乌有乡

[美] 查克·米勒

张大卫 译

今早，我贴了三条透明胶带

今早，我贴了三条透明胶带

在我鞋底的洞上

看看这个几把玩意

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继续生活

但是我发现没有什么好让我笑的

于是我就笑什么都没有

笑什么都没有

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

《一千个微笑的白痴》

一个没有老伴的老人

身体摇晃着，脸上流着泪水

在夜晚的一棵树下

大口喘着气

一个老人穿着他的秋季大衣在地上打滚

一个没有老伴的单身汉

孤独，这种令人难以忍受的疾病

混上酒精这种劣质解药

他的困苦和我的一样，无法释怀

岁月流逝

给我们留下伤痕

几道很深的裂缝使我们破碎

而这一切都比不上死亡，和死去的人

天亮以后，一张张泥泞不堪的脸

摸索着朝着光的方向前行

把过去了的都抛在了身后

沉默使气氛越来越紧张

心中的郁结拧作一团

像风湿病人病痛的双手

所有这一切

都在使我们的脸

慢慢地生锈

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

汉赛尔与格莱特咖啡馆

在一片寂静中的

永恒咖啡馆

我们等待着

每个人都转向自己

远处传来一阵笑声

不是我们的

灯光轻微的颤动

像是无限空间中的某种调整

人们的眼睛都向内看着自己

时间流逝

我们也许调整了姿势

但是一切没有任何变化

在某种边缘上，感觉

没有任何东西存在

夜晚充满了虚无

破旧大衣上闪烁着微光

那些缺席的人

那些不会发生的事

在陌生国家被伤害，不排除在自己国家

献给西比约恩•奥布斯菲德，“他静悄悄的从人世间走过，无声无息的死去没有人知道”

站在一旁静静等待着

看着复印机边出纸边颤抖

站着停了一会儿，好像在想些什么

在想我们自己？

然后继续

好像有些勉强

办公室职员们来来回回地从我身边经过

用他们的方言闲聊着

当然，不是对我

突然一切变得很明显

在和这群人还有他们的上司打了几个月交道之后

我感觉到

对他们这群活人来说

我是死的

或者也许我是活的

而他们是一群死人

除了这两种情况

还有什么别的可能吗？

我感觉自己就像是钟楼怪人，或是陀思妥耶夫斯基笔下的囚犯

被流放

被驱逐到很远的地方

我想到了上世纪末的挪威作家

西比约恩•奥布斯菲德

他在一百多年前说过的一句话

现在每一个挪威人都耳熟能详

“jeg er visst kommet på feil klode”

我一定是来错了星球

Shanghaied in strange countries not excluding your own

For Sigbjørn 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

Sigbjørn Obstfelder

who, more than a century of ending ago

every Norwegian now knows to have said

“jeg er visst kommet på feil klode”

I must have come to the wrong planet.

《来自奥斯陆——一段路途》

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