对照记

自在
2007-09-22 看过
给作者的评价是力荐
给译者的评价是还行(前提是如果不对照英译本的话)
给编辑的评价是很差

  -----爱侣-----
  
  这里是多么寂静,
  我们听见了昨天的歌声:
  “你上山,我走向河谷……”
  尽管我们听见,我们却不相信。
  
  我们的欢笑并不是悲伤的面具,
  我们的善良也不是自我牺牲,
  其含义要更为深远,
  我们同情那些并不相爱的人。
  
  我们沉醉在自己的惊喜之中,
  还有什么能让我们惊讶万分?
  无论是夜晚的彩虹,
  还是雪中飞翔的蝴蝶。
  
  而当我们沉沉入睡时,
  却在梦中看到了离别。
  但这是一个好梦,
  但这是一个好梦,
  因为我们已从梦中惊醒。
  
  
  -----钥匙-----
  
  有钥匙,但突然丢失,
  我们该如何走进家门?
  也许有人会把那钥匙拾起,
  他看了看——这对他又有何用?
  于是他走了,又把钥匙抛弃,
  像抛弃一块废铜烂铁。
  
  我对你的爱情,
  如果也遭到这样的命运,
  对于我们,对于全世界,
  这种爱情都会令人悲痛万分
  及时被别人的手捡起,
  也无法打开任何一扇家门
  只不过是一件有形的东西,
  那就让铁锈去把它毁掉。
  
  不是书本,也不是星星,
  更不是孔雀的鸣叫,
  安排了这样的命运。
  
  
  -----金婚纪念-----
  
  他们过去必定不相似,
  如同水火那样截然不同,
  他们在色欲中占有和付出,
  强奸素不相识的人。
  他们紧紧拥抱,
  相互占有相互疏远
  是这样的长久。
  以至于在他们的臂膀中,
  只留下闪电掠过之后的透明空气。
  
  某一天回答先于提问,
  某一夜他们在黑暗中,
  沉默地猜测着
  各自眼中的神情。
  
  性别退化了,秘密蜕变了,
  相似中出现了差异,
  如同白色中的所有色彩。
  
  他们中谁有双重身份,谁没有?
  谁在用两种笑声大笑?
  谁在用两种声调说话?
  谁在用点头表示赞成?
  他们用何种手势把汤匙送到嘴边?
  
  是谁在这里剥下别人的皮?
  在这里,谁还活着谁已死去?
  是缠绕在谁的掌纹中?
  
  目睹缓缓出生的双胞胎,
  亲切是最完美的母亲。
  两个孩子很难分辨清楚,
  一个认出,另一个刚记住。
  
  在金婚的日子,在隆重的纪念日里,
  他们同时看见窗台上落下一只鸽子。
  
  
  -----滑稽戏-----
  
  要是我们的爱情消失,
  过去了一百两百年,
  随后我们又重新相聚。
  
  一对男女喜剧演员,
  ——观众喜爱的明星,
  把我们两个来扮演。
  
  那是一出短小的滑稽戏,
  载歌载舞,令人捧腹不已。
  里面还有生动的风习场景,
  以及热烈的掌声。
  
  你在舞台上可笑之极,
  由于你的嫉妒
  和你的那条领带。
  
  我也感到晕头转向,
  我的心也和王冠一样,
  愚蠢的心破碎了,
  王冠也掉在地上。
  
  我们相聚了离别。
  笑声充满整个演出大厅,
  即使相隔七重山、七条河,
  我们会把对方想念。
  
  仿佛我们还没有受够
  现实生活中的挫折和痛苦,
  还要用言语来互相攻击。
  
  到最后我们又握手言和,
  结束了这场滑稽戏,
  演职员们笑得眼泪直流,
  然后便进入了梦乡。
  
  但我们永远是这样的人;
  我们戴着铃铛的帽子,
  永远听着那些铃铛
  发出野蛮的响声。
  
  
  -----无题-----
  
  他们就这样单独地留下了,
  沉默寡语,一言不发。
  在彼此的不相爱中
  却能和睦相处真是奇迹——
  高天云层中的响雷,
  把他们变成石头般的沉默。
  两百万册的希腊神话,
  对于他和她都已无法挽救。
  
  即使有谁站在门里,
  哪怕出现和消失只是瞬间,
  高兴,悲伤,来来往往,
  激起笑声还是恐惧。
  
  但什么事也没有发生,
  只有他们自己。
  没有任何的真实性,
  如同在市民喜剧中。
  最后的分离完全合情合理,
  即使天空之洞也无法使他们理喻。
  
  在无法动摇的墙壁背景上,
  他们一方为另一方感到悲伤。
  他们站在镜子前,那里别无他物,
  只有真实的映像,
  除了两人的映像别无他物,
  物质已激起了高度的警觉。
  
  它身长体宽,又高又大,
  在地上,在空中,在四周,
  都在监视着天赋的命运,
  ——就像房间里突然出来一只狍子,
  宇宙必定会崩溃消失。
  
  
  -----意外相逢-----
  
  我们相互都非常客气,彬彬有礼,
  我们认为多年后相见倍感亲切。
  
  我们的老虎正在喝牛奶,
  我们的隼鹰正在赤脚行走,
  我们的鲨鱼正在沉入水中,
  我们的野狼正在敞开的笼前打呵欠。
  
  我们的蛇摆脱了闪电,
  猴子摆脱了灵感,
  孔雀脱去了羽毛,
  蝙蝠早已从我们的头发上飞走。
  
  我们话到中途便沉默了,
  我们无可挽救地令人发笑。
  我们的人
  相互都不会交谈。
  
  
  -----微笑-----
  
  我当然认识这个姑娘
  ——我也曾是个姑娘。
  我有几张她的相片,
  来自她短暂的生命。
  我对她写的几首诗
  表示过好笑的怜悯。
  我还记得几件事情。
  
  但是,
  我希望和我在一起的男人
  能开怀大笑,将我拥抱。
  我只想讲讲这样一个小故事:
  关于这个年幼的丑女孩
  情窦初开的爱情。
  
  我想讲一讲
  她爱上了一个大学生,
  她只是希望
  他能看她一眼。
  
  我想讲一讲
  她如何去迎接他,
  在她好端端的头上缠着绷带,
  唉,她只是想让他问一声:
  你出了什么事情?
  
  有趣的小姑娘,
  她怎能知道,
  连绝望也会带来益处,
  如果美好的机遇
  能让她活得更久。
  
  我很想让她自己去买食品,
  我想让她去看电影,
  去吧,我没有时间。
  
  你不是也看见
  灯光已经熄灭,
  你也该懂得
  大门已经关闭,
  不必去扭动门把手——
  那个开怀大笑的人,
  那个拥抱我的人,
  并不是你的那个大学生。
  
  你从哪里来,
  最好还是回到哪里去。
  我和你并无瓜葛,
  只是个普通女人。
  她仅仅知道,
  在什么时候
  去揭穿别人的秘密。
  
  请不要这样望着我们,
  用你那双
  瞪得滚圆的
  像死人一般的眼睛。
  
  
  -----火车站-----
  
  我没有到达N城,
  按照我原先的安排。
  
  一封未寄出的信,
  向你发出了预告。
  
  你也没有前往车站,
  在那预定的时刻。
  
  火车驶进了第三站台,
  众多的乘客纷纷下车。
  
  在走向出口的熙熙攘攘人群中,
  并没有我这个人。
  
  有几个匆匆忙忙的女人,
  代替了我在
  人流中的位置。
  
  我不认识的一个汉子。
  急忙奔向其中的一位妇女,
  那女人也立即认出了
  她的这位男人。
  
  他们热烈地交换了
  不是我们那样的亲吻。
  就在这时候一只不属于
  我的箱子丢失了。
  
  N城的火车站,
  经受住了
  客观存在的考验。
  
  整座火车站屹立在原地上
  而一列列火车却在
  指定的轨道上移动。
  
  就连那对人儿的会见,
  也早已在预先的安排之中。
  
  但却超出了
  我们存在的范围。
  
  出现在可能存在的
  失乐园中。
  
  不是在这里
  不是在这里
  多么动听的话语!
  
  ["火车站"是这本薄薄的诗集中看到现在最喜欢的一首,于是又找了英译诗来对照。但这竟是政治诗么?]
  
  The Railroad Station
  
  My nonarrival in the city of N.
  took place on the dot.
  
  You'd been alerted
  in my unmailed letter.
  
  You were able not to be there
  at the agreed-upon time.
  
  The train pulled up at Platform 3.
  A lot of people got out.
  
  My absence joined the throng
  as it made its way toward the exit.
  
  Several women rushed
  to take my place in all that rush.
  
  Somebody ran up to one of them.
  I didn't know him,
  but she recognized him immediately.
  
  While they kissed
  with not our lips,
  a suitcase disappeared,
  not mine.
  
  The railroad station in the city of N.
  passed its exam
  in objective existence
  with flying colors.
  
  The whole remained in place.
  Particulars scurried
  along the designated tracks.
  
  Even a rendezvous
  took place as planned.
  
  Beyond the reach of
  our presence.
  
  In the paradise lost
  of probability.
  
  Somewhere else.
  Somewhere else.
  How these little words ring.
  
  
  -----一粒沙的景象-----
  
  我们称它为一粒沙,
  但它不叫自己为沙粒。
  它无名地存在着,
  既无笼统的名号,
  也无专门的称呼,
  既无短暂或永久的名称,
  也无错误或正确的名称。
  
  它毫不在乎我们的观看和触摸,
  也不会感觉到自己的被看、被摸。
  而它掉落在窗台上的事实,
  那也只不过是我们的经历,
  并非就是它的经历,
  无论落在何处对它都一样。
  无法断定它是已经掉落,
  还是正在掉落。
  
  从窗口可以望见美丽的湖上风景,
  但湖上风景却无法观赏它自己。
  它无色、无形、
  无声、无响、
  无味、无痛,
  存在于世界之中。
  
  深不可测的湖底,
  茫茫无边的湖岸。
  它感觉不出水是湿是干,
  波浪是单个还是起伏不停,
  用它那低沉的响声
  在不大不小的石头周围轰鸣。
  
  天空下的万物实无天穹,
  那里太阳落山又没有落山,
  在那片不知道的云层后面,
  它隐没又没有隐没,
  风在吹,除了吹之外,
  别无其他情由。
  
  一秒钟过去了,
  又过了第二秒,
  第三秒,
  但这仅仅是我们的三秒钟。
  
  时间犹如传送快件信使急驰而过,
  但这不过是我们的比喻。
  虚构的人物、想像出来的速度,
  传递的也不是人类的信息。
  
  
  -----一部分人喜欢诗-----
  
  一部分人喜欢诗,
  也就是说不是全体,
  甚至不是大部分,而是小部分。
  不算必须阅读诗歌的学生
  和诗人们自己,
  而诗人只占千分之二。
  
  他们喜欢诗,
  也同样喜欢面条肉汤,
  还喜欢恭维吹捧和绿色。
  他们喜欢旧围巾,
  也喜欢表现自己,
  还喜欢抚摸小狗。
  
  一部分人喜欢诗,
  仅仅是一般的诗。
  如果你向他们提问,
  他们的回答支支吾吾,
  可是,我不知道,我不知道,
  只好抓住这个救命的扶手。
  
  [我不喜欢“一部分人喜欢诗”这个标题——真是太没诗意了,象读了一口沙子,我想一定会有人翻译成“有些人喜欢诗”,于是我去找有些人的版本。网络真是神奇,要什么有什么,想什么是什么。]
  
  有些人喜欢诗 [陈黎 张芬龄译]
  
  有些人──
  那表示不是全部。
  甚至不是全部的大多数,而是少数。
  倘若不把每个人必上的学校 [这句也很莫名其妙]
  和诗人自己算在内,一千个人当中大概会有
  两个吧。
  
  喜欢──
  不过也有人喜欢鸡丝面汤。
  有人喜欢恭维和蓝色,有人喜欢老旧围巾,
  有人喜欢证明自己的论点,
  有人喜欢以狗为宠物。
  
  诗──
  然而诗究竟是怎么样的东西?
  针对这个问题
  人们提出的不确定答案不只一个。
  但是我不懂,不懂又紧抓着它不放,
  彷佛抓住了救命的栏杆。
  
  [巴特——这两个译本的差异不是一点点啊。喵嘀,一首诗也能译成罗生门,只好再找其他版本作裁判。果然,英译本和“有些人喜欢诗”里一些结构的小技巧,在“一部分人喜欢诗”中给破坏的一蹋糊涂——信达雅三字经中你好歹也选个容易的沾点边啊,样样沾不上还敢出来混就是你不对了。因为找不同的译本,还发现辛波丝卡导读也是拿别人的文章来编辑,不署名也罢了,还掐头去尾,开肠剖肚,剪刀浆糊拼一拼。唉这年头的人,职业道德怎么都和脸皮成反比了。]
  
  -----
  Some like poetry
  
  Some--
  that means not all.
  Not even the majority of all but the minority.
  Not counting the schools, where one must,
  and the poets themselves, there will be perhaps two in a thousand.
  
  Like--
  but one also likes chicken noodle soup,
  one likes compliments and the color blue, one likes an old scarf,
  one likes to prove one's point,
  one likes to pet a dog.
  
  Poetry--
  but what sort of thing is poetry?
  More than one shaky answer
  has been given to this question.
  But I do not know and do not know and clutch on to it,
  as to a saving bannister.
  
  -----
  Some People Like Poetry
  -translated by Walter Whipple
  
  Some people--
  that is not everybody
  Not even the majority but the minority.
  Not counting the schools where one must,
  and the poets themselves,
  there will be perhaps two in a thousand.
  
  Like--
  but we also like chicken noodle soup,
  we like compliments and the color blue,
  we like our old scarves,
  we like to have our own way,
  we like to pet dogs.
  
  Poetry--
  but what is poetry.
  More than one flimsy answer
  has been given to that question.
  And I don't know, and don't know, and I
  cling to it as to a life line.
  
  
  -----告别风景-----
  
  我不悲春,
  春已回大地,
  我不会责怪,
  年年春相似,
  在尽自己的职责。
  
  我知道我的忧愁
  不会让新绿停止,
  一根芦苇的摇动,
  那是风吹的缘故。
  
  河边柳树成行?
  不会使我痛苦,
  是什么在沙沙响。
  
  我听到一个消息,
  他仍活在世上。
  那个湖泊的堤岸
  仍然美景如昔。
  
  我毫无怨言,
  那阳光下令人炫目的港湾
  真是美不胜收。
  
  我甚至可以想像,
  那些不同于我们的人,
  此时此刻正坐在
  被砍倒的白桦树干上。
  我尊重他们的
  低声悄语、微笑
  和幸福地沉默的权利。
  
  我甚至敢于打赌,
  是爱情把他们联系在一起,
  他用有力的臂膀
  将她紧搂在怀里。
  
  也许是新孵出的小鸟
  在芦苇丛中啼叫,
  我真诚地祝愿
  他们能够听见。
  
  我对岸边的波浪
  并不希冀有所改变,
  浪花时猛时缓,
  均不听从我的旨意。
  
  我对林边湖水的色调
  没有任何的要求,
  时而碧绿,
  时而湛蓝,
  时而一片幽暗。
  
  惟有一点我不同意——
  让我回到那里,
  这居留的权利
  我愿把他放弃。
  
  我比你经历更多,
  但也仅仅够我
  从远处去回想往事。
  
  [这首诗倒让我读出点政治的肃杀来。]
  
  
  -----一九七三年五月十六日-----
  
  这是许多日子的一天,
  那些日子对我说来已成过去。
  
  在那一天我到过哪里,
  做过什么——我都不知道。
  
  即使附近有人犯罪
  ——我也不可能在现场。
  
  太阳升起和西沉,
  均未引起我的关心。
  地球的转动,
  记事本上也无评论。
  一想起不久将会死去,
  要比我什么也不记得
  反而心情更加轻松,
  虽然我一直在活着。
  
  我不是个鬼魂,
  我呼吸,我吃喝,
  我步履稳健,
  能踩出声响。
  我手指的印痕
  一定会留在门把手上。
  
  我曾在镜子里端详过自己,
  发觉我身上出现了某种颜色,
  一定有几个人看见过我。
  也许就在这一天里,
  我找着了早已丢失的东西,
  也许我又把找回来的东西丢失。
  
  我充满了感情和印象。
  现在这一切
  有如括号里的一点。
  我在哪里闭门不出,
  我在何处隐居独处。
  这是个不坏的主意,
  让自己从人群中消失。
  
  我摇动着记忆之树,
  也许在它的枝杈上
  有长年沉睡的东西,
  会随着响声抖落出来。
  
  不,
  我的要求显然过分,
  因为连一秒钟也不放过。
  
  [这一天发生了什么?]
  
  May 16, 1973
  
  One of those many dates
  which no longer say anything to me.
  
  Where I went that day,
  what I did--I don't know.
  
  If a crime was committed nearby
  --I'd have no alibi.
  
  The sun shone and set
  without my noticing.
  The earth rotated
  without mention in my notebook.
  
  It would be easier for me to think
  that I died for a while
  than to admit that I remember nothing,
  although I was alive the whole time.
  
  After all I was not a ghost,
  I breathed and ate,
  took steps
  which were audible,
  and left fingerprints
  on the doorknobs. I was reflected in the mirror.
  I wore something of a certain color.
  I'm sure several people saw me.
  Perhaps on that day I found something I had lost earlier,
  or lost something which was later found.
  
  Feelings and impressions filled me.
  Now all that
  is like dots inside parentheses.
  
  Where I hid,
  where I hung out --
  it's not a bad trick
  to vanish from my own sight.
  
  I'll jog my memory --
  maybe something in its recesses
  which has been dormant for years
  will awaken with a start.
  
  No.
  I am most clearly demanding too much,
  though but a second of time.

-----

MAY 16, 1973

  
One of those many dates
that no longer ring a bell.

Where I was going that day,
what I was doing --- I don't know.

Whom I met, what we talked about,
I can't recall.

If a crime had been committed nearby,
I wouldn't have had an alibi.

The sun flared and died
beyond my horizons.
The earth rotated
unnoted in my notebooks.

I'd rather think
that I'd temporarily died
than that I kept on living
and can't remember a thing.

I wasn't a ghost, after all.
I breathed, I ate,
I walked.

My steps were audible,
my fingers surely left
their prints on doorknobs.

Mirrors caught my reflection.
I wore something or other in such-and-such a color.
Somebody must have seen me.

Maybe I found something that day
that had been lost.
Maybe I lost something that turned up late.

I was filled with feelings and sensations.
Now all that's like
a line of dots in parentheses.

Where was I hiding out,
where did I bury myself?
Not a bad trick
to vanish before my own eyes.
 
I shake my memory.
Maybe something in its brances
that has been asleep for years
will start up with a flutter.
No.
Clearly I'm asking too much.
Nothing less than one whole second.

Translated by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh
  
  -----被激怒的缪斯-----
  
  为什么我的爱情诗
  写得如此之少?
  你早就该向我
  提出这个问题。
  但是你却象那些
  宽容的人那样,
  一直要等到火花
  在诗节中燃尽。
  
  我沉默——这沉默
  仅仅是出于担心,
  我的歌曲
  会给我带来痛苦。
  会有那么一天,
  这些词句被突然否定,
  只留下韵律和韵脚。
  爱情飞走了,
  就像树枝投下的阴影,
  不可捉摸。
  啊,是的,这平常的担心
  却把我的喉咙扼住了。
  
  幸运的是我知道,
  应该怎样去对待这种沉默。
  如果我甚至不敢
  去触及带刺的玫瑰,
  我又怎能容忍
  雄壮的诗句向我尖叫?
  令人惊恐不安的担心。
  你为何这样来对待我……
  
  当我开始写作时,
  就像是有人来到我们中间,
  他不等到结束,便砰的一声
  破门而入。
  也许是风吹开了窗子。
  ——真是废话!
  也许来的是缪斯。
  爱情诗的缪斯呢?
  
  我知道,我的举止
  得罪了邻居。
  别人想说什么
  就让他说去好了。
  我从楼梯上跑下,
  在深沉的寂静中叫喊:
  埃拉托,你回来!等等我!
  埃拉托,你听见了吗?
  
  
  -----致不幸的女恋人-----
  
  你在收音机里收听华尔兹,
  还不停地摆弄你手上的戒指,
  甚至在交谈时也满脸笑容。
  
  但是你却被我的目光所吸引,
  慢慢把你的眼睛掉转过去,
  就像病人痛苦时出现的情景。
  
  你会认为,我有一双平静的眼睛。
  就不会去理解
  别人的忧伤悲痛。
  
  不过,我个人的幸福
  也曾经历过不止一次的失败,
  许多事情我都能体会理解。
  
  我知道,动听的声音
  怎样变成嘶哑的低语,
  而回忆又是怎样被凝结。
  
  我认识一些人,他们的心早已冰冷,
  但却在侈谈什么我们多温暖、多快活。
  当他们大笑时,那是他们在骗人。
  
  我也知道,怎样装出一副面容,
  让所有的人都不能看出你的悲痛。
  那是在遥远的过去,很久以前,
  我才需要这样的化妆技术。
  
  如今我也会采用这种化妆技术,
  但我不想使用这种虚假的伪装,
  你现在只能在我这里找到真理。
  
  我还记得额头上凝结的霜冰,
  桌子上还有一封未拆开的信,
  心就像蚁巢那样充满了固执。
  
  脆弱的想象,矛盾的计划,
  还有那不切实际的沉默,
  现在该是说出一切的时候!
  
  我是否知道痛苦?黎明的哭泣,
  突然失去的希望,
  还有肩膀上失去的重压?
  
  啊,你们那些被烧毁的约会的桥梁,
  假如今天我把双手放在火里烧烤
  ——也不再会是过去那样的感觉。
  
  可是你却在想,
  我有一双平静的眼睛,
  就不能理解别人的忧伤悲痛。
  
  如果不是痛苦、阴影和愤怒,
  而是只有快乐、明朗和歌声,
  把我的手引入诗中该有多发。
  
  [完]
  
  [就这样完了?这本书的编辑真是个猪头,书名叫一见钟情,序言里谈的也是一见钟情,书末的导读又强行在别人的文章中塞进不段不知从哪里摘来的一见钟情解读,可是整个集子中却不见这首诗。]
  
  -----一见钟情-----
  
  他们两人都相信
  是一股突发的热情让他两交会。
  这样的笃定是美丽的,
  但变化无常更是美丽。
  
  既然从未见过面,所以他们确定
  彼此并无任何瓜葛。
  但是听听自街道、楼梯、走廊传出的话语——
  
  他俩或许擦肩而过一百万次了吧?
  我想问他们
  是否记不得了——
  在旋转门
  面对面那一刻?
  或者在人群中喃喃说的“对不起”?
  或者在听筒截获的唐突的“打错了”?
  然而我早知他们的答案。
  是的,他们记不得了。
  
  他们会感到诧异,倘若得知
  缘分已玩弄他们
  多年。
  
  尚未完全做好
  成为他们命运的准备,
  缘分将他们推近,驱离,
  憋住笑声
  阻挡他们的去路,
  然后闪到一边。
  
  有一些迹象和信号存在,
  即使他们尚无法解读。
  也许在三年前
  或者就在上个星期二
  有某片叶子飘舞于
  肩与肩之间?
  有东西掉了又捡了起来?
  天晓得,也许是那个
  消失于童年灌木丛中的球?
  
  还有事前已被触摸
  层层覆盖的
  门把和门铃。
  检查完毕后并排放置的手提箱。
  有一晚,也许同样的梦,
  到了早晨变得模糊。
  
  每个开始
  毕竟都只是续篇,
  而充满情节的书本
  总是从一半开始看起。


-----一见钟情/林洪亮译-----

他们两人都深信,
他们的结合是一见钟情。
这样的自信真美妙,
但犹豫不决会更好。

他们认为既然素不相识,
他们之间过去就不会有什么瓜葛。
也许在街道、楼梯和过道上,
他们可能早就曾擦身而过。

我真想问问他们,
是否记得——
也许在旋转门里
他们曾碰在一起?
也许太挤了,说过“对不起”!
或者在电话筒里道声“打错了”。
不过,我知道他们会回答:
不,不记得有过这样的事情!

他们非常惊异,
已经有相当长的一个时期,
他们遇到的尽是机遇。
他们还没有完全准备好
把自己的命运相互交换。
他们时聚时散,
命运常出现在他们的路上,
忍住了对他们的窃笑,
然后又跳开到路旁。

确曾有过标志和记号,
尽管他们并不知晓。
也许是在三年以前,
或者是在上星期二,
有一片树叶
从这个人肩上落到另一个人的肩上?
或者是一件丢失而又拾回的东西?
说不定它是灌木丛中
童年时玩过的一只皮球?

也许是门把手和铃铛,
他们早先曾经
触摸过它们。
也许他们的箱子曾在寄存处放在一起,
也许在同一个晚上,
他们曾做过同样的梦,
惊醒之后梦便无影无踪。

然而每一个开端
都有它的继续。
而那本记事本
永远是半开半合。

-----
  
  Love at First Sight
  
  They're both convinced
  that a sudden passion joined them.
  Such certainty is beautiful,
  but uncertainty is more beautiful still
  
  Since they'd never met before, they're sure
  that there'd been nothing between them.
  But what's the word from the streets, staircases, hallways—
  perhaps they've passed each other a million times?
  
  I want to ask them
  if they don't remember—
  a moment face to face
  in some revolving door?
  perhaps a "sorry" muttered in a crowd?
  a curt "wrong number" caught in the receiver?
  but I know the answer.
  No, they don't remember
  
  They'd be amazed to hear
  that Chance has been toying with them
  now for years.
  
  Not quite ready yet
  to become their Destiny,
  it pushed them close, drove them apart,
  it barred their path,
  stifling a laugh,
  and then leaped aside.
  
  There were signs and signals,
  even if they couldn't read them yet.
  Perhaps three years ago
  or just last Tuesday
  a certain leaf fluttered
  from one shoulder to another?
  Something was dropped and then picked up.
  Who knows, maybe the ball that vanished
  into childhood's thicket?
  
  There were doorknobs and doorbells
  where one touch had covered another
  beforehand.
  Suitcases checked and standing side by side.
  One night, perhaps, the same dream,
  grown hazy by morning.
  
  Every beginning
  is only a sequel, after all,
  and the book of events
  is always open halfway through.
  
  -----
  Love at First Sight
  -translated by Walter Whipple
  
  Both are convinced
  that a sudden surge of emotion bound them together.
  Beautiful is such a certainty,
  but uncertainty is more beautiful.
  
  Because they didn't know each other earlier, they suppose that
  nothing was happening between them.
  What of the streets, stairways and corridors
  where they could have passed each other long ago?
  
  I'd like to ask them
  whether they remember-- perhaps in a revolving door
  ever being face to face?
  an "excuse me" in a crowd
  or a voice "wrong number" in the receiver.
  But I know their answer:
  no, they don't remember.
  
  They'd be greatly astonished
  to learn that for a long time
  chance had been playing with them.
  
  Not yet wholly ready
  to transform into fate for them
  it approached them, then backed off,
  stood in their way
  and, suppressing a giggle,
  jumped to the side. There were signs, signals:
  but what of it if they were illegible.
  Perhaps three years ago,
  or last Tuesday
  did a certain leaflet fly
  from shoulder to shoulder?
  There was something lost and picked up.
  Who knows but what it was a ball
  in the bushes of childhood.
  
  There were doorknobs and bells
  on which earlier
  touch piled on touch.
  Bags beside each other in the luggage room.
  Perhaps they had the same dream on a certain night,
  suddenly erased after waking.
  
  Every beginning
  is but a continuation,
  and the book of events
  is never more than half open.

-----

Love at First Sight
by Wislawa Szymborska

They both thought
that a sudden feeling had united them
This certainty is beautiful,
Even more beautiful than uncertainty.

They thought they didn't know each other,
nothing had ever happened between them,
These streets, these stairs, this corridors,
Where they could have met so long ago?

I would like to ask them,
if they can remember -
perhaps in a revolving door
face to face one day?
A "sorry" in the crowd?
"Wrong number" on the 'phone?
- but I know the answer.
No, they don't remember.

How surprised they would be
For such a long time already
Fate has been playing with them.

Not quite yet ready
to change into destiny,
which brings them nearer and yet further,
cutting their path
and stifling a laugh,
escaping ever further;
There were sings, indications,
undecipherable, what does in matter.
Three years ago, perhaps
or even last Tuesday,
this leaf flying
from one shoulder to another?
Something lost and gathered.
Who knows, perhaps a ball already
in the bushes, in childhood?

There were handles, door bells,
where, on the trace of a hand,
another hand was placed;
suitcases next to one another in the
left luggage.
And maybe one night the same dream
forgotten on walking;

But every beginning
is only a continuation
and the book of fate is
always open in the middle.

Translation from Polish by Roman Gren
Translation from French by Sarah Hardenberg


-----

We're Extremely Fortunate

We're extremely fortunate
not to know precisely
the kind of world we live in.

One would have
to live a long, long time,
unquestionably longer
than the world itself.

Get to know other worlds,
if only for comparison.

Rise above the flesh,
which only really knows
how to obstruct
and make trouble.

For sake of research,
the big picture,
and definitive conclusions,
one would have to transcend time,
in which everything scurries and whirls.

From that perspective,
one might as well bid farewell
to incidents and details.

The counting of weekdays
would inevitably seem to be
a senseless activity;
dropping letters in mailbox
a whim of foolish youth;
the sign "No Walking On The Grass"
a symptom of lunacy.
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