午後時光
日子。心情。人和事
（圖片來自網絡）（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）
裏爾克詩譯：一個朋友的安魂曲 - Requiem for a Friend （上）
（下）
不要被嚇到 如果我現在開始明了
它正在我的內心升起 我試圖去抓住它 必須要抓住它
哪怕為此獻出生命
我一定得抓住它 趁你還在這裏的時候 就像一個盲人
死死把一個物件抓在手裏
我感知到你的命運 盡管我無法言明
讓我們一起哀悼 有人將你從你的鏡像深度
拉了出來 你還能夠哭泣嗎
不：我看出你不能。你把淚水中的力量和壓迫
轉化為成熟的凝視 你把你的體內的每一滴 液體
轉化成一種更加強大的生命力
它升騰 流動 在無知無覺之中 達到平衡
然後 最後一次 機會介入 把你撕扯 把你從你生命軌跡上 最後的
向前的一步 重新拖回那個充滿著意誌的肉體世界
這不是一下子發生的：撕裂 起初隻是一點點
但是圍繞著這一點點 現實開始擴展 膨脹 變得沉重 —
你需要自己的全部； 你轉過身來 把自己打碎
分裂成一個個的碎片 你不得不這樣做
殫心竭慮地 因為你的需求太過強烈
然後 你從心底夜色般溫暖的土壤裏挖出了種子 仍舊翠綠的種子
從那裏麵 你的死亡將會發芽： 你自己的 完美的死亡 你整個生命的
圓滿的結局
然後 你吞咽下那些綠色的種子 你自己的死亡的種子
就像咽下其他的種子一樣 咽下它們 你驚諤地發現了一絲甜美的回味
你的嘴唇上 回味著未曾預期的甜美餘味 盡管那個你
在你自己的感官意識裏 已經如此甜美
讓我們一起哀悼 你知道嗎 你知道當你把它喚回 從它
無與倫比的輪回中喚回的那一刻
你的血液 是多麽的猶疑 多麽地不情願嗎
重新回歸肉體狹隘的循環之路 讓它如此迷惘
它滿懷疑惑與驚愕 一路走來湧向胎盤 然後 在那裏
於長途跋涉之後 突然地喪失了所有的氣力—- 精疲力盡
你驅趕著它 推動著它向前 把它拖向爐台 就像把受驚的的牲畜拖向祭壇一樣
然後 你希望 在經曆過這所有的一切之後 它會快樂
最終 你蠱惑了它： 它很高興 奔跑起來 繳械投降了
而你認為， 因為 已經習慣了生於斯長於斯的各種量衡，
那些將是短暫的 隻會持續很短的一段時間
但是現在你身處時間之中 而時間是漫長的 時間
在繼續 在變長 時間就像
久病之後的 再次複發
你的一生是多麽的短暫啊 與你默默度過的那些空虛時光相比
你將你自己無窮盡的未來中的無窮盡的力量 彎曲
使其偏離軌道 注入年輕的種子—-
那再次成為命運的東西。 這是一項痛苦的任務
一項超越一切力量的任務 但是你日複一日地完成著它
你拖著自己站到它的麵前 你把美麗的織物從機子上取下
並將其線縷編織成不同的圖案
然後 你依然有著足夠的勇氣 來慶祝
事成之後 你希望得到回報 就像是孩子們咽下 也許會讓他們康複的
苦澀的茶飲之時 期待的那樣
所以你選擇了自己的回報 即使在那時 你仍然與人們相距甚遠
沒有人想象得出你想要的到底是什麽
但你自己知道 你坐在自己童年的床上 麵前立著一麵鏡子
鏡子將一切反射回來 完完整整地 你自己和你的四周
這所有的一切就是你 在你的麵前；裏麵僅僅是虛相。 就像是
女人微笑著對著鏡子梳理自己的頭發 把珠寶鑲嵌於發絲之際
那個甜蜜的欺騙
就這樣 你死了，就像過去的女人一樣 死在自己家裏
在你溫暖的臥室裏 以那樣老舊的方式
就像是在分娩中死去的產婦 她們試圖把自己再次閉合
卻已經無法做到 因為那古老的黑暗回來了 隨著她們的生產而降生
它大刺刺地闖了進來 進入她們的身體
曾幾何時，人們會找來禮儀哀悼者--
那些婦女的職業就是哭泣 她們靠著徹夜痛哭而賺錢 當萬籟俱寂之際
這就是你必須要來的原因：來索取被我們忽略的哀悼
你聽到我的悲鳴了嗎
我想要把我的聲音甩出去 像一塊布一樣 覆蓋於
你的死亡碎片之上 並不斷地扯動 直到
它被撕扯成碎片 那個時候 我所述說的一切
都在走來走去瑟瑟發抖 在那聲音的破碎之中
但是僅有哀悼是不夠的 我必須控訴：
哦 不是那個將你從你自己身上帶走的男人
（我找不到他； 他看起來像每一個人）
而是在這個男人身上，我控訴： 所有的男人
當某個地方 我心靈的深處 有強烈的情緒升起 感知到自己曾經是個孩子 和
那個我曾經經曆過的 童年的純潔和本質：我竟不忍心再去探究
我想要用那種感覺塑造一個天使 把它投擲向前 到那些
天使的最前麵 天使們呐喊著 懷念上帝
因為這種痛苦持續得太久
我們誰也無法忍受 它太過沉重 —
這種愛的假象帶來的 糾結的痛苦
像習慣一樣建立於傳統之上
自稱正義 卻在不公正之中擴張
讓我看看誰會對他的所有具有所有權
誰又能真正擁有自己無法掌控的東西？
隻能夠偶爾地 抓住自己某個幸福的瞬間
然後 把自己拋向空中 就像
孩子拋開一個球一樣
就像是船長無法控製雕在船頭的尼凱女神
當她的神性的輕靈突然將她托起，帶入明亮的海風中裏：
我們中的任何一個也幾乎無法將她喚回 那個再也看不到我們的女人
而是像奇跡一樣，沿著她生存的狹窄道路，平安前行--除非，他希望去做錯事
因為這是錯的，如果真有什麽是錯的話：
不應該用一個人 所能召喚的所有的內在自由 來擴張愛的權利
我們需要， 於愛之中，練習這一點：
彼此放手 因為抓住很容易 是與生俱來的能力 無需學習
你還在嗎 站在某個角落裏？
你對這一切了如指掌 你能夠做到那麽許多
你的生命如此坦然 就像是一個清晨
我知道 女人飽受苦痛 因為愛情意味著孤獨
藝術家在工作中被直覺驅使 他們必須在熱愛之中不停地轉化
你兩者都占：兩者都存在於任何名聲都會奪走並扭曲你的東西之中
哦，你遠遠超越了所有的名聲 你幾乎是隱形的
你收回了你的美麗， 輕輕地
就像人們在假日後灰暗的早晨 降下一麵鮮豔的旗幟
你隻有過一個願望：經年累月的工作--盡管你竭盡全力，卻仍未完成
如果你還和我在一起 如果在這黑暗中的某個地方 你的靈魂
還在我的聲音激起的淺淺聲波上共鳴：
聽我說 幫幫我。我們可以如此輕易地 從我們努力爭取的東西中 抽回 突然地
進入我們從未想要的生活 我們會發現
自己糾纏其中 如同陷入一個夢裏 在那裏死去 永遠不會醒來
這是有可能發生的 任何將熱血傾注於長年工作的人 都可能發現
自己無法支撐下去 重力無可抗拒 它會回落 毫無價值地
因為在我們的日常生活和偉大的工作之間 存在著一種古老的敵意
請幫我 在說出它的同時 理解它
不要回來。 如果你能夠忍受 就和死者一起死去
死者有死者的任務
但如果可以 請幫助我 不要分心
因為最遙遠的東西有時侯會有益助：在我內心裏
Requiem for a Friend
Rainer Maria Rilke, translated by Stephen Mitchell
(In memoriam Paula Modersohn-Becker)
（2）
Don’t be frightened if I understand it now;
it’s rising in me, ah, I’m trying to grasp it,
must grasp it, even if I die of it. Must grasp
that you are here. As a blind man grasps an object,
I feel your fate, although I cannot name it.
Let us lament together that someone pulled you
out of your mirror’s depths. Can you still cry?
No: I see you can’t. You turned your tears’
strength and pressure into your ripe gaze,
and were transforming every fluid inside you
into a stronger life-force, that would rise
and circulate, in equilibrium, blindly.
Then, for the last time, chance came in and tore you
back, from the last step forward on your path,
into a world where bodies have their will.
Not all at once: tore just a shred at first;
but when, around this shred, day after day,
reality expanded, swelled, grew heavy—
you needed your whole self; you went away
and broke yourself into fragments, as you had to,
painstakingly, because your need was great.
Then from the night-warm soilbed of your heart
you dug the seeds, still green, from which your death
would sprout: your own, your perfect death, the one
which was your whole life’s perfect consummation.
And swallowed down the green seeds of your death,
like all the others, swallowed them, and were
startled to find an aftertaste of sweetness
you hadn’t planned on, a sweetness on your lips, you
who within your senses were so sweet already.
Let us mourn together. Do you know how hesitantly.
how reluctantly your blood, when you called it back,
returned from its incomparable circuit?
How confused it was to take up once again
the body’s narrow circulation; how,
full of mistrust and astonishment, it came
flowing into the placenta and suddenly
was exhausted by the long journey home.
You drove it on, you pushed it forward, you dragged it
up to the hearth, as one would drag a terrified
animal to the sacrificial altar;
and wanted it, after all that, to be happy.
Finally, you compelled it: it was happy,
it ran up and surrendered. And you thought,
because you’d grown accustomed to other measures,
that this would be for just a little while.
But now you were in time, and time is long.
And time goes on, and time grows large, and time
is like a relapse after a long illness
How short your life was, when it is compared
to those empty hours you passed in silence, bending
the abundant strengths of your abundant future
out of their course, into the new child-seed
that once again was fate. A painful task:
a task beyond all strength. But you performed it
day after day, you dragged yourself in front of it;
you pulled the lovely fabric out of the loom
and wove its threads into a different pattern.
And still had courage enough for celebration.
When it was done, you wished to be rewarded,
like children when they have swallowed down the draught
of bitter tea that perhaps will make them well.
So you chose your own reward, being still so far
removed from people, even then, that no one
could have imagined what reward would please you.
But you yourself knew. You sat up in your child bed
and before you stood a mirror, which gave back
everything, whole. And this everything was you,
and in front of you; inside was mere deception.
the sweet deception of every woman who smiles
as she puts her jewelry on and combs her hair.
And so you died as women used to die,
at home, in your own warm bedroom, the old-fashioned
death of women in labor, who try to close
themselves again but can’t, because that ancient
darkness which they have also given birth to
returns for them, thrusts its way in, and enters.
Once, ritual mourners would have been procured—
women whose job was weeping, who were paid
to howl the whole night through, when all is silent.
That’s why you had to come: to claim the mourning
which we omitted. Can you hear me mourn?
I would like to fling my voice out like a cloth
over the fragments of your death, and keep
pulling at it until it is torn to pieces,
and everything I say would walk around
shivering, in the tatters of that voice.
But mourning is not enough. I must accuse:
oh not the man who withdrew you from yourself
(I cannot find him; he looks like everyone),
but in this one man, I accuse: all men.
When somewhere, from deep within me, there arises
the vivid sense of having been a child,
the purity and essence of that childhood
where I once lived: then I can’t bear to know it.
I want to form an angel from that sense
and hurl him upwards, into the front row
of angels who cry out, rememhering God.
For this suffering has lasted far too long;
none of us can bear it; it is too heavy—
this tangled suffering of spurious love
which, building on convention like a habit,
calls itself just, and fattens on injustice.
Show me a man with the right to his possession.
Who can possess what cannot hold its own self,
but only, now and then, will catch itself
for a blissful moment, and throw itself away
into the air, as a child throws a ball.
As little as a captain can hold the carved
Nike facing outward from his ship’s prow
when the lightness of her godhead suddenly
lifts her up into the bright sea-wind:
so little can one of us call back the woman
who will no longer see us, but, as if
by miracle, sets forth along the narrow
path of her existence, in perfect safety—
unless, that is, he wishes to do wrong.
For this is wrong, if anything is wrong:
not to enlarge the freedom of a love
with all the inner freedom one can summon.
We need, in love, to practice only this:
letting each other go. For holding on
comes easily; we do not need to learn it.
Are you still here? Are you standing in some corner?
You knew so much of all this, you were able
to do so much; you passed through life so open
to all things, like an early morning. I know:
women suffer; for love means being alone;
and artists in their work sometimes intuit
that they must keep transforming, where they love.
You began both; both exist in that
which any fame takes from you and distorts.
Oh you were far beyond all fame; were almost
invisible; had withdrawn your beauty, softly,
as one would lower a brightly-colored flag
on the gray morning after a holiday.
You had just one desire: a years-long work—
which was not finished, in spite of all your efforts.
If you are still here with me, if in this darkness
there is still some place where your spirit resonates
on the shallow sound-waves stirred up by my voice:
hear me; help me. We can so easily
slip back from what we have struggled to attain,
abruptly, into a life we never wanted;
can find ourselves entangled, as in a dream,
and die there, without ever waking up.
This can occur. Anyone who has lifted
his blood into a years-long work may find
he can’t sustain it, the force of gravity
is irresistible, and it falls back, worthless.
For somewhere there is an ancient enmity
between our daily life and the great work.
Help me, in saying it, to understand it.
Do not return. If you can bear to, stay
dead with the dead. The dead have their own tasks.
But help me, if you can without distraction,
as what is farthest sometimes helps: in me.
我還有九首長詩《杜伊諾哀歌》等待翻譯，我會完成任務嗎，我隻能安慰自己，沒有時間限製。