给俞虹、可乐、蓓蓓拜年！

该讨论的回复

Permalink（永久链接）由老刀牌香烟在 2009 年1月27日上回复于5时25分am

谢谢拜年。也给大家拜年了。俞虹也很长久没有联系了，说不定回国去的。现在过年越来越冷清，儿子也不要出去，外面天天零下10多度，学生会也没有活动。

▶ 回复

Permalink（永久链接）由白兰地在 2009 年1月27日上回复于10时22分pm

可乐，新年好！

▶ 回复

Permalink（永久链接）由老刀牌香烟在 2009 年1月27日上回复于11时29分pm

俞虹，听到你的回应终归是好的。去年没给你发信祝好也一直过意不去，主要是怕打搅了，想想还是让你们各自为阵，做自己要做的。延龄坊网是开放式的，欢迎你来。

皆各套今年不跳西藏午的，是不是傣族舞蹈？这样在有几个春节，你们都好成立中央民族舞蹈团了。看不出都嘎年轻，保养得嘎好。我来叫我朋友看看，她肯定对化妆品很感兴趣。

▶ 回复

Permalink（永久链接）由白兰地在 2009 年1月28日上回复于12时26分am

发大鲜，让大家开心开心，自己也开心。也想让好莱坞大星探星夜来挖掘挖掘，不过千万不能拿皮尺来量喔，必须保持一定距离：）


蔡勇做的全部服装，万一下岗，还可以做裁缝：）

▶ 回复

Permalink（永久链接）由老刀牌香烟在 2009 年1月28日上回复于1时05分am

正当佩服你家相公，衣裳做的嘎好看。正是：娘子在外舞花秀腿，相公在家缝衣做饭，横批：天上人间 （颠山道士就不说了）。

我估计蔡勇的名字取得很有点阴阳平衡的哲理，一个勇字，说尽了男子汉大丈夫手握丈八长矛，冲锋陷阵的生涯。however, 一个菜字，把征战天涯的勇气拉回到了厨房。应该说，将军做菜只只香，将军缝衣件件牢。横批：战场为家 （打进厨房这句话就不说了）。

▶ 回复

Permalink（永久链接）由白兰地在 2009 年1月28日上回复于2时33分am

嘴皮子就是这样练成地！
哪像你冰天雪地冲锋陷阵性命不要帮林美美购时装。

▶ 回复

Permalink（永久链接）由星夜在 2009 年1月28日上回复于6时12分am

回击得够力道！再加一句：一骑雪尘黛玉笑，无人知是购时装。

虹姐家官人真是能文能武，巧手难觅。蔡大人还是这么出色的小裁缝呢。 佩服佩服！我等连女红都不黯的，真是无地自容。 感谢新社会。。。 ：）

▶ 回复

Permalink（永久链接）由白兰地在 2009 年1月28日上回复于10时01分pm

谢谢你们美言。你俩是越来越灵气才气牛气冲天了：）
我们这里真发眼，今天天气刚到零度，从昨天开始就乱都乱煞了，今天学校都晚两小时开学。要是像可乐那里天寒地冻这里的人恐怕就活不成了。不知星夜那件羽绒服今天有没有机会从箱底跳出来漂亮漂亮。

▶ 回复

Permalink（永久链接）由老刀牌香烟在 2009 年1月28日上回复于11时58分pm

it is funny. 昨天上课结束（7pm），外面下雪，一个学生提到她先生多少欢喜天气预报，我今天早上就查了一遍今天的天气，发现austin尽然是零度，我这里是零下4度，lmm那里零下24度，她要开长途去开会，所以一直在担心。我们这里雪太大了，昨天下到现在不停，目前学校彻底关掉了。你们那里今天是可以想象的。

明年建议你们跳牛午，一定是一牛（扭）惊人：

▶ 回复

Permalink（永久链接）由白兰地在 2009 年1月29日上回复于12时40分am

呵呵，这个牛舞是有一定的难度的：），这个艰巨的任务还是交给老牛同志吧。
你和林mm出门真当要当心，听说你们的参议员脚骨摔断

Permalink（永久链接）由星夜在 2009 年1月29日上回复于4时58分am

虹姐，今天因为风不大，我没穿自己喜爱的鹅黄羽绒服，前些日子下雪那天穿过两天。

虽然接近摄氏零度，休斯敦的灿烂阳光依然执拗地洒向树梢屋宇和沿街而过的车骑行人，与在南国冬日里傲放的鲜花小草们。

刚才看了一首T.S. Eliot的《Four Quartets>--“四重奏”，翻译了最后一节，算是今日之诗意。 该组诗是沉吟“时间”，和在时间中打滚不息的历史、人文。我读着感觉比他的“荒原”好。

羊儿他们学校今日没推迟上学时间。

可乐那边好啊，放雪假，可以恣意放松一下了。

A nice day to both of you!

烧毁的诺顿BURNT NORTON
(No. 1 of 'Four Quartets')
T.S. Eliot


I
Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden. My words echo
Thus, in your mind.
But to what purpose
Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves
I do not know.
Other echoes
Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow?
Quick, said the bird, find them, find them,
Round the corner. Through the first gate,
Into our first world, shall we follow
The deception of the thrush? Into our first world.
There they were, dignified, invisible,
Moving without pressure, over the dead leaves,
In the autumn heat, through the vibrant air,
And the bird called, in response to
The unheard music hidden in the shrubbery,
And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the roses
Had the look of flowers that are looked at.
There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting.
So we moved, and they, in a formal pattern,
Along the empty alley, into the box circle,
To look down into the drained pool.
Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged,
And the pool was filled with water out of sunlight,
And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly,
The surface glittered out of heart of light,
And they were behind us, reflected in the pool.
Then a cloud passed, and the pool was empty.
Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children,
Hidden excitedly, containing laughter.
Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
Cannot bear very much reality.
Time past and time future
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.


II
Garlic and sapphires in the mud
Clot the bedded axle-tree.
The trilling wire in the blood
Sings below inveterate scars
Appeasing long forgotten wars.
The dance along the artery
The circulation of the lymph
Are figured in the drift of stars
Ascend to summer in the tree
We move above the moving tree
In light upon the figured leaf
And hear upon the sodden floor
Below, the boarhound and the boar
Pursue their pattern as before
But reconciled among the stars.
At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.
I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where.
And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time.
The inner freedom from the practical desire,
The release from action and suffering, release from the inner
And the outer compulsion, yet surrounded
By a grace of sense, a white light still and moving,
Erhebung without motion, concentration
Without elimination, both a new world
And the old made explicit, understood
In the completion of its partial ecstasy,
The resolution of its partial horror.
Yet the enchainment of past and future
Woven in the weakness of the changing body,
Protects mankind from heaven and damnation
Which flesh cannot endure.
Time past and time future
Allow but a little consciousness.
To be conscious is not to be in time
But only in time can the moment in the rose-garden,
The moment in the arbour where the rain beat,
The moment in the draughty church at smokefall
Be remembered; involved with past and future.
Only through time time is conquered.


III
Here is a place of disaffection
Time before and time after
In a dim light: neither daylight
Investing form with lucid stillness
Turning shadow into transient beauty
With slow rotation suggesting permanence
Nor darkness to purify the soul
Emptying the sensual with deprivation
Cleansing affection from the temporal.
Neither plenitude nor vacancy. Only a flicker
Over the strained time-ridden faces
Distracted from distraction by distraction
Filled with fancies and empty of meaning
Tumid apathy with no concentration
Men and bits of paper, whirled by the cold wind
That blows before and after time,
Wind in and out of unwholesome lungs
Time before and time after.
Eructation of unhealthy souls
Into the faded air, the torpid
Driven on the wind that sweeps the gloomy hills of London,
Hampstead and Clerkenwell, Campden and Putney,
Highgate, Primrose and Ludgate. Not here
Not here the darkness, in this twittering world.
Descend lower, descend only
Into the world of perpetual solitude,
World not world, but that which is not world,
Internal darkness, deprivation
And destitution of all property,
Desiccation of the world of sense,
Evacuation of the world of fancy,
Inoperancy of the world of spirit;
This is the one way, and the other
Is the same, not in movement
But abstention from movement; while the world moves
In appetency, on its metalled ways
Of time past and time future.


IV
Time and the bell have buried the day,
The black cloud carries the sun away.
Will the sunflower turn to us, will the clematis
Stray down, bend to us; tendril and spray
Clutch and cling?
Chill
Fingers of yew be curled
Down on us? After the kingfisher's wing
Has answered light to light, and is silent, the light is still
At the still point of the turning world.


V
Words move, music moves
Only in time; but that which is only living
Can only die. Words, after speech, reach
Into the silence. Only by the form, the pattern,
Can words or music reach
The stillness, as a Chinese jar still
Moves perpetually in its stillness.
Not the stillness of the violin, while the note lasts,
Not that only, but the co-existence,
Or say that the end precedes the beginning,
And the end and the beginning were always there
Before the beginning and after the end.
And all is always now. Words strain,
Crack and sometimes break, under the burden,
Under the tension, slip, slide, perish,
Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place,
Will not stay still. Shrieking voices
Scolding, mocking, or merely chattering,
Always assail them. The Word in the desert
Is most attacked by voices of temptation,
The crying shadow in the funeral dance,
The loud lament of the disconsolate chimera.

惟在时间中，言语前行，
音乐前行；然而只有生者
方能寂灭。言语，述说后便进入
静止，犹如一只中国瓶罐
在静止中运动不息。
当乐音缭绕，那不是小提琴归于沉寂，
不只是那样，而是动静共存。
或者说那是终止先于开始，
在开始之前和结束以后，
结束和开始便一直存在。
重要的乃是现在。言语在重负下
疲乏、迸裂、有时甚至破碎，
在张力下跌落、溜走、消失，
或因表达不当而腐朽，不会停留在原处，
不会静止不动。刺耳声、
呵斥、嘲弄，抑或仅是絮叨，
总在攻击它们。被遗弃的词，
最易受到诱惑之声的攻击，
还有葬礼之舞中哭泣的阴影，
郁郁寡欢的卡米拉之朗朗悲叹。

The detail of the pattern is movement,
As in the figure of the ten stairs.
Desire itself is movement
Not in itself desirable;
Love is itself unmoving,
Only the cause and end of movement,
Timeless, and undesiring
Except in the aspect of time
Caught in the form of limitation
Between un-being and being.
Sudden in a shaft of sunlight
Even while the dust moves
There rises the hidden laughter
Of children in the foliage
Quick now, here, now, always—
Ridiculous the waste sad time
Stretching before and after.

模式的细节是一种运动，
好比十阶梯的图形所显示。
欲望本身是一种运动，
而非它本身是令人向往的。
爱本身静谧不动，
只是运动的缘由和终结，
无始无终，无所乞求，
除非牵涉到时间，
囿于某种形式的限制，
介于存在和非存在之间。
蓦然在一道阳光中，
甚至当尘埃四起，
绿叶中扬起一阵
潜在的孩童笑声。
现在快点，此地，现在，永远—
滑稽可笑的是，虚掷而悲哀的时间
伸展于之前和其后。

▶ 回复

Permalink（永久链接）由白兰地在 2009 年1月29日上回复于10时28分pm

星夜上班真陿意，能读诗写作，羡慕。
我喜欢Eliot的诗，有哲理，回味无穷。你译得很好。我尤其欣赏你把原诗的节奏韵律译得非常原汁原味，这是翻译诗歌颇见功底的地方。你的风格比较唯美优雅，“寂灭”“缭绕”“静谧” die, last, unmoving, 原来的词很平白。
one minor: missing the line "only by the form, the pattern can words or music reach"
谢谢，让我享受了一把。

• First
• 前一张
• 下一张
• Last