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主题 : T. S. 艾略特:前奏曲
级别: 创办人
0楼  发表于: 2012-01-20  

T. S. 艾略特:前奏曲

得一忘二


冬日的黄昏沉落了,
牛排味散漫在过道。
六点。
雾锁的白天燃剩的烟屁股。
此时,一场强风阵雨包住
一摊摊污秽,聚积着
你脚下枯皱的落叶,
空地上新丟的报纸;
阵雨抽打
破残的遮阳窗帘和烟囱管帽,
街道的拐角,
一匹独孤的拉车马冒着热气,跺脚。
接着,街灯一路亮起。


清晨进入意识,
带着一丝丝走气啤酒的味道,
从锯屑被踩乱的街上传来,
沾着泥的脚挤向
那儿的早点咖啡摊。
那些别样的假面戏
被时间再续,
令人想到的是那些手,
撩开脏兮兮的遮阳帘,
在一千间带家具的出租房里。


你将毯子从床上掀起,
你脸朝上横陈,等着;
眼神迷茫,看着夜晚展现
万千幅龌龊的画面,
你的灵魂由它们构成;
它们在天花板上闪现,
而当整个世界醒来的时候,
晨光透过百叶窗爬了上来,
你听到檐槽口有麻雀,
你脑中有一幅街头幻景,
而街头几乎不会明白;
你坐在床沿,
从毛发处叠起纸片,
或者将泛黄的脚底板
握紧在那双脏手心里。


他的灵魂撑开,紧绷在天空,
而天空隐没在市中街区后,
或被四点、五点及六点钟
持续不绝的脚践踏,
还有粗短的肉手指装着烟斗,
以及晚报,和确定见到
某些确凿之事的眼睛,
一条已经变黑的街道的良心
急于承担这个世界。
我被卷曲在这些图景周围
萦绕不去的幻想所触动:
那感觉是一种无限温柔
无限苦难的事情。
用你的手抹一下嘴,笑吧;
众世界在运转,如古老的女人
在片片空地捡拾柴火。


  译注:这首诗题目Preludes用的是复数,指前奏曲四首;这首诗其实是艾略特在1910年至1911年的不同时间写的,因此可以说并没有一个统一的“我”。既然是前奏曲,总会是暗示这是对某种后来的作品的前奏而已。当然,作者不可能在写这个作品的时候,已经预先要考虑好后面的是什么了,不过也有可能他意识到这里有他的大主题。这首诗写的是城市,这显然是现代诗人的重大主题。而之前艾略特也写了现代城市中的人,如那首著名的Prufrock的情歌就是对现代城市人的精神阳痿的一种描述。很多人都认为第三首中的你是一个女人(大概是妓女),很可能受到波德莱尔的影响。这首诗的总体写法是很突出意象的,语言上很干脆,句子不长,也较少跨行,押韵,但不那么严格。


Preludes

I
The winter evening settles down
With smell of steaks in passageways.
Six o'clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.
And then the lighting of the lamps.

II
The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street
With all its muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.
With the other masquerades
That time resumes,
One thinks of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.

III
You tossed a blanket from the bed,
You lay upon your back, and waited;
You dozed, and watched the night revealing
The thousand sordid images
Of which your soul was constituted;
They flickered against the ceiling.
And when all the world came back
And the light crept up between the shutters,
And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
You had such a vision of the street
As the street hardly understands;
Sitting along the bed's edge, where
You curled the papers from your hair,
Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
In the palms of both soiled hands.

IV
His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o'clock
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.
I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.
Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.

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