BET188下载「主页」·欢迎您

<dd id="jt97y"></dd>

<th id="jt97y"><pre id="jt97y"><sup id="jt97y"></sup></pre></th>

<rp id="jt97y"><object id="jt97y"><input id="jt97y"></input></object></rp>
  • <tbody id="jt97y"></tbody>

    翻译中国

    主页 > 文学翻译 >

    《我与地坛》汉英双语在线阅读 作者:史铁生

    我与地坛

    In the Temple of Earth
    我与地坛

    In several of my stories I described an ancient deserted garden which is, in fact, the Temple of Earth in northeast Beijing. Many years ago before tourism had really started, the Temple of Earth was as desolate and bleak as a piece of wasteland. Few people ever mentioned it.

    My family has the good fortune to live near the Temple of Earth. More than four hundred years before my birth it was already there. Ever since my grandmother first came to Beijing with my father more than fifty years ago, we have lived near here — we moved a couple of times in all those years, each time getting closer and closer to it. I often feel it must be fate that planned my long liaison with the temple and that the temple has been waiting there specially for me through four hundred years of vicissitude.

    It waited for my birth and then, when I was in the prime of youth, my legs suddenly became paralyzed. It was at that time that I began to haunt the temple. One afternoon, fifteen years ago, I rolled my wheel-chair into the temple for the first time. It seemed well prepared for the arrival of this heartbroken young man: Glaze and paint were peeling from the eaves of the once resplendent halls and doorways; sections of the high walls and carved marble balustrades had crumbled; the old cypress trees around the sacrificial altar were time-worn but hardy and weeds thrived and vines sprawled everywhere. The sun moved along its eternal track, becoming larger and redder. In the quietude I saw my own shadow.



    我在好几篇小说中都提到过一座废弃的古园,实际上就是地坛。许多年前旅游业还没有开展,园子荒芜冷落得如同一片野地,很少被人记起。

    地坛离我家很近。或者说我家离地坛很近。总之,只好认为这是缘分。地坛在我出生前四百多年就坐落在那儿了,而自从我的祖母年轻时带着我父亲来到北京,就一直住在离它不远的地方—五十多年间搬过几次家,可搬来搬去总是在它周围,而且是越搬离它越近了。我常觉得这中间有着宿命的味道:仿佛这古园就是为了等我,而历尽沧桑在那儿等待了四百多年。

    它等待我出生,然后又等待我活到最狂妄的年龄上忽地残废了双腿。四百多年里,它一面剥蚀了古殿檐头浮夸的琉璃,淡褪了门壁上炫耀的朱红,坍圮了一段段高墙又散落了玉砌雕栏,祭坛四周的老柏树愈见苍幽,到处的野草荒藤也都茂盛得自在坦荡。这时候想必我是该来了。十五年前的一个下午,我摇着轮椅进入园中,它为一个失魂落魄的人把一切都准备好了。那时,太阳循着亘古不变的路途正越来越大,也越红。在满园弥漫的沉静光芒中,一个人更容易看到时间,并看见自己的身影。

    Since then I have never left the Temple of Earth for too long. In one of my short stories I wrote, "God seems to have carefully prepared a place of peace in this crowded city."

    In the first years of my disability I had neither job nor future. I suddenly felt that there was nothing left in me. So I frequented the Temple of Earth to escape the world around me. I wrote in the same story, "Finding no other place to go, I spent all day in the garden as if it were my place of work. When others left for work in the morning I would roll my wheel-chair into the park." "Nobody took care of the park. People would take short cuts through on their way to work and on their way home. For a while the park would become lively, but soon quietude reigned once again." "I would stop my wheel-chair in the long shadow of the walls. Sometimes I would fold down the back of the chair and lie there, reading or thinking. I would use a twig to shoo away the midges — they must have felt as confused as I as to why we had been brought into this world." "Bees hovered in the air; ants probed and scurried this way and that; ladybirds crawled and, when tired, opened their wings and flew into the sky; a cicada slough perched on the trunk of a tree, like a deserted house; dew drops gathered and accumulated on the grass and then suddenly shattered to the ground from the blade bent under their weight." The Temple of Earth might have been desolate but it was not dead.

    自从那个下午我无意中进了这园子,就再没长久地离开过它。我一下子就理解了它的意图。正如我在一篇小说中所说的:“在人口密聚的城市里,有这样一个宁静的去处,像是上帝的苦心安排。”

    两条腿残废后的最初几年,我找不到工作,找不到去路,忽然间几乎什么都找不到了,我就摇了轮椅总是到它那儿去,仅为着那儿是可以逃避一个世界的另一个世界。我在那篇小说中写道:“没处可去我便一天到晚耗在这园子里。跟上班下班一样,别人去上班我就摇了轮椅到这儿来。”“园子无人看管,上下班时间有些抄近路的人们从园中穿过,园子里活跃一阵,过后便沉寂下来。”“园墙在金晃晃的空气中斜切下一溜阴凉,我把轮椅开进去,把椅背放倒,坐着或是躺着,看书或者想事,撅一杈树枝左右拍打,驱赶那些和我一样不明白为什么要来这世上的小昆虫。”“蜂儿如一朵小雾稳稳地停在半空;蚂蚁摇头晃脑捋着触须,猛然间想透了什么,转身疾行而去;瓢虫爬得不耐烦了,累了祈祷一回便支开翅膀,忽悠一下升空了;树干上留着一只蝉蜕,寂寞如一间空屋;露水在草叶上滚动,聚集,压弯了草叶轰然坠地摔开万道金光。”“满园子都是草木竞相生长弄出的响动,窸窸窣窣窸窸窣窣片刻不息。”这都是真实的记录,园子荒芜但并不衰败。

    Apart from a few halls and the sacrificial altar I cannot reach in my wheel-chair, I have rolled over every square metre of the temple's grassy areas and have stopped beneath every tree. I have been there in every season, in every kind of weather and at every hour of the day. Sometimes I stay just a while, sometimes until the light of the moon has illuminated everything.

    I have spent hours in a corner of the temple musing on my birth as well as on death. It has taken me several years to understand that, from the moment one is born, it is meaningless to argue about the question of birth since one's existence has been determined by God; thus death needs not be pursued in haste for it is a day of release that will inevitably arrive. I felt soothed at this thought, as if I were a student who, working late into the night for the next day's final exams, suddenly realizes that a long holiday is awaiting him.

    除去几座殿堂我无法进去,除去那座祭坛我不能上去而只能从各个角度张望它,地坛的每一棵树下我都去过,差不多它的每一米草地上都有过我的车轮印。无论是什么季节,什么天气,什么时间,我都在这园子里呆过。有时候呆一会儿就回家,有时候就呆到满地上都亮起月光。记不清都是在它的哪些角落里了,我一连几小时专心致志地想关于死的事,也以同样的耐心和方式想过我为什么要出生。这样想了好几年,最后事情终于弄明白了:一个人,出生了,这就不再是一个可以辩论的问题,而只是上帝交给他的一个事实;上帝在交给我们这件事实的时候,已经顺便保证了它的结果,所以死是一件不必急于求成的事,死是一个必然会降临的节日。这样想过之后我安心多了,眼前的一切不再那么可怕。比如你起早熬夜准备考试的时候,忽然想起有一个长长的假期在前面等待你,你会不会觉得轻松一点?并且庆幸并且感激这样的安排?

    But how can I keep going? This is something that cannot be solved easily. I may have to ponder this question as long as I live, like a life long monster or lover.

    For fifteen years I have been rolling my wheel-chair into the old temple to peacefully meditate on my life and soul. For fifteen years unfettered human beings have been reshaping the temple's appearance; but fortunately there is still something that man can never change — the setting sun casting its golden sheen over the stone gate to the altar and illuminating this patch of earth drenched with history; twittering swallows winging swiftly through the air at the most lonely moment of the day; children's footprints on the snow in winter; the ancient cypress trees that stand forever oblivious of the vicissitudes of the human world; the aroma of the soil in different seasons, an aroma that cannot be described but only smelt. Smell brings back one's old memories.

    剩下的就是怎样活的问题了。这却不是在某一个瞬间就能完全想透的,不是能够一次性解决的事,怕是活多久就要想它多久了,就像是伴你终生的魔鬼或恋人。所以,十五年了,我还是总得到那古园里去,去它的老树下或荒草边或颓墙旁,去默坐,去呆想,去推开耳边的嘈杂理一理纷乱的思绪,去窥看自己的心魂。十五年中,这古园的形体被不能理解它的人肆意雕琢,幸好有些东西是任谁也不能改变它的。譬如祭坛石门中的落日,寂静的光辉平铺的一刻,地上的每一个坎坷都被映照得灿烂;譬如在园中最为落寞的时间,一群雨燕便出来高歌,把天地都叫喊得苍凉;譬如冬天雪地上孩子的脚印,总让人猜想他们是谁,曾在哪儿做过些什么,然后又都到哪儿去了;譬如那些苍黑的古柏,你忧郁的时候它们镇静地站在那儿,你欣喜的时候它们依然镇静地站在那儿,它们没日没夜地站在那儿从你没有出生一直站到这个世界上又没了你的时候;譬如暴雨骤临园中,激起一阵阵灼烈而清纯的草木和泥土的气味,让人想起无数个夏天的事件;譬如秋风忽至,再有一场早霜,落叶或飘摇歌舞或坦然安卧,满园中播散着熨帖而微苦的味道。味道是最说不清楚的,味道不能写只能闻,要你身临其境去闻才能明了。味道甚至是难于记忆的,只有你又闻到它你才能记起它的全部情感和意蕴。所以我常常要到那园子里去。

    Only recently did I realize that my frequenting the old temple must have been a big worry for my mother.

    She was not one of those Chinese mothers who spoil their children without understanding them. She knew what I was going through, so she never stopped me from going. She knew it wasn't good for me to stay at home all day. Yet she was anxious to know what was on my mind.

    Whenever I felt depressed I would rush out to the temple and when I returned I would be as silent as the grave. My mother knew she mustn't ask questions, so she always fought them back and she never knew the answers to them. She also knew I wouldn't want her to go with me, so she never asked. Each time before I left home she would help me into the wheel-chair, then, without a word watch me roll out of the courtyard. I never bothered to think what she was going through.



    现在我才想到,当年我总是独自跑到地坛去,曾经给母亲出了一个怎样的难题。

    她不是那种光会疼爱儿子而不懂得理解儿子的母亲。她知道我心里的苦闷,知道不该阻止我出去走走,知道我要是老呆在家里结果会更糟,但她又担心我一个人在那荒僻的园子里整天都想些什么。我那时脾气坏到极点,经常是发了疯一样地离开家,从那园子里回来又中了魔似的什么话都不说。母亲知道有些事不宜问,便犹犹豫豫地想问而终于不敢问,因为她自己心里也没有答案。她料想我不会愿意她跟我一同去,所以她从未这样要求过,她知道得给我一点独处的时间,得有这样一段过程。她只是不知道这过程得要多久和这过程的尽头究竟是什么。每次我要动身时,她便无言地帮我准备,帮助我上了轮椅车,看着我摇车拐出小院;这以后她会怎样,当年我不曾想过。

    On one occasion I suddenly remembered something and came home again. I found my mother still standing there blankly, as if she hadn't moved after I left. When she realized that I was back, she murmured, "It'll do you good to have some exercise or read a book in the temple." Only many years later, after she had left me, did I come to realize that she had actually been praying for me and, at the same time, consoling herself. She must have kept telling herself, "I cannot stop him. He has his own future. If something happens to him there in the temple, I'll bear it."

    All those years my mother must have been prepared for the worst. But she never said "think of me" and, in fact, I hardly ever did think about her. I was too young then. Fate had made an emotional wreck of me and I considered myself the most unfortunate person in the world. I never considered that she might feel even more bitter than I, as all mothers suffer more when the son suffers. Illness had deprived her only son of the use of his legs when he was only twenty. She knew that he had to seek happiness, not just simply survive. But who could guarantee her son's future?

    有一回我摇车出了小院,想起一件什么事又返身回来,看见母亲仍站在原地,还是送我走时的姿势,望着我拐出小院去的那处墙角,对我的回来竟一时没有反应。待她再次送我出门的时候,她说:“出去活动活动,去地坛看看书,我说这挺好。”许多年以后我才渐渐听出,母亲这话实际上是自我安慰,是暗自的祷告,是给我的提示,是恳求与嘱咐。只是在她猝然去世之后,我才有余暇设想。当我不在家里的那些漫长的时间,她是怎样心神不定坐卧难宁,兼着痛苦与惊恐与一个母亲最低限度的祈求。现在我可以断定,以她的聪慧和坚忍,在那些空落的白天后的黑夜,在那不眠的黑夜后的白天,她思来想去最后准是对自己说:“反正我不能不让他出去,未来的日子是他自己的,如果他真的在那园子里出了什么事,这苦难也只好我来承担。”在那段日子里—那是好几年前的一段日子,我想我一定使母亲作过了最坏的准备了,但她从来没有对我说过:“你为我想想。”事实上我也真的没为她想过。那时她的儿子还太年轻,还来不及为母亲想,他被命运击昏了头,一心以为自己是世上最不幸的一个,不知道儿子的不幸在母亲那儿总是要加倍的。她有一个长到二十岁上忽然截瘫了的儿子,这是她唯一的儿子;她情愿截瘫的是自己而不是儿子,可这事无法代替;她想,只要儿子能活下去哪怕自己去死呢也行,可她又确信一个人不能仅仅是活着,儿子得有一条路走向自己的幸福;而这条路呢,没有谁能保证她的儿子终于能找到。—这样一个母亲,注定是活得最苦的母亲。

    Once when chatting with a friend, also a writer, I asked him what had made him take up writing. He pondered the question for a moment and said, "For my mother. I want her to feel proud of me." I was speechless with surprise. Though many things have spurred me on to become a writer, one of my most important motives was just that.

    "It's not a very lofty reason, is it?" my friend said.

    I shook my head and thinking that although it was certainly not to be held in contempt, it was surely a little naive.

    "I really did use to dream of becoming famous quickly so that other people would be envious of my mother," my friend continued.

    He was more honest than I, I thought, and luckier too, for his mother was still alive. His mother was luckier than my mother too, for my friend was healthy.

    When my first story was published and the first time I received an award, the only thing I wished for was that my mother was still alive. All day long I wandered around the Temple of Earth. I couldn't understand why my mother hadn't lived two years longer. Why did she have to leave so suddenly before I had achieved some success? Had she come to the world only to worry for her son and not share his happiness? Later I was to write this in an article entitled The Silk Tree: "I sat in the quiet woods of the little park and closed my eyes. 'Why has God taken my mother so early?' I thought. After a long time I seemed to hear a reply, 'Her heart was too full of sorrow. God knew she could bear it no longer, so He called her back.' The thought consoled me a little. When I opened my eyes, I saw the wind blowing through the trees." The "little park" was the Temple of Earth.

    有一次与一个作家朋友聊天,我问他学写作的最初动机是什么。他想了一会儿说:“为我母亲。为了让她骄傲。”我心里一惊,良久无言。回想自己最初写小说的动机,虽不似这位朋友的那般单纯,但如他一样的愿望我也有,且一经细想,发现这愿望也在全部动机中占了很大比重。这位朋友说:“我的动机太低俗了吧?”我光是摇头,心想低俗并不见得低俗,只怕是这愿望过于天真了。他又说:“我那时真就是想出名,出了名让别人羡慕我母亲。”我想,他比我坦率。我想,他又比我幸福,因为他的母亲还活着。而且我想,他的母亲也比我的母亲运气好,他的母亲没有一个双腿残废的儿子,否则事情就不这么简单。

    在我的头一篇小说发表的时候,在我的小说第一次获奖的那些日子里,我真是多么希望我的母亲还活着。我便又不能在家里呆了,又整天整天独自跑到地坛去,心里是没头没尾的沉郁和哀怨,走遍整个园子却怎么也想不通:母亲为什么就不能再多活两年?为什么在她儿子就快要碰撞开一条路的时候,她却忽然熬不住了?莫非她来此世上只是为了替儿子担忧,却不该分享我的一点点快乐?她匆匆离我去时才只有四十九岁呀!有那么一会儿,我甚至对世界对上帝充满了仇恨和厌恶。后来我在一篇题为《合欢树》的文章中写道:“我坐在小公园安静的树林里,闭上眼睛,想,上帝为什么早早地召母亲回去呢?很久很久,迷迷糊糊的我听见了回答:‘她心里太苦了,上帝看她受不住了,就召她回去。’我似乎得了一点安慰,睁开眼睛,看见风正从树林里穿过。”小公园,指的也是地坛。

    Only at such moments do past events appear before my eyes clear and intact and I understand more completely what a wonderful mother I once had. Maybe God was right.

    As I roll my wheel-chair slowly through the Temple of Earth on a misty morning or at noontime under a scorching sun, I have only one thought in my mind: Mother is gone. I stop beside the old cypress tree, on the grass, beneath the crumbling walls in the afternoon when small insects hum all around or in the evening as birds return to their nests. In my heart I still murmur: But Mother is gone. I put the back of my chair down and lie there in a trance until sunset. Then I sit up and remain sitting in a daze until darkness shrouds the ancient altar and it begins to dawn on me that Mother can come to the temple to look for me no more.

    只是到了这时候,纷纭的往事才在我眼前幻现得清晰,母亲的苦难与伟大才在我心中渗透得深彻。上帝的考虑,也许是对的。

    摇着轮椅在园中慢慢走,又是雾罩的清晨,又是骄阳高悬的白昼,我只想着一件事:母亲已经不在了。在老柏树旁停下,在草地上在颓墙边停下,又是处处虫鸣的午后,又是鸟儿归巢的傍晚,我心里只默念着一句话:可是母亲已经不在了。把椅背放倒,躺下,似睡非睡挨到日没,坐起来,心神恍惚,呆呆地直坐到古祭坛上落满黑暗然后再渐渐浮起月光,心里才有点明白,母亲不能再来这园中找我了。

    There were several times I stayed in the temple too long and my mother came to fetch me. But when she found me she would change her mind and wouldn't want to interrupt. She would turn around quietly and go home. Several times I saw her receding back; other times I would see her anxiously looking for me. Her eyesight was failing, so I would often see her first. When I knew she was looking in my direction, I would look away. After a while when I turned to look at her again I would see her receding back. Once I sat in a dense grove and saw her looking for me. I didn't know how long she had been looking for me but still I didn't call her. Instead I let her pass by without seeing me. She was walking in hasty paces. Only today do I realize how foolish I was to have been so stubborn and reserved with my mother. But it's all too late now.

    It is understandable that a son will try to make his mother proud of him; as the idea of becoming a celebrity is not such an ignoble one.

    After the excitement of my award had faded, I began to realize that a successful career in writing might not have been the one Mother would have planned for me. Month after month, year after year I still come to the temple, and I still wonder what she had felt about my future.

    曾有过好多回,我在这园子里呆得太久了,母亲就来找我。她来找我又不想让我发觉,只要见我还好好地在这园子里,她就悄悄转身回去,我看见过几次她的背影。我也看见过几回她四处张望的情景,她视力不好,端着眼镜像在寻找海上的一条船,她没看见我时我已经看见她了,待我看见她也看见我了我就不去看她,过一会儿我再抬头看她就又看见她缓缓离去的背影。我单是无法知道有多少回她没有找到我。有一回我坐在矮树丛中,树丛很密,我看见她没有找到我;她一个人在园子里走,走过我的身旁,走过我经常呆的一些地方,步履茫然又急迫。我不知道她已经找了多久还要找多久,我不知道为什么我决意不喊她—但这绝不是小时候的捉迷藏,这也许是出于长大了的男孩子的倔强或羞涩?但这倔强只留给我痛悔,丝毫也没有骄傲。我真想告诫所有长大了的男孩子,千万不要跟母亲来这套倔强,羞涩就更不必,我已经懂了可我已经来不及了。

    儿子想使母亲骄傲,这心情毕竟是太真实了,以致使“想出名”这一声名狼藉的念头也多少改变了一点形象。这是个复杂的问题,且不去管它了罢。随着小说获奖的激动逐日暗淡,我开始相信,至少有一点我是想错了:我用纸笔在报刊上碰撞开的一条路,并不就是母亲盼望我找到的那条路。年年月月我都到这园子里来,年年月月我都要想,母亲盼望我找到的那条路到底是什么。母亲生前没给我留下过什么隽永的誓言,或要我恪守的教诲,只是在她去世之后,她艰难的命运,坚忍的意志和毫不张扬的爱,随光阴流转,在我的印象中愈加鲜明深刻。

    One October as I was reading in the temple I heard an old couple chatting as they strolled. "I never thought the temple was so big," the old man said to his wife. I put down my book. It must be difficult for Mother to find me in such a large place, I thought to myself. For the first time in many years I suddenly realized that it was not only the tracks of my wheel-chair that covered the Temple of Earth, but also my mother's footprints.

    If the time in a day corresponds to the four seasons, then undoubtedly spring is morning, summer is noon, autumn is dawn, and winter is night. If musical instruments are matched with the four seasons, I surmise that spring should be the trumpet; summer the kettledrum; autumn the violoncello; and winter the horn or flute. What if the sounds in the park are associated with four seasons? Then spring should be the cooing of pigeons hovering above the sacrificial altar; summer should be the persistently tedious and shrill singing of cicadas and the rustling of poplar leaves poking fun at the cicadas' singing; autumn should be the chiming of wind-bells that hang under the eaves of the ancient temple; and winter should be the random sound of wood-peckers echoing in the open air. If the scenes and sights in this park are comparable to the four seasons, then spring is a path that now pales and now darkens and moistens, or poplar catkins dancing in clusters in a sky that shines at one moment and clouds at another; summer puts me in mind of so many stone benches glistening and scorching under the sun, or a shady or mossy stone stairway with fruit peels below it and half a newspaper page, crumpled from being seated on; autumn is a large bronze bell which, deserted in the northwest corner of the park, is as old as the park, with its inscriptions fading under thick layers of patina; and winter brings to mind the few old fluffy-feathered sparrows roaming a clearing in the woods. What are man's emotional responses to the four seasons? Spring is a season for man to be bedridden with disease, otherwise he is unlikely to discover the cruelty and desire of spring. Summer is a time for lovers to be jilted, otherwise they would let love down. With Autumn comes the time to buy potted flowers and bring them to one's long-separated home while opening the windows to let in the sunlight, strolling down the memory lane, and unhurriedly sorting out the mildewed odds and ends. Winter sees man reading by a heating stove and repeatedly making up his mind to write letters that never make it to the mailbox.

    Forms of arts can also be employed to match the four seasons, so that spring is a landscape painting, summer a long novel, autumn a short song or poem, and winter a group of sculptures. What about using dreams as reflections of the four seasons? Spring is a cry from atop a tree. Summer is a drizzle falling amidst that cry. Autumn is a land moistened by the drizzle. Winter is a desolate tobacco-pipe lying on that cleansed land.

    Because of this park, I often feel thankful to my fate.

    Even now I can see clearly how I will miss it when someday I cannot but let go of it forever, how I will hanker after it because I miss it so, and how I will not be able to dream of it because I do not dare to miss it.

    有一年,十月的风又翻动起安详的落叶,我在园中读书,听见两个散步的老人说:“没想到这园子有这么大。”我放下书,想,这么大一座园子,要在其中找到她的儿子,母亲走过了多少焦灼的路。多年来我头一次意识到,这园中不单是处处都有过我的车辙,有过我的车辙的地方也都有过母亲的脚印。



    如果以一天中的时间来对应四季,当然春天是早晨,夏天是中午,秋天是黄昏,冬天是夜晚。如果以乐器来对应四季,我想春天应该是小号,夏天是定音鼓,秋天是大提琴,冬天是圆号和长笛。要是以这园子里的声响来对应四季呢?那么,春天是祭坛上空漂浮着的鸽子的哨音,夏天是冗长的蝉歌和杨树叶子哗啦啦的对蝉歌的取笑,秋天是古殿檐头的风铃响,冬天是啄木鸟随意而空旷的啄木声。以园中的景物对应四季,春天是一径时而苍白时而黑润的小路,时而明朗时而阴晦的天上摇荡着串串杨花;夏天是一条条耀眼而灼人的石凳,或阴凉而爬满了青苔的石阶,阶下有果皮,阶上有半张被坐皱的报纸;秋天是一座青铜的大钟,在园子的西北角上曾丢弃着一座很大的铜钟,铜钟与这园子一般年纪,浑身挂满绿锈,文字已不清晰;冬天,是林中空地上几只羽毛蓬松的老麻雀。以心绪对应四季呢?春天是卧病的季节,否则人们不易发觉春天的残忍与渴望;夏天,情人们应该在这个季节里失恋,不然就似乎对不起爱情;秋天是从外面买一棵盆花回家的时候,把花搁在阔别了的家中,并且打开窗户把阳光也放进屋里,慢慢回忆慢慢整理一些发过霉的东西;冬天伴着火炉和书,一遍遍坚定不死的决心,写一些并不发出的信。还可以用艺术形式对应四季,这样春天就是一幅画,夏天是一部长篇小说,秋天是一首短歌或诗,冬天是一群雕塑。以梦呢?以梦对应四季呢?春天是树尖上的呼喊,夏天是呼喊中的细雨,秋天是细雨中的土地,冬天是干净的土地上的一只孤零的烟斗。

    因为这园子,我常感恩于自己的命运。

    我甚至现在就能清楚地看见,一旦有一天我不得不长久地离开它,我会怎样想念它,我会怎样想念它并且梦见它,我会怎样因为不敢想念它而梦也梦不到它。

    Who else has frequented the Temple of Earth over the past fifteen years? I remember the old couple.

    Fifteen years ago, they were middle-aged and I still a young man. They would always come to the temple in the evening and I never knew from which direction they would appear. They would usually stroll round in an anti-clockwise direction. The man was tall, with long legs and broad shoulders and, looking straight ahead, would walk very erect. His wife would hold his arm, but she couldn't affect his upright posture. She was short and rather nondescript; somehow I had a feeling that she must have been born into a well-to-do family that had later declined. She looked like a feeble child holding her husband's arm and her eyes would look around fearfully. She would talk to him in a gentle voice and whenever someone walked close to them she would immediately stop. They reminded me of Jean Valjean and Cosette in Victor Hugo's Les Misérables. But of course you could tell at once that they were husband and wife. Their clothes were impeccable though old-fashioned.

    Like me, they came to the temple whatever the weather and, unlike me, they always arrived at the same time each day. I would come into the temple at almost any time but they would only appear at dusk. If it was windy they would wear cream-coloured windbreakers and if it rained they would hold a black umbrella. In summer they wore white shirts and black or cream trousers; in winter they wore heavy black woollen coats. They must like those three colours, I thought. They would walk anticlockwise around the temple, then leave. When they passed me by it was only the man's footsteps I could hear. The woman seemed stuck to her husband and float forward. I'm sure they still remember me though we never tried to approach each other. Over fifteen years they witnessed how a crippled young man joined the ranks of the middle-aged just as I had seen how they, an enviable middle-aged couple, had become old and grey.



    现在让我想想,十五年中坚持到这园子来的人都是谁呢?好像只剩了我和一对老人。

    十五年前,这对老人还只能算是中年夫妇,我则货真价实还是个青年。他们总是在薄暮时分来园中散步,我不大弄得清他们是从哪边的园门进来,一般来说他们是逆时针绕这园子走。男人个子很高,肩宽腿长,走起路来目不斜视,胯以上直至脖颈挺直不动,他的妻子攀了他一条胳膊走,也不能使他的上身稍有松懈。女人个子却矮,也不算漂亮,我无端地相信她必出身于家道中衰的名门富族;她攀在丈夫胳臂上像个娇弱的孩子,她向四周观望似总含着恐惧,她轻声与丈夫谈话,见有人走近就立刻怯怯地收住话头。我有时因为他们而想起冉阿让与柯赛特,但这想法并不巩固,他们一望即知是老夫老妻。两个人的穿着都算得上考究,但由于时代的演进,他们的服饰又可以称为古朴了。他们和我一样,到这园子里来几乎是风雨无阻,不过他们比我守时。我什么时间都可能来,他们则一定是在暮色初临的时候。刮风时他们穿了米色风衣,下雨时他们打了黑色的雨伞,夏天他们的衬衫是白色的裤子是黑色的或米色的,冬天他们的呢子大衣又都是黑色的,想必他们只喜欢这三种颜色。他们逆时针绕这园子一周,然后离去。他们走过我身旁时只有男人的脚步响,女人像是贴在高大的丈夫身上跟着漂移。我相信他们一定对我有印象,但是我们没有说过话,我们互相都没有想要接近的表示。十五年中,他们或许注意到一个小伙子进入了中年,我则看着一对令人羡慕的中年情侣不觉中成了两个老人。

    Then there was the chap who haunted the temple everyday to practise his singing. He practised for years, and then he was gone. About my age, he usually came in the morning and sang for half an hour, sometimes even a whole morning. I guess he had a job to attend to, too. We would often meet on a narrow path in the eastern part of the temple. I knew he practised singing under a high wall in the southeast. He probably thought that I was going to the woods in the northeast.

    After I had stopped and lit a cigarette, I would hear him tentatively begin to train his voice. During the "cultural revolution"he would sing "White clouds floating in the blue, blue sky, under the white clouds horses saunter". After the "cultural revolution" he would sing the popular aria in The Cloth Seller. "Selling cloth, oh! Selling cloth, oh!" the young man would sing lustily. "I am lucky, I am lucky, I sing out of happiness…” Then he would repeat the whole piece again, with equal vigour. He had an excellent voice but the problem was his technique, for he often lost control over some of the key notes.

    Sometimes I would encounter him again at noon in the eastern part of the temple. We would glance at each other and go our separate ways, he to the north and I to the south.

    I felt we both wanted to get to know each other but somehow didn't know how to strike up a conversation. One day after we had nodded to each other, he finally said to me, "How do you do?" and I replied, "How do you do? Going home?" he said and I answered, "Yes. How about you?" "I'll be going home too," he said.

    So we slowed our pace (I, my wheels) in order to talk a little more. But we still found nothing to say until we had passed each other. "Well, then, see you again," he said. "See you," I answered. Then we smiled at each other and parted.

    We never saw each other again. His songs disappeared from the temple. I realized later that he had probably been saying good-bye to me. Maybe he had joined some arts troupe or song and dance ensemble. I wished him luck.

    曾有过一个热爱唱歌的小伙子,他也是每天都到这园中来,来唱歌,唱了好多年,后来不见了。他的年纪与我相仿,他多半是早晨来,唱半小时或整整唱一个上午,估计在另外的时间里他还得上班。我们经常在祭坛东侧的小路上相遇,我知道他是到东南角的高墙下去唱歌,他一定猜想我去东北角的树林里做什么。我找到我的地方,抽几口烟,便听见他谨慎地整理歌喉了。他反反复复唱那么几首歌。“文化大革命”没过去的时候,他唱“蓝蓝的天上白云飘,白云下面马儿跑……”我老也记不住这歌的名字。“文革”后,他唱《货郎与小姐》中那首最为流传的咏叹调。“卖布—卖布嘞,卖布—卖布嘞!”我记得这开头的一句他唱得很有声势,在早晨清澈的空气中,货郎跑遍园中的每一个角落去恭维小姐。“我交了好运气,我交了好运气,我为幸福唱歌曲……”然后他就一遍一遍地唱,不让货郎的激情稍减。依我听来,他的技术不算精到,在关键的地方常出差错,但他的嗓子是相当不坏的,而且唱一个上午也听不出一点疲惫。太阳也不疲惫,把大树的影子缩小成一团,把疏忽大意的蚯蚓晒干在小路上。将近中午,我们又在祭坛东侧相遇,他看一看我,我看一看他,他往北去,我往南去。日子久了,我感到我们都有结识的愿望;但似乎都不知如何开口,于是互相注视一下终又都移开目光擦身而过;这样的次数一多,便更不知如何开口了。终于有一天— 一个丝毫没有特点的日子,我们互相点了一下头,他说:“你好。”我说:“你好。”他说:“回去啦?”我说:“是,你呢?”他说:“我也该回去了。”我们都放慢脚步(其实我是放慢车速),想再多说几句,但仍然是不知从何说起,这样我们就都走过了对方,又都扭转身子面向对方。他说:“那就再见吧。”我说:“好,再见。”便互相笑笑各走各的路了。但是我们没有再见,那以后,园中再没了他的歌声,我才想到,那天他或许是有意与我道别的,也许他考上了哪家专业的文工团或歌舞团了吧?真希望他如他歌里所唱的那样,交了好运气。

    Then there was also the old drinker who always had a flask of wine dangling from his waist. He would often come to spend his afternoons in the temple. He would wander all over the park and always drink alone. He dressed casually and staggered as he walked. He would walk fifty or sixty metres, then stop and, placing one foot on a stone stool or mound of earth or a tree stump, he would have a good look around while undoing his flask from his waist. Then he would quickly take a great gulp and return the flask to his waist. He would think for a while and walk another fifty or sixty metres.

    There was also a bird-catcher. At that time there were few visitors to the temple but many birds. This man would set up a net in the northwest corner of the temple. When the birds hit it, their feathers became entangled in the net and they would be unable to extract themselves. But the man was only interested in one rare kind of bird which he said he had often seen in the past. when he caught other birds he would always set them free. He said he hadn't seen this rare bird for quite a few years and he would wait a little longer and see whether he could catch one or not. So he waited for a few more years.

    Then there was the woman engineer who passed south through the temple on her way to her work in the morning and walked home north in the evening. In fact I didn't know anything about her, but I liked to think that she was an engineer — an intellectual. Hardly anyone else could possess the same kind of simplistic grace. When she walked through the park, the woods seemed to become more tranquil and there seemed to be the sound of distant music, something like For Elise.

    I never saw her lucky husband. I tried to form my own picture of him but couldn't. Later I realized that it was better if the man never appeared. Whenever I saw her walking homeward out of the north gate I would worry that she would end up in a kitchen. Or perhaps she possessed another kind of charm as she cooked, though For Elise certainly wouldn't come to mind again. Yet what would be an appropriate piece?

    And my friend, a competent long-distance runner. Because of a "political slip of the tongue" during the "cultural revolution", he was imprisoned for several years and thus had his future ruined. After he was out he eventually found a job pulling a cart but still couldn't be treated equally. Disappointment made him take up running.

    When he ran in the temple I would calculate the time for him. Everytime he finished a circuit he would wave to me and I would check my watch and mark the result in a notebook. He would run round the temple twenty times each time, which was about twenty thousand metres. He wished that one day he might gain his political liberation through his running achievements. He believed that newspaper reporters with their cameras and reports could help him achieve his goal.

    The first time he took part in the annual Spring Festival Beijing race around the city, he came fifteenth. It gave him a huge boost to see the photos of the first ten athletes displayed in the glass cases in central Beijing's Chang'an Boulevard. The second year he won fourth place, but this time only the pictures of the first three athletes were exhibited. The third year he came seventh and the first six were shown. The fourth year he jumped to third place, but this time only the champion's photo was put in the case. He finally became champion in the fifth year, but the glass cases only displayed a "mass photo" of the annual race. He lost all hope.

    During those years we often stayed in the temple till very late and vented our anger about the times. When we parted, we would tell each other not to commit suicide just yet, just live another year and see what might happen.

    He is now too old to run. He participated in the race for the last time when he was thirty-eight. It was also the second time he won the championship. This time he broke the record. A coach said to him, "Oh, if only I had seen you ten years ago."He smiled a bitter smile but said nothing. That evening he found me in the temple and told me the story peacefully.

    It's been a few years since I last saw him. Now he and his wife and children live in a faraway place.

    还有一些人,我还能想起一些常到这园子里来的人。有一个老头,算得一个真正的饮者;他在腰间挂一个扁瓷瓶,瓶里当然装满了酒,常来这园中消磨午后的时光。他在园中四处游逛,如果你不注意你会以为园中有好几个这样的老头,等你看过了他卓尔不群的饮酒情状,你就会相信这是个独一无二的老头。他的衣着过分随便,走路的姿态也不慎重,走上五六十米路便选定一处地方,一只脚踏在石凳上或土埂上或树墩上,解下腰间的酒瓶,解酒瓶的当儿眯起眼睛把一百八十度视角内的景物细细看一遭,然后以迅雷不及掩耳之势倒一大口酒入肚,把酒瓶摇一摇再挂向腰间,平心静气地想一会儿什么,便走下一个五六十米去。还有一个捕鸟的汉子,那岁月园中人少,鸟却多,他在西北角的树丛中拉一张网,鸟撞在上面,羽毛戗在网眼里便不能自拔。他单等一种过去很多而现在非常罕见的鸟,其他的鸟撞在网上他就把它们摘下来放掉,他说已经有好多年没等到那种罕见的鸟了,他说他再等一年看看到底还有没有那种鸟,结果他又等了好多年。早晨和傍晚,在这园子里可以看见一个中年女工程师,早晨她从北向南穿过这园子去上班,傍晚她从南向北穿过这园子回家,事实上我并不了解她的职业或者学历,但我以为她必是学理工的知识分子,别样的人很难有她那般的素朴并优雅。当她在园子穿行的时刻,四周的树林也仿佛更加幽静,清淡的日光中竟似有悠远的琴声,比如说是那曲《献给艾丽丝》才好。我没有见过她的丈夫,没有见过那个幸运的男人是什么样子,我想象过却想象不出,后来忽然懂了想象不出才好,那个男人最好不要出现。她走出北门回家去,我竟有点担心,担心她会落入厨房,不过,也许她在厨房里劳作的情景更有另外的美吧,当然不能再是《献给艾丽丝》,是个什么曲子呢?还有一个人,是我的朋友,他是个最有天赋的长跑家,但他被埋没了。他因为在“文革”中出言不慎而坐了几年牢,出来后好不容易找了个拉板车的工作,样样待遇都不能与别人平等,苦闷极了便练习长跑。那时他总来这园子里跑,我用手表为他计时,他每跑一圈向我招一下手,我就记下一个时间。每次他要环绕这园子跑二十圈,大约两万米。他盼望以他的长跑成绩来获得政治上真正的解放,他以为记者的镜头和文字可以帮他做到这一点。第一年他在春节环城赛上跑了第十五名,他看见前十名的照片都挂在了长安街的新闻橱窗里,于是有了信心。第二年他跑了第四名,可是新闻橱窗里只挂了前三名的照片,他没灰心。第三年他跑了第七名,橱窗里挂前六名的照片,他有点怨自己。第四年他跑了第三名,橱窗里却只挂了第一名的照片。第五年他跑了第一名—他几乎绝望了,橱窗里只有一幅环城赛群众场面的照片。那些年我们俩常一起在这园子里呆到天黑,开怀痛骂,骂完沉默着回家,分手时再互相叮嘱:先别去死,再试着活一活看。现在他已经不跑了,年岁太大了,跑不了那么快了。最后一次参加环城赛,他以三十八岁之龄又得了第一名并破了纪录,有一位专业队的教练对他说:“我要是十年前发现你就好了。”他苦笑一下什么也没说,只在傍晚又来这园中找到我,把这事平静地向我叙说一遍。不见他已有好几年了,现在他和妻子和儿子住在很远的地方。

    These people have long been replaced by a stream of new visitors. After fifteen years, only the old couple and I still frequent the old temple. For some time I saw only the old man strolling into the temple in the evening, his pace slower. I was concerned, fearing that something might have happened to the old lady. Fortunately, after a whole winter, she appeared again, and the old couple still walk anti-clockwise round the temple. Her hair is greyer than before but she still clings to her husband's arm like a young girl.

    Neither have I forgotten the pretty but unlucky little girl.

    I saw her one afternoon fifteen years ago when I first came into the temple. She was probably only three then and was kneeling on the west side of the Hall of Abstinence collecting the little "lanterns" that had dropped from the goldenrain trees nearby. When spring comes countless small yellow flowers blossom on these trees and when the petals fall little three-leafed lanterns will appear. They turn from green to yellow, and then fall to the ground. Even adults can't help picking up the lovely, delicate little fruit.

    She kept babbling to herself in a sweet voice. I wonder how such a small child could come to the temple by herself and asked her where she lived. She pointed randomly and called for her brother. A boy of seven or eight came out from amongst the weeds under the old wall and looked at me. Finding nothing suspicious he said to his sister, "I'm here," before bending down again to continue to look for insects. He caught mantises, grasshoppers, cicadas and dragonflies to please her.

    Over two to three years I often saw them playing together under the big goldenrain trees. Then they stopped coming to the temple and I didn't see them again. I thought they must have gone to school. Even the little girl was old enough to go. It was natural that they wouldn't have as much time to play in the temple as before. I had forgotten them almost completely when one day, years later, I saw them again in the temple. It was then that I realized the little girl was retarded.

    这些人现在都不到园子里来了,园子里差不多完全换了一批新人。十五年前的旧人,现在就剩我和那对老夫老妻了。有那么一段时间,这老夫老妻中的一个也忽然不来,薄暮时分唯男人独自来散步,步态也明显迟缓了许多,我悬心了很久,怕是那女人出了什么事。幸好过了一个冬天那女人又来了,两个人仍是逆时针绕着园子走,一长一短两个身影恰似钟表的两支指针;女人的头发白了许多,但依旧攀着丈夫的胳膊走得像个孩子。“攀”这个字用得不恰当了,或许可以用“搀”吧,不知有没有兼具这两个意思的字。



    我也没有忘记一个孩子— 一个漂亮而不幸的小姑娘。十五年前的那个下午,我第一次到这园子里来就看见了她,那时她大约三岁,蹲在斋宫西边的小路上捡树上掉落的“小灯笼”。那儿有几棵大栾树,春天开一簇簇细小而稠密的黄花,花落了便结出无数如同三片叶子合抱的小灯笼,小灯笼先是绿色,继而转白,再变黄,成熟了掉落得满地都是。小灯笼精巧得令人爱惜,成年人也不免捡了一个还要捡一个。小姑娘咿咿呀呀地跟自己说着话,一边捡小灯笼;她的嗓音很好,不是她那个年龄所常有的那般尖细,而是很圆润甚或是厚重,也许是因为那个下午园子里太安静了。我奇怪这么小的孩子怎么一个人跑来这园子里?我问她住在哪儿?她随手指一下,就喊她的哥哥,沿墙根一带的茂草之中便站起一个七八岁的男孩,朝我望望,看我不像坏人便对他的妹妹说“我在这儿呢”,又伏下身去,他在捉什么虫子。他捉到螳螂、蚂蚱、知了和蜻蜓,来取悦他的妹妹。有那么两三年,我经常在那几棵大栾树下见到他们,兄妹俩总是在一起玩,玩得和睦融洽,都渐渐长大了些。之后有很多年没见到他们。我想他们都在学校里吧,小姑娘也到了上学的年龄,必是告别了孩提时光,没有很多机会来这儿玩了。这事很正常,没理由太搁在心上,若不是有一年我又在园中见到他们,肯定就会慢慢把他们忘记。

    It was a cloudless Sunday morning. I rolled my wheel-chair to the goldenrain trees. It was the season when their little lanterns were covering the ground. I had been having great difficulties in ending a story, so I had come here wondering whether I should drop the story altogether. Just as I stopped my wheel-chair, I saw, not far off, several youngsters teasing a young girl. They were trying to frighten her by making horrible faces and, when she tried to escape from them, chased her and stopped her from getting away. The girl hid herself behind the trees holding up the hem of her skirt, not realizing that her legs were thus exposed.

    I could tell from her reactions that she was retarded and hurried over to help. A young man rushed over from the distance on his bike. The bullies ran away. The young man stopped his bike beside the girl and panting, angrily looked at the vanishing brutes. It was then that I recognized them. I let out a sad, silent cry.

    The young girl loosened her hands and countless little lanterns dropped to her feet. She was still a pretty young girl, but there was no light in her eyes. She stared in a daze in the direction the bullies had run. With her limited intelligence, there was no way she could understand the world around her. The young man helped her onto the back seat of his bike and quietly rode home.

    那是个礼拜日的上午。那是个晴朗而令人心碎的上午,时隔多年,我竟发现那个漂亮的小姑娘原来是个弱智的孩子。我摇着车到那几棵大栾树下去,恰又是遍地落满了小灯笼的季节;当时我正为一篇小说的结尾所苦,既不知为什么要给它那样一个结尾,又不知何以忽然不想让它有那样一个结尾,于是从家里跑出来,想依靠着园中的镇静,看看是否应该把那篇小说放弃。我刚刚把车停下,就见前面不远处有几个人在戏耍一个少女,做出怪样子来吓她,又喊又笑地追逐她拦截她,少女在几棵大树间惊惶地东跑西躲,却不松手揪卷在怀里的裙裾,两条腿袒露着也似毫无察觉。我看出少女的智力是有些缺陷,却还没看出她是谁。我正要驱车上前为少女解围,就见远处飞快地骑车来了个小伙子,于是那几个戏耍少女的家伙望风而逃。小伙子把自行车支在少女近旁,怒目望着那几个四散逃窜的家伙,一声不吭喘着粗气,脸色如暴雨前的天空一样一会儿比一会儿苍白。这时我认出了他们,小伙子和少女就是当年那对小兄妹。我几乎是在心里惊叫了一声,或者是哀号。世上的事常常使上帝的居心变得可疑。小伙子向他的妹妹走去。少女松开了手,裙裾随之垂落了下来,很多很多她捡的小灯笼便洒落了一地,铺散在她脚下。她仍然算得漂亮,但双眸迟滞没有光彩。她呆呆地望着那群跑散的家伙,望着极目之处的空寂,凭她的智力绝不可能把这个世界想明白吧?大树下,破碎的阳光星星点点,风把遍地的小灯笼吹得滚动,仿佛喑哑地响着无数小铃铛。哥哥把妹妹扶上自行车后座,带着她无言地回家去了。

    Since God had bestowed on her both beauty and retardation, all she could do was to return home quietly.

    However, who can truly understand the world?

    One may blame God for bringing so much suffering to the human world; one may also gain a sense of pride and nobility by devoting oneself to eliminating the cause of these sufferings. But if one thinks twice, one falls into a maze: For if there is no suffering in the world, is it possible for the world to exist? If stupidity is extinguished, where is the virtue of intelligence? Without ugliness can there be beauty? Good without evil? Health without illness and disability?

    I often dream of the day when all forms of disability disappear from the earth. But will disease replace disability and its victims suffer similar misfortunes? And if it were possible to eradicate disease from the face of the earth as well, would, for example, ugliness take its place? What will happen if we rid the world of ugliness, stupidity and evil, or unpleasant people and deeds, and everyone is equally healthy, good-looking, intelligent and honest? I fear, then, the curtains will have to fall on all human dramas. A world without disparities would be like a pool of stagnant water — a barren desert devoid of all meaning.

    Disparity is an eternal necessity. Suffering must be endured, for it is an essential part of all human drama. We exist, therefore we suffer. God's plan is, after all, right.

    无言是对的。要是上帝把漂亮和弱智这两样东西都给了这个小姑娘,就只有无言和回家去是对的。

    谁又能把这世界想个明白呢?世上的很多事是不堪说的。你可以抱怨上帝何以要降诸多苦难给这人间,你也可以为消灭种种苦难而奋斗,并为此享有崇高与骄傲,但只要你再多想一步你就会坠入深深的迷茫了:假如世界上没有了苦难,世界还能够存在么?要是没有愚钝,机智还有什么光荣呢?要是没了丑陋,漂亮又怎么维系自己的幸运?要是没有了恶劣和卑下,善良与高尚又将如何界定自己又如何成为美德呢?要是没有了残疾,健全会否因其司空见惯而变得腻烦和乏味呢?我常梦想着在人间彻底消灭残疾,但可以相信,那时将由患病者代替残疾人去承担同样的苦难。如果能够把疾病也全数消灭,那么这份苦难又将由(比如说)相貌丑陋的人去承担了。就算我们连丑陋,连愚昧和卑鄙和一切我们所不喜欢的事物和行为,也都可以统统消灭掉,所有的人都一样健康、漂亮、聪慧、高尚,结果会怎样呢?怕是人间的剧目就全要收场了,一个失去差别的世界将是一潭死水,是一块没有感觉没有肥力的沙漠。

    看来差别永远是要有的。看来就只好接受苦难—人类的全部剧目需要它,存在的本身需要它。看来上帝又一次对了。

    Then there is the most disheartening question of all: Who is to play the roles of the sufferer and who the receivers of happiness and self-respect? Only chance decides.

    Fate does not speak justice.

    Then where is Noah's Ark for the unfortunate sufferers?

    If knowledge and wisdom lead some to the Ark, can the rest discover the way there too?

    I believe it is ugliness that sets off beauty, just as stupidity serves as a contrast to intelligence, cowardice to heroism and the unenlightened masses to Buddha.

    If the temple has a guardian spirit, it must have seen me sitting here all these years. Three questions, basically, have kept haunting me: Shall I take my own life? Why should I remain alive? And why do I write?

    I've said earlier that death is something that doesn't need to be pursued in haste, for sooner or later one will meet it. Just try to live on. It is this crucial point that has kept me going. Why not give it another try? Possibly because I didn't want to give up just like that. Life is too precious. Seeing as I'd lost the use of my legs, there was nothing more I could lose. It can't hurt to try. I might even discover something during the process. So I became more relaxed, more free.

    But why do I bother to write? Writing is still a profession that wins people's respect, everybody knows that. As a disabled man sitting all day long in a wheel-chair in an old temple, I wish some day I may attract the attention of others and gain an entry to their hearts. If I die then it will not be so worthless. That is what I thought in the beginning.

    于是就有一个最令人绝望的结论等在这里:由谁去充任那些苦难的角色?又由谁去体现这世间的幸福、骄傲和快乐?只好听凭偶然,是没有道理好讲的。

    就命运而言,休论公道。

    那么,一切不幸命运的救赎之路在哪里呢?

    设若智慧或悟性可以引领我们去找到救赎之路,难道所有的人都能够获得这样的智慧和悟性吗?

    我常以为是丑女造就了美人。我常以为是愚氓举出了智者。我常以为是懦夫衬照了英雄。我常以为是众生度化了佛祖。



    设若有一位园神,他一定早已注意到了,这么多年我在这园里坐着,有时候是轻松快乐的,有时候是沉郁苦闷的,有时候优哉游哉,有时候恓惶落寞,有时候平静而且自信,有时候又软弱,又迷茫。其实总共只有三个问题交替着来骚扰我,来陪伴我。第一个是要不要去死?第二个是为什么活?第三个,我干吗要写作?

    现在让我看看,它们迄今都是怎样编织在一起的吧。

    你说,你看穿了死是一件无需乎着急去做的事,是一件无论怎样耽搁也不会错过的事,便决定活下去试试?是的,至少这是很关键的因素。为什么要活下去试试呢?好像仅仅是因为不甘心,机会难得,不试白不试,腿反正是完了,一切仿佛都要完了,但死神很守信用,试一试不会额外再有什么损失。说不定倒有额外的好处呢,是不是?我说过,这一来我轻松多了,自由多了。为什么要写作呢?作家是两个被人看重的字,这谁都知道。为了让那个躲在园子深处坐轮椅的人,有朝一日在别人眼里也稍微有点光彩,在众人眼里也能有个位置,哪怕那时再去死呢,也就多少说得过去了。开始的时候就是这样想,这不用保密,这些现在不用保密了。

    I took a pad and a pen, hid myself in a secluded corner of the temple and secretly began to write. Not far away the young singer kept singing. If someone passed by, I would close my pad and stick the pen between my teeth — I was afraid of being made fun of if my writing didn't get me anywhere. I spared no efforts to save my vanity.

    I finally finished my first story and got it published. People said it wasn't bad, some even said they never thought I had it in me to write so well. To this, I would say to myself: There are many more things about me that wouldn't occur to you. I was so excited that I didn't sleep a wink that night.

    I wanted to tell the young singer my good news, but in the end I only told my friend, the runner. He felt excited too, and said: Good, I'll devote myself to running and you to writing.

    我带着本子和笔,到园中找一个最不为人打扰的角落,偷偷地写。那个爱唱歌的小伙子在不远的地方一直唱。要是有人走过来,我就把本子合上把笔叼在嘴里。我怕写不成反落得尴尬。我很要面子。可是你写成了,而且发表了。人家说我写的还不坏,他们甚至说:真没想到你写得这么好。我心说你们没想到的事还多着呢。我确实有整整一宿高兴得没合眼。我很想让那个唱歌的小伙子知道,因为他的歌也毕竟是唱得不错。我告诉我的长跑家朋友的时候,那个中年女工程师正优雅地在园中穿行;长跑家很激动,他说好吧,我玩命跑,你玩命写。

    From then on I felt like one possessed and spent all day thinking about what and whom I could write about in my next story. In fact, I would think about writing wherever I went. I looked for inspiration among the people. If only there could have been some sort of fiction potion which I could try on every person I met to see if there was a story behind him. At that time I just lived for writing.

    Then I had several other stories published and fame began to tap on my door. But again I became frustrated, for I suddenly felt I was living like a hostage in a conspiracy who might be shot any time. I was worried that some day I might use up all my themes and creativity, then I was again finished — why would a cripple, confined mostly to a chair in an old temple, always have something to write about? Even a healthy writer who travels all over may run out of inspiration.

    Again I thought of dying. I thought, maybe I should stop there — it would not be too bad an ending. It was just too exhausting living like your own hostage when there was no guarantee that tomorrow you would still find things to write about. I lived because I was thinking about writing, but if I was not cut out to be a writer after all, wasn't I foolish to keep on struggling?

    Despite this, I still searched my brain for fragments of inspiration and managed to squeeze out the last drops of water from a drying towel. The feeling of mentally depleting oneself was far more agonizing than complete self-destruction. It would be better if I had died or had never been born, I thought. If only this world had never existed.

    I didn't take my own life, however. Instead I decided to carry on living. I wanted to live.

    Man's real name is desire. Sometimes I am honestly not afraid of death. I say "sometimes". But "not afraid of death" is different from "wanting to die". There are people who, on occasions, have no fear of death, but nobody is born that way. Sometimes I'm afraid of living, but that doesn't mean I don't want to live. I live because I want to gain something — love and a sense of worth. Shouldn't I be entitled to these? Nobody said no. But why do I constantly live in fear and feel like a hostage?

    Later I came to understand that I was wrong. You don't live to write, you write to live. That day I said to a friend again that maybe it was better to die after all. My friend said: Don't die, you've still got something to write; there're still many things that only you could write about. Then I suddenly realized that I had to keep writing for as long as I wanted to live.

    The best revenge a hostage can take against his captors is to kill himself. I'll need to kill myself so that I need not enter the writing market and join in the rush for subjects to write about.

    But I keep on writing. One has to find a sound excuse for one's existence. To be or not to be is not a question that may be solved before death.

    这一来你中了魔了,整天都在想哪一件事可以写,哪一个人可以让你写成小说。是中了魔了,我走到哪儿想到哪儿,在人山人海里只寻找小说,要是有一种小说试剂就好了,见人就滴两滴看他是不是一篇小说,要是有一种小说显影液就好了,把它泼满全世界看看都是哪儿有小说,中了魔了,那时我完全是为了写作活着。结果你又发表了几篇,并且出了一点小名,可这时你越来越感到恐慌。我忽然觉得自己活得像个人质,刚刚有点像个人了却又过了头,像个人质,被一个什么阴谋抓了来当人质,不定哪天被处决,不定哪天就完蛋。你担心要不了多久你就会文思枯竭,那样你就又完了。凭什么我总能写出小说来呢?凭什么那些适合作小说的生活素材就总能送到一个截瘫者跟前来呢?人家满世界跑都有枯竭的危险,而我坐在这园子里凭什么可以一篇接一篇地写呢?你又想到死了。我想见好就收吧。当一名人质实在是太累了太紧张了,太朝不保夕了。我为写作而活下来,要是写作到底不是我应该干的事,我想我再活下去是不是太冒傻气了?你这么想着你却还在绞尽脑汁地想写。我好歹又拧出点水来,从一条快要晒干的毛巾上。恐慌日甚一日,随时可能完蛋的感觉比完蛋本身可怕多了,所谓不怕贼偷就怕贼惦记,我想人不如死了好,不如不出生的好,不如压根儿没有这个世界的好。可你并没有去死。我又想到那是一件不必着急的事。可是不必着急的事并不证明是一件必要拖延的事呀?你总是决定活下来,这说明什么?是的,我还是想活。人为什么活着?因为人想活着,说到底是这么回事,人真正的名字叫作:欲望。可我不怕死,有时候我真的不怕死。有时候,—说对了。不怕死和想去死是两回事,有时候不怕死的人是有的,一生下来就不怕死的人是没有的。我有时候倒是怕活。可是怕活不等于不想活呀!可我为什么还想活呢?因为你还想得到点什么,你觉得你还是可以得到点什么的,比如说爱情,比如说价值感之类,人真正的名字叫欲望。这不对吗?我不该得到点什么吗?没说不该。可我为什么活得恐慌,就像个人质?后来你明白了,你明白你错了,活着不是为了写作,而写作是为了活着。你明白了这一点是在一个挺滑稽的时刻。那天你又说你不如死了好,你的一个朋友劝你:你不能死,你还得写呢,还有好多好作品等着你去写呢。这时候你忽然明白了,你说:只是因为我活着,我才不得不写作。或者说只是因为你还想活下去,你才不得不写作。是的,这样说过之后我竟然不那么恐慌了。就像你看穿了死之后所得的那份轻松?一个人质报复一场阴谋的最有效的办法是把自己杀死。我看出我得先把我杀死在市场上,那样我就不用参加抢购题材的风潮了。你还写吗?还写。你真的不得不写吗?人都忍不住要为生存找一些牢靠的理由。你不担心你会枯竭了?我不知道,不过我想,活着的问题在死前是完不了的。

    This thought liberates me, although I know the most effective way to get rid of fear is to first rid oneself of human desire.

    I seem to hear the Temple God say: A good actor can't help feeling like a hostage; a good audience can always see through the conspiracy. Only a bad actor thinks he has no connection with the drama and an unlucky audience is the one that sits too close to the stage.

    I sit in the temple all year round and listen to the Temple God. "My son, it is your fate and your fortune to be this way," I seem to hear.

    这下好了,您不再恐慌了不再是个人质了,您自由了。算了吧你,我怎么可能自由呢?别忘了人真正的名字是:欲望。所以您得知道,消灭恐慌的最有效的办法就是消灭欲望。可是我还知道,消灭人性的最有效的办法也是消灭欲望。那么,是消灭欲望同时也消灭恐慌呢?还是保留欲望同时也保留人性?

    我在这园子里坐着,我听见园神告诉我:每一个有激情的演员都难免是一个人质。每一个懂得欣赏的观众都巧妙地粉碎了一场阴谋。每一个乏味的演员都是因为他老以为这戏剧与自己无关。每一个倒霉的观众都是因为他总是坐得离舞台太近了。

    我在这园子里坐着,园神成年累月地对我说:孩子,这不是别的,这是你的罪孽和福祉。

    If there's something I did not say, you, the Temple of Earth, don't say I have forgotten it. Nothing has ever slipped from my memory. It's only that some things are meant to be collected – I can neither talk about them nor miss them, yet I cannot forget them. They cannot be verbalized. They cannot be changed into language; if they can, they are no longer themselves. They are a foggy morsel of sweet warmth and solitude, or a morsel of mature hope and despair. There are merely two domains for them: heart or grave. Take stamps for an example. Some of them are for posting letters, while others are merely meant to be put aside.

    Rolling my wheel-chair in the park, I had the lingering feeling that I had come out to the world to enjoy myself for too long. One day, when I was sorting out my old photo album, I saw a photo I had taken in this park more than a decade ago. On the wheel-chair sits a young man. Behind him is an old cypress tree, and further away, an ancient sacrificial altar. Thus I went to the park to look for that tree. With the clue provided by the photo, I found it quickly. And I was sure it was the same tree that appeared in the photo, judging from the shapes of its trunk and branches. Unfortunately, it was dead – it was tangled up by a bowl-thick wisteria. One day, I came across an old lady in the park. "Hey. You still live here, don't you?" she said, adding, "How's your mother?" "Who are you?", I asked, puzzling. "You don't know me, but I know who you are," she answered. "When your mother came here to look for you the other day, she asked me whether I had seen a boy on a wheel-chair...." Her remarks jolted me to my senses all of a sudden. Indeed, I had been to the world, alone, for fun for too long. I was reading by myself under a road lamp close by the sacrificial altar one night. Suddenly came the strains of a suona horn from inside the pitch-dark altar. All around under the sky were towering old trees and the vast, empty premises of the altar. I could not see the instrumentalist playing, but his lilting tunes were reverberating in the starry night, which were by turns mournful, joyful, sweet and touching, and desolate, but I surmise none of these adjectives were enough to do his melody justice. In my sober mind I could tell that the music, having been played for an eternity, was resonant then and now, and would remain so in the future.



    要是有些事我没说,地坛,你别以为是我忘了,我什么也没忘,但是有些事只适合收藏。不能说,也不能想,却又不能忘。它们不能变成语言,它们无法变成语言,一旦变成语言就不再是它们了。它们是一片朦胧的温馨与寂寥,是一片成熟的希望与绝望,它们的领地只有两处:心与坟墓。比如说邮票,有些是用于寄信的,有些仅仅是为了收藏。

    如今我摇着车在这园子里慢慢走,常常有一种感觉,觉得我一个人跑出来已经玩得太久了。有一天我整理我的旧相册,看见一张十几年前我在这园子里照的照片—那个年轻人坐在轮椅上,背后是一棵老柏树,再远处就是那座古祭坛。我便到园子里去找那棵树。我按着照片上的背景找很快就找到了它,按着照片上它枝干的形状找,肯定那就是它。但是它已经死了,而且在它身上缠绕着一条碗口粗的藤萝。有一天我在这园子里碰见一个老太太,她说:“哟,你还在这儿哪?”她问我:“你母亲还好吗?”“您是谁?”“你不记得我,我可记得你。有一回你母亲来这儿找你,她问我您看没看见一个摇轮椅的孩子?……”我忽然觉得,我一个人跑到这世界上来玩真是玩得太久了。有一天夜晚,我独自坐在祭坛边的路灯下看书,忽然从那漆黑的祭坛里传出一阵阵唢呐声;四周都是参天古树,方形祭坛占地几百平方米空旷坦荡独对苍天,我看不见那个吹唢呐的人,唯唢呐声在星光寥寥的夜空里低吟高唱,时而悲怆时而欢快,时而缠绵时而苍凉,或许这几个词都不足以形容它,我清清醒醒地听出它响在过去,响在现在,响在未来,回旋飘转亘古不散。

    It was inevitable that someday, I would hear someone yelling to ask me to return to where I used to be. When that day comes, you can imagine what a child will do. He has played to exhaustion, yet he hasn't enjoyed himself to his heart's content. He has a wealth of novel ideas and cannot wait until tomorrow to live them out. You may also conjure up the image of an old man, moving toward his eternal resting place willingly and without the slightest trace of hesitation. Or you may think of a couple in love, who say to each other time and again, "I will not leave you for even a single second", yet they know perfectly well that they are running out of time. "We have not much time left," they tell each other repeatedly. "I don't want to be separated from you for even a second, but, alas, it's too late."

    必有一天,我会听见喊我回去。

    那时您可以想象一个孩子,他玩累了可他还没玩够呢,心里好些新奇的念头甚至等不及到明天。也可以想象是一个老人,无可质疑地走向他的安息地,走得任劳任怨。还可以想象一对热恋中的情人,互相一次次说“我一刻也不想离开你”,又互相一次次说“时间已经不早了”,时间不早了可我一刻也不想离开你,一刻也不想离开你可时间毕竟是不早了。

    I can't say whether I want to return or not. I can't say for certain whether I feel like it or whether I don't care. I can't say whether I am that child, that old man, or one of that love-struck couple. It is likely that I am the three of them all at once. I came to this world as a boy who, driven by too many of childish ideas, cried and shouted for permission. But once he came and saw the world, he fell head over heels in love, whereas in a lover's perspective, time fleets no matter how long it is. Thus he became aware that ever step was taking was leading him back to where he came from. The funeral horn is heard the moment the morning glories come out.

    Yet the sun remains itself, setting and rising at any point of time. It starts climbing up the mountain ablaze in its morning glory the moment it puts out its fire and goes down. When the day comes, I will walk down the mountain on my crutch with a peaceful frame of mind. Someday in some dale, a boy will come up leaping and jiving in joy, with a toy in his arms.

    Of course, that boy can't be me.

    But can he not be me?

    The universe, driven by an endless desire, hones and re-hones a song-and-dance number into an eternal one. Whatever earthly name that desire may have, it may as well not to be taken into account.

    Translated by Shi Junbao, Fan Haixiang

    我说不好我想不想回去。我说不好是想还是不想,还是无所谓。我说不好我是像那个孩子,还是像那个老人,还是像一个热恋中的情人。很可能是这样:我同时是他们三个。我来的时候是个孩子,他有那么多孩子气的念头所以才哭着喊着闹着要来,他一来一见到这个世界便立刻成了不要命的情人,而对一个情人来说,不管多么漫长的时光也是稍纵即逝,那时他便明白,每一步每一步,其实一步步都是走在回去的路上。当牵牛花初开的时节,葬礼的号角就已吹响。

    但是太阳,它每时每刻都是夕阳也都是旭日。当它熄灭着走下山去收尽苍凉残照之际,正是它在另一面燃烧着爬上山巅布散烈烈朝辉之时。那一天,我也将沉静着走下山去,扶着我的拐杖。有一天,在某一处山洼里,势必会跑上来一个欢蹦的孩子,抱着他的玩具。

    当然,那不是我。

    但是,那不是我吗?

    宇宙以其不息的欲望将一个歌舞炼为永恒。这欲望有怎样一个人间的姓名,大可忽略不计。 (责任编辑:admin)
      微信公众号
    关注我们微信公众号【历史小助手】,网站上的历史资源会整合到微信公众号上,方便大家随身查询使用。
      BET188下载