後記: 為了寫這篇文章,特意去搜了搜作者李娟和豆瓣網上的一些中文摘錄。非常感慨,這樣的文章和文字居然出自一個高中都沒有讀完的70後之手(李娟79年生,寫這部時大概32歲)。這部遊記還榮獲了"人民文學獎"。感謝這時代,給每一個人提供了平台(level the ground), 不論出身,不論師出有門無門,每個人都可以施展各自的才華。我想,是豐富的生活經曆賦予李娟以靈感,是新疆這塊沃土孕育了神奇。
In reality, year after year, everyone must submit to nature’s will, oscillating endlessly between south and north. In spring, the herders follow the melting of the snow northward, and come autumn, they are driven slowly back to the south. They are forever departing, forever saying goodbye. In spring, lambs are delivered; in summer, they are fattened; in autumn, they breed; in winter they are pregnant again.
In this homeland stretching over six hundred miles, in every secret winkle on the earth’s surface, every nook and cranny in which shelter can sought… youth, wealth, love, and hope., everything is swallowed up.
In the end, this wilderness will be left behind. The herders will no longer be its keeper. The cattle and sheep will no longer tread its every surface. The grass seeds that drift onto the earth in autumn will no longer feel the force of stomping hoovers that bury them deep into the soil. The masses of manure the fertilized their growth will no longer fall on them. This land will remain forever open, majestically alone in its vastness. The wilderness will be left behind.
Chemical fertilizers will engorge luxuriant grasses with fats and juices.
Engorge: cause to swell with blood, water, or another fluid.
"the river was engorged by a day-long deluge"
Besides, a sheep’s fate so seamlessly dovetails with the rest of nature—how they resemble plants! They sprout in spring, grow lush in summer, set seed in autumn, and harbor that seed in autumn, and harbor that seed all winter long, pregnant, waiting… While chasing the flock through the wildlands, I often thought about how most of them were with child, how most were calm, content mothers. Suddenly I felt the winter’s significance running deep and far.
In a singsong voice
A paragon of decorum
Spinning around all day like a top
Chatterbox
Gurgle with laughter
Birds appeared ephemerally through spatters of claw marks. Though they belonged to the sky, I rarely spotted them overhead.
As mice leave prints on the ground, the birds leave squawks in the air. In the wilderness, when there is a sudden cacophony of birdcall, a person feels transported to a forest at dawn. But when you look around, there are no birds in sight. The only birds you see from time to time are the massive falcons that quietly land on top of the sand dunes.
Any of the other multitude of flora that sprinkled the wilderness.
Those hushed hearts in the most distant crevices on earth.
Not tinkering with nonsense
Center of gravity
Shirk on his chore
Rummage through the chest
It was the desert after all, but no matter how deprived or constrained you might be, you should not shortchange the dead. He wore the stars and the moon, walked in the wind and the rain, shuttled across this earthly loom from north to south and back. Then, one day, he died. He never had to move again, never had to migrate with the herd gain.
At some point, the western sky had cleared up into a stirring blue and white.
I noticed that on dark, moonless nights, the sky exploded with stars. But as long as there was a moon—even if it was only a sliver of a crescent moon, the Milky Way faded into darkness.
In a moment like that, a camera would have been a barbaric intrusion! My eyes captured the scene with more details and vibrancy than any less possibly could—the last of the nomads, the most quiet and remote way of life!
“Knowing” and “not knowing” grew out of one another. The world was opening from both sides. When I thought the world was a tiny seed, the world turned out to be an apple; When I thought the world was an apple, it turned out to be apple tree; when I thought the world was an apple tree, I looked up and saw the world around me—there was an apple orchard stretching forever in all directions….
Even if I did catch a glimpse of the fate of the nomads and the desert, and learned to understand the basics, I still struggled to articulate it with my unwieldy and anxious tongue. The more I try to make sense of the big picture, the more I’m tripped up by the details. What’s worse, the more I want to point out the most barbaric moments, the more I want to turn around and forgive human nature, especially forgive myself… I really am no use.
The desert was yellow, the snow white, the sky blue, the whole world was pale except for that single dark patch that animals and humans had called home, like a paperweight that pressed firmly down on the rolling land. On that black dot, the distance between sky and earth was farthest.
回複 '7grizzly' 的評論 : Thanks, my friend, for your quote as an answer. I won't compete with anyone, but myself:))
Migration will bring forth problems that one may never face before. People may feel lost in the process. In the example you listed above, it looks like too much individualism left them directionless:))
Thanks again, my friend. Nice chatting with you.
7grizzly 發表評論於
> To him, I am not competitive against the new generation.
In return, you can say 聖人之道,為而不爭 ;-)
> This essay collections were actually translated by two translators
Translation must be hard. I always felt amazed by the few guys who convert Murakami's work.
Back to Cuma. His story reminded me of a guy from Russia. He said that back in the days of the Soviet Union, many choices were made for the elites (e.g., jobs, houses, or maybe even spouses to some degree). After they migrated to the West, where individualism is the culture, they couldn't make their own choices, couldn't do as well anymore, and sank into depression.
暖冬cool夏 發表評論於
回複 '7grizzly' 的評論 : Thanks, my friend. for your reading and comment. You wrote more conclusively than I did:)) You are absolutely right that their traditions are challenged as the world is changing fast.
If you are interested, you can compare Chinese version with English one here for a few paragraphs. The other day, I said jokingly to him that I wish that in ten years someone may come to me, asking me to translate Chinese works (I know I am not ready now, but you ARE). He scoffed at the idea, saying that it is not "forward-looking" (缺乏前瞻性:))To him, I am not competitive against the new generation.
This essay collections were actually translated by two translators, one Englishman and one Chinese (how could they align stylishly?). Maybe in ten years, we can work together:)) Just kidding. In ten years, I will be definitely retired, but you might be still young:)). But who knows that with the financial freedom, you may retire earlier than I do:))
Just a joke. Thanks again for your visit. Have a great weekend!
7grizzly 發表評論於
Thanks for sharing a great read. From your vivid report I could try to empathize with
Cuma. He must have been following his ancestral way of life. It was hard living
but it had kept the tribe so far. The world's changing and he had felt it in
many ways and the awareness made him feel trapped. He was too old to break the
mold thrust on him since the day he was born. He had even lost the will to fight
a way out. But the feeling of desolation and helplessness was just as real as
the anxiety from the changes without.
讚暖冬的好文筆!這篇書評寫得很感人!“我一生走過的地方不多,或許今生都不會有機會踏上大西北那片神奇的土地。感謝李娟的這部作品,它就像一首遙遠的牧歌,從南疆傳來,帶著曠野的風,帶著異域的風情,讓我聆聽,讓我走近,讓我沉浸其中” 暖冬的這段話讓我也沉浸其中了。“youth, wealth, love, and hope., everything is swallowed up.” 牧民的精神世界是我們所想像不到的。也許孤獨也是一種信仰。去年有朋友推薦我一本書 《Out of the Gobi》書沒找到就先看了手頭上作者寫的另一本書《Money Games》。看了暖冬的書評,才體會到了作者的堅韌,頑強,樂觀是來自原來在大漠戈壁經曆。謝謝分享好書評!周末愉快!:)
後記: 為了寫這篇文章,特意去搜了搜作者李娟和豆瓣網上的一些中文摘錄。非常感慨,這樣的文章和文字居然出自一個高中都沒有讀完的70後之手(李娟79年生,寫這部時大概32歲)。這部遊記還榮獲了"人民文學獎"。感謝這時代,給每一個人提供了平台(level the ground), 不論出身,不論師出有門無門,每個人都可以施展各自的才華。我想,是豐富的生活經曆賦予李娟以靈感,是新疆這塊沃土孕育了神奇。
In reality, year after year, everyone must submit to nature’s will, oscillating endlessly between south and north. In spring, the herders follow the melting of the snow northward, and come autumn, they are driven slowly back to the south. They are forever departing, forever saying goodbye. In spring, lambs are delivered; in summer, they are fattened; in autumn, they breed; in winter they are pregnant again.
In this homeland stretching over six hundred miles, in every secret winkle on the earth’s surface, every nook and cranny in which shelter can sought… youth, wealth, love, and hope., everything is swallowed up.
In the end, this wilderness will be left behind. The herders will no longer be its keeper. The cattle and sheep will no longer tread its every surface. The grass seeds that drift onto the earth in autumn will no longer feel the force of stomping hoovers that bury them deep into the soil. The masses of manure the fertilized their growth will no longer fall on them. This land will remain forever open, majestically alone in its vastness. The wilderness will be left behind.
Chemical fertilizers will engorge luxuriant grasses with fats and juices.
Engorge: cause to swell with blood, water, or another fluid.
"the river was engorged by a day-long deluge"
Besides, a sheep’s fate so seamlessly dovetails with the rest of nature—how they resemble plants! They sprout in spring, grow lush in summer, set seed in autumn, and harbor that seed in autumn, and harbor that seed all winter long, pregnant, waiting… While chasing the flock through the wildlands, I often thought about how most of them were with child, how most were calm, content mothers. Suddenly I felt the winter’s significance running deep and far.
In a singsong voice
A paragon of decorum
Spinning around all day like a top
Chatterbox
Gurgle with laughter
Birds appeared ephemerally through spatters of claw marks. Though they belonged to the sky, I rarely spotted them overhead.
As mice leave prints on the ground, the birds leave squawks in the air. In the wilderness, when there is a sudden cacophony of birdcall, a person feels transported to a forest at dawn. But when you look around, there are no birds in sight. The only birds you see from time to time are the massive falcons that quietly land on top of the sand dunes.
Any of the other multitude of flora that sprinkled the wilderness.
Those hushed hearts in the most distant crevices on earth.
Not tinkering with nonsense
Center of gravity
Shirk on his chore
Rummage through the chest
It was the desert after all, but no matter how deprived or constrained you might be, you should not shortchange the dead. He wore the stars and the moon, walked in the wind and the rain, shuttled across this earthly loom from north to south and back. Then, one day, he died. He never had to move again, never had to migrate with the herd gain.
At some point, the western sky had cleared up into a stirring blue and white.
I noticed that on dark, moonless nights, the sky exploded with stars. But as long as there was a moon—even if it was only a sliver of a crescent moon, the Milky Way faded into darkness.
In a moment like that, a camera would have been a barbaric intrusion! My eyes captured the scene with more details and vibrancy than any less possibly could—the last of the nomads, the most quiet and remote way of life!
“Knowing” and “not knowing” grew out of one another. The world was opening from both sides. When I thought the world was a tiny seed, the world turned out to be an apple; When I thought the world was an apple, it turned out to be apple tree; when I thought the world was an apple tree, I looked up and saw the world around me—there was an apple orchard stretching forever in all directions….
Even if I did catch a glimpse of the fate of the nomads and the desert, and learned to understand the basics, I still struggled to articulate it with my unwieldy and anxious tongue. The more I try to make sense of the big picture, the more I’m tripped up by the details. What’s worse, the more I want to point out the most barbaric moments, the more I want to turn around and forgive human nature, especially forgive myself… I really am no use.
The desert was yellow, the snow white, the sky blue, the whole world was pale except for that single dark patch that animals and humans had called home, like a paperweight that pressed firmly down on the rolling land. On that black dot, the distance between sky and earth was farthest.