[美] 查克·米勒

張大衛(wèi) 譯

今早，我貼了三條透明膠帶

今早，我貼了三條透明膠帶

在我鞋底的洞上

看看這個(gè)幾把玩意

好不好用

This morning, I put three pieces of scotch tape

this morning, I put three pieces of Scotch tape

over a hole in the bottom of my shoe

we'll see how good

this son-of-a-bitching stuff is

那天晚上

那天晚上

我突然想笑一笑然后繼續(xù)生活

但是我發(fā)現(xiàn)沒(méi)有什么好讓我笑的

于是我就笑什么都沒(méi)有

笑什么都沒(méi)有

That night

that night

I felt like laughing and carrying on

but found there seemed nothing to laugh at

so I laughed at nothing at all

at nothing at all

一個(gè)沒(méi)有老伴的老人

身體搖晃著，臉上流著淚水

在夜晚的一棵樹(shù)下

大口喘著氣

一個(gè)老人穿著他的秋季大衣在地上打滾

一個(gè)沒(méi)有老伴的單身漢

孤獨(dú)，這種令人難以忍受的疾病

混上酒精這種劣質(zhì)解藥

他的困苦和我的一樣，無(wú)法釋懷

歲月流逝

給我們留下傷痕

幾道很深的裂縫使我們破碎

而這一切都比不上死亡，和死去的人

天亮以后，一張張泥濘不堪的臉

摸索著朝著光的方向前行

把過(guò)去了的都拋在了身后

沉默使氣氛越來(lái)越緊張

心中的郁結(jié)擰作一團(tuán)

像風(fēng)濕病人病痛的雙手

所有這一切

都在使我們的臉

慢慢地生銹

En gubbe utan sin gumma

(An old man without his old woman)

Stumbling and weeping

under the late night paper trees

gasping for each breath

En gammal svensk (an old Swedish) rolling in his autumn overcoat

en gubbe utan sin gumma

Loneliness, the unbearable plague

mixed with the poor cure alcohol

ascribing to him something of my own obsessive plight

Seeping through the years

marking us like a pox

Some deep fissure that cracks our being,

none count the deaths, nor stack the dead

But in the morning, one sees the muddy faces

groping for the light

having left something of themselves behind

The silence stiffens

the inner gnarling twists up

like rheumatism’s hands in pain

and what we know of this

cakes our faces

like a slowly growing rust

漢賽爾與格萊特咖啡館

在一片寂靜中的

永恒咖啡館

我們等待著

每個(gè)人都轉(zhuǎn)向自己

遠(yuǎn)處傳來(lái)一陣笑聲

不是我們的

燈光輕微的顫動(dòng)

像是無(wú)限空間中的某種調(diào)整

人們的眼睛都向內(nèi)看著自己

時(shí)間流逝

我們也許調(diào)整了姿勢(shì)

但是一切沒(méi)有任何變化

在某種邊緣上，感覺(jué)

沒(méi)有任何東西存在

夜晚充滿了虛無(wú)

破舊大衣上閃爍著微光

那些缺席的人

那些不會(huì)發(fā)生的事

在陌生國(guó)家被傷害，不排除在自己國(guó)家

獻(xiàn)給西比約恩?奧布斯菲德，“他靜悄悄的從人世間走過(guò)，無(wú)聲無(wú)息的死去沒(méi)有人知道”

站在一旁靜靜等待著

看著復(fù)印機(jī)邊出紙邊顫抖

站著停了一會(huì)兒，好像在想些什么

在想我們自己？

然后繼續(xù)

好像有些勉強(qiáng)

辦公室職員們來(lái)來(lái)回回地從我身邊經(jīng)過(guò)

用他們的方言閑聊著

當(dāng)然，不是對(duì)我

突然一切變得很明顯

在和這群人還有他們的上司打了幾個(gè)月交道之后

我感覺(jué)到

對(duì)他們這群活人來(lái)說(shuō)

我是死的

或者也許我是活的

而他們是一群死人

除了這兩種情況

還有什么別的可能嗎？

我感覺(jué)自己就像是鐘樓怪人，或是陀思妥耶夫斯基筆下的囚犯

被流放

被驅(qū)逐到很遠(yuǎn)的地方

我想到了上世紀(jì)末的挪威作家

西比約恩?奧布斯菲德

他在一百多年前說(shuō)過(guò)的一句話

現(xiàn)在每一個(gè)挪威人都耳熟能詳

“jeg er visst kommet p? feil klode”

我一定是來(lái)錯(cuò)了星球

Shanghaied in strange countries not excluding your own

For Sigbj?rn Obstfelder “... who walked so quietly in life, one cannot hear that he has died.”

Standing back and waiting

while the copy machine spits and shudders

Stalling for a moment, as though stopping to think,

of whom, us?

And then resuming

as though reluctantly

The office workers pass to and fro

Talking their inbred chatter, but of course

not to you

Suddenly it becomes clear

—after months of dealing with this crew, and their overlords—

The sense you have of it

is that either you are dead

and they are alive

Otherwise perhaps you are alive

and they are dead

One or the other—

Or could there be some other arrangement?

You feel like some monstrous Quasimodo Stravagon convict

sent into ever further exile

and even more remote banishment

And you think of the fin-de-siecle Norwegian writer

Sigbj?rn Obstfelder

who, more than a century of ending ago

every Norwegian now knows to have said

“jeg er visst kommet p? feil klode”

I must have come to the wrong planet.