伊格內(nèi)托作品

董繼平 譯

門

我無論去哪里，都會(huì)帶著一道門同行，根據(jù)發(fā)生的不同情況，那道門會(huì)打開或者關(guān)閉。如果參加我自從孩提時(shí)代就認(rèn)識(shí)的朋友的聚會(huì)，那道門就保持半開。如果我參加對(duì)最近的政治混亂的討論會(huì)，那道門則完全關(guān)閉，但我把一只耳朵貼在上面，以防萬一聽到什么意想不到的事情。

如果我參加一場(chǎng)帶有商業(yè)目的的午餐會(huì)，諸如要獲得撥款什么的，那道門就保持打開。盡管如此，那個(gè)坐在書桌那邊面對(duì)著我的人，根本不會(huì)發(fā)現(xiàn)我在那道打開的門前。我會(huì)沿著走廊，躲在一個(gè)角落，但他聽不到我的聲音。

因此，盡管帶著門同行可能會(huì)不方便而且還累人，如果不是有些奇怪，我也愿意為此辯護(hù)說這完全是一種正常程序，你們會(huì)看見我竭盡全力帶著它，如果你們?cè)敢猓銈兛梢詭鸵幌旅Γ畔履銈兊耐椋屇堑篱T發(fā)揮作用。謝謝你們。

THE DOOR

Wherever I go I carry the door with me，opened or closed，depending on what’s happening.In the event I am attending a party of friends I’ve known since childhood，the door remains half open.In the event I attend a meeting to discuss the latest political upset，the door is totally closed，but I have an ear pressed to it，in case I hear something extraordinary.

In the event I attend a luncheon for business purposes，such as to obtain a grant，the door remains open.However，the person who is seated opposite me across the desk will not find me at the open door at all.I’ll be down the corridor，hidden in a corner，but he’ll hear me.

And so，though carrying the door may be an inconvenience and tiring，if not somewhat bizarre，I’m prepared to defend it as a perfectly normal procedure，and should you see me straining to carry it，you could，if you would，lend a hand，putting your pity at rest by putting it to work.Thank you.

他在他的身體里面

他在他的身體里面尋找他抑郁的原因。這仿佛就像他用手在胸膛中從一個(gè)器官搜尋到另一個(gè)器官。他能感覺到抑郁在他的心臟附近，然而，當(dāng)他如此小心翼翼伸入那個(gè)區(qū)域及其周圍，抓住那種疼痛并將其拔出來的時(shí)候，手上卻一無所有。

他把那種抑郁想象成非法居住在他體內(nèi)的東西，而且，由于他無法將其從身體中移除，還不止一次請(qǐng)求過它，要它從他的體內(nèi)移除出去，他就認(rèn)為現(xiàn)在自己有權(quán)對(duì)它實(shí)施暴力，淹死它，于是他開始喝水。

他自己變成了一種霧，那種從他飲下的水與體內(nèi)的溫暖的沖突中升起的濃霧，因此他就再也無法探測(cè)抑郁了。它現(xiàn)在成了一種普遍的霧，當(dāng)然，就像本性在不穩(wěn)定的狀態(tài)下可能發(fā)生的那樣。他認(rèn)為自己是本性的一種實(shí)際情況，他就像霧那樣不穩(wěn)定地前行，就像霧那樣從街道走到街道，從房子走到房子，發(fā)現(xiàn)自己要么被鎖在這些房子外面，要么被匆匆掠過。

這是夜晚。霧，那所有東西都必須進(jìn)入并穿過去的霧，可能很危險(xiǎn)。車輛在高速行駛，霧被燈光、人們和卡車穿透。他被撞倒、壓碎。正如群山被震撼、拆毀，大地張開，他的死在本質(zhì)上也是一種現(xiàn)象。他被他的存在所證實(shí)，撲面翻滾著死去。

HE IS SEARCHING INSIDE HIS BODY

He is searching inside his body for the cause of his depression.It’s as if he were searching with his hand from organ to organ in his chest.He can feel depression near his heart but，as he moves ever so cautiously in and around that area to grasp that ache and extract it，nothing comes to hand.

He conceives of it as something living within him illegitimately，and，since he cannot remove it bodily and has addressed his plea to it more than once to remove itself from him，he believes that now he has the right to do it violence，to drown it，and he begins to drink.

He becomes a fog to himself，the heavy mist that rises from his drink in conflict with the inner warmth，and he no longer can detect specific depression.It is now a general fog and that，of course，is as nature can be in unstable conditions.He thinks himself a fact of nature，and he travels unsteadily，as fogs do，from street to street，from house to house and，like fog，finds himself locked out from these houses or hurried past.

It is night.Fog，through which all things must enter and pass，can be dangerous.Vehicles are traveling at high speed，and fog is pierced by lights，by people and by trucks.He is knocked down and crushed.As mountains are shaken and torn down and earth opens，his death too is a phenomenon in nature.Affirmed in his being，he rolls over on his face to die.

士兵包圍詩人的房子

給聶魯達(dá)

士兵包圍詩人的房子，蹲伏下來，用槍指向詩人那邊，但沒有移動(dòng)，他的出現(xiàn)讓他們心生敬畏和恐懼。他傷心地來到窗前，俯視下面他自己的人民——那些身穿制服、拿槍指著他的人。他傷心地站在那里，而他們蹲伏著，陷入更深的沉寂，繃緊的臉上和眼里充滿了痛苦。他是他們的詩人，在他的詩里為他們說話，他們也一次又一次讀到和聽到他的詩，還應(yīng)和著他的詩句節(jié)奏而搖擺起舞。

他在他站立之處猛然推開窗戶，大喊：開槍吧，朝我開槍吧！他們?nèi)w都退卻了，除了一個(gè)士兵，在長久訓(xùn)練的速度和反應(yīng)力之下，受命舉起步槍扣動(dòng)扳機(jī)。他的戰(zhàn)友都捂住了臉。

SOLDIERS SURROUND THE HOUSE OF THE POET

For Neruda

Soldiers surround the house of the poet and crouch，their guns poised in his direction，but do not move，held by their awe and fear in his presence.He comes to the window bitterly to look out upon his own people in uniform，with guns pointed at him.Bitterly he stands there and they，crouching，are more deeply silent in the anguish of their taut faces and eyes.He is their poet who speaks for them in his poems，that they have read and heard over and over，swaying to the rhythm of his lines.

He flings open the window where he is standing and shouts，Shoot，shoot me! They recoil in a body，except for one who with speed and reflex of long training at command raises his rifle and pulls the trigger.His comrades bury their faces in their hands.