grindingoinground

The Auroras of Autumn

华莱士·史蒂文斯 Wallace Stevens

I

此处是巨蛇的居所，那无躯体者。 他的头是空气。夜里他的尖顶之下 睁着的双目在每片天空中盯紧我们。

这抑或是又一枚蛋的蠕动出生， 又一个图像在山洞的终点， 又一个无躯体给躯体的消极蜕皮？

此处是巨蛇的居所。此乃他的巢， 这些田野，这些山丘，这些染色的远方， 以及在海上、海边靠海的松树。

这是有形吞没无形， 皮囊暴露在渴求的消失中 于是蛇的躯体去皮地暴露。

这是在基础上拔起的高度 这些光或许终将抵达一极 在夜半的正中心并在那里发现巨蛇，

另一个巢中，迷宫的主人掌管 躯体与空气与形体与图像的迷宫， 残忍地拥有着快乐。

这是他的毒药：即我们应当不信 就算是那件事。他在蕨丛里的冥想， 当他微微动作去确认太阳，

使我们的分毫不少地确信。我们在他的脑海中看见， 黑珠点缀着岩石，斑驳的动物， 运动的草，土著在他的林间空地里。

I

This is where the serpent lives, the bodiless. His head is air. Beneath his tip at night Eyes open and fix on us in every sky.

Or is this another wriggling out of the egg, Another image at the end of the cave, Another bodiless for the body’s slough?

This is where the serpent lives. This is his nest, These fields, these hills, these tinted distances, And the pines above and along and beside the sea.

This is form gulping after formlessness, Skin flashing to wished-for disappearances And the serpent body flashing without the skin.

This is the height emerging and its base These lights may finally attain a pole In the midmost midnight and find the serpent there,

In another nest, the master of the maze Of body and air and forms and images, Relentlessly in possession of happiness.

This is his poison: that we should disbelieve Even that. His meditations in the ferns, When he moved so slightly to make sure of sun,

Made us no less as sure. We saw in his head, Black beaded on the rock, the flecked animal, The moving grass, the Indian in his glade.

III

告别一个想法……母亲的脸， 这首诗的目的，充满房间。 它们在一起，在这里，很温暖，

全无对将至梦境的预见。 是傍晚。房子是傍晚，半融化的。 只是它们无法拥有的那一半仍在，

仍有明星。它们拥有的是母亲， 她令它们当下的平和透明。 她使温柔尽可能那样温柔。

而她也融化了，她被摧毁了。 她散发透明。但她已经衰老。 项链是一处雕刻而非一个吻。

柔软的手是一个动作而非一次触摸。 房屋将粉碎书将燃烧。 它们安于心灵的避难所

而房屋属于心灵和它们和时间 一起，全部一起。近北极的夜 靠近它们时将如若冰霜，

靠近母亲，当她入睡时， 当它们说晚安，晚安。楼上 窗户将被照亮，而不是房间。

一阵风将蔓延它风般的堂皇 并像一支来复枪托叩门。 风将以坚不可摧的声响统帅它们。

III

Farewell to an idea . . . The mother's face, The purpose of the poem, fills the room. They are together, here, and it is warm,

With none of the prescience of oncoming dreams. It is evening. The house is evening, half dissolved. Only the half they can never possess remains,

Still-starred. It is the mother they possess, Who gives transparence to their present peace. She makes that gentler that can gentle be.

And yet she too is dissolved, she is destroyed. She gives transparence. But she has grown old. The necklace is a carving not a kiss.

The soft hands are a motion not a touch. The house will crumble and the books will burn. They are at ease in a shelter of the mind

And the house is of the mind and they and time, Together, all together. Boreal night Will look like frost as it approaches them

And to the mother as she falls asleep And as they say good-night, good-night. Upstairs The windows will be lighted, not the rooms.

A wind will spread its windy grandeurs round And knock like a rifle-butt against the door. The wind will command them with invincible sound.

VIII

也许永远有一个天真的时间。 从未有一个地点。或者若是没有时间， 若它既不是一种时间之物，也不是地点之物，

唯独在它的概念中存在， 在与灾难相对的意义上，它并非 更不真实。对于最老又最冷的哲人，

有或也许有一个天真的时间 作为纯粹的原则。它的本质是它的终结， 即它应是，但还不是，一样

掐痛可怜之人的怜悯的东西， 像一本在夜间美丽而不真实的书， 像一本在上升中美丽而真实的书。

它像一种以太之物，存在 几乎作为谓语。可它存在， 它存在，它可见，它是，它是。

于是，所以，这些光亮不是光的咒语， 一句出自云端的谚语，而是天真。 一种大地的天真，没有虚假征兆

或恶意的符号。我们参与其中， 孩童般躺下在这神圣中， 仿佛，清醒，我们躺在睡眠的宁静中，

仿佛天真的母亲在黑暗中歌唱 房间伴奏着手风琴，半被听见， 创造我们所呼吸的时间与地点……

VIII

There may be always a time of innocence. There is never a place. Or if there is no time, If it is not a thing of time, nor of place,

Existing in the idea of it, alone, In the sense against calamity, it is not Less real. For the oldest and coldest philosopher,

There is or may be a time of innocence As pure principle. Its nature is its end, That it should be, and yet not be, a thing

That pinches the pity of the pitiful man, Like a book at evening beautiful but untrue, Like a book on rising beautiful and true.

It is like a thing of ether that exists Almost as predicate. But it exists, It exists, it is visible, it is, it is.

So, then, these lights are not a spell of light, A saying out of a cloud, but innocence. An innocence of the earth and no false sign

Or symbol of malice. That we partake thereof, Lie down like children in this holiness, As if, awake, we lay in the quiet of sleep,

As if the innocent mother sang in the dark Of the room and on an accordion, half-heard, Created the time and place in which we breathed . . .