查看: 2314|回复: 3

试译W.H.奥登《纪念西格蒙德·弗洛伊德》（已更新，多提意见）

67 主题	0 好友	945 积分

注册会员

Rank: 2

发消息

电梯直达

1^#

发表于 2007-8-4 13:30:45 |只看该作者 |倒序浏览

<

>纪念西格蒙德·弗洛伊德 W.H.奥登 当如许的人事需要我们哀悼， 当悲痛已如此公然，暴露 我们良知与痛苦的脆弱 于整个时代的批评话语， 还有谁我们将要谈论？一日日为我们 谋过福祉的人，在我们当中死去， 他们知道永无足日，却 仍渴望用生活带来稍许的改进。 这医生就如此：在耄耋之年他仍愿 思索我们的生活，从生活的桀骜中 种种或可成真的年幼的未来 以威胁或谄媚要我们顺从， 然而他的愿望否决了自己：他阖上双眼 在你我都熟悉的，那最后的图景 问题像亲属般聚集 困惑并嫉妒我们的将死。 因最终围绕着他的仍是 他曾思索过的，夜间的畜群， 和仍期待着进入 他所认可的光环的阴影 失落地转向别处，当他 被带离终生的兴趣所在 回到伦敦的土壤， 一位重要的犹太人死于放逐中。 只有恨才感到快乐，欲增加 他当下的业务，他阴暗的主顾 以为杀戮和将灰烬覆满花园 能将他们治愈。 他们仍活着，却是活在一个因他而改变的世界 回首往昔他没有虚假的悔过； 他做的一切只是像老人一样记忆 又如孩子般率真。 他本不聪明：他只是要那 不幸的现时像上诗歌课那样 细述过去，直到 它终将踌躇着来到许久前 那谴责起始的一线， 并顿悟自己曾受什么样的准则判断， 生命曾是多么丰饶又多么愚蠢， 被生命宽恕，更加恭顺， 能够像个友人般接近未来 没有任何藉口织就的戏服，没有 那惯常一本正经的面具，或是 那窘人的过分亲昵的姿态。 无怪傲慢古旧的陈规 在他那无定的技艺中预见到 
<

>王子们的沉沦，有利可图的 挫折范式的崩溃： 如果他成功，那么，概念化的生活 将变得无稽，现状的支柱 将被打碎，阻止 复仇者的联合。 他们当然会去找上帝，可他已下临 到如但丁那样的迷途者中间，下临 到恶臭的沟渠，那里受伤的人们 过着被弃者丑恶的生活， 并告知我们何谓罪恶，并非如我们所想， 是必遭惩罚的行为，而是我们信仰的缺失， 我们不诚的否定的心境， 还有那压迫者的淫欲。 如果那些专断姿态的痕迹， 他不信任的父亲般的严厉，仍 粘附于他的举止言辞， 那就是一个在敌人中 生活了许久的人的保护色： 如果他总是犯错，有时还错得荒谬 对我们他就不再是个人 而是整个观念的气候 在那之下我们过着各自的生活 就像天气他只能阻扰或是帮忙 骄傲的仍可以骄傲却发现 有一点困难，暴君试图 设法应付他却对他并不怎么在意 他静静地围绕着我们所有成长的习惯 又继续延伸，直到在哪怕最遥远的 悲惨的公国的疲惫者 都已从骨子里感到那变化并欣喜 直到在自己小现状中感到不幸的孩子， 在某个自由被拒斥的窝里， 以恐惧与烦忧为蜜的巢中， 都已感到些平静和某种逃离的保证 当躺卧在我们疏漏的草丛中 如许被久久遗忘的事物 被他不灭的光泽照亮而显露 又回到我们身边，珍贵如已往 我们成长中曾以为必须丢弃的游戏 我们怯于嘲笑的微弱的喧闹 无人注视时我们扮过的鬼脸 他对我们所愿却远多于此。自由 常意味着孤寂。他将要修复整合 因我们自己善意的决断 而断裂的不等的两半， 将智慧复归大份 意愿归于小份，但却只可用于 沉闷的争论，将归还 给儿子母亲感情的丰盛： 但他尤其要我们记住 热情地度过那夜晚 要对夜晚热情满怀 惊奇的感受，亦 因它需要我们的爱。那些悦人的生物 以悲伤的大眼睛仰视，默默地 乞求我们让他们跟随： 他们在放逐中，渴望着 在我们掌控中的未来，如果允许他们 像他一样为启蒙效劳，他们也将欣喜， 即使去忍受我们“犹大”的呵斥， 像他曾承受过，亦是所有启蒙的效劳者都必须承受的 一个理性之声喑哑。在他的坟墓之上 冲动情感的家族悲悼着一个深爱着的人： 厄洛斯，城市的建造者哀伤， 而不羁的阿芙洛狄忒哭泣。 
<

>05-11-09试译
05-12-03修改 In Memory of Sigmund Freud by W. H. Auden When there are so many we shall have to mourn, when grief has been made so public, and exposed to the critique of a whole epoch the frailty of our conscience and anguish, of whom shall we speak? For every day they die among us, those who were doing us some good, who knew it was never enough but hoped to improve a little by living. Such was this doctor: still at eighty he wished to think of our life from whose unruliness so many plausible young futures with threats or flattery ask obedience, but his wish was denied him: he closed his eyes upon that last picture, common to us all, of problems like relatives gathered puzzled and jealous about our dying. For about him till the very end were still those he had studied, the fauna of the night, and shades that still waited to enter the bright circle of his recognition turned elsewhere with their disappointment as he was taken away from his life interest to go back to the earth in London, an important Jew who died in exile. Only Hate was happy, hoping to augment his practice now, and his dingy clientele who think they can be cured by killing and covering the garden with ashes. They are still alive, but in a world he changed simply by looking back with no false regrets; all he did was to remember like the old and be honest like children. He wasn\'t clever at all: he merely told the unhappy Present to recite the Past like a poetry lesson till sooner or later it faltered at the line where long ago the accusations had begun, and suddenly knew by whom it had been judged, how rich life had been and how silly, and was life-forgiven and more humble, able to approach the Future as a friend without a wardrobe of excuses, without a set mask of rectitude or an embarrassing over-familiar gesture. No wonder the ancient cultures of conceit in his technique of unsettlement foresaw the fall of princes, the collapse of their lucrative patterns of frustration: if he succeeded, why, the Generalised Life would become impossible, the monolith of State be broken and prevented the co-operation of avengers. Of course they called on God, but he went his way down among the lost people like Dante, down to the stinking fosse where the injured lead the ugly life of the rejected, and showed us what evil is, not, as we thought, deeds that must be punished, but our lack of faith, our dishonest mood of denial, the concupiscence of the oppressor. If some traces of the autocratic pose, the paternal strictness he distrusted, still clung to his utterance and features, it was a protective coloration for one who\'d lived among enemies so long: if often he was wrong and, at times, absurd, to us he is no more a person now but a whole climate of opinion under whom we conduct our different lives: Like weather he can only hinder or help, the proud can still be proud but find it a little harder, the tyrant tries to make do with him but doesn\'t care for him much: he quietly surrounds all our habits of growth and extends, till the tired in even the remotest miserable duchy have felt the change in their bones and are cheered till the child, unlucky in his little State, some hearth where freedom is excluded, a hive whose honey is fear and worry, feels calmer now and somehow assured of escape, while, as they lie in the grass of our neglect, so many long-forgotten objects revealed by his undiscouraged shining are returned to us and made precious again; games we had thought we must drop as we grew up, little noises we dared not laugh at, faces we made when no one was looking. But he wishes us more than this. To be free is often to be lonely. He would unite the unequal moieties fractured by our own well-meaning sense of justice, would restore to the larger the wit and will the smaller possesses but can only use for arid disputes, would give back to the son the mother\'s richness of feeling: but he would have us remember most of all to be enthusiastic over the night, not only for the sense of wonder it alone has to offer, but also because it needs our love. With large sad eyes its delectable creatures look up and beg us dumbly to ask them to follow: they are exiles who long for the future that lives in our power, they too would rejoice if allowed to serve enlightenment like him, even to bear our cry of \'Judas\', as he did and all must bear who serve it. One rational voice is dumb. Over his grave the household of Impulse mourns one dearly loved: sad is Eros, builder of cities, and weeping anarchic Aphrodite.

[此贴子已经被作者于2005-12-3 10:11:01编辑过]

分享到: QQ空间 腾讯微博 腾讯朋友

分享0 收藏0 顶0 踩0

海月澄无影，游鱼独自迷。海月既无影，游鱼何得迷? 舶良指玄斋：http://poetshen.shineblog.com/

使用道具举报

舶良指玄

67 主题	0 好友	945 积分

注册会员

Rank: 2

发消息

2^#

发表于 2007-8-4 13:31:25 |只看该作者

<

>大刀阔斧改了一遍
<

>现在应该可以看了<IMG src="http://poetshen.shineblog.com/images/emot/face25.gif">，原来译的真的差的不能看<IMG src="http://poetshen.shineblog.com/images/emot/face6.gif">
<

>谢谢小小风用帮我梳理全诗提了那么多宝贵意见：） 大家继续多提意见

[此贴子已经被作者于2005-12-3 9:50:48编辑过]

海月澄无影，游鱼独自迷。海月既无影，游鱼何得迷? 舶良指玄斋：http://poetshen.shineblog.com/

使用道具举报