米斯特拉爾作品

董繼平 譯

烏龜

傻瓜在每一次關于前進的交談中影射它，批評那種可愛的緩慢。

它在這個正方形的天井中生活了40 年，那里只有一棵茉莉花樹和一個干涸的水盆。相比一段鮭魚能在8 天游過的距離，它再也不了解上帝的世界。

在它那個地方，他們到處鋪撒了锃亮的沙子；它用胸脯觸及沙子。沙子美妙地吱嘎作響，像緩流的水滑行。

它從那個小海灘走向一個微不足道的短草的廣場，它就像熟悉沙子那樣熟悉那個廣場。這兩種生物——沙子和短草，在它看來就像是兩個愜意的神祇。

它從水洼中無聲地飲水。它看著那好像落進水里的天空。天空似乎像它那樣寧靜。它聽見茉莉花樹中的風聲。一些黃葉飄落，觸摸它的背，在它的外殼下，某種涼爽的東西進入它。然后它縮回去。

一只老舊的手給它帶來食物；另一只新穎的手用鵝卵石擊中它的外殼……

聰明的手把愚蠢的手移走。

在某個時候，沙子閃耀，水閃爍。然后地面的顏色跟它一樣，于是它就睡著了。這個寂靜者了解世界，非常了解世界。

所有其他東西都干什么事情；水盆滴水，草叢長起。在它內心，好像一切都沒改變。沒有改變？即使它并不知道，它的外殼也會增厚；如果它知道，它就會震驚。

最終它死了。整整一天都沒人注意到什么；它僅僅好像更緩慢……它的腦袋進入它那小小的棺材；它的腳縮進它的盒子。沙子意識到它又萎縮了一點。

他們讓它在空氣中風干。后來，他們又把它掏空。現在桌子上有一個寬敞的外殼，一個舊鐵甕，充滿沉默。

THE TORTOISE

Fools allude to her in every conversation about progress，critiquing that lovely slowness.

She has lived for forty years in this square patio，which has only one jasmine tree and one dry water basin.She knows no more of God' s world than the distance a salmon can swim in eight days.

Throughout her place they have spread a polished sand;she touches it and touches it with her breast.The sand creaks sweetly and slides like slow water.

She walks from the little beach to a square of insignificant short grass that is as familiar to her as the sand is.These two creatures，sand and short grass，seem to her like two sweet gods.

Soundlessly，she drinks from the puddle.She looks at the sky，which seems fallen in the water.The sky seems tranquil，like her.She hears the wind in the jasmine.Some yellow leaves fall;they touch her back，and something cool enters her，under her shell.Then she draws back.

An old hand brings her food;another new one hits her on the shell with pebbles……The intelligent hand takes the foolish one away.

The sand shines intensely at a certain time，and the water glitters.Then the ground is the same color as she is，and so she falls asleep.The still one knows the world，knows it very well.

All the other things do something;the basin drips，and the grass rises.In her，it seems，nothing changes.Doesn' t change?Even though she doesn' t know it，her shell thickens;she would be astounded if she knew this.

At last she has died.For a whole day no one noticed anything;she only seemed slower……Her head entered her little casket;her feet went into her case.The sand realized she had shrunk a little more.

They let her dry out in the air.Later they emptied her.Now on the table there is a spacious shell，an urn of old iron，filled with silence.

面粉

面粉發光，光滑而又重要。

清晰的米粉，像精美的絲綢沙沙作響；被稱為玉米淀粉的面粉，清新如雨雪，舒緩燒傷。從謙卑的土豆中，面粉滑溜如銀。如此光滑的面粉！

沉重的面粉，用稻米或黑麥谷粒的悲傷制成，沉重如泥土，那能為無辜生物創造銀河的泥土本身。

光滑的面粉，比水更沉默地滑行，能在一個赤裸的孩子身上撒過，也不會把他驚醒。

面粉清晰，光滑而又重要。

母親般的面粉，乳汁真正的姐妹，幾乎是一個女人，一位中產階級家庭的母親，一頭白發，乳房豐滿，坐在陽光明媚的門口。她就是那創造孩子肉體的人。她完全具有女性氣質，就像橡膠或白堊那樣陰性；如果你對她哼唱一支搖籃曲，她就會辨識出來；她理解一切具有女性氣質的東西。

她被獨自留在世界上，用渾圓的乳房喂養這顆行星。

她還能把自己變成一座乳汁的山，一座平緩的山，所有的孩子都從上面翻滾又翻滾而下。

母親面粉也是一位永恒的少女，在稻田的褶皺中來回擺動，一個小女孩，無形的風沒有看見她就跟她嬉戲，沒讓她意識到就撫摸她的臉。

清晰的面粉。一個人可以把它撒在貧窮、幽暗、古老的大地上，而她會予以回報，生長出一片片寬闊的雛菊地，或者用霜降來打扮。

面粉清晰，光滑而又重要。

如果她行走，沒有人會聽見它那棉花般的腳重重落在泥土中的聲音；如果她要跳舞，她那沉甸甸的手臂就會落下；如果她想歌唱，歌聲就會寄存在她那粗壯的喉嚨中。但她并沒行走，或跳舞，或歌唱。如果她想要名字，那么我們就得給她發明一個包含著三個B 的或者三個M 的名字。

FLOUR

Flour is luminous，smooth，and weighty.

Clear rice flour，which rustles like fine silk;the one that's called cornstarch，as fresh as sleet and that eases burns.From the humble potato，flour as slippery as silver.Such smooth flours!

Heavy flour，made from the grief of the grains of rice or rye，is as heavy as the earth，the earth itself that can make Milky Ways for guiltless creatures.

Smooth flour，sliding more silently than water，can sift across a naked child without waking him.

Flour is clear，smooth，and weighty.

Maternal flour，milk's true sister，almost a woman，a middle-class domestic mother with white hair and full breast，seated in a sunny doorway.She is the one who creates the flesh of children.She is completely womanly，as female as rubber or chalk;she recognizes a lullaby if you hum it to her;she understands all womanly things.

Left alone with the world，she would feed the planet with her round breasts.

She can also turn herself into a mountain of milk，a gentle mountain down which all the children tumble and tumble.

The mother-flour is also an eternal girl，rocked in the great folds of the rice paddies，a little girl with whom the invisible winds play without seeing her，stroking her face without her realizing it.

Clear flour.One could dust it over the poor，dark，ancient earth，and she would yield back wide fields of daisies，or she' d dress it in frost.

Flour is clear，smooth，and weighty.

If she walked，no one would hear her cottony feet as they sank，weightily，into the earth;if she were to dance，her heavy arms would fall;if she wanted to sing，the song would lodge in her thick throat.But she doesn' t walk，or dance，or sing.If she wanted a name，we' d have to invent a name for her containing three B' s or three gentle M' s.