑暗，時間的逆流，
你的鏡子的光束令人驚喜地滑動——
如靜止、上了釉的鏡子般為我帶來
那堅定的綠眼睛的閃光。
角膜堅硬，水晶體寒冷，
那一對玻璃般的光學燈旋轉、停止——
它們將自身的肖像複製到它們所鑄造的事物上，
在藍色冰塊或輕盈的花朵上調著顏色，
留下虹膜著了火的我們反復思忖，
不是思忖你所渴望的里茨飯店那麼大的鑽石
而是捧在手心裡的珠寶，它們鬆散地躺著：
有瑕疵的紫水晶；月光石那牛奶質地的藍色；
蒼白的透明電氣石的冷藍色；
帶著變幻的黃色和嫩綠色的蛋白石
其中一道朱紅的礦脈閃爍著逃逸——
鎖著靈魂輕盈的混合酒精的緊口瓶；
一些亮晶晶的鋯石，普通的綠松石；但有
兩顆翡翠，碧綠清澈，一顆切割了一半，
另一顆已加工得完美無瑕——兩者都在文學
這只最昂貴的卡蒂耶珠寶盒裡找到了位置。

我把它們放置在那裡，為那最後的陳列，
我也來到了任務的盡頭，悲哀地明白
那些被擊中而失明的眼睛，正在一個崩潰的
被黑暗籠罩的世界裡消融，那濺入音調、滋味、
香氣、色彩、生氣勃勃的語言之頻譜的
智力的微光已經不在了，消失了；
我們必須在崎嶇的樹樁中間生活，
與貓頭鷹共處，它們將老鼠消化並變成
陰鬱的皮膚和軟骨的腫塊；與被雷驚嚇的猴子共處，
與俯衝下來掠奪的大禿鷲共處。
而我還在篩選你的零星碎片，
不管我看得多仔細，不管天色多晚
我都永遠無法使一塊海藍色墨玉復活，
卻只能拼寫、加注、點上標點。


The Hours
by John Peale Bishop

In the real dark night of the soul it is always three
o'clock in the morning.
F. SCOTT FITZGERALD

I
ALL day, knowing you dead,
I have sat in this long-windowed room,
Looking upon the sea and, dismayed
By mortal sadness, though without thought to resume
Those hours which you and I have known
Hours when youth like an insurgent sun
Showered ambition on an aimless air,
Hours foreboding disillusion,
Hours which now there is none to share.
Since you are dead, I leave them all alone.

II
A day like any day. Though any day now
We expect death. The sky is overcast,
And shuddering cold as snow the shoreward blast.
And in the marsh, like a sea astray, now
Waters brim. This is the moment when the sea
Being most full of motion seems motionless.
Land and sea are merged. The marsh is gone.
And my distress
Is at the flood. All but the dunes are drowned.
And brimming with memory I have found
All hours we ever knew, but have not found
The key. I cannot find the lost key
To the silver closet you as a wild child hid.

III
I think of all you did
And all you might have done, before undone
By death, but for the undoing of despair.
No promise such as yours when like the spring
You came, colors of jonquils in your hair,
Inspired as the wind, when the woods are bare
And every silence is about to sing.
None had such promise then, and none
Your scapegrace wit or your disarming grace;
For you were bold as was Danae's son,
Conceived like Perseus in a dream of gold.
And there was none when you were young, not one,
So prompt in the reflecting shield to trace
The glittering aspect of a Gorgon age.
Despair no love, no fortune could assuage , . .
Was it a fault in your disastrous blood
That beat from no fortunate god,
The failure of all passion in mid-course?
You shrank from nothing as from solitude,
Lacking the still assurance, and pursued
Beyond the sad excitement by remorse.
Was it that having shaped your stare upon
The severed head of time, upheld and blind,
Upheld by the stained hair,
And seen the blood upon that sightless stare,
You looked and were made one
With the strained horror of those sightless eyes?
You looked, and were not turned to stone.

IV
You have outlasted the nocturnal terror,
The head hanging in the hanging mirror,
The hour haunted by a harrowing face.
Now you are drunk at last. And that disgrace
You sought in oblivious dives you have
At last, in the dissolution of the grave.

V
I have lived with you the hour of your humiliation.
I have seen you turn upon the others in the night
And of sad self-loathing
Concealing nothing
Heard you cry: I am lost. But you are lower I
And you had that right.
The damned do not so own their damnation.
I have lived with you some hours of the night,
The late hour
When the lights lower,
The later hour
When the lights go out,
When the dissipation of the night is past,
Hour of the outcast and the outworn whore,
That is past three and not yet four
When the old blackmailer waits beyond the door
And from the gutter with unpitying hands
Demands the same sad guiltiness as before,
The hour of utter destitution
When the soul knows the horror of its loss
And knows the world too poor
For restitution,
Past three o'clock
And not yet four
When not pity, pride,
Or being brave,
Fortune, friendship, forgetfulness of drudgery
Or of drug avails, for all has been tried,
And nothing avails to save
The soul from recognition of its night.
The hour of death is always four o'clock.
It is always four o'clock in the grave.

VI
Having heard the bare word that you had died,
All day I have lingered in this lofty room,
Locked in the light of sea and cloud,
And thought, at cost of sea-hours, to illume
The hours that you and I have known.
Hours death does not condemn, nor love condone.
And I have seen the sea-light set the tide
In salt succession toward the sullen shore
And while the waves lost on the losing sand
Seen shores receding and the sands succumb.
The waste retreats; glimmering shores retrieve
Unproportioned plunges; the dunes restore
Drowned confines to the disputed kingdom
Desolate mastery, since the dark has come.
The dark has cornel I cannot pluck you bays,
Though here the bay grows wild. For fugitive
As surpassed fame the leaves this sea-wind frays.
Why should I promise what I cannot give?
I cannot animate with breath
Syllables in the open mouth of death.
Dark, dark. The shore here has a habit of light.
O dark! I leave you to oblivious night!

http://fitzgerald.narod.ru/bio/bishop-hours.html


《時光》
作者：約翰•皮爾•畢肖普
譯者：黃昱寧

在真正的靈魂的暗夜裡，時間
永遠停留在凌晨三點鐘。
——F. 司科特. 菲茨傑拉德

I
一整天，知道你已死去
我坐在窗戶開闊的房間裡
凝視海面，憂傷於致命的悲哀
想著——雖然腦中一片空白——重現那
你我共同渡過的時光——
那時你如初升的太陽
將似雨的野心遍灑在漫無目的的蒼空之上
那預示著幻滅的時光
如今已無人與我分享的時光——
自從你死去，我形單影隻。

II
這一天與每一天一樣。儘管現在
每一天我們都等待著死亡。天空烏雲密佈
雪向岸邊襲來，寒氣慄人
沼澤猶如一片走失的海，現在
海水滿溢。是這樣的時刻：大海
由於充滿動量，看起來最為寧謐。
陸地與海水融為一體。沼澤消失不見，而我的悲痛
正水漲船高。除了沙丘外，一切都被淹沒。
記憶滿溢，我找回了
所有我們共渡的時光，卻找不到
鑰匙。我找不到那丟失的鑰匙，它通往你還是個野孩子時
藏身的銀色壁櫥。

III
我想著你做過的一切，以及你
可能在死前做的一切——
若非絕望毀了你。當你如春天一般降臨
髮色是長壽花般的淡黃
如風一般充盈著靈感；當樹林變禿
每種沉默正待唱響
沒人比你更有希望。

那時沒人比你更有希望，沒人具有
你頑童的智慧和令人放鬆的優雅；
因為你像達那厄的兒子一般勇敢
和珀爾修斯一樣，孕育於金色的夢中。
當你年輕時，沒有人能如此敏捷地
在反光的盾牌中找到
一個戈爾貢時代的閃光面容。

任何愛情或幸運都不能撫平的絕望……
那可是你災難之血中的一個故障？
來自一位不詳的神明，搏動著
一切半途而廢的熱情的下場？
你躲避什麼都趕不上躲避孤獨
缺少安靜的信心，被懊悔
逐出悲哀的亢奮之疆。

那可是因為你將凝視固著於
時光被斬下的頭顱——高高掛起，失明
被血染的頭髮高高掛起？可是因為
你見到了那憤怒的盲眼上的鮮血
你看起來像是——並且變成了一個擁有
和那盲眼一樣衰竭的恐懼的人？
你看了，卻沒有被變成石頭。

IV
你比那夜間的恐怖活得更久
比那懸鏡裡低垂的腦袋
和受悲戚的幽靈之臉困擾的時光更久。

現在，你終於醉了。你在使人遺忘的
潛水運動中尋求的恥辱，你終於
得到了，在溶化一切的墳塋中。

V
我與你共度你受辱的時刻
我曾見你在夜裡與人仇訾
悲哀的自厭
什麼都掩飾不住
我聽見你高喊：“我沉淪了。但你沉得更深！”
你有那種權利。
被詛咒的人並不那麼配得上他們的詛咒。

我與你共度一些夜晚的時光
夜色深沉
光焰壓低，
夜色深冥
光焰熄滅，

夜晚的狂歡已然逝去，

被驅逐的、用廢了的娼婦的時辰
是過了三點，但還未到四點——

當老敲詐犯在門邊守候
從下水溝裡伸出毫不憐恤的雙手
要求和往常一樣的那份哀傷的罪責，

在這一無所有的赤貧時辰
靈魂瞭解失去靈魂的恐怖
也知道這世界太可悲
已不可能恢復，
但還不到四點鐘——
無論是憐憫、驕傲、勇敢、
財富、友誼、勞作帶來的健忘
還是毒品，這時都徒勞無益，因為一切都試過了
沒什麼能將靈魂
從對靈魂之暗夜的認識中拯救出來。

死亡的時辰永遠是四點鐘
墳塋裡永遠是四點鐘。

VI
聽到你死去的消息後
一整天我都在這高高的屋子裡徘徊
被鎖於大海與雲的光線中
想著——以海的鐘點為單位——去照亮
你我共同渡過的時光
那死亡不會譴責，愛情也不會赦免的時光。

我看見海上的燈塔把波浪劈成
湧向陰鬱之岸的鹽的佇列
當浪花在迷失的沙灘上消失
我看見海岸後退，黃沙臣服。

垃圾撤離；閃著微光的岸恢復了
不成比例的傾度；沙丘把被淹沒的邊界
返還給受爭議的國度——
一種悽愴的主動權，因為黑夜已降臨。

黑夜已然降臨。海灣，我不能為你們拔去絨毛
儘管海灣在這裡瘋長。因為這些樹葉就如
被蓋過了的名譽一般無常，被海風磨損。
我為何要發誓給予我無力給予的事物？

我無力用呼吸向死亡洞開的口中
的那些音節吹入生命。
黑暗，黑暗。這海岸襲一身光之霓裳
哦黑暗！我把你留給這遺忘的夜晚！