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“儿时” 瞿秋白 生命没有寄托的人，青年时代和“儿时”对他格外宝贵。这种浪漫谛克的回忆其实并不是发现了“儿时”的真正了不得，而是感觉到“中年”以后的衰退。本来，生命只有一次，对于谁都是宝贵的。但是，假使他的生命融化在大众的里面，假使他天天在为这世界干些什么，那么，他总在生长。虽然衰老病死仍旧是逃避不了，然而他的事业——大众的事业是不死的，他会领略到“永久的青年”。而“浮生如梦”的人，从这世界里拿去的很多，而给这世界的却很少——他总有一天会觉得疲乏的死亡：他连拿都没有力量了。衰老和无能的悲哀，像铅一样的沉重，压在他的心头。青春是多么短呵！ “儿时”的可爱是无知。那时候，件件都是“知”，你每天可以做大科学家和大哲学家，每天都在发现什么新的现象，新的真理。现在呢？“什么”都已经知道了、熟悉了，每一个人的脸都已经看厌了。宇宙和社会是那么陈旧、无味，虽则它们其实比“儿时”新鲜得多了。我于是想念“儿时”，祷告“儿时”。 不能够前进的时候，就愿意退后几步，替自己恢复已经走过的前途，请求“无知”回来，给我求知的快乐。可怕呵，这生命的“停止”。 过去的始终过去了，未来的还是未来。究竟感慨些什么——我问自己。 Childhood One who lives a life without high aspirations will treasure all the more the memory of his own youth and childhood. As it is, sentimental recollection marks his awareness of post-middle age decline rather than his discovery of anything truly remarkable in the bygone days. Life is of course precious to anyone because he will pass through it but once. But one will long remain fresh and vigorous, if he identifies himself with the broad masses of people and day in, day out does his bit for the good of the public. Although, being subject to the law of nature, he too will eventually become aged and die, yet his cause---the public cause---will be everlasting. He will enjoy perennial youth in spirit. Those who dream away their life without doing anything useful are taking from this world much more than they are giving to it until at last they are too enfeebled to take any more and die of weariness. Consequently, a sad feeling of getting senile weighs heavily on their mind like a lump of lead. All they do is bemoan the transience of youth! Childhood is lovely in terms of our erstwhile childish ignorance. In those early days, everything was new to us. Every day we were something of a great scientist of philosopher. Every day we discovered something new---new phenomena or new truth. What about now? Now we know everything only too well. We are tired of seeing every familiar human face. The whole universe and society seem stale and boring to us though, in fact they have a lot more new things now than when we were in our childhood. Hence I feel nostalgic for my childhood and pray for it. When we cease to advance any more, we are inclined to fall back a few paces and indulge in reminiscences of the path we have already trodden. We pray for the return of “childish ignorance” so as to re-experience the joy of knowledge-seeking. O this cessation of life! How horrible it is! What is gone is gone, and what is to come is to come. What are my innermost feelings of it?（张培基译） Childhood When one has nothing to live for in life, he tends to look back with nostalgia on the days gone by---his youth and childhood. The romantic memory of the past is, in fact, not a discovery of the sweetness of “childhood”, but an awareness of life beginning to fade after “middle age”. One has but one life to live and, naturally, it is treasured by all. However, if one’s life is dedicated to the cause of the people, if he makes a point of doing something every day for the world, he is growing and, though eventually he will die, the cause he lives for---the cause of the people will never die. In other words, he will gain a sense of “eternal youth”. As for the one who lives his life like a floating cloud, he takes a lot from the world but gives little in return. Sooner or later he will be approaching death with such tiredness that he will find himself deprived of the energy to “take”. Then the grief caused by age and impotence will render his heart as heavy as if loaded with lead. How fast youth goes! What makes childhood sweet, however, is innocence and ignorance. In childhood, you learn from whatever you do. You can become a scientist or a philosopher, on daily basis, with the new thing or the new truth you discover. But now, you seem to have learned “everything” and you are tired of the faces you see everyday. The universe and the society seem to be getting old and boring, though they are much newer with new dimension. Oh, how I miss my childhood, how I bless my childhood! When you find it hard to go forward, you will take a step backward to recover the road you have come along, taking yourself back to the world of innocence and ignorance and giving yourself the pleasure of learning again. Oh, what a terrible suspense of life! Since what is gone is gone for good and what is ahead is still ahead, what is the point of getting emotional---I ask myself.（刘士聪 译） |
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雨前 何其芳 最后的鸽群带着低弱的笛声在微风里划一个圈子后，也消失了。也许是误认这灰色的凄冷的天空为夜色的来袭，或是也预感到风雨的将至，遂过早地飞回它们温暖的木舍。 几天的阳光在柳条上撒下的一抹嫩绿，被尘土埋掩得有憔悴色了。是需要一次洗涤。还有干裂的大地和树根也早已期待着雨。雨却迟凝着。 我怀想着故乡的雷声和雨声。那隆隆的有力的搏击，从山谷反响到山谷，仿佛春之芽就从冻土里震动，惊醒，而怒茁出来。细草样柔的雨丝又以温存之手抚摸它，使它簇生油绿的枝叶而开出红色的花。这些怀想如乡愁一样萦绕得使我忧郁了。我心里的气候也和这北方大陆一样缺少雨量，一滴温柔的泪在我枯涩的眼里，如迟凝在这阴沉的天空里的雨点，久不落下。 白色的鸭也似有一点烦躁了，有不洁的颜色的都市的河沟里传出它们焦急的叫声。有的还未厌倦那船一样的徐徐的划行。有的却倒插它们长颈在水里，红色的蹼趾伸在尾后，不停地扑击着水以支持身体的平衡。不知是在寻找沟底的细微食物，还是贪那深深的水里的寒冷。 有就个已上岸了。在柳树下来回地作绅士的散布，舒息划行的疲劳。然后参差地站着，用嘴细细地抚理它们遍体白色的羽毛，间或又摇动身子或扑展着阔翅，使那缀在羽毛间的水珠坠落。一个已修饰完毕的，弯曲它的颈到背上，长长的红嘴藏没在翅膀里，静静合上它白色的茸毛间的小黑眼睛，仿佛准备睡眠。可怜的小动物，你就是这样做你的梦吗？ 我想起故乡放雏鸭的人了。一大群鹅黄色的雏鸭游牧在溪流间。清浅的水，两岸青青的草，一根长长的竹竿在牧人手里。他的小队伍是多么欢欣地发出啾啁声，又多么驯服地随着他的竿头越过一个田野又一个山坡！夜来了，帐幕似的竹篷撑在地上，就是他的家。但这是这样辽远的想象啊！在这多尘土的国度里，我仅只希望听见一点树叶上的雨声。一点雨声的幽凉滴到我憔悴的梦，也许会长成一树圆圆的绿阴来覆荫我自己。 我仰起头。天空低垂如灰色雾幕，落下一些寒冷的碎屑到我脸上。一只远来的鹰隼仿佛带着愤怒，对这沉重的天色的愤怒，平张的双翅不动地从天空斜插下，几乎触到河沟对岸的土阜，而又鼓扑着双翅，作出猛烈的声响腾上了。那样巨大的翅使我惊异。我看见了它两胁间斑白的羽毛。 接着听见了它有力的鸣声，如同一个巨大的心在呼号，或是在黑暗里寻找伴侣的叫唤。 然而雨还是没有来。 Praying for Rainfall 张培基 译 The last flock of pigeons have also gone out of sight after doing their final circling in the soft breeze, the sound of their whistles barely audible. They are hastening back to their warm wooden dovecote earlier than usual perhaps because they have mistaken the bleak leaden sky for nightfall or because of their presentiment of a storm. The willow twigs, daubed with a light green by several days of sunshine, are now covered all over with dust and look so sickly that they need to be washed. And the parched soil and tree roots have likewise been dying for rainfall. Yet the rain is reluctant to come down. I can never forget the thunderstorm we often had in my home town. Over there, whenever the rumble of thunder reverberated across the valley, the buds of spring would seem to sprout freely after being disturbed and roused up from their slumber in the frozen soil. Then tenderly stroked by the soft hands of fine rain, they would put forth bright green leaves and pink flowers. It makes me nostalgic and melancholy to think about old times and my mind is as depressed as the vast expanse of North China is thirsty. A tear stands in my dull eye and, like the rain lingering in the murky sky, is slow to roll down. White ducks have also become somewhat impatient. Some are sending out irritated quacks from the turbid waters of an urban creek. Some keep swimming leisurely and tirelessly like a slow boat. Some have their long necks submerged headfirst in the water while sticking up their webbed feet behind their tails and splashing them desperately so as to keep their balance. There is no knowing if they are searching for tiny bits of food from the bottom of the creek or just enjoying the chill of the deep water. Some of them stagger out of the water and, to relieve their fatigue, begin to saunter up and down with a gentleman-like swagger in the shade of the willow trees. Then, they stand about to preen their white plumage carefully. Occasionally they give themselves a sudden shake or flap their long wings to let off water drops from among their feathers. One of them, after grooming itself, turns round its neck to rest on the back, then buries its long red beak under its wings and quietly closes its small black eyes tucked away among the white fine hair. Apparently it is getting ready to sleep. Poor little creature, is that the way you sleep? The scene recalls to my mind the duckling raiser in my home town. With a long bamboo pole in hand, he would look after a large flock gosling-yellow ducklings moving about on the limpid water of a shallow brook flanked on both sides by green grass. How the little creatures jig-jigged merrily! How they obediently followed the bamboo pole to scamper over field after field, hillside after hillside! When night fell, the duckling raiser would make his home in a tent-like bamboo shed. Oh, that is something of the distant past! Now, in this dusty country of ours, what I yearn for is to hear the drip-drip of rain beating against leaves. When I look up at a gray misty pall of a low-hanging sky, some dust particles feel chilly on my face. A hawk, seemingly irked by the gloomy sky, swoops down sideways out of nowhere, with wings wide-spread and immovable, until it almost hits the hillock on the other side of the brook. But it soars skywards again with a loud flap. I am amazed by the tremendous size of its wings. And I also catch sight of the grizzled feathers on its underside. Then I hear its loud cry---like a powerful voice from the bottom of its heart or a call in the dark for its comrades in arms. But still no rain. Before the Rain Robert Neather译 With a faint whistling, the last flock of pigeons etched a circle in the light breeze, then disappeared. Perhaps they mistook the darkness of this chilly, lowering sky for the onset of night, or perhaps they sensed the arrival of a storm, and so returned early to the warmth of their wooden pigeonry. The few day’s sunlight had splashed the willow twigs with the tender green of new growth, but the dust that now covered them made them seem tired and withered, in need of a wash. And the parched, split earth and tree-roots had long since been awaiting rain. But the rain hesitated. I remember fondly the sounds of my birthplace---the sounds of thunder and of rain. Those mighty crashes rumbled and reverberated from mountain valley to mountain valley, as if the new shoots of spring were shaking in the frozen ground, awakening, and bursting froth with a terrifying vigour. Threads of rain, soft as fine grass, would then caress them with a tender hand, so that clumps of glossy green leaves would sprout froth and red flower burst open. These fond recollections lingered with me like a kind of homesickness, leaving dejected. Within my heart, the climate seemed as parched of rain as this northern continent; and like the raindrops, still hesitating in this leaden sky, for a long time not a single tear of tenderness had fallen from my arid eyes. Even the white ducks seemed a little unsettled, their anxious cries rising from the dirty city stream. Some had not yet wearied of their gentle boat-like paddling. But others had stuck their long necks into the water, their red webbed feet stretching out behind their tails, continually thrashing at the water in an attempt to keep their bodies balanced. Perhaps they were searching for morsels of food on the stream-bed; or maybe they sought the chill cold of the deep water. Some had come up onto the bank. They swaggered back and forth under the willow trees, enjoying a rest from the fatigue of paddling. Then they stood still, in ungainly disarray, soothing each white feather carefully into place with their beaks; now and then they would shake their bodies or spread their wings, scattering the drops of water caught in their feathers. One that had already finished preening curled its neck up over its back, buried its red peak under its wing, and quietly closed its little black, surrounded by soft white down, as if it were preparing to sleep. Your poor little creature, is this the way you dream your dreams? I thought of the person in my birthplace who used to release the ducklings. A great crow of light yellow ducklings would be taken to the waters of the creek---limpid water, lush green grass on the banks, and a long bamboo staff in the herder’s hand. How happy his little army was, cheeping with noisy delight! And how meekly they followed his staff, over a field and then a mountain slope! When night came, the bamboo shelter propped up on the ground like a tent was his home. Yet what a distant image this now! In this country of dust, all I hope for is to hear the sound of raindrops on leaves. The dark cool of the sound of raindrops, dripping into my parched and weary dreams, might grow a rounded canopy of tree-green shade to cover me. I raised my head. The sky loomed like a grey curtain of fog, dropping a few cold shards upon my face. A lone hawk from afar swooped down from the sky, as if angered, angered by these leaden skies, its spread wings unmoving, until it almost hit the earthen slope of the stream’s opposite bank; then it beat its wings and soared back up with a savage stridor. Those huge wings startled me. I could see the grayish feathers of its flanks. And when I heard its piercing cry, it was like a terrible cry from the heart; or perhaps it was calling for its mate amid the darkness. Yet still the rain didn’t come. |
5楼2008-09-29 22:15:02
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野草 夏衍 有这样一个故事。 有人问：世界上什么东西的气力最大？回答纷纭的很，有的说“象”，有的说“狮”，有人开玩笑似的说：是“金刚”，金刚有多少气力，当然大家全不知道。 结果，这一切答案完全不对，世界上气力最大的，是植物的种子。一粒种子所可以显现出来的力，简直是超越—切。这儿又是一个故事。 人的头盖骨，结合得非常致密与坚固，生理学家和解剖学者用尽了一切的方法，要把它完整地分出来，都没有这种力气. 后来忽然有人发明了一个方法，就是把一些植物的种子放在要剖析的头盖骨里，给它以温度与湿度，使它发芽，一发芽，这些种子便以可怕的力量，将一切机械力所不能分开的骨骼，完整地分开了，植物种子力量之大，如此如此。 这，也许特殊了一点、常人不容易理解，那么，你看见笋的成长吗？你看见过被压在瓦砾和石块下面的一颗小草的生成吗？他为着向往阳光，为着达成它的生之意志，不管上面的石块如何重，石块与石块之间如何狭，它必定要曲曲折折地，但是顽强不屈地透到地面上来，它的根往土壤钻，它的芽往地面挺，这是—种不可抗的力，阻止它的石块，结果也被它掀翻，一粒种子的力量的大，如此如此。 没有一个人将小草叫做“大力士”，但是它的力量之大，的确是世界无比。这种力，是一般人看不见的生命力，只要生命存在，这种力就要显现，上面的石块，丝毫不足以阻挡，因为它是一种“长期抗战”的力，有弹性，能屈能伸的力，有韧性，不达目的不止的力。 种于不落在肥土而落在瓦砾中，有生命力的种子决不会悲观和叹气，因为有了阻力才有磨炼。生命开始的一瞬间就带了斗争来的草，才是坚韧的草，也只有这种草，才可为傲然地对那些玻璃棚中养育着的盆花哄笑。 Wild Grass 张培基 译 There is a story which goes like this: Someone asked, “What has the greatest strength on earth?” The answers varied. Some said, “The elephant.” Some said, “The lion.” Some said jokingly, “The fierce-browed guardian gods to Buddha.” But nobody of course could tell how strong the guardian gods were supposed to be. All the answers turned out to be wide of the mark. The mightiest thing on earth is the seed of a plant. The great strength which a seed is capable of is simply matchless. Here goes another story: The bones forming a human skull are so tightly and perfectly fit together that all physiologists or anatomists, hard as they try, are powerless to take them apart without damaging them. It so happened that, at the suggestion of someone, some seeds of a plant were placed inside a human skull awaiting dissection before heat and moisture were applied to cause them to grown. Once they started to grow, they let loose a terrific force to separate all the skull bones, leaving each of them intact. This would have been impossible with any mechanical power under the sun. See, how powerful the seeds of a plant can be! This story may be somewhat too unusual for you to understand. Well, have ever seen the growth of a bamboo shoot? Or the growth of tender grass from under a heap of rubble or rocks. Seeking sunlight and survival, the young plant will labour tenaciously through twists and turns to bring itself to the surface of the ground no matter how heavy the rocks overhead may be or how narrow the opening between them. While striking its roots deep into the soil, the young plant pushes its new shoots above-ground. The irresistible strength it can muster is such as to overturn any rock in its way. See, how powerful a seed can be! Though nobody describes the little grass as a “husky”, yet its herculean strength is unrivalled. It is the force of life invisible to the naked eye. It will display itself so long as there is life. The rock is utterly helpless before this force---a force that will forever remain militant, a force that is resilient and can take temporary setbacks calmly, a force that is tenacity itself and will never give up until the goal is reached. When a seed falls under debris instead of on fertile soil, it never sighs in despair because to meet with obstruction means to temper itself. Indomitable is the grass that begins its very life with a touch struggle. It is only fit and proper that the proud grass should be jeering at the potted flowers in a glass house. Wild Grass 刘先农 译 There is a story which goes like this: Someone asks, "What is the most powerful thing in the world?" There is a variety of answers. "The elephant," someone says. "The lion," another says. "Buddha's guardian warriors," still another says, half jokingly. As to how powerful Buddha's guardian warriors are, no one can tell, of course. The fact is, none of the answers is correct. The most powerful thing in the world is the seed of the plant. The force displayed by a plant seed is simply incomparable. Here goes another story: The bones of a human skull were so tightly and firmly joined that physiologists and anatomists had tried ways and means to take them apart, but they were not powerful enough to do it. Then someone invented a method. He put some seeds of a plant into a skull which was to be dissected, and provided it with the necessary temperature and moisture so as to make the seeds germinate. Once the seeds germinated, they manifested a terrible force which succeeded in opening the human skull that had failed to be opened even by mechanical means. This story tells us how powerful the seeds of a plant can be. You may think this is too unusual a story to be grasped by the common mind. Well, have you ever seen how bamboo shoots grow? Have you ever seen how a frail young grass grows out from under debris and rubble? In order to get the sunshine and bring its will of growth into play, the grass will wind its way up irresistibly, its roots drilling downward and its sprouts shooting upward, in spite of the heavy rocks and the narrow space between them. Here is a force that no other force can ever stop. Any rock lying in its way will be overturned. This shows how powerful a seed can be.. Though the little grass has never had the honor of being compared to a "hercules", the power it shows is really matchless in the world. It is an invisible force of life. So long as there is life, the force will show itself. The rock above it is not heavy enough to prevent it from growing because it is a force that will keep on growing, because it is an elastic force---it can shrink and expand, and because it is an a tenacious force it will not give in until it is fully grown. The seed does not choose to fall on fertile land but among debris. If the seed is full of life, it is never pessimistic or sad, for it is tempered through resistance and pressure. Only the grass that begins to fight its way out the moment it is born can be called a "strong" and "tenacious" grass; only this grass can laugh with a pride at the potted plants in glassed greenhouses. |
2楼2008-09-29 22:13:32
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永久的憧憬和追求 萧红 一九一一年，在一个小县城里边，我生在一个小地主的家里。那县城差不多就是中国的最东最北部——黑龙江省——所以一年之中倒有四个月飘着白雪。 父样常常为着贪婪而失掉了人性。他对待仆人，对待自已的儿女，以及对待我的祖父都是同样的吝啬而疏远，甚至于无情。 有一次，为着房屋租金的事情，父亲把房客的全套的马车赶了过来。房客的家属们哭着诉说着，向着我的祖父跪了下来，于是祖父把两匹棕色的马从车上解下来还了回去。 为着这匹马，父亲向祖父起着终夜的争吵，“两匹马，咱们是不算什么，穷的，这两匹马就是命根。”祖父这样说着，而 父亲还是争吵。 九岁时，母亲死去。父亲也就更变了样，偶然打碎了一只杯子，他就要骂到使人发抖的程度。后业就连父亲的眼睛也转了弯，每从他的身边经过，我就象自已的身上生的针剌一样：他斜视着你，他那高傲的眼光从鼻梁经过嘴铁而后往下流着。 所以每每天大雪中的黄昏里，围着暖炉，围着祖父：听着祖父读着诗篇，看着祖父读着诗篇时微红的嘴唇。 父亲打了我的时侯，我就在祖父的房里，一直面向着窗子，从黄昏到深夜——窗外的白雪，好像白棉一样的飘着；而暖炉上水壶的盖子，则像伴奏的乐器似的振动着。 祖父时时把多纹的两手放在我的肩上，而后又放在我的头上，我的耳边便响着这样的声音： “快快长吧！长大就好了。”二十岁那年，我就逃出了父亲的家庭。直到现在还是过着流浪的生活。 “长大”是“长大”了，而没有“好”。 可是从祖父那里，知道了人生除掉了冰冷和憎恶而外，还有温暖和爱。 所以我就向这“温暖”和“爱”的方面，怀着永久的憧憬和追求。 My Everlasting Dream and Pursuit 张培基 译 In 1911, I was born into a petty Landlord family in a remote county town in Heilongjiang Province---a town situated virtually at the northeastern tip of China. We had snow there for as long as one third of a year. Father, driven by avarice, often became very unfeeling. He would treat his servants, his own children and even my grandpa alike with meanness and indifference, not to ay with ruthlessness. Once, due to a dispute over house rent, he took away by force a tenant’s horse-drawn cart and drove it home. The tenant’s family came to see grandpa and, dropping to their knees, tearfully related their troubles. Grandpa unharnessed the two chestnut horses and returned them to the tenant. That touched off a night-long quarrel between father and grandpa. “The two horses mean nothing to us, but everything to the poor,” argued grandpa. Father, however, refused to listen. Mother died when I was nine. From then on father went from bad to worse. Even a mere cup accidentally broken by someone would send him into such a violent rage that we all shivered with fear. Later, whenever I happened to walk past him, he would even have his eyes directed sideways, which made feel like being pricked all over on thorns. When he looked askance at me, superciliousness gushed from his eyes down the bridge of his nose and then off the corners of his mouth. Often of a snowy evening, we children would hang about grandpa by a heating stove, listening to him reading poems aloud and meanwhile watching his busy ruddy lips. Whenever father had given me a beating, I would seek solace in grandpa’s room where I would stay gazing out of the window from dusk till late into the night while snowflakes were flying like cotton and the lid of the kettle over the heating stove rattling like a musical instrument playing an accompaniment. Grandpa would place his wrinkled hand on my shoulder and then on my head, saying, “Grow up quick, poor child! You’ll be all right after you’ve grown up.” I fled from home at twenty. And so far I still live the life of a vagrant. True, I’ve “grown up”, but I’m not yet “all right”. Nevertheless, from grandpa I’ve learned that apart from coldness and hatred, there is also warmth and love in life. Hence my everlasting dream and pursuit of this “warmth” and “love”. My Longing and Yearning 刘士聪 译 In 1911 I was born into a small landlord family in a small county town in Heilongjiang---China’s northeastern province where it snowed for four months of the year. Father was almost inhumanly avaricious. To his servants, his children and even his own father, he was just as miserly and indifferent, or heartless for that matter. Once because a tenant failed to pay his rent, Father detained his cart and horses. The tenant’s family knelt in front of Grandpa, pleading for mercy with tears in their eyes. Grandpa unharnessed the two brown horses from the cart and gave them back to the tenant. Over this Father wrangled with him for the whole night. “Two horses don’t mean much to us,” said Grandpa, “but they are the life-blood to the poor.” Father bickered on. When I was nine years old Mother died and Father became worse. If you accidentally broke a small thing like a cup, he would keep throwing curses at you until you shivered all over. Later even his eyes could cast crooked glances. Whenever I passed by him, he would eye me sideways with his arrogant look streaming down the bridge of his nose and then off the corner of his mouth, making me feel as if pricked on needles. In some evenings I would sit with Grandpa by the stove, listening to him reading poems, watching his pink lips while he was reading. When Father beat me, I would go to Grandpa’s room and stood by the window from evening till late into the night, watching the white snow falling like cotton, while the lid of the kettle over the stove clinked like a musical instrument playing accompaniment. Grandpa would put his wrinkled hand on my shoulder and then my head, saying into my ear: “Grow quickly, my child. When you are grown, things will be better.” At the age of twenty I fled home. Even today I am still wandering around like a hobo. “Grown” as I am, but thins are not any “better”. However, from Grandpa I have learned that in life there is not only coldness and hatred, but also warmth and love. For that “warmth” and “love” I will keep longing and yearning. |
3楼2008-09-29 22:13:58
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匆匆 朱自清 燕子去了，有再来的时候；杨柳枯了，有再青的时候；桃花谢了，有再开的时候。但是，聪明的，你告诉我，我们的日子为什么一去不复返呢？——是有人偷了他们罢：那是谁？又藏在何处呢？是他们自己逃走了罢：现在又到了哪里呢？ 我不知道他们给了我多少日子；但我的手确乎是渐渐空虚了。在默默里算着，八千多个日子已经从我手中溜去；像针尖上一滴水滴在大海里，我的日子滴在时间的流水里，没有声音，也没有影子。我不禁头涔涔而泪潸潸了。 去的尽管去了，来的尽管来着；去来的中间，又怎样地匆匆呢？早上我起来的时候，小屋里射进两三方斜斜的太阳。太阳他有脚啊，轻轻悄悄地挪移了；我也茫茫然跟着旋转。于是——洗手的时候，日子从水盆里过去；吃饭的时候，日子从饭碗里过去；默默时，便从凝然的双眼前过去。我觉察他去的匆匆了，伸出手遮挽时，他又从这挽着的手边过去；天黑时，我躺在床上，他便伶伶俐俐地从我身上跨过，从我脚边飞去了。等我睁开眼和太阳再见，这算又溜走了一日。我掩着面叹息。但是新来的日子的影儿又开始在叹息里闪过了。 在逃去如飞的日子里，在千门万户的世界里的我能做些什么呢？只有徘徊罢了，只有匆匆罢了；在八千多日的匆匆里，除徘徊外，又剩些什么呢？过去的日子如轻烟，被微风吹散了；如薄雾，被初阳蒸融了。我留着些什么痕迹呢？我何曾留着像游丝样的痕迹呢？我赤裸裸来到这世界，转眼间也将赤裸裸地回去罢？但不能平的，为什么偏要白白走这一遭啊？ 你聪明的，告诉我，我们的日子为什么一去不复返呢？ Transient Days 张培基 译 If swallows go away, they will come back again. If willows wither, they will turn green again. If peach blos¬soms fade, they will flower again. But, tell me, you the wise, why should our days go by never to return? Perhaps they have been stolen by someone. But who could it be and where could he hide them? Perhaps they have just run away by themselves. But where could they be at the pre¬sent moment? I don’t know how many days I am entitled to alto¬gether, but my quota of them is undoubtedly wearing away. Counting up silently, I find that more than 8, 000 days have already slipped away through my fingers. Like a drop of water falling off a needle point into the ocean, my days are quietly dripping into the stream of time with¬out leaving a trace. At the thought of this, sweat oozes from my forehead and tears trickle down my cheeks. What is gone is gone, what is to come keeps coming. How swift is the transition in between! When I get up in the morning, the slanting sun casts two or three squarish ¬patches of light into my small room. The sun has feet too, edging away softly and stealthily. And, without knowing it, I am already caught in its revolution. Thus the day flows away through the sink when I wash my hands; vanishes in the rice bowl when I have my meal; passes away quietly before the fixed gaze of my eyes when I am lost in reverie. Aware of its fleeting presence, I reach out for it only to find it brushing past my out¬stretched hands. In the evening, when I lie on my bed, it nimbly strides over my body and flits past my feet. By the time when I open my eyes to meet the sun again, another day is already gone. I heave a sigh, my head buried in my hands. But, in the midst of my sighs, a new day is flash¬ing past. Living in this world with its fleeting days and teem¬ing millions, what can I do but waver and wander and live a transient life? What have I been doing during the 8,000 fleeting days except wavering and wandering? The bygone days, like wisps of smoke, have been dispersed by gentle winds, and, like thin mists, have been evaporated by the rising sun. What traces have I left behind? No, nothing, not even gossamer-like traces. I have come to this world stark naked, and in the twinkling of an eye, I am to go hack as stark naked as ever. However, I am taking it very much to heart: why should I he made to pass through this world for nothing at all? O you the wise, would you tell me please: why should our days go by never to return? Rush 朱纯深 译 Swallows may have gone, but there is a time of return; willow trees may have died hack, but there is a time of regreening; peach blossoms may have fallen, but they will bloom again. Now, you the wise, tell me, why should our days leave us, never to return? ---If they had been stolen by someone, who could it be? Where could he hide them? if they had made the escape themselves, then where could they stay at the moment? I do not know how many days I have been given to spend, but I do feel my hands are getting empty. Taking stock silently, I find that more than eight thousand days have already slid away from me. Like a drop of water from the point of a needle disappearing into the ocean, my days are dripping into the stream of time, soundless, traceless. Already sweat is starting on my forehead, and tears welling up in my eyes. Those that have gone have gone for good, those to come keep coming; yet in between, how swift is the shift, in such a rush? When I get up in the morning, the slanting sun marks its presence in my small room in two or three oblongs. The sun has feet, look, he is treading on, lightly and furtively; and I am caught, blankly, in his revolution. Thus-the day flows away through the sink when I wash my hands, wears off in the bowl when I eat my meal, and Passes away before my day-dreaming gaze as I reflect in silence. I can feel his haste now, so I reach out my hands to hold him back, but he keeps flowing past my withholding hands. In the evening, as I lie in bed, he strides over my body, glides past my feet, in his agile way. The moment I open my eyes and meet the sun again, one whole day has gone. I bury my face in my hands and heave a sigh. But the new day begins to flash past in the sigh. What can I do, in this bustling world, with my days flying in their escape? Nothing but to hesitate, to rush. What have I been doing in that eight-thousand-day rush, apart from hesitating? Those bygone days have been dispersed as smoke by a light wind, or evaporated as mist by the morning sun. What traces have I left behind me? Have I ever left behind any gossamer traces at all? I have come to this world, stark naked; am I to go back, in a blink, in the same stark nakedness? It is not fair though: why should I have made such a trip for nothing! You the wise, tell me, why should our days leave us, never to return? Days Gone By 张梦井、杜耀文译 When the swallows have gone, there is still time to return; when the poplar and willow trees have become withered, there is still time to see green; when the peach flowers have already faded, there is still time to blossom. But please tell me, the genius, why then have my days gone and never returned? If some people have stolen them, then who are they? And where are they hidden? If they have escaped by themselves, then where are they now? I don’t know how many days I have been given, but the in my hands are becoming numbered. Counting silently, eight thousand days have slipped by. Just like water drops a pinpoint dripping slowly into the vast ocean, my days been dripping into the river of time, quietly and invisibly. I can’t help dripping with sweat and weeping many tears. Although the goings have gone and the comings are constantly coming, how hurried is the time between? When I get up in the morning, I see two or three ribbons of light streaming into my room. The sun also has feet; it moves away on tiptoe and I follow it aimlessly. When I wash my hands, my days wash off into my basin; when I am eating, the days vanish from my bowl; and when I am sitting silently, my days pass by my gazing eyes. When I feel them go away so hurriedly, I reach out my hands only to hold them back before they are beyond my grasp. When it is dark, I lie upon my bed and watch days cleverly jump over my body or fly away from my feet. When I open my eyes to meet the sun again, another day has gone by. I cover my face and sigh, but the spark of a new day begins to flash away in my breath. In these swiftly escaping days, what can I do in this world amongst thousands of households? I can do nothing but hesitate and hurry. In these over eight thousand hurried days, what has been left to me besides hesitation? The past days like light smoke are blown away with the breeze or like a thin layer of mist evaporate with the morning sun. And what mark have I left in the world? When have I ever left a mark as tiny as a hairspring? I came to this world naked, soon I’ll leave here naked too. But, it’s unfair to me. . . why did I come to this world for nothing? You, the genius, please tell me why our days have gone by and have never returned? |
4楼2008-09-29 22:14:26
