午後時光

日子。心情。人和事

首頁文章列表博文目錄

個人資料

cxyz (熱門博主)

給我悄悄話

博客訪問：

裏爾克詩譯：一個朋友的安魂曲 - Requiem for a Friend （上）

(2023-06-10 04:49:32) 下一個

（Selfportrait at 6th wedding anniversary， Paula Modersohn-Becker， 1906）

一個朋友的安魂曲

（紀念保拉•莫德索爾•貝克爾）

（上）

我曾經擁有的那些逝去了的人們我把他們放開讓他們離去

驚訝地發現他們是如此地自在

視死如歸家如此愉悅

這與他們生前的名聲地位不符隻有你

回來了拂過我的身體像風一樣停留徘徊想要

推倒什麽弄出聲響以便透露你的存在。哦請不要

請不要拿走我緩慢的認知我確信你是迷失了方向

如果這個維度裏有什麽勾起了你的思鄉之情。

我們改變事和物，那不是它們的真實模樣那隻不過是

我們的存在被拋光了的相麵的反映

我以為你已經走出很遠這會讓我擔心

你如果迷了路你這個人完成了比其他女人更加繁複的

幻相你的死去讓我們感到害怕。不更確切地說：

你凜然的死亡突然降臨闖入我們的生活帶著陰暗的色彩

將過去從以後分離開來 - 這關係到我們自己：調整它讓它恢複秩序

將是我們需要持續進行的使命

但是你自己也被嚇著了就是現在也還在心悸

雖然害怕在那裏恐怕已經失去了意義

你丟失了自己永恒中最微小的一片，保拉，但是你進入了

那個空間那個還沒有東西存在的地方，在那裏

你一臉茫然心不在焉你不能

就像你抓住地球上的每一件事物一樣去領略無限力量的輝煌

在那裏那個已經接納了你的空間因為一些曾經的不滿與怨氣

而升起的引力將你重新拖拽回到這個用時間來衡量的

世界 — -

這常常讓我在無夢的夜晚驚醒就像有一個小偷悄無聲息地

爬上了我的窗欞

如果我可以說那隻是出於善意

出於你豐富的內心，所以你回來了

因為你是如此地安之若素如此地自在

你可以在任何地方漫遊就像一個孩子一樣

不懼怕任何可能等待著你的傷害

但是不是這樣的：你在乞求。這刺穿了我

深入骨髓，像鋸子一樣把我切碎

一個幽靈能夠對我施加的最嚴厲的斥責

在暗夜裏向我叫囂，我退縮著縮進

我自己的肺裏腸道裏心髒最後一瓣空蕩的心房裏

所有這些苦楚都不及

你那無聲的乞求更讓我寒徹入骨

你想要的到底是什麽？

告訴我我必須去旅行嗎？你是否

拉下了什麽東西有什麽地方不能夠忍受

你的離去？我必須出發去一個你從未見過的國家

盡管它對你來說就像你的感官一樣近在咫尺清晰明亮？

我將在它的河流上航行在它的山穀裏探索詢問它最古老的

習俗我將在那裏長久地

站立跟門廊下的女人們交談在她們

喊孩子回家時等待著

我將觀察他們在田野和草地上作業如何把自己

包裹於大地當中我會要求引見去見

他們的國王我將賄賂牧師們

帶我去他們的寺廟到他們保留的最強大的佛像麵前

把我留在那裏然後離開讓門在他們的身後關閉

隻有在那時在我有了足夠的認知之後

我才會去觀察動物讓它們沉著的底韻

緩慢地滲透進我的肢體在它們的眼睛的

深處我將審視自己的存在它們的眼睛

將我短暫封鎖然後釋放平靜地不做任何評判

我會讓花匠們來找我在我麵前吟詠

豐富的花草的名字用那些小小的刻著它們

抑揚頓挫的名字的陶罐我將帶回

百種殘餘的滯留不去的芳香

還有水果：我要去采購水果

在它們甜美的芬芳裏那個國家的大地與天空將重現

因為那就是你對它們的理解：成熟的果實

你把它們擺放在畫布之前白色的碗裏

用你的顏料去衡量每一顆果實的飽滿

女人也是果實你看孩子們在內部塑造成

他們存在的形狀

最後你把自己也看成了果實你一步一步走出

自己的衣物把你裸露的軀體引領到鏡子的前麵

你讓裏麵的自己呈現在自己的凝視之下

那個站在鏡子前麵的強大而沉默它不宣稱：我是那個；或者，不，我是這個

完全丟棄了好奇之心你的目光變得如此的

無欲無求如此的平白無物甚至不再

因為自己而渴望，它什麽都不想要：隻剩下聖潔

我就是這樣把你珍視 — 在鏡子的

深處你把自己擺放遠離這個世界的

一切你為什麽會這樣回來這樣

來否認你自己呢？你為什麽

想讓我覺得在你的自畫像中你佩戴的

琥珀珠子裏仍然帶有一種

在寧靜的繪畫天堂裏無法存在的沉重感？

你為什麽要用你站立的姿態向我

展示一種邪惡的預兆？

是什麽讓你像印刻於手掌的手紋一樣去解讀

你自己身體的曲線以至於現在

我隻能把它們像命運一樣看待？

來吧到這裏來站到燭光之下，我不害怕

直視死者的麵孔當他們歸來他們有權利

像其他事物一樣在我們的視線之內停留重現

來吧到這裏來讓我們靜默片刻看到我桌角上的

這隻玫瑰了嗎它周圍的光芒是不是

像你身上的一樣怯弱？它也一樣不應該在這裏存在

它應該在花園裏外麵的花園裏

開放和凋謝它應該跟我毫無關聯

但是現在，它在一個小小的瓷瓶裏過活：

它又找到了什麽樣的意義呢在我的感知之中？

Requiem for a Friend

Rainer Maria Rilke, translated by Stephen Mitchell

(In memoriam Paula Modersohn-Becker)

（1）

I have my dead, and I have let them go,
and was amazed to see them so contented,
so soon at home in being dead, so cheerful,
so unlike their reputation. Only you
return; brush past me, loiter, try to knock
against something, so that the sound reveals
your presence, Oh don’t take from me what I

am slowly learning. I’m sure you have gone astray
if you are moved to homesickness for something
in this dimension. We transform these things;
they aren’t real, they are only the reflections
upon the polished surface of our being,
I thought you were much further on. It troubles me
that you should stray back, you, who have achieved
more transformation than any other woman.
that we were frightened when you died. . .no; rather:
that your stern death broke in upon us, darkly,
wrenching the till-then from the ever-since—
this concerns us; setting it all in order
is the task we have continually before us.

But that you too were frightened, and even now
pulse with your fear, where fear can have no meaning;
that you have lost even the smallest fragment
of your eternity, Paula, and have entered
here, where nothing yet exists; that out there,
bewildered for the first time, inattentive,
you didn’t grasp the splendor of the infinite
forces, as on earth you grasped each Thing;
that, from the realm which already had received you,
the gravity of some old discontent
has dragged you back to measurable time—:
this often startles me out of dreamless sleep
at night, like a thief climbing in my window.

If I could say it is only out of kindness,
out of your great abundance, that you have come,
because you are so secure, so self-contained
that you can wander anywhere, like a child,
not frightened of any harm that might await you. . .
But no: you’re pleading. This penetrates me, into
my very bones, and cuts at me like a saw.
The bitterest rebuke a ghost could bring me,
could scream to me, at night, when I withdraw
into my lungs, into my intestines,
into the last bare chamber of my heart
such bitterness would not chill me half so much
as this mute pleading. What is it you want?

Tell me, must I travel? Did you leave
something behind, some place, which cannot bear
your absence? Must I set out for a country
you never saw, although it was as vividly
near to you as your own senses are?
I will sail its rivers, explore its valleys, ask
about its oldest customs; I will stand
for hours, talking with women in their doorways
and waiting, while they call their children home.
I will watch the way they wrap the land around them
as they work in field and meadow; will demand
to be led before their king; will bribe the priests
to take me to their temple, before the most
powerful of the statues in their keeping,
and to leave me there, shutting the gates behind them.
And only then, when I have learned enough,
I will go to watch the animals, and let
something of their composure slowly glide
into my limbs; will see my own existence
deep in their eyes, which will hold me for a while
and let me go, serenely, without judgment.
I will have the gardeners come to me and recite
many flowers, and in the small clay pots
of their melodious names I will bring back
some remnant of the hundred fragrances.
And fruits: I will buy fruits; and in their sweetness
that country’s earth and sky will live again.
For that is what you understood: ripe fruits.
You set them before the canvas, in white bowls,
and weighed out each one’s fullness with your colors.
Women too, you saw, were fruits; and children, moulded
from inside, into the shapes of their existence.
And at last, you saw yourself as a fruit, you stepped
out of your clothes and brought your naked body
before the mirror, you let yourself inside
down to your gaze; which stayed in front, immense,
and didn’t say, I am that; no: This is.
So free of curiosity your gaze
had become, so unpossessive, of such true
poverty, it no longer desired even
for you yourself; it wanted nothing: holy.

And that is how I have cherished you—deep inside
the mirror, where you put yourself, far away
from all the world. Why have you come like this
and so denied yourself? Why do you want
to make me think that in the amber beads

You wore in your self-portrait there was still

A kind of heaviness that cannot exist

In the serene heaven of painting? Why do you show me

an evil omen in the way you stand?

What makes you read the contours of your body

Like the lines engraved inside a palm, so that

I cannot see them now except as fate?
Come here, into the candlelight，I’m not afraid
to look the dead in the face. When they return,
they have a right, as much as other things do,
to pause and refresh themselves within our vision.
Come here; let us be silent for a while.
Look at this rose on the corner of my desk:
isn’t the light around it just as timid
as the light on you? It too should not be here,
it should have bloomed and faded in the garden,
outside, never involved with me. But now
it lives on, in its small porcelain vase:
what meaning does it find in my awareness?

～～～～～～～～～～～～～

維基百科

保拉·莫德索恩-貝克爾（德語：Paula Modersohn-Becker，1876年2月8日—1907年11月21日）是一位德國畫家，也是早期表現主義的重要代表人物之一。她在31歲時就死於產後血栓，因此她的職業生涯很短。她被公認為是第一位畫裸體自畫像的女性畫家，她也是20世紀初期現代主義運動很重要的成員。

[ 打印 ]

[ 加入書簽 ]